Patricia Potter (43 page)

But then Mrs. Hitchcock sickened and died, and Mr. Hitchcock, who had loved his wife dearly, seemed to lose his will to live and succumbed just six months later to a fever. Sarah was freed in his will. She also inherited everything, but it was very little. He had left Kentucky because his business there had failed. His new business in Cairo had been no more successful. There were only debts.

Sarah was fifteen. Suddenly and for the first time in her life she had no place to go, and no one to care for her. Freedom became a curse. She tried to find a position, but she had no references and she had seen the quick dismissal in women’s eyes as they ran over her figure and face. Finally, in desperation, she went to Miss Sophie’s, although it took every ounce of her courage to do so. Mr. Hitchcock had been a God-fearing man who insisted on the highest morals and held out the specter of hell for those who deviated from The Path.

But hunger and cold were powerful forces, and she finally, bitterly, ventured to a place where she knew her face and body would not be disadvantages. To her surprise, the proprietress had turned out to be very kind, very sympathetic. When Miss Sophie learned Sarah’s age, she had merely asked whether she would like to be a maid. Sarah quickly accepted.

Over the next three years, Sarah battled internally with herself, with Mr. Hitchcock’s teachings and with her growing fascination for the women who worked at Miss Sophie’s. They were all kind to her, and she noticed that many went on to make respectable marriages. All of them, it seemed, had had some kind of tragedy in their lives, whether it was abandonment as a child, or some horrible abuse. But her mind kept telling her they were evil, and her living and working here was punishment for…admiring them.

When she was eighteen, one of the customers took a fancy to her. He kept coming back offering a great deal of money if Sarah would go upstairs with him. Sophie had said it was her decision.

The money was a fortune to Sarah. Enough to go away and start a respectable business, and she finally agreed. The man, knowing she was a virgin, had been both gentle and passionate, and Sarah discovered she had a craving for something other than survival. Once aroused, her appetite became insatiable. And she decided that it was time to join the other girls.

But all the time, a part of her brain was remembering Mr. Hitchcock and his vision of hell. She kept telling herself that she would do as others at Miss Sophie’s did: find a man to marry. Then Cam started visiting, and she fixed in her heart that he was the one who would take her from sin. Once married, she was sure that the devil in her would go away, that God would forgive her. Cam was a wonderful lover, and she wouldn’t need anyone else; the constant, painful appetite in her would go away.

She awaited each of his visits with anticipation and she planned for them. She always wore her prettiest negligee. Painfully, she forced herself to rein in her own desire and take her time in arousing him, in giving him pleasure while she ached inside for him to take her quickly and roughly. She played the wronged victim to the hilt, her eyes filling with tears as she told him about being alone and fearful in a world of uncertainty and terror.

And she did feel terror, only not for the reasons she gave him. The terror was in her soul. Day by day, she was being ripped apart by the war being waged between her body and her mind. Her body seemed to have an endless need for gratification, while her mind told her it was wrong and she would go to hell for it.

She came to believe that Cam was her only hope for salvation. And now he was gone. He thought of her as nothing but a whore. The anger in her, anger that had been directed for so long at herself, swirled in her head. And as it became more powerful, the fury sought vengeance. Cam had made her feel important, had given her hope, and now he was discarding her. It was he who was evil, and she had to punish him.

But how? How could she do anything to someone as strong as he?

He always came with another man, a white man named Devereux, and she had heard whispers about him, that he was in some way involved in helping fugitives escape. Sophie was too, she knew, but she wasn’t prepared to hurt Sophie, who had always been kind to her. It was Cam who needed punishment. The fact that Cam was helping fugitive slaves meant nothing to her. She told herself she had been happier as a slave; there had been someone to care about her, to take care of her, and tell her what to do. It was when she was free that the devil had taken over.

Her fists clenched, she resolved that Cam would pay for his betrayal. She would find a way to expose him. And he would suffer as she was suffering.

C
hapter 23

MEREDITH WATCHED
Quinn walk from a carriage to the gangplank below, just as she knew he had watched her board in Cincinnati a week before, or was it a lifetime.

It was very early, just after dawn, and only she and several of the officers were on deck. She’d awakened early from a restless sleep, eager to see him, eager for this day.

She questioned whether she would ever get used to his striking handsomeness: the thick midnight-black hair and the fine evening-blue eyes framed by black brows and lashes. He wore his usual black clothes; that alone made him stand out in a crowd of more gaily dressed travelers.

Meredith wondered how her heart could bear the weight of the happiness she felt when she thought of him, or saw him.

Or bear the loneliness of being without him. She’d had a taste of that last night, and she’d tossed and turned, remembering the quiet bliss of drifting off to sleep in his arms.

There would be other such nights alone. There would have to be—for his safety and for her own.

So she memorized his every feature as he strode toward the boat and then her eyes turned slightly toward Cam, who was at his side. The confident man she had seen in Levi’s kitchen no longer held his shoulders straight, but slumped as he dragged a foot. The black man’s eyes, which she knew could be as wary as his companion’s, were turned now toward the ground, no longer challenging as they had been in Cincinnati. For the first time, she thought how difficult it must be for him, for such a proud man to act so servile. But then they were all playing difficult roles, although she imagined hers the easiest. She recalled seeing the regret in Quinn’s eyes as he spoke of Brett’s disappointment over his gambling. She’d never regretted her family’s disapproval and, although she sometimes chafed at being unable to speak her mind, she compensated through tactless Meredith’s wont to sting pomposity with outwardly innocent remarks.

How much longer?

It would be wonderful to give up that role. But she had hidden behind it so long, she sometimes wondered where the real Meredith started. Still it would be a fine thing to paint whatever she wanted. She shivered with delight when she thought of all the glorious opportunities in the West. She had seen paintings of majestic mountains, and the golden hills of California, and she longed to paint them herself. That Quinn, and hopefully Lissa, would be at her side was a prospect too splendid for belief.

She had tried not to think too much about Lissa. After so many years, the thought of seeing her again, of reversing what had happened, was too fragile to dwell upon. She could not let herself think that Lissa would not remember her, or would not want to come with her, or had been irreparably injured in body or soul. Nor could she consider that anything might happen to Quinn in helping her.

Meredith looked down at the portmanteau she carried. As according to plan, it carried two fresh dresses and two sets of undergarments, including corsets. There was also soap, hairbrush, and hairpins. Quinn had said he would supply additional clothes but had not mentioned exactly what. Her trunk with her other clothes had been picked up earlier.

She watched as Quinn approached the captain of the
Ohio Star,
said a few words that apparently amused the officer as they both looked at her. Then he was by her side, his eyes shuttered and his mouth in the remote amused half-smile that he presented to most of the world.

He nodded to Cam, who took her portmanteau. Then holding her arm lightly, Quinn guided her from the boat to an open buggy. Cam put the bag on the seat beside her and leaped up next to the driver. Slowly they moved from the wharf. Quinn was quiet, too quiet. He said nothing even though she knew the driver couldn’t hear them.

Her hand touched his briefly, and he seemed to flinch away before he turned to her. She saw how troubled his eyes were.

“Would you consider staying?” Quinn finally asked. “There are friends here, and I swear I’ll bring her back.”

She shook her head slowly. “Lissa’s my sister,” she said. “I’ve waited too long.” Meredith hesitated. “And she may not come with you.”

“Have you thought she might not come with you either?” Quinn said softly.

She nodded slowly. “Yes, but I have to go with you.”

He knew it. He wondered why he bothered to ask. But he’d had a strange feeling last night and it was still there this morning. Something was wrong, and he didn’t know what. His hand went to his waist where he wore the money belt.

The buggy was now moving quickly away from town. They turned south at a fork, then turned again onto a narrow rutted path. When the vehicle stopped after what seemed like hours, they were in a small clearing near a tumbledown shack. Four horses, one without a saddle, were tied to nearby trees.

Quinn took her portmanteau, along with another on the buggy floor, and passed them to Cam. After helping her down from the seat, he extended a hand to the driver, and Meredith knew the man must be a contact with the Underground Railroad. She watched as the buggy disappeared back along the road.

Quinn put an arm around her shoulder and led her inside. The cabin was surprisingly well kept, and she realized it must be one of the stations for the Railroad. Quinn opened one of the portmanteaus, extracting a shirt and breeches of rough wool and handing them to her. “We’ll get less attention if they think you’re a boy,” he said. “From now on, you’re my groom.”

She looked at the clothes with hesitation. The only other time she had worn male clothes was when she had stolen his much too large ones and escaped from the
Lucky Lady.
Even then, she had felt a little decadent in doing so. But she quickly saw the wisdom of such a masquerade and she knew she could ride faster and longer without a sidesaddle.

Quinn helped her with her buttons, his hand lingering only a moment on her bare shoulder. There was no time to play the ardent lover; they had to reach Murray by nightfall. But still his body reacted to the sight of her undressing, to the soft ivory of her skin. As she finished pulling on the loose trousers and started to take the shirt, he stopped her and took a piece of linen from the satchel and quickly tied it around her breasts. When she put on the shirt and looked down, she saw little that would identify her as anything but a boy.

“My hair?” she asked.

He gave her that troubling little half-smile and took out two jars from the portmanteau. “Spread this on your hands and face,” he said, giving her one. As she did what he asked, he removed the pins from her hair, which he then smeared with a black glob from the other jar.

In minutes, her wrists and hands were a dark walnut color. Her now-black tresses were quickly braided and twisted into a knot and pinned at the top of her head. A floppy, low-brimmed hat was then set securely on her head.

She watched as he surveyed his creation. “Cam,” he called out, and almost immediately the man appeared. He looked startled, then a wide grin spread across his face, and he nodded.

“He’ll do.”

Meredith wondered if they would ever reach their destination. She was a good rider but she had never ridden quite as long at one time. Her body was also used to a sidesaddle, and she was utilizing long-dormant muscles. Her backside hurt, her legs ached with pure agony, and her hands were blistered.

She was also cold. She had left her fur-lined cloak, along with her dresses, in the cabin, and she had only a roughly woven coat to replace it.

The first hours had been wonderful. She had enjoyed the freedom of breeches and the feel of the horse between her legs. It was far better than the awkward perch of the sidesaddle. She enjoyed riding next to Quinn, watching him master his horse easily.

She could barely keep from gazing at him. After she had changed clothes, she had been surprised to see him do the same. The tailored black clothes came off as she watched, and he donned buckskin trousers that fit like a second skin, a linen shirt, and an exquisitely tailored tan riding jacket. He looked up at her, and a smile arced his mouth as he saw her expression. “Do I pass as a Virginia horseman?”

She nodded, unable to speak as she surveyed the change in him, and she suddenly realized that the severely cut black clothes had made him seem remote and dangerous. They had placed him apart from others and, she realized now, it had been done very consciously.

Now he looked…approachable. More than approachable, dear Lord. Absolutely irresistible. He looked almost a different man. After he had darkened her hair, he did the same with his own, erasing the white around his face, the one distinctive feature most people would remember. A thatch of his usually tamed hair fell over his forehead, adding to the impression of a thoroughly likable Southern gentleman rather than a cold-eyed mocking gambler. Even his smile was different.