S.T.T.T.S - Part IV: "I Am"
- Gabrielle Marie Kelley
- May 21
- 14 min read
Updated: Jun 10
In a gilded salon thousands of miles from Texas soil, Sally is no longer simply seen as entertainment, she is treated as a guest and her expressions are respected. She is polished, adorned and admired, yet freedom remains elusive.
Now under the unwavering gaze of Monsieur Benoist, a man as charming as he is calculating, Sally is forced to answer a question she's never been allowed to ask: Who am I?
What begins as a dinner invitation becomes a revelation of true affairs. Sally must accept that becoming a woman in Paris means revisiting the girl who dared to dream of freedom in Texas.
The moment has come for Sally to step into a new identity. Will she rise to the occasion and keep the key to freedom? Or will time pass her by?
(TAP PLAY TO LISTEN)
Hoisted upright by her tightly laced bodice in the velvet Louis XVI tufted armchair, Mrs. Abigail sat sipping the apricot liqueur that was served to her atop a marble pedestal table conveniently stationed within reaching distance. Just as she had been taught, she fixes her regard on her host while taking advantage of her peripheral to admire the detail of the gilded and color drenched salon.
The room is spacious, but the soft fabrics and warm jewel tones create a cozy and intimate atmosphere, perfect for deep discussion. Half damask and half wainscot, the walls are adorned with portraits of aristocrats, officials, and ancestors; their demeanor expressing propriety and pomposity, just the same. Painted to mimic a glimpse into the heavens, the ceiling is crowned by a grand chandelier cascading with crystal teardrops giving the impression of a summer’s rain. The scent of lavender compliments the aromas in her cup and everything about her surroundings substantiates the reason why William had sent her to France.
“Do you see, Madame Livington, the country is divided. The only way to resolve the hysteria is through grave reform,” Monsieur Benoist says, interrupting her meditation.
“Oh, why, yes, I see. You most certainly are informing me in French politics, Monsieur Benoist. I will soon be a citizen of France if I remain in your company!”
The three laugh as intensely as their beard and bodices allow in polite society and they reach for their glasses to indulge in another sip.
After patting his mouth dry, Monsieur Benoist gestures toward Mrs. Abigail and asks, “What exactly does bring you to Paris, Madame Livington? Your impeccable French is a testament of time, certainly you must feel alone here without your husband, your family?”
Eager to share, Mrs. Abigail returns her glass to the table, places her hands on her lap, and says, “My husband is deeply missed here in Paris, yes, but I am on business in his behalf, and I cannot leave until sufficient alliances have been made.”
“Ah!” Madame Benoist exclaims while turning to her brother and adjusting herself in her chair. “Now we are speaking my language, do tell Madame Livington.”
“As you may know, the North likes to believe it holds the future in its iron hands with factories, engines, soot and noise. But my husband, Mr. Livington, believes the future is found in the land, in its roots, and I agree with him. He is building on something that will grow forever in Texas…”
“Cotton?” Monsieur Benoist interjects with a raised eyebrow.
“Certainly, but also rails and routes, connecting our harvest to French ports and opportunities for all lands,” she continues.
Smiling, Madame Benoist says, “Your husband sounds like a true visionary. The French have always admired ambition and vision, especially when it first blooms in foreign soil.”
His legs crossed, Monsieur Benoist leans back, brings his fingertips together and asks, “And this vision that procures legacy, does it not also demand change, revolution even?”
“I must say, I admire the French for your love affair with la revolution. But in America, revolution is not romantic, it comes with consequence…and bloodshed.”
The brother and sister glance at each other and inhale with the rise in tension. Mrs. Abigail reaches for her glass to quell her anxiety which incites her hosts to do the same. Monsieur Benoist exhales and his body language shifts, indicating that he is ready to change the subject.
“Are there any other, perhaps, more private endeavors that the French would be willing to support?”
“Private endeavors? I think not, Monsieur Benoist. My husband is transparent with me about his aspirations. It is true, he does work closely with government officials, and I am sure there are certain discussions that shouldn’t grace a lady’s ears. However, I have no reason to believe that he is withholding information that would impede success for either France or Texas”.
“Your maid, Sally, is it? I couldn’t help but notice that she wears an unusual pendant? Would you happen to know where she came upon it?” Monsieur Benoist asks.
“Oh, that wretched thing? I assure you; it is nothing of true interest or value. A rock from the fields back home is all it is. It was so dirty I almost had it thrown out, but she cried as if her freedom depended on it,” she laughs and continues, “I felt sorry for the wench, so I had it chained”.
“How kind of you to have shown mercy,” Madame Benoist says, casting a glance at her brother to signal a cease of interrogation. “I hope you aren’t too famished, Madame Livington. We are still awaiting one guest before we dine. Would you like more to drink while we wait?”
“Why, yes, an additional glass and guest never hurt anyone!”
Sally braces herself as the Berline comes to a halt. She senses the coachman’s movements and hears his footsteps as he makes his way from the coach box to the cabin. He opens the door and steps aside to reveal a most stunning chateau surrounded by color satiated gardens fit for King Charles X himself.
“This way, Mademoiselle,” he says. Sally realizes, with sobering surprise, that this was the only phrase the slender, dignified coachman had said all evening. Her own voice, by comparison, suddenly felt unshackled.
The uniformed porter answers the door, thanks the coachman and ushers Sally to the footman who offers to take her coat and belongings. He seems unbothered to learn that she has none and promptly begins escorting her to the salon to meet her hosts. Sally is delighted that he quietly walks two paces ahead, affording her time to admire the opulent and detailed furniture and the thought-provoking art lining the hallways.
“S’il vous plait, wait here, Mademoiselle”.
He opens two tall ornate doors inward and announces Sally’s arrival: “Mademoiselle Sally de la Maison Livington, guest of Madame Benoist, s’il vous plait.” He bows and then promptly turns to exit the room while gesturing for Sally to enter.
Reading the room like she would a book, Sally begins on the left; there sits Monsieur Benoist who has stood to welcome her, his jaw is relaxed and his eyes wide following the lines of Sally’s hair falling behind her shoulders in bouncy coils gently teased by the wind. Hugging and draping her frame, the pink dress compliments her ebony skin making her the center stone amongst the jewels surrounding her. He smiles and politely welcomes Sally with a bow. Sitting next to her brother, Madame Benoist rises with a greeting and a pleased expression; she unabashedly expresses her admiration for the dress.
“Sally, why have you left the apartment? Is there an emergency?”
“I called for her Madame Livington, as my guest. There is a portrait of mine that I believe would interest her greatly.”
“Excuse me, Madame Benoist, I express this with the deepest respects for your hospitality, but I must remind you that Sally is a slave, my slave. She is not versed in the fine arts, nor does she have a pension to afford these. I think it best if…”
Monsieur Benoist interjects and says, “My sister has revealed her art to those with lesser appreciation, I am sure. And do not worry, Madame Livington, we are in no need to demand compensation for admiration. Sally, s’il te plait, have a seat here”. Monsieur Benoist gestures toward the empty space next to him and Sally quickly obliges to remove herself from the spotlight.
The awkward silence passes with, initially, forced politeness, and then gives way to conversation about neo-classical art. Sally is served the apricot liqueur and as she sips from the small and delicate glass, she attempts to hold the stem in the same manner as her Mistress so as not to reveal the truth: her lips have never touched such fine crystal.
Mrs. Abigail becomes visibly irritated with each question that Madame Benoist and her brother pose to Sally. Surely, she must be disgusted. But at this moment, Sally did not feel inferior to Mrs. Abigail, she felt the allure of what superiority and class could bring; she was not sure if it was this newfound power or the liqueur that inebriated her.
The questions, superficial at first, slowly carried Sally back across the ocean to the wide horizons of Texas, to evenings with Moby, Betsy, and Ezekiel, laughing, dancing, creating songs from scraps of hope. She could almost hear the echo of their voices; the hush of warnings passed between verses: “Don’t ever raise your voice too loud less the white man catch the way.” Only now did Sally truly understand what they meant. The songs hadn’t just lifted spirits, they carried maps, whispered routes, and harbored dreams of freedom. It had been so long since a hymn stirred her spirit. Suddenly, she missed the low, steady hum of her people; the way their sorrow could sound sweet, and their joy, defiant. She missed seeing the defiance in Ezekiel's eyes.
“Ah, that is very interesting, Sally. So, the dancing included rhythmic feet tapping and humming, did it not?”
“Yes, I taught Sally her dances at a very young age. They are quite entertaining, Sally, stand up and show our hosts your talent. Do you remember the routines that I taught you?”
A placid expression on Mrs. Abigail’s face reveals her true intentions. Seething, it was her goal to humiliate Sally, and to remind her of who she was: a slave that dances on command.
“Come now, Sally, you must remember, don’t you?”
Sally forces a smile and turns to Madame Benoist and her brother, who sat sipping their liqueur confidently, waiting for Sally to decide her own fate.
“You have impressed our hosts with your reading and speaking skills, all taught you by myself, I think it only fair that you show them how I have managed to civilize your dance style. Go ahead, stand up and show them.”
Sally inhales and returns her glass to the serving tray. Suddenly, the mauves and bright colors of Madame Benoist’s salon transform into the beige with blue and white detail of the Texas estate. Sally is nine years old again in the entertaining room with drunken men and women surrounding her, pointing and laughing. She braces her hands on the cushion, releases her breath, and stands.
“Le dîner est servi, Madame.”
Sally had not noticed that the French doors had opened, and the butler stood center, announcing dinner.
Grinning, Monsieur Benoist rises from his seat, offers his arm to his sister and says, “I’m afraid the dancing must give way to dinner.” Madame Benoist, equally pleased, accepts her brother's arm and leads the way toward the dining room. Sally moves to follow, but just as she steps forward, a stern hand grabs her arm and yanks her back.
“You are going to tell them that you've fallen ill, and you will leave this instant! You’ve completely lost your mind and forgotten your place. How dare you presume to stand equal to a white woman? You will make your excuses now, or I swear, when we return, I’ll give you a lashing that’ll leave your flesh as pink as that ridiculous dress.”
Could she do that? Sally knew she had rights in Paris that didn’t exist back home in Texas. Here, Black people were free and had been for decades. No court would uphold a master’s right to publicly whip a maid. But private matters were only as just as the man or woman enforcing them. And Sally had witnessed, far too many times, how the law goes silent when the outcry comes from a black mouth.
“Is everything ok?” Monsieur Benoist returns, puzzled as to why the women were delaying.
“Sally was just saying she’s feeling a bit unwell. Poor thing doesn’t think her stomach will manage through dinner,” Mrs. Abigail says with a tight smile. “Of course, I told her it’s best she returned home to rest, I’m sure none of us would want any... unpleasantness at the dinner table.”
“Yes, I have this terrible feeling in my stomach. I need to return home,” Sally says, holding her head down.
“Si’il te plait, allow me to escort you, wait here.”
Before Mrs. Abigail could protest his notion, he was off to retrieve his coat.
“And just like a nigger to cause a scene.”
Mrs. Abigail turns sharply and stomps toward the dining room entrance; before entering, she adjusts her dress and expression to reflect that of a delighted guest.
In the Berline, Monsieur Benoist sits across from Sally eyeing her like a master would a buck on auction. She admires the gardens as their yellows, purples, pinks, and oranges passed by the window, a perfect excuse to avert his piercing gaze. When she musters the courage to meet his regard, his eyes are locked near her bodice.
“Where I am from, it’s not proper for a gentleman to fix his eyes on a woman’s bodice,” Sally says, catching his eyes briefly and then returning to peer out of the window.
“This is also true in France. But, where you are from, you are not a woman, are you?”
A tension grew in Sally’s spine straightening her posture and a ball of cotton formed in the back of her throat. He was right, how dare she speak so boldly?
“But here in Paris, you are indeed a woman,” Monsieur Benoist says. His eyes relaying a kindness that dissolves the class barrier between them. “Where did you find your pendant? It is quite unusual, but I see it means a great deal to you,” he asks.
“It is a gift. It reminds me of back home.”
“How far back?” he asks.
Puzzled, Sally searches his eyes for understanding but all she finds is suspicion and determination.
“It reminds me of being back home with my family in Texas. I left Texas in the year 1818 when I was only nine years old.”
Monsieur Benoist leans forward and mutters, “Sally, who are you? And why do you have a token for the Confederate Commuter?”
Not having heard those words since Mr. Peterson slurred them that one night, Sally had partially convinced herself that it had all been part of a childish fantasy. But now, the pulsating neon pink machine was real again, and she could feel its heat in Monsieur Benoist’s questions.
“Who am I? I am a slave. A slave in the house of Livington.” Sally pulls the coin out from her bodice, passed her thumb across its surface and continued, “Ezekiel, my Pa, gave me this coin the night they dragged him from the cabin. He told me that, with it, I would find freedom. At one time, it was stolen from me by my mistress’ maid; her theft was discovered, and a certain gentleman named Mr. Peterson confiscated the coin before killing the maid. In his drunkenness, he dropped the coin, and I retrieved it once again. I vaguely remember the Confederate Commuter, I wasn’t told much about it, but, that night, I was taken to it by Mr. Peterson. The coin stopped glowing when I reached Paris. I used to think that it meant my freedom was already attained, but nights like tonight remind me this can’t be true.”
Chuckling and repeating Mr. Peterson’s first name under his breath, Monsieur Benoist crosses his arms and leans back in his seat.
“Do you know Mr. Peterson?” Sally asks.
“Do I know Nathaniel?” he laughs. “Yes, very well, indeed, and Sally, it was by no accident that he dropped the token. He is a calculated man who feigns foolishness for his own advantage. He saw something in you, I’m sure, and realized that you must be the missing link.”
“Missing link?” Sally asks, wondering how she could be linked to anything he had just described.
“Allow me to debrief you, Sally: Your Master, Monsieur William Livington is part of a group of men made up of aristocrats, government officials, and extremely wealthy Englishmen and Confederate Americans who are planning to conduct the most outstanding operation of our time, of any time. Together, they have created a time travel machine, The Confederate Commuter. Initially, they intended to travel into the future to learn agricultural secrets and to see how railroads would advance to give themselves an advantage on the market. What they discovered was something that threatened their entire endeavor: the abolition of slavery. There will be a civil war in the United States between the Union and Confederate States, of which the Union will win. This war will turn the tides of time. Slavery will no longer be legal, and it will greatly affect the social economics of all slave owners, including your master. They are traveling into the future to negatively impact the Civil War so that slavery, and hence their economy, remains. Monsieur Peterson is one of many men who do not agree with manipulating the hands of time and there are others like me that do not agree with this nor the enslavement of black people anywhere on the earth. We are all working incognito to stop this agenda, and now you must work, too.”
Sally stutters in response, and he seizes the opportunity to interrupt.
“You know enough, and you will learn more. Sally, it is time for you to answer the first question again. Who are you?”
“I am just a slave…”
“No, Sally. Who are you?” He peers into her eyes, pleading with her to redefine herself.
“I am Sally. A slave born to Ezekiel and Betsy, slaves of the House of Livington…”
"Yes, Sally, you were born a slave, but that is not all you are. You are free to travel the threads of time itself, holding the key that could unlock chains across centuries. You are standing at the edge of something greater, and therefore, you must rise to become greater. So, I ask you... who are you, truly?"
“I am Sally. Sally, the Time Traveling Slave?”
Monsieur Benoist smiles, tilts his head as if to examine her new identity more closely, and relaxes in his seat. His eased demeanor welcomes Sally to, once again, admire his handsome features. If only his gaze was satisfied with more than the whereabouts of time travel and secret missions.
The carriage pulls in front of the apartment and the door flings open breaking their concentrations and thrusting them into the present.
“I have so much more to tell you, Sally. S’il te plait, meet me at the market tomorrow at noon and bring the token of the Confederate Commuter with you. And don’t tell anyone what I shared with you today.”
Sally agrees and reassures him that she would tell not one soul as she slid out of the cabin.
“Et Sally!”
“Oui?”
“Pink is indeed your color.”
Her cheeks would have matched her dress had not her deep mahogany complexion masked the intense flush. His pleased countenance only intensifies the rush and how relieved she is when the coachman closes the door. She turns to enter the apartment, her step lighter, her mind freer, and her heart concerted with a new identity.
After turning down Mrs. Abigail’s bed Sally returns to her room, undresses, and begins reading, stopping frequently to relive the words that Monsieur Benoist had spoken, especially the last five. His determination to help her redefine herself was contagious and his compliment gave her a sensation of safety and warmth that she had never experienced before. As she thought of his attention toward her and of how fine his structure, the sensation began to travel from her chest to her stomach, and from her stomach to her hips, and from her hips to…
“Sally, are you in bed already? Get up.”
Mrs. Abigail had returned from La Maison Benoist; she seemed contented with liqueur and fine cuisine.
“You’re not going to believe! The Benoist’s have accepted William’s proposal and that means we are soon to go back home to Texas!” Skipping to the side of Sally’s bed, she sits bouncing like a friend not a foe.
“That’s nice, ma’am. I do miss home, Moby and Betsy…”
“Who?” Mrs. Abigail asks as she walks over to Sally’s dresser looking for something familiar. Once she finds it, she grabs the coin and begins winding the chain around her palm.
Sally jumps up and asks, “What do you need with that, ma’am?”
Mrs. Abigail turns slowly and says, “At ease, Sally. I’m starting to think this dirty rock may be more than what you told me it is. You certainly do have a great attachment to it. And Monsieur Benoist also seemed to show interest; he asked me about it and stared at it all night.”
“It reminds me of home.” Sally says, trying not to show desperation.
“Is that so?” she steps closer and lowers her voice, saying, “Well, Sally, if it really is nothing, William will confirm it. I will keep it in my possession until he responds to my letter.”
Turning away, she prances out of the room, barking orders for the next day. When her footsteps finally fade down the corridor, Sally exhales. A letter? If only she could climb into the Confederate Commuter now and stop it in its tracks.
“Oh, and Sally!” Mrs. Abigail reappears, her figure half-framed in the doorway. “Madame Benoist has invited me to Afternoon Tea tomorrow, so I won’t require an escort to the market. Are you prepared to go on your own?”
“I am.”
Discussion: Do you think that Sally really understands her identity as The Time Traveling Slave? Tell us what you think in the comments below.
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