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Where Two Rivers Meet

By Londa Hayden

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-1-
Blood Sisters
Washington’s Woods, 1767

A search for my maidservant led me down a shadowy path. I stopped and listened. Sobs whispered in echoes above other night sounds, guiding me. I pushed the shed door. It didn’t budge. Climbing to the top of a barrel, I slipped through an open window. A full moon illuminated the space. There she was—huddled in the corner, her dress bloodied and shredded. Her petite ten-year old frame bore the whelps of rage, glaring back at me.
“Jasmine, what happened?” I ran to her side.
“I spilled the foreman’s drink at supper tonight,” she said.
My heart sank as I studied her wounds. “I wish we didn't live in Virginia. I hate slavery.”
Jasmine whispered, “Shh, Miss Constance, someone could hear.”
I swallowed hard, choking back my emotions. “The people here are so mean.” My voice quivered. “It makes me ashamed to be white.” Tears moistened my cheeks as I knelt to tend her wounds. I tore a piece of fabric from my petticoat.
Jasmine flinched as I dabbed at her back. The smell of blood mingled with sweat, mold, and hay turned my stomach. I looked away. The nausea faded when my attention veered to a mouse, scampering down a wood stack, disappearing through a hole.
“The foreman shouldn't have done this to you. I’ll tell my father tomorrow.”
“No!” Jasmine pleaded. “Please don’t. It will only make things worse.”
“But I can’t stand by and let him keep doing this to you.” I sat back and sighed, realizing I couldn’t do anymore for her. Pain surged when my finger hit against a sickle. “Ouch!” I raised my hand, a red stream trickled. On the boarded wall, my profile silhouetted in soft moonlight as dots fell, staining my dress. I turned to Jasmine. “You’re my best friend. My only friend. We are like sisters, you and I. Don’t you feel the same?”
“Yes. You know I do.”
Taking hold of her finger, I pressed it to the sickle’s edge.
“Ow!” she yelped. “Why did you do that?”
I held my finger to hers, allowing our blood to mingle. “Now we’re blood sisters.”
Staring back, she asked, “What are blood sisters?”
“Blood sisters are together forever. It means you can never be sold or sent away from me. I vow to always be here for you and to never leave your side, Jasmine. Now you do the same.”
Jasmine pushed herself to her knees, while keeping her finger pressed to mine. Looking into my eyes, she said, “I vow to always be here for you, Miss Constance, never to leave your side.”
“By God’s grace, let it be so.” I nodded, indicating her to do the same.
“By God’s grace, let it be…”
The latch rattled. We both winced and scooted together into the shadows as the door creaked open. It was the foreman.
“Well now, what have we here? Miss Constance is it?” he said, leaning in and squinting.
I held back, saying nothing.
“Come now,” he said, snarling. “Does your father know you’re here?”
I hesitated to answer, but my anger got the best of me. “Why do you hurt your own kind?”
“I’m not a slave,” he snapped.
“But you’re black.”
“That don’t matter,” He scowled. “I’m still in charge here.”
I stood to face him, fists clenched. “How dare you beat my servant girl. I’m going to tell my father what you did.”
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t think you’ll be doing any such thing. In fact, my guess is Master William don’t even know your whereabouts at all. Am I right?”
“That’s none of your concern,” I said. I took a deep breath and tightened my jaw.
He stepped toward me, pulling at his trousers.
I gasped, eyes shifting to Jasmine.
She pushed the sickle handle toward me. I grabbed hold and flung it at the foreman’s calves.
He screamed, fell to his knees, lodging the blade deep into his flesh.
Jasmine and I scurried out the door. Clasping hands, we ran to the house. “You’ll never be left alone again. I promise.”

Fall 1773—Six Years Later

I was born a master’s daughter at the farmstead, a haven for escaped slaves, but a prison for me.
Early morning came with Father’s arrival. Horses snorted as the wagon wheels rumbled and skidded to a stop just beyond the front door. Excitement filled the house. The maidservants left their workstations and joined the family as we welcomed Master William Proctor home. We followed Mother like baby ducks to the two grand columns, gracing the porch. His smile and youthful trot up the front steps indicated a prosperous journey. First, he gave Mother an affectionate peck on the cheek, and then he took care to greet each child. This always made me feel like the most special one of all. Come my turn, I smelled the dust thick on his clothes, almost tasting it. He held my face, his touch so tender, my skin tingled. I lowered my chin and giggled.
“Constance, my firstborn, already sixteen,” he said, eyes twinkling. Those loving, endearing, hazel-green eyes always seemed to favor me. “You’ll make a fine wife to someone soon.”
“Oh, Father,” I said, heat blushing my cheeks. “Did you miss me?”
“Yes, of course. I missed all of you,” he said, holding out his arms. “Now come inside. I have gifts for everyone.”
Elizabeth, the youngest, leaped in front of me. “I missed you, Papa.”
“I missed you too, Lizzy.” He picked her up, carried her inside the house, and we all followed.
While the family finished opening gifts, Father whispered in Mother’s ear. Her eyes narrowed, and she pressed her lips tight. I suspected it was news about the impending revolution. His political duties often pulled him away now, which burdened the family. Turning my attention to the dining hall window, I raised my chin to see the new slaves, awaiting instructions. This group was different, lighter in appearance, more chocolate. Unlike the dark coffee skins, who came broken down, beaten, and separated from their loved ones, this was a complete family.
I scanned past the lighter skinned children to a tall figure, standing among them. That was the first time I saw Simon Miller. His supple muscles flexed, pressed against a tattered white shirt, contrasting his brown skin. Through the window, I could hear a muffled British accent. Simon’s gaze met mine, penetrated my soul, as if he knew my every thought, every secret passion. My heart skipped as we stared what seemed an eternity. The instant connection between us ignited a flame, a deep desire. I knew he felt it too. What was it about this young man? He captured me.
The black foreman stepped between us; his distinct limp reminded me of a night six years earlier. I shuddered, pondering the memory, my chest rising, falling. A deep breath calmed me. I wondered what Simon’s lingering gaze meant. Returning to the main room, I discovered my family already dispersed, my father in his study enjoying a cigar.
“Father, the foremen were cruel again while you were away.”
With relaxed candor, he blew smoke into the air. “I’m afraid this is the way of the South, Constance. It is best to forgive them, and pray for their change of heart. In the meantime, I’ll have a word with them.”
“That never seems to help. They’ll just wait until you leave again.”
“I understand, but I need them to keep the farm productive in my absence. They are the best men available.”
“But they’re evil! They whipped Andrew the other day. He didn’t deserve such harsh treatment. He works as hard as the other slaves.”
“That is disconcerting news. I will most definitely speak to them,” he said, brows flat.
“They won’t listen!” I turned away. “Why do we have slaves anyway?”
Father rested the cigar on the edge of the desk. “What else would you have me do? This plantation takes a lot of work force. My political duties call me away more often now. ”
“I hate living here,” I said, blinking back tears.
“You know I don’t have a choice. General Washington left me as his caretaker.” He pulled a small book from his coat pocket. “However, my dear friend Ben Franklin gave me a book on the teachings of John Woolman. He was a Quaker minister, recently passed away. He preached about the civil treatment of slaves and the indentured. He's quite convincing and influences many with great conviction. You'd like him.”
“Read some to me?” I asked, tempered now and leaning on the desk.
My father flipped the cover open and read. “Deep-rooted customs, though wrong, are not easily altered; but it is the duty of all to be firm in that which they certainly know is right for them. A charitable, benevolent man, well acquainted with a Negro, may, I believe, under some circumstances, keep him in his family as a servant, on no other motives than the Negro's good.” He closed the book. “I feel we are meant to be here at this time in order to help the slaves. If I just let them go, they will face a greater evil. Many will die or be taken captive by others far less humane than I. But it is not my right or intent to hold them as prisoners either, only to offer them sanctuary in exchange for work.”
I stood to face him. “Well, I am old enough now. I could go and live with our family in Philadelphia. They don't have slaves.”
“But what about Jasmine, your beloved maidservant?”
“I can take her with me. As long as you provide her emancipation papers, she can go free.”
“I don’t want you to go, and your mother needs you here,” he said. “Would you force such a decision on Jasmine? She may not want to leave her family.”
My eyes pooled with tears.
Father rose and cupped my shoulders. “Oh, come now. I will give the foremen a stern tongue-lashing they will never forget.”
“Promise?” I bargained, my eyes fixed on his intently.
“I promise.” He kissed my forehead and held me close. “I appreciate your compassionate spirit.”
Jasmine entered the room. “Miss Constance, your mother sent me to fetch you. She’s in the quilting room.”
“I’m coming.” Taking a deep breath to calm myself, I wiped my eyes and hugged my father. “I'm glad you're home now, even if only for a while.”
“I know living in a place filled with people who think contrary to you is difficult, but how else will change come without the persistent presence of those who determine otherwise?”
Frustrated, I said, “Persistence is a virtue.”
Lifting my chin, my father peered into me, “Perseverance is a gift of the Holy Spirit.”
Curious to know more about Simon, I sent Jasmine to assist his family with unpacking and settling in at the servants’ quarters. I gave her clear instructions to find out more about them. It was after suppertime when she returned to my bedchamber and reported.
“I ain’t never seen so many look-alikes in one place before.”
“What do you mean, ‘look-alikes’?” I asked, facing a round vanity mirror while Jasmine brushed my hair
“Look-alikes is twins, Miss Constance.”
“So Simon is a twin?”
“No, ma’am. There’s just one of him. He be the oldest, best I can tell. I didn’t see no older boys, just all them young’uns running around.” Jasmine’s eyes widened as she remembered. “Oh, and they all speaks with a proper British accent.”
“During supper, Father mentioned they came from Uncle John's estate in England.”
I guessed Simon to be about seventeen, but pretended not to care and changed the subject. “Oh, I wish Father would take me with him next time he goes away. I want to see more of the world than just this farm. I want to know the smell of salt air instead of tobacco, to broaden my horizons and meet men of culture who are educated and well-traveled.”
“Come now, Miss Constance, you know there are plenty of good suitors for you here.”
“And not one of them is capable of holding down a decent conversation.”
“That Master McClain seems to have taken a liking to you.”
In truth, he was an arrogant English nobleman who talked about himself incessantly.
“Ah, yes. Father would have me wed to him in no time, not for love, but for security and namesake only.” I looked at the bed. “Are the sheets warmed yet?”
Jasmine walked to the bed and touched them. “Yes, ma’am.” She removed the warming pan, and I climbed in.
“Hand me my needlepoint. I’m not tired yet.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jasmine said. She looked through my knitting basket, found my sampler, and handed it to me.
She stoked the fire one last time, while I pulled the golden thread and paused. My voice lowered in contemplative tone. “In many ways I envy you, Jasmine. You can marry for love. In fact, the man you marry will love you unconditionally. He won’t expect any more than what you already are.”
“I’m just a simple slave girl, Miss Constance, no more. I’ll learn to be happy with whoever the good Lord and Master William sees fit to give me.”
“Yes, but that’s just it. Don’t you want to fall in love and know that the one you marry is in love with you?”
“My mama always says love will come in time, Miss Constance. Now, if that’s all you’ll be need of, ma’am, then I’ll be retiring for the night.”
“Yes. Sleep well.”
Jasmine walked to the door and looked back, “Have blessed dreams, Miss Constance.”
I looked up to acknowledge her and noticed something in her apron pocket. “What’s that?” I pointed.
“Oh, I forgot to give this to you. It’s a letter from a Miss Griscom.”
Eager to see it, I wiggled my fingers. When Jasmine reached the foot of the bed, I snatched it from her. “Betsy?” I slipped my finger under the flap, breaking the seal. “This just made my day far richer. She’s been away visiting her family in Philadelphia. That’ll be all, Jaz.”
Jasmine closed the door behind her, leaving me alone. I unfolded the paper and read.

Dear Constance,
The SSS will meet again soon. Upon my return, I will send word announcing the time and place. It is imperative you and your mother join us. Above all, know I miss you dearly.
Your close friend and confidant,
Betsy

The Society of Sister Seamstresses, or SSS, was a code name for something far more important than just a group of women who sewed. We helped transfer secret orders and strategies during wartime. I placed the letter on my nightstand and picked up my needlepoint.
Thoughts of Simon filled my head. I pricked my finger with the needle and raised it to my tongue. This was an evil, forbidden desire, but one I could not dismiss from my mind. Something I dared not confide to anyone, not Betsy, not even a priest. There was no justification for such sinfulness. I deserved to be stoned, or worse, whipped and hung. I chastised myself, but to no avail. The lust lingered as I slept. It invaded my dreams. I woke early and fell to my knees, praying earnestly for forgiveness.
“Have mercy on my soul.”

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