Reentering the kitchen with a heavy bucket of water, I see the laundry basket is still on the table, but Mrs. Muffins is nowhere in sight. I am certain she’s gone searching for her ledger. I must make haste.
I carefully rip a page from the back of her ledger. I discover that her true name is Martha Cummings. Seeing no quills, I take a splinter of charred wood from the kitchen fire and steady my shaking hand as I begin to write. It is messy, and the words smudge badly. I am too occupied to notice vibrations, and my heart leaps out of my chest when Mrs. Muffins is suddenly behind me. She tries to snatch the paper from me. The note is not finished, but hopefully Mr. Squints will understand my plea:
I don’t know where I find the strength, but I jab her stomach sharply with my elbow. And I’m off! I make it out of the kitchen and to the stair landing before she is upon me. I open my mouth to howl, but hard as I try, I can only huff.
Mrs. Muffins grabs the note and leaves me lying on the landing.
I scramble down the stairs, hoping to wrest the note from her hands and finish my task. I enter the kitchen too late. With a crooked smile, she crumples the note and throws it into the fire.
She is talking, clapping, and signaling for me to make haste and get supper ready, but all I can do is watch that piece of paper curl and burn in the flames.
Andrew must have come in because she rushes toward the parlor, gesturing vividly. I follow her, throwing up my hands, begging her to stop. She ignores me.
In the parlor, Andrew is frozen as he listens, his eyes narrowing on me.
When Mrs. Muffins leaves, he grabs my arm and shakes me. His teeth are clenched as he talks. Spittle lands on my cheek, and I wipe it away. He throws me down on the rug. I am too frightened to move.
I gather enough courage to raise my eyes and see him furiously scribbling on a piece of paper. He flings it in my face and waits with a tapping foot for me to retrieve it.
He has written:
He drags me down to the servants’ quarters. I fear he and Mrs. Muffins will never let me out of the cramped room again. I pound the bed with my fists.
That night, I lie awake and cry cold tears. Mr. Squints must be curious why I don’t serve at supper. I wonder what story they make up, and if he believes it.
I pray, “Dear Lord, why have You brought me to this place? No matter how much I suffer and how my faith is tested, I will never stop trying to get back to my family and friends. I have learned too much too fast about how the world treats anyone who is different. I have to learn their rules, if I am going to beat them.”
If Nancy were with me, would her outlook change? Would she be bolder with her father and less prejudiced toward freedmen and the Wampanoag? The world is bigger than we ever imagined.
I spend the next morning pacing back and forth on the tiny rug. My mind is frantic, like a rat in a trap. How will I ever get home?
In the afternoon, Mrs. Muffins unlocks the door. She drags me up to the kitchen and gestures for me to take tea to Andrew in the parlor. What is going on?
As I approach with the tray, I see another man standing in the entryway.
Mrs. Muffins comes in and reaches out her hand, which the stranger takes. She pours them each a cup of tea and offers them popovers.
The man has broad shoulders and long legs. He wears a suit rather than a coat and breeches, and his graying, dark hair is smartly slicked back. He walks around me, obviously disgusted by my feral state. I’m surprised he doesn’t hold his nose. But he doesn’t dismiss me outright.
His hawklike eyes, brown with gold flecks, are fixated on me with great curiosity. Could this be the man who wrote the letter to Andrew?
When Mrs. Muffins brings my coat and hat, I cling to her. Does this man intend to take me away? As Eamon has said, “Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.” I moan as Andrew pulls me away from her.
Before I can resist, the older gentleman sweeps me out the door and into a stately carriage.
Though the carriage is majestic, with velvet interior and cushions, I fear the livery driver is taking us to some dark and foreboding place. Even with the beaver fur I’ve been given to wrap around me, I shiver. The curtains are drawn, so I can’t see where we’re going.
Andrew and the gentleman talk in what looks like a polite manner. There isn’t an easy intimacy between them, but they are cordial. The older man’s eyes are penetrating; I name him Professor Hawk. Andrew eagerly opens his black satchel to show him his writings. Professor Hawk raises his hand to indicate patience and then pats Andrew on the shoulder.
Am I not a person, like them? Does Professor Hawk not observe my dilapidated condition, my terror?
Twenty minutes must pass before the carriage slows down and comes to a halt.
The driver holds open the door. I see a metal sign that reads Beacon Hill. Oil lamps light the streets. In Chilmark, the high road is pitch-black at night, unless there is a rider with a lantern.
The building before me is four stories in height, with pilasters rising from the top of the first-story porch to the roof. It is so large it cannot possibly be someone’s home. Is this an asylum?
I am led through the elegant foyer into
