Chapter 11: Learning and Hope

Days passed as always, but I could never forget that glance.

Sometimes I’d catch myself replaying it at night, wondering what it would take for someone to give up everything for their family.

Pearl was growing up. She’d nearly forgotten the letters she’d learned before. I wanted to send her to St. Mark’s for the pastor to teach her, but feared someone in the shadows might notice. If the oldest Westfield was exposed, there’d be no escape.

I watched her struggle with her ABCs, my heart aching for her lost childhood. I weighed the risks, afraid that even one mistake could cost us both.

But the governor’s daughter had set up a school for girls. I sent Pearl there, along with Mrs. Harris’s daughter.

The school was bright and bustling, full of laughter and chalk dust. For the first time in a long time, Pearl felt like she belonged.

Though Pearl was simple, she had a good memory. Whatever she learned, she could recite and write at home. I learned with her, and gradually could read simple books myself.

Every evening, we’d sit at the kitchen table, tracing letters on lined paper by lamplight. Sometimes she’d teach me things, her patience endless.

I realized that learning was real. There were so many things in books I’d never imagined.

The world inside those pages was wider than any river, filled with hope I’d never dared to dream of before.

In books, there are mansions and beautiful people too. It’s true.

Pearl would read to me, her voice soft and full of wonder. I started to believe that maybe, just maybe, our lives could be different someday.

At the Fourth of July picnic in July, I took Pearl to the jail, bringing apple pie, food, and wine. We bought blank fans and painted them, brought herbs and colored strings.

The holiday was loud and bright—fireworks popping, kids running wild. But inside the jail, it was quiet, our little celebration a small rebellion against the darkness.

They looked better than last time. Mrs. Westfield’s voice was no longer weak. I heard the two sons used the floor as paper and sticks as pens, studying every day. Even the aunt no longer wept.

Hope had crept back in, just a sliver, but it was enough to change everything. The boys argued about math problems, Mrs. Westfield smiled more often, and even the guards seemed less harsh.

The Westfields seemed to have hope. I used herbs to freshen the jail, hung the rest by the door, and Pearl tied the colored strings for them and laid out the food.

The guards sniffed the air and grinned, happy for a change from the usual gloom. Pearl’s crafts decorated the cell, a touch of home in an unforgiving place.

Before we came, I told Pearl again and again not to mention seeing her oldest brother that day. If anyone found out, he’d be in danger.

I knelt beside her, looking her in the eye, explaining as gently as I could. She nodded, her trust in me absolute.

She asked several times if she could tell her parents. I shook my head each time, so she understood and never mentioned it.

Every time she opened her mouth, I’d press my finger to her lips. She’d sigh, then promise to keep the secret.

It wasn’t that I feared the governor’s daughter would discover his identity—if she could keep him, she must have checked his family for three generations. Maybe it was because she knew that she wanted to humiliate him. I was afraid his parents didn’t know and would be so heartbroken they’d take their own lives.

The thought haunted me. I’d seen what despair could do to people. I couldn’t risk it, not for Pearl, not for the Westfields.

He endured so much to save his family. If they died because of him, how could he go on?

I promised myself I’d protect that secret, even if it meant carrying the burden alone.

“Big sis sent me to school. Now I can recite lots of books. The letters on the fan were written by me. Dad, see if they’re good?” Pearl clung to her father’s arm, acting spoiled.

Her voice was proud and sweet, her eyes shining as she showed off her new skills. Mr. Westfield hugged her close, pride clear on his face.

At times like this, she didn’t seem ill at all. I always thought Pearl wasn’t sick; she was just a little simpler, more childlike than others.

She was slower to catch on sometimes, but her heart was pure, and her joy infectious. She was a blessing in her own way.

Her father examined the fan carefully, nodding as he read, his beard grown long. He stroked his beard, praising her again and again.

He looked at her like she’d hung the moon, repeating each letter, his pride echoing off the concrete walls.

“My daughter is promising, able to write such fine letters. Looks like your brothers will have to work even harder.”

He winked at his sons, who grinned and ruffled Pearl’s hair.

I liked the Westfields for how Mr. Westfield treated his kids—strict with sons, gentle with daughters, but always loving, never playing favorites. The kids he raised were open-minded and kind.

You could see it in the way they looked out for each other. No matter what happened, they stuck together.

“Boys, did you hear that? If you don’t work harder, I’ll surpass you!” Pearl said proudly, chin lifted.

Her brothers teased her, making silly faces, the cell filling with laughter.

“It’s all thanks to your sister. It’s hard enough for her to raise you, and she even sends you to school. You must remember her kindness.”

Her mom tapped her forehead.

Mrs. Westfield’s eyes shone with gratitude, her hand resting gently on mine.

“My sister is the best in the world, and I’m her most considerate little sister. Mom, look at the new clothes my sister made for you. All the underclothes are fine cotton, washed and dried, then kneaded soft before sewing. Now I can help her sew, too.”

Pearl opened the bundle and took out the underclothes.

The guards whistled, impressed by the handiwork. Mrs. Westfield pressed the cloth to her cheek, tears in her eyes.

Sharon, who was sold to the city with me, is now a live-in helper in a wealthy family. I heard she was sending things home, so I asked her to send the clothes I made for my parents and siblings over the years, along with some money.

We wrote letters late at night, tucked coins into secret pockets, and prayed our gifts would make it home.

A few days ago, someone returned with a letter, written by my dad in the city.

The envelope was wrinkled, the handwriting shaky but full of love. I read it until the paper almost tore.

After getting the money from selling me, my grandparents insisted on splitting the family. The money was divided per person, and my parents got only a little.

My chest ached at the thought. Even when families are together, sometimes it feels like you’re on your own.

The house belonged to my grandparents, so of course they didn’t give it to my parents. My dad gritted his teeth and took my mom and siblings to the county.

I imagined them walking down the long dirt road, heads bowed, but shoulders squared with stubborn hope.

My dad is strong and works as a helper in a grain shop with my younger brother. My mom and little sister wash clothes for others. Though they don’t earn much, they rent a house in the city and get by.

Evenings must be busy and loud—rice boiling, children playing, my parents snatching a moment of rest on the porch steps.

Now with the money I sent, plus their savings, they can buy land and build a house back home, even arrange a marriage for my brother.

For the first time, the future felt open, like the doors to a new life were finally swinging wide.

The Westfields were a new life for me. If Mr. and Mrs. Westfield hadn’t given me my freedom, who knows if I’d be alive? However one treats their own parents, I should treat them the same. What is a set of underclothes?

I realized family wasn’t just blood—it was kindness, loyalty, the people you chose to stand beside. I was grateful, even if my role was small.

“When the Westfields fell, all our relatives and friends avoided us—not one stepped forward. Only Bonnie has been loyal to my family. If we survive, let Sam marry her. True feelings are shown in hard times. Where else could we find such a loyal and righteous girl?”

Mrs. Westfield stroked my head. At the time, I didn’t know which one Sam was, but I felt none of them deserved me. They were all well-educated young men. If the Westfields were pardoned, they’d go to college and should marry well-born ladies. How could I hope for that?

I blushed at her words, shaking my head. I knew my place, but I treasured the sentiment more than any promise.

“Mrs. Westfield, please don’t say that. What I’ve done isn’t even a tenth of what you and Mr. Westfield did for me. If not for you giving me my freedom, who knows if I’d still be alive? I did all this from my heart. If you really want to thank me, treat me like Pearl.”

My voice cracked, but I meant every word. I wanted to be family—not out of obligation, but because I cared.

I was still kneeling.

The floor was cold beneath me, but I stayed there, hoping my sincerity would reach them.

“We’ll see in the future. For now, I fear the Westfields will only hold you back. Enough—no more of this. Pearl, pour your dad some wine.”

Mrs. Westfield’s smile was bittersweet, but she squeezed my hand before letting go.

I soon forgot that day. When it came up again, it was a different story.

Life moved on, carrying us forward, whether we were ready or not.