When the master’s wife tricked the young slave into entering her room and locked the door behind him, it became a death sentence if they were discovered.
In the antibbellum south, this forbidden encounter wasn’t what it seemed.
Her desperate act would unravel dangerous secrets, shift power in unexpected ways, and set in motion events that would challenge the very foundations of the plantation’s brutal hierarchy.
What happened behind that locked door would change everything forever.
Thomas kept his eyes down as he moved silently through the grand hallway of Caldwell Plantation.
At 23, he’d mastered the art of invisibility, a survival skill for a house slave in 1850s Virginia.
His long fingers gripped the silver serving tray with practiced steadiness, though his heart raced beneath his carefully pressed shirt.
“Boy, you’re walking too damn slow.” Master Caldwell’s voice boomed from the dining room, making Thomas’s shoulders tense.
The plantation was a kingdom of calculated cruelty, with Master James Caldwell ruling like a vengeful god.
6 ft tall, with cold blue eyes that missed nothing, Caldwell had inherited both the sprawling cotton plantation and his father’s legendary temper.
The plantation’s 200 slaves lived in constant fear of his unpredictable rage.
Coming right away, master Thomas called back, quickening his pace without appearing rushed.
Another delicate balance.
Thomas possessed something dangerous, something that could get him whipped, sold, or worse.
Unlike most slaves on the plantation, Thomas could read.
His mother had been nursemaid to the previous master’s children, and had secretly learned alongside them.
before she was sold away when Thomas was just 12, she had passed this forbidden knowledge to her son.
“What’s taking so damn long?” Caldwell shouted as Thomas finally entered the dining room where the master entertained three important guests from Richmond.
“My apologies, master,” Thomas murmured, setting down the tray of brandy with practiced precision.
As he poured the amber liquid, Thomas kept his face carefully blank, even as he absorbed every word of the men’s conversation about upcoming legislation.
Information was power, the only kind available to someone in his position.
One of the guests, a silver-haired senator, eyed Thomas suspiciously.
“Your boy here seems mighty attentive to our conversation, Caldwell.” Master Caldwell laughed coldly.
Don’t worry about him.
He’s just a dumb field hand I brought inside because he’s strong enough to carry my wife’s ridiculous collection of trunks when we travel.
Isn’t that right, boy? Yes, master, Thomas replied, adopting the slow draw expected of him, though each word burned his throat.
The lie was deliberate.
Caldwell knew perfectly well that Thomas had been born a house slave and had never worked the fields.
But the master enjoyed this game, reminding Thomas that at any moment he could be sent to the brutal cotton fields where men rarely survived past 30.
Later that night, in the cramped quarters behind the kitchen where he slept, Thomas pulled out a small scrap of paper hidden in a hole beneath his thin mattress.
By the dim light of a stolen candle stub, he carefully recorded what he’d heard about the new fugitive slave legislation.
This information would make its way to the quarters where Fieldhand slept, giving them precious knowledge about the tightening noose of laws designed to keep them in chains.
Thomas had developed this dangerous network over the past year, listening, remembering, and passing vital information to those who had even less power than himself.
It was a small rebellion, but it gave purpose to his carefully controlled existence.
What Thomas didn’t know was that his quiet resistance hadn’t gone entirely unnoticed.
The master might have been oblivious, but someone else in the grand house had been watching him with growing interest, someone whose attention could prove far more dangerous than Master Caldwell’s predictable cruelty.
But Thomas had caught the attention of someone even more dangerous than the master himself.
Elellanar Caldwell stood at her bedroom window, watching Thomas cross the garden below.
Her slender fingers absently twisted the gold wedding band that had become more shackled and symbol in the 5 years she’d been married to James Caldwell.
At 26, Elellaner’s beauty remained unmarred by the passage of time.
Her porcelain skin, auburn hair, and deep green eyes still turned heads in Richmond society.
But here, isolated on the plantation, her beauty served no purpose.
Her husband had long since lost interest in her, their marriage of convenience having secured her family’s debts and his desire for a socially advantageous match.
“Ma’am,” her personal slave Bessie entered the room.
“Would you like me to help you dress for dinner?” Eleanor sighed, turning from the window.
Yes, though I doubt my husband will notice if I wore a potato sack.
As Bessie helped her into an emerald silk dress that matched her eyes, Ellaner’s thoughts returned to Thomas.
She had first noticed him 3 months ago during one of James’s dinner parties.
While the other house slaves moved like shadows, eyes down, expressions blank, something about Thomas was different.
A certain dignity in his carriage, an intelligence in his eyes that he tried to hide but couldn’t quite suppress.
“Bessie,” Elellanar said casually.
“That young man, Thomas, how long has he been in the house?” Bessie’s hands paused momentarily at the laces of Eleanor’s corset.
All his life, ma’am.
His mother was house staff, too, before She stopped abruptly.
Before what? Before the master sold her, when Thomas was just a boy, Elellanor felt the familiar twist of disgust in her stomach.
Another family torn apart by her husband’s callousness.
Though she’d grown up in a slaveowning family, Elellanar had never become comfortable with the institution.
Her time at Miss Porter’s school in the North had exposed her to abolitionist ideas that had taken root despite her efforts to suppress them.
Over dinner that evening, Elellanar observed Thomas more carefully as he served.
When James barked orders at him, she noticed the flash of controlled resentment in Thomas’s eyes.
There, and gone so quickly she might have imagined it.
Later that week, Eleanor was in the library when Thomas entered to tend the fire.
Pretending to read, she watched as he paused before the bookshelf, his fingers hovering near the spine of Milton’s Paradise Lost with unmistakable longing.
“Can you read, Thomas?” she asked suddenly.
He froze, terror flashing across his face before his expression smoothed into practiced blankness.
“No, ma’am.
Ye, of course not.” The lie was understandable.
Literacy among slaves was forbidden by law and by her husband’s strict rules, but Elellanar had seen the truth in that unguarded moment.
“It’s all right,” she said softly.
“I won’t tell anyone.” Thomas remained silent, eyes downcast, but Eleanor could sense his internal struggle, weighing the danger of admission against the strange opportunity her interest presented.
In the weeks that followed, Ellaner found reasons to be in rooms where Thomas worked.
She began leaving books carelessly open, watching as his eyes darted to the pages when he thought she wasn’t looking.
One day she deliberately misqued Shakespeare within his hearing, and caught the almost imperceptible wints that confirmed her suspicions.
Her fascination with Thomas grew alongside another dangerous secret.
Eleanor had begun corresponding with northern abolitionists through coded letters hidden in her personal correspondence.
Her childhood friend in Boston, now married to a prominent abolitionist, had connected her to the network.
The letters came hidden in fashion magazines and perfumed stationery, containing information about safe houses and roots north.
What Elellaner didn’t realize was how careless she had become.
Last week she had left one such letter in her desk drawer, not hidden carefully enough.
When she returned to her room and found things slightly rearranged, a cold dread settled in her stomach.
Had James discovered her treachery.
That evening at dinner, she watched her husband carefully, but he showed no signs of suspicion.
Still, Ellaner knew she needed to move her correspondence to a safer location immediately.
And she needed help.
Someone with access to the house, but who wouldn’t betray her to James.
Someone with reasons of their own to oppose the institution of slavery.
Her thoughts turned to Thomas.
If he truly could read, and if his carefully controlled demeanor hid the resentment she suspected, he might be her only ally in the house.
But approaching him directly was too dangerous for them.
both.
As she lay in bed that night, a plan began to form.
A desperate, dangerous plan that could save her secret correspondence and perhaps offer Thomas something in return.
But it would require breaking every social boundary and putting both their lives at risk.
What Elellaner didn’t know was that her husband was already growing suspicious, forcing her into a desperate plan that would change everything.
3 days later, a thunderstorm rolled across the plantation, turning the afternoon sky an ominous gray black.
Thomas hurried through the main house, closing windows against the impending downpour.
The air felt heavy with electricity, matching the tension that had been building within the household.
The scent of rain hung in the air, earthy and urgent, as if nature itself was warning of changes to come.
Master Caldwell had left that morning for Richmond on business, a 3-day journey that had the household staff exhaling in collective relief.
His absence meant fewer sudden outbursts, fewer arbitrary punishments, and a temporary loosening of the strict hierarchy that governed their lives.
Thomas had watched from the kitchen window as the master’s carriage disappeared down the long oaklined drive, feeling the familiar mixture of relief and apprehension that always accompanied these brief respits.
The master’s absences were double-edged freedom from his watchful eye, but also a dangerous time when rules could be broken and discovered later.
The plantation house itself seemed to breathe easier without James Caldwell’s oppressive presence.
The grand white columns and sweeping veranda that had been built to impress now stood as silent sentinels against the darkening sky.
Inside the polished mahogany banisters and crystal chandeliers that normally reflected the master’s wealth now caught the intermittent flashes of lightning from outside, creating eerie patterns on the damisk wallpaper.
Thomas was securing the library windows when he heard soft footsteps behind him.
He turned to find Mistress Caldwell standing in the doorway, her face uncharacteristically anxious.
She wore a daydress of pale blue muslin, her auburn hair pulled back in a simple shinyong rather than the elaborate styles she adopted for social occasions.
The simplicity of her appearance made her seem younger, more vulnerable somehow.
“Thomas,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I need to speak with you.
” He straightened immediately, wary.
Yes, ma’am.
His hands, which had been adjusting the heavy velvet drapes, fell to his sides as he adopted the proper posture, straight back, but with eyes slightly downcast, the stance of a well-trained house slave.
Elellaner glanced nervously down the hallway before continuing.
I require assistance with rearranging some items in my personal quarters.
would you be available to help me this evening after dinner? Her fingers twisted the cameo brooch at her throat, a nervous habit Thomas had noticed before.
Thomas kept his expression carefully neutral, though alarm bells rang in his mind.
A slave entering the mistress’s private chambers, especially a male slave, when the master was away, was dangerous territory.
If anyone saw him, the assumptions would be immediate and deadly.
The rules governing interactions between white women and male slaves were enforced with particular brutality.
He had seen men hanged for less.
“I believe Bessie would be better suited to assist you, ma’am,” he replied cautiously, his deep voice controlled and measured despite the anxiety building in his chest.
Eleanor shook her head, a few strands of auburn hair coming loose from her shinyang.
I need someone with your particular strengths.
Her eyes met his with an intensity that conveyed more than her words.
It’s quite important.
The urgency in her voice was unmistakable, though she kept her tone even.
Before Thomas could respond, the housekeeper, Mrs.
Parish, appeared at the end of the hallway.
A thin, sharp featured woman with perpetually pursed lips, Mrs.
parish had been with the Caldwell family for 20 years and considered herself the guardian of propriety in the household.
Her suspicious nature had made Thomas’s secret activities all the more difficult.
Eleanor stepped back immediately, raising her voice to a more appropriate mistress to slave volume and make sure all the windows are properly secured before the storm hits.
The transformation was immediate, her posture straightening, her chin lifting, her voice taking on the commanding tone expected of someone in her position.
“Yes, ma’am,” Thomas replied, bowing his head as Mrs.
Parish passed by with a suspicious glance.
The housekeeper’s gray eyes narrowed slightly as she looked between them, but she continued on her way, her keys jingling at her waist like a jailer’s.
Once Mrs.
Parish was out of earshot.
Elellaner gave Thomas one last meaningful look before turning and walking away, her skirts rustling softly against the polished wood floors.
Thomas watched her go, his mind racing with questions he dared not voice.
Later, in the kitchen, as he helped prepare dinner, Thomas’s mind raced with possibilities.
The cavernous kitchen, with its massive hearth and hanging copper pots, was filled with the usual evening bustle, but Thomas barely registered the familiar chaos around him.
What could Mistress Caldwell want? Was it a trap? He had noticed her watching him recently, her gaze following him when she thought he wasn’t aware.
Had she somehow discovered his secret network of information? or worse, had she caught him reading the master’s newspaper when he thought the house was empty.
He recalled a moment last week when he’d been dusting in the study and had paused to scan a letter left carelessly on the master’s desk.
A letter discussing new legislation that would make it even harder for escaped slaves to find safety in the north.
Had someone seen him? Was this elaborate ruse designed to catch him in an act of insubordination that would justify severe punishment? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” said Sarah, the elderly cook, as she handed him a tray of food to deliver to the dining room.
Her dark face, lined with the wisdom and weariness of 60 years, showed genuine concern.
Sarah had been like a second mother to Thomas after his own was sold away, teaching him how to navigate the treacherous waters of house service.
Just worried about the storm, Thomas lied smoothly, taking the heavy silver tray with practiced ease.
The smell of roast duck and fresh bread would normally have made his stomach growl, but anxiety had robbed him of appetite.
Sarah snorted, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Ain’t no storm out there worse than the one in here when the master’s home.
Enjoy the peace while it lasts.” She turned back to the hearth where she was preparing a bread pudding for tomorrow’s breakfast.
And don’t you be getting into any trouble while the cat’s away.
That Mrs.
Parish has eyes in the back of her head.
Thomas nodded, taking the warning to heart.
Sarah didn’t know about his reading ability or his information network, but she knew him well enough to sense when he was contemplating something risky.
The dining room with its damiscovered walls and crystal chandelier felt cavernous with just one person dining.
Thomas served dinner to Eleanor in the small dining room where she ate alone at one end of the massive mahogany table that could seat 20.
The white linen tablecloth and gleaming silver setting seemed to emphasize her solitude.
He noticed her barely touching her food, her fork moving the duck around her plate rather than bringing it to her lips.
Her fingers nervously traced the rim of her water glass, leaving small smudges on the crystal.
When their eyes met briefly as he poured her wine, he saw something he’d never expected.
“Fear.” “Will there be anything else, ma’am?” he asked after serving the main course, standing at the proper distance, hands clasped behind his back.
“No, thank you, Thomas,” she replied, her voice distant, as if her thoughts were elsewhere.
then more quietly.
Just remember what I asked earlier.
He nodded almost imperceptibly before withdrawing to the kitchen.
The rest of the meal proceeded in silence with Thomas returning only to clear plates and serve dessert, a lemon tart that Elellaner also barely touched.
After dinner, Thomas completed his usual evening duties with meticulous care, his mind still turning over the strange request.
He helped Sarah clean the kitchen, polished the silver that had been used at dinner, and checked all the doors and windows one final time as the storm intensified outside.
Rain lashed against the windows, and occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the darkened rooms of the house.
Most of the household staff had retired to their quarters behind the main house, small, cramped rooms that nonetheless offered more privacy than the communal cabins where field slaves lived.
Thomas’s position as head house slave afforded him a tiny room of his own, a privilege he valued primarily, because it allowed him to maintain his secret reading and writing without discovery.
As the household settled for the night, he found himself standing at the foot of the grand staircase, looking up toward the family quarters where Elellanar waited.
The grandfather clock in the hall chimed 10 times, its sonnerous tones echoing through the quiet house.
From somewhere deep in the manor, he could hear Mrs.
Parish giving final instructions to a housemaid, her voice growing fainter as they moved toward the servant’s wing.
The sensible part of him screamed to ignore the request, to claim he’d misunderstood or forgotten.
Every lesson he’d learned in his 23 years of navigating the dangerous waters of slavery told him to avoid this situation.
Entering the mistress’s chambers alone at night was precisely the kind of boundary crossing that got slaves killed.
But another part, the part that had driven him to create his dangerous information network, was curious.
What if the mistress needed genuine help? What if this was an opportunity he couldn’t yet see? Thomas had survived this long by being cautious, but also by recognizing moments when risk might yield reward.
His mother had taught him to trust his instincts, and right now, despite the danger, something told him that Mistress Caldwell’s request was important.
Thunder crashed outside as Thomas made his decision.
The sound so loud it seemed to shake the crystal pendants on the chandelier above.
He climbed the stairs silently.
Years of practice allowing him to avoid every creaking step.
The upper hallway was dark except for a single oil lamp burning outside the master’s study, casting long shadows along the portraitlined corridor.
Thomas moved quickly past the closed door toward the separate wing that housed the mistress’s quarters.
The thick carpet muffled his footsteps as he approached Eleanor’s door.
He paused outside, listening for any sound that might indicate a trap.
Hearing nothing but the storm raging outside, he knocked softly.
Three gentle taps that could barely be heard over the rain battering the windows at the end of the hall.
The door opened immediately as if Eleanor had been standing just on the other side.
She was still dressed in her dinner gown, though she’d removed some of her jewelry and unpinned her hair so that it fell in auburn waves over her shoulders.
Her face was pale in the lamplight, her green eyes wide with what looked like a mixture of relief and apprehension.
“Come in quickly,” she whispered, glancing nervously down the hallway.
Behind her, the room was lit by several candles and a small fire in the great, creating a warm glow that contrasted with the cold fear evident in her expression.
Thomas hesitated only a moment before stepping inside.
The room was larger than the entire slave cabin where his mother had raised him, furnished with elegant pieces that spoke of wealth and privilege.
A massive four-poster bed dominated one wall, draped with blue silk curtains that match the upholstery of the delicate chairs arranged near the fireplace.
A dressing table covered with silverbacked brushes and crystal.
Perfume bottles stood beneath a guilt-framed mirror reflecting the dancing candle light.
On the far wall, a writing desk sat beneath the window, papers and books neatly arranged on its surface.
As soon as he entered, Elellaner closed the door behind him.
The soft click of the lock turning sent a chill down Thomas’s spine.
He was now completely alone with the master’s wife in her bedroom with the door locked, a situation so forbidden that the punishment would be severe and immediate if they were discovered.
“Mistress,” he began, his voice carefully controlled despite his racing heart.
“What service do you require?” He stood just inside the door, maintaining as much distance between them as the room would allow, his posture formal and proper despite the impropriety of the situation itself.
Eleanor turned to face him, her green eyes intense in the golden light.
She seemed to be studying him, assessing whether she could truly trust him with whatever had compelled her to take this risk.
After a moment of silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the distant rumble of thunder, she spoke.
“Thomas, I know your secret.” His body tensed, ready for flight, though there was nowhere to run.
His mind raced through all the possibilities, his reading, his information network, the time he’d slipped away to visit his sister on a neighboring plantation without permission.
Which transgression had she discovered? Ma’am,” he replied, fighting to keep his voice steady, his expression neutral, despite the fear coursing through him.
“I know you can read,” she said simply, “and I need someone who can read to help me with a matter of extreme delicacy.” Her voice trembled slightly on the last words, betraying the gravity of whatever she was about to reveal.
Thomas remained silent, neither confirming nor denying her accusation.
literacy was enough to get him whipped, sold, or worse.
In many southern states, teaching a slave to read was illegal, and slaves caught with this knowledge faced a severe punishment.
He had hidden his ability for years, reading in secret, carefully maintaining the facade of illiteracy that was expected of him.
Elellaner moved to her writing desk and unlocked a small drawer with a key she wore around her neck on a thin gold chain.
The tiny key gleamed in the candlelight as she inserted it into the lock.
“I’ve been corresponding with people in the north,” she said, her voice dropping even lower, as if the walls themselves might betray her confidence.
“People who help slaves escape to freedom.” “Of all the things Thomas had imagined, this was the last.
” He stared at her, unable to hide his shock, as she withdrew a stack of letters tied with blue ribbon.
The papers looked ordinary enough, cream colored stationery with elegant handwriting, but their contents, based on what she was saying, were anything but ordinary.
They represented treason in the eyes of southern law, a betrayal of her husband, her class, and her society.
“My husband suspects something,” she continued urgently, clutching the letters to her chest.
Last week, I noticed my desk had been disturbed while I was out riding.
Nothing was taken, but things were not as I left them.
I fear he may have someone watching me.” Her eyes darted to the window, though the heavy drapes were drawn against both the storm and potential prying eyes.
“I need to move these somewhere safe, and I need someone I can trust to help me decode and respond to new messages.” She held the letters toward him, her hand trembling slightly.
These contain information about safe houses, roots north, and contacts who can help guide escaped slaves to freedom, if James finds them.
She didn’t need to finish the thought.
They both knew what would happen if Master Caldwell discovered his wife was involved with abolitionists.
I believe you might be that person, Thomas,” she continued, her voice gaining strength.
“I’ve watched you.
You’re careful, intelligent, and you have reason to want to help others escape this life.
I’m taking an enormous risk trusting you, but I have no one else to turn to.” The moment hung between them, fraught with danger and possibility.
Outside, lightning illuminated the room in a brief, harsh flash through the gap in the curtains, followed by the deep rumble of thunder that seemed to shake the very foundations of the house.
The storm mirrored the tumult in Thomas’s mind as he considered her words.
If this was a trap, it was elaborately laid, but what would be the purpose? If Master Caldwell wanted to punish him for reading, he could do so without this charade.
And Elellanar’s fear seemed genuine.
The slight tremble in her hands, the power of her skin, the urgency in her voice, all spoke of real danger.
Thomas looked from the letters to Elellaner’s face, seeing not the master’s wife, but a frightened woman taking an enormous risk.
In that moment, he made a choice that would alter both their fates irrevocably.
I can read, he admitted quietly, the words feeling strange on his tongue after years of denial.
And right as well, the admission was like stepping off a cliff.
Terrifying, but somehow freeing.
Relief flooded Elellanar’s features, softening the tension that had held her body rigid.
“Then you’ll help me.” Hope colored her voice, making her sound younger, more vulnerable.
Before Thomas could answer, a sound from the hallway froze them both.
Footsteps approaching the door.
Heavy measured steps that could only belong to one of two people.
Master Caldwell himself somehow returned early from his trip, or Mrs.
Parish making her final rounds of the night.
Eleanor’s eyes widened in panic as she clutched the letters to her chest.
Thomas immediately moved away from the door, his mind racing through possible explanations for his presence.
none of them convincing.
The footsteps grew louder, stopping just outside the door.
In the silence that followed, Thomas could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, drowning out even the storm that raged beyond the windows.
A soft knock came at the door, followed by Mrs.
Parish’s voice.
“Mistress Caldwell, is everything all right? I thought I heard voices.
” Elellanar’s eyes met Thomas’ in silent communication.
In that moment, a decision was made between them, a pact sealed without words.
Whatever happened next, they were now bound together in a secret that could destroy them both.
“Just a moment, Mrs.
Parish,” Elellanar called out, her voice remarkably steady, despite the panic in her eyes.
With frantic gestures, she directed Thomas toward the connecting dressing room, thrusting the bundle of letters into his hands.
The silk ribbon holding them together came loose, nearly spilling the incriminating papers across the polished wood floor.
Thomas caught them deafly, his large hands quickly securing the dangerous correspondence.
The dressing room was small but elegant, lined with wardrobes of fine cherrywood that contained Eleanor’s extensive collection of gowns, shoes, and accessories.
The scent of lavender and rose water hung in the air, so different from the harsh lie soap used in the slave quarters.
Thomas slipped silently into this feminine sanctuary, pressing himself against the wall beside the doorway.
Through the crack between the hinges, he could see Ellaner smoothing her skirts and pinching her cheeks to bring color to her face before moving to unlock her bedroom door.
Her transformation was immediate and impressive, from conspirator to lady of the house in mere seconds.
She adjusted her posture, lifting her chin and composing her features into an expression of mild surprise as she opened the door to the housekeeper.
“I apologize for disturbing you, ma’am,” Mrs.
Parish said as the door opened.
Her voice was differential, but carried an undercurrent of authority that came from her 20 years of service to the Caldwell family.
I was making my final rounds and thought I heard voices.
“Just me, I’m afraid,” Elellanena replied with a small laugh that sounded perfectly natural.
“I’ve developed the terrible habit of reading aloud to myself when I’m alone.
The characters seem more real that way.” She gestured to a novel lying open on her bedside table, a prop that Thomas suspected she’d placed there deliberately.
It was Ivanho, he noted, recognizing the distinctive binding.
He had read a borrowed copy last year, hidden in the stables during rare moments of solitude.
From his hiding place, Thomas could see only a slice of the housekeeper, her severe black dress, and the edge of her suspicious frown.
Mrs.
Parish was a thin woman in her 50s, with iron gray hair pulled back so tightly it seemed to stretch her skin, giving her a perpetually alert appearance.
Her pale blue eyes missed nothing, and her loyalty to Master Caldwell was absolute.
It’s quite late, ma’am.
Can I bring you anything before I retire? The question seemed innocent enough, but Thomas recognized it as what it was, an excuse to linger, to observe, to gather information that might later be relayed to the master.
“No, thank you,” Elellanor replied, one hand resting casually on the doorframe as if to prevent the housekeeper from entering.
“The storm has made me restless, but I’ll try to sleep soon.” She smiled politely but firmly.
The smile of a woman who remembered she was mistress of the house despite her youth.
Mrs.
Parish hesitated, her body language suggesting she wanted to investigate further.
Her gaze drifted past Eleanor, scanning what she could see of the bedroom.
Thomas held his breath, pressing deeper into the shadows of the dressing room.
The letters in his hands felt like they were burning his skin, their forbidden contents practically radiating danger.
“Very well, ma’am,” Mrs.
Parish finally said, her tone suggesting she was not entirely satisfied.
“Good night, then.” “Good night, Mrs.
Parish.” Ellaner’s voice remained pleasant, but carried a note of dismissal that even the housekeeper could not ignore.
The door closed, and Thomas heard the key turn in the lock once more.
Still, neither he nor Elellanar moved until the housekeeper’s footsteps had faded completely down the hallway.
Only then did Eleanor exhale shakily and motioned for Thomas to emerge from his hiding place.
“That was too close,” she whispered, sinking into a damiscovered chair by the fire.
Her hands trembled visibly now that the immediate danger had passed.
The composed lady of moments ago had vanished, replaced by a frightened woman who seemed painfully aware of the precipice on which she stood.
Thomas remained standing, the letters still clutched in his hands.
He maintained a respectful distance from Eleanor, conscious that despite their shared secret, the boundaries between them were complex and dangerous.
“Mrs.
Parish suspects something,” he said quietly.
“She doesn’t miss much.” This was an understatement.
The housekeeper had eyes like a hawk and ears that seemed to capture whispers through solid walls.
“She’s been my husband’s spy since the day we married,” Elellanar replied, absently touching the cameo brooch at her throat, a wedding gift from James that sometimes seemed more like a brand of ownership than a token of affection.
I’ve always been careful around her, but lately.
She shook her head, Auburn curls, catching the fire light.
We don’t have much time.
If she reports hearing voices, James might cut his trip short.
The fire crackled in the great, casting dancing shadows across the blue and cream wallpaper.
Outside, the storm was beginning to subside, the thunder, now a distant rumble rather than the immediate crashes of earlier.
The rain continued to fall steadily, providing a constant backdrop of sound that would help mask their conversation from any lingering eavesdroppers.
Thomas looked down at the letters he held, ordinarylooking correspondence that contained extraordinary secrets.
The paper was fine quality, the handwriting elegant and feminine, exactly what one would expect from a lady’s social correspondence.
Nothing in their appearance suggested their true nature.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked, the question escaping before he could consider its impropriy.
“A slave questioning his mistress’s motives was a dangerous reversal of the established order.
Helping slaves escape, I mean, it’s a hanging offense in Virginia.” Instead of the rebuke he half expected, Elellanar’s green eyes met his unflinching.
There was something in her gaze that he had rarely seen directed at him from a white person.
Respect, perhaps even a hint of trust.
My father owned slaves.
My husband owns slaves.
I’ve been surrounded by this institution my entire life, told it was natural and necessary.
She twisted her wedding ring, a nervous habit Thomas had noticed before.
The large diamond caught the fire light, sending prisms of color across the wall.
But I could never reconcile the cruelty I witnessed with the Christian values I was taught.
She stood and moved to the window, parting the heavy velvet curtain slightly to gaze at the rain lash darkness beyond.
Her silhouette was delicate against the backdrop of the storm.
A woman both privileged and imprisoned by her position in society.
When I attended Miss Porter’s school in Connecticut briefly, I met people who showed me that what I’d been taught was wrong.
They spoke of abolition not as a radical notion, but as a moral imperative.
Lightning flashed, illuminating her profile for a brief moment.
Two years ago, I accompanied James to Richmond for business.
While he attended to his affairs, I went shopping on Broad Street.
Her voice grew softer, laden with remembered horror.
There was a slave auction taking place.
I’d seen them before, of course, but always from a distance.
This time I was close enough to see their faces, to hear their voices.
She turned back to face Thomas, her expression haunted.
A woman was being sold, young, perhaps my age.
Her three children were being auctioned separately.
The youngest couldn’t have been more than four years old.
Elellaner’s voice caught.
I watched a mother being sold away from her children.
Her screams.
She paused, composing herself.
I can still hear them.
That night, I wrote to my old school friend in Boston, who connected me with abolitionists.
I’ve been helping ever since.
Thomas absorbed her words, weighing them against his instinctive distrust of white benevolence.
He had seen too many kind words followed by cruel actions to take her story at face value.
The plantation was full of white people who expressed discomfort with slavery’s harshest aspects while continuing to benefit from the system.
And yet the risk she was taking seemed genuine, as did the emotion in her voice.
The letters in his hands were tangible proof that she had moved beyond sympathy to action.
These letters, he said, indicating the bundle he held, “What exactly do they contain?” His question was both practical and a test.
If she was truly committed to this cause, she would trust him with details, maps, names of sympathetic people along escape routes, schedules of when certain boats will be in certain harbors, which trained conductors can be bribed, which towns have slave patrols.
Elellanar turned back to face him fully.
Her decision to trust him evident in her forthright response.
Information about safe houses in Philadelphia, New York, and Boston.
Methods for contacting members of the Underground Railroad.
Warnings about areas where fugitive slave laws are being most aggressively enforced.
She took a deep breath.
Information that could help people reach freedom or get us both killed if discovered.
Thomas’s mind raced with possibilities.
Such information would be invaluable to his network, potentially saving dozens of lives.
For years, he had been gathering scraps of information, overheard conversations, glimpses of newspapers, whispered rumors passed between house slaves and field hands.
But this was different.
Organized, detailed intelligence from people dedicated to helping slaves escape.
the kind of information that could mean the difference between freedom and capture, life and death.
But the danger was immense.
If they were discovered, Elellanar might face social ruin, divorce, or commitment to an asylum.
Thomas would face torture and execution, possibly preceded by the kind of public whipping meant to terrorize other slaves into submission, and anyone connected to either of them would be at risk as well.
“Where do you want me to hide these?” he asked, making his decision.
The potential benefit outweighed the risk, at least for now.
Not here in the house, Elellanor replied, glancing nervously at the door, as if expecting Mrs.
Parish to burst through it at any moment.
It’s too risky.
Is there somewhere in the slave quarters that would be safe? Somewhere my husband or his overseers would never look?” Thomas thought carefully.
He had several hiding places that had served him well over the years.
a hollow space beneath a loose floorboard in his cabin, a cavity in an old oak tree at the edge of the woods, a forgotten root cellar behind the smokehouse that had fallen into disuse.
But none seemed secure enough for something this important.
“Yes, there’s a place,” he finally said, thinking of the one hiding spot he had never revealed to anyone.
A small cave in the riverbank, concealed by thick brush and only accessible when the water was low.
He had discovered it as a child and had used it to hide his most precious possessions.
A small knife, a book of poetry given to him by his mother before she was sold, and the crude map he had been creating of the surrounding counties.
It’s safe.
He didn’t elaborate, maintaining some caution despite their newfound alliance.
Ellaner nodded, accepting his reticence.
Good.
But before you take them, I need to show you how the coding works.
She took the bundle back and untied the ribbon, selecting one letter dated 3 months earlier.
The paper crackled softly as she unfolded it.
These appear to be ordinary correspondence about fashion, family news, and social events, but certain words are signals.
She pointed to a passage about a garden party.
See here, Aunt Martha’s roses will bloom by the first full moon of May.
That means a ship will be at Harper’s Creek on the night of the full moon in May, ready to take passengers north.
Thomas leaned closer, careful not to touch her, but eager to see the ingenious system.
The letter continued with seemingly innocent gossip about mutual acquaintances, each sentence carrying hidden meanings that Eleanor carefully decoded for him.
Cousin William has taken ill with a fever means increased patrols in the area around Williamsburg.
She explained Sarah’s new bonnet with blue ribbons indicates a safe house marked with blue cloth in the window.
The church picnic was postponed due to rain means a planned escape route has been compromised and should be avoided.
For the next hour, as the storm gradually subsided outside, Elellanor explained the intricate coding system she used with her northern contacts.
She showed him multiple letters, each containing different types of information hidden within mundane correspondents.
Thomas absorbed every detail, his quick mind recognizing patterns and making connections that sometimes surprised even Eleanor.
this reference to Uncle Henry’s new carriage.
That means a wagon with a false bottom will be traveling through on the Richmond road, doesn’t it? He asked after deciphering a particularly complex passage.
Yes, exactly.
Eleanor confirmed a note of admiration in her voice.
You have a remarkable memory, she commented after he correctly interpreted another coded message without hesitation.
When you can’t write things down, you learn to remember, he replied simply.
It was a skill born of necessity.
Slaves caught with writing materials faced severe punishment.
So Thomas had trained himself to memorize everything from Bible verses to overheard conversations to the changing patterns of guard rotations.
As the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed midnight, its sonous tones echoing through the quiet house, they had developed a plan.
Thomas would hide the existing letters in the secure location he knew of.
New correspondents would come addressed to Elellanor as usual, but Thomas would intercept it when possible, decode the messages, and share the information with trusted individuals in the slave community who might use it to escape.
There’s a woman in the laundry, Celia, whose sister escaped last year, Thomas said carefully, not mentioning his own role in that escape.
She’s been saving to buy her son’s freedom.
He’s only seven, but the master has been talking about selling him to a trader who supplies house boys to New Orleans.
His voice hardened slightly at this.
They both knew what often happened to young boys sold to certain houses in New Orleans.
With this information, she might be able to get him out instead.
Eleanor nodded, her face solemn.
And there must be others.
Yes, Thomas confirmed, thinking of the network he had carefully built over years, people he trusted with his life who were desperate enough to risk everything for freedom.
There are others.
The fire had burned low, casting the room in a warm golden glow that softened the tension of their conspiracy.
For a brief moment, the boundaries between them seemed less rigid.
Two humans united by a common purpose rather than divided by the brutal institution that defined their relationship.
“There’s one more thing,” Ellaner said as Thomas prepared to leave with the letters securely hidden inside his shirt.
“My husband returns in 3 days.
Before then, I need to send a response to my contact in Philadelphia.
They’re expecting confirmation about a family that was supposed to have arrived safely.
She hesitated, then added, “Can you write as well as read?” “Yes,” Thomas admitted, revealing another dangerous skill.
“My mother taught me both before she was sold.
She had been owned by a school teacher in her youth and learned alongside the children.” He didn’t add that he had continued to practice in secret, sometimes writing with charcoal on scraps of wood that could be quickly destroyed, sometimes tracing letters in the dirt with a stick, occasionally risking pen and paper when he could steal them.
“Good,” Eleanor said, relief evident in her voice.
“I’ll draft a message tomorrow.
You’ll need to copy it in my handwriting.
I’ve been practicing forgery,” she added with a hint of pride that seemed in congruous with her refined upbringing.
She moved to her writing desk and opened a drawer, removing a sheet of paper covered with practice signatures.
“See, I can imitate my aunt’s hand perfectly now and my cousins.
It’s useful for when I need to create cover stories for my absences from social events.” Thomas raised an eyebrow, seeing the mistress of Caldwell Plantation in a new light.
This delicatel looking woman, with her fine manners and expensive education, had depths he hadn’t suspected.
A moral courage and practical cunning that defied the vapid socialite role she played in public.
You’re full of surprises, ma’am.
A small smile touched her lips, transforming her face briefly from its usual careful composure to something more genuine.
“So it seems are you, Thomas?” Her expression grew serious again as she returned the practice sheet to its hiding place.
“We’re taking an enormous risk if we’re caught.” “I know the consequences,” he said quietly.
The words hung between them, heavy with shared understanding.
For him, they would be far worse than for her.
A white woman might be disgraced or institutionalized for such activities.
A slave would simply be killed, probably publicly as an example to others.
The brutality of such executions was legendary, designed specifically to instill terror in any slave contemplating resistance.
Eleanor seemed to read his thoughts.
Her green eyes held his for a moment, communication passing between them without words.
“I can’t promise your safety,” she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“But I swear I’ll do everything in my power to protect you if things go wrong.” “Thomas nodded, though they both knew her power was limited, especially against her husband.
James Caldwell was not a man who forgave betrayal from wife or slave.
I should go.
Mrs.
Parish might make another round.
He carefully adjusted the letters inside his shirt, ensuring they wouldn’t rustle or fall as he moved.
“Use the servant’s staircase at the end of the hall,” Eleanor advised, moving toward the door.
“It’s less likely to creek, and the kitchen staff won’t be using it at this hour.
” She pressed her ear to the door, listening for any sound in the hallway beyond before carefully unlocking it.
The soft click seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room.
She opened the door a crack, peering out to check that the corridor was empty.
The hallway was dark except for the single lamp still burning outside the master’s study, casting long shadows on the portrait lined walls.
“Clear,” she whispered, opening the door wider.
Thomas slipped out, but Elellanar caught his arm before he could move away.
a shocking breach of the physical boundaries that normally separated white from black, mistress from slave.
Her touch was light through the rough fabric of his shirt, but it stopped him as effectively as a shout.
Tomorrow, she said urgently, find a reason to be in the library at .
I’ll come with new instructions.
He nodded, hyper aware of her hand on his arm and the danger of being discovered in this moment of inappropriate contact.
Then she released him, stepping back into her room and closing the door with barely a sound.
The key turned in the lock, and Thomas was alone in the darkened hallway.
He moved silently toward the servants’s staircase, every sense alert for danger.
The thick carpet muffled his footsteps, but each floorboard was a potential betrayal, each shadow a possible witness.
The letters pressed against his chest felt like they were burning through his skin, their dangerous contents of physical weight.
Yet alongside the fear, he felt something unexpected, a flicker of hope, small but persistent.
The servant’s staircase was narrow and steep, designed for efficiency rather than comfort.
It wound down through the core of the house, emerging near the kitchen.
At this hour the cooking fires were banked, the room dark except for the dull red glow from the hearth.
Thomas moved through the familiar space without needing light, navigating around the large wooden table where bread would be needed in the morning, past the hanging copper pots that would clatter and betray him if touched.
Outside the rain had stopped, though water still dripped from the eaves, creating a gentle percussion on the gravel path.
The night air was cool and fresh after the storm, heavy with the scent of wet earth and flowering jasmine.
Thomas took a moment to orient himself, scanning the grounds for any sign of movement.
The overseer’s cabin was dark, as were the windows of the main house.
Only the stable lantern burned, a distant pinpoint of light where the nightgroom kept watch over a pregnant mayor.
The slave quarters lay beyond the kitchen garden, a cluster of small cabins arranged in neat rows.
As head house slave, Thomas had the privilege of a cabin to himself, a tiny structure barely large enough for a narrow bed, a three-legged stool, and the small trunk that contained his few possessions, but it offered privacy, a rare and precious commodity.
He made his way there now, moving from shadow to shadow with the practiced stealth of someone who had learned that visibility could be dangerous.
The mud sucked at his shoes, threatening to hold him in place or betray his passing with noise, but he navigated the familiar path with ease.
His cabin was dark and still, exactly as he had left it.
Thomas slipped inside, not daring to light a candle despite the absolute darkness.
He knew every inch of the space by touch.
Three steps to the bed, two more to the corner, where a loose floorboard concealed his most private possessions.
Kneeling, he pried up the board with practiced fingers and reached into the small cavity beneath.
The space already contained his treasures, the book of poetry, carefully wrapped in oil cloth to protect it from damp, the knife with its bone handle worn smooth from years of hidden carrying.
a small pouch containing three silver coins saved over years of occasional tips from guests, and the map he had painstakingly created, showing roads, rivers, and safe places between Virginia and Pennsylvania.
Now he added the bundle of letters, tucking them beneath everything else before replacing the floorboard.
As he straightened, the enormity of what had just transpired washed over him.
He had entered into a conspiracy with the mistress of the plantation, a white woman, the master’s wife.
He had access to information that could help people escape to freedom, including potentially himself.
But he had also placed himself in greater danger than ever before.
Thomas sat on the edge of his bed, his mind racing with possibilities and fears.
The network he had built over years of careful work could now be expanded, strengthened with reliable information rather than rumors and fragments.
People who had been hesitant to attempt escape might find courage with clearer paths laid out before them.
Lives could be saved, families reunited in freedom.
As he made his way safely back to his quarters and concealed the letters beneath a loose floorboard under his bed, Thomas allowed himself to imagine something he’d never fully considered before.
A future beyond Caldwell Plantation.
The information network he’d built had always been to help others.
Now perhaps it might eventually help him, too.
But first, they had to survive the dangerous game they’d just begun.
And with Mrs.
parishes suspicious, eyes watching, and Master Caldwell’s return looming, the odds were stacked heavily against them.
What Thomas couldn’t know was that their alliance had already been compromised.
In the shadowy corner of the upstairs hallway, young Jenny, a housemmaid recently promoted from the fields, had seen him emerging from the mistress’s chambers.
16 years old, with a pretty face that had caught the master’s eye, Jenny had been moved into the house just 3 months earlier.
The other house slaves treated her with suspicion, aware of the special attention that had earned her the coveted position.
Jenny had been sent by Mrs.
Parish to turn down the lamps in the east wing when she saw Thomas slipping out of the mistress’s room.
She had frozen in place, pressing herself against the wall in a dark corner, watching wideeyed as the mistress touched his arm as words passed between them that Jenny couldn’t hear.
the intimacy of the gesture, the secretive manner of their parting, it all suggested something forbidden, and Jenny owed her new position to the special attention of Master Caldwell himself, attention that came with expectations of loyalty and information.
The master had made it clear that her continued favor depended on her usefulness.
He valued her not just for her youth and beauty, but for what she could tell him about the household in his absence.
As Thomas fell into an uneasy sleep, Jenny was already deciding how best to use what she had seen to secure her own precarious position in the household hierarchy.
The knowledge was power.
Power that could protect her from being sent back to the fields.
Power that might even earn her privileges that would make her difficult life more bearable.
By morning, the delicate web of secrets and lies would begin to unravel, setting in motion events that neither Thomas nor Elellaner could control.
The storm had passed, but a far more dangerous tempest was gathering on the horizon, one that would test their newfound alliance and force them to decide how much they were willing to risk for freedom and for each other.
In the darkness of her own small bed in the servants quarters, Jenny turned the secret over in her mind like a coin, examining both sides, weighing its value.
By dawn, she would make her decision, a choice that would alter the fate of everyone at Caldwell Plantation.
Dawn broke over Caldwell Plantation with a brilliant orange sky that gradually faded to clear blue.
The storm had washed everything clean, leaving behind puddles that reflected the morning light like scattered mirrors across the grounds.
The air was fresh and cool, carrying the sweet scent of magnolia from the trees that lined the main house’s drive.
Thomas rose before sunrise, as he did every day.
His sleep had been fitful, haunted by dreams of discovery and punishment.
The letters hidden beneath his floorboard seemed to pulse with danger.
Their presence a constant awareness in his mind even as he went through his morning routine.
Washing his face in the basin of cold water, dressing in the clean but well-worn clothes that marked his position as head house slave, mentally preparing for the day’s tasks.
By the time he reached the main house, the kitchen was already alive with activity.
Sarah was kneading bread dough with powerful strokes of her gnarled hands, while two younger women tended the cooking fire and prepared vegetables for the day’s meals.
The scent of coffee and frying bacon filled the air, making Thomas’s empty stomach growl.
“You look like you ain’t slept a wink,” Sarah commented, eyeing him as he poured himself a cup of the weak coffee aloud to the house staff.
“Storms keep you up.” Something like that, Thomas replied non-committally.
He took a sip of the coffee, grateful for its warmth, if not its watery flavor.
The good coffee was reserved for the main house, of course.
Well, you better wake yourself proper, Sarah warned.
Mrs.
Parish is in one of her moods this morning.
Already sent Jenny crying from the dining room for spilling water.
At the mention of Jenny, Thomas felt a prickle of unease.
He hadn’t given much thought to the young housemaid, who had only recently been brought in from the fields.
She kept to herself mostly, her pretty face usually downcast, her voice rarely heard.
But now he wondered if she might have been part of Mrs.
Parish’s rounds last night.
Another set of eyes and ears serving the housekeeper’s vigilance.
“Where is Mrs.
Parish now?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
in the mistress’s room helping her dress,” Sarah replied, turning her attention back to the bread.
“Mistress Eleanor ain’t looking too rested either, from what I heard.
Maybe the whole house got haunted by that storm.” Thomas finished his coffee quickly and headed upstairs to begin his morning duties.
He needed to check the fireplaces, ensure the dining room was prepared for breakfast, and review the day’s tasks with the other male house servants.
But as he passed the main staircase, he caught sight of Jenny descending with a bundle of linens in her arms.
Their eyes met briefly, and Thomas felt a chill run down his spine.
There was something in her gaze, a knowledge, a calculation that hadn’t been there before.
Before he could decide whether to speak to her, she lowered her eyes and hurried past him toward the laundry room.
The morning passed in a blur of routine tasks.
Thomas moved through the house with practiced efficiency, directing the younger servants, solving small problems before they could become large ones, maintaining the smooth operation that was expected of him.
All the while his mind was elsewhere, on the letters hidden in his cabin, on his planned meeting with Eleanor in the library at , on the nagging worry about Jenny’s strange look.
Shortly before noon, he was polishing the silver in the butler’s pantry, when Mrs.
parish appeared in the doorway.
Her thin frame seemed to take up more space than it should, her presence commanding immediate attention.
“Thomas,” she said, her voice crisp as starched linen.
“Mistress Caldwell requires fresh flowers for the dining room and her personal chambers.
See to it immediately.” “Yes, ma’am,” Thomas replied, setting down the silver fork he’d been polishing.
“I’ll cut some from the garden right away.” Mrs.
Parish didn’t move from the doorway.
“The mistress seems rather out of sorts today,” she commented, her pale eyes studying Thomas’s face, distracted, nervous even.
“You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” Thomas kept his expression carefully neutral.
“No, ma’am.
Perhaps the storm disturbed her rest.” “Perhaps.” Mrs.
Parish agreed, though her tone suggested she wasn’t convinced.
Strange things happen during storms.
People act in ways they normally wouldn’t.
She paused significantly.
Things get seen that should remain hidden.
Thomas felt his heart rate increase, though he maintained his calm exterior.
The flowers, ma’am.
Which varieties would the mistress prefer? Mrs.
Parish’s thin lips curved in what might generously be called a smile.
Roses, I think, red ones, like secrets, beautiful, but with thorns that can draw blood if handled carelessly.
With that cryptic statement, she turned and left, her keys jingling at her waist.
Thomas exhaled slowly, trying to calm his racing pulse.
The housekeeper clearly suspected something, but how much did she actually know? Was she fishing for information, hoping he would reveal something incriminating? Or was she warning him that she already knew about his nighttime visit to Elellaner’s chambers? He made his way to the garden, basket in hand, grateful for the momentary escape from the suffocating atmosphere of the house.
The garden was one of the plantation’s showpieces, a formal arrangement of beds containing both ornamental flowers and herbs surrounded by gravel paths and small boxwood hedges.
At its center stood a marble fountain depicting a classical nymph pouring water from an urn, the sound of falling water creating a peaceful backdrop to the buzzing of bees among the blossoms.
As Thomas carefully cut roses for the arrangements, he noticed Jenny entering the garden from the opposite side.
She carried a basket of wet laundry, presumably to hang on the drying line strung in the sunniest corner of the garden.
Their eyes met across the roses, and this time she didn’t look away.
After a moment’s hesitation, Thomas decided to confront whatever was troubling her directly.
He moved around the garden beds toward her, maintaining a casual pace that wouldn’t attract attention from anyone watching from the house windows.
“Good morning, Jenny,” he said as he approached.
“Need any help with that basket? Looks heavy.” “I can manage,” she replied, her voice soft, but not timid.
She was a small young woman with delicate features and skin the color of burnished copper.
Her eyes, however, held a weariness that belied her youth.
been managing heavy things since I was 6 years old.
Thomas nodded, understanding the double meaning in her words.
Field work was punishing, especially for the young.
Housework, while less physically demanding, came with its own burdens, particularly for pretty young women who caught the master’s eye.
“How are you finding house service?” he asked, cutting another rose and adding it to his basket.
Jenny glanced around to ensure they weren’t being observed before answering.
Better than the fields, worse in other ways.
She began hanging sheets on the line, her movements efficient despite her youth.
But I aim to keep this position.
Whatever it takes.
The emphasis on her last words sent another chill through Thomas.
That’s wise, he said carefully.
Though sometimes the cost of keeping what we have can be too high.
Jenny paused in her work, a damp pillowcase held between her small hands.
“I saw you last night,” she said bluntly, coming out of the mistress’s room.
“After midnight.” “Thomas’s worst fear confirmed.
He fought to keep his expression neutral.
” “I was checking the windows,” he said smoothly.
“The storm was fierce, and the mistress was concerned about rain damage.” Jenny’s laugh was short and bitter, far older than her years.
Save your lies for Mrs.
Parish.
I saw how the mistress touched your arm.
I saw the way you looked at each other.
She hung the pillowcase with a sharp snap of fabric.
Whatever’s going on between you two, it ain’t about windows.
Thomas weighed his options quickly.
Denying everything would only make Jenny more certain she had valuable information.
Threatening her would likely backfire, pushing her to reveal what she knew to protect herself.
that left only the truth, or at least a version of it that might neutralize the danger she represented.
“It’s not what you think,” he said quietly, moving closer to ensure they wouldn’t be overheard.
“The mistress is involved in something dangerous, something that could help people like us.
She needed my help, and I agreed to give it.” Jenny’s expression remained skeptical.
“What kind of something?” I can’t tell you that, Thomas replied.
But I swear on my mother’s life.
It’s not what you’re implying.
The mistress is trying to help slaves, not take advantage of one.
Jenny considered this, her young face solemn as she reached for another sheet.
Even if that’s true, what do you think the master would do if he heard his wife was meeting secretly with you, having whispered conversations, touching you? She shook her head.
He’d assumed the worst, and you know it.
You’d be dead before sundown, truth or not.
She was right, and they both knew it.
James Caldwell’s jealousy and pride would demand blood if he suspected his wife of impropriy with a slave.
The actual nature of their conspiracy would be almost irrelevant.
The appearance of intimacy would be enough to condemn them both.
“What do you want, Jenny?” Thomas asked directly, seeing no point in further evasion.
The young woman hung another piece of laundry before answering.
Protection, she said finally.
Master Caldwell has been visiting me.
At night, Mrs.
Parish knows and looks the other way.
If I displease either of them, I’ll be back in the fields, or worse, sold to one of those houses in New Orleans.
Her voice remained steady, but Thomas could see the fear behind her eyes, the desperate calculation of a girl trying to navigate a world designed to exploit her.
“I can’t stop the master,” Thomas said, the bitter truth of his powerlessness evident in his voice.
“No,” Jenny agreed.
“But you have influence.
The other house slaves respect you.
If rumors start about me, about why I was brought into the house, you could stop them.” and she hesitated, then continued with renewed determination.
If you’re really involved in helping slaves escape, I want in.
Not for me, for my little brother.
He’s only eight, but the masters already talked about selling him come spring.
Thomas studied her face, looking for signs of deception or manipulation.
He saw only the familiar desperation of someone trying to protect a loved one.
The same desperation that had driven him to build his information network, to take risks that could end with him swinging from a tree.
“If I agree to help your brother,” he said carefully.
“You’ll keep what you saw last night to yourself.” Jenny nodded.
“I ain’t looking to cause trouble for no reason.
I’m just trying to survive and help Micah survive, too.” Thomas made his decision.
Meet me behind the smokehouse after dinner.
We’ll talk more then.
He picked up his basket of roses.
And Jenny, if you betray me or the mistress, there won’t be anywhere on this plantation you can hide.
Understand? The threat was necessary, though it left a sour taste in his mouth.
Jenny nodded again, her expression grim but resolute.
I understand, but you remember something too, Thomas.
Desperate people do desperate things.
Don’t make me desperate.
With that, she returned to her laundry, and Thomas headed back to the house, his mind now burdened with yet another complication.
Jenny could be a valuable ally or a deadly liability.
He would need to tread carefully, especially with his meeting with Elellanar only hours away.
Back in the house, Thomas created two arrangements of roses interspersed with sprigs of lavender and delicate ferns from the garden.
As he worked, he tried to formulate a plan for his conversation with Eleanor.
They would need to be more careful, more discreet in their communications.
Perhaps they could devise a system of signals, a way to exchange information without direct contact that might be observed by watchful eyes like Jenny’s or Mrs.
Parishes.
He delivered the first arrangement to the dining room where it would grace the center of the table for lunch.
The second he carried upstairs to Eleanor’s private sitting room adjacent to her bedroom.
He knocked softly on the door and her voice called for him to enter.
Elellanar was seated at her writing desk, a du a letter half finished before her.
She quickly covered it with a blank sheet as Thomas entered, though he caught a glimpse of the careful handwriting and what appeared to be a coded message similar to those he had seen the night before.
“The flowers you requested, ma’am,” he said formally, aware that they might be overheard.
“Thank you, Thomas.
They’re lovely.
” Elanar’s voice was composed, but he could see the tension in her shoulders, the slight strain around her eyes.
She had not slept well either.
You may place them on the side table there.
As he arranged the flowers in their crystal vase, he spoke quietly, his back to the door.
We’ve been seen.
The new housemaid, Jenny.
She observed me leaving your room last night.
Ellaner’s intake of breath was sharp but quickly controlled.
I see, she said, maintaining the pretense of discussing the flower arrangement.
And what does she intend to do with this information? She wants help escaping, not for herself, but for her brother, Thomas replied, adjusting a rose that had tilted too far to one side.
I’ve agreed to meet her tonight to discuss it.
Can she be trusted? Elellanar asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
I don’t know, Thomas admitted.
But we have little choice.
She’s in a precarious position herself.
The master has been visiting her at night.
Eleanor’s face pald slightly, though she showed no surprise.
It was an open secret that James Caldwell took liberties with female slaves, a practice his wife was expected to ignore as part of the unwritten rules of plantation marriages.
That poor girl, she murmured.
She can’t be more than 16.
15, I believe, Thomas corrected grimly.
but old enough to understand leverage when she has it.
” Elellaner nodded, her expression hardening into determination.
“We’ll help her brother, and we’ll be more careful going forward.” She glanced at the clock on the mantle.
“Will you still be able to meet me in the library at 2?” “Yes, ma’am,” Thomas replied, though perhaps we should find a less direct way to communicate in the future.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Elellanar said.
I’ll explain my idea when we meet.
She picked up her pen again, signaling that their conversation needed to end before it aroused suspicion.
That will be all, Thomas.
Thank you for the beautiful arrangement.
Thomas bowed slightly and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
As he turned to head back downstairs, he found himself face to face with Mrs.
Parish, who was emerging from the master’s dressing room across the hall.
The flowers have been delivered, ma’am,” he said smoothly, showing no surprise at her presence, though his heart had jumped at the sight of her.
“So I see,” Mrs.
Parish replied, her gaze moving from Thomas to Ellaner’s closed door.
“The mistress seems to have developed quite an appreciation for your arrangements recently.” “The double meaning was unmistakable.” Thomas maintained his neutral expression.
I simply follow her.
Instructions, ma’am.
Indeed, Mrs.
Parish said dryly.
A good servant always knows his place, doesn’t he, Thomas, and the consequences of forgetting it.
Before Thomas could respond, the housekeeper continued past him toward the stairs, her message delivered.
Thomas waited until she had descended before exhaling slowly.
The noose was tightening around them, and they had barely begun their dangerous collaboration.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed noon, its resonant tones echoing through the house.
In 2 hours, he would meet Eleanor in the library.
In the meantime, he had duties to attend to, and plans to make for his evening meeting with Jenny.
The day stretched before him like a minefield, each step potentially disastrous.
As Thomas descended the stairs, he caught sight of Jenny crossing the entrance hall with a pile of freshly ironed linens.
Their eyes met briefly, an unspoken understanding passing between them.
They were both pawns in a larger game, seeking whatever advantage they could find to survive, and perhaps, if fortune favored them, to help others survive as well.
Outside the sun shone brilliantly in the clear poststorm sky, its light falling on master and slave alike with indifferent radiance.
But in the shadows of Caldwell Plantation, secrets multiplied and whispers grew, building toward a reckoning that none of them could yet foresee.
