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Freedom‘s Whisper
February, 1892 | London
Sara‘s heart thudded in her chest as she crammed her scant possessions into the
worn valise. A shout echoed through the hall. She cast a furtive glance over her
shoulder. Her trembling hands clutched the black frock to her chest. The door to her
cell-sized room remained shut, but the bellowing from the floor below escalated. A door
Sara latched her valise. The finality rang in her ears and beat in her heart. No more.
Tonight would be the last day she cowered. She rushed for the door and peeked out.
Reverberating steps hurried her from the room and into the back hall. Would she make
it free in time? Dear Lord, please help me!
Her friend Beth stepped from the kitchen and beckoned her. The scullery maid‘s
lank black hair escaped in wisps from her white mob cap. Sara rushed through the
kitchen and into the chill February air. Big Ben chimed the midnight hour.
Beth tucked an old pair of gloves into Sara‘s hands. -You get thee gone, Sara. Do
no‘ look back. Do no‘ even think on us. You be done with the servant‘s life here and get
thee to America like you promised. |
Sara clutched the young woman to her, tears burning her dark blue eyes. -Beth . . . I
wish you would come with me. |
Beth pushed back, her brown eyes red-rimmed. -I wish too, Sara, but—get thee
gone, | she cried. Then she fled and bolted the door closed behind her.
Sara stifled a sob and rushed through the cobbled streets toward the old church
from her childhood. If the old priest, Amicus, did not remember her, God would
provide another way. How could she believe anything less? The first step for freedom
would be her responsibility.