by Dorothy Love
Gillie disappeared into the office she shared with Doc Spencer. Ethan headed down the hall toward Mr. Worth’s room and Sophie followed, her heart flailing like a bird in a box. Now that the leather pouch had been recovered, perhaps Mr. Worth could prove his innocence once and for all.
Ethan pushed open the door. Gillie had lit the lamp. Inside the clear glass globe, the flame burned blue and white-hot, its light giving Julian the appearance of a finely carved statue. He turned his head on the pillow and motioned them inside.
Without thinking, Sophie grasped Ethan’s hand and felt it tremble. She squeezed, and he squeezed back before approaching the bed and pulling up a chair for her. He drew the curtains and perched on the deep windowsill, still wearing his woolen coat.
The brothers took each other’s measure for a long moment before Ethan said, “How are you, Julian?”
“Tired. But the pain is better today.” He hitched his shoulders. “Is there any word from home?”
Ethan shook his head. “I checked at the telegraph office earlier today. No news is probably good news. But I’ll go by there again before the office closes and see if anything has come in.”
“I appreciate it.” Julian winced. “Today my head hurts worse than the bullet wound.” He touched the thick bandage that covered most of his forehead and smiled at Sophie. “I heard you were wounded. Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
“I owe you a great debt for taking care of me on the train.”
“There wasn’t much I could do.”
“If I ruined your cloak, I’ll gladly get you another.”
She shook her head. “No harm done.”
Ethan cleared his throat and produced the small leather pouch. “The sheriff returned this today.”
Julian studied it for a long beat. Finally he said, “Have you opened it?”
“It isn’t mine to open.”
“Open it now,” Julian said. “Over here by the lamp so you can see.”
Ethan opened the pouch, took out a sheaf of papers and news clippings, and bent toward the light. Sophie watched his face as he read each one, slowly stacking them on the bed as he went. Did these few wrinkled pages hold the key to healing his past?
She thought of the diary Rosaleen had left to her. Of course it hadn’t magically erased every bitter memory, every deep scar on her heart, but knowing the truth had set a part of her free. She now could accept her history with all its burdens and imperfections. If only Julian’s papers would do the same for Ethan.
Ethan finished reading. He looked up and Sophie saw tears standing in his eyes. She glanced at Julian, who waited calmly, hands folded atop his coverlet.
“How long have you known this?” Ethan asked at last.
“I first got word of it a couple of years ago, when I went home for my mother’s funeral.”
“Martha is dead?”
Julian nodded. “It was quick. A shock to me, but a blessing really. Her mind was gone. She kept calling out for your mother. I think she imagined she was at Ravenswood. Back when we were boys together.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that. She was a comfort to my mother for many years.”
Julian didn’t answer that. He turned to Sophie. “I heard you had a fire.”
“Yes, but Ethan has seen to repairs. I hope to begin publishing the paper again very soon. Perhaps by Christmas, if my supplies arrive.”
“What happened?”
“The sheriff thinks that the man who shot you is also responsible for the fire.”
Julian shifted his injured leg and sighed. “My, my, I seem to have wreaked all sorts of havoc in pursuit of truth.”
Ethan shrugged out of his coat and draped it across the foot of the bed. “You got the short end of that stick, Julian. I’m sorry you got mixed up in the dispute between Crocker and me. If I had listened to you when you first showed up back in June, none of this would have happened.”
Julian lifted one shoulder. “I reckon everything happens for a reason, brother.”
“Maybe.” Ethan picked up the sheaf of papers and sorted through them again. “I knew the Yankees were responsible for destroying most of Georgia. But that day when I saw you in Mother’s room holding that knife, after what had happened to our Witherspoon cousins, I assumed that you—”
“I know how it must have looked to you. Everything that day was in chaos.” Julian closed his eyes, as if summoning the scene again. “By the time I beat you back to the house, they had already stolen everything out of the toolshed and the smokehouse. They slaughtered the chickens and turned the cattle out and started taking things out of the house. Paintings, silver, anything of value. Mr. Carpenter had run off. They told the field hands to load up wagons with everything they could carry. Told ’em all they were free to go.”
“Father,” Ethan said. “Where was he while this was happening?”
“I found him in the upstairs hallway, lying atop that pistol he kept in the library. I expect he was trying to fend off the Yankees when they shot him. Then I heard Miss Rachel scream and I ran into her room.” Julian swallowed hard and glanced at Sophie. “This next part isn’t fit for a lady’s ears.”
Sophie sat on the edge of her chair, trembling and near tears. She could well imagine what came next. She stole a glance at Ethan. He sat on the windowsill, his head bowed, his elbows on his knees.
She licked her lips. “Go on, Mr. Worth.”
“I pushed open the door, and I saw one of the soldiers was . . . trying to have his way with her. I tried to scream, but my mouth was dry as cotton. Miss Rachel grabbed his arm, but he was a lot bigger than her and he . . . he cut her. At first she just looked surprised, and I thought, soon as he leaves, I can help her. But she made an awful choking sound, and then she just lay down on the floor like she was tired and taking a nap.”
“Dear God,” Ethan whispered.
“The soldier ran out of there, and I was thinking I’d go out the window, jump off the roof, and go get her some help, but then I heard footsteps on the stairs. I was scared that man was coming back and would kill me too. I grabbed the knife and hid behind Miss Rachel’s curtains.”
Gillie tapped on the door and stuck her head in. “Everything all right in here?”
Sophie nodded. “We’re fine.”
“I’m headed home. Don’t keep my patient up too late.”
She closed the door.
“That was where I found you,” Ethan said to Julian, “standing behind Mother’s curtains, holding a bloody knife.”
“I could see the pure hate in your eyes,” Julian said. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me. And I knew if I stayed there I’d be hanged, no questions asked. So I ran.”
“You’re right. After what happened to our cousins, I wouldn’t have believed you.” Ethan smoothed the front of his dungarees. “Still, I wondered what became of you.” He glanced at his brother. “We had some good times when we were boys. Before the war ruined everything.”
“We sure did. ’Member the time we both got chicken pox and your mama made a fort for us out of her old blanket, and we nearly caught fire to it?”
“I forgot about that.” Ethan sighed. “I tried to forget everything about Ravenswood and what happened there. I haven’t set foot on Heyward land since the day Aunt Eulalie arrived to take me to her place in Baltimore.”
“I heard that’s where you went. Mama and I headed north too—Ohio first, and then Pennsylvania. When the war ended and freedom was official, she went back home to Georgia, but I didn’t want anything to do with that place. I got a job stocking groceries and then went to school. After that I opened myself a bookshop on one of the fanciest streets in town.”
“A bookshop? I never would have guessed.”
“We were both more in love with fishing and climbing trees than books back in those days,” Julian said. “After everything that happened, I suppose I buried myself in other people’s stories so I wouldn’t have to think about my own. Anyway, it suits me now.”
“I am getting tired,” Julian said, “but I want to tell you the rest of it.”
“Go on.”
Julian waved a hand toward the papers. “When I went home to bury Mama, I saw the article in the Atlanta paper about former Union soldiers who were finally being brought to justice for the atrocities they committed during the war.” He looked up at Sophie, his ice-blue eyes glittering in the lamplight. “It’s one thing to shoot an enemy on the battlefield. It’s another to murder a helpless woman just for sport. I saw that one of the men, a Sergeant Hollis from Indiana, had confessed to burning out a family over in Cobb County about the same time as Father and Miss Rachel were killed. I figured he might have something to do with what happened at Ravenswood too, so I hung around till the trial. When he saw that he might be sent up for life for his crimes, he confessed to being at Ravenswood that day. And he named the murderer.”
Ethan picked up the papers and shuffled them again. “Roscoe Peck?”
Julian nodded. “He died last year, but not before admitting his guilt. That paper there, the one with the seal on it, is signed by the priest and the judge who witnessed his confession. I’ve been trying to find you ever since.”
Ethan smoothed the paper and shook his head. “All this time, I hated you. I hated myself for not saving them.”
“We were boys, Ethan. They were grown men, soldiers with swords and guns. All the time I was on the run, I thanked God it was me who got home first that day, and not you.”
“How did you track me down?”
“I remembered your mother had family in Baltimore. I took a trip out there and asked around. Someone remembered your aunt, but then I found out she’s long dead as well.”
“Yes, she died when I was sixteen.”
“Last January I bought a bunch of books at an estate sale in Baltimore, and I went back to supervise the shipment. Got a couple of first editions, but I’m not inclined to part with them.” Julian sighed and drew up his covers, and Sophie saw how much this long conversation had cost him.
“Ethan, maybe we could come back tomorrow.”
“No,” Julian said. “I’m tired, but I’ll sleep better when this story is done.” He sent her a wan smile. “After all, I’ve waited most of my life to tell it.”
The lamp was nearly out. Wind whistled around the corner, rattling the iron gate outside. Sophie shifted in her chair and listened as Julian finished his story.
“I saw an article about Blue Smoke in the Baltimore Sun, and your name was listed as the manager for the whole thing. I came to the opening in June. You know the rest.”
“I turned you away. I’m sorry. I should have listened.”
“Mama used to say that when the learner is ready, the teacher will appear. Maybe that applies to truth telling too. Maybe it all happened to prepare your ears for this story.” Julian sat up in the bed and clasped his brother’s hand. “I’m glad your life turned out so well.”
Ethan nodded.
“Listen,” Julian said. “I understand this is a lot to take in all at once. And I don’t expect we’ll go back to being friends overnight. Maybe we never will. Too much to work out in your head. Too much water under the bridge. I’ll be heading home to Philadelphia as soon as I’m fit to travel. But my door is open if you ever want to visit.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Anytime.” Julian gathered up the papers and stuffed them back into the leather pouch. “I reckon I’ll hold on to these. I’ve been a free man for more than twenty years, but still—” He gestured to Sophie. “Ethan, I expect you’d best get this lady home.”
Ethan took Julian’s hand. “I’m glad you told me. I’m sorry it came at such great cost.”
“So am I. Now, get on away from here and let me sleep.”
Ethan blew out the feeble flame in the lamp and they left the infirmary.
Sitting next to him on the short ride to the Verandah, Sophie snuggled into her cloak and thought about the beautiful and terrible ways people had of dealing with the past. Until now, she’d never thought about the layers of secrets, the complexities of human relationships, the subtexts and shadows of half-remembered lies and half-truths that separated people from each other. It was a wonder anyone survived it.
“Here we are.” Ethan halted the rig and helped her out. “I’m glad you were there with me tonight. I hope the story wasn’t too upsetting.”
They walked up the steps to the door. The hotel was dark, save for a single lantern burning in the parlor window. “I’m sure it was much more difficult for you to relive such a terrible day.”
“It was a long time ago. I’m all right, just tired. I need some time to think about things.”
“Thank you for all you’ve done to repair the office. If you hadn’t offered, I’d have had to shutter it for good, I’m afraid.”
“Couldn’t have that.” He drew her into his arms and kissed her with her such longing that she would have sunk to the floor if he hadn’t held her so closely. “I’ll see you Thursday at the Gilmans’.”
“All right.” She clung to him a moment longer, savoring his strength and his warmth. If only such moments might last forever. At last she released him. “Good night, Ethan.”
She went inside and stood at the parlor window watching his retreat. At the bottom of the steps he paused, one hand on the railing. Then he sank onto the steps, his shoulders heaving.
TWENTY-NINE
Thanksgiving morning dawned cold and damp. At first light, Sophie woke to the smells of frying bacon and coffee. Through the rain-smeared window, she watched veils of gray clouds drifting across the valley. Not the best day for a drive to the Gilmans’ farm.
She dressed and went down to the kitchen to find Lucy at the stove in her stocking feet, a white apron protecting her Sunday dress.
“Good morning, Sophie.” Lucy smiled as she poured coffee into a thick white mug. “Bacon and eggs?”
“Please.” Sophie slid into her chair and took a sip of the scalding, bitter brew before adding sugar and a generous splash of cream. She helped herself to a biscuit from the basket on the table and reached for the butter plate.
Lucy slid a couple of eggs onto Sophie’s plate. “There you go.” She served her own plate and sat down. “Is Flora awake?”
Just then Flora Burke hobbled into the kitchen, her round face contorted with pain. She fell heavily into her chair and motioned for coffee.
Lucy poured. “What’s the matter, Flora? Don’t you feel well?”
“Something’s wrong with my knee.” Flora shifted sideways in her chair and lifted her skirts. “Look at it. It’s all swole up, and it feels like there’s a sack of water under my skin. It hurts to walk.”
Lucy frowned. “Have you seen Dr. Spencer?”
“Certainly not.” Flora smoothed her skirts and took a sip of coffee. “I’m not about to show that man my knees.”
“I’m sure he’s seen plenty of ladies’ knees, Flora.”
“Well, he ain’t seein’ mine.” She took a deep breath and frowned. “I don’t see how I can get to the church this morning. I could barely walk down the stairs just now.”
Sophie finished her eggs and stood. “Flora, you can’t suffer in silence. If you won’t see the doctor, I’ll ask Gillie to come here.”
“Would you?” Flora shifted in her chair. “I sure would like something to make the pain go away.”
Sophie gathered her coat, hat, and gloves and headed for the door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Don’t forget, church starts at eleven o’clock,” Lucy said. “I’m sure it’ll be packed today, and I want to get there early so I can sit down front and hear the preacher.”
“So you can look at him, you mean,” Flora said. “Can’t blame you, though. Robbie Whiting is cute as a button.”
“And married.” Lucy arched her brows. “I’m surprised at you, Flora.�
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Flora shrugged, then winced and grabbed her bad knee.
Sophie took an umbrella from the stand beside the door. Leaving the Verandah, she hurried along the rain-slicked boardwalk toward Gillie’s tidy cottage, which sat behind the doctor’s office.
She knocked and Gillie appeared, barefoot despite the chilly morning and still in her nightdress. The light coming through the window fell onto her flaxen hair, giving her the ethereal look of an angel. Her cheeks were pink, but Sophie noticed faint shadows beneath her eyes.
“Sophie! Come in out of this rain.” Gillie ushered Sophie into a small parlor ajumble with books, papers, and medical journals. A large bouquet of purple asters sat atop the tiny kitchen table. Gillie pushed her hair off her face. “What brings you out in this weather?”
Sophie folded her umbrella and shook the rain from her hair. “I’ve come about Flora Burke, over at the Verandah. Something’s wrong with her knee and she refuses to see Dr. Spencer.”
“I’ll get dressed and see to her. I won’t be long.” Gillie disappeared into a small bedroom off the parlor, leaving the door open. “Have a seat, if you can find room.”
Sophie perched on the edge of the floral settee and paged through a well-thumbed copy of Scribner’s Magazine until Gillie appeared wearing a dark-blue dress with tight leg-o’-mutton sleeves trimmed in white lace.
Sophie looked up from the article she was reading. “Pretty fancy dress for making a house call.”
“I won’t have time to change before going home. Mother expected me last night, but the little Gibbons girl is sick, and I stayed with them until she felt better.”
Gillie stood before her small mirror to pin her hat into place.
“Nothing serious, I hope,” Sophie said.
“I don’t think so. Mrs. Gibbons was worried that she might be coming down with croup, but luckily it was nothing more than a bad cold.” Gillie picked up her medical bag. “Peppermint tea and a few drops of honey was all she needed. Now, let’s go see what’s ailing Flora.”
They returned to the hotel. Flora had moved to the settee in the parlor, her swollen knee propped up on pillows. Lucy was in the kitchen, washing the breakfast dishes.