Path to Freedom – Book 1

Chapter 1

November 1798

A door hinge squeaked, and light spilled into the second-story hallway. Gwen Morgan darted behind the brocade drapes drawn across an alcove. She held her breath, ribs tight against her stays, heartbeat pounding in her ears.

Heavy footsteps thumped along the hallway.

Gwen’s skin crawled at the memory of the last time he’d caught her alone in the hall. She suppressed a shudder at the thought of his hands tightening on her shoulders, his hot breath in her ear. If Cook hadn’t arrived in time—

A floorboard creaked in front of her. With the edge of the tea tray digging into her waist, Gwen pressed deeper into the shadowy alcove. She winced as the molding bit into the flesh between her shoulders. She pinched her eyes shut.

“Jonas!” Frustration vibrated through Daniel Whiteford’s bellow. “Where are you?”

Gwen jerked and popped open her eyes. The teacup rattled on its saucer before her trembling hands could secure it.

“Coming, Father.” Jonas Whiteford paused in front of the drapes, a moment of silence that shot a ripple of fear through Gwen’s belly before his footsteps faded down the hall.

She waited until his boot heels thumped down the front staircase before she slipped from behind the drapes and hurried to Miss Constance’s door. She tapped on the thick wood.

“Enter.”

Gwen cringed at the imperial tone of her mistress’s voice but schooled her features into a servant’s expressionless façade before she slipped inside the room.

Miss Constance’s mouth pulled into a pout, eyebrows meeting above the arch of her nose. “Where have you been?”

“I’m here now, Miss Constance.” Gwen bobbed a curtsy and kept her eyes lowered to the tray in her hands.

“’Tis about time. Put that tray on the dresser and fetch my day gown, the rose linen. ’Twill bring out the color in my cheeks quite nicely, I think.”

“Yes, miss.” Gwen hustled to do her mistress’s bidding. She opened the towering oak armoire which matched the room’s honey-hued paneling. Removing the gown, she let her fingers linger over its softness. Her own gray dress was burlap in comparison. Her breath escaped in a wispy sigh. She wouldn’t be a servant forever. When her indenture was met, she would own a gown like this. Perhaps one even finer.

“Quit dawdling. I’m waiting.”

Gwen fitted Miss Constance’s stays over her shift, then tied on the petticoat before slipping the gown over her head and pinning the stiffened stomacher in place. She arranged the skirt to prevent wrinkles as her mistress sat in front of the mirrored dresser.

Her mistress was pale again that morning, but Gwen knew better than to mention it. She hoped Miss Constance wasn’t coming down with an illness. As bad as her disposition was on a normal day, it worsened tenfold when she fell ill.

Gwen grabbed a brush off the dresser and set to work on the long locks in front of her. Soon, she had the golden tresses twisted and pinned in place.

“Is that the best you can do with my hair?” Miss Constance leaned forward and frowned into the oval looking glass. “I’m to meet Stanley’s mother today. I must make the best impression. If all goes well, I will soon be Mrs. Stanley Landon.” Miss Constance examined her reflection, turning from side to side.

Gwen’s mistress had pinned her hopes on wedding Stanley Landon. His loose lips, bulbous nose, and paunchy waist repelled Gwen like a spider in her tea. Miss Constance seemed willing to tolerate these things in her desire to be the mistress of his plantation, Bridgewater.

“I could twist and tuck a few tresses higher if it pleases you, miss.”

“I have no time for that now. You have dawdled overlong already.” Her customary pout returned and marred Miss Constance’s otherwise flawless complexion. “This will have to do. Fetch my wrap. You remembered to have that wretched stable boy hitch the horses, I trust?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Good. Run and tell Arthur to bring them around.”

Gwen drew in a breath at the door and glanced both ways before dashing for the back staircase. Her feet barely landed on each step. At the bottom, the warmth of the kitchen enveloped her with its lingering scents of fresh yeasty bread and spicy sausage. The kitchen was her sanctuary in the house. Mr. Jonas would never enter there.

Cook straightened from the hearth and brushed off her apron. “Perfect timing again this morning, lass?”

“Nay. He opened his door as I reached the hallway. I fear he discovered my hiding spot.”

Cook tsked and shook her head, tendrils of curly gray hair swinging from each side of her mobcap. She drew a hand across her forehead, leaving behind a faint smear of ashes.

“I heard the master say Mr. Jonas will be leaving in a couple of days for the coast. Mayhap we can devise a better plan to keep you safe by the time he returns.”

“I hope so. I must fetch Arthur and the carriage before Miss Constance comes downstairs.”

“Hurry, lass, hurry.” Cook flapped a towel in her direction.

Gwen scooted out the door. Chickens scattered before her as she trotted to the two-story stable behind the three-story house of matching Flemish bond bricks.

Mark Allen Teed, the Whitefords’ stable boy, held the bridles of a matched pair of dapple-gray horses. His slender form dwarfed by the tall animals, he turned as she approached. The morning light sparkled off his hazel eyes.

A grin tugged at the corners of Gwen’s mouth.

“A good day to you,” he said. “Is Miss High and Mighty ready for the carriage?”

“You mustn’t speak that way.” But Gwen’s voice lacked any sternness, and her grin lingered. “Miss Constance requests Arthur to receive her at the front door.”

Mark Allen jerked his head toward the stable. “Be right out, he will. I shall tell him to hurry around front.”

“Much obliged.” Gwen turned to leave, but he touched her arm.

“When Cook has no more chores for you, might you slip away for a walk?”

She looked into his eyes and gave a quick nod before tucking her chin and hurrying back to the kitchen. At the door, she turned. He still watched her as he calmed the large beasts in his charge.

Mark Allen was the only servant near her age at the Whitefords’. Also indentured, he would be free in a little more than two years, while she had five left to serve. She hated to think about those final years without him there. Loneliness tightened her throat. If only Mr. Whiteford had purchased Faye’s indenture along with hers. Her heart twisted at the thought of the sister she hadn’t seen in over two years.

“Do not stand there all day. Do you suppose there’s someone else to finish your chores?”

Gwen jumped at Cook’s voice. She hurried through the kitchen and above stairs to tidy her mistress’s bedroom. Neither Mr. Jonas nor Miss Constance would return until supper. The rest of the day she’d be busy but not harassed.

And a walk with Mark Allen would be a nice finish to a fine day.

***

“When do thee expect them to return?” Betsy Baldwin asked Thomas as she placed a wooden bowl filled with steaming soup, rich with the scents of onions and turnips, on the table in front of her husband.

“I know not. I reckoned they would have by now.” He dropped his battered felt hat on the bench beside him.

Betsy eased onto the bench opposite, and they lowered their heads in a moment of silent prayer. She thanked God for the food before them and asked His blessing on the decision to be made when the men returned, a decision that would affect their Society of Friends community, known by most as the Quakers.

Thomas cleared his throat, marking the end of their prayer time.

“The nights are so cold. I hope they make it back before the snow flies.” Betsy broke a small loaf of bread and handed half to Thomas. His cold fingers brushed hers.

“Surely they will. So much hinges on the news they bring to us.” Thomas dipped his bread in the thick soup. He sank his teeth into the first bite and gave Betsy an approving nod. “Nothing like hot soup on a cold day.”

“We are feeling the cold more in our old age, husband.”

“True, true, but God is faithful, and He has provided well for our winter months again this year.”

“I wonder.” Betsy set her spoon down. “Will next year find us so well-stocked? Or will we Friends be traveling to a new home instead of harvesting and storing?”

“’Tis in the Lord’s hands. If He leads us, we will follow.” Thomas sopped up more soup. “’Tis getting harder and harder to stay here. Just today I watched a man. . .” He shook his head, his bushy gray eyebrows gathered above his eyes. “I cannot tell thee what I saw. The things one man will do to another based upon the color of his skin. It may not be a crime, but I cannot witness much more lest my heart break for sure.”

“Thee has witnessed too much sorrow by the docks.”

“Which is why I forbid thee from attending there.”

“I know.” Betsy had no desire to see such atrocities herself.

These past three years, since the legislature had deemed it an unlawful offense to free a Negro slave, Thomas was driven to find their group a new place to live. Her husband carried much responsibility among the Friends in North Carolina. A hardworking wheelwright, he had been elected as part of the group of leaders charged with finding them a new place to live. It was no longer enough to stay outside the city in their own settlement. Their desire was to relocate into the newly acquired Northwest Territory, deemed a free territory where the institution of slavery was banished.

Moving such a multitude of people took careful planning and resources. While Thomas didn’t think of himself as a modern-day Moses, Betsy sometimes pondered the similarities.

She smiled at her husband with a heavy heart. She supported his decision to move, but it came at a cost. Their humble cabin had been their home for more than twenty years. Their children had been born there. Her only remaining connection with their son and two daughters was her weekly walk through the burial plot behind the meetinghouse.

To lose that small comfort tore at her heart.

She turned her face and wiped away a tear before Thomas could see it. He had more than enough worry without her adding more.

Thomas lifted his bowl and rubbed a piece of bread around the inside, collecting the last drop of soup. He’d just returned the bowl to the table when boot heels thumped on the porch. Rapid pounding followed. He raised a brow at Betsy and popped the bread into his mouth.

She rose and hurried to the door.

“We greet thee, Mistress Baldwin. Is thy husband home?” Joseph, Borden, and Amos, faces unkempt, grinned at her. They stood in their grimy travel clothing, hats dangling from their fingers, and dried mud to the tops of their boots. She clasped one hand to her chest and pulled the door open wider with the other.

“Thomas, they have returned.” She ushered them inside. Amos ducked under the lintel. The two shorter men stepped in. Betsy sent a silent prayer of thanksgiving for their safe return as Thomas greeted the men with handshakes and back-thumping.

“Welcome! Welcome! Did thee, indeed, find land for us? Is it well placed? Close to water? Is the soil good for farming?”

“Husband, let us offer these men a bit of soup and bread. ’Tis past midday, and they appear to have ridden straight to our door.”

“Forgive me, please.” Thomas motioned for them to sit at the table. “In my haste, I have neglected to see to thy comforts as my good wife says.”

Only after the men were seated with hot soup and bread before them did they tell their story. Betsy listened while she opened apple preserves and pickled beets for the hungry travelers. They wove a tale of adventure and risk, of dodging Indians and surviving a rockslide, before finding what they described as the promised land.

Thomas sat on the edge of his bench, one elbow on the table. He shifted and leaned toward each man as they took turns telling the story. He interrupted with questions often, probing every detail. He nodded and smiled more than he grimaced and shook his head.

It was going to happen. They were going to pack and move the whole settlement.

She paused by the window and cast a lingering glance at the meetinghouse, just visible through the trees. The burial ground lay beyond.

She squared her shoulders and plucked one more crock of preserves off the shelf. God would see them through and give them strength. He always had.

Betsy was going to need it in the coming move more than ever before.

paperback ISBN: 979-8-9866966-2-1 – ebook ISBN: 979-8-9866966-3-8

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