Counterfeit Courtship

by Christina Miller

  “What is it? What happened?” Although he’d been fierce as a warrior earlier this evening, Graham now held his elderly relative’s hand and spoke as softly as a mother with her newborn.

  “They can’t do this.” She laid her head on Graham’s shoulder. “My late husband, Willis, was an Adams—the most prestigious family in Natchez. They even named this county after the Adamses. They can’t take it away from me.”

  “What are they taking?” Graham asked. “Who’s taking it?”

  Miss Ophelia let out a heart-rending wail.

  “It’s Cedar Hills,” Miss Noreen said in her quiet, soothing voice. “She was getting ready for evening services when she got word that it’s been confiscated for back taxes. They’re also taking her town house.”

  On a Sunday? Even the Yankees wouldn’t be that cruel—or would they? “Who brought you the notice? Was it one of those Freedmen’s Bureau men?”

  “I could bear it easier from a stranger.”

  “Who was it?” Graham asked.

  Miss Ophelia sat up straight and wiped her eyes. “It was one of our own. Leonard Fitzwald.”

  Graham looked as disgusted as Ellie felt. “I’d hardly call that weasel one of our own. What did he do—join the Freedmen’s Bureau so he could serve confiscation notices? And still wearing a Confederate uniform?”

  “He may look a little bit like a weasel, but his mother was from an old Natchez family, and Leonard was devoted to her. And his father helped us all establish our fortunes—” Miss Ophelia burst into tears again. “But mine is all gone now.”

  Betsy jabbered and flailed her arms, and Ellie realized she had been so engrossed in Miss Ophelia’s problem that she hadn’t noticed the baby had stopped crying. At least that was something to be thankful for. “What did Leonard tell you?”

  “The federal government has taken all my land and my town home because I didn’t pay the taxes. But how were we to pay taxes when we had no crops?”

  That was the dilemma for every planter in the Natchez area—for all of Mississippi.

  “How soon must you leave your home?” Graham asked softly.

  She bent over and crossed her arms over her stomach as if she was in pain. “I have a week, but I wish I never had to go back. I wish I could remember it as it was before the war, back when we were happy.”

  “Graham...” Miss Noreen whispered the name, and when she had his attention, she gestured around the room, her brows lifted in question.

  Of a sudden, Ellie understood Miss Noreen was asking Graham’s permission to let her move here. Taking her in was the right thing to do—that was what you did for family—but another mouth to feed was the last thing Graham needed.

  He nodded but held up one finger as if wanting to wait with that. “Do you have a plan?”

  Miss Ophelia lifted her head. “I had one once. I’d planned to have lots of children to take care of me in my old age. But that didn’t work out.”

  It didn’t work out. Just as, according to Graham, none of Ellie’s plans ever quite worked out. She pulled Betsy closer, hoping the child’s body heat would drive away the sudden chill in her middle. But it didn’t.

  “Then you’ll move in with us,” Graham said, patting her ample arm. “We have plenty of room, and it might be good for Father too.”

  Miss Ophelia let out a halting sigh. “Graham, do you mean it? I wouldn’t be too much trouble?” she said in a little-girl voice. “Leaving my home is the worst tragedy I can imagine. But I don’t know where else I could go. And to live here with you, my family, in a gracious home like mine—it’s more than I could have asked.”

  “You could help me take care of Betsy,” Miss Noreen said.

  Her eyes lit like the sunset over the Mississippi. “I could—yes, I could help.” She reached out her plump hands. “Ellie, dear, do let me hold her now.”

  Ellie carried the baby to her, and the older woman snuggled her to her chest. “May I stay tonight, Noreen?”

  “Of course. We’ll send for your personal things tomorrow, and Graham and I will make a room comfortable for you tonight.”

  “And my horse, Handsome Boy, and my runabout. Bless you, Noreen. I always did say you were my favorite of all the in-laws.” She looked around the parlor, floor to ceiling and wall to wall. “I’ve had tea here a hundred times since you married James, but I never dreamed this would be my home.”

  “I’ll be glad for your company.” Miss Noreen’s tone said she meant it.

  “I’m thankful you were able to keep this house. It’s so elegant and beautiful, and I would have hated to see it leave your family.” Miss Ophelia dabbed at her cheeks as if leftover tears still lingered there. “Ellie, I never did figure out how you managed to get Magnolia Grove planted. You were wise to find a way to keep planting.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” The fear of experiencing this moment for herself—losing her home as Miss Ophelia was—had driven her. But of course Miss Ophelia wouldn’t dream of that. Then again, Miss Ophelia knew little beyond entertaining and Natchez society life. That blessed woman never had to. How would she get by if not for family? The fact that she and her husband were of the finest families in Adams County certainly hadn’t spared her. All the money and prestige they once had, all their social and business connections, all their earthly assets, could not prevent Miss Ophelia from falling into poverty, relying on her relatives for food and shelter.

  And if this calamity could happen to Miss Ophelia, it could happen to Ellie.

  The knowledge stuck in her throat and lodged there as if she’d swallowed a bone.

  The difference was that Ellie had no relatives to run to. In fact, she had her uncle who depended on her to provide for him now.

  Suddenly, her previous chill gave way to a cold sweat that started at her hairline and moved down to her neck, her spine, until she couldn’t tell if she was too hot or too cold. Just as it had when Leonard came to gloat about the loan. To coerce her into marriage.

  Still standing next to Miss Ophelia, Ellie now made for the door. “Excuse me a moment.”

  She rushed through the center hall to the front entry and gallery. About to collapse in a rocker, she remembered it was Sunday night. All of Natchez seemed to be still out, promenading on the sidewalks of Pearl Street, stopping to visit on porches or lawns.

  The last thing Ellie needed now was for one of them to stop her for a chat. She hastened to Graham’s backyard, where she could hide among the myrtles.

  Once in the garden, she collapsed on the grass, next to the smooth marble statue of Rachel at the well. As a child, she used to pick the flowering myrtles and place one in Rachel’s hand every morning. Now she plucked a sprig and fastened it between Rachel’s fingers.

  Rachel still had a home, at least until the next time taxes came due. But Ellie was fooling herself to think she and her uncle were safe.

  If only she could sit here in the quiet of the evening and think of the sweet things of life, mainly Graham’s kiss and the promise it held. Could she ever again think of it without remembering how safe she’d felt, how cherished? But now, despite those moments, the whole world seemed to root against her. She could talk all she wanted of picking cotton, of offering daily wages, of rebuilding the cabins for more workers, even of selling her hoarded cotton—but it was all talk. Mere talk. She had two weeks to pay her debt. She had twenty workers already dependent on her, not to mention Uncle Amos, Lilah May and Roman.

  Two weeks to save her uncle’s plantation—her grandfather’s plantation before him. Ellie’s plantation after him.

  If Miss Ophelia could lose her property, it could happen to Ellie too. Because like Miss Ophelia’s, Ellie’s plans never quite worked out.

  Her fear of returning to the poverty of her childhood had driven her to defy society and learn how to become a planter. And that fear had se
rved her well, had worked for her as she made the hard decisions since Uncle’s illness. So why not now?

  She had two weeks to pay her loan and harvest the crop—all while keeping both her outward promise and her inward vow to Graham. She had to do it in two weeks. If she didn’t, she’d fail her family—her only living relative—in a worse way than her father had failed her.

  She tucked the myrtle bud closer to Rachel.

  That failure would be worse than death to her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  God, please stop me if I’m misunderstanding Your instructions.

  The next morning, Graham stayed on his knees at his bedside even longer than he had the day before. Somehow, being the man of the house that sheltered an elderly stepmother, a man living in the past, a baby and a widowed aunt weighed heavier on him than his command of thousands of troops ever had.

  Not to mention Ellie.

  Last night had proved beyond doubt that he still had feelings for the one woman who would never become his wife. And he could do nothing about it. With that kiss, what little peace he’d had about this counterfeit courtship vanished like fog on the river.

  Worse yet, the best he could discern, God was leading him to become Ellie’s broker. And once he accepted the position, he’d have to work closely with her and spend even more time with her than before.

  God, help me to keep my mind on business when I’m around her.

  And off their kiss. He rubbed the ache that was starting in the back of his neck. Nothing less than divine intervention could bring that kind of focus to pass.

  In order to shield his heart and do Ellie’s business, these thoughts of romance needed to go. Yes, he’d keep his thoughts where they needed to be, concentrate on the cotton brokerage instead. If his arrangement with Ellie worked out and he thought he had some aptitude for brokering cotton, he’d offer his services to other area planters who wanted to get their ground productive again. These were new days and hard times, and old methods wouldn’t work anymore. Planting—and selling—cotton would have a different face today. Graham would need Ellie’s creativity and ideas in order to pull a profit from the old dirt of Natchez.

  He glanced at the clock on his lowboy. Ten of seven. He needed to get up and get downstairs if he didn’t want to hear that offensive bell this morning.

  Aunt Ophelia picked up that bell just as Graham bounded down the last step. “No need, Auntie. I’m up.”

  “You’re up, dressed and perky.” She looked rather perky herself in her bright blue dress that pulled the blue out of her hazel eyes. “What plans do you have today?”

  “Big ones.” Graham crooked his arm at her, and she took it, letting him escort her. He turned left to head to the library.

  “Not in there.” She tugged him in the opposite direction, toward the back of the house. “I have reinstituted the tradition of high breakfast in the dining room.”

  “High breakfast?”

  “That’s what your dear, departed grandmother used to call it. She knew how to set a breakfast table. All of Natchez envied her.”

  Graham didn’t know about that, but Aunt Ophelia certainly seemed to have made a place for herself in the household already. And that was probably a good thing. He could understand Noreen eating in the library when she lived here alone, but now they had four adults and a baby in the house. The dining room seemed a better option. And the aromas coming from that direction told him they had a feast waiting.

  They entered the room where Father and Noreen sat, not at their usual places at the head and foot of the table, but across from each other at one end. Betsy sat on Noreen’s lap, babbling and grabbing her grandmother’s silverware. The room’s yellow walls and white trim made it even more cheerful than Graham remembered.

  “Good idea to eat in here again.”

  Then his gaze landed on the mahogany sideboard—the one whose contents had saved this house. Thousands of dollars’ worth of gold coin, hidden nearly in plain sight. Too bad it was empty now and couldn’t buy back Ashland Place or Ammadelle.

  He seated Aunt Ophelia next to Noreen and then rounded the table to sit by his father, against the west windows. “Good morning, Father.”

  Father turned and fastened his empty-eyed gaze on Graham. “Good morning.”

  It would be easy to let his father’s condition drag Graham into melancholy as well. But the women at the table needed his strength, so he forced himself to smile. Perhaps they all needed to talk to Father more, encourage him to participate in the family’s chatter. It was hard to make conversation with a man who often couldn’t or wouldn’t speak back, but Graham decided to give it more effort.

  The bowl in front of his plate caught his eye: scrambled eggs with onions and peppers from their garden. He glanced around at the rest of the table and saw hotcakes and thin-sliced ham. “Father, look how good breakfast looks. Where did all this come from?”

  “Ophelia made it,” Noreen said, giving Betsy her spoon to play with.

  Graham couldn’t help laughing. “Aunt Ophelia, your cooking skills are the best-kept secret in Natchez.”

  “My mother believed every girl of privilege should know how to cook and keep house.” She puffed herself up to her full height and girth. “One never knew, she said, when one would find oneself without domestic help. And this war has proven her right.”

  “But you’ve gone to far too much trouble for us, Ophelia,” Noreen said.

  She sniffed. “Yesterday, I didn’t know if I would have to find a job as a cook somewhere, just to survive. I can surely cook for my family.”

  “Let’s make her happy and let her cook, Noreen.” Graham breathed deep of the good aromas. “Father, would you like to pray?”

  His father bowed his head. “We give Thee thanks, Almighty God, for home and food and family. In the name of Jesus, amen.”

  “Meh-men!” Betsy banged the spoon on the table.

  Well, it wasn’t Father’s usual lengthy prayer, but his tight voice hinted that he’d meant it. That was a good start.

  When they’d finished, Graham helped Aunt Ophelia carry the dirty dishes to the kitchen dependency. She stacked the plates and then turned to him, a motherly concern in her eye.

  “Susanna Martin came to my home yesterday afternoon.” Her expression suddenly clouded. “She was the last caller I’ll ever receive in that house.”

  “I’m sorry.” Sorry for her grief over her home, and sorry that he even had to talk about Susanna.

  “She gave me some distressing news. It seems she saw you and Ellie riding out of town together yesterday.”

  That prying little husband-hunting snoop. “We drove out to Magnolia Grove, yes.”

  Aunt Ophelia took one of his hands, and hers felt soft as cotton. If she kept cooking and doing dishes, they wouldn’t be that way for long. “Don’t you see, dear, that such behavior compromises Ellie’s reputation? I know you were childhood friends, but you’re not children anymore.”

  “But our trip was for business.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Now that you’re courting, you must protect her virtue. At all cost.”

  Of course she was right. “But I’ve decided to become her broker. How will I advise her about her crops if we don’t go to Magnolia Grove together?”

  “I have the solution.”

  Ten minutes later, Graham dashed to his room and scribbled a quick note to Ellie.

  Are you game for a visit? You’re not the only one with crazy ideas. Now Aunt Ophelia has one for us.

  Graham

  He crammed the scrap of paper into the broken fountain pen barrel still outside his window. Then he tied it to the twine, pulled on the rope and sent the missile flying toward Ellie’s window. With a satisfying clink, it hit the glass.

  Within seconds, she reached through the open win
dow, grabbed the barrel and gave him a quick wave. A few minutes later, her answer came sailing back.

  Come in the back door and up to Uncle Amos’s room. Don’t be late! I’m meeting with Joseph this morning. Come with me if you like.

  Sis

  Well, it had been a fine morning until he read her signature. It was time to put a stop to this. He grabbed his pen.

  If I’m courting you, then you’re not my sis. I don’t want to see that again.

  He sent this note zooming over their yards with much more force than necessary. Her reply took only seconds.

  Very well. Signed, your loving, faithful, devoted intended. Like that better?

  He would have eight years ago. As it was, the mockery cut into his heart more than “Sis” had.

  Go back to Sis. Or Boss, since I’m going to be your new broker.

  This time, when the barrel hit her window, it sounded hollow. He stormed out and down the hall. He’d gotten what he deserved, sending messages to her house over a pulley as if they were still children. Why did she make him act so childish?

  Or was it childish? Perhaps it was merely lightheartedness, as Noreen had said. How was a man to know the difference? He banged on the guest room door, which was now Aunt Ophelia’s, and yelled that he was ready to take her to Ellie’s.

  She poked her head out the door, her eyes wide. “What’s your hurry? Why are you shouting in the house? And what was that thunking sound I heard coming from your room?”

  What was wrong with him? He’d never even yelled at his soldiers on the battlefield. “I was just thinking how I was being childish, and then I confirmed the fact by hollering at you.”

  “So you did.” She patted his cheek. “That happens sometimes when you’re in love.”

  In love. What would she say if she knew he had just demanded that Ellie sign her notes “Sis”? “If that’s what causes childishness, I must have it bad. I’ve not been thinking straight.”

  She took his arm as they started down the stairs. “I don’t like to drop in on people this early in the morning, but I suppose it’s excusable since we’re calling on your intended.”