Libertie by Kaitlyn Greenidge (top 10 books to read .TXT) 📕

for a few minutes, pleading. “It is not so bad, Libertie. She will understand in the morning.”

But I stayed tucked into myself, even after I heard him turn over onto his own side, his hands moving fast, before he thrust one arm over to grab at my shoulder and then fell asleep.

I dreamt that night that a million tiny white feathers broke through the skin of the palms of my hands, and when I waved, I felt the breeze flow through them. When I awoke, Emmanuel was gone and his side of the bed was already cold. From the looks of the sun, it was still early in the morning. I had not been so derelict as to sleep in. I dressed as quickly as I could and opened the door, and tiptoed down the hallway and to the stairs. There was no sound of Ella or Bishop Chase. Or even Emmanuel.

The foyer was empty. Bishop Chase’s office was empty. I went to stand in the dining room, to look through the windows at the back courtyard. A group of children played there—a few in burlap shirts, another few completely naked, none in pants or shoes. They were slapping their hands together and shouting. I could just hear a bit of their song.

Li se yon esklav ki damou

Li se yon esklav ki damou

Li se yon esklav ki damou

Libète moun Nwa!

They sang it a few more times before I recognized, with a start, my own name. I turned away from the window, my cheeks burning, and moved through the rest of the house.

In the sitting room, Ella was already composed on the lone divan—a battered wooden structure with the horsehair falling from the bottom. Emmanuel sat at the table, writing. Ella was bent over some sewing in her lap.

“There she is!” Emmanuel called, and put down his pen to come and press my hands into his. Ella would not look up.

“Good morning,” I said, to both of them.

“My love, I must go see Monsieur Colon, my mentor here in Jacmel. I have not seen him in so many years, and he would be offended if I did not see him first.”

“I will come with you.”

“It is not necessary,” he said.

I looked from his face to Ella’s bent head and back again. I narrowed my eyes.

“You will go with Ella and Ti Me to market. When I return, we can begin to unpack the things for my office,” Emmanuel said. “Monsieur Colon is a very intelligent man. But he is suspicious of women, especially a woman as beautiful as my wife. I will have to be gentle with the news of our marriage.”

“He, at least, warrants that consideration,” Ella said to the sewing in her lap.

“You will be happier here, Libertie, than coming with me.”

I said nothing, only glared at him.

“You will have time enough to meet the rest of the neighborhood. Half of them know you are here already. Did you not hear the song the children have already made up in your honor?”

I shook my head.

Emmanuel smiled and began to snap his fingers, slightly out of time. “Li se yon esklav ki damou, li se yon esklav ki damou, li se yon esklav ki damou, Libète moun Nwa! Which means, of course, that I am a slave of love to my black Libertie.”

My eyes shot through with pain as I felt tears form, but I forced myself not to cry. He looked at me expectantly.

“Very clever,” I murmured.

“Ha! You will learn. Anything here that happens at midnight is known by dawn. And by morning, the neighborhood has turned it into a song.”

He bent his head to kiss my fingers. I bent my own to meet his.

“Please don’t leave me with her,” I whispered.

“I thought you were brave,” he murmured back.

And then he was gone.

I turned to Ella, who had not moved from the divan. I sat down, primly, on Emmanuel’s chair.

“What are you sewing?” I said.

She unbent her head and looked at me. She held up a lady’s jacket—black fabric with red thread she was embroidering. The embroidery was so thick and close together in some places that the jacket looked crimson. In others, it was nearly black, with only a bit of red curled over.

“Very nice,” I said.

“You cannot possibly understand it.”

“It is a jacket.”

“Yes, but you can’t know it.”

I frowned. “I do not understand,” I said.

“Exactly,” she said. She set aside the jacket, as if in a rush. “We must get to market.”

“Ti Me!” she called suddenly. “Ti Me!”

Ella and I sat there in the quiet. She glared at me, her nostrils flaring slightly. Today, her hair was pinned up, but two tendrils framed her face. One still held the paper curler she must have put in last night, after she left our bedroom. The other was valiantly trying to hold on to a curl but was losing in the humidity of Haiti.

Ti Me was slow to come, but she finally appeared in the doorway.

“Mademoiselle,” she said.

“We must get to market, Ti Me. Honestly. Fwi a ap gate. We will be left with nothing. Papa must not be made sick paske nou parese.”

“Wi, mademoiselle.” Ti Me looked from me to Ella. “Just let me get my basket first,” she said.

The market was a kingdom of women. All around me, old women were bent with produce loaded onto their backs, baskets topped with the green fringe of sweetgrass. Some of the old women had gray skirts; others, blue and yellow ones. There were younger women, too, who walked faster, hips rolling, legs spread wide, hurrying past. And children. There were children everywhere—some clothed, some naked, all barefoot. I had thought, back home, with my mother and Madame Elizabeth and Lenore all around, that I was dark. But here, shining in the sun, I saw women with skin the color of the night sky.

The sound of the market so loud it was nearly unbearable, but it was sweeter than the silence in the Chase household. It was the