Page 21 of Where the Rivers Merge

The Old Slave Mart Museum, located at 6 Chalmers Street in Charleston, is the last building still in existence that was used as a slave auction site in South Carolina, and the first African American slave museum.

1917

I raced from my bedroom on the second floor to the servants’ quarters on the third floor. It was a cold morning in the East Bay house, and the fireplaces had not yet been lit. I could see my breath in the air as I hurried up the back stairs. I pushed open the door to Covey’s small bedroom. I found her nestled in her black iron bed, her head peeking out from a pile of patchwork quilts. I jumped into her bed and slipped under the covers.

“Your feet are freezing!”

Covey exclaimed, laughing.

“Everything is freezing,”

I said, my teeth chattering.

“Why didn’t you add more coal?”

Her stove was smaller than the ones in the main living areas and less efficient. I cuddled closer to her, rubbing my feet together under the covers. “Brrrr . . . I had to get warm first. Is it my imagination, but is it colder here in Charleston than at Mayfield?”

“Cold is cold, wherever you are,”

Covey replied, raising the covers to our chins. She didn’t like winter, and this February was unusually frigid.

In the previous two years, Covey and I usually met early in the morning to share our schedules and talk about what was happening in our separate lives. It was one of the few times of day we could be together as friends. I missed our wanderings in the fields at Mayfield, talking after school in the library, and more, the ease in which we could walk together . . . anywhere. In Charleston we had to abide by the strict rules of segregation, never going out together, not allowing our friendship to slip out in words or deeds.

I jumped up and hurriedly lay more coal in the stove, stoking the flame. Then I scurried back to the bed and lay shoulder to shoulder with Covey. Faint plumes of our breaths hung in the icy air as I let my gaze sweep over the room. The servant’s quarters comprised three rooms in the attic. The gabled windows provided glorious views of the harbor, the best view in the house, Covey said. But those windows let the wind seep through in winter. It was spare with minimal furnishings and the amenities were basic. But no other servants lived in, so Covey had the floor to herself. She used one room for her bedroom and another to house her art supplies. She was resourceful, making the most of every bit of material at her disposal, repurposing them and finding innovative ways to create art.

The walls of the rooms were a wonder. Art was everywhere—on old cotton sacks she’d stretched like canvas, wood boards, paper—revealing the trees, plants of Mayfield in glorious detail and color. When I walked into Covey’s room, I felt I was stepping back home.

“It seems forever since we’ve been home,”

I said dreamily, looking at the paintings. “I can’t wait to be back at Mayfield, where we don’t have to be secretive. I hate having to sneak up here just to talk with you.”

“Me too. Christmas there was really nice. I miss Wilton something fierce. We won’t have another break until Easter,”

she said with a sigh.

I smiled, remembering the family gathering at Mayfield to celebrate the holiday. I rode Captain every day; Covey and I gathered holly, magnolia leaves, and Spanish moss and draped the mantels. I had been invited to Hugh’s home for a holiday party, my first as Hugh’s guest. He had received plenty of teasing from his brothers, but they treated me with utmost respect.

“Hugh is coming over this afternoon,” I said.

“Oh? Will Heyward be with him?”

“Of course.”

Hugh and I were not formally courting, so Heyward was his excuse to visit.

“I thought your mother didn’t approve of him.”

I turned my head. “What makes you say that?”

“She keeps sending other eligible men your way. There’s that one young man . . . what’s his name? The one with the dark hair. He seems taken with you.”

“Oh, John Drayton. He’s nice enough, I suppose. But Mama does accept Hugh as a suitor.”

I felt I had to make that clear. “She just doesn’t want me to set my cap.”

“And you haven’t?”

I tapped my fingertips, blushing. “There’s only Hugh for me. What about you?”

Covey made a snorting noise. “I don’t have the time for romance. I’m too busy with school and art and my clubs. There’s such an active social community for Negroes in Charleston that I didn’t imagine existed. I feel like a sponge, soaking it all in.”

She drew the covers higher to her nose. “Besides, even if I did fall in love, I couldn’t invite a gentleman caller here.”

“You could meet for coffee . . .”

“Who says I don’t?”

I giggled, happy for her. The heat from the stove was slowly warming the room and for a moment we were lost in our thoughts. “Oh, speaking of which,”

I said, turning to face her. “Will you join us for tea this afternoon when Hugh and Heyward come?”

Covey thought about that. “Will anyone else be there?”

“No. It’s housekeeper’s day off. It will just be us.”

“Then I’d like that. Though I may be a bit late. I have a club meeting after school.”

* * *

Later that afternoon I stood at the living room window looking out over East Bay Street, peeking behind the lace for the arrival of Hugh and Heyward. Light flowed into the great room through frost-tipped glass. The centerpiece of the living room was the elaborate fireplace, its mantel adorned with Oriental porcelain and a formidable painting of Charleston. In one corner of the room a grand piano invited one to play on the polished keys. I feared and despised that instrument, praying no one would ask me to exhibit my poor skills and mediocre voice that cracked in nervousness. Why couldn’t I bring a horse into the parlor and show off my skills there?

Mama had the fire burning, the tea table set with pastries, and me presented in full dress. My mother was more interested in my practicing etiquette than setting my cap for Hugh Rhodes. Of course, he was from a good family, and they were neighbors in the small town of Yemassee, where everyone knew everyone’s business. I suspect her only reservation about Hugh was geography. Though she never said so directly, she didn’t want me to be stuck in the boondocks like she had been.

When I heard Heyward enter and call out his boisterous “Hello!”

I hurried to sit by the fire in a relaxed, elegant pose, as instructed. My mother greeted them, their low voices punctuated by her high one.

Coats were removed, a few laughs shared, and suddenly Hugh’s face was before me. He was handsome in his woolen school military uniform, taller and mature. His shaggy blond hair had been shorn. His cheeks were red from the cold. He searched the room on entering. When he saw me, his smile informed me that he’d walked all this way across town on this frosty day to see me.

“Heyward, how nice to see you. And Hugh, so good of you to call,”

I said in a pleasant voice that countered my wanting to leap up and hug Hugh.

Mother looked at our friendly group with satisfaction. “I hope the tea is to your liking, gentlemen,”

she said, her voice a melody. “Do let me know if you require anything else.”

Heyward offered a grateful smile. “Everything is perfect, Mother. Thank you.”

After she left, he turned to me and said, “Is Covey here?”

I shook my head. “She hasn’t returned from school as yet.”

“It’s been a long time since we’ve seen our friend,”

Heyward said.

As the men settled by the table, I took a breath and, with practiced grace, prepared the tea. I’d spent countless hours the past months studying the art of tea preparation—the proper measurements, water temperature, steeping times, and the use of tea infusers. I poured the tea, and when Hugh reached out to take his cup, his eyes met mine and a spark passed between us.

The men’s conversation centered mostly around the war in Europe. It seemed no one could talk of anything else. I relished the chance to let my gaze linger on Hugh’s thoughtful expression and the way his eyes seemed to hold a depth of understanding beyond his years.

“Hugh, do you believe war is inevitable?”

I asked. Like most people in Charleston, and the United States, we were worried we would be dragged into the conflict.

“I do,”

Hugh replied. “The unrestricted submarine warfare is causing havoc on our ships. Charleston being a port city, merchants are up in arms. I fear the die is cast.”

“Not much time, I’ll wager,”

said Heyward, leaning forward with his arms on his knees. “Sinking the Lusitania was the last straw.”

“We’re ready to go and settle the score,”

said Hugh with determination.

I wondered at their enthusiasm. Who wanted to go to war? I abhorred the very idea of the two men I cared for most in the world thrust into danger. “Amidst the uncertainty,”

I said, gazing at Hugh, “I find solace in your presence here today. You bring a sense of calm that I cherish.”

Hugh’s breath caught. Beside him, Heyward’s lips twisted in mirth as he looked at the ceiling.

“Eliza, your spirit and intelligence inspire me,”

said Hugh earnestly. “In these troubled times, you shine like a beacon of hope.”

We spoke in polite code as our feelings hung in the air between us, palpable, begging to be explored.

The doorbell rang, and Heywood rose quickly, eyes trained to the door.

“Oh, that must be Covey.”

I tilted my head to hear the door open and a voice I recognized. Not Covey, but Barbara, a friend from school. I liked her well enough but had not invited her. I felt my body coil in nervousness. What would I do when Covey arrived for the tea?

Barbara entered the living room with her usual vivacity and confidence. Auburn curls framed her face, and her ample hips swayed as she crossed the room. Hugh joined Heyward on his feet, and I could see Barbara’s surprise—and delight—at seeing the two young men.

“Forgive me for just stopping by. I didn’t know you had visitors, Eliza,”

Barbara said with polite hesitancy.

“You know my brother Heywood,”

I said, gathering my composure and rising. “And Hugh Rhodes.”

Barbara’s color heightened. “I most certainly do. Why Heyward, I do believe you promised to call on me?”

“My apologies,”

Heyward replied, escorting Barbara toward the tea. “We’ve been hard at it at Porter.”

“Barbara, please sit beside the fire and warm up,”

I said and began preparing a fresh cup of tea. I sent a meaningful glance at Heyward. He shared a look of concern that it would be difficult when Covey arrived. “We were just discussing the war in Europe.”

“Oh, let’s not talk about that boring old thing,”

Barbara said lightly. “It’s just too nasty outdoors to talk about something so chilling.”

She accepted the cup gracefully and took a small sip. “I’ll be coming out next year,”

she added, fiddling with the lace at her wrist. She slowly raised her eyes to Heyward. “I hope by then we might be good friends.”

My eyes widened at Barbara’s brazen suggestion. Hugh was tightening his lips to stop from smiling and I could see Heyward was caught off guard. He offered a polite smile in reply.

Barbara skillfully deflected the attention from her to me by saying, “You’ll be coming out next season too, won’t you Eliza? Arthur Middleton has declared to anyone who would listen that he’ll be your escort.”

My gaze darted to Hugh, whose face was coloring.

Hugh put down his teacup and leaned toward me. “Actually, I will have the honor of escorting Miss Eliza Rivers to the St. Cecilia Ball.”

I saw Barbara’s hand cover her open mouth. I turned to look at my older brother and saw approval in his face. It was well known that the St. Cecilia Ball held special significance to our families. It would mark the turning point of our relationship.

As though on cue, the hall door swung open, and Covey walked in, her cheeks pinkened by the cold. She radiated energy and grace. Her smile brightened at seeing Heywood and Hugh.

Heyward sprang to his feet. “Thank goodness you’re here. I . . . we were afraid we would miss seeing you this visit.”

“I hurried home from classes,”

Covey replied, then looking across the room, exclaimed, “Hugh! I’ve missed you both. You’re well, I hope? No frostbite?”

As they chuckled, Covey came to my side, and we kissed cheeks warmly. Then turning, Covey abruptly paused, seeing Barbara sitting with her back to the fire. Knowing her as well as I did, I immediately sensed her tension. Despite the roaring fire, the air in the room felt chilled.

I took a breath, fully aware that formally welcoming a Negro in our parlor as an equal was scandalous. Mama made us promise to adjust our behavior to suit the expectations of society, and we had just crossed that line.

Barbara sat stiffly in her chair, her face solemn. I forced a smile and with practiced ease said, “Barbara, let me introduce Miss Covey Wilton. She’s attending the Avery Institute here in Charleston.”

Covey smiled and offered, “Nice to meet you.”

Barbara coolly regarded Covey then replied in a clipped voice, “How do you do.”

“We all grew up together at Mayfield,”

I explained.

“I see,”

Barbara said frostily.

“Forgive me for interrupting your visit,”

Covey said quickly. “I just stepped in to say hello.”

“She lives here?”

Barbara asked me.

“Why, yes,”

I replied after a moment’s hesitation.

“I am under Mrs. Rivers’s employ,”

Covey replied smoothly. Then she looked up at Heyward. “Again, it was a pleasure to see you. Now if you’ll excuse me. Goodbye.”

“You must stay,”

said Heyward, stepping forward in a rush. “You only just arrived.”

Covey looked over her shoulder at the door then drew her shoulders back, a stance I knew meant her mind was made up.

“I’m sorry, truly I am,”

Covey said to Heyward. “I just hurried over to say hello. And now I have.”

She smiled brightly. “I hope to see you next time you visit.”

With a quick farewell and a meaningful glance toward me, Covey left the room with unhurried grace.

Heyward’s smile fell as he watched her leave. He abruptly looked at his watch and turned to Hugh. “Sorry, old boy. We best be off as well. The trolleys are running slow with the frost.”

Hugh’s brows gathered and he tilted his head in question, as if in protest. But Heyward appeared resolved to go. Hugh sighed then came to my side and took my hand. “Thank you for tea. I hope to be able to visit you . . . and the family . . . again before too long.”

“I hope you will,”

I said, disappointed at his leaving so soon. I wanted to kick my brother in the shins but could only assist them with their coats. They bid Barbara and I a polite farewell and stepped out into the icy night.

Barbara and I returned to our seats by the warmth of the fire. I enjoyed the heat against my back and could relax now that the tension had passed. I thought Covey had handled the awkwardness with great presence of mind and grace.

“That was one rather uppity Negro,”

Barbara said before taking a sip of tea.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well,”

she said, putting down her cup. “I mean, she practically invited the young men to return. To your house. A maid!”

“She is not my maid,”

I replied sharply, my patience strained. “She’s my friend.”

“Oh. But,”

Barbara stuttered, confused. “Goodness, I just . . . I mean, she’s in your employ.”

I took a breath, forcing myself to gain control of my frustration. I had to maintain the fa?ade we had carefully created. Yet, in my own home, at least, I wanted to be honest. “Yes, she is,”

I replied. “Covey is my mother’s secretary while she attends Avery.”

I set my cup on the table as well and gathered my hands in my lap. “The warmth you saw was due to our childhood association at Mayfield. Covey is very dear to me.”

“I see. Of course. Well,”

Barbara rose abruptly. “I really must be going. My parents don’t appreciate me walking the streets when the sun sets.”

After I escorted her to the door, we shared farewells as chilly as the outdoors. I returned to sit alone in the living room. The fire smoldered and cast shadows in the darkening room. Would I hear gossip tomorrow about my friendship with the uppity Negro woman living in our house? Barbara was a friend, and a fair-minded, kind woman. I hoped she would not make trouble for me.

All these weeks, Covey and I had been so careful, making a point to never go out in public together where people might observe our friendship. If Mama heard about this . . . I marshalled my flying thoughts and calmly evaluated what had just happened. Barbara’s response to Covey stung. I’d been flustered, but Covey had handled the situation with a finesse that I realized now came from a far better understanding of racism in the world we lived in. I was frustrated and angered by it. And all the more determined not to allow hate to separate us.