Freedom's Price Read Online Free Page B

she’d spoken her mind to Mark Charless.
    With a sigh, she returned to the laundry. Once the lilac and forsythia bushes were covered with skirts, Eliza had to make use of the wires strung between two poles. The clothesline was always her last choice because the wire was sharp and hurt her hands. She reached up to pin a dress to the clothesline and smiled. A few months ago, she had needed a stool to reach it. Eliza had no head for heights, even ones that weren’t very high. Then she thought of Ma, and her smile disappeared. The taller Eliza got, the more Ma worried about slave catchers. Ma said they looked for girls Eliza’s agebecause they fetched such a good price. As if Eliza would ever let herself get taken by the likes of a slave catcher.
    To take her mind off such an unlikely possibility, she began to sing one of the new songs she had heard on the street. She liked it because the words were so funny.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  I come from Alabama,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  With a banjo on my knee.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  I’m going to Louisiana,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  My true love for to see.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  It rained all night the day I left,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  The weather it was dry.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  The sun so hot, I froze to death,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Susannah, don’t you cry.
    Within a few minutes, she had fallen into a working rhythm and almost all the laundry had been hung.
    â€œHi, Eliza.” A soft voice came from the parlor’s wide window, opened fully to let in the air on this breezy day. It was Sadie, the cook’s daughter. She wore a crisp white apron over her neat blue dress made of shirting, the same kind of dress that Eliza was hanging to dry. It might be a slave’s dress, but it fit Sadie well. Eliza couldn’t help wishing for a dress that gave her room to breathe. Her own dresses stretched too tight across Eliza’s shoulders. She couldn’t swing her arms wide, much less run freely.
    â€œHi, Sadie,” Eliza called back.
    â€œYou’ve got the prettiest voice,” Sadie said. “The old lady was all crotchety until she heard you singing—then she settled right down.”
    â€œWhat old lady?” Eliza asked.
    â€œMiss Sofia, the master’s aunt, just came to live with us. She’s a little . . .” Sadie tapped her head. “Your singing kept her still while I brushed her hair.”
    Eliza ducked her head. She loved to sing, but she wasn’t sure it was right to be proud of something the Lord had given her.
    â€œCome round to the kitchen after. My mama’s made shortbread.”
    â€œI will,” Eliza beamed. Working for Miss Charlotte meant treats from the kitchen. Sadie’s mother was one of the finest bakers in town.
    Eliza’s work let her see through the wide window into the grand house. She watched Sadie and the other house slaves polishing Miss Charlotte’s prized wood furniture and sweeping the floors. They were chatting and laughing. Their work looked easy. Eliza glanced down at her hands, raw and chapped from the wet laundry. Ma always talked about being free like it would solve all the family’s problems, but so far as Eliza could tell, freedom meant more work and less food. Look at Celia , she thought. Freedom hadn’t helped her at all—she had to steal to eat. But Sadie, a slave, was plump and had a soft life. Sadie didn’t have to worry about slave catchers kidnapping her off the street. If you were properly owned, you were protected.
    Eliza gave herself a sharp