The Slave Master's Son (26 page)

“Write a list of the colors you need, and I’ll drop it off at the store. I’ll pick it up for you tomorrow after I finish at the bank.” John had taken a job during his suspension at a local bank. It paid half his normal wage, but he was grateful it afforded him to stay financially afloat. He purchased another piece of property to open his private practice once the suspension was removed. When he excitedly told Hannah about it, she immediately began to sew curtains and embellishments for the new office as well as create striking vests and ties for her beloved.

Hannah turned back to the sewing machine and finished Harriet’s dress. She looked at it admirably. She walked over to a basket she had, which kept buttons, sashes and lace. Slowly but surely, she hand selected pieces here and there to add to the garb. Threading a needle with her mouth and hand, she meticulously sewed light pink lace around the collar. Hannah then added details to a matching sash, drawing flowers with the thread along the sides and adorning a snow white tassel.

* * *

The next morning, Hannah busied herself in the kitchen, making breakfast thirty minutes earlier than usual. She was enthused with her busy work the evening before and lamented in her mind all that still needed to be accomplished.

“You’re driven,” John said, as he interrupted her thoughts and pulled at his pajama pants.

“What do you mean?” Hannah asked as she turned to him and put a plate of eggs and bacon at his place setting. John sat down and picked up his fork.

“All night you tossed and turned. You had a smile on your face,” he teased. “I firmly believe that you should show your wares to more people. You’re an exceptionally good seamstress, Hannah. I’ve told you that for years, and you’ve gotten even better,” he encouraged, taking a big bite of his softly scrambled eggs.

“You really think so?” Hannah smiled shyly. “I just figured you were being kind.”

“Even if I were, the ladies at the dry goods store want you to bring your items. You told me yourself, and last time I was in there I was asked about my housekeeper’s blankets,” John smirked. Hannah laughed and rolled her eyes.

“We have to laugh to keep from crying,” she said, gripping her stomach as she turned back towards the sink.

“Are you in pain?” John asked as he leaped up and turned her towards him.

“Yes, but not physically,” Hannah said looking up at him.

“I know. It does not define us though, Hannah.” He kissed the top of her head. “Let them think what they want. We know the truth.” He returned to his seat and finished his breakfast. “Do you have any completed quilts or blankets you don’t care for? Let me take them into the bank today and see what happens. I know it’s unorthodox, but with these cool temperatures, I’m certain it’d bode well with the employees.” John smiled earnestly as he wiped the corners of his mouth. Hannah wiped her hands on her apron.

“Jonathan’s cryin’. I’ll be back,” she said as she hurried up the steps. John waited at the front door with his coat and gloves on while fumbling around for his umbrella. Hannah returned with a subdued Jonathan, two hand sewn corsets, and four thick blankets. John took them gingerly from her and kissed her cheek.  All three headed out the door.

Hours later, Hannah returned from her doctor’s appointment. Now allowed to eat mashed potatoes and oatmeal, she jumped at the opportunity. Hannah quickly scrubbed two potatoes, skinned and cut them into bulky slices. She turned a pot on the wood stove until it was bubbling at the bit, then slowly slid the potatoes into the hot water. As they boiled, she made her way up to her bedroom and reviewed the dress she’d sewn for Harriet. With dress in tow, she quickly returned to the kitchen to check on her meal. She smiled and headed next door to recover Jonathan. Harriet opened the door laughing. Jonathan had jam all over his face.

“I’m sorry, Hannah. He was a bit zealous for the jam. Won’t you come in?” Harriet asked. Hannah hesitated then stepped inside. The smell of baked goods permeated the house. Hannah smiled as she saw a glimpse of rolls, cornbread, cakes, and pies in the kitchen.

“Mother sells them. Would you like some?” Harriet said as she walked into the kitchen.

“Oh, no thank you,” Hannah said. “I’ve been a little under the weather, but I sure would like to take you up on that offer another day.” She smiled as she shifted Jonathan to her other hip. “I have your dress for you here.” Hannah extended her free hand. Harriet smiled and dashed over to Hannah’s direction. She took the dress and watched it unfold as she shook it free. Glistening pink and touches of bright satiny red ran through the dress like Christmas ornaments. A silky sash with pink hand sewn flower embellishments added the right touch.

“Oh, Hannah! It’s beautiful! I could never – I could never have anything like this.” Harriet put the dress up to herself and spun around. Just then, Harriet’s parents entered the kitchen.

“Why hello, Hannah!” she said cheerfully. “Nice to see you today. Would you like a slice of peach cobbler?” Harriet’s mother offered.

“No ma’am, but it smells and looks mighty fine. I have a little stomach trouble right now, but as I told Harriet, please consider me in the future.”

“Hannah, the pretty nigger girl!” exclaimed Harriet’s father, each syllable weighted by his heavy Irish tongue. Hannah pursed her lips and looked away.

“Well, I should be going. Thank you Harriet. I’m glad you like the dress.” Hannah passed Harriet’s father abruptly. He shrugged his shoulders as she exited the house.

* * *

Later that evening, John held Hannah close next to him in bed.

“How are you feeling?” he whispered as he pulled down his pajama pants. Hannah smiled faintly.

“Still not feeling my best, but getting better,” she answered, her voice muffled from the pillow. Delicate swirls of her hair covered it like dark spirals of smoke. John moaned in agitation.

“It’s been such a long time.” He rubbed her shoulder as he slid closer to her, embracing her tightly. She felt his nature rising as he held her waist and brought her bottom towards him, pressing firmly into her.

“You know I would,” Hannah explained quietly.

“I know,” he said as he kissed her shoulder. He then turned away and pulled his pants back up.

“You didn’t ask me about the blankets and corsets,” he said, changing the topic. Hannah turned and faced him.

“Yes, what happened?” she asked anxiously.

“Oh, ye of little faith!” John joked. “They’re all gone, of course!” he smiled, his teeth glistening in the darkened room. “They want more. You’re going to have to do something about the demand,” he stated.

“I already did,” Hannah mumbled. “Look in the baby’s room.” Hannah pulled the covers over her body and nestled in. John laid there silently for a couple of minutes. He wiped his mouth with his hand, then slowly rose out of the bed, stumbling into the darkness of the hallway as he made his way to Jonathan’s room. He tiptoed around the crib to discover three blankets folded neatly in the corner. One was a vibrant green with tiny red stars along the border. Another was dark red with yellow circles, and the last was white with black flowers – one flower for each corner. His eyes adjusted as he brought them into the bedroom, turning on the lamp. He ran his hands over the stitching. Not one mistake could be seen from the naked eye.

“I’m awestruck,” he whispered. The following morning, John took the new blankets to a textile factory before heading to work. He walked inside the large barn-like door, feeling stagnant heat all around him. Making his way to a front counter, he laid the garments down.

“My name’s Mr. Stewart. My wife made these,” he said nonchalantly as he pushed the articles down in front of the head seamstress. The stout, pale woman looked at John then down at the blankets. She studied them carefully.

“How much do you want for them?” she asked, exposing a rotten front tooth.

“I don’t want money. I want my wife to run this place,” he said with a wide smile. The woman laughed.

“I don’t believe Mr. Peterson has it for sale. I must say though, your wife has quite the eye. Were these sewn by hand or machine?” she asked, lifting them up into the light.

“A bit of both,” John replied.

“These triangles here are ideal. Every stitch is lined up perfectly. This is quite impressive,” the woman said with a stern face.

“When will Mr. Peterson be available?” John asked, taking out his pocket watch.

“Just a moment. He’s here at this moment,” the woman said before slowly turning away and walking into the abyss of a room full of perspiring women that were preparing for their morning. Several of the single women stopped to sneak looks and smile at Jonathan. He nodded their way with a faint, nervous smile.

“Ladies, get to work! Stop eyeballing that man. He’s wedded,” barked the woman as she disappeared into the crowd.

“Hello, Mr. Stewart!” exclaimed Mr. Peterson several minutes later. Mr. Peterson was a beet red man with thinning white hair. His laughter was infectious. John looked at Mr. Peterson’s well fitted, expensive suit and began to speak.

“My wife’s a talented seamstress. She does it for pleasure. Her first line of work is taking care of my son and me, but I felt that she could benefit, as well as the public, from her talent,” John explained.

“Mary showed me the blanket. They’re very nice, but what do you want me to do?” asked Mr. Peterson.

“I want you to sell my wife’s blankets and linens here,” John stated.

“But she’s only one woman. There’s no way she could keep up with our demand, Mr. Stewart,” Mr. Peterson said sincerely.

“These would be a specialty item. Kind of like special teas you only receive around Christmas and Easter. She also makes exceptional clothing,” John added.

“I tell you what, bring more of her items down and I’ll put a sign out front. Every week we have various stores stop in and pick up the product. If we sell your wife’s items, I’ll contact you and give you say, forty percent of the profit,” Mr. Peterson offered.

“Sixty and you have a deal,” John said as he folded his arms. Mr. Peterson stood and thought for awhile.

“Fifty-five,” he said pensively. The two men shook hands. John walked briskly out of the factory, got into his wagon, and headed to work.

* * *

“I’m glad this is my last visit with you,” Hannah said curtly as she adjusted her blouse. Dr. Armstrong laughed. The bass in his deep voice tickled Hannah’s ears.

“I’m a pain, you say?” he asked as he looked into her eyes.

“You’re uncouth, arrogant, and rude,” Hannah answered.

“I do respect you, Hannah. I respect your Mr. Stewart, too.”

“Mr. Stewart’s my husband. You can say my husband,” Hannah said as she tucked her blouse into the top of her skirt.

“You’re definitely doing better now. Very feisty!” he nodded. He leaned in close, attempting to kiss her. Hannah quickly turned away.

“I hope to never cross your path again. Forget me, and I’ll forget you,” Hannah added as she slipped her narrow feet into her slippers. “And don’t you ever try to kiss me again,” she angrily warned.