Remember the Morning by Thomas Fleming Page A

a marvelously soothing effect on the old judge. He rumbled and grumbled about Clara still being a danger to the peace of the city but he was no longer threatening her with punishment. “If it would satisfy Your Honor,” Malcolm said, “she can be sent to my family’s house in New Jersey. My mother is in need of a servant out there.”
    â€œDone,” the judge said, whacking the bench with his gavel. “In the name of the best friend of my life. For no one else would I hesitate to mete justice to one of these black vermin. They murdered my son, you know. Every time I see one of them on the street I can taste the bile of that memory in my throat.”
    â€œThey murdered my father!” Gertrude Van Vorst cried.
    Black vermin . The words struck Clara like a lash across the face. Was this what white men thought of them?

    Them . Who was she talking about? She was a Seneca. She was not one of these Africans.
    Dazedly, Clara let me embrace her and lead her from the courtroom, while Gertrude Van Vorst raged at us. Guert Cuyler struggled to play the peacemaker. He obviously had misgivings about offending the Van Vorsts. It was a good indication of how rich my uncle had become.
    â€œI took the case at Miss Van Vorst’s request, madam,” Cuyler said. “My father drew Cornelius Van Vorst’s last will. We consider her our client.”
    â€œThe whole matter is an unfortunate misunderstanding,” Robert Nicolls said. “I’m sure you never intended to mistreat her, madam. It’s hard for us civilized folk to appreciate the way Indians act and react. You should think of her that way, madam—and consider yourself well rid of her. I’m sure, when you have time to reflect on it, you’ll agree with me.”
    â€œYou may have a point, sir,” Aunt Gertrude said, soothed by Nicolls’s ingratiating manner.
    My admiration for-not to mention my gratitude to—this self-assured young men quintupled. It mingled with my satisfaction at extricating Clara from the Van Vorst household. I could only hope she would be happier with the Stapletons, even though she was still a slave.
    We escorted Clara to a boat waiting at a Hudson River dock. “The sooner you’re out of Aunt Gertrude’s reach, the better,” I said. “Mr. Stapleton’s assured me you’ll be treated with perfect kindness and respect. We can exchange letters and perhaps I can visit you, if I can persuade my uncle to lend me the money for the trip. As soon as I inherit my estate I’ll free you.”
    We reached the dock as I said these last words. The rage they created in Clara’s eyes made me wonder if our love had ended. I had blundered from the white world back into our Seneca past. Even if I freed her from slavery, the gift was poisoned. How could she accept as a gift the liberty every Seneca inherited at birth?
    â€œForgive me!” I cried.
    â€œThere’s nothing to forgive,” Clara said.
    In that moment, Clara donned an invisible false face. She no longer cared about the teachings of Jesus. She did not even care whether her words and acts created good or evil. She saw her soul, fleeing through the moonless forest to be devoured by demons and devils, all of them white. Somehow she would outwit them.

THREE
    T HE STAPLETON MANOR HOUSE STOOD ON a broad meadow, a few miles from the falls of the Passaic River. Beyond it stretched fields of green corn and wheat and orchards full of flowering apple and pear trees. The fieldstone mansion looked huge, compared to the size of the houses Clara had seen in New York. It was four stories high, with a central hall that separated it into two massive wings. There were six matching windows on each floor—proof of the builder’s wealth or arrogance or both. The cost of heating such a house had to be stupendous. On the red tile roof a half dozen chimneys poked red brick snouts into the sky.
    Around the mansion were