A Reluctant Belle

by Beth White

  She held the brown calico rag doll in both hands and examined the black shoe-button eyes and sooty gingham dress. Its yarn hair had been neatly sewn onto its head and plaited into pigtails. Some little girl’s church dolly, left behind by mistake, had miraculously survived.

  What if its owner had been in the building?

  Joelle felt something crack inside her.

  God, oh God. Why? Who hates to this degree?

  Her thoughts flashed to Mrs. Whitmore, needling her in church on Sunday, the day she’d espoused Reverend Boykin’s candidacy for Congress. The implication was sickening. Impossible.

  But she couldn’t shake the notion that she bore some responsibility for what had happened here last night.

  Schuyler made it out to the street somehow. He had to find Levi, the only sane person he knew in this crazy town. As he slid along with his back close to the courthouse wall, gun drawn but not raised, sounds came and went as if he were sticking his head in and out of a barrel. He came upon the crowd gathered around Perkins’s dead body—something he had no desire to see again.

  But he had to know what had developed during and after the gunfight in the courtroom upstairs.

  Edging closer, he elbowed a tall man in a coonskin hat. “Hey, what’s everybody looking at?”

  The man’s eyes cut to Schuyler. “A colored prisoner fell out the window, then a gang of white men run out of the courthouse and found him alive. One of them slit his throat. That’s what I heard, anyway.” His gaze went back to the body on the street. “Sheriff come out, saw what happened, then went tearing after them.”

  “Anybody else? Tall young fellow in a military-style hat and coat?”

  “Man, it’s been a regular parade out here. You up there when the guns started popping?”

  “Yes.” Schuyler started moving away. “Has somebody gone after the coroner?”

  “Don’t know.” Coonskin Hat shrugged. “Guess I could do that.”

  “Good man. I’m going to see if I can help the sheriff.”

  He moved toward the sounds of yelling down the street, possibly inside a shop close to the tavern. He had no idea how much time had passed since the first gunshot in the courtroom, but he guessed five or ten minutes, maybe less. Events had unfolded quickly. As he passed an alley between two buildings halfway down the block, he felt something hit his back.

  He whirled, lifting the gun.

  “Beaumont.” It was a whisper, but he recognized Levi’s voice. “Over here.”

  Retracing his steps, he stepped into the alley he’d just passed. Levi crouched there, the bulk of his shoulders and coat shielding a smaller man behind him.

  “What are you doing?” Schuyler whispered.

  “Quiet. Come this way.” Levi turned, shoved his companion farther into the alley.

  Schuyler followed. They came out at the back of the building into another alley, where a warehouse took up half the block behind the courthouse. Levi seemed hale and hearty, though out of breath. The second man, none other than schoolteacher Lemuel Frye, had added a bloody lower arm to his other injuries.

  “Have you lost your mind?” Schuyler stared at Levi.

  “We’ve got to get him out of here before they kill him,” Levi said grimly. “Have you got a clean handkerchief?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Give it here.”

  “You have a sudden desire to blow your nose when people are shooting at you?”

  “For his arm, Beaumont.”

  “Oh. Right.” Schuyler handed over the required article, which Levi proceeded to bind around Frye’s arm. “Where’s the sheriff?”

  “Down the street, I suppose. He and the two deputies went after the gunmen—who think they’re after Mr. Frye and Reverend Thomas.”

  “Thank you,” Frye muttered as Levi dropped his arm.

  “‘Think’?” Schuyler asked. “Where is the Reverend?”

  “On his way to Montgomery.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “One of my agents has him. We didn’t make it out fast enough.”

  Shoving his co-opted gun into the back of his pants, Schuyler eyed Levi. “Neither did Perkins.”

  “I know.” Levi grimaced. “I saw a couple of ruffians push him out the window. We went down a back stair the judge had shown me earlier and came out the alley.”

  “Wait. You know—knew the judge?”

  “That’s why I’m here. Look, Beaumont, we’ve got to get this man out of here.”

  “Of course. But, Riggins, they didn’t just kill a federal judge and push Perkins out the window. They slit his throat to make sure he was dead.” He stared at the small, unassuming man who had apparently precipitated the day’s excitement. “Who are you?”

  Frye looked away. “I’m nobody.”

  Schuyler whistled through his teeth and looked at Levi. “All right. I assume we’re going back to Mississippi on horseback. I wouldn’t want to be waiting around in a train station when Frye’s friends come looking for us.”

  “Not ‘we,’” Levi said. “You’re going on without us by train. I’ll bring him—”

  “And my wife,” put in Frye. “I’m not leaving her.”

  Levi nodded. “We’ll come the slow way and tuck you both someplace safe across the state line.”

  “I’m going by train?” Schuyler fought the sensation of making his way in the dark. “Why?”

  “Because I need to unearth this cabal of supremacists as fast as humanly possible. They’re dangerous, and the president wants them destroyed.”

  “The president? Of the United States?” Now the breath was knocked out of him. What on earth had he gotten himself into?

  fourteen

  ON FRIDAY AFTERNOON Joelle sat on a stump in the middle of Shake Rag, surrounded by laundry and children. She couldn’t think when she’d been much happier. “And that’s why the king never ever again, in all his born days, ate dandelion soup!” Flicking imaginary fluff over her shoulders, she smiled at her rapt audience. “The end.”

  Olivia Pogue, mama to the church dolly found hiding in the corner after the fire, leaned forward, big brown eyes wide. Her full lips parted to display a generous gap where her teeth had recently resided. “Mith Joelle, you made that up.”

  “I surely did,” Joelle admitted. “Did Polly like it?”

  Olivia held the doll to her ear and reported, “She wanth to hear it again.”

  “Olivia, that’s the third time Miss Joelle has told that story. She’s got better things to do.” India Pogue, boiling a mess of collard greens in a large iron pot over a fire nearby, gave her daughter a censuring look.

  Uncowed, Olivia grinned at Joelle. “Pleath?”

  Joelle was saved from having to deny that adorable lisp by the arrival of a wagon coming from the direction of town. “I’ll tell it again later, honey-pie. Let’s see what Wyatt brought, okay?” She held out her hand, the little girl took it, and they skipped toward the road.

  Wyatt pulled up the mule and wagon with a big grin on his freckled face. “Want a ride on my chariot, ladies?”

  Joelle curtseyed, then boosted Olivia onto the back of the wagon and hopped on herself. They rode the remaining few yards to the church on top of a pile of sawn lumber brought over from the mill at Daughtry House. The Shake Rag men had been working from dawn to dusk in an effort to rebuild the church before Sunday. They just might make it.

  The first two days after the fire had been spent clearing away the mess, sorting what could be salvaged from the ruins, and drawing a design for the resurrection. The Daughtry sisters pitched in to provide supplies, purchasing with their own funds what could not be built locally. Shug and Nathan shared the responsibility for bossing the project. More than once, Selah wished for Levi’s engineering skills, but Joelle thought they were managing just fine. The roof was on, the building framed, and this load of lumber would go a long way to finishing the walls.

  When Wyatt stopped the wagon again, Joelle and Olivia jumped off and move
d out of the way so that the men could unload the lumber. Old Reverend Boykin sat on a salvaged pew under a tree, fanning himself with his hat. Leaving Olivia to make mud cakes near a convenient puddle, Joelle walked over to the pastor and sat down beside him.

  He had risen respectfully as she approached, but she waved him back to his seat. “Sit still, Reverend,” she said. “You’ve been at it since sunup. India’s close to having dinner ready. I imagine we’ll eat after they empty the wagon.”

  He laid the hat on one knee and smiled at her. “You girls been working just as hard as the men, keeping everybody fed.”

  “We want to help.” She picked at her skirt, frayed from the hours she’d spent sanding that ugly word off the pulpit. “Reverend, I’ve never been much good with practical things, but I want to learn. Your wife has been good to let me sit with her and listen while the women cook and quilt. You know I’m going to marry our preacher?”

  “I heard that,” he said cautiously.

  “Yes, well, I need to tell you something. I think it’s my fault this happened.”

  “It’s your fault you got engaged?”

  “Well, that too.” She laughed, then sobered. “No, I meant this.” She gestured toward the skeleton of the church.

  The minister gave her a long, silent look. “I think you’re gon’ have to tell me what you mean.”

  She took a deep breath. “Last Sunday—the day of the fire—I tried to get my—my fiancé to speak to our congregation on your behalf. For the congressional campaign. He said he’d think about it, but he didn’t do it.” She looked at the old man, noting the grizzled wiry hair, the smile wrinkles around his deep brown eyes. There was wisdom in that face, and grace. She felt ashamed but somehow took courage in confession. “It made me so angry, Reverend. I didn’t want to be led by him. I wanted him to do the right thing, and when he wouldn’t, I took it in my own hands. I started talking to the ladies about how they should influence their husbands to vote for a good man like you.”

  After a short silence, Reverend Boykin said, “And you think instead they went home and told their husbands to burn down my church?”

  “I don’t know.” She twisted her skirt in her hands. “I hope not, but I’m afraid—”

  “Sugar, there’s two things tangled up in what you just told me, so let’s separate them out. First of all, you right that anger will sometimes lead us to improvidence.” He grinned. “That’s a word I learned from one of those books you loaned me last week. But seems to me the kind of anger you felt in that situation might be closer to what Jesus would call ‘righteous anger.’ The kind where the Savior took a whip to the money changers in the Temple. Now you can probably ask my wife about a wiser way to manage your man than embarrassing him in front of his congregation, but we all got to learn things the hard way sometimes.”

  She laughed at the twinkle in his eyes. “Yes, sir. That’s true.”

  “Now the other thing you’re worried about is, I’m both glad and sorry to say, completely out of your control. It’s rooted in a man’s fear of what he don’t know. And, frankly, selfishness and pride.” He turned his head to look at the burn pile made of the remnants of pews and holy walls. “The men who did that will reap what they sow, ’cause the good Lord is a God of justice. Psalm 94 says, ‘He shall bring upon them their own iniquity, and shall cut them off in their own wickedness; yea, the Lord our God shall cut them off.’” When his gaze returned to Joelle, it was full of sorrow. “May not be soon, may not be in fire. But hatred creates its own hell, you know, child?”

  Joelle thought about her father’s mind and heart, ravaged by rage. Yes, by pride and selfishness too. It had been horrible to witness his fall at the end. “Yes, sir,” she said, drinking in this man’s love and mercy. “I just don’t know what to do, going forward from here. I don’t know that I can respect or trust Gil Reese anymore. And I don’t trust the women in my church. Even if it wasn’t my fault, I hate that somebody did this. I don’t want to worship with them anymore.”

  He was quiet for a moment, his lips moving as if in prayer. Finally he said, “Stay as long as you can, without damaging your spirit, child. They need truth-speakers, but you got to speak in love, not disgust or contempt. Somebody got to be a go-between. As to your preacher-man . . . you take that to the Lord. He’ll let you know when or if it’s time to part ways. But I’ll tell you one thing. There ain’t no perfect man out there. Least of all this one.” He tapped his own chest.

  Joelle sighed. She wanted a man she could talk to like this. Or none at all. “Are you going to pull out of the election?”

  “The Lord hasn’t told me to do that yet.”

  “How will you know? How will I know when it’s time to break with Gil?”

  “God has a way of using Scripture and events and his prophets to guide us. You be sure you stay in his Word and on your knees every day.”

  “I can do that. I have been.”

  He nodded. “Then stop worrying. Walk in one step of light at a time.”

  Joelle tucked that bit of advice deep into her heart where she wouldn’t forget it. She had a feeling she was going to need it.

  “Miss Joelle, I forgot to give you this!”

  She looked up to find Wyatt approaching, waving an envelope overhead. A letter? Maybe it was from Schuyler. She hadn’t heard from him since she and Selah left Mobile last Saturday morning. He hadn’t even gone to the station with them. He’d just waved goodbye, seated at the breakfast table, with his eyes on the newspaper in his hand.

  On the other hand, she couldn’t think of any reason for Schuyler to write. More likely it was Levi, communicating with Selah. He’d wired yesterday to say he’d be in Tupelo by this evening.

  Wyatt flicked the envelope into her lap and went right back to hauling supplies. She picked it up and saw that it was indeed a telegram. Addressed to her. She glanced at Reverend Boykin, who politely looked away from the envelope. “Telegrams usually bring bad news,” she said with a nervous laugh. “Do I have to open it?”

  He gave her a wry smile. “News don’t go away if you don’t hear it.”

  Well, that was true. She slipped her thumb under the flap and pulled out the paper inside.

  ARRIVING SATURDAY AFTERNOON ON 2 PM TRAIN. WILL STAY ONE WEEK. LOOKING FWD TO SEEING YOU AGAIN.

  It was signed “Delfina Fabio.”

  Schuyler dismounted his hired horse in front of Daughtry House and tied it to the hitching post. He wanted a meal, a bath, and a long sleep, in that order, and he was not going to camp in that fleabag Gum Tree Hotel in Tupelo. For crying out loud, he was half owner of a resort inn, and why shouldn’t he take advantage of it?

  Putting two fingers to his lips, he produced a long, shrill whistle for service. He could have taken the horse around to the stable himself, but Tee-Toc lived and breathed horseflesh. The boy would appreciate the chance to cool down and water this nag.

  When Tee-Toc hadn’t come running around the corner by the time Schuyler had unstrapped his travel bag from the saddle, he walked around the side of the house to go looking for him. Where was everybody?

  The backyard seemed equally deserted. The porch, the pagoda, the icehouse, the kitchen, the office—everything was shut tight. Then he saw a thin stream of smoke in the distance, coming from Nathan and Charmion’s little house. Char’s baby was due soon, he was pretty sure, so she would be staying close to home. The Daughtry girls could be anywhere on a Friday afternoon. But Horatia and Mose were generally at work in the kitchen and the garden respectively.

  The place looked like someone had come and dismissed the entire staff.

  Grumbling, he retraced his steps, tied his bag back onto the saddle, and gathered the reins. Nice welcome home, he thought as he swung into the saddle. Where is Joelle?

  The short ride to the Vincents’ house took less than five minutes, though it seemed longer. Ground-tying the horse, he halloed for Charmion. “Anybody home?”

  The door opened as he reached the porch. “Mr. Be
aumont!” Charmion gaped at him. “What you doing here?”

  “Looking for the Daughtry girls.” His gaze of its own volition went to her bulging belly. “Are you all right? Maybe you shouldn’t be up walking around.”

  “I’m perfectly fine,” she said wearily, stepping back. “The family ain’t here. Come in, I’ll fix you something to drink.” She moved a pile of slithery brown fabric off a chair and gestured with her head for him to sit down. “Sorry for the mess. I’m working.”

  He hovered near the door. “I see that, and I’m sorry for intruding. Don’t bother with a drink, I’m not staying.” He looked around the small sitting room. It was the neatest “mess” he’d ever seen. There was a big, heavy freestanding mirror and a wrought-iron table by the fireplace. Gauzy curtains fluttered in the open windows, and a couple of charming pictures decorated the wall behind a simple brown horsehair sofa. “Did you do those?” He’d heard Joelle comment on Charmion’s artistic talent.

  “Yes, sir. They not my best work, but I like ’em.” She stood there with the fabric across her arms. Come to think of it, it looked like a dress.

  “I think they’re very pretty. What are you making?” He should leave, but he’d traveled all the way from Memphis by himself, and he was lonely.

  A grin curled her lips. “A dress. For Miss Joelle. Look.” She unfurled the dress, held it in front of her.

  He imagined Joelle’s tall, womanly figure filling out the deep bodice and curved hips. Then he imagined undoing the self-covered buttons that walked up the front, then sliding it off her shoulders. Then he realized where his thoughts had gone, and reined them in with a jerk. “It’s very nice,” he mumbled. “Do you know where she is? Joelle, I mean?”

  There was something uncomfortably knowing in Charmion’s dark eyes, but she said mildly, “They all out to Shake Rag, where they been all week. Guess you don’t know about the fire.”