I don’t need the buggy today, just Apollo, please.” Emma walked to the stables herself rather than sending Mandy with the message. She could barely look at the cook, let alone speak to her. It wasn’t just that the woman didn’t believe her story, but Paul had trusted this servant to deliver his note, meaning Mandy knew about the affair. How many times had she and Beulah laughed at her behind her back over this?
She returned to the house to change into her riding clothes, but walked around to the front door, rather than face Mandy in the kitchen. The extra steps were worth it.
When she was ready, she returned downstairs and called for her lady’s maid. “If you’re going to the sewing circle today, I’ve several garments I’d like you to deliver.”
“Yes, ma’am, but I thought you were going back.”
“I’ve changed my mind. May I count on you to deliver the dresses?”
“Of course.” Beulah turned to go then paused. “Ma’am, do I still have permission to speak frankly?”
Emma stared at the black woman before her. Why not speak frankly about my husband’s mistress? Why not speak frankly about his secrets and indiscretions? The words swam in her mind, but she held her tongue. “No, Beulah. You were right before. We should keep things as they were.” Although that was not possible. She couldn’t un-know that her household staff thought her a liar and a murderer, all the while protecting her husband’s secrets.
She rode quietly to the mill, letting the crisp autumn day lift her spirits. Everywhere she looked she saw the beauty of God’s creation, and she let it minister to her. Her soul responded to the blueness of the sky, the colors of the leaves, the chirping of birds. Even if her world was falling apart, God’s faithfulness upheld her. She rejoiced in the knowledge that He loved her despite her failings and shortcomings. Experiencing God’s love and mercy helped smooth the edges off the judgment she received from others. Even if her husband couldn’t love her, God did, and that mattered more than all the husbands in the world.
Except…Even now as she rode through the forest, even as her spirit relaxed in the arms of her God, there was an unrest, and she understood its message. “Why, God?” she called aloud to the limb-crossed sky. “Why do You want me to reconcile, when he’s already chosen someone else? You saw how I tried with Beulah and Mandy—how can You ask me to keep trying?”
As the mill came into view, her questions went unanswered. Joe greeted her as she tied Apollo under the apple tree. “Hello, Mrs. Trebor. I didn’t expect you.”
That Joe was uncomfortable was obvious. Did he know about Paul’s affair as well? She had trouble meeting his eyes. “Good morning, Joe. I won’t keep you from your work. Carry on.”
“You know that Mr. Trebor isn’t here, and the mill isn’t a safe place. The machinery can be dangerous.”
“Yes, I am aware of Mr. Trebor’s absence, and thank you for the warning, but I don’t plan on running any machinery.” She’d been at the mill a number of times, so why was Joe warning her now? To dissuade her from entering?
She strode up one set of stairs and then another. On the third floor she paused outside Paul’s office, her hand shaking on the doorknob. What would she find inside? Did she really want to do this? If she found a clue to the identity of Paul’s mistress, she wouldn’t be able to go back to when she didn’t know, just like she couldn’t take back her confession to Beulah and Mandy. There were some doors, which once you walked through, you could never return the same person.
Uriah Steeple ducked around the corner as the sheriff crossed the street. He’d been in town over two weeks, and people were beginning to notice him. Not a good thing. They weren’t all as gullible as that Mrs. Trebor. He needed to speed things up. Chances were those shadows he saw in the mill window had already been transported away, but there’d be others, he was sure of it.
He’d been out to the mill a few times after work hours, but the guard was alert, and he couldn’t gain access upstairs. It was a nuisance the fire hadn’t flushed anyone out. He’d used that trick successfully a number of times. Didn’t have to worry about arson charges when the runaways appeared.
He’d kept watch on the ships in harbor as well. A couple of times a week, one or more headed up the Hudson into Canada. Those were the ones to watch, but he hadn’t seen anything suspicious. Yet.
Mrs. Trebor was his likeliest resource. Sweet and gullible, just the way he liked them. He had to be careful not to overplay his hand, but what luck that he had come across her at the side of the road when he did. Quite the damsel in distress.
He smiled and sucked on his cigar as he hid in the trees.
He’d just have to figure out a way to rescue Mrs. Trebor again. Build her confidence in him. Get her to trust him.
Paul drove slowly along the rutted road. The mules strained uphill, pulling the wagon overflowing with cotton. When they reached the top, he took a side lane and stopped near a decrepit barn. He waited in the inky black night, listening, listening. Tree branches scraped together in the breeze. Twigs snapped. Leaves crunched. Deer? Porcupines? Bounty hunters? Stumps looked like crouched men. Was someone hiding behind that rock?
After several moments, he jumped down from the wagon and led the mules to a trough. As he pumped water for them, his eyes peered into the darkness. The signs were wrong. A barred barn door meant water the mules and keep going. An open door meant pick up the freight.
The door was closed. Not barred, but not open. Blown shut by the wind? Unbarred by a hunter on to their scheme? Waiting inside? Outside?
He couldn’t just ride on. Not if there were freedom seekers inside without food or water. As the mules drank, he approached the barn door. It creaked loudly as he opened it. He lit his lantern and entered, lifting the scant light to illuminate the dark corners.
A whisper reached his ears. Someone was there. But who? A freedom seeker or a bounty hunter? He pretended to look for oats in stacked grain bags as he tied a blue handkerchief around his neck—the signal to let any runaway know he was the next conductor.
He caught movement out of the corner of his eye. “Is it safe?” Whispered words carried hope.
Paul put a finger to his lips. Something felt wrong. He held up his palm as if to say stop and went back outside. The mules had stopped drinking. Their upright ears twitched, and they looked to the south of the barn.
Could be a deer.
Or not.
He led the mules away from the trough and backed the wagon into the barn. A figure moved as silently as a shadow toward him. Paul handed him a canteen and a bag filled with biscuits. Then the runaway crawled into the false bottom of the wagon. The process took less than two minutes.
A boot scuffed the ground outside. Paul whirled around. “Who’s there?”