Never Too Late (33 page)

E
NDINGS

41

P
apa and Uncle Ward had tried to talk Henry and Josepha into going on a honeymoon. But the thought of having their very own house, paid for in full with their very own money at a final price of fifty dollars, was more exciting to them by far than a honeymoon trip somewhere else
.

When Josepha heard of the negotiations over the price, if negotiations they could be called—with the sellers trying to lower the price and the buyers trying to increase it—she insisted on paying her fair share along with Henry. She had saved nearly thirty dollars of her own since gaining her freedom—which she kept beneath the mattress of her bed in her upstairs room in the house. She insisted on contributing at least ten dollars toward the house
.

So the price eventually went from twenty-five to forty and finally to fifty, and the newlyweds began their life together with a new house and thirty dollars between them
.

For two former slaves, it was wealth untold! If any two people in Shenandoah County, North Carolina, not to mention the whole country, were happier than Henry and Josepha Patterson, I don't know who they were
.

There was nothing they were more anxious to do than to stay right at Rosewood and spend their first days together under a roof they could call their own
.

Everybody stayed at Rosewood most of the afternoon after the wedding, and except for Jeremiah's absence, we had such a good time. I felt both happy and sad together. That evening we all left the house and walked Henry and Josepha down to their new house like an old-fashioned wedding processional
.

The whole week before the wedding they had made final preparations to get the house finished and ready. The bed had arrived along with most of the other furniture. There were kitchen supplies and rugs and food and so many other things to think of that they could use. A lot of it Papa and Uncle Ward had bought from Mrs. Hammond, and they took quite a bit from the big house too—extra tables and chairs and a sideboard and wardrobe that weren't being used, and we had more than enough pots, pans, and plates and knives and forks to share. The new house, being small, filled up pretty fast. And just seeing Josepha at the kitchen counter—her very own kitchen counter!—and Henry sitting at the table . . . well, it was as homey as if they'd been there all their lives
.

As we walked them down to their new house we
all were talking gaily. Then somebody started singing and pretty soon we were all loudly singing “Jimmy Crack Corn.”

We reached the new house and everybody quieted down
.

“Well, Missus Patterson,” said Henry, “welcome ter our new home.”

Again, one by one, everybody shook Henry's hand and gave Josepha one last hug, then stepped back
.

Henry turned to us all
.

“We's bof mo grateful ter you all den we kin say. You's all da bes' frien's a man an' woman cud hope ter hab.”

Then he turned and led Josepha inside
.

E
PILOGUE

S
EVEN OR EIGHT MONTHS LATER, WHEN THE
visitor arrived at Rosewood and was invited into the house for a serious talk with Ward and Templeton Daniels, it was a conversation that would, in the months that followed, change the lives of everyone in the Rosewood family forever.

Their visitor from town sat down. They offered him a cup of coffee, but after a brief sip and imperceptible grimace, he set the cup aside.

“So, those two girls of yours are gone, eh?” he said.

“Yeah, and it's too quiet around here!” laughed Templeton.

Behind them the door opened.

They glanced up to see Josepha walk in, followed by Henry.

“Are we glad to see you!” said Templeton. “We need a fresh pot of coffee. We've been drinking what's left from breakfast and it's not too good.”

“Hello, Henry,” said Mr. Watson.

“You didn't gib Mr. Watson my ol' stale cold coffee?”
asked Josepha, glancing at the cup in front of their guest as she walked toward the cook stove.

Ward nodded. “It was all we had.”

“Well, you jes' wait a minute or two till I put on a new pot.—You didn't by chance bring any mail from town fo us from dem two girls?” she asked, turning toward Mr. Watson.

“No, I'm sorry, Josepha,” he replied, “I didn't think to check.”

“Still no word yet!” she said, half to herself. “It been too long. Dey shoulda wrote by now.”

“I'm sure they're fine,” said Templeton. “Probably just busy, that's all.”

“I still think it's been too long. I don't like it.”

“From that look on your face, Herb,” said Ward, “I'd say you got something serious on your mind.”

Herb Watson tried to laugh with him, but without much humor in his tone.

“I suppose you're right,” he said.

“Anything you got to say, you can say to us all.”

Watson nodded. He might as well just get down to the business of his call.

“I'd hoped, as much as I didn't want to do it, that letting your boy go,” he said, glancing in Henry's direction, “would take care of things. But I'm still getting pressure. And unfortunately, with the law on their side . . .”

He did not finish. Except for Josepha at the stove, the kitchen fell silent.

“Come on, Herb, out with it,” said Templeton at length. How bad can it be?”

“It's bad, boys. I can hardly bring myself to say it.”

“Come on, just give it to us straight.”

Watson sighed.

“I guess what I'm trying to say is that maybe it would be better for everybody if you'd get your lumber and supplies elsewhere—just for a while, until things settle down.”

“You don't want to sell to us?”

“Come on, you know it's not like that. But I'm being pressured, and . . . well, why should we intentionally alienate them? There are other places.”

“What about our cotton, Herb?” asked Ward.

“I don't know—that's still several months off. It's only May—let's worry about that when the time comes.”

“If we don't sell this crop of ours this fall, we'll never meet our taxes,” said Templeton. “We were a little short last year and they gave us a year's extension. But they won't look kindly on us being short again.”

“Yeah, I know that. But like I say, maybe things will have cooled off by then.”

Ward shook his head and drew in a deep breath. “They're trying to squeeze us out,” he said. “It's beginning to look like, after all we've put into this place, they might finally do it.”

“I'm sorry, boys,” said Watson. “I'll think on it and see if there isn't something I can come up with.”

He rose to leave.

“Don't you want a cup er hot coffee?” asked Josepha.

“Thanks, but I've got to be getting back. Sorry to put you to the trouble, but this wasn't a very pleasant errand. I feel like a scoundrel having to say what I did.”

“It's not your fault, Herb,” said Ward.

“By the way,” Watson said, “how is your boy doing, Henry?”

“Doing good,” answered Henry. “Though he ain't much ob a letter writer.”

“He's found himself work in Delaware,” added Templeton. “He's making pretty good money, trying to save enough to marry that daughter of mine.”

“I'm glad to hear it. Give him my regards when you hear from him.”

“We'll do that.”

“Sometimes I think we all ought to pack up and join him,” sighed Ward. “Probably save everybody a lot of trouble.”

“We can't give in, Ward,” said Templeton. “We've got to fight this. We've weathered plenty of crisis times before now.”

“We always had the cotton to bail us out. And I'm not sure it's worth it if it gets someone killed.”

“Well, thanks for letting us know, Herb,” said Templeton. “I'm sorry our troubles keep landing on you.”

“Nothing's landed on me yet. I just hope we can figure out a way to keep this mess from landing on anybody.”

As Herb Watson headed back to town, and Henry and Josepha made their way back to their own house, the two brothers sat back down in the kitchen that had once been so full of life and activity. The whole house seemed far too big, far too silent, and far too empty for just the two of them. It seemed deserted.

More had changed around here than just the attitude throughout the South toward Negroes. Rosewood had changed too. They weren't so sure they liked it.

A
UTHOR
B
IOGRAPHY

M
ICHAEL
P
HILLIPS BEGAN HIS DISTINGUISHED WRITING
career in the 1970s. He came to widespread public attention in the early 1980s for his efforts to reacquaint the public with Victorian novelist George MacDonald. Phillips is recognized as the man most responsible for the current worldwide renaissance of interest in the once-forgotten Scotsman. After partnering with Bethany House Publishers in redacting and republishing the works of MacDonald, Phillips embarked on his own career in fiction, and it is primarily as a novelist that he is now known. His critically acclaimed books have been translated into eight foreign languages, have appeared on numerous bestseller lists, and have sold more than six million copies. Phillips is today considered by many as the heir apparent to the very MacDonald legacy he has worked so hard to promote in our time. Phillips is the author of the widely read biography of George MacDonald,
George MacDonald: Scotland's Beloved Storyteller
. Phillips is also the publisher of the magazine
Leben
, a periodical dedicated to bold-thinking Christianity and the legacy of George MacDonald. Phillips and his wife, Judy, alternate their time between their home in Eureka, California, and Scotland, where they are attempting to increase awareness of MacDonald's work.

M
ORE
F
ROM
M
ICHAEL
P
HILLIPS

If you enjoyed this book, you will be sure to enjoy the companion series to C
AROLINA
C
OUSINS
—S
HENANDOAH
S
ISTERS
, the four books about Katie and Mayme and their scheme at Rosewood. The first book in the series is entitled
Angels Watching Over Me
.

For more exciting stories about the Underground Railroad and how Amaritta helped runaway slaves get to freedom, don't miss Michael Phillips' other newest series: A
MERICAN
D
REAMS
—
Dream of Freedom
and
Dream of Life
.

To read about Alkali Jones and the adventures of the Hollister family in California during the gold rush, read T
HE
J
OURNALS OF
C
ORRIE
B
ELLE
H
OLLISTER
starting with book one,
My Father's World
.