by Karen White
“And that’s when Freddie came?”
Lillian tasted the alcohol on her tongue, knowing that no amount of drinking could ever take away the bitterness that lingered in her mouth still. “Yes, he came. He must have had Justine’s key. He knew where we were—Josie probably told him—and he’d made it up to the attic before they caught up with him.”
Piper was facing her now, the light from the window behind her darkening her face so Lillian couldn’t see her eyes. “You . . . heard them?”
Lillian nodded. “We heard all of it. They beat him first, asking where his white whore was, and how they were going to teach her a lesson for defiling her race. He . . .” Her voice cracked, the memories like broken glass. “He never told them anything.”
“And Samuel stopped crying.”
Lillian slowly raised her eyes to Piper’s, glad the young woman’s face was blurred. Because every time she looked at Piper, she saw Annabelle the night of the storm, the night when they all left their girlhoods behind them.
Without averting her gaze, Lillian said, “Do you really want the truth? Because I could tell you the rest of the story where the ending is the same, but the bad guys are the ones in the black hats. And not the woman who held you as a child.”
Piper slowly sank down in the chair by the bed and Lillian saw that her hands were trembling in her lap, as if she too could hear the cracking thunder and the sound of fists colliding with broken bone.
“I want to know the truth. All of it. My grandmother would have told me herself.”
“If you’d only asked.”
Piper’s eyes flew to Lillian’s face. She jutted out her chin. “Tell me the truth.”
Lillian smoothed the blanket under her fingers, her skin numb. Her eyes didn’t leave Piper’s. “Annabelle was holding Samuel when he started to cry. She’d given him a rag but he didn’t want it. He was so hungry. The storm masked it at first, but his screams were growing more frantic. We had no doubt that we would not live to see the morning if those men heard us.”
She swallowed, her throat dry. She needed another drink so badly, but she didn’t have the energy to ask. “So Annabelle covered his mouth with her hand, to quiet him. He . . . he stopped and we all dared not move as we listened to them beat on Freddie and raid the house. And then they left, taking Freddie with them, but we stayed in the dark room, listening to the rain and the thunder. We stayed there so long that dawn was breaking before we thought to move.”
“Where was Dr. O’Hare? Why didn’t he come back?”
“Oh, he did. Paul Morton found him in the front parlor. They’d hit him over the head with a chair and broken a rib. Paul was the one who came and moved the armoire and unlocked the door for us. He told us there’d been another lynching, that Freddie was dead. They were calling it a suicide. But we all knew the truth.” She closed her eyes for a moment, dreading the act of opening them again. “And Paul was the one . . .”
She looked up, surprised to see that Piper was handing her a tissue and that her face was wet with tears.
“He took Samuel out of Annabelle’s arms and gave him to me.” Lillian looked away, unable to meet Piper’s eyes. “He wasn’t breathing.”
Piper was shaking her head, her shoulders shuddering. “No. No!”
Lillian gazed past the young woman, toward the window, where she could see the brittle ends of the uppermost tree limbs. “She hadn’t meant to. It was an accident.”
Piper stared at her for a long time, horror and recrimination battling in her eyes. “And you’ve blamed her all these years. You could never forgive her, and that’s all she wanted. It destroyed her, that guilt.” She shook her head and swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. Leaning forward, she said, “She saved you, and Josie. And you couldn’t forgive her?” She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes.
Lillian stared at Piper’s bowed head, remembering their conversation about the moonflowers and how she’d called them courageous because they dared show their ugliness in the bright light of day. She almost told her the complete truth then, but hesitated still. She’d never been courageous like Annabelle, and that was why Lillian hid from the truth even now, when forgiveness was so close at hand.
“It wasn’t about forgiveness, Piper. It was about survival. I saw my baby son’s face every time I thought of Josie and Annabelle. That’s why there was never any contact between us. Why we divided the scrapbook and never looked back.”
Piper’s eyes were reddened, and tears for a child she never knew stained her cheeks. “The angel gravestone in the cemetery. That’s where they buried him.”
Lillian nodded, pressing her tissue to her mouth. “My father allowed it, but only if I’d marry Charlie. He still loved me, despite . . . everything. And my reputation was saved because my father turned in Freddie’s friends to the same mob that lynched Freddie.”
Piper stood, her movements stiff.
“Are you glad now that you know the whole story?”
Piper shook her head, agitated now. “But it’s not, is it? What was in the letter that Susan found?” She moved closer to the bed, looking down at Lillian. “And why have you been living in the dark all these years? What aren’t you telling me?”
Lillian watched her chest rise and fall, and thought of Helen. “There’s nothing. I’ve felt guilt because of what happened to Annabelle, which I’ve tried to deal with every day of my life. But I forgave her long ago. I’d hoped she would have forgiven herself, too.”
Piper looked at her oddly. “But she never knew you’d forgiven her, did she? So how could she ever forgive herself?” She looked away, sniffing loudly. “I need to go now. Should I send Odella in?”
Lillian managed a brief shake of her head before sinking down into the pillows. “No. I’m going to rest now.”
Piper nodded and headed for the door.
“Piper?”
She turned around. “Yes?”
“I loved your grandmother like a sister. I never stopped.”
“You had a funny way of showing it.” Lillian thought she saw pity in her eyes. Quietly, Piper opened the door and left.
As Lillian’s eyes fluttered closed, the words she’d been longing to say escaped her lips, spilling out into the empty room the way lightning in a storm diffuses the darkness for one brief moment, and then is gone.
CHAPTER 23
I stood outside Lillian’s room, hearing the last words Lillian had spoken, not intending me to hear. Forgive me. The words chilled me, leaving me wondering for what she needed to be forgiven.
Odella had left, but Helen sat in the chair outside the room. From the stricken look on her face and her reddened eyes, I knew she’d heard every word. She raised her hand toward me and I took it. We stayed like that for a few minutes without speaking, as if in mutual agreement that their sins weren’t ours. And that the fall of years was like pierced lace over old secrets.
I released her hand, then walked blindly from the house, not even aware of where I was going until I’d reached the stables. It might have been force of habit that made me seek out horses when I needed a place to think, but a part of my decision to stand in front of Captain Wentworth’s stall had to do with what Lillian had said to me about my grandmother. Not about the horrible thing that had happened in a dark attic room years ago, but about the brave woman who’d fought battles that didn’t have to be hers, and who’d remained a loyal friend to the very end. She was a person I was proud to have known, and to say she was my grandmother. If only I’d figured that out when she was still here to tell her.
The words that Lillian had said before continued to taunt me. Because if you were different, you’d still be jumping fences. I wasn’t all that sure she’d said them to hurt me. She told me that she’d loved my grandmother, and I believed her. And maybe she understood that Annabelle wouldn’t have wanted me to be sitting on the sidelines of life like she had, as if she wanted me to figure what had eluded her for so long, that disappointments didn’t have a limit,
but the number of lives we had did.
I rested my hands on the stall door, my knuckles white. Because if you were different, you’d still be jumping fences. I couldn’t help but think that Lillian’s words were meant for Annabelle as a form of forgiveness, too late to help my grandmother, but maybe not too late for me.
I looked into the stall, surprised to find it empty, at the same time noticing the name tag on the door. Captain Wentworth. Gingerly, I let my fingers touch the engraved letters, thinking of Tucker ordering it for me.
“Captain Wentworth?” I called out, not expecting an answer, but eager to dispel the eerie silence of the stables. I emerged from the other side of the barn, the side that faced the riding ring, and forced myself to stop.
Lucy had managed to tack up Captain Wentworth by herself and lead the huge gelding to the mounting block, oblivious to his size and temperament in relation to her size and experience. I didn’t run, not wanting to scare either one of them, but I walked rapidly toward the ring, where Lucy had already stuck one booted foot in a stirrup and was getting ready to mount.
When I was close enough, Lucy glanced at me and quickly lifted her right leg over the horse before I could say anything.
Captain Wentworth shifted uncomfortably, but remained still, allowing Lucy to gather up the reins and move him away from the mounting block in a smooth walk.
Keeping my voice down, I said, “Lucy, what do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m riding a horse instead of a pony.”
“Lucy,” I said, my voice firmer, “that’s not a horse you’ve been given permission to ride.”
“But look, Miss Piper. I got on him all by myself and I’m riding him now. See? I can do it.”
“Yes, Lucy. We never said that you weren’t capable. Only that this horse is special and you’re inexperienced. He was neglected and probably abused by his previous owners. Which means that his behavior might prove to be unpredictable if he feels as if he’s being threatened in any way.”
She smiled broadly beneath her riding helmet. “But I’m riding him, and he’s listening to me. See?” Lucy squeezed her legs against his flank and Captain Wentworth responded by moving into a trot while Lucy posted, the horse’s gait measured and beautiful, and I felt the old longing again. I want to jump. I want to jump high.
I began to feel uncomfortable. “That’s enough, Lucy. Move Captain Wentworth back to the mounting block now, please.”
“But look how good I am. See? I’m going to show you that I can jump, too.”
Horrified, I looked around the ring and saw that she’d set up two cross rails—not inherently dangerous except for an inexperienced rider on an unpredictable and very large horse.
“I can do it. Watch!”
I stared in horror as her pigtails, as if in slow motion, bounced on her riding jacket. “Lucy, stop. Right now. This isn’t the way to learn.”
At Lucy’s urging, Captain Wentworth picked up to a fast canter.
“Lucy—pull the reins to the left, get him to turn away.”
But the little girl stuck out her chin and continued to move forward, somehow managing to stay in the saddle. I began walking toward her, controlling my movements so as not to excite the horse further, as she circled the ring one last time and Captain Wentworth began heading toward the first cross rail with no intention of slowing down to step over it. He was a show horse, and he was going to jump over any obstacle.
I made it in time to see Captain Wentworth clear the rail, landing with a cloud of dust. Buoyed by his success, he shot forward in an effort to gain more speed. His forward motion caught Lucy by surprise, and as I moved toward her, I watched her begin to slide, her slight legs easily losing purchase on the saddle with each movement from the horse. I jumped back as Captain Wentworth cantered in front of me, close enough that I could see the look in Lucy’s eyes—an astonishing look of exhilaration with the beginning gleam of fear.
Stubbornly, she managed to hold on and even regain her seat in the saddle, but the horse was going too fast now for her to control him.
“Sit back, Lucy. Sit back!”
He sailed past the second cross rail, but my relief was short-lived as I realized he was heading for a four-foot vertical somebody had left in the ring. My mind moved slowly as I watched, impotent in my terror as Captain Wentworth got nearer with every intention of sailing over it, and Lucy equally determined to go over it with him.
Sensing Lucy’s hesitation, the horse’s steps faltered and he ran out of the jump, close enough to clip Lucy with the side of the boards and send her sliding to the ground. She landed with a solid thud and a cloud of dust, and I heard the whoosh of air rush from her lungs.
I reached her side before the dust settled, then knelt beside her to make sure I could see her chest rise and hear her breathe. The relief gripped me like a gloved hand but I didn’t relax into it. “Can you hear me?”
She nodded, indicating her neck wasn’t broken, and then I let out my breath before peering into her eyes to make sure they were focused and making contact with me. Her cheeks were pale, but she’d started to gulp in air and wasn’t indicating any pain in her chest to show broken ribs. Methodically, I began checking her bones, one by one, just the way medics had done to me more times than I could count.
Her breath was becoming more normal and her eyes were following me. I cupped her chin in my hands. “Does it hurt anywhere?”
She nodded and I bit my lip.
“Where does it hurt?”
Her brown eyes were somber. “Everywhere.”
I stifled a nervous laugh. “Yeah, I know. But does it really hurt in any one place?”
She shook her head.
“I’m going to take off your riding boots and I’m going to ask you to wiggle your toes, okay?”
Lucy nodded and watched as I took off one boot and then the other, smiling to myself when I noticed her socks had blue ribbons printed all over them.
“Let me see you wiggle your toes.”
She did, and then we worked our way around her body, making sure everything worked by wiggling it on command. Captain Wentworth stayed where he was, oblivious to the near trauma but I thought his arrogant head toss told me everything I wanted to know. See? I could have made it.
I helped Lucy to a sitting position and we sat there for a while to make sure she still felt all right. I stood and went to Captain Wentworth and allowed him to nuzzle me. I couldn’t scold him; he’d done exactly what Lucy had wanted him to.
I turned to Lucy to see if she was ready to stand, and was surprised to see her scooting backward, away from Captain Wentworth. “Lucy?”
“I don’t want to ride him anymore.”
“What do you mean? Are you hurt and not telling me?”
She shook her head, her eyes managing not to leave Captain Wentworth.
“Then you need to get back on.” Something stilled inside of me, like the stillness of the pond in the first hours after dawn. The words came to me, diluted and muffled as if they were coming from under water, but I heard them, remembered them as if they’d been spoken to me only the day before. “Or else you forget the reason you used to get up on the horse in the first place.”
She stared hard at me. “But you didn’t get back on.”
I stared back, realizing the words were spoken without animosity and matter-of-factly as only children can.
“That was different,” I began.
“How?”
I wanted to stop and ask her how someone so young could be so wise, and how she knew about the argument I’d been having with myself for more than six years.
“Because . . .” I fumbled for words, realizing how easy they were to find. “Because nobody was there to tell me to.”
She leaned back on her arms in the dirt, her eyes innocent. “But I’m here now. Why don’t you get back on and start riding again, Miss Piper?”
I turned to look at Captain Wentworth, as if he could add something to the conversation. And then I re
membered my other reason, as compelling as any other. I’d never admitted it to anyone, and had only begun to acknowledge it myself but there it was, the pink elephant in the middle of the room that I’d been trying to ignore.
I swallowed, trying to think of words an eight-year-old would understand. “Because I used to be really, really good, and people would come to see me and they’d all cheer and clap for me because I was that good. But now . . .” I shrugged, wondering if even I understood. “Now I’m not great anymore. I’m probably not even any good, for that matter. I don’t . . . I don’t want to get up on a horse again after all this time and find out that I’m just another rider.”
Her delicate eyebrows were folded sharply over her eyes. “But, Miss Piper, I’m here now. And I promise to clap and cheer for you if you get in that saddle right now and ride. And then it’ll be my turn.”
I looked at her, trying to find a way to win this argument, and I realized that I couldn’t. I turned back to Captain Wentworth. His ears twitched and his tail moved slowly from side to side, as if waiting for my answer. His scar seemed more vivid, as if he were trying to show me that I wasn’t alone. Or else you forget the reason you used to get up on the horse in the first place. Had my grandmother said those words to teach us both about persevering no matter how many times you fell off? And had she ever harbored hope that I could in turn teach her how very true they were? In that respect I’d failed her, but maybe Lucy was offering me a second chance.
Without thinking, I checked the girth. The saddle would be small, but I’d manage. I picked up the reins from the ground and began to lead Captain Wentworth to the mounting block.
“Miss Piper—wait.”
I turned around. Lucy was standing, her stockinged feet in the dust, and she was handing me her fluorescent purple crop. I’d always wanted a colorful one as a young girl, and my grandfather had always said no, that they weren’t for serious riders. But there’d been one wrapped under the Christmas tree one year with a tag that read from both of my grandparents, but it hadn’t occurred to me until now who’d really given it to me.