Free Freedom Bound by Jean Rae Baxter

fears for Elijah spread like a contagion. For three years
she had tried not to worry about Nick, telling herself over
and over how resourceful he was, how skilled in the wilderness, how clever at avoiding capture. But by the end of that
one day, her powers of self-persuasion had drained away.
    That night, lying on her cot in the kitchen, she fretted and
stewed, counting the days until the end of February, struggling to remember the exact words of Nick’s letter. She could
expect him before the end of February, couldn’t she? How
much before?
    Maybe Mrs. Knightly had news of him. Perhaps there was
even a letter from Nick waiting for her at the officers’ quarters. Charlotte had been in Charleston for nearly a week. It
was time to find out. She would do it tomorrow. In between
picking up the day’s load of dirty clothes and taking Noah
for his second feeding, there would be enough time.
    Having made up her mind, she was at last able to sleep.

    The next afternoon she took her new gown and bonnet and
a white lawn kerchief from her trunk. It was fine for an old
friend like Elijah to see her wearing shabby old clothes, but
for a visit to the officers’ quarters she must look like a lady.
She dressed carefully, knotting the kerchief on her bosom.
Finally she put on the handsome blue cloak that she had
bought in Quebec before embarking for Charleston.
    There was no looking glass in the house, for Mrs. Doughty
would never have owned such an aid to vanity. But Charlotte knew that this afternoon no one would think she was
the poor white helper of a washerwoman.
    When she arrived at the officers’ quarters, Mrs. Knightly
greeted her with smiles and the tiniest dip of a curtsey, which
Charlotte returned.
    Today Mrs. Knightly wore green silk, and a cap trimmed
with fine lace. “Well, I declare!” she said. “You’re just in time
for afternoon tea.”
    She and Charlotte sat down on the upholstered settee in
the common room and waited for a slave to bring their refreshments.
    â€œI hoped there might be news about Nick,” Charlotte began.
    â€œAlas. There’s nothing about him or from him. But I’m so
glad you dropped by. I’ve been worried about you ever since
Posy told me that a cutpurse robbed you of your pocket.
Why, that’s terrible! Was there much money in it?”
    â€œEvery penny I owned.”
    â€œI ought to have done something to help you, but lately
I’ve been so terribly busy.” As she raised her hand to her
brow, the emerald on her slender finger flashed green fire.
“To think what a pickle my husband has landed you in!”
    â€œColonel Knightly can hardly be blamed for the loss of
my pocket.”
    â€œOh, but I’ve heard what happened after that. My husband should not have sent you to lodge with somebody who
keeps a cellar full of escaped slaves. Everybody’s talking about
it. I declare, from now on you won’t find many of us offering that Quaker woman a helping hand.”
    â€œShe’s a good person,” Charlotte said firmly, “and now she
has the slave girl’s baby as well as her own children to support.”
    â€œWell, she ought to send that baby right back to the people who own him.”
    â€œThey don’t want him.” Charlotte wondered if Mrs.
Knightly was aware of who the baby’s father was, but decided
not to pursue that subject.
    At that moment, the tea arrived, borne on a silver tray by
a black woman. Charlotte wondered what she thought of
this conversation, for she must have heard the last few words.
Her expression revealed nothing.
    The nut bread was delicious, and the little iced cakes were
the sweetest Charlotte had tasted in a long time. She felt
uncomfortable to be waited on by a slave—but not uncomfortable enough to turn down a second slice of nut bread
and another cake.
    Mrs. Knightly had no news about the progress of the war.
It was her practice, she said, to ignore