Chapter 40
Columbia
August 1854
The cypress writing desk in Isabelle’s hotel room was similar to the one found in her aunt’s cottage, the narrow drawer at the bottom folding out for miners to hide their gold. She removed Aunt Emeline’s box from the hidden drawer and stared down again at the rose inlaid on the lid. Then she smoothed her hand over the skirt of her plum-colored working dress.
Unlike the silk and taffeta of a fashionable French woman, this calico was supposed to help her blend in on the crowded streets here in Columbia, but even dressed plainly, the miners and businessmen watched her and Isaac closely whenever they left the hotel to eat. Perhaps it was because she was a woman. Or perhaps it was because she was accompanied by a black boy. She’d only seen two other Negros since they’d arrived in Columbia, both of them freedmen working as miners.
She rested back in a chair, the trinket box on her lap. It would make Aunt Emeline so happy to know that she’d been reunited with her son—pleased that God was creating beauty from the ashes of her life.
Her window open, she could hear the crack of a wooden ball knocking down bowling pins across the street. Chickens squawked from a pen, men sang off-key in what she assumed was a nearby saloon, and in the distance, she heard what sounded like a trombone.
The town of Columbia was about the same size as Sacramento, but there were no tidy blocks or planked streets here. The town’s center hosted hotels, saloons, dry goods stores, a bank, an assay office, and several eateries. A lovely frame home with its picket fence and flower garden was the crown jewel, the residence of the bank president and his family, but a mishmash of ramshackle tents and wooden buildings fanned out from Main Street, bleeding down into the gulch and up into the forested hills.
Miners seemed to be everywhere, carrying their shovels and picks back and forth between the diggings and saloons in town. The air here was cleaner than in Sacramento, the mountains blowing down a light coolness that stifled the summer heat, and the streets seemed to buzz with optimism. These were the men who still believed in the power of gold, unlike so many back in Sacramento, who’d lost everything in their quest.
It felt strange to be the patron of a hotel instead of the matron, but the Broadway Hotel was the finest establishment in this town. With Alden off trying to stake a mining claim, it seemed like the safest option for her and Isaac as well. She’d secured two rooms for them, connected by an inside door in case Isaac needed her.
Isaac was reading Uncle Tom’s Cabin in the next room, a book he purchased with the money she’d paid him for his work at the Golden. Over the past week, she’d been continually amazed that God had seen fit to bring them back together again. And she wished that Aunt Emeline were here so she could ask her how to be a mother.
She brought the crocheted baby blanket with her, but instead of it bringing her sadness, it filled her heart with a deep joy. What she thought she’d lost had been found.
Now she needed to do one last thing before she stepped boldly into this new season of life. She needed to find out what her aunt had given her.
Her hands were resting on the lid when Isaac poked his head into the room. “Are you hungry?”
She smiled, the joy flooding her heart again. “I am if you are.”
“I’d like more oysters.”
“Then we’ll find you some.” It wouldn’t be hard. It seemed that every establishment in this town sold oysters along with champagne. She and Isaac ate their oysters with buttered bread and a bottle of root beer.
He pointed toward the box. “What’s that?”
“It’s a gift that my aunt left for me.”
He rested on the edge of the bed. “What’s in it?”
She looked at the boy sitting beside her in wonder, marveling at the genuineness in his brown eyes, the curiosity in his voice. She’d been worried this past week that she might see Victor in him, but Isaac was confident and kind and thoughtful. Nothing like the man who’d fathered him.
“I don’t know what’s inside.”
He stared down at it. “Why haven’t you opened it?”
“I suppose it’s because I’m scared.”
“Is there something scary inside?”
“No.” She smiled at him even as tears formed again in her eyes. It seemed she’d been an open spigot of water the past week. “It’s my aunt’s last gift to me, and I suppose I’m afraid to say a final good-bye.”
“But what if it’s not good-bye?” he asked. “What if there’s something inside that will last forever?”
She blinked back the tears. “You sure ask a lot of questions.”
“Master Duvall says I’m insatiable.”
“Inquisitive might be a better word.”
“But I don’t get angry when someone can’t answer my questions.”
“Did Master Duvall”—she pressed a finger to the edge of each eye, trying to keep her tears at bay—“did he ever hurt you?”
The boy shrugged his shoulders.
Had Victor seared him with the brand when Isaac was too young for memories or had he waited until Isaac was older? If only she’d been able to protect him.
“I understand,” Isabelle said tenderly. “Someone hurt me once too.”
Isaac nodded his head, gazing down at the box again. “Why don’t you open it now?”
She placed her hand on the cover, remembering that last day with Emeline when she’d told her aunt that she would treasure her gift. And she had treasured the box, just not what was inside.
Could she really open it now? Part of her wanted to unlock it, but part of her still wasn’t ready.
Then again, if a fire ripped through this town like it had in Sacramento, she might never know what Aunt Emeline wanted her to have.
Taking a deep breath, she carefully pulled her necklace with the two keys over her head. Then she used the smaller key to unlock the clasp.
She thought she might find jewelry or another valuable from her aunt, but there were only three pieces of a gray parchment paper stored inside, each folded in half.
Isaac tried to look over her sleeve. “What is it?”
“Papers,” she said. “I haven’t been able to read them yet.”
He dutifully scooted away, waiting as he watched her.
The first piece was a letter from Aunt Emeline, written in her elegant script.
Dearest Isabelle,
I’d hoped to be with you until the day you married, but it seems God is calling me home soon. Enclosed is my last gift to you—the story of where He intertwined your life with mine.
William and I had a daughter once, born before we left Marseille. She was a beautiful girl who died when she was two. We mourned our loss deeply, our hearts broken. A year later, we sailed for Baltimore in a desperate attempt to escape our grief.
I learned quickly that grief trails a person, no matter where they go, but when we opened our home in Baltimore to men and women searching for freedom, God began stitching together the ragged pieces of our hearts, healing us from the inside.
Then He brought you.
Eliza Duvall showed up at our door late at night, her coachman carrying a beautiful young woman who was grieving just as deeply as I had done. You reminded William and me so much of our Rose, and we rejoiced at the opportunity to love you as our own. Never once did we want you to think we tried to replace our daughter with you. We loved you for the woman you were—and the woman we prayed you would become.
Eliza Duvall returned to our house in 1849, asking for money. We gave her a small sum, but William and I feared that she would return again and again for more. Or much worse, that she would tell whomever had harmed you where you were.
William left for California that summer, and you and I followed soon after. The loss of William tore my heart too, but it was a different kind of grief than losing Rose. William died a hero, trying to provide a safe place for our family.
The book of 2 Corinthians says where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty. He never meant for you or anyone else to be enslaved by another. He meant for you to be redeemed and restored in Him. The perfect Father.
Forgive me for not giving you the enclosed documents before, Isabelle. I never thought of you as anything other than a daughter of God, loved for exactly who He made you to be. Compassionate. Clever. Charming.
Cling to His wings—the wings of an eagle—so you can fly. Forever free.
Lovingly,
Aunt Emeline
Isabelle unfolded the other pieces of paper. The first one was a bill of sale for a slave girl named Mallie, purchased for eight hundred dollars. The last paper stated that the slave girl had been set free.
Isabelle wiped her tears with her sleeve. The Labries hadn’t just harbored her; they’d purchased her. But never once had they treated her as a slave. They’d signed the paper for her emancipation long before they’d left Baltimore.
They’d bought her, and then they’d set her free.
“Do you still have to be scared?” Isaac asked.
“No.” She tucked the letter back into the box and locked it. “I don’t have to be afraid anymore.”