LYDIA REDMOND’S BLOOD WAS READY TO BOIL. ANOTHER frigid morning, and though the fireplace was burning lively, the bedroom was freezing cold, as were most upstairs rooms in the Roseway homes. Lydia sat uncomfortably in a chair in Mrs. Cunningham’s bedroom bundled in a bright head scarf, an ill-fitting wool coat and her worn black boots.
Fanny, who worked the odd days when Sarah was at Beulah’s, had greeted her saying, “Missy Cunningham is not feeling well today, a touch of the cold. I see nothing to fret about, but she’s gone back to bed. Wait here.” Fanny had returned with instructions to take Lydia to Mrs. Cunningham’s room.
Lydia and Margaret exchanged light talk about Fortune and little Prince while they waited for Fanny to return with tea and biscuits. Margaret’s smile was like her father’s, warm, yet with a chip of ice. Lydia detected that now, as she had a lot of things. She chuckled inwardly, reflecting on what you can see with your head up. She yielded now to the pressure to make things right. To do that, she had to face the unrelenting demons. This she found hard, but she had to try. As she listened to Margaret’s idle chatter about the weather and Fanny and the mister and the new settlers, a voice in her head said, She knows alright. It was the tender smiles and hugs, the offering of food at her table, the slipping of extra money and the concern over her wellness. Lydia had seen the knowledge in her eyes, the kind warmth in her face, even the startled fear that sometimes held her back.
The wind was high and strange sounds filled the room as the roof rattled. Roseway was frozen under the blustery snow, but Lydia in her determination to right the past now sat waiting for a suitable time to find the answer to a fiery question.
Lydia looked at the fine furniture, linens and paintings with the awareness that even in a place like Roseway, where many a rich soul lived high above the rest, money had sway. For a moment, her confidence retreated, for how could she be part of such a life? She twitched and shifted uneasily. The hot tea cup Fanny passed her jiggled in her hand. She was thinking that the pretence had gone on for so long and the truth had been buried so deep, it may not surface without help. After two long breaths, she looked Margaret square in the face and said sternly, “You have a good life here in Roseway. You are well respected and fit in. You wouldn’t want any trouble to change all that.”
“Yes, this is true.”
A huge swell in Lydia’s throat caused her to cough and she tried to choke it back, but suddenly a rush of words tumbled out her mouth. “The past has caught me, Missy Cunningham. I’m tired of pretending and trying to forget about what happened years ago. I need to get things right between you and me. You should know the truth about your true family.”
“If you mean my relationship to you, there’s no need to worry. Mother told me everything. She died regretting what happened.”
“Bless the dear soul,” Lydia said. “So you know?” Lydia looked at Margaret with a pained look and the little voice said, There, you see, you were right.
“I’ve known since I was sixteen.” Margaret sat up straighter and reached in the drawer beside her bed and retrieved a thick journal. The pages were worn and yellow. “I think it’s time to bring the truth from these pages to the light. This is mother’s journal. There are several things she wrote in here that I think you should hear. Should I read them to you?”
“If you like, Missy.”
“Here, near the beginning, mother wrote:
The yearning I have for a child runs deep. It never ceases. I have spoken to Edward about the emptiness. I have been told that it is common to take a light Negro child for one’s own. I am tempted.
“Further on, about a month later, I find that she has done just that:
Myself and Edward met with Mr. Carter today. He says he has no problem with keeping an eye out for a light-skinned baby. He said to be patient. I can’t wait. This will be a special child since I cannot have one of my own. We promised to pay him handsomely for one.
“Well, well,” Lydia mumbled. “For the money … of course.”
“And this:
I received my special gift today from Mr. Carter, just as he promised, a sweet baby girl of five months, so fair, no one would question her blood lines. I have my wish. A beautiful child with big brown eyes who seems to fancy her real mother when she enters the room. She is such a joy and my heart has never been happier. She is Lydia’s child. Mr. Carter says he believes the father is the overseer from the Hartley place. He prefers sneaking around with the slaves from another farm, so as not to get caught on his own. I dare not say a word.
“There’s more.” Margaret flipped to the middle of the journal.
And now my sins have come home to roost. I find little peace at night for worry. This beautiful child, Margaret, has been brought into a world of shame. This great plantation spreads for miles and miles and produces much wealth. Our dream in coming to America has been fulfilled, but it brings no happiness, for I now carry a secret that threatens everything. I cannot mention this fear to Edward. He has so little time to console me.
Slavery is a terrible business. I see whippings and hangings most every day. I witness the suffering the slaves endure: the hard work, poor food and little clothing. I hear the terrible things they say about Negroes—how they are no more than an animal, incapable of learning or reason or feeling, how even a mulatto child is a Negro, no matter how fair. Slaves have no right to their children. As a mother now, that pains me deeply. The laws are cruel and hateful. Worse, my child may suffer from this hatred if her true identity should ever be discovered. Dear Lord, watch over us.
“On my sixteenth birthday, she wrote:
And now the real worry begins for my dear Margaret. Her coming out as a young woman worries me more than words can express. She is a fine educated woman, but a Negro, nonetheless. The Cunningham lad has expressed his intentions of marriage. This is my burden, to bear the news to her of her mixed blood. I pray that her children will not expose her Negro lines, for their lives will be intolerable, though we have raised our girl to be strong.
Margaret closed the journal with care and slipped it back in the drawer. She turned her back to Lydia. And Lydia, though she reached out an arm to console her, did not hold back. Like airing the quilts in spring, this was the time to get it all out into the open. And so in a pitiless, heated tone, she said, “You knew that I was your mother all this time, yet … you said nothing.”
Margaret hung her head to the side with her eyes cast downward. She stared at the floor a long time while her shame searched for an explanation for her behaviour. Finally she said, “Yes, I knew. I was selfish and vain. Money can do that. It made me feel superior, not just to Negroes, but to everyday folks. I didn’t want to be an outsider or suffer the scorn like other Negroes. At first, I could not tell anyone, not even William, but my guilt continued to pick away at me.” Margaret looked at Lydia. “Losing everything, our home, my parents, it taught me a lesson about arrogance. I’m so sorry, Lydia, so, so sorry.”
“Enough child. You said your piece. I have carried this burden since you were born. It’s done with now. You are grown and happy.”
“Can you ever forgive me?”
“Yes, the good Lord forgives and so do I. You are my child,” Lydia said nervously. She sat with her eyes fixed on Margaret’s face. It looked grey, drained from the golden tone, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen.
“Oh Lydia, I’m proud to call you my mother.”
It was those words that put Lydia’s anger to rest. She moved to the edge of the bed, reached out and hugged her daughter. They wept for a long time in each other’s arms.
Suddenly the wind whipped against the windows and they rattled like dishes. It carried away the warmth in the bedroom and the women shivered. It was Margaret who disturbed their happiness by asking, “Will you tell me who my father is? I have wondered for a long time if Mr. Carter told mother the truth. She mentions later in the journal that she doubted his word.”
“He lied, yes he did.”
“Then who?”
Lydia halted. She saw a shadow on the wall facing the bedroom and shouted bravely, “Did you want something, Fanny?”
Caught, Fanny said, “Just finishing the dusting,” and before anyone could speak again, she scooted down the stairs.
Margaret said, “You don’t have to worry about Fanny. She has a nose for news, but she knows how to hold her tongue.”
All the same, Lydia’s face knotted before mumbling, “Cecil MacLeod.”
“Cecil MacLeod?” She repeated it as though it could not be true. “Cecil MacLeod, the overseer? But he named someone else, the Hartley overseer.”
Lydia nodded her head. “Yes, it was Mr. MacLeod. He kept his evil ways to himself.”
Margaret fell back on the bed. “And now he’s gone.”
But Lydia was not finished with her business. “You are my child and so I marked you with the ring. Mrs. Redmond let you keep it after I told her it was a gift to her beautiful child.”
Margaret rubbed the ring gently with a new sense of pride.
Lydia felt a sudden spark of joy, but in her heart, there was no calm. “Do you remember a child called Amelia?” she asked.
“Yes, I do. I remember when Cecil brought her to us. Mother said she was to be my companion, but Father kept reminding me that I was not to get too attached to her.”
“She was my child,” Lydia said. “Your sister.”
“My sister?”
“Yes. And there’s another boy besides Fortune.”
“I am numb. I don’t know what to say.”
“I got to find my children before I go to Glory. Do you know of Amelia’s whereabouts?”
“Father sold her to Mr. Pinkham when she was twelve. I begged father to let her stay, but he shoved me aside, saying it was all Mother’s fault, raising the two of us like we were sisters.”
“I had a few words with her before she left. Did you ever see her again? Did she stay on the Pinkham Plantation? Do you know if Master Pinkham was a Loyalist?” Lydia’s face filled with torment as she continued, “Do you know if she’s here in Nova Scotia?”
“Oh, Lydia, I know how anxious you must be to find her, but I can’t say. I never saw her again.”