East of Orleans (16 page)

Nell turned with a surprised face. “Heavens no, her mother is long ago dead.”

“And she still goes down to the river and looks for her; why?” Nell and Isabella’s eyes met.

“I guess she has dreamed so long that she will return for her that she believes she will,” Nell said, shrugging her shoulders.

Isabella passed men with folded newspapers under their arms; the street was full of life. “So what happened to Kate?” asked Isabella.

“Kate was seventeen when she married Mr. O’Brien, who was an established
Savannah
banker. He was in his thirties and every single woman in town kept Jim Blackstone busy putting new heels on their shoes.”

“Why was that?”

“They wore them out as well as the tabby street in front of Mr. O’Brien’s house carrying him one blackberry cobbler after another; that was his favorite.” Nell took Isabella’s hand. “Let’s cross the street. The boats are coming in. It’s a beautiful afternoon.” Nell curled her bottom lip. “Everybody knew it was a futile effort. There wasn’t no woman ever gonna catch Mr. O’Brien, that is, until--”

“Until what?”

“Until Kate.” Nell glanced at Isabella and smiled.

“Nell, darling, what a nice surprise!” The merry woman rubbed a streak of flour off her cheek. “My word, you look prettier every time I see you.”

“Whisper that in Charlie’s ear, will you, Kate?”

“I’ll do no such thing; he knows as much, dear, his eyes sparkle when he looks at you.” Kate wiped the sweat from her shiny face with one hand as she removed her apron with the other. She walked over and peeped inside the stove at a rack of blackberry pies, and then she washed her hands off and dried them on her apron. Kate smiled. “Would you girls like a cold glass of tea?” Kate’s eyes darted from Nell to Isabella. Her eyes stopped at Isabella. “How are you dear? I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No, you haven’t, this is Isabella McCoy,” said Nell.

Kate leaned into Isabella and met her eyes. “Of course, you are.” Kate turned to Nell. “You told me that she was coming, but you never told me that she was such a beauty. It’s a good thing Patrick’s not here.” Kate clasped her hands together and smiled. “Oh, my dear, Patrick’s my son. I know how he would feel about you. He would like you, yes, he would.”

Nell smirked and shook her head. “Patrick likes all the pretty young girls.”

Kate’s smile left her face. “You’re right, but not in the way he would like Isabella. I can see she’s special.” A curious smile spread across Kate’s face. “Where are you from, dear?”

“Shakerag.”

“Shakerag? I don’t believe I’ve heard of Shakerag; where is it located?”

“It’s just a little place that sits next to the Chattahoochee in north
Georgia
.” Kate looked at Isabella and saw tears forming in her eyes.

“Oh child, what’s wrong?” Kate said softly. Nell looked at Kate hard for a long moment and then walked over to the door. Kate immediately wrapped her arm around Isabella and walked her into the kitchen. “My husband has family from north
Georgia
. I’m sure that he would love to visit with you.” Kate touched the side of Isabella’s cheek, smiled and held her gaze for a moment. “Would you like that? Will you come for dinner one night?”

Isabella nodded.

Nell gave Kate an impatient look. “Kate, it’s getting kind of late and I wanted to introduce Isabella to the rest of the people on the street. Can we visit with you tomorrow?”

Kate wrapped her apron around her waist and said, “Oh yes, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

They spent the remainder of the afternoon knocking on doors and being introduced to numerous shopkeepers. There was Mr. Jackson, the barber; he quit clipping just long enough to glance over his shoulder and smile. He did not miss a single detail and then returned to snipping and clipping as fast as he was talking. Cotton and politics seemed to be the conversation that dominated the barbershop, and more often than not, they were closely related.

Mrs. Davenport was the local seamstress. Isabella thought she had a mean looking face that reminded her of Eliza Hartwell.

Nell pulled Isabella by the hand into the toyshop of Louisa DeFore. Mrs. DeFore’s shop was at the end of Riverstreet. Isabella glanced around at the vast array of imported dolls and toys. They all seemed to shout silently for Isabella to pick them up. There was a brown mohair monkey with tight shut eyes that made him appear to be asleep.

Nell ran over to one monkey and wound the elaborate brass key on its back. “This one is my favorite; I’ve begged Charlie to buy him for me. Watch this!”

Isabella laughed as she watched the monkey march across the waxed wooden floor, rhythmically clapping his cymbals together, wishing she could take the monkey with her.

Every afternoon Isabella strolled through
Forsyth
Park
, carefully making her way past the poets and artist that were impressing each other with their tales of having studied in
Paris
. Often while sitting for her own portrait, Isabella could hear the pleading cries from auctioneers at the Cotton Exchange up on
Bay Street
. The park introduced her, in one way or another, to the elite and the ill mannered which, more often than not, were one and the same.

Isabella’s day at McGillivrarys started early and ended late. She worked hard alongside Charlie, washing glasses, cleaning and clearing the bar, stacking dishes on pub tables, and of course, washing the windows and linens.

Often Isabella would look up to find Nell smiling sadly at her and then Nell would take over. Late at night, Isabella would read letters from Mama and Granny. She would read them by the flicker of a single candle and then she would put the letters in an old wooden trunk that she brought with her from home, which now sat at the foot of her bed. And before she blew out the candle, she would always think of Tom and then cry herself to sleep.

At the invitation of Lettie, Isabella and Jesse rode out to the large plantation house on Sunday and had dinner with the McGillivrarys. “That nigra boy has courage to bring himself in here and sit down at my table,” Red said to Lettie.

Isabella shot Jesse a quick glance as he pulled out her chair and seated her at the table. “Stay,” she whispered. Two pruned- face, long-legged Negro men carved and served a baked ham. A slight mulatto woman with slumped shoulders came and went from the dining room with bowls of fried okra, sweet potatoes, corn, rice, cornbread and hot biscuits. Isabella noticed an old Negro man who stood in the corner of the room with military erectness.

The house was huge. Isabella and Jesse roamed through the place and jumped at the sight of old slaves speaking in low tones, sitting out on the back porch. The war had been over for seventeen years, but the older Negroes, who had left the plantation years before had wandered back so their eyes could fall on the only place they had called home one last time before they died.

The house had fallen in a state of disrepair. Floors creaked when they walked, crystal chandeliers were coated with dust. The library boasted rich mahogany walls as did the staircase and banisters. The torn and faded drapes were made of fine French silks and heavy velvet. They were taken down in the summer months when, Lettie explained, they had to put up the mosquito netting. This had been a common addition since the wrath of yellow fever.

A few months later, Isabella received a letter from home. She unfolded the paper as the envelope fell to her lap and she began to read:

18, February 1883

My Dear Isabella,

I hope this letter finds you well. I wish I could say that is the case here, but sadly, it is not. My heart is both heavy and fearful. Several children in the valley have come down with the fever. Last week Livie had to take little Henry to
Duluth
to see Dr. Mason. Little Henry is not thriving from the needle or the tonic that Dr. Mason gave him.

For two days now, Livie has not left his side, nor has Granny. His fevers are 104 degrees and Dr. Mason has told Livie and Henry that he has done all that he can do. We are all praying, for it is now in the Lord’s hands.

Your loving Mama

Several days later, another letter arrived and Isabella prayed it did not contain the news that she somehow knew it contained.

24, February 1883

My Dear Isabella,

As I write this letter, my heart is breaking. It has been a week since we laid little Henry to his final rest. We buried him next to your daddy.

The funeral was awful, there was so much crying and Henry had to stop Livie from trying to take the baby from his coffin. Livie just stares into space in the daytime and stays wide awake at night. But it is Granny that I am most worried about. Granny coughs all night and it is difficult for her to breathe.

Do not think of coming home. We know you cannot and now would not be a good time. Stay in
Savannah
until there is some hope of restoring your name.

Pray for Livie and Granny. Granny misses you so very much.

Your loving Mother

“My dear,” Nell said gently to Isabella, “I am so very sorry.” Even though Isabella did not go home for the next week, she dressed mournfully in black. Nell told Kate about the baby’s death and Kate sent one of her mourning dresses that were small enough for Isabella to wear.

Spring was coming to
Savannah
, and the azaleas were in bloom. Isabella could barely move and her stomach seemed as swollen as Red’s belly. At Nell’s insistence, Lettie sent out a midwife to check Isabella. Soon after Isabella’s things were packed in her trunk and Lettie had Jesse bring Isabella out to the plantation to stay until the baby was born. Isabella missed Riverstreet. She longed for Nellie, Mrs. Kate, and Mrs. Kate’s blackberry pies. Twice a week, Kate had faithfully sent a blackberry pie over to Isabella delivered by Jesse. Lettie was not thrilled to have Isabella staying at the plantation house, and Isabella had even overheard Lettie say to Red that Isabella was a bad influence on the darkies. “She’s not working, she lies in bed all day, and she most certainly, is not earning her keep,” Lettie told her husband.

“Well, what’d you expect, bringing a girl into work that is with child?”