by Beth Trissel
“The age we’re living in now, while Queen Victoria reigns in England, which lasted a long time, by the way.”
“Fine by me. Long live the queen.” He waved a hand at her. “Is Victoria the reason you are dressed as you are?”
“I expect so. And I might be a fashion plate, but at least my habit fits the era. Well, sort of,” she amended. “I’m a bit of an odd duck, as my grandmother says.”
“But elegant. None more so around here than you, dear lady.”
“Your assurance is deeply flattering, sir. If you’re gonna be odd, do it with flair. That’s my motto.” She elicited a chuckle from him.
And she was high fashion. The tailored jacket, worn over the corset and chemise, sported wide cuffed sleeves and buttoned up the front with white bands bordering each side of the bodice. Short skirting added elegance at her waistline. A white collar embellished her throat and white cuffs fastened at her wrists beneath the cuffs.
The skirt wasn’t cut as full as her formal gown, though it was longer. She’d ditched her petticoats and wore sleek leather pants beneath the skirt, and black riding boots.
“That hat is really something.” He traced his finger over the iridescent green feather on one side of the turned-up brim. Black velvet bows decorated the other side. Made of black felt, her slouched hat formed a point at her forehead.
He dropped his gaze to meet her eyes. “You are too fancy to do more than pose, sweetheart, might mess yourself up.”
“Don’t even go there,” she flung back. “This outfit may have been intended for picture taking, but I can ride in it.”
“Useful, as that’s our aim. However, I have inquired and the Wengers do not have a ladies’ side saddle.” He gave an apologetic shrug.
“I expected as much.” She also suspected he’d known that before asking the family. “I can ride astride. There’s a slit in the front of my skirt, concealed by a fold. Grandmother had it added so I can look the part but ride more safely. Side saddles are dangerous.”
He lifted a cautioning hand. “That’s as may be, but you will scandalize the neighbors.”
“I’m already well on my way to shocking, aren’t I?”
“You will be viewed as a perfect hoyden riding astride, Evie.”
An impatient huff escaped her. “Isn’t it strange how people back home—in the future, I mean—think I’m a perfect lady in this attire, even riding astride? They’re totally wowed by the outfit. Besides, it’s like being in a play. No one expects me to get every prop correct.”
He squinted at her as if attempting to work out a foreign concept. “You act the part for them?”
“Yes. Otherwise I would be riding in blue jeans.” At the arch in his brow, she added, “A sturdy cotton twill fabric called denim is used for jeans—fitted trousers. Trust me, you would look awesome in a pair.”
For a jaw-dropping moment, he simply stared at her. “You wear trousers?”
“Some of the time.”
Lines deepened on his forehead, and he eyed her incredulously. He bent toward her, his lips parted to speak, vacillated, and then tried again. “The future must be a vastly different place than this realm.”
“Yes, but I have a pair of leather pants on now beneath my habit. I think women did that historically, though—”
He stopped her with fingers pressed to her lips. “Again, you speak of history. Live now, Evie.”
“Breakfast, Jack!” a woman called from below.
“Coming!” Dropping his hand from her mouth, he extended his arm with a gentlemanly flourish. “Shall we proceed?”
She planted a hand on her hip. “Have we agreed I am riding astride?”
He smiled ruefully. “I think I cannot dissuade you.”
“You’ve got that right.” She linked her arm with his. “A pity we aren’t riding to hounds with me dressed for it.”
“Do you go fox hunting in your other life?”
“Heavens no. I was only joking.” She lifted her head. “But I bet I could leap walls and fences on my mare.”
“Or break your neck in the effort.”
“Or that,” she allowed.
Feeling regal with her arm in his, she lifted a length of the skirts with her free hand, so she didn’t stumble as they descended the steps. She was glad he wasn’t escorting her to the privy. He’d done that earlier this morning with her wrapped in a blanket.
He bent his head near her ear. “The family might wonder why you were not attired in this costume last evening, as presumably we journeyed here on horseback.”
“Dang it. You’re right. There’s a lot about me that doesn’t hold up upon closer inspection.”
“And much that does.” He squeezed her arm and strode with her across the parlor.
Appetizing scents hastened them to the kitchen. Kindling crackled in the cast iron stove crouched in the cozy room like a companionable beast. The vital range gave off warmth while cooking food and heating water and made the kitchen the heart of the house. Evie liked this room best, and always had.
The family was gathered in expectation of having breakfast guests. Their hostess, Mary, gaped at the new bride, likely staggered by her attire. With what must have been near herculean effort, the normally outspoken female bit back any comments.
“Sit, sit.” She gestured for the pair to slide onto the bench spanning the expansive table.
Goggling girls clustered on either side of the couple. The remainder of the seven sisters spread over the bench across from them, while their parents sat in the high-backed chairs at either end of the table. Stools for extra family or guests stood nearby. It was a squash fitting everyone around the board, but they had room enough.
Friendlier this way, Evie thought, enjoying the camaraderie and easy laughter that followed the reverent blessing of the food.
Although the sisters resembled each other in appearance, they had distinct personalities, and she would enjoy getting to know each of them better if the girls could get past her outlandish clothes and hair. Outlandish to them, anyway. She would fit in with the upper classes of Victorian society, not that she preferred that strata; she liked these down-to-earth people, their kindness, and gentle nature.
Despite the ongoing challenges of war, spirits were high around the Mennonites’ humble table. She hated to dampen their good humor. At the same time, a sense of urgency rose in her.
Would Jack wait until later to be the bearer of bad news? It might be best if he told them before he and she rode out, even though she cringed at the thought of spoiling this happy breakfast. He’d agreed the family must be warned if what she’d told him was, indeed, coming.
‘It is,” she’d affirmed, wishing she had anything hopeful to add. ‘Beginning September twenty-sixth.’
Now, it was up to him. After learning today was September twenty-third, several days later than he’d realized, having lost track of time, her message grew more critical. But he seemed reluctant to break into the happy chatter, and lingered over his breakfast, savoring each swallow.
To everyone’s delight, the aroma of coffee mingled with the mouthwatering scents of fried bacon and newly baked cornbread thickly spread with apple butter. Scrambled eggs were heaped in yellow mounds in the blue stoneware bowl made by a local potter. This piece had been saved from the fire and now belonged to her grandmother. How strange to see the bowl here in its original setting.
Everything served was fresh and homemade. Paul sipped his coffee from an earthen-colored pottery mug. No milk for him; he drank his black.
Sighing with satisfaction, he nodded at the couple. “What a blessing you have brought to this house. We never thought to see kaffi again for months, mayhap years. Your grandmother gave you a wonderful gift, Mrs. Ramsey. You will tell her of our gratitude at sharing in this bounty?”
Evie blotted her lips on a linen square. “Yes. I will.”
“About that…” Jack nudged her, giving her a meaningful glance when she looked his way. “Evie and I would like you to keep the coffee in appre
ciation of your hospitality to us.”
Swallowing a gulp, she did her best not to appear as floored as she felt, or the family would think her reluctant. How he could part with the coffee, she couldn’t fathom. They still had the instant kind, but he’d been over the moon at finding the bag of roasted beans. His generosity and their awestruck expressions nearly moved her to tears.
If he were willing to relinquish something this special to him, then she mustn’t begrudge them the gift. Perhaps they would see her heart was in the right place, even if her choice of dress was unfathomable to them. She’d fall into the category of peculiar people who, nonetheless, ‘would do anything for you,’ another Gladys McIntyre saying.
“Please take it. Do.” She raised her voice to be heard over the spirited protest circling the assembly. “We want you to have it, only be sure you hide the bag well.”
Even though Jack hadn’t yet cautioned the family about the coming hellfire, he had said Rebels sometimes raided Mennonite farms, as they were easy prey and resented for their pacifism and Union sympathies. These people would have to be wary of threats from both sides of this wretched war, soon to escalate beyond their worst imaginings. Maybe the secreted coffee would offer some small comfort in the dark days ahead.
Paul nodded his grizzled head. “Denki. We will hide this rare gift with much care.”
A wave of sentiment engulfed Evie to think a product she could purchase in any modern grocery store was so prized.
Mary smiled through winking tears. “You are a good man, Jack Ramsey, you and your new wife, Evie, to share with us.”
“You have always shared with me. We are good friends, ya?” he prompted.
“Ya.” The emotion in her brown eyes softened their sharpness.
“You have been like family to me, when my own father rejected me.” Huskiness edged his voice.
Capped heads nodded in solemn acknowledgement.
“And now.” He cleared his throat, the challenge of what he had to say heavy in his eyes. “I must caution you about a heinous event soon to come our way.”
The gathering stiffened, and each head swiveled toward him. “What is this dreadful thing you speak of?” Paul voiced what must be on everyone’s mind.
Evie waited, gripping the edge of the table with her fingers. Did Jack believe her enough to stick his neck all the way out and tell them everything? How would they take it?
Looking like he’d rather be anywhere than here imparting this painful news, he circled his gaze at the table. “I must check the accuracy of my information to be sure, but it seems Union Major General Sheridan is heading our way with a large army.”
Confusion filled Mary’s eyes. “But this is good, ya? This Union general will take our part. Have we not been loyal to the Union, and labored to live among Confederate neighbors who hate us for our beliefs?”
Jack was grim. “Yes, you have been faithful and suffered much, but no, Sheridan will not reward you. My contact tells me he will burn your farms and mills to the ground, take your food, steal your animals, or shoot them. All. Every single one.”
The horror in their faces seared Evie’s soul. But it was the God’s honest truth.
Stoic Paul had the look of one peering into the bowels of Hell while trying not to appear overly upset by the view. “The ways of worldly men are unknown to me. Why would this general visit such suffering on the innocent?”
“I wager he has orders to render our green valley a wasteland, so it can no longer support Rebel troops,” Jack said flatly. “We are known as the breadbasket of the Confederacy.”
Mary clenched work-worn hands. “But it is not only the Rebels who will go hungry. Women and children, wee babes, old men, the sick and wounded, will suffer want. And all those poor animals killed? This is too terrible.”
The images crowding Evie’s mind appalled her. If only they could derail the freight train roaring at them that was history. But how? She and Jack couldn’t oppose an army.
He nodded gravely at Mary’s lament. “If Sheridan does what I’m told he intends, it will be beyond enduring except for the stoutest souls. Many will be forced to flee their homes. This is why you must conceal grain and hay where it cannot be stolen or burned. Seclude your animals in the woods or set them free among the trees to seek for later. All valuables must be hidden.”
He turned to Paul. “What of the secret place dug in the rock wall of the cellar? How much will it hold?”
The older man looked at him hard. “Crocks of apple butter, several hams, a sack of cornmeal, household goods, the coffee… This hidey hole is like a small larder.”
“Well, fill it up. Expand if you can,” Jack directed. “But don’t hide anything in the house. It may be burned.”
Gasps of horror followed this, but no words. Silence weighted with unspeakable sorrow enfolded the stunned family.
He exhaled heavily. “My best advice is to preserve whatever you can over these next few days. Little time remains. Hide grain in the woods. Find some means to keep it from the damp. Have you barrels?”
Paul gave a nod. “Some. And we have flour and cornmeal in sacks.”
“Good. That’s something.” A shade of relief tinged Jack’s somber gaze. “Conceal them in the woods. Keep only a small hidden stock on hand. Pile your hay among the trees, too. Cover everything with branches. Use whatever you can find to form a brushy barrier. The soldiers will be wary of woods.”
His creviced brow deeply furrowed, Paul asked, “Why?”
Jack stared into the distance as if at a place he knew and despised. “When Sheridan’s army comes it won’t be in a solid block of men, but soldiers spread out for miles. They will divide into parties to carry out their destruction,” he predicted. “Rebels will stalk the invaders from familiar woods and back roads, making the invaders wary of thickets—anywhere bushwhackers might hide.”
Mary twisted her apron round and round. “I cannot believe this. The war on our very doorsteps. Will there be fighting and shooting nearby?”
“Possibly. Keep the girls near the house when the soldiers draw close. I will ride out this morning and see what more I can learn.” Jack’s eyes were pools of pity. “I am taking Evie with me. May we borrow your gray mare?”
“Ya.” Paul spoke as if dazed.
The girls appeared too shocked to speak. They sat with tears in their eyes and trickling down pale, freckled cheeks. Evie looked from one stricken face to the other. She had no idea what to say. This might be the right moment to bring out the chocolate bars.
Like a fluffed-up hen, Mary roused to life. “You take care out there, Jack Ramsey. If you are caught, you know what may follow.”
He nodded, grim awareness in his eyes, and she beckoned to her daughters. “Come, girls. We have much work to do. Keep a prayer on your lips and courage in your hearts.”
Admiration swelled in Evie. The woman had just been told her farm and possibly her home would be burned, all her animals taken or destroyed, unless well hidden, along with her family’s food and harvested crops. And yet, like a captain marshalling her troops, she was preparing for battle.
Could Evie do less?
Chapter Nine
While Evie waited for him in the yard, Jack entered the top floor of the two-level red barn built into the side of a gently sloping bank. Called a bank barn, the upper level served as the threshing floor and storage area. Cows milled below, snatching mouthfuls of the hay tossed down to them through the square opening in the floor. Their breathy snorts carried up to him.
He inhaled the sweet aroma from the great golden mound heaped in the mow and on one side of the floor. The hay scent mingled with the familiar bovine aroma central to the farm. Yellow ears of dried corn filled a crib and brown wheat kernels were piled in the bin, adding their graininess to the fragrant blend.
The center of the barn floor provided a generous work area and the door was wide enough to drive a wagon through to load and unload. This feature was important. The Wengers would need to haul food
for man and beast to the woods for safekeeping.
Whatever the family couldn’t conceal behind the rock wall of their cellar must be hidden elsewhere or lost. Their large draft horse, Bill, would be vital for pulling these loads. Bill was secluded among the trees with their mare, Polly, her foal, and Jack’s faithful mount, Buck. The other horses belonging to the Wengers had been confiscated by Rebels, along with some of their livestock.
Half a dozen remaining cows, several calves, a handful of pigs, and their small flock of sheep must also be relocated. Preserving these animals was crucial to the family’s survival. There was much work to be done and not a lot of time to do it. The sooner he and Evie rode off and gained information about Sheridan’s movements, and returned to be of help to the Wengers, the better.
He lifted his gaze to the rafters of the arched ceiling lined with hand-hewn beams. Dust motes floated in the light streaming through the window set in the uppermost T-shaped front of the barn. Crisscrossed lattice-work covered the airy opening and edged the top of the walls beneath the roof to allow ventilation. The strong breeze blowing this morning easily found its way through the small openings between the strips. Weighty beams and trusses, joined by wooden pegs, held the big timbered structure together.
A pang knifed through him at the thought of all this reduced to a burned-out ruin. What a waste.
Normally, the barn was a comforting place, a sanctuary offering reassurance of provision made for the coming winter. No longer.
War was detestable; the destruction wreaked on innocent civilians the worst. It sickened him to think of the Wengers and countless other families like them forced to endure the horrific suffering Evie had predicted. And he was determined to do all in his power to aid his friends.
Clenching gloved hands, he strode over scattered hay to the far wall. The floor creaked beneath his boots, and more dust rose. A bridle hung from a peg alongside Bill’s harness. The remaining saddle, not yet carried off, was tucked in a dark corner. He needed the equipment for the mare Evie was to ride.
Groaning at the thought of the astonishing effect she’d have on everyone they encountered—not only in her far-flung attire but by riding astride—he took the bridle from the wall. So be it.