Angels Make Their Hope Here by Breena Clarke

Author:Breena Clarke
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction / African American / Historical, Fiction / Historical
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Published: 2014-07-07T16:00:00+00:00

Dossie’s torn sleeve was the first thing Duncan noticed when the bedraggled group reached the Wilhelm place. Hat called out directives and made the others rush and fetch. She sent Jan to bring Noelle on the run.

Dossie’s relief at reaching Duncan’s protective sphere was immediately replaced with cold fear. His face was not soft. He demanded to know where her shawl was and acted affronted that Dossie was confused and could not recall. He looked at her like he thought she’d done something wrong when surely he ought to have been comforting her. Where was her shawl? Duncan was called to help with lifting Pet into the house, and his attention was diverted to the crisis. But Dossie had felt herself nearly singed from the heat of his glance.

When Pet was put into his bed and Noelle had arrived, Duncan directed Jan to take Sally Vander home.

“See that she reaches her porch safely. I won’t have her people say the Smoots harmed her or let her be harmed.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Duncan…,” Sally tried to speak, but Duncan turned away and faced Dossie.

“You better sit and collect yourself, woman. I wanna know what went on in town,” he said to her.

“It was my fault,” Jan said quickly. “Don’t be mad at her, Uncle. She isn’t the one who was wrong. I talked her into coming in. I wasn’t thinkin’.”

“You better take the little girl home like I told you and leave my wife to me, Jan,” Duncan said with a twist of his lips.

Later when Jan returned, Duncan pinned him. “Yeah, you the one who’s at fault for this. I know it. What make you bring my wife into a place like that? You tryin’ to take advantage of her? You tryin’ to get her hurt bringin’ her in a place like that?”

“No—was to see me dance in the contes’. She wa’n’t drinkin’. She was sittin’ with Pet,” Jan stammered.

“Poor Pet got the shit kicked out o’ him to see you dancin’! His life is hangin’ by a thread, boy. You brought my wife in there to see you dancin’ and cavortin’? Dossie ain’t no cheap gal like the ones you like. She ain’t no Charity Toynton! You tryin’ to throw dirt on her by bringin’ her in that tavern? You wan’ her to see you jumpin’ an’ preenin’ an’ let them bogtrottin’ bastards look at her and grab on her?”

Jan had meant no harm—no disrespect. It had seemed like a harmless thing for Dossie and Pet to sit at the back and watch him vanquish the Irish braggarts. Then Jan recalled that, in his drunk state, he’d cajoled Pet to sit up front where they had a good seat and he could see Dossie’s face from the stage and note her delight. He didn’t figure they’d toss the place if he won. He had only wanted to see that look of wonder and worship of his dancing that had played on Dossie’s face at the wedding fest. It was a small thing he wanted, a small smile.

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