Passages of Hope

Mrs. Catherine Mason turned slowly on the crate Olivia had provided for her to stand on, admiring herself in a tall mirror. Standing behind her, Olivia let her eyes travel over the nearly finished dress. Though done when Olivia was so tired her eyes drooped, the stitches in the lace were neat and nearly invisible. The quality of the work had cost her some sleep, but it was worth it.

“Lovely,” Mrs. Mason murmured, running her hand over the silk skirt. Her pale hand stood out against the blue fabric beneath her fingers. “This is quite exquisite.”

Olivia held the woman’s gaze and watched Mrs. Mason’s expression morph into a scowl. Mrs. Mason had not said outright that she would prefer that Olivia be meek, that she avert her gaze, but the woman’s actions, like so many of Olivia’s other customers, announced it. Nevertheless, Olivia carried herself like she was their equal. Because she was. After all, they were in her house, requesting her services.

Mrs. Mason’s frown deepened as she turned once more before stepping down off the box. “You will be done by next week?” Although a question, it sounded like a command.

“Yes.” Olivia moved to undo the two pearl buttons on the back of the dress’ collar. “As soon as it is done, I will have my delivery boy bring it to your house.”

Mrs. Mason nodded curtly and stepped behind the screen to change back into the nearly new dress she had worn into the shop this morning. The dress Olivia was finishing, Mrs. Mason told her, was for a special occasion. Just like the last one a month ago. Soon Mrs. Mason’s entire wardrobe would be filled with Olivia’s dresses. That was fine with Olivia.

The front door opened, and her delivery boy, a lad named Franklin Wilson, Thea’s son, stepped inside, rubbing his hands together and shivering. “Cold out.”

Franklin turned and stared at the door like it had not been there a moment ago. “Oh, sorry.”

Olivia motioned for him to follow her. “I have some tea in the kitchen. That should warm you.”

In the kitchen, Olivia poured a cup of tea, added a splash of milk and a generous amount of sugar, and handed it to him. She had brewed it for Mrs. Mason even though the woman never took tea from her.

Olivia was tempted to take a cup for herself. The heat might clear her mind. Because, looking down at the boy, she had no idea why he was there. “My memory fails me. Did I say I had deliveries for you today?”

Franklin took a big gulp, ending with a sigh, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I have one for you.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out an envelope.

A letter from Mr. Still. “Thank you. Finish your tea, and you can go out the back door.”

She rounded the stairs to the front room. Mrs. Mason was still behind the screen, soft swishing telling Olivia that she was putting on her own clothes. Olivia quickly opened the letter:

Mrs. Kingston,

I am writing to request assistance from you. Two friends have arrived recently and need lodging for a short time. If you can assist them, they will be at your house tonight after eight. They may require special attention until they have left your care.

Thank you,
W. Still

Olivia read the note again, decoding the message. “Two friends” were two fugitives. “Special attention” meant that these two friends likely had had a particularly difficult trip from their former slave master’s house. They might even be sick. She would need a little time to prepare the room and some food.

She returned to the kitchen, placed the note in the sink, and with the matches she kept to light her lamps, set the note on fire. Every Bella Vista stationmaster and conductor did the same. All correspondence between them and Mr. Still had to be destroyed even though Mr. Still kept meticulous records of every runaway who passed through his care. He took that risk on himself but did not want to pass the risk on to the rest of the free Black community assisting him.

When Olivia returned to the room, Mrs. Mason stood waiting, her expression thunderous. “Where have you been?”

Olivia, mind still whirring with the preparations she would have to make, waved a hand. “Taking care of some important business.”

“Important business other than me?” The woman’s voice ended on a high, incredulous note. “I have been standing here for a full minute.”

Olivia looked up, giving the woman a steady gaze. “Oh no. It could not have been that long.” She made her expression as sweet as Franklin liked his tea. She walked briskly over to the woman and ushered her to the front door. “And I hate to have you waiting a minute longer.”

Mrs. Mason blinked as Olivia carried her along. “Well. I expect my dress to be finished next week.”

Mrs. Mason huffed and shuffled out the door, which Olivia kept open just long enough to be polite. Then she closed it and went to work.

The rest of her day was spent getting the room ready for the passengers. If Mr. Still sent the note, they were probably going to his house first and then coming to hers. While they were at his house, he would take down details about them, like what plantation they had run from, what their escape was like, and if they had any family remaining in slavery. Those records had been used to reunite many families.

She had another quiet dinner with Douglas. Once they had talked about his workday and her fitting with Mrs. Mason, silence settled between them, an unwanted guest. Anytime she shifted in her chair, he looked up at her expectantly. She found herself doing the same, not knowing why. She longed to pour out her heart about Moonie and Henry and the fact that Lottie would make a wonderful addition to their Underground Railroad group. But all those topics were not to be mentioned. Was stopping her work the only way they could bring conversation back?

As they rose from the table and headed to the stairs, he glanced over at Mrs. Mason’s unfinished dress. “Are you working tonight?”

She followed the direction of his gaze. “Yes—no.” Then she paused. “Yes.”

He held her gaze for a little longer then gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Good night.”

Even in that short time he was close to her, she could feel the warmth from his body. “Good night,” she said with some effort.

Once she could no longer hear Douglas moving around upstairs, Olivia went down to the room, lamp in hand. The two friends would be arriving soon. She again checked the basket of items she’d assembled. Food, water, tea, both men’s and women’s clothing—she never knew who was coming ahead of time—and blankets. She had dressed the small cot with some clean blankets and given the room a quick sweep. There was only so much she could do with the dirt floor, but she did try to make it as comfortable as possible.

She thought of Douglas. She should have known he would see Black patients without requiring them to pay. He and his family had run from Maryland when he was young. Although he had no real memories of being enslaved, he was passionate about antislavery work. He sat on the board for the Institute for the Improvement of Colored Youth, an amazing example of what the students could become. He had overcome hardships, apprenticing with an abolitionist doctor before finally being accepted into medical school in Maine. The students saw in him the hope of overcoming their hardships as well.

The guilt of keeping things from him sometimes became too much to bear, but she would do everything in her power to protect him. He was one of the few Black doctors in the state to hold a medical degree. He must be allowed to continue to do the work that he was doing. He helped as much as she did, just in a different way.

A soft knock sounded at the root cellar door, and Olivia rushed across the little room. Opening the door, she found two people standing in the cold night. One was Mr. Wilson. Behind him stood a young woman. The fugitive. Just one then. Olivia’s heart sank. Did the other one not make it?

She stepped aside and ushered them into the room. When she lifted the light, she saw the truth of the situation.

Olivia resisted the urge to gasp. The child, wrapped in nothing more than strips of fabric, lay limp in the mother’s arms.

“We met with some trouble but thought this was the best place for her to be,” Mr. Wilson said quietly.

Because of Douglas. Even though all the stationmasters and conductors knew she shielded Douglas from her work, they still factored his being a doctor into their plans, sending the sickest fugitives to her house. God, help this child. “Please sit.”

The woman shuffled, pain evident in every step. Amazing that she had run with a child. The courage that took. She went to the woman’s side as she sank down on the cot. “What is your name?”

Olivia smiled. “Beautiful name.” She helped Beulah undo the thin blankets and took stock of the child’s condition as she did. Hope was hot to the touch, confirming Olivia’s suspicions. The child was thin, too thin, like her mother. Even in the dim light, her brown skin held a grayish pallor. “There is some food in the basket,” Olivia told Beulah. “I have some broth upstairs for the child.”

“I will wait until you get back,” Mr. Wilson said, removing the food from the basket while Beulah cradled Hope.

Olivia rushed up the stairs. Turning toward the kitchen, she froze. Douglas stood in the doorway, holding a cup of tea. When did he become so fond of tea before bed?

She opened her mouth to tell him about Hope, then, remembering herself, snapped her mouth shut. She nodded.

“I am going to read for a bit before I go to bed. In case you need me …” Douglas was still studying her.

Oh, how she wished she could take Douglas down the stairs and let him examine Hope. For all their sakes, she would have to do as she had always done. Handle it alone.