The days following Zannie's suicide seemed to crackle with a tension Margaret had never seen. She was moved to another room, and Zannie's sister, the young woman who had fled the room the night of the death, was cruelly sent to attend her.
The poor child's name was Amy and could not have been older than fifteen, though she was as beautiful as her sister. She had dark almond eyes, a delicate wide nose and full curving lips which were always pressed tight unless her jailors guest spoke to her. She was as quiet as a mouse, and she hated Margaret. Hardly taking offence, the former was more apt to agree with her, for since Zannie had taken her life she had not slept through the night. Instead she stayed up, imagining the scene over and over in her mind, struggling for a way to save the girl. She would rush to Zannie, shake her, and hear Johann's voice, tortured and broken, once more. In all her life, she thought, she would never again witness such a scene of such exquisite agony.
The boy himself had barely emerged from his upstairs bedroom, and when he had he stunk of bourbon and whisky, his handsome curls messy about his face. It was his Southern Comfort, he told Margaret when he caught her staring as he wandered down the hall. It would stop him thinking, he said by way of explanation, of anything else but her face. His parents associated the melancholy with the recent loss of his beau in the city, a girl that had married another, and, it seemed, his mother was more than happy to ignore the loss of one slave for the enjoyment of the afternoon tea and idle gossip, unaware of the stifling stillness that surrounded them.
Once, when Margaret had escaped for air, she saw several slaves by the pump house, heads bent low and talking in urgent whispers. She could not hear what they said, nor understand their gestures, but with Zannie's simple ceremony just completed, Margaret believed they were mourners, gathered to speak about her and to grieve her loss. She did not mention this congregation to any of the Oppengarde's, but when she noticed her razor sharp sewing scissors disappear the next morning from her stationary, fear swelled in her chest. She asked Amy about it, but the girl evaded her, and gave her an unnerving smile.
"Why Missus, I'd never take your scissas. I ain't one for killin myself like Zannie."
"Amy," Margaret tried, "I am so sorry for what happened to your sister. I wish I could take it back."
"I do too," Amy turned away and folded the linens, "but whats dead is dead."
"I know you must hate me," Margaret kept talking, fearful that if she did not the girl would take the stolen scissors and kill her where she sat, "and I can't make her come back, but maybe I can help you. We can take you to New York where you could be freed."
"I ain't one for dreamin' Missus," Amy said flatly, "if you want to hurt me, whip me. If not don't talk about freedom. What do you care for the freedom of one of us?"
"I promise, I'll see you to safety."
"If its safety you want, I'd suggest you get out of here," Amy murmured, an edge of steel in her voice, "the south ain't no place for soft hearted northern folk."
"Amy, what's going on?" Margaret asked, "what are you planning?"
"Me? Oh nothing," Amy deadpanned, "I ain't up to nothing but grieving."
"I wish I believed you," Margaret sighed, "but I would advise you not to do anything rash. Sorrow makes fools of us all."
"All we know is sorrow," the former shook her head, "it hasn't made me a fool yet."
"Well..." Margaret paused, sure that she speak, but not knowing what to say. "I am no friend of slavery, Amy. Where I come from we fought—and won. There are no slaves in England, you must know. If—If I could I would make everything better but I can't. Do you want money? I can give you that, or if you don't want money, my husband can provide honest work, not this... Just whatever you are planning please let us play no part. I have a son at home, and I wish to see him soon. Here," she pulled a small sketch of Owen from her pocket, and handed it to Amy. "He's not a year old yet."
For the first time Amy's face softened and she leaned in conspiratorially.
"You're a good woman Missus, but I suggest you be packed and ready to leave at a moments notice."
"You won't hurt them? The Oppengarde's I mean?" Margaret asked, stricken.
"No Missus," Amy replied, her face open and honest. "I told you I ain't up to anything. But," she paused and her eyes narrowed, "if you tell anyone, even your husband of this, you will never leave this estate."
Margaret gulped, and Amy left to fetch some water.
With shaking fingers Margaret packed her case, bound it, and smoothed out her skirts, attempting to emulate the composure she knew she did not have. The first thing she did was to find John, who was in his room with Henry at the time, their heads bent over several billfolds and legal documents. When they noticed Margaret Henry and John stood up, the latter smiling pleasantly.
"Hello," Margaret said, "John, I have decided to go home. I miss Owen so, and I cannot stay here any longer. What say you of tomorrow?" She was very aware of the wooden, unnatural way she conducted herself, but John did not notice.
"Tomorrow Love?" he asked, "But we were going to go into town tomorrow. Herr Opengarde offered to show me the cotton mills."
"John!" Margaret caught herself, her voice shrill and demanding. John gave her a confused frown, and Margaret, needing to continue, kept talking. "I...I feel too sick. I can't take this anymore. They gave me Zannie's sister. I feel like I will swoon."
"Maggie," John ignored Henry's presence, using her informal name. He rushed to her side and she faltered against him, faking her hysteria.
"Please John, Henry was right. We should not be here."
"Now hold on Margaret," Henry set his jaw, "I'm not sure we should leave at such a speed. It would seem impolite to our host."
Margaret shot him a confused glare.
"Where was this Henry when we were coming down?"
"I.." Henry faltered under Margaret's intense gaze.
"Can I tell her?" John looked over Margaret's head to Henry.
"Fine," Henry turned away from Margaret, embarrass.
"He wishes to ask Marjina to marry him."
"So suddenly?" Margaret was shocked.
"Yes, well I am not getting younger, and she is a sweet girl," Henry said distractedly.
"Oh!" Margaret shook her head, "well then, instead of leaving, perhaps we should go to the city for the night. I'll have Amy book us a place. Tell Marjina to come with us. Courting must be done properly."
"Capitol!" John grinned, smile not meeting his eyes, "we will pack. Henry, invite Miss Oppengarde." Henry, still not looking convinced, nodded and disappeared out the door. When they were alone John gave Margaret a scrutinizing look.
"What is this about?" He asked.
"I just think we need to leave, have a change of scene," Margaret replied in a measured voice. "I promise to tell you when we are away."
"Mag..." John sighed, "I cannot tell you what to do, but if this is what you really want, I am yours to command. Now, will you help me pack these shirts or shall I stuff them in like I did on our honeymoon?"
"For shame!" Margaret laughed uneasily, "no, I will help you, you poor thing."
Within the hour they were packed, and with the surprised permission of the Oppengarde's dear patriarch, they were set to leave. It was just getting dark by the time the carriage pulled up to take them away, and with goodbyes said, they departed, the young Miss Oppengarde in tow. As the passed the property, Margaret gulped hard to see a large group of slaves with farming tools, slowly approaching the slaver. One of the men took a shovel, Margaret closed her eyes. When she opened them again she could not see the slaver, but the man with the shovel had a gun.
"Margaret, are you well?" John asked, noticing her ashen complexion.
"Oh yes," Margaret said shakily, "just a little tired."
It was dark by now, and Miss Oppengarde turned back to look at her home, only to scream and demand the carriage be stopped. Margaret felt a spike of anxiety rip her chest, and she too looked back. There was a thin trail of smoke rising from the parlor window and the grounds swarmed with slaves, brandishing any tools they could find.
"My family!" Marjina screamed, "I have to go back! Let me go Henry!" She wiggled out of Henry's grip and forced open the carriage door, the driver now stopped. Henry again attempted to grab her, but she escaped, and ran, pellmell towards the house.
Henry jumped down after her, and the carriage driver, an aging black man, hopped down from his perch to peer into the cab.
"I'm taking you to safety," he explained, "but only if you take me north."
"Of course," John, frightened now too, agreed. "Just let me get my friend." John pushed back the old cabbie and took off after Henry and Marjina, managing to catch up to him just as Marjina drew flush with a cotton picker wielding a sickle.
"No!" Screamed Henry as he watch the man run to her.
Marjina turned to look at Henry for a moment, her eyes wild and desperate, and the man slashed the sickle across her throat. She fell, and Henry wrestled his way from John's arms, going to kneel in the red dirt beside his beau. Margaret did not know what they said, but after a moment, Henry, covered to his elbows in her blood, picked her up and brought her to the side of the road where he placed her gently on an old oxcart. When he turned around he caught someone running after him, and he tore off towards the cab, yelling at John to do the same. The cabbie was already in his seat, and the two men swung into the carriage, slamming the door behind them. The cabbie tore off, leaving the mob and the now blazing manor in its wake.
Shocked, Margaret looked at Henry. His eyes were vacant and his face blank.
"Henry, I'm so sorry," Margaret said in a hoarse whisper, her voice sounding alien as she spoke.
"Don't, Margaret." Henry stared at his hands, covered in Marjina's blood.
"We'll see the police," John said when the neared the city. "Yes, let's go there, Margaret. Perhaps someone will have escaped."
"Oh John," Margaret gave him a hopeless look, unable to believe his eager optimism, "No one did." With that she burst into tears, and sobbed until they reach the sheriff's department, already on their way to the estate. John and Henry gave their statements, and the sheriff himself gave them lodging in his sister's boarding house.
Not bothering to unpack, Margaret came inside, the cabbie standing nervously by the door.
"We had a deal," he whispered. "They'll come for me fo sure. We have to leave by tomorrow, or I'll turn you in. I'll say you killed them."
"They wouldn't believe you," Margaret shot back.
"Oh?" the cabbie lifted a bloodstained shift from behind his back. "The man wanted it off. Now its mine so you don't go back on me."
"Fine," Margaret nodded. "Have the horses ready. We leave at dawn."
Seeing it was almost dawn already, Margaret came to John in their room, lying together, not sleeping or speaking.
When it was time to leave, they paid the innkeep, and spurred the horses towards the north. Riding until they reached the border into Tennessee, they again bunked in a small town, their skin still buzzing and angry images flashing in their minds. Margaret knew they could do nothing—she had been warned, but some small part of her wished that she could have, or would have fixed things. It was her fault Zannie was dead, and now, with the news of the Oppengarde Massacre, so too was the family that had taken them in, even Johann, who, blamed for Zannie's death, was dragged out and hung, the word "Zannie" carved into his chest. In all sixty eight people were dead, including the Oppengarde's, more than fifty slaves, and a few of the sheriff's officers. Margaret, when presented with the headline, could do nothing, and so wept bitterly. One of the dead was young Amy.
"I want to go home," Margaret sobbed to John as they sat alone in their room.
"I know, Love, me too." John pulled her close and she closed her eyes against his shirt. He had not asked about the circumstances of their escape, and she was grateful. He would ask one day, she knew, but for now to tell would be to break open a wound better left dressed and uninfected.
AN: Thank you thank you so much for the reviews and story favourites, you guys are too sweet! Ok, here goes another chapter in the gritty life of Margaret and John. I was stewing on this for about a week now, and I thought it was pretty fitting, though I did miss Johann. Ah well, at least I'm not George R. R Martin! Haha...oh dear. R&R for more!