A Hope Divided by Alyssa Cole (9)

CHAPTER 8

Everything in the receiving parlor was as it had always been—it was one of the few rooms that Melody had not left her imprint on by rearranging it to be more to her taste. Marlie found that although the glossy piano and the suite of dainty rosewood furniture had not changed, except for a bit of fraying on the raspberry silk upholstery, the room felt different. The gilt pier mirror across the room reflected her sitting serenely on the chaise lounge, book in hand, but the tension that filled the room had no reflection, surrounding her like a malevolent being.

Perhaps it was the sound of the Home Guard milling about outside the window, the raised voices of the men going through their afternoon drills piercing through any illusion that their home was still theirs. It was strange that sharing her small space with Ewan gave her a sense of freedom, while sharing the whole of Lynchwood with the militia made her feel caged in.

A tingle of panic swept down her back at the thought of Ewan, as if Melody might overhear her most private contemplations and soil those, too.

“How was your visit to the Sloanes’ plantation?” Marlie inquired, taking a sip of the nerve-soothing tea she had brewed. She savored notes of blackberry, chamomile, and beneath it all, valerian root, one of the more dangerous plants in her arsenal. She tried to repress the ugly thought that followed—how easy it would be for her to get rid of Melody, who sat across the room playing euchre at the card table with Sarah.

She’d been unable to stop thinking of things like that since she’d made her gris-gris. Lessons from her past, learned or warned against at her mother’s hip, had begun coming back to her, as if tying off the little red sachet had unlocked something that Marlie had hidden away beneath the science. She’d felt a sense of control that had nothing to do with the Lynches’ money or name in undertaking that small act. More importantly, she’d felt hope. The night she’d made the gris-gris she’d startled awake, not from a dream but from what might have been the start of one. She’d smelled rosemary in her room though she hadn’t used it for days.

It had likely been her imagination, but sometimes imagination was the most effective tool a woman could wield.

Stephen sat in a chair in the corner of the room, out of sight of his wife but able to listen in on the conversation. He didn’t do much talking; he was reading a newspaper, glancing up at Marlie every few moments. She had already offered him two benign smiles, and now she pretended that she couldn’t feel it when he looked over at her.

“It was quite pleasant,” Sarah said. “They had very strong coffee, which must have cost them a fortune. They mentioned that several of their slaves had run off to the contraband camps, which was quite a nuisance to them.”

Sarah took a sip of her tea, and Marlie knew it was to hide her smile.

“They received a letter from their son that presented in rousing detail how his regiment repelled Grant and the Yanks from taking Vicksburg,” Melody added. “Grant and Sherman have been trying to scratch their way in like possums ready to spawn, but our brave boys won’t let them gain entry.”

“Perhaps they’ll give up entirely and you and Stephen can return home soon,” Sarah said cheerily as she picked up the cards to shuffle them.

“Oh, I don’t think that will happen,” Melody said. “We’ve received a letter saying our home is being used as a center of defense, damaged though it was, providing shelter for several officers and their men while they strategize. Even if I wanted to go back, we couldn’t impose on men undertaking such an important task. We’ll be at Lynchwood for a while yet, right, Stephen?”

He puffed on his pipe. “Perhaps. We could always find a way to get to Mother in Philadelphia—”

“Enough, Stephen!” Melody’s voice burst forth with passion, a sudden change from the mask of sweet refinement she had been wearing. “I’ve told you that I refuse to indulge this silly plan, and I will not discuss it any further! There are no amusements for me in Philadelphia, and I refuse to be surrounded by cowardly, darkie-loving Yankees.”

“I understand, darling, but if you gave it some thought—”

Melody shot a dark look across the room. “It’s bad enough that you haven’t the fortitude to fight, or the wiles to support the South in some other way. This talk of heading North only further disgraces you, which I must say I didn’t think was possible.”

The tension in the room was suffocating, and the sound of heavy, dragging footsteps on the carpet that lined the hallway sent a spike of agitation through Marlie. She wished she were back upstairs, that she had never ventured down to begin with. Then she glanced at Sarah, saw how her face had gone pallid. She caught her gaze and smiled, lifted the teacup to her lips, silently encouraging Sarah to drink, too. She didn’t regret being there for Sarah, though her reserve faltered when Cahill walked into the room.

He removed his hat and bowed toward Melody and Sarah, gave the pretense of an acknowledgment to Stephen, and then walked over and sat decisively in front of Marlie. He did not acknowledge her cordially, but glared at her. She didn’t know why he acknowledged her at all, if her presence bothered him so, but he sought her out at every opportunity.

“I hadn’t seen you about, Fancy. I thought perhaps they’d come to their senses and sent you out to the fields, where you belong,” he said. His voice was calm and low, but his expression frightened her. He had the look of a man who would enjoy nothing so much as to crush her beneath his heel, like an insect. A keen affront at such a look from such a man rose up in Marlie, pushing out a tart response.

“I could say the same for you. Alas, it appears we are both to be disappointed,” she said, then sipped her tea, trying to look unaffected despite the way her stomach twisted and plunged.

You are not brave enough to issue such challenges, some desperate segment of her consciousness reminded her. Perhaps it was right. She should be quiet and unassuming, given the secret she held two flights of stairs away, but apparently her rebellious side had begun to bloom, like a nightshade that unfurls when shrouded in darkness.

“I’ve spent much time in the fields, actually,” he said, leaning forward a bit and regarding her with that cold gaze. “I was an overseer for a plantation in Charlotte. Spent my days keeping lazy darkies like you in line. You may think yourself high and mighty in this parlor, but you wouldn’t have lasted five minutes under me.”

Marlie’s body went taut with anger at the derision, and implication, in his tone. His gaze wandered over her body then back to her face, and though it was still cold, there was a new threat there, a gloating reminder that men like him could do anything to women like her and this society would laugh and clap him on the back.

“The man is dangerous,” Ewan had written, and Ewan was not the type who was prone to exaggeration.

Her bravado faltered, and she blinked back tears.

Marlie was Daniel in the lion’s den, but she was by no means sure that she’d make her way out. And the lions at least had a reason to eat Daniel; it was their nature. Melody and Cahill regarded Marlie with a hatred and disgust that chilled her to the bone, just because she was a Negro. Was that simply their nature, too? Cruel subjugation of their fellow man?

“Commander Cahill,” Stephen called out. His voice was overly loud, and when Marlie glanced at him, his color was high. Still, his words were civil when he had the man’s attention. “What is the latest news? Have you had much luck routing out the deserters?”

Marlie put down her teacup and clasped her shaking hands together. She had never heard Stephen speak of the war so directly, and she had to wonder if he wasn’t purposely drawing Cahill’s attention away from her. A tiny ember of gratitude warmed her; she’d often wished that he would be less remiss in his brotherly duties. If he had chosen now to finally act on them, she could not help but feel some gratitude, tempered by the fact that his wife was the one who had created this situation.

She was also grateful that she might learn something to report to LaValle, which she’d been unable to do.

Cahill rose and walked toward Stephen, stopping to look down at him. “They grow bolder every day. Just this morning we got word from a metalsmith that a group had held him hostage these last two days, tying him up while they used his tools to repair their weaponry. He said there were whites mixed with darkies and savages; they count in their ranks those from the most deplorable sectors of society.”

He looked over at Marlie. She sipped her tea.

“I heard that they’ve had some recent successes,” Sarah said, turning over a card daintily. “They’ve elected leaders, begun holding drills, and despite the lawlessness of some, are shaping themselves into a formidable militia.”

Stephen ran a hand over his whiskers. “I must admit, they’re rather more organized than I had assumed from previous reports.”

“Well, reports are all you would know of, as you lift nary a finger to help the Cause in this war,” Cahill snapped. “All men are welcome to join the Home Guard, but you have not. Why is that?”

“Sir,” Sarah said, smacking a card down on the table. “If you consider feeding and housing you and your men as lifting nary a finger, you are welcome to take your leave.”

“Now, now, Sarah,” Melody chided. Just three words, but they may as well have been a backhand across her husband’s face. Stephen looked down at his hands.

Cahill looked at Sarah a long while, then stood, straightening his uniform, before limping back toward the door. “I’ve got men to lead,” was all he offered in response. “Governor Vance has said that these Lincoln-loving Tories must be routed out and destroyed posthaste, and I’m not a man who shirks his duty.”

A chill crept over Marlie’s skin. Even bloodier times lay ahead for the region, and Cahill seemed happy to do his part in the carnage that would ensue.

“Oh, do wait a moment, Commander, there are some things I must discuss with you.” Melody pushed up out of her chair and sped across the room in a rustle of hoops and swinging skirts. She took Cahill’s arm as they left the room, sparing not even a glance at Stephen.

“Not all men gain their power by crushing those less fortunate than them,” Stephen said, finding his voice too late. “The people in this region resist the Confederacy because they own no slaves or they detest the institution. Killing the poorest of your people to bring them to heel shows how inadequate a government this is.”

“Quite,” Sarah said. “And that the strength of the men laying out has increased with the formation of the Home Guard, not diminished, gives me hope that this war will end in the manner we have been hoping for.”

She looked about, as if Melody were hiding around the corner waiting to pounce on any pro-Northern sentiment.

“Yes, this war is changing many ideas of who is capable of fighting, and how. I’ve read about the colored regiments fighting for the Union now,” Stephen said, speaking directly to Marlie for the first time in recent memory. “The papers here revile them, but by all other accounts they have acquitted themselves honorably.”

Marlie didn’t know how to respond. Was this some attempt at kinship? As if she should be happy that her people were now seen as worthy enough to be cannon fodder, after everything else they’d been through? She felt thoroughly annoyed by something she’d never considered: Why should Negroes have to fight at all? She thought of the parts of her mother’s memoir she had translated, the tales of men and women working themselves into an early grave or being beaten if they resisted. Whites had created this problem, why shouldn’t they resolve it themselves?

That wasn’t realistic, unfortunately, but it didn’t change the fury the realization brought to the fore. She looked from Sarah to Stephen; they would not understand such a sentiment if she were to express it. She was gripped by a sudden, aching loneliness, the surety that neither Sarah nor Stephen had any idea who she was at all.

“It must take a great strength of will to go directly from toiling in the fields to taking up arms against one’s oppressors,” she said diplomatically.

“And luckily you shall never experience either of those hardships,” Sarah said. “You are quite well taken care of here, aren’t you?”

Marlie stiffened. She didn’t consider herself taken care of—she worked, earned her living, but that’s exactly what she was. Exactly why she had never felt freer than when venturing out to the prison and helping those men of her own volition.

“I believe I will retire to my rooms,” Marlie said.

“You are always in your rooms now,” Sarah said. “I know things are difficult for you with Melody and Cahill, but they are difficult for me, too. Can you not tolerate a bit more for my sake?”

Marlie felt an inarticulate anger rise in her, and the first words on her tongue were neither kind nor true, so she took a moment before opening her mouth. “Sarah, I am sure things are difficult for you, but have you not heard the way Cahill speaks to me and the things he insinuates?”

How could Sarah not see? She was protected by her rank in society and the color of her skin, and Marlie had no such protection. Marlie felt the spinning disorientation of vertigo even though she was sitting. She found fault in everything now, it seemed—she’d always wanted to change the world, but never had she realized how maddening so many aspects of it were. For a moment she doubted her sanity, that everything the person she loved the most said chafed at her.

“I understand, but I just miss how things were before,” Sarah sighed, and Marlie’s anger diminished, replaced by affection for Sarah and sadness that it was strained. The work of treason had united them, and now that their joint operations were stalled, Marlie felt as if an ever-widening gulf was opening between her and Sarah, one she desperately wanted to ford.

“I do, too,” she said. “But war brings change, and none of us shall pass through these trying times unscathed.”

Sarah bustled over and sat beside her, taking up her hand. Her expression was serious. “Cahill hasn’t taken any liberties with your person, has he?”

“No,” Marlie said, shuddering at the thought. “He seems to take pleasure in inspiring fear in me, and I hate giving him the satisfaction. But I am afraid.”

Sarah placed an arm around her shoulder. “Forgive my thoughtless request, Marlie. You’re right. Perhaps it would be best if you remained out of sight until things have quieted down.”

“No, it would be best if he were kicked out of our home,” Marlie said, that headstrong voice rising up in her again. She glanced at Stephen, who quickly looked away. “Since no one is willing to do that, yes, perhaps it’s better that I remain in my rooms.”

She patted Sarah’s hands, then left the parlor, stopping by the kitchen to prepare a basket of food before walking up the stairs to her room. She was both furious and elated. She had been encouraged to make herself a prisoner in her own home for the sake of Melody and Cahill, but then again, she had just been given leave to spend her time as she wished instead of skulking around the parlor, flinching every time Cahill turned his gaze on her. As she entered her room and locked the door behind her she felt the weight of the outside world fall away from her shoulders. She knew that her situation with Ewan was far from normal—and most definitively temporary—but the freedom found in the moments spent talking and sharing with him had become important to her. Perhaps too important.

She tied on her apron and began gathering the ingredients to test out a new deworming tonic that she hoped could be of use. Then she glanced over at the desk and sighed. She didn’t investigate what the sensation in her chest might be, but she followed its impetus, walking over and pulling the desk back. The door opened and there was Ewan’s face, all sharp angles and freckle-sprayed.

“Here are some biscuits with lard,” she said. “And I can put some tea on the burner if you’d like.” She nodded her head in the direction of her work station.

“Tea would be excellent, if you’re having some, as well,” he said. “Thank you.”

She put the kettle on.

He sat with his legs stretched out on the floor before the door, chewing his biscuit with great concentration. “These are wonderful,” he said. “Reminds me of my mother’s.”

Marlie knelt down and prodded at his ankle, then sighed deeply. “Have you ever felt . . . as if the earth had shifted and you ended up on one side and your family on the other?”

He simply looked at her, the moment stretching out long enough that Marlie could regret asking.

“I’m sorry, that is none of my business. Your ankle seems to be healing well.”

She pushed herself to her feet, the loneliness she had felt in the parlor making its presence known once more.

“I gather you don’t mean physically,” he said.

She shook her head.

“I believe that I was born on the other side of a gulf such as the one you speak of,” he said quietly. “I have always been the odd boy, the strange young man. I asked too many questions, or turned the conversation to things that pleased me and bored everyone else. Easily frustrated and eternally restless. I’m sure you’ve noticed these traits.” He paused then and looked up at her, and Marlie saw the slightest hint of vulnerability, as if he expected her to tease him or say something cutting. She remained silent, and he continued. “When I got upset as a boy I would have terrible tantrums that humiliated and frightened my parents. I made the voyage from Scotland to the States even more traumatizing, I’ve been told. And once my father lost control of his drinking . . . yes, I understand such a feeling.”

Marlie felt a bit of the tightness that had gripped her since the tension-filled expedition to the parlor loosen a bit. “How did you manage?”

“Well, I realized I could not close such a gulf—that was not in my control. But I could learn what pleased my family and what didn’t, and what pleased me about pleasing them. Even though the gulf still exists, there are bridges, and those allow me to get along with my family and vice versa.”

Marlie nodded appreciatively. “I will give thought to what bridges I may be able to build. I’m not used to feeling this way about Sarah.”

“She is your sister, no?”

She felt that exasperation rise in her again, and the word came out forcefully, as if meeting a challenge. “Yes.”

“Well, if you’ve survived this long without ever wanting to secede from her then you’re doing better than the nation as a whole.”

Marlie allowed herself a bit of laughter and was rewarded with a startled smile from Ewan. “Thank you, Socrates. This has given me some comfort after a trying day.”

“Anything I can do to put you at ease, I will do gladly.” The words were not spoken suggestively, but were so earnestly delivered that they left Marlie flustered and warm. It didn’t help that her imagination took the word ease and spun off with wild abandon imagining all the things it might mean.

“Good night,” she said, pushing the desk forward.

“Good night,” he replied, closing the door. When the desk was flush against the wall, she remained leaning on it, trying to discern why everything in her was straining toward the man on the other side.

Marlie had to believe this was true. She knew better than to think anything else could occur.