I wake Moira before first light as planned. The dawn hasn't begun to twinkle due East. Her eyes open and they see me. She smiles so genuinely as she raises up and kisses my cheek. I balk nervously and her demeanor changes. Her pretty face distorts into worry. "What's wrong Andrew?"
"Nothing." I lie. "I'm just nervous about getting you to Aunt Bonnie's safely." The second part of what I say is not untrue but is a lie of omission. What we shared the night before complicated an already overly complicated matter and it worries me deeply. Maybe I am making more of it than there is to it. That it was just 'a thing that happened', like she had spoken of Hannah's father. But it doesn't feel that way. It feels like something. It certainly feels like more than just 'a thing that happened.' Whatever it is, it can't be. There is no hope for us, not in this world. So, it has to become, however much more it is, merely 'a thing that happened.'
*
Aunt Bonnie is one of only a few midwives in the growing town- and the only good one. Her profession has awarded her a stable income, and a townhouse, on the main thoroughfare of town in Charlottesville out of which she practices and lives. There's a general goods store, a few lawyers' offices, a doctor's office, and the Court House all within spitting distance of her front door. There's even a draper and a perukemaker now. The sheriff's office isn't far either. By now, there may even be a bulletin there baring the name of a runaway slave named 'Moira' from Mount Vernon- hopefully not. I know we can not get to Aunt Bonnie's at any hour unseen but we might be able to get there unnoticed- and unnoticed will have to do.
As it's a Thursday morning, and the last one before Christmas, the main thoroughfare of Charlottesville is already vibrantly buzzing with wealthy women strolling from shop to shop dawning fine gowns and furs more for being seen than function or warmth. Gentleman too line the streets in their fine hats, jackets, and waistcoats, tending either to their business or their wives. The more profuse of them even carry superfluous walking sticks of lacquered wood, adorned with precious metal caps cast into orbs, or lion's heads or birds-of-prey. And there are the slaves- the fancifully dressed ones that serve as valets and carriage drivers, some even with the white powdered periwigs of aristocracy, and others shivering in mere tatters of shack cloth as they load grain or cargo onto carriages. Charlottesville, like Alexandria, and Richmond, is a jewel in opulent Virginia's crown and a perfect portrait of the scourge of slavery. It is a town of the very richest and the very poorest- a economic hub, for many of the largest plantations in Virginia. For a town without a port, somehow the finest things find their way here.
As we enter town, I notice that the American flag flies full mast with the King's coat of arms above the court house. Word hasn't yet spread. These people are preparing for their yuletide celebrations with no knowledge that the king has died. The shops are festively decorated for Christmas and the lawn of the court house is decorated too- with freshly built gallows from which three slave men hang; to the middle one is a affixed a sign that reads in one word "RUNAWAY."
I walk the street, pulling Laird by the reins behind me. Moira sits atop his back wrapped in a blanket that hides her head and face. I hope we will be lost in the sea of horsemen and carriages. I stare at my feet and meander forward. Aunt Bonnie's house is in the middle of town. There are a lot of steps between where we are and where we are headed, shops to pass, lingering eyes of neighbors and childhood acquaintances to avoid.
"Andrew Gilchrist!" says a soft, feminine, and familiar from across the street. The sound of my name conjures the thought of a hang man calling it as I stand my final moment on the courthouse gallows just as he places the noose around my neck. As I make the long drop in my mind, and my neck breaks, I see her. The sight of her makes my heart strain and strike my ribs like I imagine a dying man's really does at the end of the rope.
"Polly Jefferson..." I say in disbelief, "...Epps. Good morning." My eyes never waver off her as she crosses into the street from a draper's shop to greet me. She's stunning and unchanged, with the exception that she is several months pregnant. She looks like a fine French doll, her complexion is like porcelain, her cheeks rosy and her eyes are a perfect match for the sultry blue of her fine gown. Her curled brown locks bounce as she walks. My lord, I'm probably lit up like a campfire.
"Good morning, indeed, Andrew. What brings you so far away from the King's service?" She asks as she meets me in the road and then kisses me gently on the cheek.
"I have been given leave to spent Christmas at home with Aunt Bonnie. I was just on my way there." I lie.
"You haven't seen her yet. Oh, my gracious. She'll be so pleased. I'll walk you there. " Polly wraps her arm around mine and walks with me. "You're all she danes to talk about. 'My Andrew is the King's personal secretary' she tells every woman she tends. During the pains of labor, the women of Charlottesville are told about the handsome Andrew Gilchrist who serves the king. Probably a few boys running about the streets named in your honor- and more than few ladies who dreamed of you as the father." Polly grins in the same wicked way that once had such total power over me. Perhaps, it still does? I'm blushing. She is rubbing my arm as we walk. After a few steps, she notices that someone is atop the horse. "And who is this?" Polly says as she peeks under the blanket and sees Moira. A tear traces down Moira' cheek, which Polly wipes away.
"This is..." I rack my brain to produce a false name for Moira. " Mary."
"You're so pretty Mary." Polly says as her eyes trace over her, all of her. "My name is Mary too. Andrew has called me Polly since we were children. Charmed, I'm sure."
Moira nods sheepishly. "Good day, ma'am."
Polly's mouth curls sinisterly as she speaks. "I bet I know why Andrew bought you. Clear as day. Naughty."
"It's nothing like that!" I protest, "She's a gift for Aunt Bonnie. To help her with house work and the like."
"Oh, Andrew..." Polly says as she traces a finger along the edge of my jaw line, "You could have bought an old crow for house duty. You're not fooling me. And my, my, I think I feel the slightest tinge of jealousy."
Polly kisses me again on the cheek as we arrive just outside the front door of my Aunt Bonnie's. "Merry Christmas Andrew. Make sure to drop in and see father."
"Merry Christmas, Polly. And, I will be straight away. I have a dispatch for him." Why did I tell her that within ear shot of Moira? For days, I have failed to mention to Moira exactly where my dispatch was to be delivered. And it just falls right out of my mouth into Polly's ear- Moira's too.
Polly looks again at Moira atop the horse and winks, "Merry Christmas lucky girl. Enjoy the... house... work."
I watch Polly leave for a moment before offering my arm to Moira to help her off Laird's hulking back. She swats it away and hops down without me. "We should get inside." I say. Moira is silent but I can feel her eyes burning into me like hot coals.
I knock on the red painted door- my door- to my house. I grew up here and for a moment I can't help but to imagine myself as a boy running in and out of it as a younger Aunt Bonnie yells at me that supper is ready or curses something at me in Scot's Gaelic that I don't understand because I misbehaved. It's been years since I have been home, years more since I have been home around Christmas. The anxiety and the fear caused by the past few day's events seem, if only for a moment, to wash away. Moira's newly found ire for me too. There is only the warm feeling of home.
Bonnie answers the door. The years have been most kind to her. Her face is strong but well-formed and without wrinkles. Although fifty, her countenance is that of a woman barely thirty. The only signs of her true age are found in the touches of grey that mar her otherwise jet black hair. She bats her eyes and gasps in disbelief. "Andrew!" She says as she hugs me tightly about the neck. Her accent is warm and unusual, a rich blend of highland Scot and southern- like scotch whiskey and sweet tea - hallmarks of her childhood in Scotland and her adulthood in Virginia. She too is just as I remembered.
"Aunt Bonnie." I say as I hug her right back.
"And who's this lass?" Bonnie asks.
"Mary." Moira answers flatly.
"We've got a lot to talk about Aunt Bonnie. May we come in?"
"Aye, where are my manners? Of course, you can. Welcome home." Bonnie says.
The inside of the house is as unchanged as Bonnie. A brick fireplace in the parlor off the main door nurses a freshly kindled fire. Above its hearth is a painting of the King- as a younger man- during the War for Independence. I remember it. I knew that painting and its representation of the King long before I entered the King's service and knew the king as a man. "I love that painting of this majesty. He looks so strong and so valiant." I say as we enter in from the cold.
"Aye, it's a good one. How fares his majesty? God save him."
"The King is dead, Aunt Bonnie." I say. Bonnie nearly faints. She falls backward into a chair by the door.
"Dead, my word. Did he name an heir?" Bonnie says vacantly, appearing lost in a thought.
"No, he didn't. You're the first person I've told. My duty is to deliver a dispatch to M.P. Jefferson to that effect and then to return to Mount Vernon. I came here first."
"Knowing you, my prodigal nephew, I'm surprised you stopped at all- never mind that I raised you." Bonnie sighs, "The King is dead, your service to him is finished once you deliver that dispatch. Do as I ask for the first time in your life: resign your commission Andrew. Stay here and take up a trade. Read the law under Mr. Jefferson, or perhaps Mr. Madison, or Mr. Monroe. I don't want you dying in lesser men's wars to see who gets to be King now." Bonnie commands without giving Gilchrist the chance to answer. "And you, lass, 'Mary..." she turns to Moira, "what's your real name and how do you fit into all this?"
"She..." I begin.
"... can answer for herself. No woman needs a man to speak for her in my house Andrew Douglas Gilchrist." Bonnie interrupts me. "And don't be wastin' my time with lies and half-truths, lass. Out with it. All of it."
"My name is Moira."
"That's a beautiful name, rolls of the tongue like music. Much better than drab old Mary. Go on." Bonnie says.
Moira tells her – of her plan to escape, her reasons for it, and how I saved her and brought her here. I am grateful that she omits our sexual encounter.
"Polly Jefferson Eppes, saw you come here." Bonnie says along with a few choice words in Scot's Gaelic. Neither Moira or myself know what she is saying but what she means is clear enough. "That harpy will have told the whole town by now."
"I told her that Moira was named Mary and that she was a gift for you. For house work and the like." I explain.
"I've never owned a slave- nor would I. And my abolitionist leanings aren't exactly a secret, nephew. I loved the King, but we disagreed on that - we did. Now, all of Charlottesville will know that Bonnie Gilchrist has a slave girl. The alderman will come to assess and levy a property tax on her come first of the year- and seeing as she's a runaway from Mount Vernon, named Moira, not Mary, we don't have a bill of sale."
"I'll just leave, ma'am. I don't want to cause you good folks any more trouble than I already have." Moira says.
"You'll do no such thing. If you aren't here when the alderman comes, and there is no bill of sale, people will suspect you are runaway I helped to freedom. Which all of them assume I do anyway. Whether we like it or not 'Mary' you must now be my slave and I must be your mistress. If you runaway, you will condemn me, and probably Andrew to hang." Bonnie sighs. "Deliver your dispatch, Andrew. The longer you dally here the more questions all of this will stir." She waves me away with her hand.
