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She couldn't have been more wrong. Over the next few weeks, she received letters from him to which she would write pleasant replies. It was through their correspondence that they were really able to get to know each other. He told her his story… a story of a young man born into illegitimacy and orphaned as a young teenager. He wrote of his early struggles, his experience working as an international shipping clerk, and how, after his eloquent article describing a destructive hurricane was published, the people in his homeland came together to sponsor his trip to the colonies for a quality education. He confessed to her that although he had made few friends, he still felt very much alone in this new world.

Her letters echoed a similar sentiment. She wrote of her orphaned past; in how as a young girl, her family had been separated and sold among three different wealthy families. She was sold to a New Jersey family who treated her more as hired help rather than a slave. She learned to cook, sew, and maintain a home. The woman of the house taught her how to read and write, both in English and in French, and ensured that she was well-versed in the classics and in the Holy Book. It was written in her owner's will that she was to be freed upon his death and sent to the family's good friend who owned a sewing and alterations shop in the lower part of Elizabeth. It was there that she was to learn the business in hopes of one day starting a shop of her very own.

She looked forward to receiving his letters, and would read his heart felt words before retiring for the night. He beseeched her to allow him to visit. She believed, however, that it would be too risky for either one of them to be seen socially with the other. She sensed that he had come to this country determined to make a name for himself, and that associating himself romantically with a Negro might be detrimental to his reputation, before he even had a chance to establish one. These exchanges, however, brought them both solace knowing that there was someone else out there with whom they could relate.

His constant pleas wore her down eventually, as she finally relented to a meeting a couple months after initially meeting. It was perfect timing as he was on spring holiday from classes, and her employer was out of town visiting family, leaving her in charge of shop operations. He didn't wait a moment too soon after holiday started. She closed the shop early on the day he promised his visit. She went up to her room and lit a candle in the small window. As she awaited his arrival, she lit a fire and prepared a hearty vegetable stew. She admitted her confusing feelings for him in her journal as the food cooked.

I must say that although I was, and still am, a little concerned about him visiting, there is a part of me that is looking forward to it. I didn't think it was possible. I just knew I had control over who I could fall for. But I am not quite so sure anymore. Through his letters, he has taken me. He makes me feel like his world somehow revolves around me. As if I am the only one permeating his mind from morning til night. It is quite flattering…

How on earth did a White man, through nothing but his words and kindness, almost bring her to her knees? Had she lost all her senses even considering a possible relationship with him? Besides, how could she trust him? Did he really mean what he said about there being no difference between them? Truly, he was too smart to be that naïve. Most people who looked like him believed that people who looked like her were inferior. How could she really know that deep down inside he didn't feel a little of that? She was well into the next page of writing when she heard a knock at the door. She walked over to the window, and saw a shrouded figure standing at the front of the shop. She rushed down the stairs, opened the door, and quickly ushered him inside before looking around to ensure no one had seen him. He followed her upstairs to her loft where the smell of potatoes had filled the small room. She helped him take off his coat, placing it over one of the two chairs that sat along a side window.

"It smells good in here," he commented, walking over to the fireplace.

"I trust you like stew," she replied as she grabbed two bowls from a small cupboard. She placed them upon the table and motioned for him to sit. She then retrieved the pot from the fire and brought it to the table where she dished out a helpful serving for them both to enjoy.

"I do." He laid his napkin over his lap and took an initial bite before wincing.

"It's hot, now," she laughed. "It might help if you blow on it some." She sat down, pushed her long hair behind her ears, and softly blew upon her bowl. Her beauty was alluring. The last time he had seen her, her hair was confined to the white cap she normally wore when she was attending customers or out in public. This night, she had freed her coiled tresses that reached past her breasts. He could not help but gaze at her mysterious dark eyes and her copious lips. He wanted so much to kiss them… to feel the warmth that lay behind her infectious smile.

"This is true," he agreed as he emulated her actions. He tried his best not to stare. Gentlemen, as he had learned, did not stare. But there was something about the way she leaned in toward her bowl that caused his eyes to shift toward her chest. Her dress hugged her just right, teasing the pillowy top of her breasts. He found himself having to surreptitiously adjust his trousers several times while sitting across from her. He was a man, after all.

They shared amicable conversation, some in fluent French, long past the conclusion of their meal. His voice was enticing, especially when he spoke in French. They talked well into the evening until he knew the time had come to return to his residence. Before he left, he took a book out of his satchel and handed it to her.

"What is this? Surely, you are not presenting me with a gift already?" she asked, surprised. She looked at the title, A Narrative of the Uncommon Sufferings and Surprising Deliverance of Briton Hammon.

"You like it?" he inquired, hopefully. "I just finished reading it and it is a wonderful work of genius…truly eye-opening. I wanted to pass it onto you."

"And you read this? Truly read this?" Fingering through the pages, she could not believe that he had wanted to read a book about a former slave's tragic experiences. Furthermore, he had hailed the narrative as genius and eye-opening. Was he being serious?

"I did," he confirmed, looking at her solemnly. "It was an inspiring piece. In fact, anyone who reads this narrative will see the true horrors of slavery, and what it does to good people, people who deserve the same rights that I have, that I was born with, simply because I am a White man."

"You really believe that, Mr. Hamilton?" she questioned. "You believe in equal rights for all people?" He continued looking into her eyes.

"I do, Miss Cole," he said. "I'm sorry to say, I've been party to this evil. And ever since leaving St. Croix, I swore I would do all I could to fight against it." She knew he had been an owner during his childhood in the Caribbean, as he admitted in one of his letters. At first, she was angry. As a former slave, she wasn't so sure that she could ever trust anyone who could treat another human being as his property. But he was different. He was kind, sensitive, intelligent, and showed interest in taking up for those who suffer at the hands of others. His compassion for his fellow man, regardless of skin color, was apparent not only in his words, but in his actions. His past was just that, the past. Somehow, she found a way to look beyond it, to see him for the man he was at that moment. He was doing something to her, something that she hadn't felt before with or for anyone else. There was a raw honesty to his expression. Not only could she trust him, she was falling for him.

"I love the book! Thank you so much, Mr. Hamilton." She beamed brightly at his thoughtful gesture, hugging the book tightly to her bosom.

"You are quite welcome. And please, you mustn't call me Mr. anymore. I do prefer my friends call me Alexander. And we are friends, aren't we?" he suggested, retrieving his coat. He then felt a tap on his shoulder. As he turned around, she wrapped her arms around him, resting her cheek against his smooth jawline.

"Yes we are, Alexander," she said softly upon his ear. He placed his hands upon her waist, pulling her in just a bit closer. She smelled of roses and lilac. He inhaled deeply, wanting to take in every bit of her. He had thought about her for nights on end; his fantasies hinged on lust and curiosity, as customary for young man of 18. He had never been with a Black woman, but she was absolutely beautiful and he wanted to know her. After their impromptu embrace, they parted ways for the evening, but they knew it wouldn't be the last time…it couldn't be the last time.