The Underground Railroad Brides Collection: 9 Couples Navigate the Road to Freedom Before the Civil War Read online

  “No…I…well…saw you leave last night and wondered if you were back. And I thought if you weren’t, maybe you’d had an accident or something.” Emma looked down. “Maybe you needed help.” She glanced back up.

  Confusion clouded her eyes. For a moment he wished to comfort her, but held himself back, fearful she’d return the affection, and he wasn’t prepared to handle that.

  She’d seen him leave. What could he say, if she asked where he’d been? So far he’d never lied to her to keep his secret—she’d been too preoccupied with raising their daughters to notice his absences. He didn’t want to start lying now. “I’m sorry to have worried you. I’m fine, as you can see; however, I am eager to catch some sleep.”

  “Yes, of course.” Emma turned from the stable toward the house. “Look, there’s a light on in the kitchen. Mandy is probably up. Are you hungry? Would you like something before you return to bed?” Her voice sounded artificially light, as if she were forcing cheerfulness. Was she covering up something?

  “No, I think sleep is what I need most. Go on ahead. I just remembered some instructions I want to give Clancy. I’ll be right along.”

  He watched her return to the house. She looked small and fragile alone in the dark. He ached to take her hand and see her safely inside. Instead he waited until she reached the back door, just in case she tripped, then he reentered the stable and found the groom.

  “Clancy, I want you to let me know if Mrs. Trebor goes on any late-night rides.”

  “Do you want me to detain her?”

  “No. But tell me if she leaves and how long she is gone.”

  “Should I follow her?”

  “No. Not yet. Let’s see what happens. I may be overreacting.”

  Paul delayed a few more minutes before heading into the house, hoping Emma wasn’t waiting for him in the kitchen. He didn’t want to face any questions—but why hadn’t she asked where he’d been? Her not asking was as troublesome as if she had.

  The smell of coffee met him before he opened the back door. Mandy looked up as he entered. She reached for the pot.

  “None for now, but keep it hot for me, will you? I’m beat.”

  “Yes, sir.” She edged closer and lowered her voice. “What we gonna do about her nosing around? She gonna find out; I just know she gonna find out.”

  Paul frowned. “She will if you keep talking right here in the kitchen.”

  Mandy wrung her hands. “But what we gonna do?”

  “I don’t know. I’m too tired to think. We’ll pray for God’s continued protection.”

  With four long strides, Paul was out of the kitchen, but he paused at the foot of the stairs, puzzling over something Emma had said—that he should “return to bed.”

  If she’d looked in his room, she’d know he’d not been to bed, so she wouldn’t suggest he return to it. Instead of checking his room, she went to the trouble of dressing and going out to the stable to see if he was home. In all these years, then, had she never entered his room?

  Had she never come in to watch him sleep, as he did her? Of course not. It was a silly thing to do, yet he had continued the practice year after year. Many a night he’d sat in the chair near her bed, gazing on her face, her beautiful, angelic face. Some nights he’d been unable to stop himself from kissing her hand or the top of her head, love for her welling inside. Most nights he contented himself with just watching her sleep. Doing so helped him keep his distance during the day. It helped him keep the facade in place.

  But this new knowledge tugged on his heart. Was it respect or indifference that kept her out of his room? And now was she truly worried about him riding in the dark, or did she suspect something? She was dressed to go riding. If he hadn’t been home, where would she have ridden to look for him?

  Emma heard her husband pause outside her door. She sat still, her heart pounding in her ears. Would he come in? She stared at the doorknob, willing it to turn, willing Paul to walk through the door, to envelop her in his arms, to kiss her again. He’d loved her once. Couldn’t he love her anew?

  His footsteps continued past her door, and she sank back into the chair. Where had he been? He’d been gone for hours. One didn’t ride for hours in the dark without a purpose. But one could be gone for hours, riding only a short distance.

  Did he have a mistress? Pain pierced her chest as if she’d been stabbed with a knife. It had been years since they’d been intimate with each other. Could he have found solace elsewhere? She bit her lip to keep from crying out. It wasn’t fair. She’d never locked her door; she’d have welcomed him anytime. He was the one who rejected her, not the other way around. Sometimes she dreamt he came, that he looked at her adoringly and kissed her hand. Such pleasant dreams.

  But now—what was happening? Was he seeing someone else? Emma rose from her chair and paced the room, wringing her hands. With whom was her husband meeting?

  Perhaps no one. She was overreacting. He might have fallen asleep or lost track of time as he pondered their married daughters. He was a good man. His integrity would prevent him from indiscretions.

  Emma knelt on her prayer pillow and stilled her mind. She envisioned coming before the Great I Am and poured out her heart. She rose from her prayer with renewed strength and conviction. Not only would she reconcile with her husband; she’d make peace in the community and friends among her servants. Beulah might believe it was best to leave things as they were, but Emma couldn’t. She had all this love to give. All the attention and care she’d poured into her daughters needed a new outlet, but more than that, she felt God’s leading in this endeavor. He wanted her to reconcile, and so she would.

  Eager to begin the day, she chose a blue outfit and laid it out. How frustrating that fashion dictated corsets and tiny buttons down the back, making it impossible to dress oneself.

  A half hour later, Beulah bustled into the room, huffing a little.

  Emma smiled. “Did you sleep well, Beulah?”

  “Yes, ma’am, thank you.” She tightened Emma’s corset. “Do you have a special day planned?”

  “Yes, Beulah, I do. A very special day that involves Mr. Trebor, our household, and our community.” Emma was giddy with anticipation. Today was the beginning of a new life. She hugged Beulah, felt her lady’s maid stiffen, but squeezed gently before letting go. “I know you believe things are better left as they were, but it’s time I showed you how much you mean to me. Prepare yourself. There will be more hugs coming.”

  At the top of the stairs, Emma drew in a deep breath. Beulah hadn’t hugged her back, nor smiled at the declaration of more affection to come, but Emma hadn’t expected the change to be easy. Even so, by the time she was ready to enter the breakfast room and face Paul, her mouth felt as dry as burnt toast.

  Her husband looked up as she entered. “Good morning, dear,” he said. “I expected you might sleep late, considering our eventful day yesterday.”

  “Good morning.” She drew in a deep breath. “Paul, I must speak with you.” She moved her plate setting from her usual spot at the opposite end of the table to his right side.

  His brow furrowed as he watched her. “Of course, dear, but I haven’t time this morning. I’m needed at the mill, you know.” He started to rise.

  She put her hand over his, pausing his exit. “Please eat breakfast with me.”

  He didn’t look at her, kept his gaze toward the window. “I’d love to, dear, but really I can’t. I’m sure you understand.” He slid his hand from under hers and hurried from the room.

  Emma sat alone, her determination unaltered. If he had no time for her at home, then she’d join him at the cotton mill.

  Chapter 3

  Emma lingered, drinking her tea, mulling over her brief encounter with Paul. He had left before finishing his breakfast and had made no eye contact. Because he didn’t want to be alone with her? Guilt over his nocturnal activities?

  She’d never doubted Paul’s fidelity before. He seemed above that sort of thing, but she was
easy to deceive. She’d been duped before with disastrous results. Had he played her false all these years? Appearing upright and honest—a devout man of God—all the while carrying on an affair?

  Perhaps she should give up the idea of reconciliation and plan a trip to New York City. Charlotte, her eldest, often asked her to come. The city was festive in the winter, and with Charlotte’s connections, there’d be plenty of social opportunities. And her eldest had been married three years; mightn’t there be a baby on the horizon? What a happy distraction that would be!

  But no. She wouldn’t leave. Not yet, anyway. She loved Paul, and if he still cared for her, they could begin again. Unless…he’d taken a mistress….

  Her heart reached heavenward. She closed her eyes and whispered, “Dear God, don’t let it be too late.”

  Of course it wasn’t too late. God would not be urging her if it were. She was jumping to conclusions. Paul had been out one night that she knew of. These doubts attacking her heart were not heaven sent.

  “Are you finished, Mrs. Trebor?” Mandy carried a tray to clear the breakfast dishes.

  “Oh! Yes. Thank you, Mandy.” Emma rose. “Will you tell Clancy, please, that I would like to take the buggy to town?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The cook collected the leftover eggs and sausages onto her tray and left the room.

  Emma walked to the window overlooking the garden. Most of the blooms were spent; only a few asters and chrysanthemums remained. They’d be gone too after the first hard frost. The garden’s bleakness subdued her mood further.

  She turned from the window and pulled a cord hanging near the door.

  A bit out of breath, Beulah appeared.

  “Please sit down a moment.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, but I’m fine to stand. Is there something you need?”

  “Do you remember that blue-flowered chintz we bought too much of for Catherine’s trousseau? We made a dress from it, but there were yards and yards left.”

  “I remember it.”

  “Could you gather it for me, please, along with my sewing kit? Put them in a hamper for traveling.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And I was wondering, Beulah, if you’d like to come with me. I’m going to sew garments for the poor with the women’s auxiliary.”

  Beulah’s gaze met Emma’s. “I’ll get ready.”

  “But do you want to come?”

  “I want to please my employer.”

  “Beulah, I’m asking for your honesty. If you truly want to please me, then you’ll give me sincere answers, not what you think I want to hear.”

  Beulah rubbed her forehead. “For this particular question or all the time?”

  “All the time.”

  Beulah planted her hands on her hips. “Why do you want to use that fancy chintz for poor people’s clothes? It’s gonna be soiled and tattered in no time.”

  “Maybe so, but don’t you think poor people like pretty things too?”

  Beulah’s smile grew slowly then flooded her face. “They sure do. Yes, ma’am, they sure do.”

  Paul’s gaze drifted to the third-floor windows as he neared his cotton mill. Noise from the machines drowned out his arrival and covered any sounds the hideaways might make.

  Before heading up to his office, he checked the shed holding his supply of cotton. Each bale weighed five hundred pounds, and there were two left; he’d need more soon. Perhaps he’d go himself this time. The round trip could take a fortnight and would be a way to avoid Emma. Maybe in his absence, she’d find a hobby to replace mothering their daughters. She needed something to do, but he couldn’t have her looking his way.

  Although—what if they could recapture the life they’d shared the first years of their marriage? He’d come home after a hard day, and she’d greet him with a smile, admiration shining from her eyes. They’d share the frustrations and successes of the day with each other, listening to and caring for one another. Sometimes they’d ride around the estate together. Other times they’d dance, just the two of them. He could feel the softness of her hands in his, inhale her fragrance as she leaned into his embrace.

  Paul shook himself from his daydream. He had no business entertaining such thoughts. Nothing good would come of it. He’d not put the freedom seekers at risk over his own pleasure.

  He sought his foreman, Joe, among the carding machines. Carding was the most dangerous job in the mill, and Joe oversaw the men running the machines carefully. The huge, rotating cylinders, covered with thousands of sharp wire teeth, could maim or kill a careless worker. Fortunately, no such accidents had occurred at Paul’s mill, a fact he attributed to his overseer’s constant attention. “Where’s Joe?” he shouted over the noise of the machinery to one of the carders.

  The man pointed upward.

  Paul ascended the steps to the second floor, where women spun the carded, clean cotton into threads that were wound onto large wooden bobbins. He smiled at the children playing marbles in a corner near a window. Their job was to remove the full bobbins and replace them with empty ones, but the task left free time for play. He was glad for that. A part of him was sorry that children as young as ten had to work, but he was thankful to provide jobs that didn’t entirely rob them of their youth. He spoke with one of the boys, raising his voice to be heard over the machinery. “Have you seen Mr. Joe?”

  The boy nodded. “Trouble with a warper.” The youngster had several full bobbins he was carrying to the third floor.

  “I’ll take these for you.” Paul continued up the stairs, where the warpers and weavers worked. The room was quieter than the lower floors, with a rhythmic pulse as weavers worked the cotton warp and weft threads into fabric, yet even here there was a constant din. He handed the spools to a woman working a warper. “Have you seen Joe?”

  “I believe he went to your office, Mr. Trebor.”

  It wasn’t as if his office was off limits to his foreman, but it wasn’t common for him to come up to the third floor, even to visit his wife and daughter, who worked on the looms. “Joe,” Paul called as he entered the room.

  “Yes, boss.” His overseer stood in front of the closet leading to the secret room, where the family was hidden.

  The men’s eyes locked. Neither smiled. Paul spoke first, his face nonexpressive. “Have you checked the freight?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is it ready to go?”

  “Unfortunately, it can’t leave until the next stockholders’ meeting.” Joe walked to the door. “I’d better get back downstairs.”

  Paul nodded as he processed the code. The freight—the freedom seekers hiding in the secret room—couldn’t leave until the stockholders—those financing the escape—could get funds to purchase berth on a ship heading through the canal to Canada.

  Paul contributed to the stockholders’ fund, but he wasn’t in charge of managing it. The current freedom seekers were safe in the cotton mill, but he was expecting another delivery in two days—one large and one small bale. Hiding five people in one location was risky. Too risky.

  Suddenly, above the din, a voice shouted, “Fire!”

  Chapter 4

  Emma parked the buggy in front of the First Presbyterian Church and glanced at Beulah. “I’m not sure where the women’s auxiliary meets. Reverend Bachus will know.”

  “They meet at the Potters’ home.” Beulah met Emma’s gaze. “At ten.”

  Emma looked at the dainty clock circled in diamonds and rubies that she wore as a pendant. It read ten fifteen. “We’re late.” She turned the buggy around and urged Apollo to a trot. It took only a few minutes to travel down the street and around a corner to get to the Potters’ modest abode. Mr. Potter was a barber, with a shop on the canal. His means were simple, but the home was well cared for.

  Emma paused at the front door. She dreaded being late. Perhaps it would be wise to wait until next week, when she could plan her arrival to coincide with others and not draw attention by her tardiness.

  “Are you
having second thoughts?” Beulah huffed under the weight of the fabric-filled hamper.

  “Yes.” Emma nodded. “But we’re here now. We’ll go inside.” She knocked, a bit louder than she intended.

  Mrs. Potter answered. Her eyes widened momentarily; then a smile replaced the surprise. “Mrs. Trebor, how lovely to see you. Oh, and Beulah too. Please come in.”

  Their hostess led the way to the parlor. As they entered the room, the hum of conversation stopped, and all eyes watched Emma. Warmth spread from her neck to her cheeks, but she drew in a deep breath and straightened her back. “Good morning, ladies. I apologize for my tardiness.”

  “Nonsense. We are just getting started.” Mrs. Potter gestured to an empty settee. “There’s room right there. Please have a seat.”

  Beulah placed the hamper between them as she and Emma sat. Emma forced cheerfulness into her voice. “I’ve brought fabric from Catherine’s trousseau, but of course I’m happy to work on whatever needs doing.” Why were they still staring at her? Emma shot a smile around the room. “I wasn’t sure what was needed more, children’s clothing or women’s.”

  She glanced at Mrs. Potter, hoping for a friendlier countenance. She was not disappointed. “It’s all in demand, my dear, even men’s clothing for that matter.”

  Emma opened the hamper and pulled out a length of the chintz material.

  “We’re sewing for the poor, my dear.” Mrs. Linde, on her left, scowled. “Why would you bring that?”

  Beulah lifted her chin. “Because poor people like pretty things too.”

  Emma looked about the room. Ten women filled the chairs, not counting her and Beulah, and at the moment not a one was speaking. Remarkable.

  Disapproving silence settled over the room.

  Mrs. Potter picked up a half-finished child’s dress made of a drab olive-green cotton. “Catherine’s wedding was beautiful, was it not, Mrs. Linde?”