Chapter One
Brooklyn Heights
March 7, 1887, 7:00 a.m.
A persistent skittering sound from the darkened space
between floor and baseboard pulls Isabella from an uneasy
sleep. She sits up, shivering in her thin cambric nightgown,
scanning the room. The bed in which she lies, no more than
rusting scrap iron, creaks ominously as she hugs her knees
to her chest.
Her gaze travels from an old sideboard with broken drawer
pulls to the green curtains hanging like seaweed from the
window, resting finally on a scattering of black pellets
that confirm the origin of the sound coming from the
floorboards.
Mice. She hates mice.
What is she doing here? She wonders if she is insane after all.
But the day has begun, and there's no use crouching in a
ball feeling sorry for herself, wishing only that she could
drift back to sleep and pick up the threads of her dream.
She had been a child again, with Henry's large hands
gripping hers, swinging her by the arms, both of them
laughing; she, knowing he would not let go, knowing it was
safe to throw her head back and not worry that her feet were
nowhere near the ground.
Fully awake now, Isabella presses her fists into her eyes to
stop sudden tears. At this moment a few houses away, Henry
lies in his own bed, cut down by a stroke. Everyone from
President Cleveland to Queen Victoria is keeping a death
vigil for Henry Ward Beecher, for his eloquent preaching has
enthralled the country for decades. But she, his sister,
uneasy occupant of a garret room, is keeping vigil for the
brother who played with her as a child, the one who hasn't
spoken to her in fifteen years.
"Why?" John Hooker's voice had been more exasperated than
astonished when she told him she was going to Brooklyn. His
face had that worried look which she had come to know so
well through the long years of their marriage. "You've got
this vague idea that he wants to see you. If you show up
now, that family of yours will pull you apart. You're making
a mistake."
"I want to see him before he dies. He's my brother; I love him."
"He's in a coma."
"He'll know I'm there."
"What is it you want, Bella? An apology?"
"I want...mutual forgiveness."
"You are fantasizing," John said somberly.
"I have to try," she said.
She knows the words ring hollow. Persuading Henry's wife to
let her see Henry will not be easy. Eunice does not forgive.
Isabella swings her feet to the floor, searching with her
toes for her slippers before padding to the window. People
are gathering on the sidewalk. There are some with heads
bent, praying silently, probably Henry's parishioners from
Plymouth Church. But most are men milling about, talking in
low voices, stamping their feet to warm them on this frosty
morning. They wear bowler hats, cheap black ones, which mark
them as reporters. Maybe it is the angle of the hats --
jaunty, pushed back -- but she knows there is more going on
down there than a death watch. Those men are salivating for
a meal long gone cold. They want to revive what twelve years
ago they dubbed the "trial of the century." Henry's trial.
They want it back in all its lurid detail: the accusing,
cuckolded Theodore Tilton raging for justice; his waiflike
wife, Elizabeth, alternately confessing and denying her
guilt; Henry, insisting he, as a man of God, would never
commit adultery.
Twelve years now since the scandal that tore her family
apart. Twelve years since she and her brothers and sisters
were said to wobble on their national pedestal of moral
virtue. The Beecher family, shaken by accusations of Henry's
human frailty -- that was the story reporters fed on, and it
was true.
She knows the scandal still courses under the surface,
emerging from time to time in jokes and ditties sung on the
streets and in the saloons. And she knows that even though
Henry continued to preach on Sundays from the pulpit of
Plymouth Church, his voice was never again quite as strong
or his demeanor quite as confident.
Had those snickers and snatches of song bothered him? Or did
he come so to believe his own recounting of events that he
became detached from the pain and the lies that destroyed so
much? Isabella wonders where that calamity lives in his
heart. She knows where it is in hers.
She draws back into the room. She can't afford to let anyone
see her yet, particularly her sister Harriet, who arrived in
her carriage late last night. It was Harriet, after all, who
sent the chilly note reminding her she was not welcome in
Henry's home. Sitting back in Hartford with that note on her
lap, staring at the formality of its stiff phrasing, parsing
each word for hidden meaning, Isabella had made her
decision: enough of deferring to the nurtured wrath of her
family. She would go to Brooklyn.
She walks now over to the chest and picks up a pink
tortoiseshell hand mirror, stroking the garnet beads that
frame the back in a graceful, curving line. How many times
has she done this? Hundreds of times.
"They aren't real," Hattie had said quickly when Isabella,
with a cry of pleasure, pulled the mirror from its wrappings
on her fifteenth birthday.
"Why would I care? It's beautiful, Hattie, it's the most
beautiful thing I own. Thank you, thank you!" She threw her
arms around her older sister.
"I wanted you to have something elegant," Hattie whispered,
hugging her back. "I wanted you to see how lovely you are.
But be sure to keep it in your room. Father would disapprove."
Isabella had nodded silently. Lyman Beecher was a towering
figure of moral authority, both at home and throughout the
nation, and he would call this a vain, frivolous gift, a
bauble flouting modesty, an occasion for the sin of pride.
It awed her to realize Hattie was willing to risk his
displeasure.
"I would like to be a writer someday, like you," Isabella
had said shyly as Hattie leaned over to pick up the wrapping
paper crumpled on the floor. Harriet glanced up with a
smile, and then said something Isabella would never forget:
"You are a dear girl, Bella, and just as smart as anyone in
this family, and you will find your own way. I want you to
start by enjoying the gifts God has given you."
So long ago...Isabella stares down at the mirror in her
hand. She has never reached the level of Hattie's fame, but
she has made a name for herself. She has traveled the
country, speaking and organizing women to fight for suffrage
and legal rights, trying to instill in them a passion for
what should be theirs. She has tried to stay true to her
values. Would that Hattie valued her for that.
Why has she kept this old treasure all these years? And why
did she bring it with her?
Slowly she turns the mirror and stares into the glass. She
no longer sees the surface image -- the dark hair and smooth
skin that still draw attention. She would like to find some
clue as to who she really is, but the mirror won't tell her
that. So what is she looking for? Hattie, of course. All her
life, she has looked for resemblance to the vibrant,
brilliant sister she loves most, straining to see more
similarity than could ever have been possible with two
different mothers. How exciting it had felt as a young woman
to stand proudly and say, "Yes, my sister is Harriet Beecher
Stowe, and yes, she is indeed the author of Uncle Tom's
Cabin." How thrilling to realize her big sister had awakened
the nation to the evils of slavery and shaped the focus of
the War Between the States, an amazing achievement, all with
the imagined story of one humble man.
"Hattie, where did you go? Where are you?" She listens to
the sound of her own voice in the empty room, hearing it
more as an echo deep from the past. From when?
She closes her eyes. It was that first summer in Cincinnati,
after Lyman Beecher moved the entire family west to
establish a new seminary. She was ten years old. She can
feel the spongy wood of the old dock under her feet, smell
the acrid, soupy air, hear the water sloshing against the
rotting piles.
The weather was burning hot, but she didn't care. She loved
being with Hattie on any venture, and going down to the
river was the most fun. It seemed to her this time that the
crowd of grown-ups around her were jostling one another too
much, and Harriet explained they were impatient for the
late-arriving mail boat. Just like me, she said with a
smile. If I get the big batch of student applications I'm
hoping for, our new school can open and we can all make some
money. Isabella smiled back and held on tight to her
sister's hand as they pressed to the front of the crowd.
But it wasn't a mail boat steaming up the Ohio River to the
dock. It was a vessel with the name The Emigrant painted on
the bow. Its deck was jammed with people, most of them
half-naked, the hot sun glistening off the sweat of black
skin. They seemed to sway in unison with the vessel as it
approached across the lapping waves. Isabella guessed there
were a hundred of them.
"Hattie? Who are those people?" she whispered, tugging at
her sister's sleeve.
"Slaves," Harriet said, pulling her little sister closer,
squeezing her hand.
The boat docked amidst shouts from the crowd on the wharf.
"About time!" yelled one. "We've got eight escaped ones for
you!"
"Bella, let's go," Harriet said, sounding alarmed. "This
isn't the mail boat." But the crowd was pushing forward, and
they couldn't retreat. Isabella lifted a hand to keep her
hat from being knocked off, still staring at the people on
the deck as the vessel docked.
They were close up now. There were men and women, and there
were children too. She saw a girl about her own age and
impulsively waved. The girl slowly raised an arm but kept it
motionless, as if to shield her eyes from the sun. Only then
did Isabella see an iron cuff on her wrist. From it swung a
chain of iron links, one looped through another, like the
daisy chain of paper Isabella had made that very day at home
for her mother. Her eyes followed the links to a woman
standing next to the child, to a band on her wrist. And from
there to a man, and from there to another child. They were
all chained together.
"Hattie -- " Isabella turned to her sister, but she wasn't
there. A man's arm pushed her aside. A corridor had been
improvised through the crowd, and eight people with dark
skin were walking single file to the boat, their hands
cuffed in front of them, each held to the others by the same
heavy chains. One had white hair; he looked a little like
Father, except for his skin color. His head hung heavy, and
his arms shook under the weight of the iron.
"Where are they going?" Isabella yelled to the man on the
boat who had just tied up at the dock.
"To market, child," he said with a cheerful grin. "Know
anyone who needs a good colored? We grow 'em ripe in Kentucky."
A commotion broke out back in the crowd, and a man pushed
forward. "You can't take that one!" he shouted at the boat
captain. "That big buck there, he's mine. I own 'im! Took me
a month to track him down!" He pointed at a man with sturdy
shoulders and a long scar cut ragged across his nose and
right cheek.
"You'll have to prove it on the other side," the captain
said, a careless thumb pointing toward the Kentucky shore.
"I paid a bounty hunter for him, fair and square."
The man asserting ownership was standing now next to
Isabella. His eyes were furious. "He's my property, damn it.
I own him, not you. And I'll prove it." He turned, pointing
at the man with a scar. "Silas, you kneel!" he yelled. "I'm
your master, and you know it. Kneel!"
Isabella watched, transfixed, as the man with the scar
stared straight ahead. He seemed turned to stone.
"Kneel, damn it!"
The man with the scar didn't so much kneel as buckle at the
knees. The movement jerked the chain shackling him to the
others, causing a slightly built woman in front of him to
stumble back and almost fall.
Someone laughed.
"You haven't proved anything, you just scared the son of a
bitch," the captain said with a chuckle. "All right, climb
on. We'll hash it out on the other side."
The man was still on his knees, his head hanging down
between his arms, which were pulled taut by the connecting
chain. He looked like he was praying, Isabella thought.
"Get up," said the captain. He yanked on the chain, pulling
the slave to his feet. The line moved on again. When the man
shuffled past Isabella, she smelled something strange and
acrid, a very different smell from that of sweat on a hot
day. What was she smelling? Suddenly panicked, Isabella
began flailing against the legs of the men pressing forward.
"Hattie, Hattie, where did you go?" she wailed. "Where are you?"
Someone shouted that a child was alone on the dock. Men who
had been focused on the escaped slaves began looking down at
her, which only made her scream louder. One tried to pick
her up, and she punched out at him, refusing touch or help.
But then suddenly Hattie's familiar arms were wrapped around
her.
"I thought I lost you, I thought you fell in the water,"
Harriet said, holding her tight, her voice shaky with relief.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Isabella sobbed. "I'm sorry I let go."
Later that night, back at home in Walnut Hills, they lay in
bed, hugging each other. "Hattie, what did I smell when
those poor people in chains were going onto the boat? What
was it?" Isabella asked.
Harriet pulled her so close, she could feel the thumping of
her heart. "You smelled fear, Bella," she said. "The fear of
people who are never free. It's wrong, it's wrong."
Isabella would remember that talk with Harriet as her first
lesson on the dark contradictions of human souls. Good
people turned away from slavery because they felt no moral
obligation to interfere, Harriet said, her voice trembling
with anger. They wanted trade with the South, so they kept
quiet. Hypocrisy was the enemy of truth, she said. It was
the coward's way out, and don't you forget it, Bella.
In the boardinghouse, she wipes her eyes, reminding herself
that brooding only feeds the strange pleasure of melancholy,
and she cannot afford that anymore. She has to believe that
Harriet suffers too, otherwise their love for each other
could not have been real, and that would be a travesty. The
big sister who taught her to read at the age of five by
holding up word cards, who patiently coaxed her through
learning her sums, who walked her to school each day for
those precious few years she was allowed to attend -- could
she truly be gone? No, it wasn't possible.
But the truth is, her family is gathering today in a house
that has no room for her. In this neighborhood of elegant
homes graced with mellow brownstone stoops and finely
wrought iron balustrades, she sits in a room with mouse
droppings. On the sidewalk, the reporters think of her as
the shunned daughter of the famed Beecher family. The
pariah. What an irony that her banishment came for telling
the truth.
"I am not crazy," she whispers into the air. "No matter who
says so."
She hears something new from outside, a different sound. A
snatch of song? Isabella goes back to the window and gazes
across the street in the direction of Plymouth Church. She
glances again at the sidewalk in front of Henry's house and
sees the bowler hats watching a strange-looking creature
perform some kind of dance. She rubs her eyes. It cannot be.
But yes, a man dressed as a caricature of Uncle Tom, his
face darkened with lampblack and burnt cork, his lips wide,
thick, and painted a gleaming white, is prancing before the
Beecher home.
Beecher, Beecher is my name --
Beecher till I die!
I never kissed Mis' Tilton --
I never told a lie!
"Go away, you stupid fool!" she screams before she can stop
herself. She sticks her fist out the window and shakes it,
venting her rage, only to see the figure in blackface dance
away down the street, followed by the guilty chuckles of the
bowler hats.
A right turn from this dreary rooming house onto the
sidewalk leads down the street, past three houses, and
across the road directly to 124 Hicks Street. Henry Ward
Beecher's home is tall and sturdy, built solidly of dull
brick. The windows are elegantly corniced, capable of
providing ample sunlight to the interior, but the shutters
inside are tightly drawn. A sleepy-looking newsboy stands at
the corner, waving newspapers at the few carriages now
bumping across the cobblestones, pulled by horses expertly
keeping their balance, lifting their hooves high over the
familiar terrain. henry ward beecher in coma, reads the
headline of the paper in his grubby hand. Below it, renowned
american family gathers for vigil.
The carriage occupants stare at the Beecher home. He's
dying, they whisper to one another. The old man is dying.
The most brilliant preacher in America, that's what everyone
says. Even more than his father was...What was his name?
Lyman. Lyman Beecher. A family of preachers, all of them.
Except for the women.
Inside the house, dust hangs in the air. The windows have
not been opened in days. The walls of the parlor to the
right of the front door are covered in very expensive satin
paper, purchased for three dollars a roll (thirteen single
rolls to do the job) but unfortunately in a snuff brown
color that Eunice Beecher insisted upon because she was sure
it would fade and she didn't want to start with something
too light. It has not faded.
The stairs are steep, and any visitors today will be met at
the top with the mix of sweet and acrid smells of the
sickroom: tallow, various medicinal syrups, slops,
perspiration. In the presence of illness, Eunice does not
believe in excessive ventilation.
There is, unsurprisingly, little light in Henry's sickroom.
A coal fire not stoked for hours has burned out, leaving
white ash in the fireplace. The room is cold, so cold. At
the foot of the bed stands the small figure of a woman with
slightly sunken cheeks and dark eyes that seem too big for
her face. But Harriet Beecher Stowe stands erect, projecting
a strength that commands the room as she crosses her arms,
tucking her fingers under the armpits of her compact body
for warmth. She wears one of her usual severe black dresses,
a tacit acknowledgment that the mourning of one loss quite
quickly blends into the mourning of another, and sometimes
it is too much effort to change one's wardrobe. Her hair is
pulled back into a tight bun.
Henry lies motionless, his body, sheathed in a white
blanket, an imposing hillock rising from the bed. His
inordinately large head takes up the entire pillow, but
without animation his face looks oddly loose and fleshy. His
long, white hair lies tamed, tucked behind his ears, and his
eyes are closed.
It makes Harriet uneasy to stare at him when he looks so
vulnerable. Her eyes turn in the direction of the oak
armoire, where her sister-in-law is rummaging for something
in a large trunk under the windowsill.
"What are you looking for? Can I help?" she asks.
"No, I've found it." Eunice pulls out a black silk dress and
briskly shakes it. "I'll have the girl air this out and iron
it. I'll need a hat and veil. A heavy veil."
Harriet tightens her arms across her chest and looks away.
Eunice is preparing for Henry's funeral, actually planning
her wardrobe as he lies in his bed, still breathing.
"You find what I do inappropriate?" Eunice turns and faces
Harriet, her long, thin face looking even more sallow than
usual.
"I judge you in no way, Eunice. You have a great deal on
your mind right now and a great burden to bear. I understand."
Eunice lets the dress fall heavy in her hands, the skirt
touching the floor. "Well, you don't really, but you're
trying to say the right thing. In truth, you think I'm
detached." Her gaze shifts to the bed. "The person lying
there" -- she nods to the still figure in the bed -- "that
isn't really Henry."
"Eunice -- "
"Fiddlesticks." Eunice's voice is matter-of-fact. "Henry has
no time to die. He'll be rushing through the door any
minute, tugging at his collar, saying he's hungry, imploring
me to sit and listen to his latest brilliant sermon, as if I
didn't have anything better to do. And then he'll be gone,
hardly having seen me, hugging the maids and patting the
shoulders of neighbors on the street and never once touching
me." She gestures toward the window. "And then I'll stand
here and watch him as he strides across the street to where
he really lives. His church."
Harriet breathes deeply, trying to shape a response. All
these years of puzzling over this difficult sister-in-law.
What came first, her dour approach to life or Henry's desire
to flee? It is far too tender a question to speak about
openly in the family, but there have been whispers about her
refusing Henry his marital rights. What are her secrets?
Once Henry told Harriet that Eunice's father threw a tureen
of hot soup on his daughter when, as a young girl, she wore
a slightly low-cut dress to dinner. Harriet tries to imagine
not only the shock of such a physical scalding but the shame
and humiliation the poor woman must have felt. It makes a
charitable response easier.
"This is his home, Eunice. With you," she says.
Eunice makes no reply.
The nurse suddenly appears at the door. "Where have you
been?" Eunice demands.
"Taking my breakfast, ma'am."
Harriet sees the dislike in the nurse's eyes as she glances
at Eunice and then approaches the bed. She has seen the same
expression on the faces of several servants in the short
time she has been here. There is more than one reason why
this house is so cold.
Her gaze travels to her brother. He hasn't spoken a word
since his stroke two days ago. Is she imagining it, or is
his breathing more shallow than last night? The doctors know
nothing. They stand around the bed and clear their throats
and say he is a very sick man, and the outcome is doubtful,
although, well, he might regain consciousness.
He "might"? How could that be, when only a few weeks ago, on
her last visit, he had entered the parlor in his great
melton coat, the cape thrown over one shoulder, a slouch hat
covering his long, flowing hair, laughing and having his
usual convivial exchanges with friends while she and Eunice
provided refreshments? How could someone larger than life be
brought down so fast?
"Is there no improvement?"
"No, Mrs. Stowe, I don't see any, but you never know. I've
had patients who came back -- sometimes only for an hour or
so, but they talked away and sometimes they recovered."
Harriet bends to stroke her brother's forehead and senses
Eunice stiffening. She steps back, quick to cede position.
Eunice lifts her husband's head and begins briskly plumping
up his pillows.
"Don't shake him, Mrs. Beecher," warns the nurse. "It's not
good."
"I'm not shaking him."
Harriet hears the chanting outside first. Moving swiftly to
the window, she opens it before Eunice can object.
Beecher, Beecher is my name --
Beecher till I die!
I never kissed Mis' Tilton --
I never told a lie!
Eunice turns from the bed and put her hands to her ears.
"Close that window," she demands and whirls on the nurse.
"Call the police, do you hear? I want that scum outside
removed! Now, do you hear? Now!"
The nurse pales, and Harriet can see the indignation -- and
then the uncertainty -- in her eyes as she hurries from the
room, eager to be gone as fast as possible. Eunice rushes
out after her, running downstairs, her hands still over her
ears. Harriet sees her pause only briefly at the polished
hardwood telephone box that hangs in the hall. She can
imagine the berating the nurse will get on the ground floor
for not having used Mr. Bell's telephone to call the police,
but Eunice, clearly, is not interested in making the call
herself. Harriet's pity for her sister-in-law is dissipating
rapidly.
Harriet slams the window shut and presses her forehead
against the glass. She is having a hard time drawing a deep
breath, but not because of that prancing fool in blackface.
The angry yell spiraling up from the street, that was
Isabella. She knows her sister's voice.
She moves to the side of her brother's bed and sinks to her
knees. Will she have to protect him against yet another
assault? Just remembering him up on that stand in the
Brooklyn courthouse, facing mocking lawyers and treacherous
friends -- it is too much. Bella had no judgment then, and
certainly would have none now. What did she hope to
accomplish by coming to Brooklyn Heights? She had to be here
to put herself somehow at the center of Henry's dying,
that's what she was about. She was trying once again to
force herself to center stage.
Henry moans, and his eyelids seem to flutter. Harriet
catches her breath. Will he open his eyes? Look at me just
once more, she pleads silently. But his eyes remain closed.
Harriet stands up and pulls a chair close to the bed, still
hearing in her head the coarse chant from the sidewalk.
There is no way to erase what the trial did to Henry's life.
He has come through it and lived honorably, but the press
will be delighted to drag the details out again. There will
be no stopping them, of that, she is sure.
Harriet takes a folded washcloth from the bedstand, moistens
it with water from a small earthenware pitcher, and presses
it to Henry's cracked lips. It is perhaps a futile gesture,
but she has to do something. How much care is he getting
from the nurse, she wonders. Or, more to the point, from Eunice.
A memory flashes: Bella turning to her on one occasion when
Eunice's disapproving presence had flattened out a family
evening and whispering, "Save us from the sourpuss." Harriet
had giggled into her napkin, delighted with her sister's
mischievous streak. The Bella she remembers from those years
would certainly have had something pithy to say about Eunice
already planning her wardrobe for the funeral.
But not anymore. Bella's sense of mischief turned
destructive long ago, and what she is most capable of now is
something melodramatic and harmful. Had Calvin been right?
Harriet cannot forget his comment about Bella's shocking
behavior before the trial. "Hattie, don't expect anything
from Bella. Separate blood breeds separate loyalties," he
had said.
"Are you implying we are not true sisters?" she'd demanded.
"You have different mothers. I'm saying that means different
natures." He had looked tired, as if unwilling to go another
round with his strong-willed wife.
"That's absurd. She's a Beecher, and Beechers stand together."
"Well said. But it isn't happening."
He was right, of course. But why then, as she sits next to
Henry's shrouded, still form, bracing for his imminent
death, does the sound of her sister's voice almost move her
to tears?
Deep in memory, something else stirs, the sound of another
angry, spiraling wail. She closes her eyes and grabs again
at the flailing fists of thirteen-year-old Bella, trying to
hold her close. Poor child, her mother gone. The beautiful,
melancholic stepmother who cared not a fig for her
stepchildren, but whose death had left Bella bereft. It was
strange to soothe her little sister that day, strange to
feel again a distant mourning for her own lost mother, and
only detachment for the loss of this one.
"Hattie, help me. I'm trying to accept God's will, but I can't!"
"You don't have to." Harriet's voice caught.
"No, no, Papa says I grieve too much and it is a sin."
"He's wrong."
Bella's eyes widened at this apostasy. "But he never is,"
she whispered.
"Bella." Harriet cupped her sister's chin in her hands and
looked her straight in the eye. Even as she spoke she felt
her recklessness. Who was she, at twenty-four, to challenge
the orthodoxy of her father? But it was what she and Henry
talked about, somewhat guardedly, to be sure, for they did
not want to hurt or outrage Lyman Beecher. Yet was his
vision of a vengeful God the only one in this day and age?
"God will forgive you. Grieving is not a sin," she said.
How startling to realize, all these years later, why her
eyes are indeed filling with tears. The look of gratitude on
Bella's young face, the sense of having lifted a stone from
that sister's heart, had forged a bond of love. Harriet had
thought it would last for eternity.
Copyright © 2008 by Patricia O'Brien