Chapter Thirteen
Other than an occasional bump on the wall, there was so little sound coming from the storage room assigned her guest that Sarah was forced to knock on his door from time to time and whisper, “Are you there?”
The answer would come back, so soft and cautious that Sarah could feel her neck hairs tickle, “I’se here.”
She had put up a cot in the small supply closet attached to the kitchen. One window in the fugitive’s quarters let in air and light, but it was kept shuttered and latched day and night. Sarah was thankful the cold front had brought day temperatures of a steady sixty degrees. At least her guest would not roast or be plagued by mosquitoes, and at night, when the temperature dropped, he had the use of plenty of blankets. Sarah slipped him food through a quick opening of his prison door, but at no time was he to show himself in the house. Someone by chance might glimpse him through the slits of the shuttered window over the kitchen sink or through the tiny parlor’s windows, covered during the day by a drawn curtain. The most distasteful chore of looking after her boarder was emptying his chamber pot, a task she met with no less embarrassment than he.
“I’se sorry, miss,” the boy would mutter, handing her the receptacle.
“It’s all right,” Sarah would respond, holding her breath.
She wondered how the boy could endure the cramped, sunless space, with little human contact and activity when she thought she would go mad if she had to spend one more day later than planned cooped up in her house. She felt like a prisoner herself, unable even to take a walk for fear the fugitive, seeing her gone, might venture out into the house or do something to rouse suspicion.
For the same reason, they had not dared talk to each other. Their voices, his with his Negroid dialect, might be heard and they’d be discovered. Carson Wyndham had put out the word that a possible runaway was in the area. There were many who would turn him in—and Sarah Conklin—to have the gratitude of Carson Wyndham. In the brief seconds the boy took the tray of food from her and shut the door, Sarah had only glimpsed his face and skeletal body in the ill-fitting clothes she’d found in the church’s rummage bin. She’d have had him come out to stretch his legs, but, again, neither wished to take the risk of his being seen. Well-meaning people—a neighbor, church member, or parent of one of her students, knowing she was alone until her departure—might stop by with food or offer of company. She was grateful the Sedgewicks would be at the Tolivers’ until late tomorrow afternoon. Jessica was to pick up her and her cargo after luncheon, and they would be long gone by the time Jimsonweed turned into the gate.
But it was almost over. This was the last night of her and the boy’s captivity. She’d packed her steamer trunk and prepared a basket of food for the fugitive to take with him on his escape. It was ten o’clock, pitch black outside with low-cast clouds obscuring the moon. Time to hook her kerosene lantern to the back porch post and await the signal across the creek indicating that all was in readiness at the Charleston Harbor. The agent’s code sign would be three long shoots of flame and one short. She would answer with three brief turns of her lantern’s knob. Anyone observing her that time of night would think fear of fire had driven her outside to test the wick. If anything was amiss with either side, there would be no signal. Sarah prayed to see three tall spires and one quick burst of lantern light across the creek.
Wrapped in her cloak, she hung her lamp on the post, the wick burning low. She had not long to wait until the signal came, and she turned the knob to adjust the flame once, twice, three times. A huge relief filled her as she cupped her hand around the glass chimney to blow out the wick. She’d let her storage-room guest know that so far everything was going according to plan. Perhaps he’d sleep better, as she certainly would. Then, as she took down her lantern and turned to go inside, she saw another flash of light wink from the darkness and abruptly die. Her heart held. What had happened? Was that last spurt of flame intentional or accidental? Had her contact dropped his lantern and quickly snuffed the wick? She listened, her eyes straining into the dark woods, but heard nothing but the soft lapping of water around rocks. She’d gone exploring across the creek once, led by curiosity, and found the covert from where the agent flashed his coded messages. Crushed foliage had given away the burrow of his hiding place, accessed by a path through the woods.
A little disturbed, Sarah went inside and decided not to tap on the storage-room door to impart the good news. She might jinx their getaway. Her traveling suit hung outside her wardrobe in her bedroom. She’d placed it there last night as a lift to her spirits and a reminder that in eighteen hours, she would be on her way to Charleston to catch a boat bound for home. She undressed and climbed into bed in her night shift but could not sleep. Her thoughts were on Jessica.
Sarah was afraid for her. Strong will and impetuosity did not mix, and her friend had an abundance of both. Pair those traits with an utter belief in her invincible position in her family, and Jessica was like a blind person with a cocked and loaded gun. The girl did not believe her father’s warnings. She mistakenly assumed his love for her would protect her from his threats and that he would not risk her affection turning to hate if he used Tippy as a tool to punish her. Jessica did not understand that if she were caught aiding and abetting the destruction of a system—betraying it—on which her family’s wealth, social position, and way of life had depended for generations, her sin would not be forgiven. But Tippy understood, and it was for her mistress’s safety, not her own, that Jessica’s maid was most concerned.
“She may know Carson Wyndham as a father,” Tippy once said to Sarah, “but she does not know him as a white man and master of Willowshire.”
Sarah agreed, relieved that she had Tippy’s understanding of the danger Jessica disregarded. Working together, there was hope they could temper the impulses of their friend’s passionate convictions.
Tippy continued to amaze her—and sadden her, too. Jessica should take sharp heed. Her maid’s life could be snuffed out by one stomp of Carson Wyndham’s handmade boots or by the heel of that son of his, and all that marvelous creative genius in that quirky little head be lost forever—“a colored girl’s head!”—so Sarah had overheard Carson Wyndham snort his objection to Tippy on one of the few occasions she’d been a guest at Willowshire. In his tone, Sarah had heard the unmistakable notes of jealousy and resentment of the affection his daughter lavished on her Negro maid that she did not heap on him or her brother. From that dangerous quarter, too, Tippy must be on guard.
The moon was waning when Sarah finally fell asleep. She thought she was dreaming when she heard the clip-clop of horses’ hooves coming up the lane past the manse, the cemetery, and drawing to a stop before her cottage. Startled awake, she leaped out of bed and grabbed her robe, hearing a frightened exclamation from the occupant inside the storage room as she ran from her bedroom through the kitchen to meet the nightmare she’d long dreaded and was sure awaited the other side of her door.
Tying her robe securely, she threw the latch to find a gaggle of men staring down at her from horseback, mouths clamped hard and eyes steely. The leader of them dismounted and tipped his hat. “Good evening, Miss Conklin, or perhaps I should say good morning, as I believe it is now,” Michael Wyndham said.