The Packards boarded the cars; they pulled away. Elizabeth did not speak one word to her husband. Yet he acted strangely—solicitously. No sooner had her shawl slipped off her shoulders than he was ready to readjust it. When she called for lemonade, he followed after her only to pay her bill. He did not try to engage her in conversation; neither did he stop her from speaking with others. He did not follow her “in any suspicious style”24 at all, she noted, “as if I could not be trusted, but on the contrary, I had…perfect freedom in talking what I pleased, and to whom I pleased, and he…heard me say many things to the passengers much to his discredit, and still he did not attempt to restrain me.”25
Elizabeth did not say she was suspicious, but she ought to have been. Why this sudden and uncharacteristic kindness? Was it merely a prelude to his total victory? Was there simply no point in silencing her now, not when he was about to silence her for good?
Morning turned into afternoon, afternoon into evening, and still they traveled. Still, Elizabeth had no clue where they were headed. She would not lower herself to Theophilus’s level to ask, and he simply did not say. The passing stations held no clues that she could decipher, the countryside outside bland fields that bore no landmarks.
In time, the rocking motion of the train, combined with her exhaustion, took its toll. It was Theophilus who took out his handkerchief and offered it to her, who folded it under her head for a pillow, who allowed her to rest her weary head upon his shoulder. Elizabeth closed her eyes, the smell of him so familiar it almost lulled her to sleep, as though the train were taking them back through time and not through physical space.
When she woke, it was dark outside, yet still the train was in motion. At around 1:00 a.m., she felt it begin to slow. She glanced outside the window, but the place—Tonica—was not familiar. Was this merely a stopping point on their way to Massachusetts? Was Theophilus’s plan that they would stay overnight in this strange town and then continue their journey on the morrow?
The cars came to a complete stop. Theophilus rose and told her to follow. Elizabeth felt suddenly petrified. Her heart stuttered under the shock. “I had no protection,” she realized numbly, “no shield but the Almighty. Under His wings I shielded myself, and in His overruling providence was my only trust.”26
Obediently, having no other option, she rose and shadowed her husband. She could not see beyond Theophilus’s back as he led the way off the cars. She could only follow meekly in his footsteps, fearing the path that lay ahead. As she moved closer to the doorway, the cold night air blew in from the outside. She shivered, her summer shawl no match for its icy bite. What portents were carried on that freezing wind?
Yet she had no time to wonder. She had to concentrate on her footsteps, on navigating the train’s steep steps, holding her hoop skirts with one hand as she disembarked into the night.
When she looked up, she thought her eyes were deceiving her. For she stepped off the cars into a warm embrace. Arms surrounded her, grabbing her, squeezing her, loving her.
Theophilus had not led her to another asylum after all. He had taken her to her beloved cousin—to her lovely Angeline.
And to unexpected freedom.
PART FIVE
TURNING POINTS
I am not free while any woman is unfree, even when her shackles are very different from my own.
—Audre Lorde, 19811
Woman has her work to do, and no one can accomplish it for her. She is bound to rise, to try her strength, to break her bonds.
—Elizabeth Blackwell, 18482
CHAPTER 36
To be in Angeline’s arms was a wonder. The women shared the same family features—a long face and nose, brown hair, and dark, almond-shaped eyes—and their joy at being reunited was mirrored in their faces too. Elizabeth could barely believe her luck as she was helped into a carriage by Angeline’s courteous husband, David, and found herself riding beside “my truest and kindest friends I have on earth”1 on her way to their home in Granville, Illinois. David made her “as welcome a guest as one of his own family.”2
Her unexpected deliverance to the Fields made her question whether her husband might possibly have reformed. Was he ready to repent and allow her freedom? Despite all she’d endured, she suddenly felt willing to consider a reconciliation, as long as Theophilus was sincere in repenting and granting her full liberty.
But it was soon apparent nothing had changed. She castigated herself—“little, weak-minded Mrs. Packard”3—for even entertaining the idea. In fact, it became clear that this seeming freedom wasn’t freedom at all. Theophilus was allowing her to stay at the Fields’ and out of an asylum on one very strict condition: she must never return to her family. He left blunt instructions that the Fields should treat her as a madwoman—these, they ignored—and warned Angeline, “If she ever does come to see them [the children], I shall put her into another Asylum!”4