by Natalie Dean
Chapter 2
September 1869
Molly O’Hara studied her reflection in the mirror. Her hair, no longer in braids and no longer loose upon her shoulders, was wound around her head in a rich red coil, with a tendril here and there resisting the confines of the combs that held it in place. She was dressed in mourning, as was the entire household, but that wasn’t anything new. They’d been a household in mourning for years. First when they learned that Mr. Will had been killed at Spotsylvania in May 1864, and then, a month later, when they learned that Mr. James had been captured at Cold Harbor and had been sent to Andersonville Prison.
“I expect most of the county will attend the funeral,” Molly said to Mrs. Rollings. “Mr. Turner was held in high regard.”
Mrs. Rollings signed. “A funeral is a sad thing when there’s no family to speak of left to mourn. Oh, I’m sorry, child, and you just burying your poor mother not six months ago. It’s a bad business this war, and just because one side surrenders, it doesn’t mean it’s over with. We’ll be fighting this one when I’m singing with the angels, and you’re an old lady like me.”
“I sometimes feel that Mother and Mr. Turner died awhile ago,” Molly confided. She had taken on the responsibilities of her mother in the household years before and, despite her age, she was now the housekeeper. Not that there was much to do now; there was no entertaining or social calling; menus had been simple enough to plan, as Mr. Turner didn’t seem to care what he ate. Mr. Turner had lived in near-seclusion since he’d lost his sons, regarding both of them as dead because Andersonville was notorious for the death and disease that finished off the Yankee prisoners who were sent there.
Mrs. Rollings nodded soberly. “This feels like a place of the dead. I suppose we’ll know what’s to become of us when Mr. Falls comes to read the will. But there’s only a couple of second cousins left. I suppose Mr. Turner left the plantation to them. I don’t know how they’d feel, being as they’re in Virginia and we seceded from the state.” She sighed again. “It’s all been a lot of fuss and bother, if you ask me. War and states leaving the Union and leaving the state, and for what? A whole lot of dead young men who’ll never marry and have babies, that’s what it means. And a whole lot more girls with no one to marry. A smart girl would leave and find herself a husband out West; I hear there’s lots of young men out there,” she said meaningfully.
The household was concerned about what was to become of them, but Mrs. Rollings was concerned about Molly as well; she’d been like a mother to her after Molly’s own mother had taken to her bed following the death of Liam O’Hara. But Molly had already made her plans. She remembered what Mr. James had said back in 1862 when she was just a child, when he spoke of her father. He wants you to better yourself.
That wasn’t going to happen in Reddington, West Virginia. The war was over, but nothing was as it had been before the fighting started. Molly didn’t pay much attention to the political news, but she knew that Virginia and West Virginia were squabbling over matters that seemed to matter very little when so many were dead.
Mr. Falls requested that she join him in the study before the reading of the will. Molly left instructions for refreshments to be brought; Mr. Falls had come from Alexandria, and he was not a young man. Refreshments were what Mr. Turner would have ordered, and she tried to follow his example as she ran the plantation, even though he was no longer there.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Falls. I hope that your journey was not too unpleasant.”
“The weather was fine,” he replied. “I suppose that things are as usual here?”
“As usual.”
Mr. Falls nodded. He knew that the absence of the Turner twins had forever transformed the Turner Plantation and nothing could change that. Even if the plantation were left to one or other of the Turner second cousins, it would take on their intentions. They might have their own servants; possibly everyone would be out of a job. Molly hoped that Mr. Turner had left bequests for the older servants; he was a kind employer, and he had been served well by his employees.
Lizbeth, the maid, came in bearing a tray with a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches that Mrs. Rollings had prepared, along with a bowl of tart apples from the orchard. Molly poured a cup for Mr. Falls. “Cream and sugar?”
“Just cream, thank you, Miss O’Hara.”
She looked at him in surprise. Although it was customary for the housekeeper of a residence to be addressed by a title, he had always called her Molly. Partly because of her youth and partly, she suspected, because he still thought of her as a child, even though she’d donned hoop skirts and put up her hair five years ago when she had replaced her invalid mother as the plantation housekeeper. She had grown up in a hurry, but so had other children her age. The war had stolen childhood from the young.
She served him his tea. “Won’t you take a cup with me?” he asked.
She frowned in bewilderment. Mr. Turner had been a most generous employer, but he had not invited his servants to take refreshments with the lawyer who handled the family business.
She was uncertain what to do, reluctant to seem rude and yet hesitant to assume a place that was not hers.
Mr. Falls solved the matter. “Please, Miss O’Hara,” he said. “There are some matters I wish to go over with you before the reading of the will, and I would prefer it if you would be at your ease.”
She sat down, but on the edge of the chair, the breadth of her skirts casting a black wave across the wood.
“As you know, Mr. Turner was grief stricken by losing his sons as he did, and by losing them to opposite sides in this dreadful war. He regretted the death of your father and your mother’s long illness. He admired you for your courage.” Mr. Falls sipped his tea. “The plantation, because it used hired men—and women, of course—rather than slaves—has continued to be profitable, as wages are nothing new. I believe that you have taken over the task of paying out the wages.”
“Mr. Styles, the plantation steward, is of immense help. He was wounded at Second Manassas and was unable to continue fighting. He returned to Turner Plantation and has hired the men who work the fields. He prefers to hire soldiers who fought in the war, and it has proven to be a smart practice. They work very hard, and Mr. Turner paid a fair wage. I do pay their wages from the accounts, but the business of the farm is handled by Mr. Styles.”
“You trust him?”
“Implicitly.”
“What of the rest of the household staff?”
“Some of the women stayed on during the war and remain here. We lost several of the maids during the war; one went to be with her husband, who fought on the Confederate side. Another passed away when everyone seemed to fall ill last spring. We don’t need as much of a household now, of course, although that may change if the plantation is inherited by one of Mr. Turner’s kinfolks.”
Mr. Falls appeared not to have heard her comment, as he was perusing the sheaf of papers he had brought with him.
“Mr. Falls . . . I’ve wondered . . . Mr. Will’s body was sent home so that he could be buried here. Is there any way of finding out where Mr. James was buried? I am sure that Mr. Turner would have wanted his sons to be buried on Turner Plantation.”
“As we do not have a record of death for James Turner, I am unable to answer your question, Miss O’Hara.”
“But surely there must be some office of the government which records the names of the soldiers who have died. We know that he was sent to Andersonville Prison.”
“Andersonville Prison did not record the death of Captain James Turner.” The lawyer paused as if he were waiting for her to respond.
She supposed that there was too much chaos at the end of the war; perhaps the prisoner of war camp was in upheaval at the time that General Sherman was making his presence known in Georgia. But how could they find out for sure?
“Miss O’Hara, you are perhaps wondering why I asked to meet with you privately before the reading of the will. I believe that you are unacquainted
with the contents of the will?”
“Yes, sir. I know that Mr. Turner revised it shortly before he died; you were one of the witnesses, as was your clerk.”
“Did you not think it odd that Mr. Turner did not have someone familiar to witness the signing?”
“I didn’t give it any thought, sir. There was no reason to. Mr. Turner would have naturally revised his will after Mr. Will died in battle and after Mr. James was taken prisoner. I assumed that one of the second cousins over in Loudon County would inherit.”
“That would have been the logical assumption. But John Turner did not make the decision one might think he would have when he revised his will. Oh, make no mistake, he was in his right mind. I knew John Turner from when we were both young men at William and Mary, and he was as astute and sound of mind near the end of his life as he had been as a student.”
Mr. Falls peered at her from over the rim of his spectacles. “He spoke most highly of you and how you had adapted to your responsibilities. You were still a young girl when you took over the duties of housekeeper. Forgive me; you are still a young girl. One forgets that because of your competence.”
Molly didn’t know what to say. It was a compliment, but there seemed to be much that Mr. Falls wasn’t saying.
“Miss O’Hara, I shall now come to the point of our meeting. Mr. Turner left Turner Plantation to you on two conditions: that you endeavor to find out what happened to his son, and that you also find out whether he is dead or alive. If he is dead, you are charged with bringing his body back to the plantation; Mr. Turner wants this to be his final resting place. If he is alive…,” Mr. Falls re-arranged the papers in front of him. “If he is alive, then James Turner will have the option of sharing the running of the plantation with you, retaining Mr. Styles as steward if he is indeed as competent as you have said; Mr. Turner concurred with your assessment of him. If James Turner is alive and for some reason does not want to return to Reddington, then you will be recognized as the owner of the plantation, and you will send a monthly sum, based upon the profits of the harvest and the expenses required to raise a crop, to Mr. James Turner.”
“If Mr. James is alive, sir, the plantation is his, not mine!”
“Those are not the terms of the will. You and James would have to work those details out; the intention of the will is clear.”
“Mr. Falls, it’s not for me to own Turner Plantation!” Molly was aghast; she had no intention of staying here and now, to have the responsibility of the maintenance of the property placed upon her when she had already set the process of her departure in motion, was overwhelming.
“As I have said, that is for you and James Turner, should you find him. But Mr. Turner was quite specific on that point; you must make every effort to discover whether he is dead or alive. For some reason, Mr. Turner seemed to think that you would accommodate this request.”
Molly did not meet the lawyer’s shrewd gaze. How had Mr. Turner known of her childhood attachment to his dashing, handsome son? Surely, he had not known; it had been a private thing, a secret that she kept within her heart and shared with no one but God in her prayers. Even now, she prayed for him; for the soul of James Turner who may have perished at Andersonville Prison, and for the life of the man in Texas that she had agreed to marry.
“How am I expected to discover whether he is alive or dead if the government does not know?”
“Mr. Turner felt that you are a resourceful young woman. He also provided the means for you to travel in order to search for James Turner. No doubt you recall the $500 that your father received for serving as a proxy for a wealthy man who chose not to serve.”
Molly had wondered how she could bring up the matter of the $500 bounty that Mr. Turner had overseen for her. She was relieved that Mr. Falls had introduced the subject.
“Mr. Turner set up the account for you at the Reddington Bank. You have a nice little sum to withdraw if you so choose. But Mr. Turner chose to match the original amount and invest it. He invested wisely and he was pleased to note that the original amount has increased handsomely, enough to allow you to travel in comfort so that you may follow through on his request. Miss O’Hara, I cannot press upon you enough how much this meant to John Turner. He was very troubled at the thought that his beloved son might be alive and unwilling to come home, or dead and buried away from home. I am not a man given to foolish superstitions, Miss O’Hara, but I daresay that John Turner’s soul will not rest until the mystery of his son has been resolved, and he was counting upon you to do so. Will you accept?”
Chapter 3
April 1870
Having money made it possible to pay for the train fare to take her across the country and then for the stagecoach to take her from the train station to Texas, but no amount of money concealed in her reticule or in her baggage could have made either conveyance comfortable. At first, she thought the train marvelously exciting, but it didn’t take long before she was tired of the grime and the noise that removed any mystique from the experience. But by the time she had ridden in the stagecoach, she was longing for the train again. The stagecoach drivers were competent, the horses were swift, and her fellow passengers were congenial, but they were crammed inside so tightly that there was almost no space for movement.
It was with a profound sense of relief and even anticipation that Molly disembarked from the stagecoach. Her trunks had been unloaded and were waiting for her. The other passengers were going on further; the women hugged her and wished her well, the gentlemen looked worried.
“This man . . . you’re sure he’s coming for you?”
“I sent a wire to let him know when I’d be arriving,” she answered. Having the funds to send a telegram was another novelty that resulted from the unexpected bequest in the Turner will. It had taken several months to arrange matters at the plantation so that Mr. Styles and Mrs. Rollings could manage the plantation, and then winter came. She had not told anyone about answering the advertisement to be a mail-order bride, and Mr. Falls thought that she was meeting someone who had known James Turner in Andersonville. He was uneasy at the thought of a young woman traveling alone, but Molly pointed out that if she were to meet the terms of Mr. Turner’s will, she could not stay comfortably at home. She was not ready to share her intention to marry this unknown James Turner, which meant that she was obliged to lie. She tried to assuage her sense of wrongdoing by telling herself that she was actually doing what Mr. Turner wanted her to do: she was going to find James Turner. She had not yet decided what she would do if the James Turner who showed up to be her husband was not the man she once knew; that was one of the potential dilemmas that she shunted off to one side of her mind as she stood under the wooden shelter where the stagecoach let off its passengers.
She received curious glances as people went by. Molly held her head up high and hoped that she didn’t look as disheveled as she felt. She had a wardrobe of new clothes in her baggage, but she’d found it wiser to travel in garb that was more comfortable, if less fashionable. As they traveled west, Molly noticed the landscape passing by outside the stagecoach window. She had seen as she crossed the vastness of the plains, how the contours changed and the colors altered, green giving way to browns and beiges and tans that were completely unlike what she was accustomed to at home. Standing alone now, a stranger in a town that she did not know, in a region that looked to her like a foreign country, she suddenly noticed a solitary man standing across the street, watching her. He was lean, with a dusty-brimmed Western hat shielding him from the sun.
Molly’s heart sank with disappointment. This man was dressed in the nondescript attire of a workman. A plain blue shirt and coarse blue trousers, a red bandana around his neck the only break in a monotonous stretch of color that resembled nothing of the natty dress and dapper style of Mr. James, who had always attired himself in the height of fashion and with as much care, his brother had told him, as if he were out to rival the belles of Reddington.
The man, noticing her scrutiny, beg
an to cross the street. His boots kicked up dust as he trod the hard earth that seemed to serve as pavement. As he approached, Molly’s throat constricted, and she felt a sense of dread. This wasn’t Mr. James, it was Mr. Will. But Mr. Will was dead; she’d seen his coffin placed in the ground in the Turner burial plot on the plantation.
The man stood across from her and lifted his hat. “Miss O’Hara? I’m Jim Turner.”
The voice. It sounded like the Turner twins, but with the soft drawl of their Virginia home overlain with a different surface of speech that she couldn’t place. Mute, she nodded and held out her hand.
He eyed the small hand, with the dainty white gloves, skeptically, and looked at his own palm. “I’d best not,” he said. “I left work to come and didn’t take the time to fancy up.”
“That’s quite all right,” she replied, removing her hand.
“I’ve got the preacher waiting at the ranch,” he told her. “If you’re still of mind to be married, that’s where we’re headed now .”
“I—I’m of a mind,” she said, even as her thoughts railed against the option. What was she destined to encounter, married to this man who seemed to be a compromise between the ghost of Mr. Will and an imitation of Mr. James? Mr. James had not had taut, tanned skin bronzed by outdoor hours in a relentless sun. His black hair had never been so carelessly combed and tousled as if he didn’t own a mirror and didn’t particularly care how it looked. Nor had his blue eyes been so searing and devoid of the ever-present spark of humor that lit up his gaze as if there were candles within his irises.
“Good. My wagon’s over there.”
He led the way to the wagon, where an impatient horse resentful of being hitched to a post tossed its head as if challenging the reason why he had been forced to remain on the sidelines. Mr. James lifted her up into the wagon seat as if she were weightless. Or as if she were a sack of something he’d purchased at the store, she thought, and nothing so personal as a bride.