The Hidden Hills Saga: Book I: Ice Whispers

By K. Willow

Slavery of a different kind, beyond physical chains, leads to a different type of escape . . .

Three women trapped in the fragile and precarious world between slave and free. Marissa, the lady of a grand plantation. Lolley, a soon-to-be freed young woman, ambitious and jealous of her mistress’s life. And Shelby, the slave of a prosperous free black family who finds herself suddenly caught in the middle of the deception, rivalry, and conspiracy that unfold.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483541211

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Chapter One

Sometime in November, 1858

Outside of Charleston, South Carolina

When I die, he said, and pass from this earth to a more satisfying place . . .

Aggie stood hidden behind the door, listening and feeling the aged and winded voice of Master Lance Kristofferson whisper through the crevice and hover over the tiny hairs of her skin. His most powerful voice had always hushed the spirit, rebellious as it was, inside of her. And today’s morning, even more so, the spirit was stuck in her chest.

Not a person ever dared to speak whenever Master Lance Kristofferson was talking. Nor did they ever attempt to question his judgments, his authority over the multitude living there on Kristofferson Plantation, both slave and free. Unwise souls who did so always regretted it after enduring the merciless consequences from such a vengeful man. From warnings, most had acquired this lesson, but some had learned it through a most difficult way.

And so people in Hidden Hills, especially those on Kristofferson Plantation, knew to listen to Master Lance. They should preserve their truest feelings inside themselves and simply obey, for it was the best way to safeguard their lives. There hadn’t been a time that anyone, even the most elderly of slaves or the most gossip-driven society woman, could recall when Lance Kristofferson had not achieved what he wanted. He had always found a way.

He crowed, I want you all to be aware of what exactly is going to become of each and every one of you.

His audience of three, all dressed in their fine and elegant morning dress for the day, was assembled before him at the foot of his grand old metal bed, where he had slept alone for probably over two years now. Aggie’s mistress, Marissa Kristofferson, his younger wife, who was now more handsome than Master Lance had ever been at her age, sat ready between the other two. Mister Alexander Pratt, the faithful employee who oversaw the runnings of Kristofferson Plantation, and then Shane, Marissa’s dark-haired, sullen son of eighteen, whom Aggie had raised alongside her own daughter, Lolley.

Aggie could hear them, see them, even though, as it had often been over the years, she was veiled from them. Unassuming, but witnessing everything. She knew that not one of them wanted to be there in that cold, drab room with Master Lance. Even Aggie could smell the disease that was devouring him, seeping through his pores and rubbing up against the bodies of all close to him, from their fingertips to their little toes. She could hear things, and she could hear it laughing. And she wanted to shut it up, that sickness that had thieved the beauty of this once overly superior man. Now he was as ugly on the outside as he was on the inside.

The other cups sitting on the tray held out in front of Master Lance jiggled together as he struggled to place his own teacup on it. But Lucas, the darkest skinned one in the room, was holding that tray, and he wouldn’t let it fall for fear of the wrath to come to anyone who embarrassed the master.

From the doorway, Aggie watched as Lucas held the tray with the large pot and all of the teacups secure in place, unaffected. She knew that he had become accustomed to Master Lance’s growing physical frailness, even though Master Lance had not been able to admit it was so. The master’s mind was still as strong and devilish as it ever had been. Aggie felt her spirit rising up against her, becoming anxious as she heard the scrambling of the soles of old shoes downstairs on the main floor, tirelessly working to fulfill their morning chores, calling her to help, to see to it that the teams of slaves in the Kristofferson household were doing as they had been told.

Rivulets of sweat dripped down from her tight, curly hairline over her dark, chiseled skin, but she steeled herself to maintain her statuesque position, waiting for Lance to continue making his great announcement. But knowing Master Lance, his sudden quietness signaled that he was also waiting—for Lucas to leave.

Lucas turned and trailed toward the door. It was obvious to Aggie that Master Lance didn’t want Lucas spreading word of what was going to happen to Kristofferson Plantation—and to all of them—just yet. He would rather torment them all by allowing the gossip and the hearsay to just keep running amok in every circle of the plantation.

Lucas finally lifted his sharp hazel eyes to the probing deep and dark ones of Aggie. He mouthed, No.

No, Aggie thought, though he had been there a good fifteen minutes before she had arrived in the shadows of the doorway. Lucas had not heard any new information. As soon as he stepped both feet in the hallway and was out of sight of the white folks inside, she wrapped her long fingers around the tingling knob and dragged the door closed.

Bring that tray on out to the kitchen, she whispered. Miss Marissa, Mister Pratt, and Master Shane will want to be eating shortly after their talk.

He nodded and strode on skinny legs beneath dark, perfectly creased trousers down the hallway. She watched until he had disappeared around the worn corner leading down the back stairwell.

Trying one more time, hoping for good fortune, she positioned her body with her head tilted toward the door to see if she could hear anything. But all was still in there except for a throaty hum of a voice, which she knew must be Master Lance’s. She could not make the words out.

Aggie sighed as the spirit inside of her relaxed back down into the center of her belly, and she started to stroll down the hallway, knowing there was always the possibility that the mistress might just let slip out later what had happened in that room.

Chapter Two

Since the day she had married him at fifteen years of age, Marissa Kristofferson had hated Lance with as much vehemence as a person could loathe her enemy. Even now, her nose was scrunched up as she held her breath. She didn’t want to smell Lance’s rotten stench from the illness and the horrid doctors’ formulas he poured down his throat. Her palm caressed the silk sleeve of her embroidered dress that maintained the warmth of her skin while in this drab room. She observed him with disgust. What new torture had the tyrant devised today?

For the entire time they had been married, Lance had torn her soul to pieces, abusing her with shameful perversity in their most intimate moments. With his callous, forked tongue, he had bullied and berated her till her will had become black and blue and toughened like a piece of pummeled meat. She was his penniless prisoner, and they both knew it. Having inherited little more than status from her own esteemed family in Charlestonian society, she was fully under Lance’s rule, no matter what his whim.

As she repositioned her body in her chair while Lance waited for the surety that all footsteps of slaves had passed on, a waft of Alexander’s strongly spiced cologne breezed across her nose. Why on God’s green earth would Lance have summoned Alexander here to listen to what should be a private family matter?

Alexander was a mere, albeit good and faithful, employee. But a solicitor he was not. If he wanted to stay on as manager of this plantation, he would just have to do as he was told since she herself did not have the same affection that Lance had for him. Alexander was a forty-two-year-old bachelor whose private dealings with women had fueled some of the most salacious gossip in Hidden Hills. And a man who was respectable in his business affairs but scandalous in his personal life was not the sort of man that could win her good favor.

Sadly, she thought, her son was not that much different. As Shane sat on the other side of her, she could hear his breathing louder now than a few moments ago. He, like her, was growing weary of his father, whom he loved with childish devotion. And from whom he had such a need for approbation that his constant failure to gain it had left him withdrawn and joyless at the tender age of eighteen, with few male friends and many female conquests. Shane had never confided in her. But as with Alexander, it had been nearly impossible for Marissa not to hear the torrid stories of Shane’s secret affairs all over Hidden Hills, and sometimes even in Charleston.

Looking up through the long reddish-brown ringlets hanging over her eyes, Marissa spied Lance’s china-blue eyes watching her as he continued.

First, I want you all to know that after much contemplation, I have decided to free Lolley. Not now, but after I am here no more. Those foolish sons of bitches up at the state legislature have made my ability to manumit a slave quite difficult. Indeed, they are talking of war. He fixed his gaze on Shane, who now appeared attentive to every word his father was uttering. Shane, I will leave Lolley in your steadfast care as her new owner. However, I will require that you ensure her the ability to enjoy complete and undisturbed liberty, in like fashion of her having been fully emancipated. Pratt, see to it that this one of my last wishes is placed in the public record this day and without hindrance.

Marissa knew her husband did not expect nor want any of them to speak, as he was accustomed to unbroken silence when he was talking. But she had abruptly ceased caressing her sleeve upon hearing this horrifying news. Beneath her dress, a sensation of cold clamminess was creeping across her skin, as though she was not within the surroundings of this room with its newly lit flames, but outside, sitting with her bare-naked body on thickly frosted, fine pins of grass.

Her chair shook as Lance was racked by a torrent of coughs, and Marissa conjured in her mind the yellow-green mucus sliding up and down his throat, constricting his airway. How she wished he would choke on it now.

Finally, he gathered up the strength to continue. All of us have watched passively as Lolley has grown up beside Shane. And you have loved Aggie, Marissa, with a devotion that only attests to your good and kind nature. She has been good to our family for so many years. Should we not repay her this kindness by setting her daughter free?

He was challenging Marissa, and she knew it. He had no expectation of a reply from her. He would be furious if she disagreed with one word of his. Her feet were prickling to stand up and escape this hole that would soon serve as the gateway to hell for Lance.

Lance smiled with his customary, self-satisfied smugness and said, I would, of course, free Aggie too, but Aggie is old. And she’d have nowhere to go. Hell, that bitch would probably stay here with you since she loves you so. And there is no point in freeing a slave who’s just going to go on acting like a slave. What say you, son, to this proposition? Lance’s eyes did not leave Marissa, nor did his smile depart his face.

Marissa twisted her head in Shane’s direction. She could well anticipate Shane’s reaction, but still, she hoped for the opposite to be true. It was not. Shane was in his glory. To have Lolley, beautiful as she was, with her long dark brown hair flowing over her pale mulatto skin—this was by far the most gracious present Lance could have left Shane before dying, and they all, save for Alexander, knew it was so.

I am happy, Lance said.

And Marissa knew that Lance saw the same joy that she saw in Shane now. Although he did not wear his emotions as evidently as most young men his age, joy was dancing around Shane’s eyes, lips, and even his mouth as he tried to prevent a smile.

Given your great concern for Lolley all of these years, I was certain this would make you happy. Hopefully, this too will make our relationship better in death than in this life.

Shane nodded, but like the others, he didn’t dare interrupt.

Marissa suddenly felt her petite body grow heavy, as though it was she who was on her way to being carried and lain deep at the bottom of an empty grave, with no warmth, no love, just a blankness behind her eyes. She stared at Lance. Why did he have to end his life by trying to hurt her? She had begged him to keep Shane away from Lolley, to find a way to subdue the ever-growing attraction between them. Had they not secretly sent Shane to that northern school as a means of accomplishing this? Although it had succeeded only in planting in Shane’s mind heretical ideas about ending slavery and providing him with a wife whom Marissa was well aware Shane did not love, at least not enough.

Now, Pratt. Lance finally addressed Alexander, ready to present the much-anticipated reason for Alexander’s presence. My most faithful and trusted friend. You are questioning, as I am sure my wife and son are, why I have required your attendance at this most solemn of meetings. I know that you have been fielding the requests of the many scavengers, my foes included, who would like to steal Kristofferson Plantation away from my family.

Shane glanced at Marissa.

She was knowledgeable of such requests, but she had not told Shane since she assumed it would be she who would run the plantation, although it would be left in Shane’s name. Was this not to be? Her heart started throbbing in her chest. She heard Shane’s chair creak angrily beside her as he leaned in closer to his father.

But Pratt, I am not able to surrender myself to this. I will not sell this magnificent place. Graciously, you have provided me with excellent and loyal service. I have watched as you have patiently learned from me and grown to the point that there is little on this plantation you could not run on your own. So it is with much pride that I inform you that I will be bequeathing Kristofferson Plantation to you. You will not, of course, change her name, for it shall always be my name that sits on that sign at the beginning of the drive. All I ask, all I will require of you, is that shortly after I die, you marry my beautiful widowed wife, Marissa.

Death-silence inhabited Marissa’s bedroom as Aggie sat on her customary soft stool at her perch by the grand window, eyeing the comings and goings of the carriages and other happenings around the great Kristofferson house. She had routinely done so for the last nineteen years since she had arrived at the plantation with Marissa, who had been welcomed as Master Lance’s handsome new bride.

Today, though, Aggie was soaked in the unknown. She would not even venture down those stairs to oversee the others. She had determined to wait in the stillness of this room, where she had for so many years helped Marissa dress herself, pretty her hair, make decisions over even the most trifling of dilemmas, and the most damning. She had listened closely. And that was what she was prepared to do now.

She purposed her eyes on the door as the creak of her mistress’s steps began echoing down the corridor toward the room. The morning meeting had ended. It hadn’t been that long since she had left them in that vile-spirited room with Master Lance. What had they all heard from him? Said to him? If anything at all. Her mistress was just as afraid of speaking up to the man as anyone else, and Aggie had been witness to her cowing to his whims for all these years. At least publicly so.

As soon as the opening door tore through the silence of the room, Aggie hunched her body back over the dress in her lap, clutching the slippery silk as she pretended to have been mending the fine, delicate creature all this time. The door clicked shut, and Aggie cocked her head upward and peered at Marissa as she slumped past her, stopped, and then seemed to just let her body fall onto her bed, burying her face in the newly tidied linens.

Aggie sucked in her gut as she tried to subdue the wicked spirit, which was starting to fidget inside of her and demanding that she rush over to the mistress and twist every shard of information out of her. But Aggie hummed to herself and cautioned it to stop bullying her into doing what it wanted her to do, which wouldn’t be good for either of them. It was all in due time, and not a moment sooner, no matter what her spirit desired.

She stood up and placed the seemingly untamable dress down on the stool, laying the long, thick thread and needle on top of it carefully. With the slowest of steps, she snaked her way over to the bed, which sat closer to the corner of the room. She softly whistled out some of the burning air that was building inside of her and sat down on the edge closest to Marissa’s head. She hovered over her and whispered, Mistress?

She had discerned long ago that it was always the most practical tactic to be sensitive with Marissa, who could be more fragile than the crystal lined up all over the grand Kristofferson dining room. Marissa was like them, showpieces for the many guests who visited the house, who were intimidated by their beauty and cautious not to touch.

Only a couple years younger than the mistress, Aggie had lived side by side with Marissa ever since Marissa’s doting father had bought Aggie as a playmate—a toy—for his only daughter after the girl had suddenly become motherless and alone. Aggie took care of Marissa, it was true. And she knew that although her mistress would never admit it in public, the two of them, slave and free, were friends. In fact, just as close as any true sisters.

But Aggie had also submitted to the reminders surrounding her of a life she was never meant to live. Just be present and not heard. She watched the messiness of the romantic relationships that Marissa and the other young fashionable white women of Hidden Hills sometimes giggled and sometimes cried about, ever since they had all been young girls. Now they were a little older, but they were still living elegantly, while she was destined to a life of spying about them all. She would never have her own Lance Kristofferson, who would take good care of her and hold her on his outstretched skinny arm beneath the black sleeve of his grand evening coat as his own prize of society—no matter how callous he was. So many men in Hidden Hills did this with their ladies, these precious dolls of the plantations and great big city estates. Aggie was alone, and she would always live like this since Marissa would require her servitude for the rest of her God-given life. And they both were aware that it was so.

Marissa scooted her little body over and seemed to stare right through Aggie as though Aggie herself was an object of glass that could permit Marissa to see into another world far away. She looked as though she was in a sort of trance, her eyes bright with tears that stood imprisoned between her eyelids.

Mistress, could you tell me why you’re so upset? Is it as bad as all this? Aggie crooned while keeping her tense curiosity hidden.

Yes, Aggie, it is. The fool wishes me to die with him. That is what he wants from me, and I haven’t a clue what on earth I’m to do about it.

Aggie looked down at Marissa and brushed strands of her red hair away from her face. She wanted to see her face fully so that she could understand exactly how she was feeling. She waited, as she knew that Marissa was only pausing for a moment before she continued with her story. The details were necessary. Master Kristofferson has informed me that he plans to marry me off.

Aggie suddenly felt her throat tighten a bit as the spirit inside of her screamed, Go on. Why are you fiddling around and taking so long to tell us? Aggie whispered, Marry you, Mistress? To whom?

To Mr. Pratt, of course. He is planning on leaving me like everything else—his cattle, his slaves—to his hired hand as though I am just a common prostitute. I am the lady of this house. She shut her eyes and covered her face with her hands, her long fingers seeming to claw at her.

Aggie felt her heart grow strange, as though it was trapped inside of a cage whose gate had just flung open, but it didn’t dare step outside of its boundaries. Of course, Aggie had viewed the ways in which the master had treated Marissa as though she were a silly little girl rather than his own wife. But