The Dwarf Girl the Mistress Kept in the Parlor — And Fed Like a Pet – Part 3

Mrs. Brantley sat in her chair, dressed as though guests might still arrive. The lace collar was pinned too tight at her throat, her hands folded neatly on her lap, but her eyes, her eyes were fixed on the spot by the window where Minnie used to sit. The servants avoided the room.

 Even Sarah, bold as she was, stayed clear unless summoned. When she did enter, she kept her gaze low, set the tea tray on the table, and left before the mistress could speak. The whole house seemed to shrink without the girl’s presence. The light through the curtains looked weaker. The colors in the furniture dulled. Even the roses outside bloomed unevenly that spring.

Edward noticed it, too. He stayed out longer, often until the moon was high, returning with whiskey on his breath and the smell of rain on his coat. When he did come home, he no longer argued. He simply drifted through rooms like a ghost, always pausing at the parlor door, but never going in. Mrs. Brantley pretended not to care.

 “She’s gone,” she said one evening when Sarah hesitated with the tea. “Things go missing. It’s no tragedy.” But later, when she thought no one could hear, she began talking to the empty chair. “You should have stayed,” she whispered. “You were safe here. Sometimes she’d pause as if listening for a reply. Then she’d laugh quietly, bitterly.

 Of course, you won’t answer. I never let you. One night, Edward found her standing by the fireplace, her reflection flickering in the mirror above it. Ellen, he said gently. Come to bed. She didn’t turn. Do you think she’s alive? He hesitated. If she’s lucky, then luck is wasted on her. the mistress said. She wouldn’t know what to do with it.

 He sighed, but she wasn’t finished. Do you know what they’ll say, Edward? That I couldn’t keep my own servant that I let her run wild. Let her go, he said quietly. She was never yours. Mrs. Brantley turned then slowly, her face pale in the firelight. You don’t understand. I made her what she was. I gave her beauty. I gave her purpose.

 Without me, she’s nothing. Edward’s expression hardened. Then why does it feel like she took the whole house with her? For a long time, the only sound was the fire cracking behind them. When he finally left the room, the mistress remained by the window, staring out into the night where the fields disappeared into darkness. She thought she saw something move, a small shape walking the edge of the trees.

 But when she blinked, it was gone. Still, she kept watching, because even in her madness, some part of her understood what pride refused to admit, that the girl she had called pet was the only living thing that had ever made the house feel human. The first weeks on the road blurred into one another, miles of wet fields, the cry of crows at dawn, the smell of pine and mud thick in the air.

 Minnie followed the direction Sarah had whispered, “Keep north in your head.” She slept where she could, under porches, in abandoned sheds, beside fallen trees. Every night she’d light a small fire with the flint Josiah had given her, shielding the flame with her hands like it was something sacred. Sometimes she’d whisper to it, as though the light itself could listen.

 By the time she reached Somerville, her feet were raw, her dress torn at the hem. The town was smaller than she imagined, just a scatter of wooden houses, a church, and a trading post that smelled of tobacco and soap. People stared when she walked through, not cruy, just curious. She was small, and her steps carried that mix of fragility and purpose that made strangers uneasy.

 A woman standing by the well called to her, “You look lost, child. You got people here?” Minnie hesitated. “No, ma’am. The woman studied her, the mud on her skin, the steady way. She didn’t flinch. Name’s Ruth. I keep the laundry down by the river. You hungry? Minnie nodded. Ruth fed her cornbread and stew that tasted like home.

 Then she said, “You can stay a while if you help?” “Got more clothes than I can scrub before Sunday.” For the first time since she’d left Charleston, Minnie smiled. Small, cautious, but real. Days passed in rhythm. Wash, rinse, hang, repeat. Her hands grew rough, her back sore. But the ache felt clean, earned, not inflicted. At night, she slept on a cot in Ruth’s shed, listening to the river hum.

 One evening, Ruth came in with a folded newspaper. You can’t read, can you? Not yet, Ruth smirked. Then maybe it’s better you don’t see what they print in Charleston. Some nonsense about a servant girl gone missing. Accused of theft. Minnie’s jaw tightened. They always need someone to blame. Ruth nodded. Ain’t that the truth? She sat beside her.

 You run from a bad house. Minnie looked toward the door. The darkness outside. I didn’t run, she said softly. I walked. Ruth chuckled, not mocking, but impressed. You got some iron in you, girl. Keep it quiet. Don’t let nobody steal it. Minnie didn’t answer, but she touched the poetry book hidden beneath her blanket. She still couldn’t read most of it, but the words on the page had become like a promise, something waiting for her to grow into.

The next morning, when Ruth went to mark it, Minnie stayed behind to finish the laundry. She was hanging a white sheet to dry when she saw movement at the edge of the trees. A man on horseback, slow and deliberate, eyes scanning the yard. Her breath caught. For a second she thought it was Edward.

 Then the man turned and she saw the badge pinned to his vest. A slave catcher. Minnie stepped back, her heart pounding. The book in her pocket felt heavier than iron, and for the first time since she’d left Charleston, she realized freedom was still being followed. The man on horseback stayed at the edge of the trees for a long time, pretending to admire the river.

But Minnie knew what kind of man he was. His stillness wasn’t peace. It was patience. She ducked behind the hanging sheets, heart pounding. The wind caught the fabric, making them sway like ghosts. She crouched low, clutching the small pouch Josiah had given her. The flint clinkedked softly against the coin inside. A sound too loud in the quiet.

From the yard, Ruth called out, steady but sharp. You lost, mister? The man tipped his hat, smiling the way snakes do before they strike. No, ma’am. Just looking for someone. Heard tell of a girl came through town. Small thing, light voice. Don’t belong to nobody. Yet Ruth didn’t flinch. I ain’t seen her, but plenty of folks passed through.

 You got papers saying she’s yours. The man’s smile didn’t fade. Don’t need papers to spot what don’t belong. Ruth’s hand tightened on her wash paddle. Ain’t no one belongs to you here. He dismounted slowly, boots sinking into the mud. Funny thing about that word, belong. Folks up north like to pretend it don’t mean the same thing it always did.

Behind the sheets, Minnie pressed a hand to her mouth. The sound of his voice made her skin crawl. Calm, confident, certain. the kind of man who could turn the world cruel just by describing it. “Maybe I’ll take a look around your yard,” he said. Ruth stepped closer, blocking his path. “Maybe you won’t.” Their eyes met, her defiance against his authority, until a noise broke the tension, a dog barking from the road.

Two more men appeared behind him, leading a wagon. Whole lot of company for one runaway, Ruth muttered under her breath. The man smirked. Ain’t runaway the word. She was stolen. Minnie felt her stomach twist. Stolen? That was the lie Mrs. Brantley must have spread. Ruth turned her head slightly, just enough for her voice to reach the laundry line.

Run, girl. Now Minnie bolted. Her feet hit the wet grass, slipping, sliding, but she didn’t stop. Behind her came the shouts, men’s voices, boots in mud, the crack of a whip cutting through air. She darted through the cypress grove, branches tearing at her dress, water splashing cold against her legs. The sound of horses grew closer, hooves beating like thunder.

 She dropped the pouch. It hit the mud with a soft thud, spilling the coin and the flint. She almost stopped, but Ruth’s voice, faint now, distant, echoed in her head. keep north in your head. So she kept running through the trees, through the marsh, through the sound of men calling her name like they already owned it. And when she finally broke through the woods, her breath ragged, her legs shaking, she saw something ahead, a church steeple, faint against the gray horizon.

 For the first time since leaving Charleston, she let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, the world was bigger than the people who claimed it. The church was small, whitewashed wood with its paint peeling, its bell rusted still. It stood just beyond the marsh on a patch of high ground that never flooded. Minnie reached it at dawn, her dress torn, her feet bleeding through the soles of her shoes.

 Inside, the air smelled of old pine and candle wax. A single voice drifted from the front. A woman humming a hymn so low it sounded like a memory. When Minnie stepped in, the woman turned. She was tall with gray hair pinned neatly at the back of her head and a calm face that looked as though it had seen every kind of sorrow and learned not to fear any of it.

You’re early for service, she said softly. Minnie hesitated. I didn’t know there was one. There isn’t, the woman replied. Not today. But the Lord don’t mind surprise visits. Minnie’s hands trembled as she held out the small pouch. I ain’t here to pray. I just need somewhere to stop. The woman studied her, eyes narrowing, not in suspicion, but in understanding.

You run in. Minnie nodded once. The woman sighed. Name’s Alma. My husband’s the preacher. He’s out in the yard fixing the fence. You can stay till nightfall. No longer if riders come. Thank you, ma’am. Elma smiled faintly. Don’t thank me yet. I got questions. She poured water from a jug and slid it across the table.

 Who’s looking for you? Minnie hesitated. A woman. And men? She paid. White woman. Minnie nodded. Alma sighed again softer this time. Then you’re not the first to pass through my door. As the morning wore on, Minnie helped sweep the floors and clean the candles. The preacher returned. A quiet man named John with kind eyes and a limp that told old stories.

 He didn’t ask much. He just nodded and said, “Every soul’s got a road.” Some roads got longer shadows than others. By midday, the sound of hooves came from the distance, faint, but unmistakable. Alma’s head snapped up. “Get under the pulpit,” she whispered. “Now.” Minnie did as she was told, heart hammering. The door creaked open.

 A man’s voice, smooth, certain. Morning. You the preacher here? John’s tone stayed even. I am. You bring in blessings or trouble. Neither. Just questions. The voice paused. You seen a girl? Small thing, dark skin. Might be hurt, Elma answered before her husband could. We seen no one but the Lord this morning.

 The man laughed once, low and unpleasant. Then maybe the lords hide in her for you. His boots thudded across the floorboards, slow, deliberate. Minnie held her breath, watching dust fall from the underside of the pulpit as he passed. Then the door closed, and the sound of hooves faded away. For a long while, no one spoke.

 Finally, Alma knelt and looked under the pulpit. “You can come out now.” Minnie crawled out, shaking. Alma rested a hand on her shoulder. You keep moving, child. The good lord’s got patience, but men don’t. You rest too long, and they’ll make your road theirs again. Minnie nodded, clutching her pouch. I won’t stop. Good, Alma said.

 Then maybe he’ll let you keep what little freedom you’ve stolen. That night, Minnie slipped away before dawn, the church bell silent behind her, the hymn still humming in her chest. In Charleston, the Brantley House had begun to rot from the inside out. The servants whispered that the walls smelled of mildew now, though the mistress scrubbed them every morning with rose water.

 The mirrors had been covered with cloth. She claimed they made her sick, that she could see her in them. The small one, the girl who had run. Mrs. Brantley no longer took breakfast downstairs. She stayed in her room, curtains drawn tight, the air heavy with perfume and decay. Her meals went untouched. Her tea turned cold.

 Her voice, once sharp and commanding, had become a thread that snapped easily. Edward avoided her. He had moved his things into the study and spent most nights drinking alone. The house, once so precise, had fallen into a kind of quiet disorder. Dishes went unpolished. Lamps went unlit. Even the piano, the mistress’s pride, gathered dust.

 Sarah did what she could, but she kept her steps soft, her eyes down. She knew that when a house like this began to collapse, it was best to look invisible. One afternoon, Mrs. Brantley came down the stairs without warning. Her hair was undone, her dress halfb buttoned. “Where’s my husband?” she asked, voice brittle. “In the study, Mom?” Sarah said. Mrs.

 Brantley nodded, though her eyes didn’t seem to see. She walked into the parlor instead and stopped before the window. “She used to sit right there,” she said almost to herself. The light liked her better than me. Sarah froze. “Did she cry when she left?” the mistress asked. “Did she say goodbye?” “No, Mom.” Mrs. Brantley smiled faintly, as if that answer pleased her. “Good.

” She wasn’t meant for crying. I taught her that. Then, slowly she turned toward Sarah. “You all think I’m cruel,” she said. “But cruelty is just another kind of care.” I made her perfect. I gave her grace. Without me, she’d still be crawling in the dirt. Sarah wanted to say something, anything.

 But words felt dangerous in the room with that kind of madness. That night, Edward found his wife sitting in the dark, staring into the fireplace, though no fire burned. “Ellen,” he said gently, “you have to let her go.” Mrs. Brantley didn’t look at him. “She hasn’t gone. I hear her at night in the hall in the walls, he sighed.

 That’s your guilt talking. No, she whispered, her voice trembling. That’s her walking. Edward left her there, but her words followed him like a chill down the spine. He poured himself another drink and tried not to listen for footsteps that weren’t there. Upstairs, the mistress sat alone in the parlor. She reached for the old lace Minnie once wore, twisting it between her fingers until the threads broke.

 And when the moonlight caught her face in the window pane for just a second, it looked like she was staring at someone else, someone small, someone waiting. The road north wound like a scar through the countryside, uneven, lonely, and lined with trees that seemed to lean in to listen. Minnie kept to its edges, moving when the sun was low and resting when it burned high.

 Her feet bled through the cloth she’d wrapped them in, but she didn’t slow down. The church had been her last safe place. Beyond that, every face she met could be friend or hunter. By the third day, she’d reached a crossroads where a wagon was stuck in the mud. A man stood beside it, muttering curses under his breath as he tugged at the wheel.

 He was tall with hands rough from labor and a face too tired to belong to a cruel man. “Need help?” Minnie asked quietly, though she already knew she had no strength to give. The man looked up startled. “Lord, you near scared me half to death.” Then he frowned, studying her small frame. “You out here alone, girl.” She hesitated. “Just passing through.

” He didn’t ask more. Some men asked too much. The wise ones didn’t. He just nodded toward the wagon. If you can find some stones for grip, I might get this wheel loose. Together they worked until the wood creaked free. The man smiled faintly. You got a name? Minnie. Elias, he said. Preacher from Dorchester Way.

Got a few good miles left in this wagon if you need a ride. Minnie hesitated again. You don’t even know where I’m going. Elias chuckled. Ain’t about where, it’s about who’s chasing. I can tell by the way you look over your shoulder. She climbed in. The wagon rattled as it rolled forward. The road stretching ahead in a long gray line.

Elias didn’t talk much. When he did, it was about the land. The way the crops were thinning, the rivers drying. Whole south sick, he said once. Rot starts at the top and everyone below just breathes it in. As they neared the next town, he slowed the wagon. You best ride in the back, he said.

 White folks don’t ask questions if they don’t see answers. Minnie crouched low under the tarp. Through the gaps, she saw glimpses of people, merchants, soldiers, mothers with children, all of them busy, all of them blind. They stopped by a small inn at dusk. Elias handed her a piece of bread and a small flask of water. “Can’t take you farther,” he said.

 Too many eyes passed here. Minnie nodded. Thank you. He tipped his hat. Keep north. Look for the lanterns that don’t go out. They say that’s where the ones who ran found a home. She stepped down from the wagon, her feet sinking into the damp earth. The wind carried the faint sound of river frogs, and for the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel hunted.

 But far behind her in Charleston, another pair of eyes was on the move. Mrs. Brantley had sent word to a man named Harlon Reeves, a name whispered even in slave quarters. He didn’t chase for money. He chased for the pleasure of the catch. And when he heard the mistress’s story, he smiled. “Don’t you worry, ma’am,” he said.

 “Ain’t a small thing in this world that can stay hid for long.” Harlon Reeves rode with the ease of a man who had never once been told no. He was tall and lean, his coat too fine for the dirt roads he took, his boots polished like he was going somewhere important, though he only ever went where there was suffering to find. He had a reputation from the Carolas to Savannah.