Her lips formed a flat line, her eyes now more stormy gray than blue. “That’s ‘all’ you ask?” She shook her head. “Roland, did you learn nothing from—” She stopped, glanced around them, then looked back at him. “What are you so afraid of?” she whispered. “What is it that you think is going to happen if you begin treating George like a fellow human being instead of a—”
“I do treat him like a fellow human being. I’ve told you that. I’ve known him most of my life, and I’ve always treated him with respect. But as I said, we all have different roles to—”
Now she put up her hand. “I respect you, Roland. And I can respect that you see this differently than I do. But I will not treat him any less than the man he is. Nor will I treat Tempy any differently. Not anymore. And you only have yourself to blame.”
Roland opened his mouth to respond, but she beat him to it.
“You were willing to lay down your life for what you believe. Same as every man who marched onto that field that afternoon. And while I don’t know that I would have the courage to do that, I do know that God has given me the courage to say yes to what he has called me to do. So finally, after all these years, that’s what I’m doing. And I hope you’ll respect my wishes in that regard.”
She turned and left the room, and he itched to follow after her, explain himself, make her listen. Instead, he clenched his jaw and bit back all the things he wanted to say and couldn’t. Things he lay awake for the better part of the night turning over in his mind, while the question she’d asked him thrummed beneath it all with a belligerence that wouldn’t let go. He tossed on the cot, trying in vain to get comfortable. Finally he heaved a sigh and turned onto his back, his mind and body spent.
What are you afraid of, beloved? Roland’s eyes came fully open. He rose on one elbow and looked around the room, heart ricocheting off his ribs. All was quiet, dark. No one stirred. Pulse hammering, he lay back down. His breath came hard as the soft echo of the question filled every part of him. But it was the love he’d sensed wrapped around and within the question that caused his eyes—and conscience—to burn.
He took a shaky breath, suddenly, painfully aware of God’s omnipresence, and of his own earnest desire not to be seen. Yet the very air trembled with God’s nearness. Roland took a shuttering breath. He’d made it clear to the Lord that he didn’t need his strength. Didn’t want it. That he could do this on his own. But he’d been wrong. In a flash, all the things he’d said in anger to the Almighty came rushing back, and he was nearly crushed beneath the weight of his own pride and self-sufficiency. And fear. His chest constricted. I-I’m sorry, he whispered from a place deep inside him, wishing he could take it all back.
In the space of a heartbeat, the anvil of regret lifted from his chest, and he took a deep breath. The first deep breath he’d taken in nearly two years, it felt like. Certainly since before Weet and Lena had gone home. He lay on his back, staring up. Oh, Jesus . . . I don’t know what to do. It feels like the entire world is unraveling and there’s nothing I can do about it.
As soon as he said it, he heard the pride and self-sufficiency yet again. He sighed and slowly nodded, the sting of truth rising to his eyes. What was he afraid of? The question hovered patiently yet persistently around him, quietly demanding he give answer. And as the sun finally edged up over the horizon, he did.
CHAPTER 36
Lizzie slipped out the back door of the kitchen, sunrise still a ways off. She’d overslept, so was already a few minutes late. She picked a nondescript path toward the back of the barn and the chicken coop, keeping to the shadows and away from the moon’s silvery cast. She glanced behind her to the second-story windows along the back of the house, wanting to make sure no one was watching. The heavy curtains lay undisturbed.
She breathed in the cold January air, the tang of winter sharp and clean. Every time she sneaked to the barn like this, she thought of all the people who wouldn’t approve. Roland, for certain. Towny would think it too dangerous. And the McGavocks. She wasn’t fully certain what they would think. But she knew she needed to tell them. It had been weighing on her conscience for nearly two weeks now, ever since Roland had told her that she and George were “too familiar” with each other. If Roland got angry over that, she could only imagine his anger when he learned about this. But she didn’t plan on telling him anytime soon.
She looked across the field to the wooded line where Towny had disappeared that night. The last time she’d seen him. Almost a month had passed since the battle in Nashville. Had he survived it? And the retreat? Was he still alive? If he was, why hadn’t he contacted her? Or his father?
If he had been killed, wounded, or was missing, his name should have appeared in the lists the War Department issued in the newspaper. She’d checked every day without fail. No Blake Rupert Townsend. Yet having walked the aftermath of the battle in the Harpeth Valley, she knew firsthand that some of the bodies had been mutilated beyond recognition. “‘But it is a freeing thing, in a way, to be ready and willing to die.’” She spoke aloud to the night, his last letter as familiar to her now as her own mirror image. “‘To have accepted that your death could come at any time.’”
She’d never had to come to grips with death as he had. Or Thaddeus. Or Roland and all the others. But it was what Towny had written after that about life that had deepened her determination to be a wife worthy of his affection. Because you realize the precious fleetingness of it, and of how very little time we all have here. Which is all the more reason not to delay once you find what you want with all your heart.
She gave a soft sigh. Towny . . . Come home to us.
She opened the barn door and breathed in the familiar scents of horse sweat, hay, and saddle oil. Over the whinny of horses she heard soft voices. She followed the soft glow of lamplight and found George and Tempy in an empty stall, each sitting on a barrel, their expressions earnest.
“Good morning,” she whispered, her breath puffing white.
“Mornin’, Miss Lizzie,” they responded, voices overlapping.
Lizzie lifted the cloth from the top of the basket and removed the teaching materials. They’d agreed it was safer for her to keep the slates and primers in her possession. But she had a surprise for them today. She withdrew two brand-new notebooks with sharpened pencils. “You’ve both been working so diligently, I wanted to do something to encourage you in your studies. We can use these occasionally instead of the slates.” She held out the gifts.
George and Tempy looked at each other first, then back at her before gingerly accepting. The way they held the notebooks and pencils, carefully, almost reverently, impressed upon Lizzie again how grateful she was that God had opened a door for her to share this time with them.
They set to work reviewing previous lessons, then took turns reading. Both of them knew their letters fairly well now, but sometimes they still confused the coordinating sounds. Which wasn’t unusual.
“You can slow down, George,” she said gently. “Take your time. We all must walk before we run.”
“I ain’t got time for walkin’, ma’am. I got to learn this so I can take care of my family.”
“You will learn it. You already are learning. See here.” She turned in the primer. “Read this part for me.”
He shook his head. “That’s cheatin’. The drawin’ on the page half tells me what the words are.”
“Please, read this part for me,” Lizzie said again, feeling Tempy watching them.
George clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on the book, and it struck her how very much alike he and Roland were. Impatient with their unknown futures, anxious about caring for their loved ones, and stubborn to the point of being prideful in some things. She wished she could have seen them together as young boys, before Roland had been taught that George was somehow less than he was—or had a “different role” in life—because of the color of his skin. People had to be taught those kinds of preconceptions. She knew that from experience. She’d been teaching
for over sixteen years, and on more than one occasion when she’d been outside with her youngest pupils, either taking a walk or sitting beneath a tree studying, slave children would wander up and join them. And the children would talk and play together, without any thought of their color or their differences. It was only once her pupils were older, after they’d watched and learned from their parents and other adults, that the animosity and prejudgment took hold. And once that hideous seed had taken root, it seemed only Jesus himself could restore what had been ruined.
“‘See . . . the . . . dog . . . c—’” He exhaled.
“Sound the word out,” she encouraged.
“I know I’m gonna say it wrong.”
She bit back a smile and pointed to the first two letters in the word. “When a c and an h are together at the beginning of a word, what sound do they make?”
Tempy sat a little straighter and Lizzie gave her a quick look, knowing she knew the answer. And so did George, if only he would be half as patient with himself as he was with others. Lizzie asked him the question again, and he rubbed the back of his neck.
“Ch?” he said simply, then shook his head as though waiting to be told he was wrong.
“Yes! That’s exactly right.” Lizzie smiled. “Now finish sounding out the word.”
He brought the book a little closer to his face. “‘Ch . . . aaa . . . sss . . .’” He squinted, then looked over at her. “I think that last little letter there ain’t got no sound this time.”
“If that’s the case”—she cut her eyes at him—“and it is”—she saw the light inch back into his expression—“how would you pronounce the word?”
He eyed the word for a few seconds. “Chase! ‘See the dog chase . . . the mouse.’”
“Excellent. And do you realize, George, that not quite a month ago, if I had handed you this book, you wouldn’t have been able to read a single word. Much less that sentence.”
He nodded. “Give me another one?”
Smiling, she turned the page. “One more and then it’s Tempy’s turn.”
“It better be my turn soon, or I’m gonna die o’ old age.”
They all laughed, and the lesson time flew as it always did. Hearing the first warble of birdsong, Lizzie peered up through the cracks in the barn roof and saw the subtle change from darkness to dawn. Wishing they had more time, she packed her teaching materials into the basket when George and Tempy both held out their notebooks and pencils.
Lizzie shook her head. “I bought those for you.”
“Comin’ here and learnin’ is one thing, ma’am.” George’s expression held warning. “But us bein’ caught with these? There won’t be any mistakin’ what we doin’ then. I know o’ slaves who been horsewhipped for a lot less.”
Knowing he was right, and feeling foolish for not considering that, Lizzie took the paper and pencils. “I’ll keep them for you. For now. But hopefully one day very soon you’ll be able to keep them for yourselves. For good.”
“Oh Lord, for that day.” Tempy’s whisper sounded more like a prayer.
Lizzie followed them to the back door of the barn when she noticed it. The goings-on in the last stall. “What on earth?” It had been so dark when she entered, she hadn’t seen it. She stepped closer and heard George’s soft laughter behind her.
“It’s somethin’ for the cap’n, ma’am. And for the other men too, if they want it. I started on it a few days back, once the doc give the cap’n the okay to move on to walkin’. Colonel McGavock give me the lumber, the rope, and the bricks. Tempy give me some old dishcloths. It ain’t much to look at, but it’ll get the job done.”
Lizzie’s gaze trailed up to the top of the stall, where a rudimentary pulley-type system had been attached. Ropes hung down, one end tied in loops, the others tied around bricks wrapped in cloth. “Does Captain Jones know about this?”
“Not yet, ma’am. I ain’t quite done with it. Soon, though. Then I’m gonna show it to him.”
Lizzie looked back at him. “Please let me be here when you do.”
As customary, they exited the barn separately. George to his cabin, Tempy to the springhouse, and she to the chicken coop. She ducked inside and managed to catch three roosts unoccupied. She grabbed the eggs, closed the door behind her, and hurried toward the house. She was halfway to the back door when the sound of a twig snapping heightened her senses. She glanced behind her, prickles of fear inching up her spine. She didn’t see anyone, but couldn’t shake the feeling she was being watched. She turned and bolted for the house when someone grabbed her from behind.
CHAPTER 37
Lizzie tried to scream, but a hand clamped hard over her mouth and the sound came out muffled, barely audible. But the man had taught her well. She dropped the basket, lowered her body, and spun, then brought her elbow up hard and fast to the—
“Lizzie!”
She froze, her breath coming hard. The hand fell away.
“Towny?” she whispered.
He gave a cautious laugh. “Yep. Or what’s about to be left of me once you’re done.”
She threw her arms around his neck, and he hugged her close.
“You made it through the battle,” she whispered, then pulled back to check his face, his arms, his legs.
“I did. And I’m all right.” He kissed the top of her head, emotion in his voice. “I don’t know how, though. I thought I was done for so many times I lost count. God just isn’t finished with me, I guess.”
She smiled. Hadn’t Roland said much the same thing to her the first night they’d met? She pulled back. “It’s dangerous for you to be here. Federal patrols are by here all hours of the day and night.”
“I know. I saw a couple earlier. From the woods. There’re a few of us who held back to get word to families.”
Lizzie glanced around. “You’re not alone?”
He shook his head. “We split up about a mile back. But don’t worry about us. We know these woods far better than those Yanks ever could.”
She tugged at his sleeve. “Come on inside. I’ll get you some coffee and we can talk.” She bent to pick up the basket, only now remembering the eggs. But knowing Towny was alive, she didn’t care. “Tempy will want to see you, and so will the—”
“Lizzie Beth,” he said softly, and something about his tone, the gravity of his voice, made her throat go dry.
She straightened.
“I don’t have much time. Our commander’s only given us a few hours, then we have to report back.” He brushed the hair from her face. “Did you get my letter? The one I wrote you from Nashville?”
“Yes,” she whispered, her throat beginning to tighten. “I’ve written you back, but I didn’t know where to send it. I can go get it if you—”
He took both of her hands in his. And though he hadn’t moved, his breath came quicker. “I have loved you all my life. And you will always be my first love.”
Hearing a finality in his voice, she felt tears rise to her eyes.
“But life is so short,” he whispered. “And so precious. We’re here and then we’re gone. And what we do with our lives matters. Not only in this life, but in the one to come. And, Lizzie, I want you to have the most wonderful life you can. You deserve that. I want you to marry, to have children, to grow old with the man you love. But—” His voice caught. “I’m not convinced I’ll ever be that man for you. Will I?” he finished in a whisper, a desperation in his voice that pierced her heart.
Lizzie pressed her lips together. “Towny, I—”
He cradled her face. “Only the truth this time, all right? Not what you think you should say. Or what you think I want to hear. Or even what you hope to one day be able to say to me. I would marry you right now, this very minute, if I were certain you believed I’m that man for you. And I will marry you, Lizzie Beth, if you say that I am.”
She nodded, her chest aching. She tried to speak, tried to force out the words. But nothing came.
The first hint of dawn revealed his sad
smile. “I’ve given you my pledge, and I will stand by that promise all the days of my life. Because I love you. But because I love you—” He struggled, his composure slipping. “I’m also willing to let you go. If that’s what you want.”
Lizzie hugged him tight, wishing they could go back to what they had been and feeling as though her heart was being torn in two. “I do love you, Towny. You’re the dearest friend I’ve ever had.”
A strangled noise rose in his throat. His arms came around her. Lizzie held on to him tighter, trying unsuccessfully to stifle her sobs. Finally he drew back, and with a trembling hand wiped the tears from her cheeks, his own wet with emotion.
“I release you from your pledge, Lizzie.” He waited, a question in his reddened eyes.
She nodded, scarcely able to speak past the knot at the base of her throat. “I release you too.”
He took a sharp breath, then cupped her chin. “I only wish the very best for you. Remember that.”
“You too,” she whispered. “I’m just sorry that—”
“Shhh . . .” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, hard and quick. “I love you, Lizzie Beth,” he whispered.
“I love you too, Towny. And I always will.”
Standing where he left her, she watched him until he disappeared back into the woods. She gathered the basket, not bothering about the broken eggs. Deep inside, she knew this was for the best, so why did it feel as though her heart had been ripped from her chest? She walked back into the kitchen by rote, unaware of her surroundings.
“Miss Lizzie, you all right?”
Lizzie shook her head. “It’s Towny.”
Tempy gasped. “Oh Lord, no . . .”
“No, he’s not dead! I just saw him. Outside. He’s very much alive.” She tried to smile but couldn’t. She drew in a breath, but her lungs wouldn’t function as they should. “He said he released me from my pledge. That he only wishes the very best for me and—” Her voice broke.
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