“No right to treat a wounded man?”
“I mean about—” Joseph glanced down at the slave collar, but found he couldn’t name it, so he only pointed. What Papa had done was like theft. How would he feel if someone stole one of their negroes? “He wasn’t yours to free.”
Papa sighed. “He only wants to see his wife.”
“He was probably lying.”
Papa made a noise that was more like a snort than a laugh. “Because all negroes lie.” He said the words in a way that mocked them. “Does Henry lie? Does May?”
“Jemmy did.”
Papa sat on the dead tree and stared down at the iron collar for a long time. When he spoke, his voice had changed somehow. “Pick it up.”
Joseph blinked at him, puzzled.
“Pick it up,” Papa repeated more harshly, glaring at him. When Joseph only looked at the collar, his father barked: “Do as you’re told, boy!”
Fear gripped Joseph’s throat. This wasn’t Papa. Papa didn’t speak like this, not even to their slaves.
“NOW!” he bellowed.
Joseph jumped and moved to obey. He didn’t have a choice. He stooped over the great iron contraption and gripped it below each bell. The right one rattled as he tried to lift the collar, and it was even heavier than he’d thought.Tooheavy. He could barely get it off the ground. Surely that was all Papa expected him?—
“Don’t let go until I tell you to!” commanded the man who had been his father. “Not even if you think your arms are going to break!”
Joseph couldn’t breathe, and he certainly couldn’t look up. Hot tears pricked beneath his eyelids, and every one of his muscles burned. The collar would drag him into the earth.
His tormenter knelt beside him, his voice suddenly Papa’s again.“Can you imagine what it is like, Joseph, to have your body, your entire life, and all the people you love ruled by someone else’s whims?” He took the collar away and caught Joseph by the shoulders, or he would have fallen. “Can you understand why the negroes are tired, why they are angry?” Papa cradled Joseph’s head in his hands, knocking off his straw hat. “Are you all right?”
Joseph nodded numbly, his eyes averted.
“I’m sorry, Joseph. But do you understand?”
Joseph kept nodding, though he did not think he understood anything, least of all his own father. Papa wrapped his arms around him, but Joseph remained stiff.
“I love you. You know that,” Papa breathed against his ear. “But please, Joseph, open your eyes. Don’t believe everything people tell you, or what books tell you. Look for yourself. You are so good with your mother and your sisters—even with Henry and May. Youknowwhat’s right.” Papa pulled back to gaze earnestly into his face. “You are the wisest, kindest boy I know. Don’t hide that light under anyone else’s bushel. Trust yourself.”
They walked back to the road in silence. Their mare was still waiting with the chaise. It seemed they had left her weeks ago. When Papa helped him into the carriage, Joseph’s arms ached.
Eventually, he and Papa reached a great tract of land filled with ordered rows of bushes and trees, many of them in bloom. There were hothouses and sunken beds too. Papa directed their mare to a trough and tied her up. He led Joseph toward the two figures in the nearest field. One was a tall man with grey hair, an aquiline nose, and a kind face. He was walking slowly between rows and pointing out plants to a boy a little younger than Joseph. The man was white, but the boy was mulatto.
They turned as Joseph and Papa approached, and the man’s face melted into a smile. “René! It’s so good to see you again!” he called in French.
“And you, Philippe.” Papa and the man exchanged a quick embrace and half-kissed each other’s cheeks. Then Papa addressed the young mulatto: “How are you today, Louis?”
“Fine, sir,” the mulatto smiled, looking Papa in the eyes as if they knew each other too. His French was good, and his clothes were fine. Joseph wondered what he was doing here.
“Is this Joseph?” the man asked, delighted. How peculiar, to hear his name from a stranger’s lips as if the man knew all about him.
Papa nodded and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Joseph, this is Philippe Noisette. He lived on Saint-Domingue too. But we met in Charleston only a few years ago, while he was director of the Medical Society’s garden.”
“Noisette, like our roses?” Joseph maintained the French.
“Exactement!” the man smiled. “Noisette roses were named after my brother Louis Claude and myself. I sent him one, and he made it famous in France.” Monsieur Noisette gestured to the young mulatto. “Allow me to introducemyson, Pierre Louis.”
Joseph’s eyes went wide. He’d thought this day could not become any stranger. Monsieur Noisette looked like a pure-blooded Frenchman. If this boy was his son, that meant he had— With anegress!
Joseph saw mulattos every day in the streets. But until this morning, he had not really understood how they happened. And no one he knew had openly admitted to causing them.Thisman felt no shame for what he’d done. Noisette seemedproudof his colored son.
