By the time Morse reached the porch, Sable had schooled her features into the blank mask behind which she’d been hiding her emotions since she’d become aware of her true station in life at the age of twelve.
He tipped his expensive hat politely as he stepped onto the porch. “Evenin’, Miss Mavis. Sable.”
Mavis nodded curtly and went back inside.
In spite of Henry Morse’s evil nature, he was a handsome, middle-aged man. Tall, with jet-black hair and matching black eyes, he had a charm that could melt even the iciest belle. For the past few years, desperate
war widows had been tossing themselves at him like corn to a rooster.
When Sable didn’t acknowledge his greeting, he asked her with a grin, “Cat got your tongue, green eyes?”
She hated his pet name for her. Coolly, she asked, “Is Mrs. Fontaine expecting you?”
He ignored her question and reached out to stroke her cheek. She stepped away. She hated his touch.
He drawled, “You’d think you were a queen the way you act toward me, Sable. Even with all that education, you’re still a slave, you know.”
“And with all your money, you are still trash, Mr. Morse.” She swept past him. “I will tell Mrs. Fontaine you are here.”
“Hold on a minute, gal.”
She stopped and turned slowly back.
A low rumble of malevolence entered his voice as he warned her softly, “You’re going to be mine real soon, you royal bitch. We’ll see how uppity you are then.”
She held his cold eyes with her equally frosty green ones before continuing into the house.
After Otis and Opal’s escape, the role of butler had fallen upon Sable’s shoulders. Because she also did the bulk of the washing, cleaning, cooking, and whatever else Sally Ann needed, the days seemed endless. Otis and Opal weren’t the only ones who’d gone. Of the three hundred slaves Carson Fontaine had owned prior to the war, fewer than fifty remained. All but a handful were children and oldsters. According to the whispers in the quarters, most of the runaways were attaching themselves to the advancing Yankee army. There were said to be thousands of Blacks seeking freedom and safety with Lincoln’s troops.
As Sable wound her way through the big house to find Sally Ann and announce Morse’s arrival, her footsteps echoed eerily. In the old days, the place had bustled with life, but now the silence was ever present.
Sable found her mistress in the kitchen yelling at the poor young girl, Cindi, who’d taken over Ophelia’s duties. At Cindi’s feet lay the shattered remains of one of Sally Ann’s wedding plates. In her eyes were tears.
Sable interrupted the tirade. “Mrs. Fontaine.”
The furious mistress whirled on Sable. “What?!”
Sable’s face remained impassive. “Henry Morse is here to see you.”
The lady of the house turned her angry brown eyes on the girl once more and threatened, “I’ll deal with you later,” then ordered, “Sable, get this mess cleaned up.”
She sailed out.
As soon as they were alone, Sable looked across the kitchen at the distraught child and held out her arms. Cindi ran to Sable and burrowed into her arms. “I didn’t mean to break it, Sable,” she sobbed.
“I know, I know. She’s a mean old bat, isn’t she?”
Cindi nodded vigorously against Sable’s waist.
Sable spent a few moments stroking her small head, then said, “Maybe when the Yankees come, they’ll eat her.”
Cindi looked up, smiling.
Sable smiled down in reply before adding, “You go on back to your nana. I’ll clean up here.”
After the youngster’s exit, Sable swept up the shards and deposited them in the waste bin out back. When she came back inside, Mavis was finishing up the dishes. As had befitted the women of her class, Mavis had never been allowed in the kitchen during the years before the war, but times had changed. Now Mavis helped with many of the chores and housework, while Sally Ann—or Silly Ann as she’d been dubbed by the old slaves—spent her time bemoaning the lack of a qualified dressmaker and anything to eat except collards and yams.
When Sable picked up a towel to help Mavis, her sister said in a conspiratorial whisper, “No, I’ll do this. Mama and Morse are out on the porch. Go.”
Sable tossed the towel aside and slipped back outside. She had to hear what they were saying. Moving carefully and quietly so she wouldn’t be detected over the sounds of early evening, she skirted the side of the house until she reached the porch.
When the Fontaine mansion had been expanded fifteen years ago, the slaves who had done the work had purposefully left enough crawlspace beneath the porch to allow a person to hide there and listen to what was being said above. Since masters rarely informed their slaves as to the daily goings-on in the world, the enslaved populations were forced to glean information in any way they could. Since slavery’s inception, spying had been a tried and true method.
Sable hiked up her ragged dress and scooted on all fours under the porch. Plant debris and damp earth covered her palms and knees but she paid them scant attention. Sally Ann escorted her guests out on the porch with such regularity that in the old days, the house slaves had ensured someone would be stationed at this listening post every evening.
Sable settled into position. She forced herself not to speculate on the snakes and other vermin that might be living nearby in the darkness, and hoped she wouldn’t have to wait long. Thankfully she didn’t. A pair of footsteps sounded from above, and as they came closer, she heard Sally Ann asking, “Now that we’ve come to closure on the contract, when will I receive the funds for Sable’s sale?”
“In about a month,” Morse replied.
“That long?” Sally sounded angry as she snapped, “You said it would be no more than a week.”
“War’s on, Mrs. Fontaine. Financial transactions are getting harder and harder to execute.”
Sally Ann had never been a patient woman and Sable could well imagine the sharp set of her hawklike features as she confessed, “The only reason I’m so anxious is because Carson is eager to leave.”
Carson and Sally Ann had been married over thirty years. On the morning he’d left for the war, he’d assembled his slaves and family members to hear his last words. Mounted on his finest stallion and dressed in the trim gray uniform of the Confederacy, he’d jubilantly promised to be back in a few weeks, boasting it wouldn’t take long to whip the North.
The boast had proven hollow. The weeks had lengthened into years. He’d returned eight months ago, one leg blown off by a Union shell. It was his deteriorating health that necessitated Sable’s sale, or so Sally had claimed last evening. She’d heard about a clinic in New York that performed miracles on war-injured men, and she was determined to take him there.
Morse asked, “How’s Carson feel about me looking after the place while you’re gone?”
“He is resigned to leaving,” she replied, then added tartly, “Damn that Lincoln! He ought to get on his knees and beg the forgiveness of every White woman in the South for what he’s put us through. My sister in Vicksburg wrote me that food got so scarce during the siege, skinned rats were selling in the markets next to mule meat.”
Sable shuddered as Sally continued, “Carson and I are both convinced our boys will rally and send the Yankees back to hell, but until then, Carson needs care. If I have to take him to a Yankee doctor, so be it. Once the South has won, we’ll return here.”
“How’s he feel about selling Sable?”
Sally Ann was silent for so long, Sable thought she wouldn’t reply. Finally she said, “He sees nothing wrong with it. She is a slave, after all. The funds from her sale will help us get North.”
Sable had been curious about Carson Fontaine’s role in her sale. Last night when she and Mavis sat in her room angrily denouncing Sally Ann’s decision, Mavis had insisted Sally Ann had arranged the deal without Carson’s knowledge. Sable had not been convinced.
Carson might have returned home from war bitter and crippled, but Sally Ann never made a decision without his direct approval. Granted, Carson had brought Sable to live in the house after her mother’s death and as Sable grew older he’d allowed her to be educated right alongside Mavis. He’d even let her accompany the family to Europe five years ago as Mavis’s personal servant when Mavis and Sanford took their wedding tour, and he had purchased Sable a whole new wardrobe for the trip. However, never once, in all her twenty-nine years, had he ever treated her or looked upon her as anything other than property; he was the master and Sable his slave.
Morse’s voice brought Sable back to the present. “Mahti’s so near dying now, I guess Carson feels he can ignore the curse.”
Confused, Sable heard Sally Ann’s shrill laugh. “Whatever do you mean?”
Sable knew that shrill note in her mistress’s voice signaled either nervousness or flat-out lying.
“Come on now, Mrs. Fontaine,” Morse drawled. “You and I have both heard the rumors.”
Sally Ann replied haughtily, “I don’t sully myself with rumors, sir.”
Morse laughed softly. “So all that talk about Sable’s mama and grandmama being queens isn’t true?”
Queens
?!
Sally Ann’s reply sounded evasive. “I admit there were rumors of royal blood, but I never put any stock in them. Half the nigras in the South claim to be related to some jungle ruler in one way or another.”
Sable, who had never heard any of this before, found the discussion riveting.
Morse sounded skeptical. “Then it’s not true about Sable’s ma killing herself in Carson’s bed?”
Sable’s body turned cold. This was by far the most startling piece of information she’d ever heard about her mother Azelia’s death. Sable knew she’d died during an accident on Sable’s third birthday, but little else. If what
Morse was saying was true, why hadn’t Mahti revealed any of it to Sable before?
In reply to Morse’s question about Azelia’s death, Sally Ann answered in her frostiest voice, “Mr. Morse, you and I may be business associates, but I do not discuss my husband’s whores with anyone. Good evening. Let me know when the funds arrive.”
Sable heard the screen door slam and knew Morse had been left standing alone on the porch. Immediately afterward came the sound of his footsteps descending the front steps and heading down the walk. Once his carriage pulled away, Sable left her hiding place and went to the quarters in search of answers.
As she entered the small candlelit cabin, she was pleasantly surprised to find Mahti sitting up in bed. For the last few days, Mahti had been in a deep, deep sleep, a state she’d been falling into more and more often lately. Those who loved her best knew that one of these days her dark eyes would remain closed for eternity.
Now she was awake again, back from “talking with the ancestors” as she called the long slumbers. The brown-skinned woman seated near the bed was Vashti, the root woman and doctor for the quarters and Cindi’s nana. Vashti and Mahti had been friends for many years.
Holding back her questions for a moment, Sable declared with a smile, “Mahti, you are going to live forever.”
“Not if I can help it,” she cackled, laughing. She’d lost her teeth long ago and whenever she laughed too hard, such as now, hacking coughs rattled her thin ebony frame. Vashti gave her a sip of water from a battered tin cup. The spasm eased and Mahti pointed at her old friend. “It’s all Vashti’s fault—her old potions are keeping me from going home.”
Sable knelt beside the bed and kissed her aunt’s wrinkled brown forehead. “We all want you to stay with us as long as you can. The sun shines brighter on my day, knowing you are here.”
Mahti stared up at her, startled.
“What’s the matter?” Sable asked.
For a long moment Mahti continued to gaze up at Sable. Then she gently grasped her arm, and Mahti’s bony fingers squeezed her affectionately. “Someone said that exact same thing to me a long long time ago. To hear the words again from your lips jarred me a bit.”
Sable started to ask Mahti who had said the words, but Mahti changed the subject. “How’re things up at the house?”
Sable shrugged. “Nothing’s changed.”
Sable hesitated telling her aunt about her sale because of the adverse effect the news might have on her fragile health and because Sable had no solid plan for Mahti’s future.
Mahti would not be fooled, however. “Something has indeed changed, has it not?”
Sable didn’t know how or where to begin.
Mahti told her quietly, “I heard about the sale. Vashti told me. Your fate does not lie with him, however.”
The words lifted Sable’s spirit until Mahti added, “But your fates are intertwined—he will be the jackal and you the antelope until his death.”
Sable felt the skin prickle on the back of her neck, though she did not understand what Mahti meant. Sable had learned at an early age that asking Mahti how she knew such things was akin to asking the wind why it blew. Mahti saw things others could not, felt things no one else could. She saw signs of fortune or disaster in the phases of the moon and the configuration of the stars. “The old ways still walk strongly within me,” she would sometimes say, as if that were explanation enough. She represented not only the last of Sable’s true female family but also the last link to the time of the Middle Passage and the first African ancestors forcibly brought to these shores. In Mahti lay all the wisdom and experience that had shaped the generations which fol
lowed, and when Mahti died, Sable knew she would carry the grief for the rest of her life.
“Mahti,” she said, “I overheard Sally Ann and Morse talking about curses and queens. Morse said my mother killed herself in Carson Fontaine’s bed. What were they talking about?”
“Things I have withheld from you.”
“Why?”
Her reply was soft. “Because no child should carry such grief until she is strong enough to bear it.”
Sable thought about that before saying, “I believe I am strong enough now.”
Mahti took a moment to look deeply into Sable’s river-green eyes before replying, “I believe you are, so let us start at the beginning.”
The story began in Mother Africa.
“I had accompanied my aunt to a wedding celebration at a neighboring village. On the way home we were attacked by slavers. My aunt and the fifteen men who guarded her fought bravely. Seven of them gave their lives, but we were captured.”