At least, that’s how he saw Nora Payne. The truth was that he didn’t know his mother very well. He’d been raised by Benjamin’s mother, a beautiful Negro woman they both called Mammy. In his mind, Mammy was the princess.
Isaac cleared the fog off his window. “How long until we get there?”
Alden slid his timepiece out of his pocket. “Another three hours.”
“And how long are we staying?”
“I’ll be there for two weeks,” he said. He didn’t know how long his father would keep this boy.
When Isaac yawned, Alden slipped the blanket back out from under the seat and handed it over. This time, the boy didn’t argue.
As Isaac slept, dread slowly trickled back over Alden. Then it began to pour. As the carriage neared the edge of his family’s tobacco fields, he felt as if he were drowning.
His father would be happy he’d come home, but it wouldn’t last for long. Not when he found out that his plans for the plantation were about to implode.
Alden would wait until after Christmas to say what was on his mind. Then he’d brace himself for the aftermath.
Chapter 2
Scott’s Grove
December 1853
No one—not even Alden’s younger sister, Rhody—rushed out to greet them when the carriage rolled down the long drive at Scott’s Grove. No one saw Isaac climb back onto the top of the trunk a half mile back and wrap himself with the blanket that Alden insisted he use for the end of their journey.
Usually the fields around the plantation were humming with activity this time of year, every day of the week except the Sabbath. Jeptha—the Negro overseer—made certain slaves were clearing the stalks and burning debris as they prepared the land for next year’s crop.
Alden had never seen the plantation dormant in the days before Christmas nor had he ever arrived home without his sister racing down the steps to welcome him home.
Thomas stopped the carriage and opened the door for Alden. Isaac hopped down onto the stone walkway and followed Alden up to the plantation home that was at least twice the size of his former master and mistress’s house.
It was time for the noon meal, but when Alden opened the front door, he didn’t smell roasted meat or baking bread. The wide entrance hall was silent—no sounds came from either the drawing room on the right of the great hall or the dining room on the left.
“Where are your people?” Isaac asked behind him.
“I have no idea.”
“Perhaps they’ve gone to town.”
“Perhaps,” he replied, but his family never went to town on Christmas Eve. Typically, the household was bustling with preparations for the holiday meal. His mother directed the house slaves to decorate for their annual party. The cook prepared a goose with sage dressing, the Christmas pudding with currants and raisins, and the eggnog from fresh cream, nutmeg, and Jamaican rum. His father usually worked on the accounts in his office, balking at the festivities until Mother forced him to come celebrate with their family and a few neighbors.
Alden dropped his valise on the floor and moved forward, expecting to find his mother and sister trimming the Christmas tree in the drawing room, but when he opened the door, no one was inside.
The fire had been tended in front of the settee, and the logs warmed the room with their steady blaze. An evergreen tree stood by a tall window, its crown brushing the dogwood blossoms and branches molded into the plaster ceiling. But its own branches were void of candles, tinsel, or the garlands made of colorful glass beads. There were no candles or ribboned boughs on the mantle either, no wrapped gifts under the tree.
It was as if he’d gotten the date wrong, like no one was expecting his return or the holiday.
The door at the back of the room from his father’s office opened, and his mother walked briskly toward him, her fingers arched stiffly in front of the bodice of her brown muslin dress. Her graying hair was wrapped tightly into a bun, and her lips were pursed firmly together until she saw him.
“I’m glad you’re home,” she said, but her voice was void of emotion.
He leaned forward, kissing her cheek. Her skin was as cold as the wind outside the house. “What’s wrong?”
She drummed her fingers together. “Benjamin has run off again.”
Alden’s chest clenched at her words. A long time ago, when Benjamin was about fourteen, Alden had told his friend that one day he would help him escape slavery. Alden had been sixteen at the time, but he’d never forgotten his promise. Six years had passed, and he still hadn’t figured out a way to help his friend. Nor, if he was honest with himself, had he tried very hard to come up with a solution.
Merely thinking about helping Benjamin was just as cheap as all the abolitionist rhetoric up in Cambridge.
