Isabelle’s confidence began to falter. “I don’t know if he’s available.”
“Miss Labrie”—Rodney’s smile was condescending—“I’m certain you can open up his availability.”
As far as she knew, the sheriff didn’t drink, at least not while he was on duty. She’d have to think of another way to distract him until Stephan returned.
She stood slowly before stepping around the counter. “I’ll retrieve him from the kitchen.”
“There’s no need,” Stephan said from the doorway. “How can I help you?”
Mr.Bridges took a cigar from his cloak pocket along with a box of matches. He lit the cigar as Rodney turned to speak with Stephan. “I’m told you helped search for a runaway slave this afternoon.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And did you locate him?”
“I did not.”
Rodney moved closer to him, studying his black waistcoat and trousers along with the linen draped over his arm. “Did you go out this evening, Stephan?”
“The dining room is full, sir. I’ve been quite busy serving Miss Labrie’s clientele.”
Rodney paused. “If I find out you left the hotel, I’ll take it before the judge.”
Stephan nodded calmly, though Isabelle knew he must be terrified inside. A colored person wasn’t allowed to testify before a judge, even if there was a crime. Her steward may have achieved freedom to work and live in California, but his tongue wasn’t free here, at least not in a courtroom.
“You won’t find out anything different,” Stephan assured him.
Rodney tilted his hat toward her. “Good evening, Miss Labrie.”
“But ...,” Mr.Bridges protested.
Rodney glared at him and the cigar in his hand. “It seems to me, sir, that you need to keep as good account of your slaves as you do your cigars.”
Chapter 13
Boston
December 1853
Plumes of snow piled up outside Crandall Livery & Stables in Boston, creating white pilasters along the building’s gray walls. Wind spiraled a troupe of new flakes as they fell to the ground, adding their company to the growing columns.
Alden stomped his feet inside the open doorway of the livery. If the snow didn’t stop soon, all of Park Square would be buried in a white shroud before dark.
The boat from Alexandria had taken him and Isaac to New York, then the train had transported them the remaining way to the depot here in Boston two days ago, but the accumulating snow had canceled the service of his typical coach over to Cambridge indefinitely.
Fellow boat and then train passengers had watched him and Isaac for their entire journey, as if they were traveling performers about to entertain. Some of the people around them were curious. Others seemed hostile at his apparent ownership of a young slave.
When someone appeared too intrigued with their arrangement, he would demand that Isaac fetch his bag or something to eat. The boy did the work swiftly, usually with a smile. And no one had asked for his papers yet.
Still Alden feared that someone would guess that he was trying to secure Isaac’s freedom. Or that his father would find out that he’d taken a slave. After what his father had done to Benjamin, Alden could only imagine what he would do if he found them.
While Isaac read a new novel in the hotel room, Alden had set out to rent a rig for the last six miles of their journey. After Isaac was on his way to Canada, Alden would return the rented horses and carriage.
Horses neighed on both sides of the stables, and Alden’s boots sunk into the wet straw as he strode down the alley between the stalls. The livery opened up into a storage arena that held four wagons and two carriages. The only man he saw was attending to a horse inside one of the stalls, across from the wagon storage.
The man removed his foot from a stool. “How can I help you?” he asked, transferring a brush between his hands.
“I want to rent a horse and runabout,” Alden replied, pointing toward the carriages. He’d hire a coach to deliver his trunk to Harvard after the snow melted.
