Chapter 22

22

"I'll have my clerk take you to the new house." Sullivan finished climbing up the stairs to where Enya stood in the shade of the covered promenade. "Looks like I'll be here for a while."

Enya swallowed the lump that had clogged her throat the longer she'd listened to the newcomers and their mission for coming aboard the Morning Star . Upon hearing that they were searching for runaway slaves, she'd frozen to the deck, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to speak.

Obviously, the men were right about Sullivan's boats carrying runaway slaves. And they would scour Sullivan's personal cabin since they believed he was guilty.

The question was—did Sullivan know about the runaway? Was he even orchestrating the plan to help?

It was also possible one of the Black chambermaids who came in to clean the cabin, press their garments, and attend to other tasks had provided refuge to the runaway.

Though Enya had tried to spy on the woman, tried to catch her in the act of lifting the rug, she hadn't seen anything unusual.

But just in case the chambermaid wasn't responsible, Enya hadn't called for her assistance as often. After all, she didn't want the maid to hear the coughing and then alert Sullivan or others.

Instead, Enya had fended for herself more often.

And she'd played the piano more frequently. The first day of making herself finish each song had been torturous, and she'd wanted to quit numerous times. But she'd persevered, telling herself she had to be willing to be uncomfortable and even face inner turmoil to do what was right. After all, her discomfort and turmoil couldn't compare to what the slaves experienced.

Each time after that when she sat down to play, it became easier. The haunted sadness had at first been replaced with numbness. The numbness had eventually faded into acceptance. Today, she'd felt twinges of pleasure, giving her hope that someday she might enjoy music again. Maybe at some point, she'd even be able to compose the way she once had.

Sullivan crossed to her and took hold of her elbow. "I'll ask the clerk to make sure the new housekeeper is there before he leaves so you'll have assistance."

"I don't mind waiting in our cabin." She raised her voice enough that Captain Fitch nearby could hear. She had to be in the room and play the piano when the men came in. It was truly the only way to keep the slave safe. "It will give me the chance to play my music longer."

At her declaration, Sullivan hesitated. His dark eyes searched hers. He'd known how difficult playing had been for her. Was he trying to understand her change of heart?

Before he could object, she broke from his hold and started back toward the cabin, forcing herself to walk calmly and confidently, as a lady should. Only after she reached the confines of the cabin and closed the door did she expel a tight breath and press a trembling hand against her racing heart.

Then, before she lost her courage, she rushed over to the hatch and dropped to her knees. Without moving the rug, she spoke in a low voice. "Men are searching the steamer. Try not to cough. And I'll do my best to play the piano as long as possible."

She didn't expect an answer, but a second later, a soft "Thank you" came from the closet.

The young woman had to be terrified. Although Enya had felt a wee bit of what it was like to be mistreated, used, even abused, it couldn't compare with all this woman had gone through.

Even just having to live for nearly two weeks inside a cramped closet was inhumane, not being able to stretch or see sunlight or talk to anyone. Having to crouch in fear every time someone came into the cabin, having to be dependent on someone else for food, having to pretend she didn't exist.

Now that this woman had come this far and was so close to freedom, Enya couldn't let her down. She had to do her small part in helping her reach her destination.

With fresh resolve, Enya went to the piano, pulled out the bench so that two of the legs sat against the hatch, and this time played not for herself, but for all the women enslaved and abused and mistreated, that someday they would be free, free to make their own music in their own way.

She wasn't sure how long she'd played when the door opened behind her. She guessed she'd look suspicious if she ignored the new arrival entirely, but she could pretend to be engrossed in the song until the ending measure.

Behind her came the heavy tread of boots, the scraping of furniture being moved, the opening and closing of the armoire.

Finally, she let her music taper and shifted on her bench, putting into place what she hoped was her haughtiest demeanor as she took in the broadly built man in the stiff black coat and with the long black mustache who now stood in the center of the room quietly eyeing the walls, the ceiling, and even the floor as though he was searching for a secret compartment.

Was this the slave catcher, the one introduced as Roan Whistler? He didn't have nasty scars on his cheek, a cruel glint to his eyes, or a whip in hand. Except for his unnerving silence, he seemed like an ordinary man, and not one who made a living searching down and returning slaves to their masters.

But she'd learned that appearances weren't always what they seemed. Bryan had taught her that lesson all too well, and she wouldn't soon forget it.

Sullivan stood in the doorway, watching the slave catcher. As usual, Sullivan's eyes were unreadable. If he was worried, he wasn't showing it, not in the least.

Enya lifted her chin toward Roan Whistler. "May I help you, sir?"

His gaze dropped to her fingers.

Were they trembling? She didn't dare to glance down and instead willed herself to remain strong ... and to figure out a way to continue to play the piano very soon so she could fill the silence. Although the noises of the levee wafted into the cabin, it wasn't enough.

At a flutter of movement low in her abdomen, she drew in a breath. Was that the baby moving?

Sullivan narrowed his sharp eyes on her.

The fluttering happened again, this time more distinctly. She slid her hand over the slight swell and couldn't contain a smile as she met Sullivan's gaze. "The baby moved."

His attention shifted to her stomach, and his eyes rounded. "He did?"

"She did." Enya spread out her hand over the swell, hoping she'd feel the baby again.

"She?" Sullivan's voice didn't challenge her, only contained curiosity.

The slave catcher was watching their interaction without any change in his expression.

Enya wanted to make him believe she didn't care that he was there, wanted to give off the air that she had nothing to hide. So she widened her smile and reached a hand toward Sullivan. "Come. Maybe you can feel her move too."

Sullivan stared at her stomach, took a step into the room, then stopped. "Are you sure?"

She laughed. She wasn't sure if he was pretending for the slave catcher. Whether he was or not, the wide-eyed expression on so big and muscular a man was adorable. She extended her hand farther. "Aye, come here with you."

Sullivan crossed the rest of the distance, lowered himself to the tiny portion of bench beside her. He lifted his hand and hovered it over her stomach before narrowing another glare upon Roan Whistler. "Now that you've disrupted my wife's piano playing and disturbed our quarters, perhaps you'd have the decency to give us a moment alone."

"A moment alone?" The fellow seemed to be calculating their every move.

"Holy Mother Mary," Sullivan said with a snarl as he waved his hand around the room. "You've had your look, now go so I can experience this joyous moment with my wife."

"Very well, Captain O'Brien." Roan Whistler tipped the brim of his hat, spun on his heels, and stalked out of the cabin.

Of course he left the door open. So that he could listen to them? Perhaps even peek back inside? If the runaway started coughing, would he be able to hear the sound outside the door?

Enya needed to start playing the piano again, but now with Sullivan perched on the bench beside her, she had to finish what she'd begun. Sullivan was expecting her to let him feel the baby move. And she truly wanted him to have the amazing experience.

His hand still waited above her stomach. Though his brow was furrowed, the irritation had swiftly dissipated, replaced by uncertainty. "Did the movement hurt?"

His question was so unexpected that she couldn't hold back another laugh. "No. It feels soft and gentle, like a ripple in the water."

He started to lower his hand but halted.

She took hold of it and pressed it to the swell.

He held himself stiffly and waited. "Maybe she's gone back to sleep."

"So you agree the baby is a girl?"

"I hope so." His voice dropped a notch. "I'd be happy with a daughter just like you."

The words were so sweet they nearly brought tears to her eyes. And they nearly made her forget about the mission at hand—to do what she could to protect the runaway.

When he glanced up at her, she caught a rare glimpse of emotion in his eyes, the tenderness that said he meant every word he'd just said. She wished she could say the same in return, that she'd like a son just like him. But she couldn't, not when the baby wasn't really his.

With her hand still on top of his, he cupped her abdomen as if he might crush the baby if he put too much pressure there. His hand was so large, it nearly covered her stomach. His skin was tanned and weathered, while hers was a much lighter shade. His was roughened with small scars and hers was smooth and unblemished. His nails were blunt, and hers were thin and delicately shaped.

They were so different, and yet they fit together well, didn't they?

"I don't feel anything," he whispered.

"She seemed to like when I played the piano. Why don't I try that again?" She released his hand and shifted on the bench.

He politely rose and moved to stand beside her.

She wasted no further time in beginning another melody, Mozart's Piano Concerto no. 20 in D Minor.

After a moment, he grazed her shoulder. "I need to go. But maybe I can feel her move next time." Again his voice was tender, almost timid.

She paused, the music lingering in the air, and she smiled up at him. "Aye. Next time."

He nodded. Although he didn't smile in return, the crinkle lines at the corners of his eyes formed.

As he left, she resumed the song where she'd left off, the notes swelling within her as easily as they swelled from the keyboard. Even though she'd made a disaster of her life, somehow the beauty was beginning to show itself again.

Maybe that's how God ordained it. He didn't prevent the hardships or the difficulties. Instead He pieced the shards together to create something new that wouldn't be perfect and wouldn't be without its blemishes, but the brokenness would be beautiful in its own way.