Alden climbed back into the carriage. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said before tipping his hat toward his sister. Then he closed the door and rapped on the front glass.
The coachman prompted the horses forward, and the farmhouse slowly faded behind them, their lantern light illuminating the remnants of decayed corn stalks in Victor’s fields as the carriage wheels rocked over ruts in the road.
Victor and Eliza used to spend Christmas at Scott’s Grove, but they hadn’t visited in the past two years. Eliza had loved the annual festivities when she was younger, and in their early years of marriage, Victor seemed to enjoy celebrating with the Payne family as well. But Alden’s brother-in-law had grown more isolated as the years passed. His once immaculate farm had begun to fall into ruin. And now Eliza was acting oddly as well.
Turning, Alden looked through the window behind him at the boy clinging to the ropes around the trunk, his bare feet dangling over the side.
No slave—even the most defiant one—should be treated this way, but especially not one so young. It was at least a four-hour drive to Scott’s Grove. If the child didn’t freeze to death, he would surely catch pneumonia or something else from the cold air.
Eliza and Victor may not care if they lost one of their slaves, but it wouldn’t happen on his watch.
After they rounded a bend, Alden wiped the fog off the front window and then knocked on the glass until the driver slowed the horses. When the carriage stopped, Alden opened the door, the wind cutting like a knife through his wool coat.
The coachman looked down over his shoulder. “Yes, Master Payne?”
“What’s your name?” Alden asked.
“Thomas, sir.”
“And do you happen to know the name of the boy sitting on the trunk behind me?”
“His name is Isaac.”
“Very good,” Alden replied, stepping down onto the road. A patch of frozen leaves crunched under his boots as he rounded the carriage.
Isaac’s arms were wrapped around his chest. “Why’d you stop?”
“I want you to join me inside the carriage.”
Isaac didn’t move. “The missus told me to stay here.”
“It’s much warmer in the carriage.”
When Isaac shook his head, Alden wondered how often the boy had felt Victor’s whip on his back. He tried one more time. “You’ll freeze up there.”
“Niggas don’t freeze.”
Alden’s heart raced. “Who told you that?”
“Master said Africa boiled my blood.”
“That’s not what I mean. Who said you were—” Alden stopped. “Who called you that name?”
“The missus,” he said, rubbing his arms. “She don’t know my real name.”
Alden looked toward Thomas sitting up front in his warm livery jacket, and then back at the boy. “At Scott’s Grove, you’ll be known as Isaac.”
“That’s fine, mister.” He leaned against the window, his teeth chattering. “But I still ain’t gettin’ in the carriage with you.”
“I understand.” Alden closed the door to the brougham. Then he removed his leather gloves, stuffing them into his coat pocket before he propped his foot on the axle of the back wheel and propelled himself up on the spokes. “I shall have to join you up here, then.”
When Alden sat down beside him, Isaac scooted to the far side of the trunk. “It’s going to be a long ride to Scott’s Grove.”
The boy shrugged. “I’ve been on longer ones.”
Alden replaced his gloves and reached for the strap around the trunk. Then he called toward the front of the carriage. “Drive on, Thomas.”
The brougham didn’t move.
