I’d kept Susanna waiting long enough. She wanted to know about the Pratt children, and I was going to find out.
Search engines could only show me so much. Since I’d exhausted what the Internet had available, it was time to do research the old-fashioned way. I rode downtown to the government district.
After locking my bike next to the concrete building housing the State Archives, I pulled open a tall glass door and stepped into the narrow lobby. A security guy greeted me, checked out my driver’s license, and directed me to the second floor.
Security was even tighter upstairs. I received a visitor’s badge, a stern lecture on the privilege I was about to receive, and a locker key. After stowing my backpack, I entered the Search Room.
The space had serious AC, a nice contrast to the heat and humidity outside. It smelled like musty old stuff and was quiet—much quieter than a library. A handful of people dotted the room. I went to the desk.
“May I help you?” The research assistant was a tall, thin, college-age girl with black braids and not-so-invisible braces.
“I need Wake County census records from 1800.”
“Fine.” She pointed to a door behind me. “Microfilm. It’s self-service. Do you know how to use the machines?”
“Sure.” I’d never tried, but I was reasonably confident I’d manage.
My confidence was misplaced.
After a couple of screw-ups and whispered directions from the old lady sitting next to me, I fed the 1800 census film into the machine and skimmed along until I found Worthville. I squinted at every page. Every note. Every appendix.
Major problem.
I went to the desk. “I need the names of the children.”
The research assistant shook her head. “You won’t find those from the census. They didn’t collect names from the whole family until 1850.”
Great. I had expected the hard part to be biking down here. “What do I do?”
“Wills. Guys put a lot of information in their wills.” She slid a call slip across the counter.
I filled in county, document type, decade, and signature and then slid the call slip back.
“Fine. Give me a moment.” She disappeared through a metal door behind the desk.
I waited, tapping my fingers, and looked about the room. I was the youngest person in there, which was no surprise. There were a few old people bent over folders, holding magnifying glasses or snapping digital photos.
“Here you go,” the girl said and handed me a box across the counter. “The rules for handling documents are printed on the top of the box. Read them before starting. If you need something copied, let me know.”
I crossed to a table and flopped onto a heavy upholstered chair. After skimming the instructions, I opened the box. It contained all wills registered in Wake County during the 1790s. There was a folder marked Pratt. I laid it on the table but hesitated to open it. Even though I didn’t know these people, Susanna did. She cared about them, and two of those kids were going to die.
I opened the folder and froze as my fingertips brushed a document. I’d known I’d have access to originals, but this was a little freaky. These sheets were more than two hundred years old, and I was holding them. It seemed weirdly trusting for the state government to give the general public this kind of access.
The first page in the folder showed the will for a Mr. George Pratt. He had significant acreage in southeastern Wake County, plus a lot of slaves, horses, and other livestock.
I set aside George’s document. The next will belonged to Jethro.
It was a good thing the research assistant could make copies, because I hadn’t thought to bring a camera. I’d take her up on her offer. For now, I was consumed by my first real exposure to Susanna’s master.
The will had been written in a strong, looping script, faded but still legible. There wasn’t much property to pass down. He divvied up the contents of his estate among his wife and children. Even his indentured servant was left her customary freedom dues, whatever that meant.
If a researcher had been looking at the document, it would’ve seemed like the perfectly ordinary will of a perfectly ordinary guy. Jethro had done the right thing by his family—which was good for them, but pissed me off. His one connection to history was positive.
Okay, time to find out the information that brought me down here. I read the names of the four children.
Susanna would be half happy.
* * *
I loaded my backpack with water, snacks, and copies of Jethro’s will. By the time I left the house, it was late enough that the greenway was already deserted.
Susanna huddled in the depths of the cave, more like a lightening of the shadows than an actual visible person. Motionless as a statue.
The curtain of water had narrowed. Lack of rain slowed everything. Even the creek was sluggish. I swung my backpack through, to make sure it could pass. It did.
I stepped through the falls sideways and ducked under the lip of the cave. She sat on her rock, watching me from the shadows. Sorrow surrounded her like a mist. I was about to make things worse.
“Hey,” I said, sitting beside her.
She stirred slightly. “Hello.”
The whole mood was unsettling. The moist, eerie cave. The gray of twilight. Susanna’s distress—as if she’d become one with the gloom.
I reached inside my backpack and tried to keep my voice steady. I was the bearer of bad news—not a role I was used to. “Here’s something you’ll be interested in.”
“What is it?”
I held it out. “Jethro’s will.”
She stood stiffly and limped toward the mouth of the cave.
Limped? Something was wrong. I must’ve learned to read her body language because, although she was often quiet, today it went beyond her normal attitude in a way I couldn’t identify.
She tilted the paper, frowning. “Where should I look?”
I walked up behind her and pointed to a name in the middle. “Dorcas.”
Her hands seemed to spasm, crumpling the document. “Dorcas lives.”
“Yes, she does.”
Susanna swayed. I shifted, feet planted, ready to catch her. She made a sobbing sound and mopped her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt. “That is good.”
Now for the sad stuff. I took the sheet from her and smoothed it out. “Jethro Pratt mentions bequests to four children: Jedidiah, Deborah, Dorcas, and Drusilla.”
“Dinah and Delilah are not there.” Her voice thickened.
“Nor John.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Merciful heavens.” Her arms dropped and her mouth opened as she panted. “My babies.” The last word was drawn out in a low, wavering moan.
Her babies. Did she really think of them that way? Not surprising, actually. I could easily believe those two parents had done little more than contribute genetic material.
I waited in silence, watching her shoulders heave, not knowing what to say or do. I lifted my hands a couple of times. To hold her. To steady her. Would she accept my touch? I had no clue how she felt. Did she need to grieve without my clumsy efforts getting in the way?
I let my hands fall again.
She took a deep breath and held up the document again. “Is an indentured servant included?”
I frowned at the loops and swirls. “Yeah. Lydia Hinton.”
“That is excellent news.” She stared at the faded handwriting, rolled up the document, and clutched it to her chest. “Thank you, Lord.”
Not sure why the name Lydia made her happy, but I wouldn’t pursue it for now—something else distracted me. There were muddy-looking stains on the shoulder of her shirt. Splotches and dribbles. I circled around to her side, fighting off a growing tension at what the stains suggested. It had to be blood, lots of blood, all over the front of her shirt.
I glanced up to say something and gaped in shock at the sight of her face, revealed by the faint light. “Oh my God. What happened?”
She pursed her lips. Her puffy, split lips. “It’s Baby John’s blood you see on my shoulder. He was injured this morning.”
John—one of her favorites. “And whose fault was that?”
“My mistress.” Her eyes shimmered in a bright pool of tears. But they didn’t fall, as if held there by the sheer force of her will. “I received the punishment.”
“Clearly.” Anger left a metallic taste in my mouth. “Where was your mistress when your master was throwing punches?”
“Watching.”
Bitch. I shook with the urge for violence, something I’d never experienced before, not in all the time the bullies had beaten me up around school. There were plenty of kids who had watched and done nothing.
It had taken some well-placed video cameras and a YouTube account before the bullies got the justice they’d earned. The memories still left me enraged.
“What did you do?”
“What could I do?”
“Susanna—”
“I did nothing.” She spun around to face me, eyes blazing. “Are you disgusted? I lay on the floor with the entire family present while my master kicked me. Do you wish I had fought back? Are you disappointed I accepted my punishment meekly?”
Where had that come from? “No, I don’t think—”
“I tried to share the truth. I promise to you, I did. But the truth is of no consequence when there’s blame to be laid.”
“Susanna, stop—”
“In your century, it must be easier for you to seek justice, so do not presume to judge me. You don’t know how it feels to be trapped with no recourse. The law is on his side. The townsfolk may disapprove, but they must look the other way. It’s the Golden Rule, you see. If they wish to treat their servants as they see fit, they must let Jethro Pratt do the same.”
“I don’t judge you—”
“It’s a harsh thing to live as I do, loathing my job, treated like the livestock.” Her face hardened. “Papa wanted so much more for me than this. He taught me with the boys. He encouraged my questions. Then he died and everything changed. He would be so ashamed to see what I have become—a house servant who cooks and cleans all day. Yet I cannot yield to anger, because if I do, I shall never stop. And what good would that do? I shall have to wake up the next morning and start all over again. Until October, the Pratts own me.”
She clutched my shirt between both hands and yanked me closer. Her eyes were wet and blank, her voice soft and flat. “When he thrashes me, he asks me to lift my skirt. Then there’s a long pause, while he looks at my bare legs, picking the spot he’ll hit first and thinking about how he’ll scar me this time. It’s a game, you see. He tries to hurt me so badly I’ll weep. But I don’t cry. I don’t make a sound. It’s my only way to win.”
If Jethro Pratt had been within reach, I would’ve beaten the crap out of him and never had a moment’s regret. But he was out of reach—by two hundred years.
Susanna collapsed against me, shoulders shaking and tears soaking my shirt. I rested my hands lightly on her back and racked my brain for some way to help. But what could I say? What had happened to her was evil. She was in an impossible situation, and there was no way out until her birthday.
“I’m here. I’m on your side.”
She coughed. “I’m sorry, Mark. I didn’t mean to yell at you.”
“You don’t ever have to apologize. I’m different from the Pratts. You can get pissed around me. You can yell and scream and call me names all you want. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Thank you.”
Damn. How long had she had that all bottled up? I eased an arm around her waist. When my hand brushed her hip, she flinched.
“Sorry. Does it still hurt?”
“Yes.”
“I can help if you’ll let me.”
She nodded.
I knelt beside my backpack and rummaged around until I found my emergency pack of ibuprofen. “This medicine will take away the pain.”
There was a flicker of interest on her face. “Herbs?”
“Nah, we have better stuff now. Pretty much guaranteed to work.”
She looked down at the two orange pills in my hand. “How do they do that?”
“I don’t know for sure.” I handed over my bottle. “Hold them on your tongue. I’ll give you a swallow of water.”
She took a sip and gagged down the pills.
“Come on.” I took her hand and led her to the deepest part of the cave. “Sit on my lap and let me hold you.”
I could almost feel her blush through the darkness. “I don’t know…”
“It’ll be okay. No one can see us.” I waited until she sat, then wrapped her in my arms. “The medicine’ll take a few minutes to kick in, but the pain’ll ease up soon.”
“All right.”
She calmed down in stages.
At first, it was just a wiggling of her head as she relaxed against my chest.
Then her hands stopped fidgeting.
Finally, her body lost its tension.
“Better now?” I asked.
“Better in my body. But my heart grieves at the news you brought. What can I do about my little ones?”
“You’re already the best thing in their lives. Just take care of them.” I hugged her more securely. Night had fallen. She ought to leave, but for one sweet moment longer, I intended to enjoy our closeness.
“My mistress expects a child, and now I know it will be a girl.” There was a hint of a smile in Susanna’s voice. “Baby Drusilla. Named for her mother.”
“Her mother?” Something tickled at the corners of my brain. “The Mrs. Pratt in the will is not Drusilla.”
Susanna stiffened. “Do you remember her name?”
I nodded. “Phoebe.”