Last Stop Freedom

PROLOGUE

October 23, 1852

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The distant baying of the hounds echoed through the stagnant swamp air like anguished cries from the bowels of hell. Julia pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. Despite the sweat bathing her body, she felt a chill. The chill of fear. Of agonizing doubt. Of irreversible destiny.

A menacing symphony of night sounds bombarded her ears. The discordant voices of myriad frogs. A muted splash as some unseen reptile slipped into the water. The occasional hair-raising shriek of an owl. The incessant whine of mosquitoes. The dull whack as Jacob beat a stout stick into any shadows where a venomous snake might lurk.

The air reeked of decay and mold. Julia had lived in South Carolina long enough to know that every time she and her companions drew the unwholesome lowland air into their lungs, they risked becoming infected with one or another of the dreaded swamp fevers. Yet any such mortal danger paled before the far greater one posed by the men and dogs now hunting them.

The advantage seemed to lie with the hunters. A full moon hung high overhead, its silvery light penetrating the tree branches and reflecting off the murky water. They had taken precautions to cover their tracks, but they could still hear the hounds in full cry. The promised rescue seemed as elusive as a dream. Seized with panic, she reached for Fanny’s hand.

She felt the calloused fingers close around hers in a gentle but firm grip. She sought her friend’s eyes through the gloom, memory recalling their placid brown depths. Moments passed. Gradually she felt Fanny’s strength flow like a current of calm into her heart. Her companions had so much more to lose in this rash venture than did she. For them, the consequences of failure would be dire beyond description, putting her own paltry fear to shame. She took a deep breath and settled back to wait.

She and Fanny had levied themselves as high as possible onto the knee of a cypress tree, their backs pressed against the bole, their knees drawn tight against their chests. In Julia’s twenty-one years of living, she had never experienced such misery of body. Her heavy tallow-and-tar-treated brogans were waterlogged from trudging through the sticky muck. The coarse homespun dress was too small and chafed at her neck and under her arms. Her head ached from the tightly-bound kerchief. Her skin itched beneath the sooty goo masquerading her face and hands.

To help the interminable minutes pass, she thought back to the day it had all begun. It was a cold, rainy late-April morning when Ellen came into the parlor with the daily post. Julia put aside her mending, reached for the thin packet, and smiled with pleasure when she saw the familiar ivory-colored paper addressed in flowing script to Miss Julia Bigsby, 224 Fourth Street, Troy, New York.

PART I—ITINERARIES

CHAPTER ONE

April 24, 1851

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The letter was astonishing. Julia abandoned her seat by the meager parlor fire and carried it to the chillier but brighter front window. A late spring rain distorted the view into the street. As a child, she had thought such a scene must have inspired Saint Paul to write in sacred Scripture: For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face. Today, inspired by premonition, she saw the window glass as a shimmering gateway beyond which she might come face to face not with her God but with an exciting new adventure. She adjusted the page so the maximum amount of light fell onto its creamy linen face and read again from the beginning: Dearest Cousin, I must beg your forgiveness as it has been many weeks since last I rote.

Julia smiled. Her cousin, Mary Leeds, had benefitted from the finest education available to a young woman. Yet despite her years at the renowned Troy Female Seminary, her spelling was little improved from the years when the two little girls had studied at their mothers’ knees. She continued reading:

Truth be told, it is difficult these days to find anything cheerful enough to warrent putting pen to paper. Ever since Mama’s passing into the arms of the Lord, a terrible pall has fallen over our household. Papa either snaps like an old turtle or sits staring into the fire for hours on end, more like a fantom than a flesh and blood parent. With Brother Jeremiah off at Princeton, I am left to deal with this dizmal state of affairs by myself. At times I feel as if I cannot bare it another moment.

Julia had also spent many hours grieving for the aunt who had been her guide and stay after her own mother died when she was eight. That the Leeds family was still in turmoil barely ten months after the dear lady’s surrender to pneumonia came as no surprise.

There now, enough of gloomy talk. My mind’s eye sees the sympathizing tear on your cheek, and I chastize myself for causing such distress to my heart’s best friend. I hope to brighten your mind with a proposal that I pray will find favor with you—but especially with my esteemed uncle so he will be inclined to give it his blessing. Jeremiah informed us in a recent letter that he will stop for a fortnight at the Village of Saratoga Springs before continuing home after term is finished. I suspect he is motivated by the anticipated presence of a certain fair damsel from Princeton town who vacations there with her family each June, for his recent letters have been filled with her prayzes. Might wedding bells be in my dear brother’s near future? But I digress. Jeremiah proposes that Papa and I join him at the springs. Not only has Papa agreed, but he insists our little Julia must come as well and has comishioned me to send this invitation forthwith.

The very thought of such a visit sent Julia’s heart into a paroxysm of joy. She had been deeply grieved when her uncle moved his family west to the town of Buffalo three years before. The parting was made even more bitter by the knowledge that her father, the Reverend Samuel J. Bigsby D. D., would never condone much less finance any attempt by Julia to see these in-laws whose wealthy lifestyle he abhorred. Now she allowed her imaginings to soar, if only for a brief moment. She returned to the letter:

I must make it clear that this trip would be at Papa’s expense. You would have a ready escort in Jeremiah, who will be stopping in Troy regardless since that is where he must board the cars for Saratoga. Once at the springs, you would share our acomodation as if you were one of our small family, which of course you surely are, in spirit if not in tecknicality. When our holiday is over, we three would accompany you back to Troy, where we plan to spend a week or two renewing old aquaintences. Given these facts, I cannot imagine our proposal drawing serious objection from any quarter. A pointed reference to the sure response of Julia’s father. Indeed, it would be considered a niece’s Christian duty to offer solace to her stricken uncle and cousins and ease their pathway back to happiness. To say nothing of the benefit from the medicinal waters of that storied place, from which we shall return to our ordinary lives in better health a ready to resume our duties with fresh re—

Here a large blot of ink obscured the intended word. Mary’s penmanship had always been prone to careless drips and drops from the tip of her steel pen. This letter was no exception. Julia supplied the word resolve from her imagination and continued:

There, I have made my case. Now I must bring this episel to a close and send it off in today’s post. We shall all await your reply with great anticipation. I remain your loving cousin, Mary Leeds.

Julia shivered and went back to the fire. Despite the recent cold weather, the Reverend Bigsby had consulted the calendar, determined that spring had come, and turned his frugal eye to the coal bins in the cellar. With several tons still remaining from the winter’s allotment, he had decreed that the furnace would henceforth lie dormant so the leftover coal could be saved as a hedge against rising prices the following year. This edict did not stop their housekeeper, Ellen O’Leary, from bringing a scuttle of the precious fuel to the parlor fireplace on days such as this so that Julia would have some small measure of comfort as she went about her morning tasks.

She tucked Mary’s letter into the pocket of her apron, returned to the large rocking chair, and took up the other letters. There was a notice of payment due from the Troy Gas Light Company, and she laid it aside to be dealt with on a day more suitable for a walk to the company office. The amount was so paltry it hardly seemed worth the effort. Although the parsonage had been fitted for gas at the same time as the church the previous year, the house fixtures were lit only when there were church members or other important persons to be entertained. The remainder of the time, the household relied on the camphene lamps that had been their staple long before the newfangled devices became available.

The two remaining letters were addressed to her father as pastor of the Fourth Street Presbyterian Church. As his de facto assistant, Julia did not hesitate to open them. One was a letter of gratitude for the Missionary Society’s recent gift to a minister laboring among the heathen in the western territories. The other invited Samuel to attend a meeting of a group of regional Presbyterian ministers who shared an affinity for the Old School branch of the church. The meeting was to be held in nearby Albany in a month’s time and was to feature a lecture by James Henley Thornwell of South Carolina, a leading voice among those fighting to protect the church and her teachings from the nationalistic and reformist tendencies of the New School. Finding themselves in the minority among the presbyteries and synods of the northeast, these stalwart men met periodically to bolster their resolve and make contact with the Southern brethren who were the major standard bearers of their beliefs. Julia knew her father would make every possible effort to attend.

At the moment he was secluded in prayer, study and meditation prior to composing his weekly sermon. She would join him after dinner, at which time they would discuss the letters and any other necessary business. Then Julia would take up her pen for his dictation of the sermon itself, a service she had been providing ever since a crippling rheumatism rendered him unable to write them out himself.

She reached once again for her mending. She was repairing a weak seam on her father’s Sunday frock coat, a garment that most men would have discarded long before due to excessive wear. Not the Reverend Bigsby, who would continue to wear the wretched thing until the fabric disintegrated from his very body. She sighed and lifted the work close to her eyes. She had taken but three stitches when her hands fell idle and her thoughts returned to Mary’s letter.

The longer its contents nestled into her mind, the more she yearned to accept the offered invitation. It was an opportunity so palpable she could feel it as a physical ache beneath her breastbone. She had never traveled more than a few miles outside the City of Troy, much less to a fashionable resort such as Saratoga Springs. The thought of the amazing sights she would see as well as the excitement of traveling there was enough to take her breath away. Yet even these prospects paled before the notion of spending a fortnight with her much-cherished and only remaining relatives. Was there any way she might persuade her father to allow her to go?

She created and discarded a dozen strategies over the remaining hours of the morning, each more preposterous than the last. By the time Ellen rang the dinner bell, she was no closer to a plan than she had been when she first read the letter.

She crossed to the dining room as her father emerged from his office at the far end of the hall. The Reverend Bigsby was a tall, gaunt man of forty-nine, slightly stoop shouldered but with a staid and lofty bearing. He wore his graying hair long and in an old-fashioned que. His ice-blue eyes, bushy eyebrows, and high domed forehead gave him a look of severe intelligence that intimidated those who had the temerity to disagree with him but earned him the pride and respect of his congregation.

He caught his daughter’s eye and gave a slight nod, waiting for her to seat herself before he took his place at the head of the table. They bowed their heads while he intoned a blessing. Ellen had prepared a dinner of mutton chops, boiled new potatoes, pickled cabbage and soda bread. They ate in silence, the only sounds those of their forks clinking against their plates. Casual conversation had never flowed easily between them, but an awkward incident some months before had thrown a pall over what little there might have been. Given this chronic air of tension, Julia could not bring herself to broach the subject of Mary’s letter.

Ellen came in to clear their plates and serve a dessert of rice pudding. The housekeeper had been in Samuel’s employ ever since he moved into the parsonage as the church’s newly-called pastor twenty-three years before. She was a tiny woman of seemingly boundless energy whom Julia assumed to be well into her sixties, although her exact age was a secret known only by her family and priest. She had iron-gray hair drawn into a high knot, a pasty complexion, and watery blue eyes on the right eyelid of which rested a large mole. She was a kindly soul but mindful of her station. She had done what she could to ease Julia’s path as a motherless orphan, but her sense of propriety had prevented her from establishing the warm connection that would have provided the most comfort. Nonetheless, Julia loved her and dreaded the day when old age would of necessity take her away from them.

When the meal was finished, father and daughter went into the small parlor that Samuel used as his office. Books cluttered every surface except the small writing desk where Julia took her dictation. The air was chill and damp, the fireplace cold, and she shivered as she crossed to her chair.

She held out the two letters involving church business and said, These came in the post.

He took them, hooked a pair of spectacles over his ears, and read in silence. He handed them back, saying, Make a note of the meeting date. And perhaps you would do me the favor of reading the other out at the next meeting of the Missionary Society.

Certainly.

Very well, then. He began to pace. Cleared his throat and said, I have been contemplating the Twelfth Chapter of Romans and have decided to use the third verse as the text for this week’s lesson. If you will prepare yourself?

Julia suppressed a sigh, took out a fresh sheet of paper, and dipped her pen into the ink.

∞∞∞

The front doorbell rang less than an hour into their work. Some minutes later, Ellen knocked at the door.

Yes? barked Samuel, who had little patience for interruptions.

The housekeeper entered the room carrying a silver salver on which two small white cards rested. She said, These fine ladies beg a moment o’ your time, sir.

Samuel studied the cards. Huffed and said, Very well. Show them into the parlor.

He raised an eyebrow to Julia and cocked his head, indicating she was to join him. They went out into the hallway, which reeked of damp wool from where the ladies’ cloaks hung on the coatrack. Samuel gave an audible sigh as he opened the doors into the parlor.

The two ladies sat side by side on the sofa. They were fashionably dressed in mourning black with lace-trimmed bonnets and fringed shawls. Each held an elegant little card portfolio in one gloved hand and an embroidered cambric handkerchief in the other. They differed only in age and physique, one slender and young, the other portly and well into her middle years.

Samuel advanced toward the younger of the two, took her hand, and bowed over it with the deference any pastor would show toward the new wife of a widowed banker who was one of the church’s most wealthy congregants.

What a pleasure it is to see you, Mrs. Belmont, he said.

She beamed at him. I trust we chose a convenient time to call. I am eager to introduce my mother, Mrs. Wentworth, who has recently joined our household following the death of my dear papa. She has already requested a letter of transfer and wishes to meet her new pastor without delay.

Samuel turned his attention to the Widow Wentworth, bowing over her hand in turn. I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Wentworth. Welcoming new souls to our humble flock is my most joyous task as a servant of the Lord. He straightened and turned toward Julia. May I present my daughter and right hand, Miss Julia Bigsby?

The lady gave Julia an imperious nod and said, How fortunate you are, Pastor. A dutiful daughter is one of God’s greatest blessings.

Julia hid her instantaneous dislike behind a benign expression as she crossed to a small side chair and sat down.

Samuel took the chair closest to the ladies and continued, May I offer my condolences on the loss of your husband, Mrs. Wentworth? I, too, have lost a life’s partner and know the pain consequent to such a tragedy.

She raised her handkerchief to her lips and lowered her eyes. Thank you, Reverend Bigsby. It is such a comfort to know my grief is so well understood. But I am told the pain will pass... She raised her eyes and met his with frank interest. ...and life will bring happiness once again through new connections.

Julia suppressed a smile. Mrs. Wentworth would not be the first eligible female to offer herself to the widowed pastor. So far, his steadfast allegiance to her dead mother had rendered him immune to such advances. Watching this lady’s efforts to breach his determination would provide some private entertainment over the months to come.

Samuel’s eyes became hooded as he replied, Keeping busy, Mrs. Wentworth. That is the key. The church has many avenues for such therapeutic activity. My daughter aids me in these matters and will work closely with you to find the best outlet for your interests and talents.

A slight redness crept into Mrs. Wentworth’s cheeks, indicating she had noted the mild rebuff. I thank you for the suggestion. My departed husband and I were most active in our Philadelphia fellowship, and I would expect to follow in that mold here in Troy. She turned to Julia and smiled, revealing decay-ridden teeth. I am certain Miss Bigsby and I will become the best of friends as we explore all the means by which I may be of service.

Julia forced a return smile. I shall look forward to it.

The widow sent her daughter a pointed look. The young woman blinked. Gathered herself and said to Julia, To that end, perhaps you and Pastor Bigsby would join Mr. Belmont, Mrs. Wentworth and myself for dinner one Sunday afternoon. Say Sunday week?

An awkward silence. Then from Samuel, I fear that will not be possible. But we thank you for the kind invitation.

His bluntness caused both ladies to blush, and they soon rose to take their leave. In their wake, Julia fought off a wave of foreboding. They had collided with her father’s strength of will, just as she was sure to do over the proposed excursion to Saratoga Springs. She feared it would not end well.

The issue weighed heavily on her mind throughout a tedious afternoon of sermon writing. The evening meal loomed, and she still had not thought of a subtle way to bring up the letter. Left with but one option, the direct approach, she went into the dining room before the tea bell rang and placed the letter on her father’s plate where he could not fail to see it.

After he had said the blessing, he eyed it and said, What is this, pray tell?

Something I wish you to read. She made a Herculean effort to look him in the eye. A letter I received today from Cousin Mary.

How extraordinary. You know I have no interest in the female prattle of two young things such as yourself and Mary.

I believe this to be an exception. Please, Father. Read the letter.

A longsuffering sigh. Very well.

He unfolded the pages and began to read. Julia studied his expression to gauge his reaction, but not the slightest flicker of emotion crossed his face. When he had finished, he laid the sheets aside and said, Help yourself to that fish, Daughter, and please pass it on.

A knot the size of New York seized her stomach, but she did as he asked and managed to choke down a few bites. Nothing more was said through the remainder of the meal. When the dessert of apple brown betty had been cleared away and the coffee served, she took her courage in hand.

May I ask for your response to Uncle Cyrus’s proposal?

He stared back at her, the long seconds marked by the ticking of the mantel clock. At last he said, Out of the question, after which he gulped down his coffee and left the table.

Julia had expected such an answer, but it cut her to the core nonetheless. She spent the evening vacillating between despair and anger, tears and defiance. She retired early, hoping sleep’s oblivion would ease the depth of her longing. When she wakened in the morning, her desire was, if anything, more intense than ever. After breakfast and morning devotions, she put on her bonnet, gloves and cloak and went out.

The air was chilly, but the rain had stopped during the night, and pale sunshine was already working its magic on the puddles in the street. Droplets fell onto her cloak from the overhanging treetops, glistening like diamonds when caught by the morning rays. She drew the fresh odors of springtime deep into her lungs and immediately felt better. She walked south past the church, which was next to the parsonage, continued to the corner, and turned east up Ferry Street.

Troy, a city of some thirty thousand souls, lay on the east side of the Hudson River at the head of the navigable portion of that august stream. Two promontories, Mt. Olympus and Mt. Ida, stood like sentinels at its northern and southern flanks. Together with the rolling hills beyond, they formed a scenic backdrop such as few other cities could claim.

The farther Julia climbed from the busy center of town, the more her surroundings had the feel of the country. Cobblestone gave way to dirt. The houses were simpler and laid farther apart with gardens aplenty, as well as a variety of livestock. She joined Congress Street where it curved around Mt. Ida and soon heard the rush of Ida Falls, a tumultuous cascade along Poesten Kill. A short walk farther brought her to the Sand Lake Turnpike, where she crossed the bridge and finally turned into Mt. Ida Cemetery.

Although dwarfed by the newly-consecrated Oakwood Cemetery, this place embodied a peace and tranquility that made her feel as if she were coming home every time she passed through its gates. She stopped to smile at a pair of squirrels chasing each other among the headstones. Birdsong filled the air. The kill gurgled a happy response. She continued on.

The headstone lay beneath a spreading maple tree, still leafless but with buds ready to burst at the next prolonged warm spell. The marker was made of Sing Sing marble, the finest money could buy, and was topped by a cross of the same material. The engraving read:

Harriet Milton Bigsby

Born January 10, 1812  Died July 23, 1839

Beloved Wife and Mother

The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away

Blessed be the name of the Lord. Job1:21

Julia’s memories of her mother were vague. She had been told she bore a remarkable physical resemblance to her dead parent. As a result, she often studied her reflection in the hope it would spark some memory to which she could cling: large brown eyes, milk-pale skin susceptible to freckling and burning in the summer, unruly black hair that even the tightest braiding and pinning could not completely tame, straight slender build. Alas, her efforts to conjure a maternal image invariably failed. Yet any doubt that they shared an uncanny likeness had been put to rest in one searing moment ten months before.

It happened the day they received word of her Aunt Louise’s passing. Samuel had never cared for his sister-in-law’s husband Cyrus, but he had always honored Louise as his last remaining connection to his dead wife. Her sudden death plunged him into a black depression. Julia was submerged in her own grief and failed to notice her father’s condition until late that night when she was wakened from sleep by a loud thump that shook the floor of her room. She lit a lamp, put on her wrapper, and crossed the hall to his bedroom.

She knocked on the door. Receiving no response, she called, Father?

A low moan. Alarmed, she opened the door. Samuel lay sprawled on the floor beside his bed, his nightshirt hiked up around his waist, his private parts in full view. Julia was too stunned to move. She had never seen her father in anything but full daytime dress. Witnessing him thus indisposed was stupefying. The bottle of brandy that the family kept for medicinal emergencies sat atop the bedside table. Not a drop remained. Her father, the esteemed Reverend Samuel J. Bigsby D. D., was as drunk as a common stevedore.

She heard footfalls on the staircase and realized Ellen was on her way up to investigate. She dashed out into the hall and reached the stairs just as the housekeeper arrived at the top step. Her candle cast eerie wavering light across her worried brow as she said,

What happened, miss? Sounded like someone took a fearful fall.

It was nothing. I knocked a chair over as I was crossing in the dark to close the window. I am sorry to have disturbed you.

The older woman hesitated, peering around behind Julia. Shall I help you set things to rights?

Thank you, but I have already done so. Go back to bed.

Well, then, if you’re certain.... She lingered a moment longer, then turned and started down the stairs.

Julia returned to the bedroom. Samuel had struggled to a sitting position. She knelt beside him and said, Are you all right, Father?

Wha’ happen? Why’re you here?

You fell out of bed. Did you hurt yourself?

’Course not. I am jus’ fine.

Then let me help you into bed.

She took hold of his hands and pulled, but he seemed incapable of rising by himself. She stooped down, wedged her shoulder under one of his arms, and struggled to lift him. After several futile attempts, she managed to leverage them both onto the bed, where their momentum flung them backward onto the mattress. She lay for a moment catching her breath. Slowly she became aware that he was staring at her. Tears coursed down his craggy cheeks.

So beau’ful. My sweet Harriet. He reached up to caress her cheek. Where’ve you been, m’love? Why’d you leave me alone? I—I need you so. His hand slid down her neck, his breath coming in short gasps. Want you, dearest one. Must have— His wandering hand settled on her breast, and he gave a deep groan.

Julia jumped up and away as if she had been burned. She stared down at him, her hand pressed to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock and revulsion. Lustful passion drained from his face as he came to his senses. Dawning horror took its place.

O, m’dear. Di’nt mean.... So like her....

Julia backed away, shaking her head. She bumped into the open door, groped behind her for the handle, then turned and fled. The sound of his wretched sobs followed her across the hallway and into her own bedroom.

He remained in his room the entire following day, taking no meals and speaking to no one. When he emerged on the second day, he was shaven and dressed for business as usual. They had not spoken of it since.

Now Julia’s face burned at the memory. She had a habit of carrying on a one-sided conversation when she visited the grave on the chance that her mother’s spirit might still linger. This incident was the only subject she regarded as tabu. She reasoned that if the human soul could return to earth at will—and there was certainly no evidence of such a fancy in the Bible—then such spirits could surely read the thoughts of mortals, in which case Harriet already knew what had happened. Julia need not compound her shame by repeating it out loud.

She arranged her cloak on the still-damp grass and sat down. She reached out to trace the smooth grooves of the headstone’s engraved letters and said, I have a special problem today, Mama. Cousin Mary has written to invite me....

She went on to relate the events of the day before. Wiping tears of frustration from her cheeks, she finished, I do not know how to reconcile my heart to this impasse. I know Father has been put in authority over me by our dear Jesus Himself, but I am sorely tempted to have my own way. Visiting with Mary and Jeremiah and Uncle Cyrus would be such a comfort. And I cannot help being curious about the life of those who frequent places such as Saratoga Springs. Has Satan sent this opportunity to tempt me away from my duty? Or is it a gift from above to expand the circumstances of my life? A small keening cry. Oh, Mama, what shall I do?

She lay back and stared up into the sky’s deepening blue. A hawk circled high overhead, searching for prey. She thought of the poor little mouse or baby rabbit that would become the predator’s next meal. Was the tiny victim even now nibbling happily away at its last meal, unaware of the horror to come? It seemed to her this was the state in which she had received Mary’s letter the day before, ignorant of the torment that would soon consume her.

The damp began to seep through her cloak, but still she lay there. Lethargy crept over her, and she allowed her eyelids to surrender to it. How long she dozed she could not tell, but when she wakened, there was a calm certainty in her heart. The inner tumult of the past day was over. She knew what she was going to do.

∞∞∞

Samuel had barely lifted his head after delivering the dinner blessing when Julia said, Father, I have something to tell you.

She seldom initiated dinner-table conversation, and he looked more surprised than concerned. She continued with more equanimity than she would have thought possible even twelve hours before, I have decided to accept Uncle Cyrus’s invitation to join his family at Saratoga Springs.

Silence. Then, I beg your pardon?

I have given the matter a great deal of thought and can conceive of no rational reason why I should not go. I will be in the constant company of trusted relatives. You will incur no expense on my behalf. But above all, these are people whom my mother loved. My heart convinces me she would want me to take advantage of this opportunity, particularly since I might not have another for many years to come, if ever. I would prefer to have your blessing. But if you withhold it, I shall go nonetheless and pray that you will forgive me for defying you.

A forbidding glare. My forgiveness is not what you should pray for.

She shook her head. Accepting the kindness of a much-loved relative is not a sin. I have always looked to you for guidance, as I should. But in return, you owe me justice in your decisions. In this instance, I can think of no motive for your refusal except spite.

He drew in a sharp breath. That is an evil accusation! You and I have obligations and duties in our work for the Lord, duties you cannot perform if you go gallivanting off to that den of iniquity.

"Father, they are your obligations and duties as the called pastor of this church. Since I live in your household, I am obliged to assist you in any way I can. My brief absence will not interfere with that duty."

What of my sermons? You know I cannot write them out myself due to this wretched rheumatism.

We have more than a month in which to commit them to paper. As for any other business of home or church, there is nothing that could not wait two weeks until my return.

His face was flushed, but she could see defeat in his eyes. At peace with herself, she waited for his reply.

CHAPTER TWO

June 2, 1851

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Julia watched the rented carriage pull up in front of the parsonage. She had risen at dawn and put on her Sunday-best dress, a gray muslin with black buttons down the bodice and a removable white collar. Breakfast and morning devotions had been awkward. Shortly afterward, her father had gone out. She had been standing at the parlor window ever since.

Giddy with excitement, she saw Cousin Jeremiah spring from the carriage and stride up the front path. The doorbell rang. Moments later, he burst through the parlor door and folded her in an enthusiastic embrace.

Behind him, a smiling Ellen announced with ironic formality, Mr. Jeremiah Leeds, miss.

Surely my cousin has not forgotten me so soon, laughed Jeremiah. He held her at arm’s length. Now let me have a look at you.

He was a short stocky man with blue eyes, apple cheeks and hair the color of raw honey. His mouth pursed in mock severity while he appraised her.

Just as beautiful as ever, he pronounced, and not a day older than when I last saw you. Why some lucky fellow has not whisked you to the altar by now is beyond me.

Julia blushed. Jeremiah knew as well as anyone that the likelihood of such a match was slim to none. Her social life was nonexistent except for the occasional dinner at the home of a parishioner or a chance meeting at church services or events. No parties or balls for the parson’s daughter. The few young men she met were soon put off by her father’s vocation and stern, unwelcoming manner. None had ever ventured to ask permission to call, much less to court her. She had long since reconciled herself to a life of spinsterhood.

According to Mary, she replied with a smile, you are the one flirting with the state of matrimony. I believe there is a certain young lady from Princeton town...?

He made a clucking sound. My sister has the unfortunate habit of poking her lovely nose into matters that do not concern her. Then a broad grin. I will admit, however, to a weakness for the charms of the lady in question. You will have a chance to see for yourself very soon. Indeed, your good opinion will serve to guide me forward.

A responsibility I beg to refuse. But I would be delighted to make the young lady’s acquaintance.

And so you shall. Now then, we must get your trunk loaded onto the carriage so as not to miss our train. First, I wish to pay my respects to Uncle Samuel.

Embarrassed, she lowered her eyes. I fear that will not be possible. He was called out this morning and is not expected back until dinnertime.

Well, then... He made no attempt to hide his relief. ...we must take our departure without further ado. I shall ask the driver to come for your trunk.

The article in question had belonged to Julia’s mother. Its round style dated it, but the leather was sound, the brass tacks and handle still somewhat shiny. She thought it an overly-pretentious equipage for someone of her station, but it was the only suitable container for her limited wardrobe. Fully packed with her two everyday dresses, undergarments and meager accessories, it was barely half full.

When the trunk had been duly strapped to the waiting carriage, she donned her bonnet and gloves and bade Ellen goodbye. Tears glistened in the old woman’s eyes, whether of distress or happiness it was impossible to tell.

Safe journey, miss. God go with you.

Thank you, Ellen. Heart thrumming with anticipation, she stepped out into the fine June morning.

Samuel Bigsby owned neither horse nor carriage, and Julia had seldom ridden in such a conveyance. Vowing to cherish every moment, she settled back while the driver urged the horses over to Ferry Street and thence west the four blocks to River Street, Troy’s main artery of commerce. Several blocks later, they came to a stop in front of the depot. What would have taken her fifteen or twenty minutes to walk had been accomplished in little more than five. Before she knew it, Jeremiah had jumped down and was offering his hand to assist her from the carriage.

The commercial center of Troy hummed with activity. Carriages and delivery drays and high-sided supply wagons competed for space on the teeming streets. Men in business attire, ladies out for a morning of shopping, maids pursuing errands for their mistresses, sellers hawking their wares—these and many more thronged the sidewalks, creating a noise and confusion that pummeled the senses.

A set of railroad cars belonging to the Rensselaer & Saratoga Railroad occupied the tracks that ran down the center of River Street. A team of work horses stood in their harness, waiting to haul their load over the bridge to the waiting steam locomotive. Julia had seen this sight many times, never dreaming she might one day be in a position to board those cars and be whisked away to faraway places.

She stood as if in a trance while Jeremiah oversaw the transfer of their belongings to the baggage car of the train. Up ahead, a throng of people were in the process of boarding the cars. Others hurried by on either side. She paid little attention until a slight jolt startled her from her reverie.

I beg your pardon, dear lady. The words were spoken in a deep, languid tone that reached her ears as: Ah beg yoah pahdon, deah lady. The voice continued, How very clumsy of me.

She turned and looked up into a pair of heavy-lidded blue eyes. He was tall, even taller than her father, and lean. He had ginger hair, a neat moustache, and a long aesthetic face falling just short of handsome due to a slightly receding chin.

No need to apologize, sir, she said. Given the crush, I was no doubt in your way.

Not in the least. My bag... He raised a leather valise for her inspection. ...seems to have a mind of its own. I must keep it in closer check in the future.

No harm was done, I assure you.

Then I shall bid you good day. He lifted his hat and walked on.

She watched him for a moment, then pivoted and saw Jeremiah making his way toward her. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his brow.

What bedlam! He offered her his arm. Shall we?

He paid their fare to the conductor and guided her toward the least-congested car. A smiling uniformed porter stood beside the steps, his teeth flashing white in his otherwise black face. When it was Julia’s turn to board, he bowed and offered his hand in assistance. Troy had a small Negro population, most of whom were employed in the iron furnaces or on the docks, but Julia had never had occasion to be in close personal contact with one. She wondered what his dark skin would feel like. Her glove limited this tactile experience, but she decided the warmth and texture were no different from that of any other man who earned his living through physical toil. She returned his smile, lifted her skirts with her free hand, and stepped up into the carriage.

Jeremiah held her elbow as they made their way down the aisle between the two rows of seats. The elegance of the carriage, a product of Troy’s own Eaton, Gilbert and Company coach factory, took her breath away. The ceiling was high enough that even the tallest man need not stoop. Wide windows made it seem as if there were no barrier between the passengers and the outside world. The seats were upholstered in crimson morocco and trimmed with coach lace. The car was divided lengthwise into three compartments, each one composed of panels that could be moved so as to open up the interior if the occasion demanded. They took seats in the middle compartment, Julia by the window and Jeremiah beside her.

When the car began to roll, she instinctively gripped her seat even though their speed barely equaled that of the carriage in which she had ridden just a short time before. The familiar stores and businesses crept by: the shirt and collar factory where Ellen’s niece worked, the railroad and stagecoach offices, the offices of Troy’s two newspapers, the city’s most prosperous emporium, the new building where Uncle Cyrus’s shoe factory once stood. The sight never failed to remind her of the 1848 fire that had destroyed the factory, precipitating the family’s move to Buffalo. They passed Troy House, the city’s premier hotel where Jeremiah had spent the previous night. Just beyond it lay the town square with its sparkling fountain. Then came the mammoth brick Fulton Market followed by the shipyard and the Troy Museum.

The bridge spanning the Hudson River from Troy to Green Island was a sixteen-hundred-foot engineering marvel. As they crossed it, Julia looked south and saw a ferry steaming from Troy to one of the docks of West Troy. A large steamboat was unloading freight in Troy. Many smaller craft made their way to and fro. To the north, the emerald islands of the Hudson’s main channel basked in warm sunshine. She was still marveling at this strange new perspective on what had always seemed to be mundane sights when the train reached the far end of the bridge.

The locomotive was waiting up ahead, its smokestack belching steam and smoke like some mythical dragon. The cars squealed to a halt. Interminable minutes passed while they waited for the horses to be unhitched and the cars to be coupled onto the locomotive. A sharp jolt told them the job was finished. Two short blasts of the engine’s steam whistle, a series of jerks, and they were on their way.

The tracks turned north through the Village of West Troy. At the northern end of Green Island, they crossed to Van Schaick’s Island over a covered wooden bridge some five hundred feet long. The Village of Waterford sat at the junction of the Mohawk and Hudson Rivers. There the train stopped to let off and take on passengers. Many had come to see Cohoes Falls, a forty-foot cascade half a mile above the town. Julia remembered going there with her uncle’s family on a Sunday afternoon when she was a child. The roaring cataract had seemed every bit as wonderful as the fabled Niagara Falls. She smiled at the memory as she waited for the train journey to resume.

Once underway, their speed gradually increased until it reached a fearful twenty miles per hour. Julia’s initial apprehension gave way to exhilaration as she watched the countryside race by. They were traversing a broad fertile valley bordered by rolling hills beyond which, to the east, rose the lofty Green Mountains. Farms and tiny hamlets lay sleeping among newly-sprouted fields and verdant forests. Delighted by the beauty and novelty of it all, Julia barely noticed the passage of time. Sooner than she would have wished, the train began to slow on its approach to Ballston Spa, seat of Saratoga County.

The town lay on the southern end of the string of mineral springs that had brought such fame to the area. It boasted its own celebrated hotels and tonic mineral waters, although the most fashionable people still congregated at Saratoga Springs six-and-a-half miles to the north. Julia looked out on a small but bustling village that boasted several church spires and a large brick courthouse. The passengers leaving and boarding the train swarmed in a confused mass but eventually sorted themselves out. The train jerked forward on the final leg of the journey.

Twenty minutes later, they entered the Village of Saratoga Springs. They passed behind a series of large buildings to the east and more modest dwellings and a freight house to the west. Next on the west came a long, tree-shaded park surrounded by substantial private homes. Finally, across from the park on a diagonal, the train station. They squealed to a stop, and Julia thought she might faint from excitement.

Jeremiah leaned across her and jabbed the window with his forefinger. There! There they are!

She followed his gaze. A man and woman stood in the shade of the depot awning. It took her a moment to recognize Uncle Cyrus as he had grown a full beard. The woman beside him was even more foreign to her eyes. She had last seen her cousin Mary when the girl was but fifteen, little more than a child. Now she carried the full figure of a woman. She wore a fashionable pale-blue day frock with ankle-length, double-tiered skirt, tailored jacket, and a ruff of ecru lace around the throat. Curls of honey-colored hair peeked out beneath a straw bonnet trimmed with blue and violet flowers. Julia would not have known her if they had passed within a few feet of one another on the street.

Come along, Cousin, said Jeremiah. We must not tarry.

He had moved out into the aisle and was blocking the passengers behind so she would have an unobstructed pathway out of the carriage. She rose without further delay and moved ahead of him down the aisle. The moment she reached the carriage steps, she saw Mary raise her hand and wave. She waved back, then gave her hand to the same porter who had helped her up some four hours before. She stepped down into the confusion of the station platform.

In addition to the disembarking passengers and those who had come to greet them, a bewildering array of porters sought clients for their hotels by shouting out the virtues of their particular establishment. Baggage carts maneuvered as best they could in the crush. They all might have been imaginary wraiths without form or substance, so intent was Julia on reaching her uncle and cousin. Jeremiah held her arm, but it was she who pressed ahead until, amid cries of joy, she was finally in their mutual embrace.

When greetings had been said all around and tears wiped from dampened eyes, Jeremiah and his father went off to see to the luggage. A moment of awkwardness seized the two women. Three years of correspondence did not erase the fact that they were virtual strangers in need of re-acquaintance. Finally, Julia said,

You have grown up since last I saw you.

A small giggle. Well, I should hope so. I just passed my eighteenth birthday, after all.

Another silence during which Julia felt a strange tingling at the nape of her neck. She glanced to her left and saw the tall ginger-haired man with the sleepy voice passing by. He met her gaze and paused in mid-stride. She inclined her head in recognition. He raised his hat, then continued on.

Mary gave a little squeal and clapped her gloved hands. You have a beau, Cousin. Who is he?

I have no idea. And he most certainly is not my beau.

Hm-m. More’s the pity. She gave a wicked grin. He surely is handsome.

Julia laughed. That he is.

So how did you meet him?

I did not meet him. Not properly, anyway. He jostled me with his valise at the depot in Troy and stopped to apologize. There was nothing in the least romantic about it.

How can you say for certain? Stranger things have happened.

Julia shook her head, a fond smile on her lips. Perhaps you have not changed so much, after all. Your imagination is certainly as active as ever.

And you are just as practical and boring. Together we make a rather interesting whole, would you not agree?

The smile widened. An intriguing thought, to be sure.

They saw Uncle Cyrus and Jeremiah cutting toward them through the crowd. Julia was struck by their familial resemblance. They were both short and thick, the younger man still fit, the older even more stout than the last time she had seen him, his legs like spindles forced to support a weight not intended for their fragile makeup. The merry blue eyes and chipmunk cheeks were the same, as was the kind, open expression. She felt a surge of warmth as they maneuvered past the last cluster of passengers to join them.

Finally, said Mary. Now we can escape this mad place.

They entered the bustling depot and emerged into the sunshine on the far side. Before them lay a grassy, tree-shaded area where people strolled or congregated in congenial groups. Mary opened her parasol, held it so it would shade them both, and hooked her arm through Julia’s.

Look over there, she said, inclining her head across the busy street that ran eastward from the tracks. That is where we are staying. The United States Hotel.

Julia saw a mammoth white structure that dwarfed the buildings on the near side of the block. Speechless, she waited until they had been flanked by Jeremiah and Uncle Cyrus, then stepped out into the street. When they reached the inviting grounds and rear piazzas of the hotel, Uncle Cyrus started to turn in.

Oh, no, Papa, said Mary. May we  not go around to the front? I want Julia to have a proper first impression.

He gave an indulgent smile and changed course so they walked alongside the building in question.

This is the most famous and luxurious hotel in all of Saratoga, said Mary, her voice ringing with pride and excitement. Senator Webster of Massachusetts is here, as well as some distant member of the British royal family. Oh, and Commodore Vanderbilt and his retinue are scheduled to arrive next week. You know of him? One of the richest men in the entire nation! To think that we humble beings shall see him in our day-to-day comings and goings.

Such boasting does not suit you, Mary, said her father. We are all Americans, no one more important in God’s eyes than the next.

Mary was unbowed. That is certainly true, Papa. But there are enough differences in the eyes of mankind to catch one’s attention. I merely point out the most obvious one.

To avoid even the slightest inter-family tension on this marvelous day of reunion, Julia turned to Mary and said, When did you arrive in Saratoga?

Yesterday. She made a pouty face. Such a dreadful journey! We came by packet boat along the canal to Schenectady and from there by train. Five long, tedious days. But Papa says we shall take the train home from Albany after our visit in Troy. That will be much more agreeable.

As one unused to travel, Julia thought the described journey sounded like the greatest of pleasures, but she kept her opinion to herself.

Mary continued, Now you must tell us all the latest news from Troy.

Julia obliged, but the account occupied only a small portion of her mind. The remainder was busy taking in the wonders of this fabled town. The predominant color was white, each building glistening in the noonday sun like images of the New Jerusalem. The hotel along whose flanking wing they now walked was no exception. It rose to a towering three-and-a-half stories with pale-gray shutters framing each individual window. She felt dwarfed and diminished beneath its grandeur.

They came to the intersecting street, a boulevard at least twice as wide as any street she had ever seen. A line of youthful elm trees marched in either direction between pretty squares of railing-enclosed grass and the pedestrian sidewalk. They turned the corner, and she saw the hotel’s front facade in all its glory, its wide piazza supported by more than twenty soaring white columns. They climbed the shallow stairs, acknowledged an elderly couple promenading up and down the piazza, and passed through the entrance and into the lobby.

The interior was cool and dim compared with the June heat outside. Straight ahead, a double staircase curved around a bubbling fountain with a marble swan at its center. Double doorways on either side opened onto a grand drawing room and various smaller parlors, as well as a smoking and billiard room for the gentlemen and a vast dining room where people were already being seated for dinner. Julia stood frozen, eyes wide as she attempted to absorb the impressions bombarding her senses.

Uncle Cyrus consulted his pocket watch and suggested they go in to dinner while they waited for the travelers’ luggage to arrive. The proposition evoked pangs of hunger, and Julia was happy to be led in the direction of the dining room.

∞∞∞

After the meal, Uncle Cyrus sent Julia and Mary upstairs to rest. Their shared room was on the hotel’s third floor overlooking the tree-shaded rear grounds. They lay down as instructed, but rather than sleep, they took the time to continue rediscovering each other. Mary had much to tell about her new life in Buffalo, which included a social whirl of parties and dances, teas, sleigh rides and suitors. It was a world to which Julia would never belong, and she suppressed twinges of un-Christian envy even as she resolved to be happy for her cousin’s good fortune. She asked about her Aunt Louise’s last illness and death. They wept together while recalling memories of a woman they had both loved. By the time Uncle Cyrus knocked on their door, they had not closed their eyes once.

Downstairs, they entered one of the small parlors and found Jeremiah in the company of another group of guests. He had lost little time in sleuthing out the object of his romantic ardor and was even now charming her entire family. He waved them over and introduced them to Dr. Richard Delancey, a physician who practiced in the town of Princeton, his wife Alma and their three daughters, the oldest of whom was Jeremiah’s Annabelle. She was a beauty by any standard. She had widely-spaced gray eyes and a generous mouth set in an oval face. Her auburn hair was dressed to reveal a long, graceful neck. She stood several inches taller than Julia, on a par with Jeremiah himself, but her carriage was upright and proud, her figure alluring. Jeremiah had met her at a Christmas ball the previous year and had been courting her ever since.

The group passed a congenial hour, after which Julia, Mary and Uncle Cyrus went for a stroll in the gardens. As the long summer afternoon slipped into twilight, they returned to their rooms to dress for tea. Since Julia was already wearing her best dress, she freshened herself and helped Mary into her rose-colored evening gown. The hotel abounded in ladies in exquisite dress, but Julia thought her cousin with her pretty round face and innocent blue eyes drew her fair share of admiring glances as they entered the dining room and took their places at their table.

After the meal, she and Mary joined the other ladies in the elegant drawing room while the gentlemen