The Rebel Wife

by Polites, Taylor M

  “Oh,” I say, my eyes on his pocket. “That is good to know.”

  The papers are ungainly in my lap. It’s a miracle they haven’t spilled onto the carriage floor or out onto the street. “These are all the things in Eli’s office. There wasn’t any package. I asked several times, but nothing.”

  He turns back to look at the papers and nods. “Thank you for collecting them.”

  “Do you really think there ever was a package? Eli was sick. He might not have had the strength to put it together.”

  He shrugs. We are along the edge of the cemetery. The sun is burning down on the headstones. Eli’s grave is unmarked but for the mound of earth. The dirt has dried from its fresh red color to the shade of brick.

  “As far as I can tell, that only means the money is hidden away still,” he says.

  “You won’t give up on it, will you?”

  Simon laughs and turns his head back to me, showing large white teeth. “I guess not. And I do appreciate your directness.” He turns the carriage up the lane behind the house. The iron wheels crunch on the gravel.

  “You’re as bad as Rachel, with her charms. Neither of you will give up on your wild ideas,” I say.

  He pulls at the horse’s reins. We are already home. The stable doors are open. This heat is absolutely withering.

  Simon dismounts at a jump and comes to hand me down. “We are both single-minded people.” He grins at me, taking my hand like a dancing master.

  I take the armful of papers. They shift against me as I step down, almost spilling out of my arm.

  Emma is coming from the kitchen. She must have heard the carriage. She rushes to us, twice looking back at the house. Simon turns to her, breaking my gaze.

  “Miss Gus, there are ladies to see you,” she whispers. “They’ve been here a while. I told them you were indisposed. I didn’t want to say you had gone out. But they won’t leave.”

  “My Lord, Emma, who is it?” What a scandal that would be. What are they doing here? Buck knew we were at the mill. Maybe the whole town already knows.

  “Miss Bama, and she brought a bunch of ladies with her.” Emma’s eyes are wide. She looks nervously back at the house. She wipes the sweat off her forehead with her apron.

  Simon frowns at me and looks at the papers.

  “Tell them I’ll be down shortly. That I’ve—I’ve recovered. I’ll go up the back stairs.” Emma nods and rushes back to the house. Simon steps toward me as if he will follow me.

  “I’ll leave the papers in Eli’s office for you. Don’t be too conspicuous. You know how the servants are.” I smile at him.

  He stops short, watching me walk away.

  Take a breath, Gus.

  The doors glide into their pockets. Five women sit in the front parlor fanning themselves, all of them in black. My God, they can’t all be in mourning. That’s six of us dressed like crows. Next time they’ll come wearing mourning masks, like Roman women, lined up bearing the faces of their dead husbands or fathers or brothers.

  “Gus,” Bama cries out. She stands, waving her fan and leaning on an umbrella. “You’re feeling better? Normally, I wouldn’t wait, but I’ve brought you a full delegation, as you see.” She laughs hoarsely and slaps her fan shut, using it to point at the dour women around her.

  “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.” Only Bama has risen. The others remain seated. Beth Mastin. Her mother. Jennie Heyney. Bama’s niece Emily Whitcomb. And Bama. “I came down as quickly as I could. You know how slow maids can be. I didn’t even know you were here until a little bit ago.”

  They exchange glances. Bama is still standing.

  “Well, you came down in good time,” she says. “We were all starting to talk about you in your own parlor. And you should always be present when ladies talk about you in your house.” She laughs again and practically falls back into her seat, pleased with her joke.

  “You’ve all had tea? I can call for some more?” The pitcher sits sweating but empty. Their glasses are scattered around the room.

  “Enough, Gus. Sit down.”

  Bama is used to being obeyed. I take the seat she indicates.

  “We didn’t come here to be waited on. We came to see how you’re getting on.”

  “Of course. It is very kind of you all to come.”

  “Nonsense,” Bama shouts out. “We’re all old friends here. Half of us are kin in one way or another.”

  “You look very fine, Gus. So rosy and healthy,” Jennie says.

  I touch my cheek. It is warm in here. They can’t know I’ve been to the mill, but I feel as if it is on my face. Jennie looks so sad and thin. Her blond hair is pulled back from her face. Her bonnet sits in her lap. We were such good friends in Huntsville.

  “We were just saying how the house is so changed,” says Mrs. Mastin. Why isn’t she in Chattanooga? “On the inside. It still looks like the old place from the street. But very changed inside.”

  “Yes, Mr. Branson insisted on the latest style. We both did.”

  “Mr. Branson insisted on a lot of things, I guess, but they can be undone,” Emily says, smiling. Her face is a ragged canvas ravaged by smallpox.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” Mrs. Mastin says. “Living in someone else’s house. I couldn’t do it. Not someone I knew, anyway.”

  Bama hacks in derision. “Bah, Ida, you rent your house from some Yankees. You know them, don’t you?”

  Mrs. Mastin blushes crimson. “I didn’t take their home from them, Bama.”

  “I know what you mean about servants, Gus,” says Beth. “It’s so hard to find just one good help anymore.”

  “They were bad enough before the war,” her mother chimes in. “Now you have to pay them ridiculous wages, and if you so much as lay a finger on them, they go running to the Freedmen’s Bureau. They used to, at least.”

  Beth blushes. “Don’t mind her, Gus, she doesn’t mean any offense.”

  “No need to dwell on all that,” Bama interjects. “The world is being set right again. We won’t see any more darky soldiers marching on the square. Our men are seeing to that.”

  “That’s right,” says Mrs. Mastin. “The Democrats are back. And we have your cousin to thank. He is our most valiant soldier. He always was.”

  “Old Judge does what he sees needs being done. Bless the Lord for him,” Bama says, nodding, her eyes closed.

  “Yes, Judge is a blessing,” I say. “I didn’t realize how important he has become.”

  “Listen to you, Gus. You’d think you were in different families. He has never lost his importance. He has led us through some dark times. I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it someday.”

  “I’ll be sure to ask him.”

  “You can’t blame Gus, Auntie,” Emily says, smiling sweetly. She’s wearing powder that has settled into the scars, leaving strange patterns on her skin. “Shut away here for so long with no society. It must feel like you’ve come alive again, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh, hush, Emily.” Bama is so gruff with her. “We’re not out of the woods yet. You know there’s word that the party will send him to the convention this fall. Your bloodlines go back far, Gus, and the men have always distinguished themselves.”

  Emily’s face goes sour, and she makes a considered study of the mantelpiece.

  “What convention?” asks Jennie.

  “The state convention, you silly girl.” Bama sighs. “Don’t you listen? The Democrats have the state again, and they’re going to throw out that nigger constitution and write a new one.”

  “Is the old one no good?”

  Bama rolls her eyes. She flips her fan open with a crack and waves it vigorously in front of her. “You girls. In my youth, it was an embarrassment not to be au courant with the events of the day.”

  We sit looking at our hands. Jennie shakes her head as if throwing her thought away, then opens her mouth again. “Isn’t the heat terrible? When will it end?”

  The ladies all nod agreement.

  �
��Ah, yes,” Bama intones. “When in doubt, back to the weather.”

  “Did you hear Mary Perkerson died?” says Mrs. Mastin. “They say she sweated herself to death in her own bed.”

  That woman at the mill. My Lord. Is it just the heat?

  “But Ma,” Beth says, “she’s been dying for years!”

  “She wasn’t a well woman. No, she was never well. The weak go first. We should be heading off to the mountains soon, Beth.”

  “You should come to Monte Sano,” Bama says. She waves her fan at them. “I’m going to see my cousin Virginia Clay for a week, and then we’re all going up to Viduta. She was a Tunstall, you know. Emily will be with me.” Bama’s mouth curls down. She doesn’t look at her niece.

  “We always go to Chattanooga,” Mrs. Mastin replies. “With this heat and everyone sick, we’re likely to go sooner rather than later. I never liked Viduta much. There’s nothing there.”

  “Gus is coming up with me, too, aren’t you, dear?”

  Mrs. Mastin’s look changes from dour to intrigued. Bama certainly is going all out for me.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say. Emily frowns and returns to her consideration of the mantel. “I’m so looking forward to it.”

  Bama’s charm is working. Mrs. Mastin sits higher in her chair and smiles down her nose at me approvingly.

  “If you are looking to escape the heat, Jennie, you can join us, too.” Bama gives Jennie a wide-open smile, showing her missing teeth again. “You won’t be able to flirt with the young men like Emily and Gus, but there’s as much fun in watching, isn’t there?”

  Emily’s mouth goes hard, and she cuts her eyes at me quickly.

  Jennie blushes and tugs at the ribbons on her bonnet. “Oh, Miss Bama.” She sounds scandalized. “I couldn’t, but thank you.”

  “Why on earth couldn’t you? That man of yours keeping you at home?”

  Jennie keeps her eyes in her lap. “Charlie does work so hard. And I haven’t been able to find any good help.” She turns a deeper shade of scarlet.

  Charlie must not make very much at the railroad. Maids are the easiest thing to find. I don’t think Jennie would have married Charlie if her pa hadn’t died.

  “You won’t be missing a thing, Jennie,” I say. “I doubt there will be so many men up at Viduta as Bama likes to think.” What else can I say to her? Poor thing, blushing herself to tears.

  “Easier prey here in Albion, isn’t there, Gus?” Emily smiles sweetly again.

  “Oh, ho!” Bama exclaims, pounding her umbrella against the floor. “Now we’re on to something. Do you have a particular someone on your mind, Gus?”

  The women are hushed, watching me. Emily looks as if she smells blood.

  “Not at all, Bama. I have just lost my husband.” I look at my hands. When will this ordeal be over?

  “The choice is yours. You could have your pick of men. But enjoy your freedom while you can.” Bama gives an exaggerated nod. “I’ve been waiting to see when Buck Heppert will come snooping around your door. He’s sure to!”

  “He’s my cousin, Bama. I am sure he will call on me.”

  “Besides, Auntie, Buck Heppert is looking for an heiress.” Emily smiles at me with narrow eyes.

  “Money is money, however you get it, right, Gus?” Bama grins at me.

  “As long as you really have it. People are so rarely what they appear to be.” Emily’s lips stretch wider, pulling back to reveal her teeth.

  What has she heard? Word must be going around.

  I look her in the eye. “I think you’re right about that, Emily.”

  “We just came from Mrs. Stephens, Gus. You wouldn’t believe the gossip we heard there.” Emily smiles again. The banker’s wife. Of course.

  “Yes, Gus,” Beth says. “We heard there’s a whole group of Negroes heading off to Kansas.”

  “Kansas? Lot of good that will do them. They might as well emigrate to China!” Bama shouts.

  So everyone knows about that, too. “Is it a big group, Beth?”

  “Mrs. Stephens talked like it was, didn’t she, Ma?” Beth nods at Mrs. Mastin, and the old woman shakes her head, looking at Bama.

  “Big enough for people to talk about,” Mrs. Mastin says. “Which is too big. Somebody’s got to put a stop to this nonsense, or there won’t be any darkies left!”

  “Did she say when they are leaving?” I ask.

  “You’re very curious about all this,” Mrs. Mastin snaps. “Are you planning a trip to Kansas? No, she didn’t know when they were leaving. She said one of her servants brought home a broadsheet they found at the depot. She confiscated it at once. It said to contact a Simon. You have a man here named Simon, don’t you? A rabble-rouser, isn’t he?”

  My face turns hot. They are all such painful gossips. “Mr. Branson used to have a man named Simon, but he’s been gone years now. And we have so many servants, it’s hard to keep their names straight. I’m sure you remember what it was like—I mean before the war for you, of course.” Let her choke on that.

  She scowls and turns to Bama, huffing in her chair. “There are certainly not that many servants in this house, and I’m sure that Simon is still here!” She sounds like she’s cawing.

  Bama almost grins at her anger. “That’s enough, ladies,” she says. “I think we should be moving on. We’ll be back, Gus. Is this a good time for you to receive callers? We’ll make it a regular stop.”

  “Yes, Gus, we’ll come back,” Jennie says. She rises and walks over to me, taking my hands and giving me a kiss on the cheek. “I’m so glad to see you again.”

  “Thank you, Jennie. I’m glad to see you, too.”

  “Don’t smother the woman with kisses,” Bama says, pushing Jennie aside and giving me a kiss of her own. Beth comes up next and hugs me while her mother and Emily stand behind her. They nod and turn to the door.

  “You remember what I said about letting ladies talk about you in your parlor,” Bama says. “We will be back!” She laughs again and shoos the other women with her fan until they have all filed outside.

  I hope they don’t come back. It would be far better if they stayed away. Spreading gossip. Poor Jennie. She didn’t marry well.

  Emma comes into the hall. “Are they gone?”

  “Yes, thank the Lord.”

  “They sure are impatient ladies.” She shrugs and shakes her head.

  “More than that, I think. Next time I’ll keep the headache.”

  Emma smiles. “Next time I’ll get a headache, too.”

  We both laugh.

  Twelve

  SWEAT COVERS ME AND soaks my nightdress. The room is dark but for the moon. The only sound is the tick of the mantel clock. The windows are wide open. There is not a breath of air to rustle the leaves in the trees outside. Dreams keep me waking. They give me a panic that takes hold of my limbs, and I cannot fight it.

  I dream that I am in the mill, the machines pounding and roaring around me. The noise is deafening, and I cry out, but I cannot hear myself over the mad chorus. People rush around me. I am lying down, stretched out on the mill floor, and I try to speak, but no sound comes out. I search the faces around me. I search the dark rafters that are dressed in cotton cobwebs. When I try to speak, the taste of blood fills my mouth.

  Forget the dream. Forget that woman at the mill. Just like Eli. Those eyes were just like Eli’s. But I cannot forget the money. Could Simon be right? Is there money hidden somewhere in this house? Or at the mill? Where has he searched? He said everywhere. He spent all afternoon in the carriage house with John.

  I pull my wrap over my shoulders. The heat is too much. The straw mats on the floor feel hot under the soles of my feet. The bedroom door creaks as I open it. Down the stairs, there is only darkness and quiet. Across the hall at Eli’s door, the handle is newly cleaned and polished with water and saleratus. The handle turns, but the door will not give. Locked still.

  My feet scrape on the woven matting. Moonlight fills my room. On the side table, the dark blue
bottle sits, almost black against the ghostly white marble, so that it seems like it is floating. I grasp it. The glass feels cool against my palm.

  Three small drops fall into a glass of water. They seem to glow as they dissipate in ribbons. I take a breath and wipe the sweat off my mouth. My hands tremble. The water is warm, with a bitter taste. I gulp at it until the glass is empty.

  The moon shines clear and full in Henry’s room. He is washed in pale rays that make him look like marble, like the cool white marble of my bedside table. His breathing is soft and even. He lies on his back, his eyes shut tight. His small lips are pursed. They move slightly, not like a kiss, so much, but like he is talking without opening his mouth.

  The numbness is taking hold. It creeps up on me. I reach my hands out and touch the wall to guide myself half blind back to my bed.

  On top of the counterpane, still in my wrap, I feel like I am drifting away. The feeling is gentle. I lie wrapped in its folds. I abandon myself to it, not fighting the waves as they carry me off.

  Buck standing there at the mill waiting for me. Did Judge send him to watch me? He must have. I don’t know what I feel for him. I want to hate him. But that summer after the war. My God, that summer seemed like forever. I never wanted it to end. I wanted it to go on and on because of Buck. He was so handsome. You want to believe someone that handsome. And the sadness in him. You want to heal him, though you can’t see his wounds. If only I could have felt them, like his bullet scars, then I could have fixed him. No, I don’t think anyone could fix him or ever can.

  Buck was nothing to me when he first came back to Albion in February—before the war had ended. He wasn’t well. He had been wounded at Franklin and stayed at the hospital until he was moved to convalesce with a family. He was not at the Battle of Nashville. Hill had fought alone, without Buck. Maybe if Buck had been there, Hill would have come back to us.

  After Buck had healed enough to walk, he said he went to Pond Spring, where the Union forces paroled him. They even let him keep his pistols. Then he returned to Albion. He told us of Hill’s death on the battlefield south of Nashville. We hadn’t had any word from Hill for weeks. Buck heard the story from another soldier in their company, a man from Marengo County. He gave Buck the small morocco-bound book of the Gospels that Hill carried with him, and Buck gave it to Mama. She kept asking why he didn’t get a lock of Hill’s hair. Mama asked for the soldier’s name. Buck couldn’t remember it for certain. Mama wanted to write him a letter to thank him, and to ask for the soldier’s story of Hill’s death. What were his last moments? Were they painful? Did he say anything? Did the soldier think Hill had been a good Christian—had he been saved?