The Summer of 1848: Book 4 of the Olivia Series

By Yael Politis

Olivia and Mourning thought they had succeeded in creating a home, of sorts. A credible lie concealed their secret and enabled them to live with their son, all under the same roof. They had a means of support. They had friends.
But something was wrong. This life had begun to feel confining and unsustainable.
Mourning felt the need to get away and be on his own. His disappearance left Olivia struggling with her own choices. Can they find their way back to one another, force the impossible to become possible, and remain a family?

318 Amazon ratings – 4.6 average This is what some of them said:

“Great reading. The storyline just gets better and better. So glad to see the characters growing as the time moves on. Olivia is a person many of us have known – we refer to them as “free spirits.” Thank you for allowing Mourning to grow as well.” – Kindle Customer

“Once again life with Olivia is good. So entertaining, making you feel as one of the family! A completely different turn to the story than I would have guessed!” – Connie J. Barton

“This book was perfect from start to finish! Olivia and Michelle, the boarding house inhabitants, Nick, and Charlie all become such interesting characters ... but the story of Mourning is the star of this book ... the writing style is perfection as she makes me feel like I am included in this story ... Olivia is such a strong character and is a delight to follow. I especially enjoyed it when she doubted herself, because it is so real. We all doubt ourselves at times. And with Mournings intellect (which was sometimes hidden by his “colored” speech) it is easy to see how he will go far in life. I truly loved this book, and I hope Ms. Politis continues to add to their story. Well done!” – Donna Hamilton

“Anyone who likes historical fiction, as I do, will enjoy the Olivia Series by Yael Politis. The long awaited for fourth book, The Summer of 1848 did not disappoint. The reader is caught up in what is happening in the lives of Olivia and Mourning, along with the current events of the time. I always come away from the books in this series, learning about historical events I did not previously know. I am now looking forward to Book 5.” – Deb Meyer

“I cannot stop reading this lovely set of books ... This story has grabbed my attention and kept it late into the night. Its historical background makes the personal stories of the various characters so alive, leaving me with an appreciation of the facilities we enjoy today, such as a hot bath or shower, and toilets in our homes. I admired the resourcefulness of a young woman providing for the guests of her boarding house by shooting and butchering buck, growing and pickling vegetables, riding her horse bareback, handling a team of horses and a cart, carrying pistols and shotguns, defying norms by wearing pants, when women generally wore bustles, falling in love with her black childhood friend, accepting and appreciating Michelle with the fake French accent and fighting for fair treatment of escaping slaves. What a truly fascinating story! Four books already hungrily devoured and more to go. I find myself delaying, unwilling to have to part from these people.” – Book Addict

• Language: English
• Publisher: Yael Politis
• Release date: Jan 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798215328965

Yael Politis

I grew up in Dearborn, Michigan, in the house on the cover of Book 3 of the Olivia series, not far from the location of Olivia's farm.While studying at the Universities of Michigan and Wisconsin, I spent two summers in Israel and ended up coming back to make my life here. Since then I've spent a lot of time traveling between the Middle East and the Midwest, loving both my homes.While living on Kibbutz Ein Tsurim I learned the story of the Etzion Bloc during Israel’s War of Independence – from people who had lived through it. It was many years before I dared to try to put it down on paper. At that time, fantasies aside, I considered writing nothing more than a hobby.I did, however, post the first chapters of The Lonely Tree on a writers' workshop run by the London Arts Council. There it received a Book of the Year award and Holland Park Press of London asked to see the complete manuscript. Not long afterwards I received an email from them. “We want to publish your book.” Hey, you never know when a fantasy is going to come true.For years I had been researching the backdrop for Olivia's story and based many of the details in the Olivia Series on letters and journals passed down through my family, over seven generations of lives lived in the American Midwest. I also received a great deal of information and insight from my sister Martha, who lived with her husband in a modern log home, hunted her own land, cut her own firewood, and was as independent and stubborn as Olivia. Then self-publishing happened. The prospect of being able to publish that story independently was a great motivator, and I finally completed and published the five books of the Olivia series.

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The Summer of 1848

Book 4 of the Olivia Series

Yael Politis

The Summer of 1848

Book 4 of the Olivia series

Copyright 2024 Yael Politis

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition

Cover photo by Yulia Kazansky

Cover design by Vila Design

This book may not be reproduced, copied,

or distributed for commercial purposes.

January, 2024

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Chapter One

Detroit, Michigan

Monday, May 15, 1848

Olivia

Olivia woke early but remained under the summer quilt, luxuriating in idleness. Are there really that many idiots who would buy a Valentine? Sounds like such a dumb idea. But I can’t deny Michelle has more business sense than I do.

Michelle couldn’t stop harping about the stupid cards. They are all the rage in London. A fella don’t dare court a girl in the month of February if he ain’t fixin’ to give her one. And I swear it will be that way here soon enough, even in the wilds of Michigan.

She kept insisting they order large rolls of lacy paper now, in May. It could take months for the paper to arrive, she argued. Once it did, they’d have to work long hours, getting stacks of cards ready by February. She badgered Olivia to begin working on the designs – at least ten different ones – and wanted nothing to do with the commonly used poem:

The rose is red, the violet's blue,

The honey's sweet, and so are you.

Thou art my love and I am thine;

I drew thee to my Valentine:

The lot was cast and then I drew,

And Fortune said it shou'd be you

Michelle expected Olivia to come up with at least three original versions of palaver similar to that rhyme, though more in the style of the common man.

When did I claim to be a poet? Olivia asked.

You write books, don’t you?

For children. And not a single couplet in them. The whole idea is ridiculous. If you tried, you couldn’t find two women less experienced in things romantic than you and I. Neither of us ever married, neither of us ever courted properly. And anyway, who would waste good money on a piece of card paper with a few lines of blather scribbled on it? What’s romantic about words some stranger was paid to write?

I’ll tell you who – droves of men. Remember how you said you can’t imagine your brother Avis ever telling his Lady Mabel how much he loves her? You think he’s some special case? There are hardly any men who say that kind of stuff. They think long as they keep knocking at your door, that pretty much says it all. So we’ll make it easy for them – they buy a card, sign their name on it, and leave it on the table. Or now that they can put one of them stamps on a letter – so the lady what they’re sending it to don’t gotta pay to get it – they can send it through the post.

Olivia stretched, arms over her head, toes pointed. All right. She does have a point. It’s not hard to imagine Lady Mabel getting a fancy card and clutching it to her heaving bosom. All she’d have to do is drop a hint about the Sweet Valentine one of her friends received and Avis would be scrambling, desperate to find out where he could get one. A few pennies to keep in her good graces? That’s a bargain.

Anyway, Michelle’s argument continued, We ain’t gonna give ’em nothing that simple. Ain’t nobody writes a Valentine by hand anymore. They’re all printed, even embossed with gold. Besides the paper lace, we can decorate ’em with ribbons and bits of velvet and silk. Feathers and dried flowers. I’ve even heard of sea shells.

How exactly do you think they’re going to send seashells through the post?

The really special ones will come with their own special box.

Olivia could already hear Mabel bragging, showing it to all her friends at the Girls’ Club, leaving it displayed on the mantle until it all but disintegrated. Olivia even went so far as to wonder if it might enter the decidedly unromantic mind of Mr. Mourning Free to get one for her. Not in this life.

The back door slammed as Janie Renfro entered the kitchen. Olivia welcomed the sounds of the pump handle and clanking pans – harbingers of breakfast. How lovely to lie abed while someone else did so much of the work. By the time Olivia dressed and entered the kitchen, the boarders had finished their breakfast and were lingering over coffee.

Before anyone had the chance to wish her a good morning, six-year-old Charlie looked up from his hot chocolate and asked, You know where my daddy be at?

Olivia smiled at her unacknowledged, chocolate-colored son. He seemed so grown-up, taller than the other boys his age, thin as a bean, with his father’s brilliant white smile. Nothing of me in him, she thought for the hundredth time. Not a speck.

Why no, I don’t, she replied, as usual modulating the level of warmth she allowed to creep into her voice. He must be tending to something out in the barn.

Nope. He ain’t. I been out there.

Olivia tapped her forefinger against her upper lip – waiting for Charlie to wipe the mustache of milk from his – before she spoke again. Well, maybe he went to work early – remembered something he had to get done.

He spose to take me into the Second Baptist.

Church on a Monday? Whatever for?

Could be I gonna be in the children choir.

Oh, wouldn’t that be nice. Mrs. Porter leaned toward the boy and smiled. She and Miss Streeter had been the first to take rooms when Olivia opened her boarding house.

I sang in my church’s choir. Back in Pittsburg, Miss Streeter offered with a sad smile. Course now that my hearing’s gone so bad ...

You’re a lucky girl, not having to hear yourself no more. Mrs. Porter finished her sentence with a good-natured jibe.

Olivia swallowed her annoyance with Mourning for neglecting to mention the choir to her. Well, don’t worry. If your father doesn’t turn up in time, I’ll take you. I have to go into town anyway, she lied.

You want I should fry you up some eggs? Janie asked Olivia.

No, no. In this house, lazy loafers who miss mealtime fend for themselves. Rules hold for the landlady too. But I’d be glad to finish off that bacon. She nodded at the plate in the center of the table. If no one’s got their name on it.

It’s close to burnt, Janie apologized as she shoved it closer to Olivia, before turning to tromp out to the barn and get laundry day started.

I’ve no use for it any other way, Olivia said to Janie’s back and rose to pour herself a cup of coffee. I suppose Mr. Abraham is having a sleep-in? She returned to the table and reached for the plate of bacon and a slice of bread.

Old goat is still breathing. I checked on that, Mrs. Porter said as she and Miss Streeter simultaneously rose and put their plates in the sink.

Charlie also pushed his chair back and Olivia said, Why don’t you go see if Big Bad is out in the barn? The mare Mourning rode to work every day had been named after the big old fleabag he used to ride back home in Pennsylvania.

She be right in her stall. Already checked ’bout that when I been out there.

Well, go get yourself ready. I won’t be long.

After Charlie turned to clomp up the stairs, only Michelle remained at the table, head cocked, watching Olivia.

Where you think Mourning’s gone off to? Michelle asked. Dint he say nothin’ to you?

No. Olivia shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned. But something had begun fermenting in her belly.

He has been actin’ strange. Michelle looked away as she spoke. Ever since the fire.

Olivia’s eyes opened wide in surprise and flashed in anger. I can’t imagine how you come by that opinion. In fact I can’t imagine how you come to hold any opinion about the way Mourning behaves, normal or strange. Why would he be acting any different? And why would you bring the fire up, anyway? It was so long ago. What’s it got to do with anything? It required an effort to keep her voice low, so no one else would hear.

"It warn’t so long ago. A month? Two at the most. Maybe you think nearly gettin’ us all burnt up in our beds ain’t nothing. Michelle kept her voice soft when she looked back at her friend. But it ain’t, Livvie. It ain’t nothing."

Burnt up in our beds. Olivia shook her head. Flames never got anywhere near the house.

They coulda.

Lots of things could have happened. Let’s stick to real life.

How’s this for real life? The barn was that close to going up. Michelle held two fingers a tiny distance apart.

Well, it didn’t go up, did it? Thanks to Jeremy’s water tank and hose up in the loft. Olivia referred to her former neighbor, from the farm, the man who was currently Michelle’s some time companion and an aspiring plumber, determined to install the first working bathtub and water closet in Detroit.

That’s right. And thanks to you climbing up there to turn the spigot. But did you ever stop to think ... a few more minutes ... didn’t you ever stop to think, Livvie? What if there’d been a package down there? Michelle referred to the secret hiding place beneath the storeroom in the barn, a compartment for hiding runaway slaves, before they could be whisked over the river to Canada. They woulda gone up in smoke, together with the whole caboodle.

And you’d be blaming Mourning for that? Olivia blanched. And me, of course. For one darn kiss. And it wasn’t even much of a kiss.

That ain’t what I’m saying. Ain’t nobody to blame but the villains what struck the match. But you know you got careless. Out there on the porch, where anyone on the road can see you. People going by on a boat could probably see you.

I have to get ready to take Charlie. Olivia abruptly stood. With her back to Michelle she said, Anyway, I fail to see the point of this conversation.

When she pushed the door to her room open she saw it. Heard it actually, as the door whooshed over it. The long strip of paper, folded like an accordion, making a fan of pages. Mexico in thick black letters was on the first panel. Someone at the Arsenal had given it to Mourning, but what was it doing in her workroom/bedroom? She surveyed her worktable, the sofa, and the low table in front of the sofa. Perhaps it was lying on one of them and floated off onto the floor? No. Mourning had it the other day, when we were out in the barn arguing. He kept waving it in my face and I sure never took it from him. There is only one way that darn paper got in here – after I went to bed last night Mourning shoved it under the door.

Feeling numb, she glanced in the mirror and decided she was as ready as she was going to get. She took another cup of coffee out to the porch, the place Charlie would look for her when he was ready to go. She knew he would have the buggy ready. Just past six years old and he already helped his daddy take care of the animals, standing tiptoed on an overturned bucket to put the bit in a horse’s mouth. She cast a wistful glance at the empty chair standing next to hers. It was true; Mourning never joined her on the porch any more. Not since that evening before the fire.

Sure enough, the buggy soon stood in the drive. Come on, we gotta get goin’, Charlie called.

On the way to Detroit Charlie cast worried glances her way, but neither of them made further mention of Mourning’s disappearance. Charlie was set on getting a hutch of rabbits and learning how to keep bees, and chattered about the logistics of those endeavors. How long will it be, she wondered, before he realizes how unusual it is for a colored boy to speak so freely with a white woman, even dare to boss her around?

She dropped him at the Black Second Baptist Church and drove to the Arsenal, where Mourning worked. She had only been there once before, to bring Mourning an urgent letter. Now she tried to think of a plausible excuse for a white woman to be seeking out a Black man at his place of employment, but soon lost patience. Let them think what they want. She strode into the carpentry shop, saw he was not there, and asked one of the men where she might find Mourning Free.

Couldn’t say, ma’am. He quit.

Quit? When?

Couldn’t say. Worked till yesterday. Must a gave fair notice, cause the boss dint have no quarrel with him. Boss is over there. He nodded at a hefty man, bent over to attach the legs to a chair.

Olivia hesitated before asking, What’s considered fair notice?

Week, I guess.

She glanced at the boss, but knew there would be no point in questioning him. Mourning would hardly have confided his plans. She mumbled her thanks, hastened out of the workshop, and drove to the office of Mr. Carmichael, the attorney who had always been a good friend and confidante to both Olivia and Mourning.

Why, Olivia Killion, what a lovely surprise. I don’t see enough of you.

Have you seen anything of Mourning Free lately? she asked brusquely, ignoring the chair he pulled out for her.

No. Why? Is something wrong?

Crestfallen at his reply, she said, He seems to be gone. Not a word to anyone, just disappeared. I thought maybe he left some kind of message with you.

No, nothing like that. He furrowed his brow. My, what a worry. Do you fear something may have happened to him, an accident on the road perhaps?

No. He went upstairs to his room as usual last night. And his horse is still in the barn.

Does he like to take a walk in the morning? In the woods? Perhaps we should organize a search party. He could have fallen, broken his ankle –

She shook her head with a wry smile. Getting up and deciding to take a walk is about the last thing I can imagine him doing. You know what his life was like back in Pennsylvania. He had to walk hours each day just to get to all his different jobs. Walking for its own sake is a ridiculous notion to him. She paused and took a breath. If he walked anywhere, it was away from me. I’m going over to the livery, to see if he bought a horse. She half-turned as if to leave, but didn’t.

What about ... the little boy? Mr. Carmichael walked behind his desk, again extending his arm toward the chair, in invitation for Olivia to sit. She did.

He didn’t take Charlie. She shook her head. I just dropped him off over to the Second Baptist for choir practice. When he woke up, his father’s bed was already empty. Charlie came downstairs wanting to know where his daddy was. Her voice almost broke.

Well, I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. He would never abandon that child. And he’s so nicely settled in here –

He quit his job. A week ago. He quit his job and not a word.

I’m sure there’s some explanation.

I think ... I think maybe he’s gone off to Mexico.

Mexico? What on earth would he be looking for down there? California, now that wouldn’t surprise me – what with all the rumors about gold starting to fly about.

She let out a long sigh. He’s got himself half-convinced it’s some kind of paradise on earth. A place where they leave mixed couples in peace. Some new fellow at work, a soldier back from the war, was talking about how they have so many different kinds of people – Indians, half-Indians, Spaniards, Creoles, Negroes, mulattos, quadroons – and they have this whole area set aside, where the mixed couples live. He gave Mourning a pamphlet about Mexico, and I found it shoved under my bedroom door this morning. That’s the goodbye I got.

Paradise, you said? I doubt that. They may have a special area, but I’d guess it’s where they banish all those mixed couples to. Keep them out of sight.

That’s exactly what I told him! And if you’re so scared of slave-catchers, I said, why don’t we just go over the river to Canada?

What did he say to that?

Canada. Puh. She imitated the way Mourning jerked his head back and let out a little puff of air when he thought a person had said something ridiculous. All they got there is white folks. Blend in with the ice and snow. She shook her head. I told him there aren’t any laws against inter-racial marriage in Canada. He said, ‘Ain’t no need to outlaw somethin’ what don’t exist.’

I can’t argue with that. Mr. Carmichael leaned back in his chair. Mrs. Carmichael and I traveled through Canada for a few weeks and I can’t claim to recall seeing a single black face.

There have to be some. I’ve driven enough black faces over the river. Anyway, the damn fool will sure see plenty of black faces on the Mississippi, on his way down to New Orleans. All kinds of them – out in the fields of every plantation they pass.

The attorney’s eyebrows shot up. Was he talking about doing that?

Yes, he was. How he could get a job on a riverboat and just stay on it, never have to set foot in a slave state, make it all the way down to where he could catch a steamer across the gulf, to Mexico. She gave a few quick, exasperated shakes of her head. Ever since I’ve known him, even when he was a little boy, the damn fool was always going on about how a poor slave could get sold down the river, as if Louisiana is the closest thing there is to hell on earth. Damn, damn fool. She rose to leave.

You’ll tell me what you find out? Mr. Carmichael rose to walk her to the door.

Sure. She shrugged, suddenly exhausted.

Weary of feeling clueless and pathetic, she straightened her shoulders before entering the livery, determined to offer a credible performance.

Good day, Mr. Thompson. Mourning Free came in to buy a horse, didn’t he?

"Sure did. I fixed him up with a good one – and the whole kit and boodle – blanket, saddle, rigging, saddle packs. Rode out this morning. Didn’t say where he was off to."

No, I don’t know myself. Something personal. My guess would be family. Well, a good day to you. I just wanted to be sure he got off all right.

Yes, ma’am. Mr. Thompson tugged on the brim of his cap.

She returned to the buggy and aimlessly drove up and down streets. What am I going to tell Charlie when Mourning isn’t home by bedtime? Or tomorrow? Or the next day? She continued to curse Mourning. A person could think you were in some kind of prison you had to break out of. You could have gotten up and left any old time you pleased. But not like this. Why like this? Without a word, no clue as to when you’ll be back. If you’ll ever be back. How is that fair? How dare you leave me with nothing to tell our son? Sneak off into the night, like a slithering coward? Damn you, Mourning Free. Damn you to hell. I should take Charlie and go away, someplace you’ll never find us, see how that feels to you, when you do come back here, expecting to find us waiting on you.

She turned up Beaubien Street and onto Croghan, where the church was. The only thing she could think to do was tell Charlie the truth. All of it. But he’s only six years old. How can he understand that? Then she thought of little Josiah Greenstreet, hiding in a pickle barrel on the back of a wagon, he and his parents fleeing from slave-catchers. That poor little boy was only four years old and he seemed to understand perfectly well what was happening and why he had to keep quiet in there. That’s what our broken world does to these children. Forces them to understand the evil in it.

She breathed out another long sigh and climbed down to enter the church, where the choir was on the last verse of Abide With Me. The pastor was seated in one of the back pews and got to his feet when the door opened.

Good day to you, Pastor Newman, she whispered and slipped into the pew across the aisle from him. I’m here to collect Charlie.

It was not the first time she had been to the church, having attended some abolitionist events there and even gone to Sunday services with Laisha, when she was still living with them. But Olivia wasn’t sure the pastor recognized her. He didn’t succeed in hiding his puzzlement when he bent toward her to say, They’re just finishing up, before sitting back down.

Charlie looked adorable in a threadbare white vestment, with gold and black trim forming a large V down his chest. But he frowned when he saw who had come to take him home. While the last chord was still reverberating through the chapel he came skipping down the aisle. He was smiling bravely, but without a hello asked, Didn’t my daddy come home yet?

No, not yet, I’m afraid.

Oh. Okay. I gotta go hang up my robe.

Go ahead. I’ll be right here.

When they were in the buggy she said, It’s such a beautiful day. I wonder if the ice is still holding. You think they have ice cream over at The Shades?

Yeah, yeah. He perked up. Not think. I know they got it.

Well, climb in the back, see if that bag with the tin bowls is still there.

Don’t need ’em. Charlie shook his head. Me and my daddy ’llowed to sit in The Shades. I been there with him plenty a times.

Oh. That was something else Mourning had never bothered to discuss with her. She’d had no idea Charlie knew there were places he wouldn’t be welcome to come in and sit to table. You could have spared him that knowledge for a few more years, she thought, feeling increasingly resentful. But she managed to keep her voice bright. Well, all right. That settles it. Let’s go get us some ice cream.

Seated at the table, she said, As long as we’re here, maybe we’d better have our dinner, before the ice cream. What do you think?

Steak sandwich and fried potatoes? he replied.

Is that what you and your daddy get?

Yep.

"Is it any good?’

De-licious.

Okay, that’ll be it.

The waiter approached and greeted Charlie amiably. Olivia gave him their order and, after he left, looked into her son’s eyes. I didn’t want to come here with you just to eat. I also wanted to be somewhere we can talk. I need to tell you some things. Grown-up things.

Did my daddy go away like my mamma did? he asked.

It took Olivia a moment to remember that, to Charlie, Laisha had been his mamma. No, no, not like that. Your daddy will come back. I’m sure of that. He would never leave you. He knew he could count on me to look after you while he’s gone. But he would never go away and not come back. I don’t know where he is, but I think he may be looking for a new place to live.

Why? Are you gonna kick us outa your house?

No, never. I hope you will stay forever and ever.

So why he gotta look for another place? I gonna be ’llowed to take my pony? You and Miss Michelle and Mr. Jeremy and Mrs. Porter and Miss Streeter and Mr. Abraham gonna come visit us?

With a heavy heart and not at all sure she was doing the right thing, Olivia began hesitantly. I know you loved your mamma very much. And she loved you. And she’s your mamma because she raised you up in your first years. But sometimes a little boy can have two mammas – one who grew him in her tummy and one who raised him up –

Charlie looked over his shoulder before speaking in a whisper. You mean like you growed me in your tummy?

Olivia’s jaw dropped. Who told you that?

My daddy.

When?

He shrugged. Dunno. Sometime. He said you be my other mamma, but I can’t never call you mamma and I can’t never tell no one. But I gotta know that you love me and you always gonna look out for me.

Yes, that’s the truth. Heart aching, she softly spoke the words that she wanted to shout while holding him close to her – not politely sitting across a table from him. I love you with my whole heart and I will never let anything happen to you. And did your daddy tell you why it’s a secret?

Cause the white men what call us niggers and coons think we need to keep ourselves ’bout five miles ’way from a white woman. If we don’t, they like to string us up. But I don’t know what that means.

String you up? She shuddered. I thought we were keeping him better sheltered – that he had seldom, maybe never, heard the word nigger. I am a stranger to this child. And Mourning? Do I know him at all? I can’t imagine him explaining the world to Charlie with such harsh directness. It means to hurt you very badly.

How?

That’s something we’ll explain to you when you’re older.

If it be so bad for a white woman to be near a Black man, then why me and my daddy be livin’ in your house with four white ladies?

"It’s not bad. But too many people are stupid enough to believe it is. Just because we don’t look like each other. She paused and struggled, finding no useful words to say. Maybe someday things will change."

How they gonna change?

"I don’t know, Charlie. Maybe simply living near one another will help people see that we’re not so different. You know, when people don’t like someone or something, it’s usually because they’re afraid of it. Like I hate snakes. Because I’m afraid