The Third Mrs. Galway Read online

  Jason Hall

  DEIRDRE SINNOTT is an author, researcher, and activist for social change. She grew up in the region of Utica, New York, and graduated from Syracuse University. Sinnott speaks nationally about the role of Central New York’s residents in the abolition of slavery. She was the originator of Utica’s Abolition History Day Celebration and has directed two award-winning documentaries on mass incarceration/prison issues. She facilitated the program “Resisting the New Jim Crow” at the National Abolition Hall of Fame and Museum. Sinnott’s writing has appeared in newspapers, two anthologies, literary journals, and in various online resources. The Third Mrs. Galway is her first novel. She is a historical consultant for the Fort Stanwix Underground Railroad History Project, funded by the National Park Service.

  The

  Third

  Mrs. Galway

  The

  Third

  Mrs. Galway

  deirdre sinnott

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Kaylie Jones Books

  ©2021 Deirdre Sinnott

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-61775-842-3

  E-ISBN: 978-1-61775-939-0

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020948164

  All rights reserved

  First printing

  Kaylie Jones Books

  www.kayliejonesbooks.com

  Akashic Books

  Brooklyn, New York

  Twitter: @AkashicBooks

  Facebook: AkashicBooks

  E-mail: [email protected]

  Website: www.akashicbooks.com

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  To the fighters for justice past, present, and future

  Contents

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Part Two

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Acknowledgments

  PART ONE

  Utica, New York

  October 1835

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE STINGING OCTOBER RAIN found the small opening between Imari’s bonnet and the shawl bundled around her neck. Water slid down her skin, soaking her blouse all the way to the waistband of her skirt, and inched across her protruding belly. She felt heavy, weighted down by the miles and the baby inside her. It kicked and stretched in seeming complaint. Poor mite gotta be feeling bad as me, she thought. Her son looked miserable too, but he kept on. It was a lot to put on a boy of ten.

  During the night, when she and Joe had started on this last leg of the journey, she figured that they had plenty of time to get from Frankfort to Utica before the sun came up. At least that was the way it looked on the map. All these months, she had carried herself and the infant inside her through muddy swamps, over mountains, and into the thickest woods. By this point, Joe had grown used to being silent on his feet—and watchful. Last night’s miles shouldn’t have been a problem, five or six hours of keeping to the Erie Canal’s flat towpath and hiding when they passed mule teams pulling boats. But her legs felt weak and the baby wouldn’t settle. Now there was a new pain in her abdomen that prickled her worry. They had to get inside, and soon. The day had brought purple-black clouds and cold showers. As they reached the outskirts of the town, the wind picked up. They got off the towpath to look for the wide creek that led to the place they had been seeking.

  Only a few dozen steps off the canal, she noticed the last inch of a burning candle in the back window of a small two-story building. That must be the place the Frankfort man said to go, she thought. She pressed her hand down on the new ache. Feel like I only got one more stop in me. Once I set down, I won’t be getting up. She decided it would be better to risk it and be at the place where she and her husband, Elymas, had agreed to meet if they got separated. The thought of him made her heart feel like a rope had been drawn around it. Nothing to do now but get to the Galways’ property.

  Joe bent to pull his boot out of the mud. She stepped between him and the window. “The Ballou Creek,” she said, pointing back toward the water. “Ain’t that a peculiar name?” He looked grim.

  A gust of wind pushed her back on her heels. She grabbed her son to steady herself. Just a week ago she wouldn’t have faltered, but now everything felt hard. They trudged on, leaning into the wind, finally stopping four streets up from the canal. Flying leaves swirled around them.

  “This be where we going,” she said, pointing to a group of buildings near a fine clapboard house.

  “The man told us said we was going to a store,” Joe said, looking skeptically at the group of buildings nestled in the corner of the block. “That ain’t no store.”

  “Last night the man changed his mind,” she said, gripping him. She surveyed the place. “Said go here instead.” She knew she shouldn’t lie to the boy, but it was easier, he wouldn’t know the difference. Besides, Elymas had to be just a few days behind them. She prayed first that this was the right place, then asked God to not abandon her. To please, please let him come.

  Lightning flashed, and for a moment the house, barn, and outbuildings looked like they were standing in the noonday
sun. A deafening clap of thunder made her cry out. A horse whinnied nearby.

  “That storm on top a us!” she shouted, anger and fear raising her voice. “We gotta get inside.” They struggled to the corner of the barn. She peeked around.

  Another bolt of lightning flashed overhead, its bony fingers disappearing quickly.

  “That shed,” she said, pointing. “Go!” In a few painful steps, they were inside. She leaned on a table, trying to stay on her feet. Her knees buckled. As she tried to right herself, she swept clay pots and gardening tools to the floor.

  “Momma,” Joe cried. He went to his knees, catching her and easing her to the ground.

  “Good boy,” she said, panting in relief as thunder rattled the dusty windows. “Pull that door closed tight. Careful now. Don’t get seen.” When his back was turned, she shivered.

  He sat beside her. “You sick?”

  She patted his hand and managed to smile. Even though the baby still squirmed, even though the shed was damp and gloomy, even though her heart ached over her missing husband, they had made it.

  “Just need to rest is all,” she said, leaning her back against a low wooden cabinet. Her eyes blinked closed and she allowed herself some moments of exhausted rest.

  The next thing she knew, the door opened.

  CHAPTER TWO

  JUST ONE MONTH AFTER HER WEDDING, on the first morning of her first full day in her husband’s house, Helen Galway descended the grand staircase, sliding her hand down the smooth cherry banister. She liked how the polished wood felt warm under her fingertips and how her pale hand contrasted with the rich maroon stain. At the bottom of the stairs hung a portrait of the first Mrs. Galway. She knew about her husband’s late wife, of course. Augustin had spoken about her in the highest of terms during their monthlong courtship. Every time he did so, Helen had secretly winced.

  She studied the painting, trying to dislike her. But Emma Galway’s intelligent blue eyes seemed to gaze at her kindly and her golden ringlets framed her face perfectly and her creamy shoulders disappeared so discreetly into a handsome emerald dress that all Helen could do was envy her. Apologies, my dear lady, she thought. Today I begin to push you out of his thoughts.

  The previous night, after the arduous journey back to Utica from their honeymoon in New York City, Augustin had gotten word that he must attend an emergency meeting of the American Colonization Society. The group had something to do with relocating slaves to Africa, but she had not followed the details when he explained it to her. He instructed her not to wait up, but instead to meet him in the library first thing in the morning. So strange, he seemed to love to keep her in suspense—testing her rather than simply saying what he wanted.

  A burst of conversation came from the room to her right. Startled, she moved away from the painting and knocked on the door before remembering that Miss Manahan had taught students to “compose yourselves before entering a room so as not to bring any excited emotion inside.”

  “Come,” her husband’s voice commanded. She yanked the door open and stood on her tiptoes at its threshold. On the far wall, rows and rows of books stood neatly arranged on shelves that ran the entire length and height of the room. She had never expected to see so many hundreds of volumes in one place.

  “They will never be comfortable here,” Augustin was saying to a handsome stranger who nodded in agreement. “Africa is their natural homeland. Once the Negroes understand what the Colonization Society offers in Liberia, they’ll be glad to go.”

  The other man rose, his fingers stroking an exquisitely trimmed blond beard. He smiled at her, his eyebrow rising in apparent approval. A shiver of nerves rattled through her and she quickly refocused her attention to the floor. When she looked at him again, his eyes traveled over her as if she were a confection in a shop window. Her stomach tightened, and the sting of a blush made her snap her eyes down again. It’s not proper to stare like that, she thought. Why is Augustin letting this happen?

  “My dear, what are you wearing?” her husband asked. She noticed that his right leg was wrapped in bandages and elevated on a pillow-covered footstool.

  “What happened?” She rushed to his side and reached out to touch his leg.

  “Leave that alone, Mrs. Galway,” said the blond man.

  Helen obediently pulled her hand back. She turned to Augustin. Surely it would be rude to demand to know who the man was, but wasn’t it up to the husband to make the introductions?

  “Dr. Corliss McCooke,” Augustin said, remembering himself, “Mrs. Galway, and so on.” He waved his hand through the air. “Don’t worry about the leg. It’s only a simple break. Dr. McCooke happened by and helped me home.”

  “You must be in terrible pain,” she said, touching his arm.

  “Don’t trouble yourself.” He patted her hand. “It’s nothing and the doctor is seeing to it.”

  Helen’s eyes met the doctor’s, but again she found his gaze so penetrating that she quickly looked away. “If you say so.”

  “Now, my little one, don’t you like your new clothes? You picked out some beautiful gowns in New York. Why wear that old school dress when you could be so lovely?”

  Her hand rose to the collar and touched her own stitching. “I was not expecting any company.”

  “Company? I didn’t buy those dresses for company. I bought them because you’re now my wife.” His voice softened. “You’re the lady of the house. Your appearance reflects on me.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I’ll go change. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “And see Maggie. She’s readying the spare room for the doctor and needs help with the shopping. She’ll tell you where to go.”

  “Is the doctor staying here?” she asked, noticing the contrast between his mild features and appraising eye.

  “Dr. McCooke has graciously agreed to lodge with us until I’m well.”

  “I am at your service,” said the doctor, bowing slightly, a smile rising on his lips. “You see, I found him after he had fallen off his horse. Luckily, I arrived a few minutes before the three a.m. coach made a meat pie out of him.”

  “Never mind that,” said Augustin. “Dearest, as Mrs. Galway, you have new duties. I expect you to take charge of managing the house. Make sure things run smoothly. I want you to familiarize yourself with the property and Maggie’s work.”

  Helen bowed her head.

  “Now go about your business, my dear.”

  She took one last look at the rows of books, many more than the meager supply at Miss Manahan’s Female Institute, her old school. As she closed the door, she heard her husband remark, “Doctor, open that bottle of brandy. Imported from Paris. I got an entire case of it.”

  Helen made her way past the serene face of Mrs. Galway, who now seemed to look at her with pity. After a frustrated sigh, she ran up to her chambers. At the closet, she examined the array of dresses that had been chosen for her by her husband and whatever seamstress happened to be staffing the various shops they visited. The clothing seemed far too fancy for shopping or simply sitting around the house. And what if she ran into one of the girls from the school? They might think that she now put herself above them.

  She removed the gray frock and buried it deep in the closet. A sliver of her mind still believed that her husband might find her unsuitable and send her back to Miss Manahan like a bandy-legged horse.

  Standing before the mirror on her boudoir table, she held up an ocher-colored gown. It was a fine dress, lovely, soft, with fashionably puffy sleeves. The earthy tone complemented her pale skin and dark hair. A woman should be proud to have such a gown. Mrs. Galway certainly would have been proud. Helen decided to wear it, as if she always dressed this way.

  As she changed, a rumble of thunder brought her to the window. Rain beat against the pane, distorting her view. Past the shed and the barn, the line of trees at the back of the property bent in the wind. There’d be no leaves left after this storm. Already the waving branches were bare enough that she could s
ee all the way out to the Ballou. The creek’s swift waters often kept the basin from freezing over until mid-January. More than one restless child had tested the ice before New Year’s, only to find himself falling through to the freezing water. Miss Manahan kept equipment handy in case a rescue was necessary. The fire volunteers had hooks and ropes for those unlucky enough to fall through and never surface again.

  Lightning flashed and a crack of thunder sounded as if someone were pounding on the roof. The storm was strong, but there was a sharp line of bright sky in the distance. I’ll wait for the rain to pass, she thought, turning back to the room.

  Apparently, even to go shopping, a married woman had to be exquisitely dressed, so she continued pulling and tying drawstrings and adding the necessary decorative items until she again stood before the mirror. Her gown was accompanied by a dark-violet shawl, high-brimmed bonnet, and white gloves—the outfit of a proper lady. I can’t … I have no business wearing a dress so nice, she thought, as a flush of shame climbed up her long neck, crept over her too-round cheeks, clamored past her brown eyes and dark brows, and brightened her face all the way to her widow’s peak.

  The next flash of lightning was blindingly close and followed immediately by a clap of thunder. She ran to the window to see if the barn had been hit. There seemed to be no damage to anything in the circle of outbuildings. Everything was the same, except that the shed door was open. It had been closed just a moment ago. She supposed that this was the sort of thing that Augustin expected her to care about when he said she should take charge. Oh, why wasn’t there a manservant to send out to close it? Perhaps she could ask the cook to check.

  She found Maggie, a middle-aged black woman, across the hall in the guest room, snapping a pillow cover and surrounded by bedsheets.

  “Don’t you look nice,” said Maggie. Helen smiled, looking down at the dress. A clap of thunder made both women jump. “Oh, that’s some storm. If you ask me, it’s that darn Halley comet Mr. Augustin’s been on about.”