Paul stuffed papers from his library desk into a leather case. “Yes, I’m leaving. It can’t be helped.” The words came easily to Paul because they were true. It was a bad time to be absent from the mill, but he couldn’t in good conscience send anyone else. The increased pressure from bounty hunters meant he needed to assess the new dangers, perhaps establish a new route or reevaluate the whole process. Even so, Emma’s stoic expression surprised him.
“I understand. The fire destroyed the cotton bales and we need more.” Emma’s chin lifted. “How long will you be gone?”
“Ten days at least, perhaps as long as a fortnight.” Why wasn’t she asking for them to talk now, before he left? The previous night, when they were together in the library, the same room they occupied now, she’d begged him to talk. He didn’t want to then, and certainly didn’t want to now, but what had changed? What had been so important then that no longer mattered? He assumed she wanted to ask about the woman’s voice she’d heard in his office, and he was happy to avoid the topic, but why had she dropped it?
“I hope you have a pleasant trip. The weather has turned quite chilly; you might want to pack extra warm clothes.”
“Yes, thank you, dear, for the reminder.” Paul’s eyes sought her face, but she was looking down as if to avoid him.
“I suppose you have a lot to do to get ready. I shan’t keep you.” Emma hurried from the room.
Since Catherine’s wedding day, Emma had been seeking him out. It had made him uncomfortable, but now that she was pulling away from him, he was more uneasy. Something wasn’t right. Perhaps he should speak with her before he left after all.
Emma released the breath she’d been holding and sank onto the parlor chair. She’d succeeded in keeping her composure in Paul’s presence. The entire time she wanted to ask him who his mistress was, and if the Jezebel was going with him. But she’d held her tongue and responded with civility. She’d not beg him to talk again.
He was leaving in the morning. She could avoid him that long.
The less contact she had with him, the easier it would be for her to go to New York City. Charlotte’s answer regarding the visit would likely come before he returned. She could be gone within a fortnight. But first she’d discover who his mistress was.
She’d go to the mill after he left, find the hidden room, and look for clues.
For now, she’d sew. The needle flew in and out of the flowered print chintz. She focused on making tiny, even stitches, and the garment took life.
Several hours later, she ran out of thread. She could send Beulah to town to get more, but she’d rather go herself than speak with her maid unnecessarily.
She saddled Apollo herself. The ride to town was pleasant in the afternoon sun. Autumn colors decorated the hillsides, and the smells of ripening apples and pumpkins wafted on the air. She arrived in town feeling content if not joyful.
As she entered the general store, she looked around to see who else was there. Mrs. Linde fingered a drab-brown cotton fabric. She glanced Emma’s way and nodded politely, but made no effort at conversation.
Emma blushed then chastised herself for her emotional reaction. This woman had chided Mrs. Potter for allowing her to join the sewing circle then said something about it being risky. Did everyone in the room know about her husband’s affair and feared exposing the guilty party? Was that the risk?
She caught her breath. It could be someone in the sewing circle! She glanced around the mercantile. It could be someone in the store. She fought the urge to rush out and return home as quickly as possible. Instead she examined a beautiful blue silk fabric. “Mr. Dodd, nine yards of this, please.”
As she carried her purchases to her horse, Uriah Steeple bowed from his saddle and tipped his hat. “Ah, Mrs. Trebor. How are you? Has Apollo been staying on the road?”
“Yes, Mr. Steeple. Thank you again for your help the other day. I am indebted to you.”
A silent alarm sounded to beware of this man. He had done her a great service, it was true, but why was he waiting for her outside of the mercantile? She tied her packages onto the back of her saddle and mounted. “Have a good day.”
“Oh, Mrs. Trebor, might I have a word?”
“Certainly.” She cringed as he rode his horse next to hers. She’d had no ill feelings about him when he rescued her, but his nearness now unnerved her. Apollo flexed his ears back, shook his head, and stamped.
Mr. Steeple blew out cigar smoke. “I’m in Schenectady on business, seeking a missing person for my client. I wonder, may I count on you to report to me if you see this child?” He showed her a sketch of a little Negro girl, about ten years old.
“A missing Negro?”
“Her family is devastated. They fear the worst. There are unscrupulous men about who will kidnap a child like this and sell her as a slave. It’s even happening to adults.”
Emma sighed. “I know the Fugitive Slave Law has opened the door to this kind of thing.”
Mr. Steeple shook his head. “It’s terrible, I tell you, but I’ve a talent for locating missing persons, and I take pleasure in reuniting families. So may I count on your help?”
“Certainly.” As Emma rode off, she considered Mr. Steeple’s words. Her heart felt for the child’s parents. How terrible to fear your child had been kidnapped. And how silly she felt for the distrust she had for Uriah Steeple. Then she wondered, if he was good at locating missing persons, might he be good at exposing mistresses?
Before Paul left with the wagon, he gave Mandy a note to pass on to Joe. He’d hoped to speak with Emma before he left, but she had retired to her room with a headache the previous night, and he thought it uncaring to wake her so early this morning.
As he drove the wagon southward, he let himself dream of a life with her as his partner. How fulfilling it would be to share the freedom seekers’ stories and to work together to help them. He’d need to protect her, of course. He’d not want her trapped by a bounty hunter. She was naive—too easily duped, as his own actions proved. How many husbands would be able to deceive their wives for as long as he had?
It occurred to him that he’d never heard her story of what happened all those years ago. Had her naïveté played a part then? He knew what he’d seen, but what if there was more to it? He tried to remember why he’d never asked her and came up blank.
His heart stuttered as he considered how he refused to listen to her not just the past few days, but ever since the tragedy. What if she wasn’t as guilty as she appeared? The thought stabbed deeply.
Emma remained in her room, reading her Bible and praying until she was sure Paul had left. Her prayers left her feeling tender toward her husband. She doubted her assumption of infidelity. Would the community esteem him so if he were having an affair? Might there be another explanation for his late-night absences and the woman’s voice? She couldn’t think of what and wished she could ask him about it.
Their lives might have been much different if he had ever asked her about her actions twenty years ago.
On her request, Beulah brought up a breakfast tray. It frustrated her that her maid didn’t believe her story, but the only real difference between then and now was Emma knew what Beulah thought, where before she’d been in the dark. She couldn’t fire her for openness when that’s what she had demanded from her.
Emma gave her credit. She’d been a faithful maid, especially considering what she’d believed all these years, and still did her job with gentleness.
After breakfasting on toast and tea, Emma gathered the tray and headed down the stairs. As she neared the kitchen, she heard the two servants talking. It was tempting to eavesdrop, but she pushed through the door without pausing. The women stopped talking immediately and faced her.
“Good morning, ma’am.” Mandy took the tray from her. As she did so, Emma saw something fall from her hand and land under a chair, but she ignored it. What did it matter if the two women passed notes? “I’ll be in the sunroom sewing,” she announced and left.
No sooner did she reach her destination than she decided she wanted another cup of tea. She returned to the kitchen. The room was empty but the note was still under the chair. Faceup. Revealing Paul’s handwriting.
Her breath caught as she picked it up. The words brought her to her knees.
The note read:
We risk detection at the mill. Have to find a new safe place. Let me know where. Hide the note with the new location in the cottonwood stump. You know which one.
So, there it was. Right in front of her. His plans to meet with someone secretly when he returned. The missive fell from her trembling hand. It fluttered to the floor, carrying her dreams with it.