Freedom's Price (16 page)

“Child, what are you singing?” Miss Sofia's sleepy voice was curious.

Eliza crumpled the paper into a little ball. “It's just something I made up,” she admitted.

“You write songs?” Miss Sofia sat up in bed; Eliza hurried to her side to help.

“I'd like to. Someday,” Eliza explained, as she fluffed the pillows behind Miss Sofia's back. “But first I need to learn to read and write musical notes so I can get the tune out of my head and onto paper.”

“I can teach you,” Miss Sofia said. “My piano is downstairs.”

“I've seen it,” Eliza replied, trying to hide her longing. “But it wouldn't be right for me to play it.” Ma would have some sharp words for Eliza if she found out. A colored girl didn't play her employer's piano.

“Nonsense,” Miss Sofia insisted, throwing back her blanket. “Besides, no one is up this early.”

“But it will wake the house.”

Miss Sofia shook her head, then led the way downstairs like a soldier commanding a raiding party. She was more spry on her feet than Eliza would have expected.

They snuck into the parlor, and Miss Sofia had Eliza sit at the piano. The instrument was polished and perfect, like a dream just within reach. Eliza was afraid if she closed her eyes, the piano would disappear in a puff of smoke. She ran her fingers over the smooth keys.

“Get those pillows,” Miss Sofia said, pointing to the parlor chairs. “Now help me lift the top of the piano.” Eliza watched, confused, as Miss Sofia put the pillows on top of the wooden levers inside the piano.

“Listen!” Miss Sofia said with a mischievous smile. She pressed down on a key. The noise came out of the piano as
a muffled
plunk
. “Now no one needs to know what we're doing.”

Early morning soon became Eliza's favorite time of day. They would slip downstairs, and Miss Sofia would unlock the piano's secrets for her. When Miss Sofia slept, Eliza would pretend the table was a keyboard and practice her notes. Every time she learned a new note or chord, Eliza knew she was building toward her future. She wished she could play her songs for Ma, but then again, Ma would think Eliza was taking liberties by learning the piano at all.

One evening Miss Sofia and Eliza sat by the window in her room as dusk was falling. Soon they would have to shut the windows against the insects of summer—but for now they were enjoying that moment just after a rainstorm when the world is perfectly quiet except for the dripping of water off the roof.

A whistling floated up through the outside sounds to Eliza and Miss Sofia. Two short bursts, then a long one.

“Wilson's back!”

“Your beau?” Miss Sofia asked. Eliza had told her all about Wilson Madison.

“He's not my beau; he's my friend,” Eliza replied, her cheeks hot. The whistling sounded again. “But he kept his promise.” She hesitated. “Would you mind . . .?”

“Don't keep him waiting. Go!” Miss Sofia said, giving Eliza a little shove.

Eliza opened the door a crack and peered outside.
The hall was empty. She hurried through the kitchen so quickly that Cook didn't even look up from her chopping. She was making chicken soup for the neighbors next door. Miss Charlotte had heard they were ailing. She forbade the household to have any contact with them, but she also gave instructions for Cook's soup to be left on their doorstep. It was the most the Charlesses would do for their neighbors. Eliza didn't consider it a lot. Her own parents, who had so little, never hesitated to help, even a stranger. Ma and Pa knew the risks better than anyone, but they did it anyway. It was a miracle they hadn't gotten sick. Eliza's breath caught—what if they were sick? Maybe Wilson was bringing bad news?

Fear gave her feet even more speed. She hurried down the steps to the garden. She wasn't allowed to open the gate, but she could see Wilson through the wood slats. “Wilson?”

“Eliza! How are you?”

“I'm good,” she said impatiently. “Are you all right? Is my family sick?”

He quickly reassured her. “Everyone is well. I saw your pa this morning.”

She exhaled with relief.

“Are you safe here?” he asked. “Has Mark given you any trouble?” She winced at the worry she heard in his words.

“No, he's been fine,” she lied. “I like the job. How is the
Mameluke
?”

“It's not bad. I prefer the
Edward Bates
though. Aren't you going to let me in?”

“I can't. It's against the rules,” Eliza said. “At least I get to see you. Are you back for good?”

“No. We're transporting slaves to New Orleans day after tomorrow.”

Eliza pressed her forehead against the wooden gate. “I wish you didn't have to go.”

“Eliza!” It was Cook. “What are you doing out of Miss Sofia's room?”

“Miss Sofia gave me permission!” Eliza replied.

“Then you might as well bring up her tray.”

Eliza turned back to Wilson, but a commotion starting in the alley stopped her in her tracks. “Wilson,” she asked. “What's happening?”

He looked behind him, and for a moment he went still. “Wait here.”

“Wilson!” She stood on her toes, trying to see over the fence. She said his name again, but he didn't answer.

When Wilson came back, she could tell from his face that the news wasn't good.

He reached out and put his hand on hers. “I'm sorry,” he said. “But your neighbors are dead. That was the wagon collecting the bodies.”

“I have to tell Miss Charlotte.” She squeezed Wilson's hand, then ran into the house.

“Be safe, Eliza!” he called after her.

“You too!” she cried over her shoulder. Eliza raced through the kitchen to the parlor. The door was shut and she
didn't dare burst in. Eliza rapped on the door, her knuckles smarting against the wood.

“Come in.” Miss Charlotte sat in her usual chair by the window, a lamp lighting her work. She put down her knitting when she saw Eliza's face. “Eliza, is something wrong with Aunt Sofia?”

“The neighbors across the alley . . .” The words tumbled from her mouth. “Cholera's killed them all!”

“The Fitzpatricks are dead?” Miss Charlotte's face went ghostly pale. “But they were so careful.”

“Mother, now will you leave the city?” Mark's voice, half slurred with drink, was chilling. Eliza peered into the shadows at the edge of the room; she could just make out his body lying on a sofa. “Or do we need to start dying too?” he asked.

Miss Charlotte pressed her palms on the arms of her plush chair and pushed herself up. “Yes. It's time to leave St. Louis and go to the farm. I've delayed too long already. I had hoped we'd be able to ride out the disease.”

“I can have the carriage brought 'round, and we'll leave in an hour,” Mark said.

“We have to bring clothes and bedding and dry goods. Today is too soon, but perhaps tomorrow,” Miss Charlotte said.

“Tomorrow may be too late,” Mark warned. “We need to go now. The others can follow.”

“I'm responsible for my slaves. I won't leave them for the
cholera to take.” Miss Charlotte turned to Eliza. “Tell Aunt Sofia that we'll be going to the farm tomorrow.”

Eliza hadn't even known that Miss Charlotte was considering moving to the farm, which she knew was miles away. Ma had always warned her not to leave the city. She stood stock-still trying to think of what to say.

“What are you waiting for?” Mark asked.

Taking hold of herself, Eliza said, “Miss Charlotte, I'm sorry, but I have to stay here. Ma won't let me leave the city.”

“That won't do. I need you to mind Aunt Sofia.”

Eliza had an idea that would protect everyone. “Then can my parents and Lizzie come with us?”

Mark burst out into mean laughter.

Miss Charlotte was kinder, but she shook her head. “I'm sorry, Eliza. But we can only bring our own people.”

“But . . .” Eliza asked herself what Ma would say, and for once she didn't have an answer. Ma would want Eliza to keep safe and be obedient to Miss Charlotte. So Eliza should go. On the other hand, to leave would break two of Ma's most important rules: Stay close to the family and stay in the city. “Can I think about it?” she asked.

“Eliza, your mother trusted me to take care of you,” Miss Charlotte said sternly. “You're coming with us.”

Blinking back tears, Eliza hesitated.

“Just go, you stupid girl!” Mark shouted.

Eliza looked to his mother for help, but Miss Charlotte said nothing.

The heat rushed to Eliza's face, and she backed out of the room. Out in the hall, she stopped. Her breath came quickly, and she felt dizzy. Eliza desperately needed her mother to tell her what to do.

C
HAPTER
Nineteen

B
Y NOON THE NEXT MORNING, THE HOUSEHOLD GOODS WERE
packed into a wagon and ready to travel. Although the journey was less than ten miles, Cook had prepared a picnic basket for the family, and Eliza carefully placed it inside the fancy carriage. Miss Charlotte, Miss Sofia, and Mr. Mark climbed into the carriage, settling themselves into the cushioned seats, while Eliza joined Miss Charlotte's slaves behind the wagon.

“The old lady has taken to you so strong that I thought she might ask for you,” Sadie said.

“She did,” Eliza confided with a crooked grin. “But Mark said no.”

“He's so mean,” Sadie said loyally.

“I'd rather walk than be stuck in a carriage with him.”

The carriage and wagon started to lumber down the deserted street, heading out of the city. Half a dozen slaves and Eliza followed. They were leaving the house empty except for Jasper, one of Miss Charlotte's oldest slaves. Eliza
thought he was too feeble to guard the house, but it wasn't her place to offer an opinion.

Eliza wanted to enjoy the fine weather—it was the first time she had been outside the garden since she came to the Charless house—but all she could think of was her family.

Ma and Pa would be frantic when they discovered she was gone. And Eliza would worry every day until she heard from them. Miss Charlotte had said she couldn't spare anyone to send a message to Eliza's parents. Miss Sofia had been sympathetic, but even she had been too preoccupied with her own packing to help. For the first time, Eliza understood what Ma had tried to tell her. Miss Charlotte and Miss Sofia were kind, but their needs would always be more important than Eliza's.

She caught a glimpse of the courthouse dome, knowing the jail lived in its shadow. It was so close. Without thinking, she took a few steps in that direction. Sadie pulled her back.

“Miss Charlotte will be angry if you disobey her,” she warned.

The procession had traveled only a few blocks from the house when the carriage stopped. The door swung open and Mark Charless jumped out.

“What is he doing?” Eliza asked Sadie.

“He probably forgot his bottle of whiskey,” Sadie giggled.

Eliza smiled in return, but her eyes were fixed on Mark. He was arguing with the ladies in the carriage. After a few moments, the carriage lurched forward, leaving Mark behind. He waited until the slaves caught up to him and then
beckoned to Eliza. Reluctantly she let the others move on without her, leaving her alone with Mark.

“Oh, Eliza,” he said a little too casually, “Aunt Sofia forgot her crocheting hooks.”

“I packed them in her trunk.”

“She's sure they're still at the house,” Mark insisted. The smell of whiskey wafted off his breath, and she almost gagged. “If you're quick to fetch them, you can catch up with us easily.”

Her mind worked furiously. What was he up to? He might have invented this errand just to make her life difficult. But what if it was true and Miss Sofia wanted Eliza to return to the house? “I'll ask Sadie to go with me.”

“There's no use in two of you going.”

“But . . .”

“Just do as I say.” Mark's voice was loud.

“Yes, sir.” The carriage and the group were farther away now. Sadie glanced back. Eliza waved, then turned to run. Before she had gone too far, Eliza looked over her shoulder. She caught her breath when she saw Mark still standing in the middle of the road, watching her. Luckily when she turned the corner, he was out of sight.

She soon reached the house and let herself in by the garden gate. Jasper was sitting in the garden whittling a stick.

“Back so soon?” he asked.

“Miss Sofia forgot something,” she called.

In Miss Sofia's room, Eliza frantically searched for
the cloth case with the full set of embroidery tools. It was nowhere to be found. This was taking too long. She had to hurry and rejoin the others before they got too far away. Just in case, she tucked a spare crochet hook in her skirt pocket. Then she ran headlong down the stairs, banging the kitchen door behind her. Jasper was gone, but she didn't have time to wonder about him or to say good-bye. She pulled on the gate. To her surprise, it didn't budge. She tugged harder.

Rattling the gate, she called, “Jasper! The gate is stuck. Come . . .”

Suddenly Eliza was pushed face-first into the gate. Her head rang from the blow. A white man's hands grabbed and dragged her back into the garden.

“Let me go!” she cried. No matter how she struggled, he held tight. She bent her neck and bit his arm as hard as she could. He howled with pain and his grip loosened. Eliza wrenched herself away.

“Help! Help!” she screamed as she whirled around to face her attacker. Wearing the clothes of a dockworker, he was a stranger. He lunged for her and she tried to run. Stumbling, she almost fell. She gasped when she saw she had tripped over Jasper, who lay unconscious on the grass. The house was empty, Jasper was hurt, and the neighbors were dead. Who could possibly help her now?

“Who are you?” Eliza demanded, failing to keep the fear out of her voice. “What do you want?”