by Karen White
She put down the mortar and began scooping the contents into a glass jar. Turning to me, she added, “Besides, we need to tell Stuart so he can get the information from Matt himself. Stuart has means of persuasion not available to us that he can use if he needs to.”
Julia reached for some dried herbs hanging upside down from the ceiling. “Matt’s been a troublemaker for years. I cannot help but wonder where he got information about your daughter.” She paused to look at me. “Have you remembered anything more yet? Anything about where you came from or how you ended up here?”
I met her eyes, surprised at how easy lying had become to me. “No. Nothing more.”
She nodded, and then with a large kitchen knife she chopped off small chunks of the root portion of one of the herbs and placed these into the mortar. She picked up the pestle, but I stopped her.
“Julia, let me. Perhaps I might even learn something.” She smiled and let me take her place. “How did you ever learn all you know about plants and herbs? I can hardly tell the difference between rosemary and a rose.”
Her cheeks pinked with a becoming show of pleasure. “Pamela taught me everything I know. She started teaching me when I was still very young.”
“Hmm,” I murmured. “I somehow can’t picture Pamela communing with nature.”
“Mama is a wonderful healer. I think she derives pleasure in the power it gives her.”
“Yes, I can certainly understand that.”
I crushed the plant with the pestle, quickly grinding it into a powder. The rhythmic thumping was like a soothing mantra, and I could feel the calming effects.
The powder smelled strange, and I took a pinch to bring it to my nose to get a better sniff.
Julia moved so fast, I didn’t know what was happening until it was all over. She hit my hand, knocking it out of the way and causing me to tip over the mortar. It somersaulted through the air, throwing out powder in great puffs, and landed on its side with a solid clunk. I stared at her in surprise. She was already kneeling on the kitchen floor and trying to salvage what she could of the white powdery substance.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought you were about to taste it. It is hellebore root—very poisonous.”
I bent down next to her and began to scrape up as much of the elusive powder as I could.
“I did not mean to hit you so hard. I apologize. And I certainly did not mean to knock this over, either. It grows in the North Georgia mountains, and I have to wait for a peddler to come around with it. But I think I have enough for the tea I was going to make for one of the field hands. He has a bit of a sore throat.”
I stared at her. “You’re going to poison him because he has a sore throat?”
“Oh no.” She almost laughed. “Using a tiny bit in a tea has wonderful soothing properties. Anything more would kill a person. And I know the difference.”
“Good, then I’ll let you make the tea.”
I left her to her own devices and went in search of the children. I tried to have a regularly scheduled lesson time for them, but between their chores and the haphazard nature of my responsibilities, it usually came down to whenever the three of us weren’t doing anything else.
Charlie’s barks led me to the side yard, where I found them busily engaged in a pinecone fight. I herded the children into the library. Because my nerves couldn’t handle it, I had decided to dispense with a strict lesson and instead have story hour. We stopped abruptly in the threshold, and I felt Sarah’s hand tighten in mine. Pamela faced us, and I recognized some of the astronomy volumes in her hands. I remembered how Stuart had told me that they were hers, left here when she moved to Nashville.
“Sorry. We didn’t mean to disturb you.”
She gave us a brittle smile. “No, you did not disturb me. I was just choosing a few books to take up to my room and read. But I am done now.”
The children followed me into the room and sat down on either side of me on the green velvet sofa. They sat rigid and silent until Pamela had left the room.
“Miss Laura, can you tell us the Dorothy story again?” Sarah’s green eyes pleaded.
“Well, I guess that can be arranged. But as soon as I’m done, we’re going to work on writing our letters. Without any complaints. Agreed?”
The blond head and the dark brown head nodded quickly in agreement.
“But first, can you sing us that song again?” asked Willie.
I knew this was more of a stalling tactic, but I went along with them.
“Sure. Which song did you have in mind?”
“The one Dorothy sings about the rainbow.”
“Oh yes. That’s a favorite of mine.”
I cleared my throat and began belting out “Somewhere over the Rainbow” in my best operatic rendition, sending both children into giggles.
I halted, the words “Why, oh, why can’t I?” dying in my throat when I saw the darkening at the doorway. Pamela had returned.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her face a pasty white. I jumped up and grabbed her arm to bring her to the sofa. The children quickly moved away.
She allowed me to sit her down, but she knocked my hands away as I tried to unbutton the top of her dress. “No, really, I am all right. I think I just climbed the stairs too quickly.” Her eyes were wild but did not leave my face.
“I think we should call the doctor. You’re not looking well at all.”
“No. I am fine. Really.” She leaned her head back against the sofa and closed her eyes.
After a few minutes of allowing her breathing to return to normal, she stood and shakily made her way to the door. As if in afterthought, she turned around and asked, “Laura, that was a beautiful song. Where did you learn that?”
I quickly searched my head for a plausible answer. “Somewhere in my childhood, I think.”
She nodded and slowly walked from the room.
The light from the window suddenly darkened, and I looked outside to see dark swells of clouds rolling in and obscuring the sun. A small smattering of raindrops hit the window as the children snuggled up next to me again. It felt so natural to be sitting there with them, in that house made for families. My thoughts turned to Stuart, as they often did, and I stared out at the storm, seeing him in it. “Be safe,” I whispered, hoping that the scattering wind would carry my thoughts to him, wherever he was.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind.
—NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
During the cold, blustery evenings of December, Dr. Watkins continued to call and would sometimes bring the paper and read aloud any news of the war. This was how we found out about the fall of Chattanooga and the retreat of General Johnston’s Confederate forces to Dalton, Georgia. I knew this was the beginning of the end of the war and that in the spring, Sherman would rout Johnston’s army and chase them all the way to Atlanta. I looked at the faces around me, their eyes reflecting the firelight, and wondered what would become of us all when Sherman’s army reached us here, as I knew they inevitably would. But Pamela would meet my gaze with her eyes’ own fire, her jaws clenched. Her expression quickly returned to its controlled placidity before resuming her sock knitting—badly needed socks for Johnston’s ragged army.
Zeke no longer came up to the big house—and I suspected Pamela’s presence had something to do with this—so I took the children to see him at least once a week. I let down my reserve when I was with him, and it was refreshing to be out from under Pamela’s watchful gaze.
On an unusually warm December afternoon, Zeke and I sat out on his front porch. The children’s laughter could be heard nearby in the woods as they played hide-and-seek with Charlie. I snuggled down deeper into my shawl to keep out the chill caused by the dipping sun.
Zeke looked up at the sky where the circle of the moon near the sun could be seen. “It will be a fu
ll moon tonight.”
I shivered again but not from the cold.
His face remained bland, chin tilted upward to view the sun and moon in close proximity. “Stuart is safe.”
I stared at him. “How do you know? Have you heard from him? Where is he?”
“I know. The rest is not important. But he will return to you.”
“To me? Don’t you mean to his family and home?”
“No. To you.”
I felt no embarrassment at his cool appraisal, for I recognized the truth in his words.
“Be patient with him, Laura. He understands even less than you do. Try to look past his anger and help him to trust you. He will need that trust in the months to come.”
“I don’t know what else I can do to win his trust.”
“You will find a way. You must.” He didn’t say anything else, but continued to rock.
Several nights later, I tossed and turned in my bed, thinking of Zeke’s words. The furniture in my room hovered about me like great hulking beasts, the room partially illuminated by the bright moon outside. I was slowly drifting off to sleep when I thought I felt a breath on my neck. I sat up abruptly, my eyes scanning the darkness. A horse whinnied outside.
I sat still until I heard the sound again. Stuart. I got out of bed and grabbed a shawl and silently crept down the stairs and out the front door. The night was still, bathed in the cool glow of the moon. A shadow moved near the barn, and I walked toward it.
At first I thought it was an apparition or a trick of my eyes. But when he started walking toward me, I began to run through the damp grass.
I stopped when I reached him, my breath loud and labored in the still night. I wanted him to reach for me, but he remained where he was, hands at his sides.
“You’re back.” My voice was winded from running.
“So it would appear.”
Belatedly, I realized how ridiculous I must look. “I’ve been worried. I . . .” I stopped, wishing I could read his face, but it was hidden in shadow. “I’m happy you’re home safe.”
“Not as happy as I am sure Matt Kimball was to see you walk across his threshold.”
My gut clenched. “I made a mistake.”
He took a step toward me. “No. I am the one who made the mistake. I trusted you, Laura.” He coughed, a dry, racking cough most likely caused by nights sleeping outside in the cold rain. “I am only surprised to find you still here.”
I looked at him calmly, pushing away the growing anger. “If you will just give me the chance to explain . . .”
He coughed again. “Explain how you and Matt are working together? And then you went to his rooms unaccompanied? Your reputation in this town—”
“My reputation?” I no longer tried to keep my voice quiet. “Who cares about my reputation? I only went to see him to get information about Annie—information you were supposed to find out about and never did. I overheard you talking with Pamela. Didn’t you think it important enough to tell me?”
He moved quickly, placing his hand over my mouth, his other arm reaching around me. He smelled of leather and wood smoke, and I tried desperately not to notice how good it felt to be close to him again.
His voice caressed my ear. “I went to see him about it, but he had left town. Why do you think I took so long to go on my trip? I was waiting for him to return. But I needed to leave. I wanted to talk to him myself before I told you. I do not trust the man and believe that he is merely thinking of a reason to talk with you.” He dropped his hand from my mouth. “Assuming, of course, that you were unaware of his motivations.”
I pulled away from him. “Of course I was unaware of his motivations. Do you think I would have willingly put myself in a position to be . . . ogled by that man?”
Stuart gripped both my shoulders, the scratchy wool of my shawl digging through the thin nightgown. “Did he touch you?”
“No. But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered it if I truly believed he knew anything about my daughter.”
He shook me none too gently. “Don’t ever say that again. Not ever. I do not want you to even glance in his direction; do you understand? I will deal with him.” His hands tightened on my arms. “I will find out why you went to see him, Laura. And I hope, for all our sakes, that he has information about your Annie.”
I balled my hands into fists and pushed against his chest. “I don’t answer to you, Stuart Elliott. And I will find my daughter with or without your help.”
He released his grip on me. “So be it. But do realize that there will be consequences if you disobey me again. I have told you before. These are dangerous times.”
I bowed my head, staring at my bare feet beneath my nightgown, their whiteness like glowing rocks in the sea of grass. “Yes, they are.”
He touched my chin and brought my face up again. “What are you afraid of, Laura? Why will you not let me help you? I could take hearing that you are a Yankee spy. It is the not knowing that is killing me in small measures.”
I wanted to tell him then, to ease the tension between us. But the less I told him, the thinner the bond between us, and the easier it would be to say goodbye. I shook my head, missing the feel of his touch as he moved his hand away.
His words were curt, abrupt. “Go back to bed, Laura. You will catch your death out here.”
I turned to leave and felt the shawl slip from my shoulders. He bent to pick it up, then moved nearer to drape it on me again. He wrapped his arms around me as he settled it over my back, but he didn’t move away. His breathing was warm and heavy on my cheek and I made the mistake by turning to see him clearly in the moonlight.
His lips covered mine before I had a chance to read what was in his eyes. His arms tightened behind me until I felt the buttons of his jacket pressing against my chest. My arms, seemingly of their own accord, went around his neck as I stood on my toes for a deeper kiss, feeling the rough stubble of his unshaven chin. The shawl slid again onto the grass as Stuart’s hands moved over the cotton of my nightgown, molding to the curves of my back and hips.
He pulled back suddenly, his eyes wide, a question stalled on my lips.
“I am sorry. I am so sorry.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “I am no different than Matt Kimball.”
I stared back at him, the blue shadows from the moon accentuating the planes of his face. “Yes, you are.” My fingertips brushed the stubble on his chin. “I wanted you to touch me.”
His breath grew white in the night air, and I watched it rise toward the sky. “Not as much as I wanted to touch you.”
Two worlds separated us, his and mine, and suddenly I was afraid of what might happen should they collide. I felt for a moment as if I held the country’s fate in my hands.
A horse whinnied from the barn. I turned away and scooped up my shawl, my fingers fumbling as I attempted to tie the ends in a knot. “Good night, Stuart.” I didn’t look back.
I started for the house, listening for his words, but he remained silent. But I knew his eyes followed me until I entered the house.
Heedless of my wet footprints, I ran across the foyer and up the stairs. As I reached my bedroom door, I heard a soft click from somewhere in the house. I knew it wasn’t Stuart, or I would have heard him follow me. I silently opened my door and slipped inside. Still chilled by the night air, I left my shawl on and crawled into the cotton sheets, shivering as their coolness touched the bare skin on my legs.
I stretched out, hearing my spine pop as I pointed my toes and reached my hands over my head, yawning in the process. My foot hit something in the bottom of the bed, something that hadn’t been there before. I reached down and pulled it out from under the covers. I didn’t need a candle to see what it was. The smooth pouchlike feel was enough. A pungent herbal odor emanated from the soft cloth, almost making me nauseous. I hastily threw it on the floor, eager to get it a
way from me. What was Sukie’s charm bag doing in my bed? I had no idea, but would certainly find out in the morning.
I awoke to the feel of someone bouncing on my bed. Full daylight flooded my room, telling me it was at least midmorning. Sarah was eagerly jostling me awake, and enjoying it immensely, to judge by the grin on her face. I had no idea what time I had finally fallen asleep, but from the numbness of my head, I hadn’t been asleep for long. Still, I was embarrassed to have slept so late.
“Miss Laura, Miss Laura! Time to get up! We are slaughtering Mr. Porker today!”
I glanced at her, dubious of the apparent joy at something that I was a bit apprehensive about. I threw the covers back and slowly slid out of bed.
“And Uncle Stuart’s back, too. Mama told me to come up here and let you know.” I felt my face redden at the thought of him and turned quickly to the washbasin.
Someone had already brought in fresh water in my pitcher, and I hastily splashed my face with the lukewarm water, hoping to make myself more alert. It did not.
“Stop bouncing, Sarah. It’s hurting my head.”
She stopped and gave me her most endearing smile. “All right. But if you are not downstairs in two shakes, I am coming back up to bounce on your bed and make your head hurt again.”
I pretended to threaten her with my hairbrush as she raced from the room, her mock squeals descending with her down the stairs.
As soon as she left, Sukie came in. Seeing her, I immediately thought of the pouch I had found in my bed. I raced over to the side of the bed where I had thrown it. The floor was empty.
“Where is it?”
“Where what is, Miz Laura?”
I scrutinized her face, but her bland expression hid all thoughts.
“Your charm bag,” I said, starting to feel annoyed.
She reached for the rope around her neck and pulled out the familiar red pouch. “It be right here. I never take it off ’cept when I sleep.”
“Well, it was here last night—in my bed. I threw it on the floor and now it’s gone.”