As Margaret expected, John ultimately won. After their meeting in Chicago and a tour of the blossoming city, they caught a stagecoach to Blairsville Georgia and carried on to the Oppengarde Plantation, some way out of town. As they passed through Margaret stared out the window, marvelling at the open space surrounding the town. It was as if God himself had placed the town, so far from anything else, and surrounded by a different ocean then she had ever seen; one not of seawater, but of wheat.
At the center of the village stood the chamber of commerce, the bricks encasing high colonial windows, reminding Margaret forcibly of a church, not the center for the town, but nonetheless admired the clean, southern placement and the almost idyllic atmosphere, so different from the grim, hectic motion of Milton. People waved when Margaret caught their eyes, and girls in long skirts and day dresses, their hair covered modestly with a bonnet and ribbons.
Margaret had half expected to see black men and women in the streets as, being workers, they were like to do (Milton merchants often sent their workers to run errands, collect payments and handle shop business,) but no, she did not once glimpse a dark face, only white or lightly tanned. Confused, she questioned John.
"Why are there no black people in the street?" she asked.
"They all work on the plantations," Henry answered for her, a bitter edge to his voice. "This is why we should not have come."
"Please," John shook his head, "we could not reject Mr. Oppengarde's request."
"But still," Henry glanced ominously at Margaret, "If you ever believed that Milton was a hive of depravity and ill treatment, you would not think so now. With what I have heard..." he trailed off with a look from John. "But anyways," he dusted his trousers, "you will see soon enough."
With this note, they moved on, past forest and farm, and arrived at last at the plantation. On the surface of it, there was no sign of evil or indeed the horror forewarned by Henry. Pristine manicured lawns lay just beyond the property gate, which itself was topped with iron and gold scroll-work and the Oppengarde family name. The gravel drive was smoothly combed, and a gardener, pruning the immaculate roses, worked away, face hidden by a large straw hat.
When the carriage arrived, however, he stood, bowed and shuffled away. His skin was dark as pitch, and he was an old man, his gait stuttered and uneven. Certainly, Margaret thought, he was too old to be bending over hedges, ruining what was left of his knotted back.
Another servant (for this is what Margaret believed him to be,) opened the cab door and stood patiently for them to disembark, his navy blazer and white cravat standing ridiculously against his skin, which like the gardeners, was a deep shade of ochre.
The family came to greet them, and for the first time Margaret met Her Oppengarde and his brood. The man himself was unimpressive, a man possessing none of the physical power John had attributed to his business sway. Regular height, portly stature and weak chinned, Oppengarde reminded Margaret of an aging magpie. His receding hairline gave him a sharp, but used appearance, and his eyes which were a shade of olivine, flashed under his welcoming smile.
His wife, as she would be introduced, was also plain, but instead of wearing it with the stoic knowledge of her decline, she rouged her cheeks and wore a complicated dress of pink gingham and bows, a shade rather too girlish and something that would have been better suited to her daughter, who wore blue.
This daughter, the only one Oppengarde announced, was named Marjina. She, unlike her mother, seemed aware of her age, and though she wore the massive hoop skirt popular in the south, she still seemed to appear attractive, her black eyes and black-brown hair framing a square jaw and small, full lips. Beside her stood her brother Johann and the youngest Oppengarde, little Matjis who was ten.
Johann looked a perfect country gentleman, wearing the latest fashion and a polite little smile, his chestnut hair curly and swept from his eyes like his mothers. Margaret immediately disliked the boy, and saw behind his air something in his eyes. She could not place it but its mere presence made her uneasy.
After introductions house slaves took their things inside, and after a brief respite they joined the family for dinner. A slave named Zannie had been appointed to attend Margaret, and with her help she wiggled into a gown the dressmaker in Milton had claimed would make her look like a southern rose.
The soft yellow linen was light and young, but Margaret still worried that it was not quite the style, her skirt being a mere six feet around her ankles rather than the apparently appropriate fifteen. Zannie assured her that it was, indeed good to wear, but seemed shocked when Margaret asked her opinion and even more so when upon helping her with her hair, Margaret waved her away and told her that she could take the night off.
"But Missus," Zannie shook her head, "I am a slave. I do not get time."
Margaret looked up and tilted her chin. "Well then, I am giving you the first one ever."She expected that Zannie would be happy, but instead a look of fear crossed the young woman's face.
"I..." she stuttered, "Missus, I can't..."
"Do not be afraid," Margaret reassured her, "if you are, you can stay here. They will not berate you when they think you're helping me." Zannie nodded and twisted her skirts, not sure what to do. Without realizing it, her other hand went to her stomach and she covered it protectively.
"Zannie..." Margaret's expression grew soft, "that's why you are afraid. Does the family know?" Zannie shook her head, eyes downcast. "Does the father know?"
Zannie swallowed hard and shook her head no.
"You must tell him then," Margaret searched for her eyes, "why don't you do that while I am at supper?"
"I..." Zannie began to tremble, and tears slipped down her cheeks, "I... I can't."
"I cannot imagine any father would be angry at such news," Margaret insisted, confused. "When I had my son my husband was happier than I have ever seen him."
"I can't..." whispered Zannie miserably, "Its..." before she could finish, the son, Johann knocked on the door.
"Mrs. Thornton," he called, his accent smooth as honey, "my mother wishes to speak with you."
"I'll be right out!" Margaret replied.
"Is Zannie in there?" Johann asked. Margaret's eyes flew to the beautiful young girl, her face stricken. She understood.
"No, I'm afraid not," Margaret lied, "she is attending my dresses."
"Oh, alright," came the voice from the other side of the door, "well when you see her tell her to come to the cellar, my mother has books that need sorting." The lame excuse fell on knowing ears, and through her anger Margaret made her voice calm.
"I will, Mr. Oppengarde."
With that they heard his foot steps retreating, and Zannie collapsed on the floor, her face in hands.
Margaret followed her down, and took her in her arms. Zannie seemed horrified for a moment, but when Margaret cooed and stroked her back the poor wretch relaxed.
"Did he force himself on you?" Margaret asked as gently as she could. Zannie shook her head and began to sob once more. "Oh my dear—do you love him?"
Zannie, in a renewed fit of sobs nodded yes.
"Does he love you?"
Zannie gulped hard and shook her head no.
"He coerced you," Margaret hissed, a statement not a question. "What will you do?" Zannie did not answer, and Margaret lifted her chin she their eyes were level. "Stay here and sleep. Lock the door and I will be back when I can."
Zannie, with a desperate expression, nodded and Margaret helped her to the bed.
"Missus, I can't sleep here," Zannie resisted, "It ain't proper."
"It is perfectly proper," Margaret insisted, "I will answer for you."
"But.." Zannie bit her lip.
"Sleep now, and I will see what to do."
"No one must know," Zannie said, her voice hoarse.
"No one will, dear," Margaret kissed her cheek and stood up. "I will be back."
With that Margaret went to the door, took the key, and handed it to the girl.
"Remember, lock this when I leave."
When Margaret entered the hall and heard the click of the lock behind her, she breathed in her fury and steadied her trembling fingers, her face neutral. In a mirror she tidied her blouse, and met Mrs. Oppengarde in the covered veranda where the older woman sat sipping sweet tea.
"Oh, Mrs. Thornton," Mrs. Oppengarde smiled, "it seems I waited for you an age. I trust all is well?"
"Very well," Margaret lied, "I was just tired from my journey."
"Your husband is out with Mr. Oppengarde viewing the plantation," Mrs. Oppengarde said, "I told them that they could go, and that when they returned we would eat."
"That sounds lovely," Margaret replied, "is there much to see?"
"Oh all two hundred acres," her hostess boasted, "but they will just tour our fields and the pasture. No need to visit the workers." The flippant way Mrs. Oppengarde mentioned "the workers," and the subtle way she pursed her lips made Margaret's stomach clench, and she changed the subject. "I am surprised, Mrs. Oppengarde, that I could not find my husband," Margaret said, "I am afraid the concept of separate rooms has far been gone from our houses."
"You English are so progressive," Mrs. Oppengarde took a sip of her tea, "I do apologize for our quaint Southern ways, though I do believe the old practices are the only proper avenue for stability. Why, if we let the Northerners have their way, our slaves would be freed and we would have civil war on our hands."
"We would not want that," Margaret replied sarcastically.
"No, we would not," Mrs. Oppengarde enforced, her beady eyes hard. "We are women of wealth, Mrs. Thornton. If order is not preserved we will lose everything. Could you image a negro telling us what to do? It would be beastly. If we let them go we lose our labour, and we will be poor."
"Is it not better to be poor and free of ills than rich and full of fear that those we oppress might one day come and seek retribution?" Margaret could hardly contain herself, and she bit out each word with forced politeness.
"No, no," Mrs. Oppengarde, too, was attempting to control herself, "you see there is a reason that we rule them. They are far too simple to govern themselves."
"Have you ever heard of the kingdom of Ghana, Mrs. Oppengarde?" Margaret could no longer contain her derision for this ignorant woman. "It was governed by a man, a black man named Mansa Musa. He conquered and contained a kingdom so large that it would make your head spin, and while Europe fought among itself he grew so rich that when he toured Cairo, he gave staffs of gold to the peasants and made all rich around him. Was his way not better than forcing down those he deemed less valuable?"
"You made that up," Mrs. Oppengarde insisted, "those people could never do such a thing. I have books about them to prove it."
"I will not argue," Margaret sighed, folding her hands in her lap, "but I would do well to realize, Mrs. Oppengarde, that times are changing, and if I were you, I would realize that progress is much closer than you believe. In our mill alone we have improved conditions so well that illness is down almost ninety percent and our employees work all the harder for the mess hall we built to keep them full and focused."
Mrs. Oppengarde snorted and breathed hard out her nose, her face red.
"Mrs. Thornton, I don't do well to being threatened, especially by a guest."
"Oh, I was not threatening," Margaret smiled sweetly, "merely making conversation. As you said, we are scandalously progressive in England."
"Well then," Mrs. Oppengarde took the apology to mean that Margaret was over her qualms, "let us be friends. We are, indeed, wives of great importance. You said you had a son?"
And so the women made small talk until dinner, whereupon the men returned and the children joined their parents for the meal.
Over the course of the night Margaret kept her eye on Johann, and once she mentioned Zannie to the young man, hoping to see a reaction. Johann, however, merely responded coolly to Margaret's enquiries and helped himself to more stuffed pheasant.
John could see that Margaret was uneasy, and so when dinner was finished came to her and took her hand, saying as he did in a low voice that only Margaret could hear, "are you well, Maggie?"
"I will be," Margaret evaded him, "I cannot say."
"Tell me if you need me," John's face was earnest, and Margaret responded by giving him a brief kiss on the cheek.
From there Margaret, eager to get back, went to her room and knocked on the door. There was no answer and so Margaret whispered through the key hole. "Zannie, it is me. Open the door." Still no one replied, and, with a growing apprehension, she spoke louder. "Zannie, wake up, open the door."
Again no one replied, and after fifteen minutes of calling, Margaret sought out the closest person, who, unfortunately, happened to be Johann Oppengarde.
Margaret told him that she had accidentally locked herself out and needed a key, and the boy, believing her, sent someone to fetch the master key. Duty bound, the youth stayed until the item was retrieved, and unlocked the door, Margaret's heart beating like a hummingbird caged.
She did not immediately register what she saw. Beside the bed, which was neatly done up and empty, Zannie sat slumped in the old armchair, head lolled to the side and one hand, stained dark with blood, over her stomach. The other was limp by her side, a deep crimson pool formed on the floor, a penknife from the vanity cast forgotten inches from her fingers.
To her shock, it was not she who reached the girl first, but Johann. The young man flew to her side faster than Margaret could run, and he took her arms gingerly in fingers, feeling for a pulse. When there was none he shook her, calling her name in a desperate whisper, begging her to respond. She did not, but he kept asking. With each desperate query, he became more frantic and he took her lifeless body in her arms, sobbing and calling her name.
The whole ordeal took Margaret by surprise, and, like a sleepwalker, she drifted to Johann's side, numb and slow.
"She's gone, Johann. Let her go," she heard herself say, "there is nothing more to do."
"No, she can't be," he shook his head, "she can't be. She can't be."
"Come away," Margaret touched his shoulder, only to have him jerk violently away. "Please, you will get blood on your coat."
"I don't care about my coat," Johann moaned, "I care about her." In a hushed voice he continued his pleading, and Margaret went to the door and shut it. The monster she had thought he was melted, and she realized what was behind his eyes. He was terrified.
He had begun to sob, and Margaret stood back, unable to help save for to let him have the moment.
"How did this happen?" he said in a broken voice, "why didn't she meet me?"
"She was afraid," Margaret's stomach rolled, and a wave of pure guilt swept over her.
"Of what? What could she have been afraid of?" Johann's eyes met hers, and she gulped, knowing his pain would triple with what she said next.
"She was pregnant but couldn't tell you."
"She...what?" Johann's eyes flew to her stomach, and he touched her belly, now still, with shaking hands. "Oh Zannie..." he trailed off, sobbing into her shoulder.
"You must stand and change," Margaret told him, oddly detached, "someone will know there is a problem by now, and you mustn't cry. They cannot know or you will be punished."
"I don't care!" cried Johann valiantly, "I was going to take her to the north where she'd be safe, that's why I wanted her in the cellar. There is no reason for me to pretend now."
"There is," Margaret took his hand and gently tugged him away. "She would not want you jailed. Go to your room and I will alert the butler." With one last desolate look at Zannie, Johann left the room, leaving Margaret to go to the door. Once she heard him ascend the stairs into his own room, she let out an ear splitting scream and at least ten people came running, among them her husband and Henry. House slaves rushed to care for the dead woman, and John pulled her away into the hall where he took her in his arms and she breathed hard into his neck. One of the slaves, upon checking the body, ran from the room, and was not seen again.
"Maggie," John said.
"What happened?" Henry, as inept as ever, asked.
"She cut her wrists," Margaret forced herself to say. "She's dead."
Somewhere off into the distance she swore she heard a mother wail.
AN: Sorry for the late update, but I really wanted to make this one count. I fell in love with Zannie from the first moment I wrote her, and I felt that Johann, though he was originally going to be horrible and evil, could change and Zannie deserved to have someone who loved her. R and R for more.