Yankee in Atlanta

by Jocelyn Green

  Now who is playing who? Susan wondered. “No obligations?”

  “None.” He held his palms open wide. “It’s Christmas Eve. Let’s make merry.”

  Exhilaration unfurled within Susan, tingling from her head to her toes, as he whisked her from store to store. On Whitehall Street, he bought yards of Saxony Flannel and black-and-white prints, linen collars, and new kid leather shoes. When she admitted that she had no idea how to sew, he threw back his head and laughed.

  “Good girl. Someone else should do that for you, right princess?”

  Moments later, a seamstress took her back to get her measurements, and her arms floated, weightless, toward the ceiling. Finally, finally, she felt good again.

  The hours passed as mere moments, until the blazing red sun dipped behind downtown Atlanta. By the time Zeke drove Susan back to Noah’s house, she was drunk with conquest. A man she had met just today had spent more than two thousand dollars on her.

  “Happy Christmas, Miss Kent. May I call on you again? The rest of this town isn’t nearly as fun as you are.”

  Susan’s cheeks warmed as she nodded. “I would like nothing better.”

  He smiled, tapped her on the nose with his finger, then helped her down. He followed, carrying her new books, genuine coffee, and hats. The new shoes were already on her feet, and the new dresses would be ready to pick up by the New Year.

  When Caitlin McKae opened the door, the look on her pale and pinched face was worth a small fortune.

  “You were wrong, Caitlin.” Susan laughed, swaying with giddiness next to Zeke and his tower of packages. “A man—the right man—is the perfect source of happiness.” Feeling especially generous, she pulled the box of books and bag of coffee from Zeke’s stack and handed the bundles to Caitlin. “Merry Christmas, from Mr. Murphy and me to our humble household. Real coffee and new novels to read!”

  “Why, hello there.” Zeke bent his head. Susan’s heart dropped into her new kid leather shoes when she saw Ana peering out from behind Caitlin’s skirt. “And who might you be?”

  “She is no one,” Susan muttered. “Now I’ll take those if you please. You must be on your way.”

  Not even the tantalizing aroma of fresh, real coffee could tempt Caitlin to go downstairs when Ana’s shoulders still heaved with sobs in Caitlin’s arms. Caitlin cried right along with her. Susan’s two little words—“no one”—had ignited a bonfire of fury, burning away the dross of everyday strain and refining Caitlin’s love for the little girl more than she thought possible.

  “Why–did–she–say–that?” Analiese hiccupped. “When does my Papa come home? I want my—Papa!”

  “I don’t know, darlin’. But I know your papa loves you with all his heart and then some. Shall we look at his letter to you again?”

  Ana sniffed. “I memorized it.”

  “You did?”

  She nodded, and recited his tender words. “And then he sang me a song. A German Christmas song.”

  Caitlin’s heart caught in her throat as the memory of Noah’s baritone reverberated in her spirit. How she wished he was here for his daughter now. “I don’t know any German Christmas songs, and here it is, Christmas Eve. Could you teach it to me? I will be your pupil this time, how does that sound?”

  Ana nodded. She wiped her face and sat up a little straighter. Her face glowed in the firelight as she sang. “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht, Alles schläch; einsam wacht …”

  The English translation of “Silent Night” played in Caitlin’s mind until Ana’s sigh put an end to it, her small body slumping against Caitlin once more. “I like it better when Papa sings it himself, in person. And I don’t want to sing about a mother and child anymore. Can you tell me a story?”

  “Of course.” Caitlin swallowed the lump in her throat and began reciting “’Twas the Night before Christmas.” She patted Ana’s pillow and tucked her into her covers, silently thanking God she hadn’t been allowed to go to Gettysburg. She was right where she was supposed to be. She would never think of leaving Ana again.

  New York City

  Sunday, January 3, 1864

  We don’t belong here. Ruby shifted Aiden to her other hip and followed the tuxedoed waiter to a linen-draped table set with white bone china and crystal. Reverend Herbert and Mrs. Jessamine Lanser had invited Edward to lunch after church today, and insisted that Vivian, Ruby, and Aiden join them.

  Tucked between Vivian and Mrs. Lanser, Ruby held Aiden on her lap while waiting for a high chair. Ice clinked in cut glass goblets as Aiden gleefully tugged on the tablecloth. Lord, if we could get through this meal without making a huge mess, I would be so thankful. One smile from Edward across the table made the effort seem worthwhile.

  The waiter returned with the high chair, and Ruby gratefully set her son securely in place.

  “Coffee?” Steam curled from the silver pitcher in the waiter’s hands.

  Ruby nodded, and in a moment, her cup was filled. Thank heavens. Aiden wasn’t the only O’Flannery fighting sleep. The bulk of her time was divided between caring for Aiden and sewing for her clients, who never seemed to tire of the latest fashions, even in wartime. Thankfully, between Edward’s sewing machine and Emma’s surprisingly nimble fingers, Ruby found a way to keep up with the orders, and split her profits with Emma.

  When Aiden reached for the pearls swinging from Mrs. Lanser’s neck, Ruby quickly tore off a piece of the evergreen centerpiece and tickled his nose to distract him. The spicy scent of the soft needles clearly delighted him as he mashed them in his hand.

  “He’s adorable.” The older woman smiled. “Just look at those curls! Those cherub cheeks! I could just pinch him!”

  “Aye—yes. Thank you.”

  Mrs. Lanser’s perfectly shaped brows arched on her porcelain forehead. “Mrs. O’Flannery, is it? And Mrs. McKae? Such fine Irish names. Tell me, how is it you know Mr. Goodrich?”

  “I’m his aunt.” Vivian spoke over the rumbling voices of Edward and the pastor. “And Ruby here is our very dear friend.”

  “I see. Have you been in this country long?”

  “Fourteen years,” Ruby answered.

  “How nice. Our family has been here since before the country was founded. Tell me, how are you liking our city?”

  As if she had only just arrived in a city that belonged to the old money alone. As if immigrants had no ownership in it, though it was immigrant labor that built the docks, railroads, bridges, and more.

  “I like it fine.” She forced a smile she did not feel.

  “Splendid. Forgive me, I just fail to see how you and Mr. Goodrich became—how did you put it? Very dear friends?”

  Carefully, Ruby chose which slice of the truth to serve. “I met him when we both worked in the hospitals in Washington. Now I’m a domestic for Caroline Waverly on Sixteenth Street, not far from the Goodrich house. Edward has been doing Bible studies with me since he came home.”

  “Ah yes, how lovely. It is unusual, though, for a woman with husband and child to be a domestic. I didn’t see him today. Is your husband not a churchgoer?”

  Edward’s voice broke off midsentence as he turned his attention to the women. “She is a war widow, Mrs. Lanser.” His voice was low, respectful.

  “Aha! Thank goodness. I was wondering if he’d been involved in that draft riot business last summer, but as you are not in full black, he must have died more than a year ago, at the very least. Oh, listen to me, carrying on when there’s a lunch to be decided!”

  Ruby’s cheeks burned as she hid behind her menu. Aiden played peek-a-boo with the napkin over his head, his small voice blending in with the din of the crowd.

  After they placed their order, Reverend Lanser cleared his throat and smoothed his silver whiskers downward. “I know the womenfolk may not like talking business at the table, so you ladies feel free to talk amongst yourselves if this bothers you. But I’ve got a proposition for our Edward here, and I just can’t wait to lay it out for him.”

  Edward b
linked. “Sir?”

  Aiden babbled but Ruby tuned her ears to what the pastor had to say.

  “You’re a godly man, Edward. You’ve got your seminary degree, you’ve served as a chaplain down in Washington, Virginia, and now up here in our hospitals. Your reputation is spotless, you relate well to our veterans, and you know how to preach.”

  “Thank you, sir. But what—”

  “The bottom line is this. I’ll be retiring from my role as pastor sometime in the next several months, and I’m going to want to know the church is in good hands when I leave. I’ve had my eye on you for a while, son. The war is bound to end soon, and your work with the wounded soldiers will come to a close. Have you thought about what you’ll do when that happens? Have you made any plans for your future?”

  Edward found Ruby’s eyes and sent her a small smile, the spark in his dark eyes warming her. The future, even if barely believable, had never seemed so inviting. She hadn’t imagined being with a man again, but Edward was so different. Surely, if married, she could love and be loved without her past poisoning every touch.

  Turning back to the reverend, Edward nodded. “I’ve always wanted to shepherd my own flock. It’s what I trained for. My time with the hospitals has been rewarding, to be sure. I wouldn’t trade the experience for the world. But it’s just for a season. I’m listening with open ears to where God may call me next.”

  Reverend Lanser clapped his hand on his shoulder. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear that. We need not discuss it further right now, but I’d be delighted if you’d consider pastoring my church when I step down. The church would vote on it of course, but with my endorsement, it should be an easy win. I’d be happy to mentor you over the next few months in practical church leadership, if you wish. Pray about it, will you?”

  Edward assured him that he would, and Ruby nearly choked on the irony of what was transpiring before her. Would she one day be a pastor’s wife? Surely she was disqualified for the title. With nervous fingers, she tore a piece of bread and gave it to Aiden.

  “This is marvelous.” Vivian beamed. “Edward, did your father ever tell you that it was a Methodist circuit rider that came to our home in Buffalo and led your grandfather to the Lord? Eventually our entire household prayed to receive Christ. George was the hardest to convince, but believe it or not, he did.”

  Edward’s lips quirked, but he said nothing. True enough, George Goodrich’s heart seemed to be in a deep freeze. But Ruby had seen evidence of a thaw even in the short time since Thanksgiving. He had started using her name, for instance, rather than calling her “the girl.” He had stopped telling Vivian to leave him alone when she hugged him good night. Perhaps most surprising of all, he’d suggested donating funds to Christmas dinners at the hospitals rather than spending money on gifts for one another. It was a lovely idea, and Ruby suspected Edward was secretly irritated that he hadn’t thought of it first, himself.

  “Our granddaughter is coming back from holiday soon,” Mrs. Lanser was saying. “She had a notion to work with the Sanitary Commission women, but you know how strong-minded that crowd is. Soon they’ll be saying women should vote!” She clucked her tongue. “So we’ve convinced Amy to simply channel her charity into the Women’s Central Association for Relief right here in the city, instead. You really should meet her, Edward.”

  Ruby’s glance snapped to the older woman, but she held her tongue.

  Vivian did not. “Why’s that?”

  “Hm?” Mrs. Lanser chewed a bite of lamb. “Why what?”

  “Why should Edward meet your Amy?”

  “Oh! Why, she’s beautiful, he’d just love her. Young, sweet, educated, patriotic. She plays the piano, too. A very helpful asset to have around.” She dipped her head, her double chin spreading with each nod. “Do you play the piano, Mrs. O’Flannery?”

  Ruby swallowed another sip of coffee. “No.”

  “Amy sings too. She has the voice of an angel, the next Jenny Lind, I tell you! You should hear her sing in the church. The acoustics! Heavenly, I tell you! Do you sing?”

  “Only to my son.” She smiled.

  “Well that’s fine, dear. We can’t all be songbirds. But between us …” She leaned in to Vivian and Ruby. “An upstanding girl who can play and sing would make an excellent candidate for a pastor’s wife.” She winked and leaned back in her chair. “And a wife is the only thing Edward lacks. A congregation wouldn’t trust a bachelor in the pulpit, if you ask me.”

  “Indeed.” Vivian’s voice was smooth as silk, but her eyes were sharp. “And is this wife to be of your choosing, or of God’s?”

  Ruby’s face flamed. She was certain Vivian had meant to defend Ruby, but her question snagged Ruby’s conscience. Edward was a gift to Ruby. But was Ruby really God’s choice for Edward?

  After lunch, while Aiden napped and Edward and Ruby shared tea in the sitting room, Vivian found George reading the newspaper in the library, his pipe drooping from beneath his mustache.

  “One of these Sundays, I would dearly love to have you in church beside me again, brother.” She squeezed his shoulder before sitting in the leather armchair across from him. A vibrant fire danced behind the grate, brightening an otherwise washed-out January day. Wind sighed outside the window, and tree branches tapped their bony fingers against the panes, as if requesting entry into the warm, dark-paneled room.

  “Hmph.” George snorted, but did not rebuke the idea. “How many saints did the preacher put to sleep today?”

  “Now, George.” She set her knitting basket on the floor next to her and resumed work on the half-finished sock dangling from her needles.

  “Well?”

  Vivian bit back a chuckle. “Edward would have done better.” She smiled as she settled into the methodical rhythm of her knitting, purling, and slipping. “In fact, there’s a possibility that he’ll be given the chance—and on a regular basis, too.”

  “What’s that you say?” The sweet scent of pipe tobacco mingled with the aroma of wood smoke.

  “Ask him yourself. It’s his news to share.”

  “Ah yes! News!” George’s grey eyes popped wide. He slapped the newspaper down on the table beside him, pushed himself up, and walked with his cane to his roll-top desk.

  “You need something, George? Let me help.”

  He waved her away. “Would you have me be sedentary for the rest of my days, until I wither away to nothing? I’ve got to regain my strength.” With one hand cradling his pipe, he rifled through stacks of newspaper and balance sheets until hooking something from beneath his ledger book. “Someone came by for you with this.”

  “Oh? Who was that?”

  “A neighbor from your old building. Said this was mixed in with her mail, thought you might know where to send it.” He handed her a letter. “For Jack.”

  Vivian took the envelope, turned it over to read the address. Dropped her knitting to the floor, felt herself unraveling.

  The handwriting snatched the breath from her lungs. “It’s Caitlin,” she gasped. The envelope trembled in her hands.

  “Your missing girl? You’re certain?” George, at her side.

  “I’d know her penmanship anywhere!” She touched her fingertips to the words.

  “Where was it postmarked?” Abandoning his pipe to its walnut tray, he took the envelope. “Gettysburg!”

  “Do you think she was there?”

  “In December?” He pointed to the date on the envelope. “It’s so thin. Can’t tell if there’s anything in it at all!”

  “Open it.”

  George grabbed a letter opener from his desk and slit the envelope’s top. Peered inside. Frowned. The fire hissed in his silence.

  “I can’t stand it a minute longer!” Vivian’s hands twisted in her lap. “What is it? Tell me!”

  He fished out a scrap of newsprint, eyebrows plunging. “You’re absolutely sure that’s her handwriting on the envelope?”

  “Yes, yes! What is it? Did she say anything?”
r />   “It’s a message all right. But she’s not in Gettysburg, Viv.”

  Alarm jangled in her spirit at the tender use of her old nickname. George handed the torn paper to her.

  ATLANTA DAILY INTELLIGENCER DECEMBER 10, 1863

  “She is alive,” Vivian whispered, turning the scrap over.

  “For now.”

  Vivian’s head snapped up, fear licking through her veins like fire. “How can you say such a thing?”

  “She is living in a bull’s-eye.” George grunted. “Atlanta is the heart of the South, an important railway center. If the Union were to capture it, we would snap the backbone of the rebellion in half.”

  “What can she be doing there?”

  “Hold the envelope and paper in front of the firelight. Do you see anything else?”

  Light and shadow tangled behind the paper, but did not reveal further clues. Vivian shook her head.

  “No matter,” George said gruffly. “It is enough as it is. We know she wanted you—or Jack, rather—to know she was in Atlanta. She could not write anything personal either because it would be incriminating or she had no time, or both. She had to smuggle the letter out of the South in order to reach us.”

  “But how do you know she did not send it herself from Gettysburg?”

  “If she’d been in the North, she’d have been able to write more, or she would have just come home, wouldn’t she? Gettysburg is only two hundred miles or so from here. No, she sent it with someone, and there is only one reason a Southerner would go to Gettysburg.”

  “To bring home the remains of a loved one fallen in last summer’s battle.”

  “Exactly. Which means that whoever sent this is headed back South, with the information that Caitlin has ties to someone in New York.” His face clouded.

  Vivian locked eyes with her brother. She will look like a spy. A log crumbled in the consuming fire, and she twitched. “It’s my fault she’s in danger now. If I hadn’t—” Her shaky fingers pressed her lips to barricade further mutterings.