by Beth White
She smiled at him. “Good morning, Mr. . . . Jefcoat?”
“Hixon,” he corrected her, though he didn’t seem offended. Rather, he seemed a bit rattled. His button-brown eyes skated above her head, to one ear and then the other.
When he said nothing further, she made an effort at conversation. “Did you sleep well last night? I hope you’ve been comfortable here at Daughtry House.” He wasn’t precisely a guest, but Schuyler would expect her to be kind to his particular friend.
“What? No, I—That is, I had adequate rest. And Daughtry House is very comfortable. The food is excellent.”
“Horatia will be happy to hear that. I’ll tell her. Have a good day.” She was about to escape into the kitchen, but Hixon took her by the elbow. She looked down at his hand in surprise. “I’m sorry—did you need something else?”
“Could I—could I come with you?”
Oh no. Not another one. Somehow, without the least effort on her part, men took to staring at her and following her around. And she’d just got rid of Gil. Still, she didn’t want to hurt this one.
She bit her lip. “Yes, but I’m just going to get a biscuit and then teach some students for a couple of hours. I don’t imagine that would interest you.”
“But it would! I never was very good at spelling, and Schuyler says you’re a brilliant teacher.”
“He does?” That Schuyler had spoken well of her did something to her outlook on the day. A real smile took over her face. “In that case, come along. I think I have an extra speller or two in the schoolroom.”
Looking as if he’d grabbed the tail end of a snake, he gave her a jerky nod and accompanied her into the kitchen.
The room was warm and aromatic with lunch preparations, instantly making Joelle’s salivary glands come alive. Something in a big cast-iron pot bubbled on the stove, Horatia stood at the sink peeling potatoes, and a couple of kitchen maids prepared vegetables at the big worktable. Charmion sat in a chair by the fire, hulling a bowl of strawberries balanced on her large belly. All the women looked up at her entrance with welcoming smiles, followed by clear dismay as soon as they recognized her companion.
“This is Mr. Hixon,” Joelle said offhandedly, as though bringing a guest into one of the work buildings were an everyday occurrence. “He wanted to sit in on the lessons, but I missed breakfast, so I thought I’d come through here before we go to the schoolroom.”
Horatia recovered first. “Certainly, Miss Joelle. Here’s a basket of biscuits still warm on the stove. Would you like butter and preserves?”
Before she could answer, Hixon blurted, “I would, ma’am. Those are the best fig preserves I’ve had since my grandma died.”
Horatia’s rare smile appeared. “I’m happy to hear that, sir. Would you be the reason I had to make three batches of biscuits this morning?”
Hixon blushed and patted his round stomach. “I’m afraid so.”
Shortly Joelle and Hixon sat at the table with the two Negresses—one a decade older than Horatia, the other barely sixteen—who introduced themselves as Miriam and Freddy. Cowed by the young white man’s presence, they both lapsed into tongue-tied silence.
If Charmion was intimidated, she didn’t show it. Giving Joelle her friendly smile, she continued to deftly wield her paring knife and talk at the same time. “I finished hemming your new dress last night, Joelle. I brought it with me this morning, thinking you might want to try it on. That way, if something needs to be adjusted, there will be time before the party on Friday.”
“Of course!” Joelle wiped her mouth with the napkin Horatia had provided. “I can’t wait to see it. I’ll finish lessons by two this afternoon. Will you still be here?”
“Yes. We’ll be baking and preparing food for the next few days. Besides, Mama wants me to stay close while Nathan’s working, in case the baby decides to come early.” Charmion laughed. “We all know first babies are slow to arrive, but I can’t convince them not to hover.”
“I think that’s a good idea.” Turning to smile at Horatia, Joelle happened to catch the expression on Hixon’s face. He seemed taken aback by the prosaic, intimate nature of the conversation between her and her employees. “Mr. Hixon, do you have any particular requests for the meal on Friday? We want everyone to go away raving about the service, entertainment, and victuals.”
He blinked, closed his mouth. “I don’t like opera, but I really like potato salad,” he said, then took refuge in fig preserves.
All the women laughed, and Joelle applied herself to finishing her own breakfast. “I’ll come through here later and try on the dress,” she told Charmion as she took the empty dishes to the sink to rinse them. “Come, Mr. Hixon, I hear the other students in the schoolroom. You’ve brought this on yourself, there’s no sense putting it off!”
Pushing through the connecting door, she stopped so abruptly that her new tutee plowed into her from behind.
“Excuse me!” Hixon bleated. “What’s the matter?”
Pushing him back into the kitchen, Joelle followed, closing the door behind her. “I’m afraid it won’t be convenient for you to join our lessons today,” she said firmly. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“Why?” He frowned. “You said—”
“I know, and I’m sorry, but one of the men is . . . sick. You really don’t want to be in the schoolroom right now.” She gave Horatia a warning glance, then Charmion. They both subsided, hiding alarm.
“Sick? How do you know?”
“Mr. Hixon, do you really want me to go into detail?”
He paled. “Never mind. I’ll just wait for you outside.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Beaumont told me to.”
“He what?”
“He asked me to watch out for you. He’s paying me.”
She took an aggravated, disbelieving breath. “I’ll pay you not to watch me. Mr. Hixon, I don’t have time for this. I’m very busy, and I can’t have you following me all over the place. If it will make you feel better, I have a gun and I know how to use it.”
His eyes bugged. “You have a gun?”
“Yes. My brother-in-law gave it to me and taught me to handle it. Do you want me to show you?”
“No. No, no. That actually doesn’t surprise me. I told Beaumont you were terrifying.” He took a step backward. “Just—please don’t tell him I abandoned you. He’d horsewhip me or something worse.”
“All right, I promise.”
“Good. But I’ll be in the big house if you need anything.”
“Fine. Thank you. Have a lovely afternoon,” she said as he bowed and exited the kitchen.
“What was that all about?” Charmion set aside her bowl of strawberries.
Joelle shook her head. “Who is that strange man in the schoolroom?”
Horatia poked her head through the schoolroom door, gasped, and went in, shutting the door smartly behind her. After a few moments of muted conversation, she came back and took off her apron. “Miss Joelle, come and let me introduce you to Mr. Frye.”
twenty-four
THAT AFTERNOON, TIRED, SORE, AND HUNGRY, Schuyler dismounted at the west side of the Beene’s Ferry crossing of the Tombigbee River. He hoped he wouldn’t have to wait long for the ferry to come for him. Tremont was another ten miles on the east side of the river, where he hoped to find the freedman Harold Moore and somehow convince the man to return to Tupelo. Three rain showers along the way had slowed him down some, but he’d taken only the necessary time to water and rest the horse. Otherwise, he’d pushed himself, eating in the saddle, enduring the jouncing of his wounded back because there was no other choice. Itawamba County had yet to connect to larger towns by rail, though the Tombigbee remained an important waterway for that part of the state.
After blowing the cow’s horn hanging from a tree branch near the landing to summon the ferry, he set the horse to drink from the trough left for that purpose, then stood watching the water roll south on its way to the Mobile River. Reared on
the Gulf Coast and steeped in the shipping industry, Schuyler had once considered investing in steamboats. Over the past few years, as his interest shifted to rail travel and transport, he’d matured enough to understand that the depressed Southern economy might never recover enough to make branch railroads a viable reality. Funny how circumstances had turned his wanderlust to dreams of establishing a quality hotel in small-town north Mississippi.
Funny how a red-haired girl anchored him to that small town. Insane how impatient he was to get back to her.
He turned to look back in the direction from which he’d traveled today. For the last hour or so he’d imagined someone followed him. Several times he’d turned, thinking he heard hoofbeats behind him, but no one caught up or crossed his path. The riverfront was quiet, had been so since Schuyler arrived. It seemed odd that he’d seen no sign of the ferry, but perhaps the operator would return shortly.
He wasn’t good at waiting, but he had nothing else to do. He turned the horse loose to graze and sat down on a fallen tree trunk. Pulling out his pocketknife, he stripped a twig off the trunk and started to whittle it into a point. He had an uncle who could take such a tiny piece of wood and turn it into a rooster. The artistic bent, however, had somehow skipped his generation. Neither he nor Jamie could carve anything but useful tools like pointed sticks that could be fashioned into animal traps.
Ten more minutes went by, during which he planned what he would say to Joelle if he ever got up the courage to admit to her that he loved her to an embarrassing degree and would appreciate it if she’d lower her dignity enough to marry him. He had just about decided there were no words in the dictionary adequate to such an unlikely occasion, when he heard the distinct sound of hoofbeats coming from the west.
There had been somebody following him. He went to his horse and took his rifle from its holster, checking to make sure it was loaded and ready to fire.
A few seconds later a rider on a roan mare emerged from the woods and galloped toward him.
Schuyler lowered the rifle. “Jefcoat!” he roared. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot a hole through your empty head. What are you doing here? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
Jefcoat reined his horse down to a trot, then a walk. He didn’t seem disturbed by Schuyler’s anger. “It was a last-minute decision. The general sent me after you.”
Schuyler walked toward Jefcoat. “Why?”
Jefcoat dismounted. “Let me water this nag, then I’ll explain.”
Schuyler was forced to wait while Jefcoat loosened his mount’s girth and led her to the trough to drink. Finally he looped the reins around a low-hanging tree branch and left the horse to graze.
Squatting in the shade where Schuyler had been sitting earlier, Jefcoat grinned up at him. “You don’t look glad to see me.”
“I’m frankly puzzled. I can’t think of any reason the general would need me. I’m on an errand related to the hotel.” That wasn’t precisely true, but it was close enough.
“Well, sit down. It’s a little complicated.”
Schuyler wouldn’t have used the word “complicated” in any connection with Andrew Jefcoat. In fact, he had to think for a second to even come up with his given name. Jefcoat came from a farming family somewhere in northeast Mississippi. The triumvirate—he, Hixon, and Jefcoat—had become friendly during Sigma Chi’s freshman hazing week, and had from that point on done their best to drink their way through every tavern, ale house, and saloon in Mississippi.
But there had been little personal connection. Jefcoat possessed a sense of humor, or Schuyler would have long since ditched him. However, he would not have ascribed critical thinking or philosophical depth to his hairy, six-foot-tall, thickly built friend. Jefcoat loved beer, steak, dogs, and big-bosomed women, in roughly that order. He couldn’t even remember what Jefcoat had studied at Ole Miss. Law? Possibly, though he couldn’t imagine a judge or jury taking this inarticulate redneck seriously.
“I’ll stand,” Schuyler said, just to be obstinate. “I’m waiting for the ferry to come across.”
“It’s not coming.”
“What do you mean, it’s not coming?” Schuyler squinted across the sparkling river. “How would you know that?”
“Let’s just say the general wanted to make sure you didn’t get to Tremont.”
Real alarm jangled through Schuyler. “Jefcoat, what are you doing?”
“I wish you’d sit down. That’s the thing about you, Beaumont. You think the world revolves around you. That nobody else has a viable opinion, nobody else has an idea worth pursuing.”
For the first time maybe ever, Schuyler looked right into Jefcoat’s eyes—past the indeterminate color, into a soul riddled with resentment—and realized that his friend had just spoken a hard truth to him. He dropped to squat on his heels. “I wish you’d told me that a long time ago, Jefcoat. I don’t know, maybe I wouldn’t have listened. But I want you to know that my father’s death has changed me, changed my priorities, changed—everything.”
“Your father.” A sour smile twitched up the side of Jefcoat’s bearded mouth. “Rail baron, financial pillar of the Confederacy. Yet he still managed to come out rich on the other side of the war. Explain to me how that happens, Beaumont, outside of corruption? My father lost everything. Property, slaves, livestock, all of it. The Yankees stripped the plantation of every bit of food we had, tore up the machinery, then burned down the house. The only way I managed to finish college was through the generosity of one of his commanders, who saw something useful in me.”
“Useful? Meaning a tool for revenge?”
Jefcoat shrugged. “Revenge is part of it. But pride and independence mean everything. It makes me sick to see our conquerors come down here and take what we built. They throw us out of office, refuse to let us grow our economy back in the only way we know how. They let stupid, ignorant Negroes lord over us. And people like your father, caving in and licking their boots, make it worse!” More than general disgruntlement laced those words. Real acrimony simmered in Jefcoat’s eyes.
Suddenly something bubbled to the surface of Schuyler’s memory. He lurched to his feet. “Where were you all day, the day of the opera?”
“You know where I was.”
He suspected he did but hoped to heaven he was wrong. Jefcoat had met him and Hixon in Memphis that night, arriving at the opera house after the start of the performance. “Were you in Tuscaloosa?”
Jefcoat smiled. “Everybody thinks you’re so smart, engineering and physics and mathematics, all that. But you’re really stupid about people, Beaumont. You don’t pay attention to what’s right under your nose.”
Schuyler heard a metallic click behind his head. He turned his head to find the mouth of a pistol at his temple. Looking up, he saw a small-framed black man in nondescript clothing holding the gun. “Hello, Mr. Moore. This is a happy coincidence, since I came all this way to talk to you. And since the ferry doesn’t seem to be available, it’s a good thing you already crossed the river.”
The Negro smiled. “Don’t get too chipper, Mr. Beaumont. You not gon’ live to enjoy the rest of the day.”
One gift he knew he’d been blessed with was talking, and Schuyler figured he’d better make use of it right now. “Jefcoat, you have been my friend for a long time, and I’ve kept you out of jail enough times that you owe me a chance to change your mind about what is looking to be one of the worst decisions you’ve made in your life.”
“I dunno,” Jefcoat said. “I’ve thought this situation through pretty carefully, and I believe I’ve got the clear advantage here. Put your hands behind your back.”
Schuyler didn’t move. “You realize people in Tupelo know where I am. They’ll come looking for me if I don’t come back by tomorrow night.”
“You’ll be dead by then,” Jefcoat said matter-of-factly, “and I’ll be long gone.”
“My future brother-in-law is a Pinkerton detective. You think he won’t make the connection?”
&nb
sp; Jefcoat snorted. “You can’t have a brother-in-law if you don’t live to get married.”
“You seem overly obsessed with my early demise.” Schuyler looked up at the gun again. “Would you mind moving that, Mr. Moore? I’m getting a little concerned that it might go off.”
Moore’s lips tightened. “Since he’s paying me and you’re not, I think I’ll leave it where it is.”
“That explains a lot. I suppose everything ultimately comes down to money. I wondered what would make a freedman turn on his brothers as you have done. I saw you in that courtroom, Moore, accusing Frye and Perkins and Thomas of beating you and setting fire to the livery stable. Who really put those marks on your back? Was it my erstwhile friend here? Did he threaten to do it again if you failed to help him in this crime?”
“Shut up, Beaumont, you don’t know what you’re talking about as usual. I don’t have to beat people to make them do right. And I don’t have to pay them off.” Jefcoat lunged for Schuyler, pushed him face forward to the ground, and shoved a knee into his back.
“But murdering one of your best friends isn’t beneath you?” Still trying to catch his breath, Schuyler found his hands cuffed.
With the toe of his boot, Jefcoat flipped Schuyler onto his back and looked down at him dispassionately. “I don’t think that’s going to be necessary. I’ll just dump you in the river, and that should take care of it.”
Panic wouldn’t help. Schuyler gathered himself to act, made himself think. “Before you do that, you should know you’d be drowning a piece of information the general has spent a considerable amount of time and effort looking for. I know where Lemuel Frye is.”
Both Jefcoat and Moore froze.
“Let him up,” Jefcoat said.
Moore hauled Schuyler to his feet, then backed off with the gun still leveled.
Schuyler stood swaying, trying to regain his balance with his hands behind his back. The horse was too far away. His knife was in his boot, and he couldn’t reach it. He’d even dropped the pointed stick he’d been whittling.
Jefcoat eyed him belligerently. “Where’s Frye? It won’t do any good to lie—”