THE FOLLOWING MORNING, FATHER DEPARTED early to meet with business associates on the affairs that had brought him to New York. At the end of the previous evening, Whitney and I had made plans to meet with Ruby at a coffeehouse in the same neighborhood.

The coffeehouse was small but quaint, exuding a homey atmosphere. The aroma of fresh brewed coffee and sweet pastries made my mouth water. The five tables were covered in bright yellow tablecloths, with bright bouquets of wildflowers in glass vases in the center of each. Both white and black patrons sat in the varnished maple chairs, some with their heads close together, scanning paperwork spread on the table in front of them, others conversing. Patrons at one table discussed the abolitionist movement and politics. Ruby had secured a table at the back and sat reading a newspaper. That in itself made me do a double take before going to meet her.

“Ah, ladies,” she said by way of greeting, her smile transforming her face from ordinary to pleasant as she set the newspaper aside.

“Good morning, Ruby,” I said, then turned to indicate Mary Grace. “I’d like you to meet my friend Mary Grace.”

“Mary Grace, it’s a pleasure,” Ruby said eagerly, and stuck out her hand.

Mary Grace wiped her palms in the folds of her dress before timidly offering her hand in return. Her eyes scanned the coffeehouse, looking for an overseer or someone to object to her presence. I entwined her other hand in mine and lightly squeezed it, then nudged her toward the chair facing the windows.

After we’d ordered pastries and coffee, I smiled earnestly at Ruby. “So, if you don’t mind, I’m interested in hearing your story.” I was curious about her life as a free black woman in the North.

“Well, I don’t recall much about my life before I came to New York,” she began. “I was born a slave, this I know. There are images—memories that fade in and out of my consciousness. I remember bits and pieces of my journey by ship to New York, but those memories have grown vague too.

“Once here, I lived on the streets, stealing what food I could get my hands on, until my adoptive father found me and brought me home. My adoptive parents gave me a new identity, including giving me their last name. I received a full education at an all-black school. They raised me as their own, with no concern about my ancestors.

“That’s basically my life in a nutshell,” she finished, turning her attention to her food.

I sensed Ruby wasn’t used to talking about herself. Thinking about what she’d said, I took a slow bite of my warm, sugary pastry, and widened my eyes as the incredible taste wrapped my tongue. I let out a low moan of bliss. The others looked at me. Wiping the sugar from my lips, I felt my face heat. “Sorry; it’s so good.” They laughed. “It tastes like home,” I added. “Mammy is the queen of the kitchen,” I declared proudly.

“You speak of her with affection,” Ruby noted, her voice revealing her astonishment.

“Willow has a bond with many of their slaves,” Whitney explained. “An abnormal relationship in the South, as I’m sure you can understand.”

Ruby regarded us both with an expression of wonder. “Yes, I can imagine it would be,” she said after a moment. “What about you, Whitney? What is your take on life in the South?”

“My father is also a plantation owner. He is not made of the same fine cloth as Mr. Hendricks. His weave is flawed and spun demon-tight.” Whitney lowered her eyes. “He finds much joy in torturing our slaves.”

I looked at her in surprise. Fine cloth? Was Whitney’s coffee laced with spirits? How had she forgotten the conversation we’d overheard between Captain Gillies and Father about the selling of cargo? I was annoyed that she cast him in a shining light when he was no different from the rest of the plantation owners who accepted and benefited from the practice of owning humans. He openly traded and sold slaves—I had witnessed it all my life. Even as we moved toward mending our relationship, I remained certain he was wrong in doing this.

“As a respectable woman of the South, what is your assessment of how your gentlemen handle things?” Ruby redirected her gaze to me.

“They are complete and total failures,” I replied bluntly. “We may be women, but we won’t be silenced by our men. As Southern women, we are taught to be passive and submissive to our fathers and husbands. We are considered too tender to deal with men’s issues. We are the property of our fathers until we marry and then we become the property of our husbands.” Realizing I was raising my voice, I took a moment to calm myself.

“True to his upbringing, my father tried to instill submissiveness in me, but I’ve always had a mind of my own. I rebelled against that—and much to his dismay, I inherited his stubbornness.” I chuckled. “He sent me away to a fancy boarding school when he found he couldn’t control me. He cringes when I speak, but like most parents, he wants me to have the proper manners and etiquette to be accepted in society.

“I’ve learned to curb my convictions and passions and to use wisdom when engaging in what I hold dear to my heart. I present a façade to the world that is different from what I am on the inside—I can be the proper, well-mannered lady that the world wants to see, but I must live my own truth.”

Earnest now, I leaned forward, glancing at Whitney to include her in what I said. “Times are changing. We do what we can, educating ourselves about what is happening in the country. We need to progress in our production to the level of Great Britain and France—even the ways of the North are more advanced than ours.” Whitney nodded. “I believe plantation owners have come to rely on cheap labor to make an extra dollar. We have to change that. Machinery is the way of the future.

“And all humans, white or colored, should have equal rights. They should be paid a fair wage for their work. They should be able to decide whom they wish to work for. They should be able to own homes of their own and marry whom they please. No parents should be separated from their children because a master says so. They are all entitled to have a proper education. Slavery is wrong on so many levels.” Realizing my grip on my cup had tightened, I consciously peeled my fingers free.

Whitney gently touched my arm to calm me as other patrons turned their attention to us. Then she leaned forward to rest her hands on the table and, in uncharacteristic Whitney fashion, said in scarcely above a whisper, “I agree with Willow. Speaking of the North versus the South, we may be neighbors, but the North is more advanced in the ways of the world. We seem to lack the education afforded to those in the North. Do you know how many white folk back home can’t even read? We depend so much on slaves that it hinders us in the long run. We declared our independence from Britain, but where do the slaves stand in this country’s independence? These barbarians who run the country need to wake up and apply change.” I admired Whitney’s frank and even tone.

Ruby raised an eyebrow at her bluntness and then added an opinion of her own. “Oh, don’t deceive yourself. The northern businesses rely heavily on the South’s cotton and your slaves. They are no better. The manufactures and factories use your slaves too; they just don’t physically own them. What drives men is money and power. We need to stand and fight for the rights of all God’s creations. He made all men in his image, not only the white men,” she said bluntly and without fear.

Mary Grace looked on in awe as we uncloaked our perspectives on slavery. We could become victims of our rulers, or we could rise above the dictatorship in this country. In the humble little coffeehouse in a black neighborhood, we were simply a group of women who became empowered and encouraged to persist in our efforts to apply change to the sick affliction that had overtaken our country.