Freedom's Price (14 page)

A
s the sun rose, Ma hurried Eliza through the deserted streets.

“Ma, do we have to walk so fast? No one will even be awake at Miss Charlotte's.”

Ma's steps slowed. “Miss Charlotte wants you there first
thing this morning. And her servants will be awake and working, I promise you that.”

Eliza remembered how tired Sadie had looked; she'd be glad to have Eliza's help.

“While you're there,” Ma warned, “I want you to remember that you aren't a slave—you're being paid.”

“What good does that do me?” Eliza said, tripping on the cobblestones slick with morning dew. “The sheriff keeps everything we earn.”

“When we're free, we'll get all the money back.” Ma's oft-repeated reassurance rang hollow to Eliza's ears.

“If we live that long,” Eliza muttered under her breath.

“We certainly will, because we're careful. When you are at Miss Charlotte's, I want you to only drink boiled water. And stay away from anyone who's sick.”

“I will, Ma, I swear.” They walked half a block before Eliza spoke again. “I didn't even say good-bye to Lizzie.”

“It would have upset her.”

“Tell her I love her. And tell Pa too.”

Ma stopped in the middle of the street. “Eliza Scott, you're only a few blocks away. As soon as the cholera is gone, I'll bring Lizzie to work with me at the house.”

“Do you promise?” Ma didn't make promises lightly.

“Yes.”

When they arrived at the Charlesses' house, the curtains were drawn, and no one seemed to be stirring.

Ma went down the alley to the locked garden gate. She
knocked loudly. As they waited, she lifted Eliza's chin. “Eliza, please be careful. Be respectful. And don't leave the house.” Staring into her daughter's eyes, she said, “You're too young. I never should have agreed.”

Eliza threw her arms around her mother and whispered in her ear, “I love you, Ma. I can do this.”

Cook opened the door slowly, peering out suspiciously.

“Hello, Harriet,” Cook said. “Come in, Eliza.” Eliza slipped inside. Ma started to follow, but Cook shook her head heavily. “I'm not allowed to let anyone in.”

“But . . .” Ma pressed her lips tightly together.

“You know it's for the best, Harriet.”

“Eliza,” Ma said. “Be good.”

“Ma!”

Before Eliza could say another word, her mother was gone, hurrying down the alley. Cook slammed the gate and shut the bolt. Eliza stared at the gate, tears streaming down her cheeks. “But I didn't even say good-bye.”

“It's easier this way. Your ma knows that.” Cook handed her a floury rag. “Wipe your face.” Her hand, callused from rolling hundreds of pies and biscuits, rested on Eliza's shoulder. “After what happened with Mr. Mark a few weeks ago, I'm surprised she let you come.”

Foot raised to take the first step, Eliza stopped. She turned to Cook. “He's not still here, is he?” she asked, barely breathing.

“Of course he is. He lives here.” She paused, staring into Eliza's eyes. “Ah, you didn't tell her.”

“I thought he'd be in California by now.” Eliza glanced behind her at the locked gate. She was trapped.

“No one would give him any money,” Cook snorted. “So he's sulking in his room every day. He's trying a new medicine for the cholera—whiskey, and lots of it.” She grinned at her own joke, then her smile flattened into a disapproving line. “You've made your own bed, Eliza Scott. And you'd best be avoiding that man.”

Eliza matched Cook's snail's pace, humming a tune only she could hear, as if the song would protect her from Mark Charless. Once inside, Cook gave her a gentle shove out the kitchen door. “The mistress is waiting for you in the front parlor.”

Eliza smoothed her blue skirt, brushing away some stray flour from Cook's rag. The collar chafed her neck; she wished she could have worn her own clothes. She reached in her pocket and touched Wilson's ribbons. She had hidden them there while Ma's back was turned. She was alone in a strange house, wearing clothes that weren't her own, but she had kept something that belonged only to her. Wilson was alone on a strange ship too. She'd have to be as brave as he was. She tapped on the door.

“Come in.” Miss Charlotte sat in the front parlor, near the window overlooking the street. She was crocheting a bright red blanket. Her feet were propped up on a cushioned footstool. An oil lamp was burning on the table next to her, even though the sun was up now. Eliza's eyes couldn't help but drift toward the piano. It still looked unused and lonely.
Eliza's fingers twitched, longing to touch the keys.

“Hello, Eliza.” Miss Charlotte's voice made her stand up straight.

Eliza bobbed in a half-curtsy. “Good morning, ma'am.”

“You'll be caring for my husband's aunt Sofia,” Miss Charlotte said briskly.

“Is she ill?” Eliza asked, concern bringing color to her cheeks. Had she left the jail only to go to a house with cholera?

“No! Of course not.” Miss Charlotte waved away that concern. “She's just very old and can be very demanding. Sometimes her mind wanders.”

“Wanders?”
How does a mind wander?
Eliza wondered.

“I'm hoping your singing might make her easier to manage.”

“I know a lot of songs,” Eliza said slowly.

“Excellent. Your job is to keep Aunt Sofia in her room. One less worry for me.”

Miss Charlotte's faced seemed drawn and tired. Eliza wasn't surprised. Her husband was always traveling for his business, leaving her alone to care for the house, the family farm, her rotten son, and all the servants.

“You'll take your meals and sleep in Aunt Sofia's room on a pallet,” Miss Charlotte explained. “You won't have any reason to leave the room.”

“Never?” Eliza asked. Her voice broke on the second syllable. This was just another kind of prison.

“Never.” Miss Charlotte's crocheting seemed to require all of her attention. Without looking at Eliza, she said, “My
husband's aunt likes to make mischief. But it's not as if she's ever hurt anyone.”

Eliza's eyes went wide as Miss Charlotte rang a little silver bell. Sadie appeared in a few seconds. “Sadie, take Eliza to Miss Sofia's room.”

“But . . .,” Eliza protested.

Miss Charlotte waved her away.

Walking upstairs to Miss Sofia's room, Eliza squeezed Sadie's hand. “How bad is this Miss Sofia?” She paused. “Is she dangerous?”

“She's not that bad,” Sadie said, not meeting Eliza's eyes. She broke away and hurried upstairs. Miss Sofia's room was at the top of the stairs facing the garden. Sadie pulled a large key from her pocket, unlocked the door, then gave it to Eliza.

Eliza felt the heft of the key in her palm. “Why do I need this?” Eliza asked, clutching the heavy key in her palm.

“Miss Charlotte's orders,” Sadie answered. “Miss Sofia isn't allowed out by herself. It's your job to keep her inside.”

“She's a prisoner?” Eliza asked. Her head was spinning. This morning she had woken up in a cell, but now she was the jailer. She wished she had a moment to stop and think, but Sadie was turning the doorknob.

She gave Eliza a shove through the open door. “Miss Charlotte's orders,” she said. “And lock the door behind you.”

C
HAPTER
Seventeen

T
HE CURTAINS WERE DRAWN AND THE ROOM WAS TOO DIM TO
make out anything or anyone. Eliza stumbled inside, stretching her hands in front of her. The smell of old woman, past meals, and a neglected chamber pot hit Eliza like a smack on the nose.

“Who's there?” The quavering voice came from the opposite side of the room.

“Miss Sofia,” Sadie called from the hall. “This here's Eliza.”

“Get out!” Miss Sofia screeched. “I want to be alone!”

“Sadie, don't leave me!”

“Good luck, Eliza!” Sadie pulled the door shut. “Don't forget to lock the door.”

Sadie's footsteps on the stairs faded away. Eliza was alone. She put the key in the door but didn't lock it.
Like home,
she thought.
Another unlocked cell.
Her eyes scanned the darkened room. Where was Miss Sofia hiding? What if she snuck up
behind Eliza and struck her? Eliza whirled around, but she couldn't see a thing.

“Are you still there?” the woman called out. “I have a pistol and I know how to use it.”

“Don't shoot me!” Eliza cried. She backed up until her spine was pressed against the door. Her body was rigid, braced against a bullet. No one had said anything about a gun!

“Why shouldn't I?” the voice demanded. “You want to lock me away like the rest of them.”

“I'm not like that,” Eliza insisted. “I hate being locked up.”

“I heard the key in the door,” the voice accused.

“I was told to do that,” Eliza answered, “but I didn't lock it.”

“You disobeyed Charlotte's orders?” There was a new note in the woman's voice—curiosity.

“Yes, ma'am,” Eliza said with a gulp. “But I'm going to lock the door if I decide you're crazy.”

A short burst of surprised laughter echoed in the dark room. Eliza's body relaxed a little.

“Do you really have a pistol?” Eliza asked.

“Yes, so you'd best answer my questions,” the voice ordered.

“Why don't we let in some light,” Eliza suggested. The old woman didn't protest. Eliza moved past the bed, stubbing her toe on a rocking chair and bumping into a table. To ease the sharp pain, she hummed as she crossed to the window
and pulled the curtains aside. The window faced east, and the morning sun struck the darkness away.

When she turned to take in her new home, Eliza saw a huge bed that took up half the room. Miss Sofia looked like a doll, sitting upright in that enormous bed. Her back hardly touched the pillows. She was the oldest woman Eliza had ever seen. The wrinkles on her face looked like a fine white porcelain cup had been shattered and then glued together. Her robe was held closed by one hand at the neck and the other hand stroked a pistol.

Miss Sofia blinked against the light, peering at Eliza. “You're a Negro!” she exclaimed.

Eliza narrowed her eyes. “So?”

“I've told Charlotte I don't want any of her slaves.”

“Why not?” Eliza couldn't keep the edge out of her voice.

“Slavery is an abomination,” Miss Sofia pronounced.

Eliza felt the knot in her stomach dissolve like a piece of hard candy on the tongue. “You're an abolitionist?”

“All the Charlesses are!” Miss Sofia went on. “So leave now, and tell Charlotte I will not have you or any other slave.” A glint appeared in the old woman's eyes, and she fingered the gun.

Eliza placed her hands on her hips and grinned. “I'm not a slave, I was born free. Miss Charlotte
hired
me to look after you.”

“Hired you, did she?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Miss Sofia smiled slowly, slid the pistol under her pillow,
and patted the bed. “Where did my niece find you, Eliza?” Miss Sofia asked.

“My pa used to be one of Miss Charlotte's slaves.”

“You're Dred Scott's daughter!” Miss Sofia jabbed a finger toward Eliza as if she had placed Eliza on a map in her mind. “I didn't realize you were quite this old.”

“My ma would be pleased to hear that,” Eliza said.

Miss Sofia's eyes stayed on Eliza's face. “I'm sure she would. So you're a freedom litigant. Where do you live?”

Eliza closed her eyes as she answered, “In the jail.”

“The jail?” Miss Sofia's voice was like spitting nails. “How despicable to punish people for trying to get what's owed them under the law.”

Eliza couldn't speak past the sudden lump in her throat. Sometimes she forgot how much her parents had risked; she wished she'd been more grateful.

“Sit down. I want to hear about the case. Is Charlotte still paying for your lawyer?”

“I think so.” Eliza perched on the edge of the feather mattress. Her body sank at least six inches—she'd never felt anything so soft. She could imagine the fun she and Lizzie would have jumping on it. She couldn't think of Lizzie now; she'd only start to cry. “But I've never understood why.”

“Poor Charlotte feels guilty, of course. She knows slavery is terrible, but she can't live without the comfortable life the slaves make for her. She's misguided, but for all that she's a decent woman.” Miss Sofia fixed a beady eye on Eliza. “Don't repeat that!”

Eliza nodded solemnly. She was beginning to like Miss Sofia.

“She does treat her slaves well,” Eliza offered, although it went against her grain to defend a slave owner, even one as kind as Miss Charlotte.

Miss Sofia snorted. “If she cares about her slaves, she should free them. The family can afford it.”

“I'm grateful she's helping us,” Eliza admitted. “But why is it a secret?”

“She doesn't want her fancy friends to know,” Miss Sofia confided. “Your owner, Mrs. Emerson, was born a Sanford, one of the most powerful families in the city.”

“I've met Frank Sanford.” Eliza's voice came out in a squeak.

“The black sheep of the family—even though he's barely twenty. I hear he wants to go west with my idiot grandnephew, Mark, if only they had the money.”

“You know a lot for someone who doesn't leave her room.”

“I hear a lot.” Miss Sofia lifted her eyebrows, inviting Eliza to be in on the secret. “Especially if voices are raised.”

“Miss Charlotte and Mark.” Eliza wasn't guessing.

“You've heard them too?”

“When I do the laundry in the garden.”

Miss Sofia jabbed at Eliza with a claw-like finger. “That was you, singing!”