To Wager Her Heart

by Tamera Alexander

  Exhilarating. Terrifying. Unlike anything she’d ever done before. A tumult of emotions had pounded through her. She was glad she’d done it, while at the same time wondering if she’d be able to do it again when the time came.

  The door to Mr. White’s office opened and she stood, her stomach doing tiny flips. It being Saturday morning, the office and teaching barracks were quiet.

  He gestured. “Miss Jamison, we’re ready for you now.”

  We? Alexandra rose, under the impression he alone administered the teacher’s exam. She’d spent every spare minute in recent weeks honing her knowledge in various subjects in preparation for this test. Sy had left for Memphis Sunday afternoon after treating her to breakfast in town. And though she’d hated to see him go, she’d welcomed every moment of studying afforded to her in his absence.

  She couldn’t explain how it had happened, but somehow they’d fallen back into rhythm right where they’d left off the night they’d sneaked in to listen to the singers. And she was grateful.

  She prayed again that he’d reach Miss Glenn, the survivor from the train wreck, in time. And that the woman would hold some piece of information that would aid Sy in discovering the truth and in clearing his father’s name. Surely it wasn’t a coincidence that Sy had met Mr. Bliss on the train from Memphis that day. And that Bliss had been the author of his father’s favorite hymn.

  The longer she lived and the greater number of years she had to look back on her life, the more she saw God at work in hindsight where she had missed him in the moment. She hoped this trip to Ohio to see Miss Glenn would prove to be one of those moments for Sy.

  She entered Mr. White’s office and saw Miss Frieda Norton standing almost at attention beside his desk. The twenty-six-year veteran teacher gave her a solemn nod, and even though Alexandra liked the woman, she felt more than a little intimidated by her. She sensed Miss Norton wasn’t quite convinced of her ability to teach. Which, on some days, Alexandra wouldn’t have argued. Especially if the teaching involved advanced mathematics. Not her strongest suit.

  She wanted to do well on this test. Not only so Mr. White wouldn’t regret hiring her, but to make Ella proud too. Ella had such unwavering faith in her abilities, and Alexandra wanted to be worthy of it.

  “Good morning, Miss Jamison.” Miss Norton nodded.

  Alexandra smiled. “Good morning, Miss Norton.”

  “I trust you’re prepared for your examinations.”

  Alexandra looked between them. “Examinations? You mean . . . there’s more than one?”

  The older teacher drew her shoulders back; Alexandra thought she caught the hint of a smile from the woman, then swiftly realized she was sorely mistaken.

  “If you will allow me to continue, Miss Jamison.” Miss Norton leveled a stare. “It is of utmost importance that we ascertain a candidate’s cognitive abilities before allowing them to begin shaping and influencing the lives of Fisk scholars. As you know, we customarily make this determination before a faculty member is hired. However, Mr. White made an exception in your case, which was within his purview. Now, to my original statement . . . I trust you’re prepared for your examinations?”

  Alexandra blinked, hearing unequivocal sanction in the woman’s tone. “Yes, Miss Norton. I-I believe I’m prepared.” Oh, what if she failed? And after all the late nights Ella had spent quizzing her on various topics.

  Mr. White pointed to a table in the corner by an open window. A fall-like breeze stirred the curtains. “You may sit there, Miss Jamison. Miss Norton will be proctoring the six one-hour exams, which will be graded by various members of the faculty.”

  Six one-hour exams? Alexandra swallowed. She’d never dreamed the exams for an introductory level teacher would be so involved. Once again she wished she’d had the opportunity for a formal education. Had she known what to expect, she could have studied more, and she might not be so nervous now.

  As soon as the thought came, she dismissed it. She’d studied as much as she could in the time she’d had. And further, she knew herself well enough to know that if she had known there were multiple examinations, she would’ve only worried more.

  “I’ll be in and out throughout the day,” Mr. White continued. “Miss Norton knows where to find me should any questions arise.”

  Mr. White closed the door behind him, and Alexandra took a seat. She removed her freshly sharpened pencils from her reticule as Miss Norton withdrew a thick stack of pages from a professorial-looking, if worn, leather satchel.

  “As Mr. White said, there are six exams, Miss Jamison. You’ll have precisely one hour in which to complete all the answers. Not a moment more. As soon as I announce, ‘Pencil down,’ you are to place your writing instrument on the table and lower your hands to your lap. Is that understood?”

  Alexandra nodded, her stomach graduating from tiny flips to full-out somersaults. “Yes, Miss Norton.”

  I can do this. I can do this. She kept repeating the phrase, much as Sy had done: You can do this, Alexandra. I know you can. Embracing borrowed courage, she sat up straighter.

  “Your first examination, Miss Jamison”—Miss Norton placed the test face down on the table before her—“advanced mathematics.”

  And just like that, all courage fled.

  Sy knocked on the door of the clapboard house, making the door rattle on its hinges. After a moment, he checked the address again: 121 East Main. The address Philip Bliss had given him.

  He glanced at his pocket watch. He needed to be on the last train to Nashville at five thirty, and still had to run back by his hotel. He’d already been gone from Nashville nearly two weeks and was eager to get back to the Belle Meade project. But mostly to get back to Alexandra—and to give her what he’d seen in a shop window earlier during the week. She’d told him it was improper for a man to give a woman gifts. But he didn’t think she would balk in the least at this.

  She’d surprised him at how well she’d done on the locomotive the weekend before last, although it had taken a day or two for the marks on his arm where she’d dug in her nails to disappear. He smiled, imagining what she would say if she heard that thought.

  He knocked on the door again, harder this time, recalling Bliss’s telegram about Miss Glenn being gravely ill. He hoped he wasn’t too late. Before coming today, he’d made sure Bliss had told her who he was and that it was his father who had been driving the No. 1. Bliss had wired back that Miss Glenn was still willing to meet.

  The night he and Bliss had dinner, Bliss told him she’d been riding in the second freedmen’s car on the No. 1 and had sustained severe injuries. It was a miracle she’d lived through it. Most had not.

  Still no answer. He sighed and started back down the walkway.

  “Hold on! I’m coming!”

  Sy turned back as the door opened.

  “Mr. Rutledge!”

  “Mr. Bliss?” Sy stared. “I didn’t realize you were going to be here too.”

  “Come in, come in.” Bliss gestured. “I didn’t realize it either, until the Avondale Church here in town invited me for a concert. Knowing you were coming, I hopped on a train this morning and came a day early. The wonders of the world in which we live.”

  Pleased to see him again, Sy shook his hand and stepped inside, catching the promising aroma of coffee. The man possessed what seemed to be a perpetually sunny disposition. Which might have been annoying if Bliss were not so kindhearted.

  “So tell me, Mr. Rutledge, has anything new turned up in your inquiries with the railroad?”

  “Please, call me Sy. And no, unfortunately not.”

  “Only if you’ll call me Philip. And I’m sorry to hear that. But don’t be discouraged. I’m still praying you’ll find answers. More than anything, though, I’m praying you’ll find real peace, Sy. Because the former may disappoint, but the latter never will.”

  Sy heard the certainty in the man’s voice and wished he shared the same optimism. “Did you ever finish that song?”

  Bliss
smiled. “I did. But you’re going to have to come to a church meeting to hear it.”

  They laughed.

  “Actually, the sheet music is currently being printed. I’ll have my publisher send you a copy when it’s ready, if you wish.”

  Sy nodded. “I’d appreciate that. And the next time you’re in Nashville for a prayer meeting, Bliss, let me know, if you would. I’d . . . like to attend.”

  Bliss held his gaze for a moment, then smiled. “I’ll do that, Sy. And Lucy will make you some more of her chicken mash too!”

  They laughed again, then silence crowded close.

  “Miss Glenn is eager to meet you, Sy. In fact, I think part of the reason she’s still with us is because of this appointment. The woman who takes care of her has stepped out for a while, so it’ll be just the three of us. Come on back, and I’ll introduce you.”

  Sy followed Bliss down a narrow hallway, still marveling at how his path had crossed with that of this man. Having done a fair share of gambling, Sy was familiar with figuring the odds. And he knew the odds were slim to none that his meeting Bliss on the train that day had been happenstance. That much had been made clear to him in recent days. The very man who’d penned his father’s favorite hymn? And who knew a survivor from the train accident? He and Bliss on the same train, same passenger car, seated across from each other. It hadn’t been a coincidence.

  Sy felt a stirring within him. In the morning when I rise, in the morning when I rise, in the morning when I rise, give me Jesus. You can have all the rest . . . Give me Jesus.

  How often those words returned to him, along with the memory not only of the Fisk singers’ voices, but of their conviction behind the words they were singing. It had been a humbling thing when he’d realized years back that the Almighty knew his name. But even more humbling of late, he’d come to realize that Jesus knew the inner workings of his life, of his business, and all that was going on inside him.

  And instead of finding that bothersome, as he would have in earlier years, Sy found it a comfort and wanted more of what Philip Bliss seemed to have in spades.

  At the end of the hall was an open door, and Bliss gestured for Sy to precede him into the bedroom. Sy entered, and though he hadn’t really known what to expect, he certainly hadn’t expected this.

  A young black woman sat propped up in the bed, nestled beneath a pile of blankets. She smiled when he came in. Or he thought she did. The scarring on her face made it difficult to tell.

  “Miss Riley Glenn, I’d like to present Mr. Sylas Rutledge. Mr. Rutledge, Miss Riley Glenn.”

  Sy had difficulty speaking at first. “It’s an honor to meet you, Miss Glenn.”

  “And you as well.” She spoke slowly, her voice fragile and raspy. She looked toward two chairs situated by the bed, and Sy took a seat. Bliss didn’t.

  “If you’ll both excuse me for a moment, I’ll get us some coffee.”

  As the man’s footsteps receded down the hallway, Sy grew somewhat uncomfortable under the woman’s gaze.

  “Mr. Rutledge, Mr. Bliss tells me . . .” She paused and swallowed, the act deliberate, patient. “. . . that you have come to ask me questions . . . about the accident.”

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s correct. But if it’s too much for you, then please, we don’t have to—”

  She shook her head. “If I can help you . . . I want to.”

  He nodded. “I appreciate that.” He’d brought his notepad with him, full of questions, but he didn’t need to take it out. He knew them by heart.

  Bliss returned with the coffee, Miss Glenn’s in a special cup with a lid and a spout to aid her in drinking.

  Sy asked her many of the same questions he’d asked Luther Coggins and the others, and she answered in her slow, patient cadence. She didn’t recall hearing or seeing anything out of the ordinary before the second her world exploded, the wooden passenger car around her disintegrating and scalding water from the boiler raining down.

  “Those of us still alive . . . were trying to get out . . . away from the fire . . . but my leg was stuck . . . I couldn’t move . . .”

  Sy listened, emotion burning his eyes, as she described what she’d been through.

  “There was a man . . . I’d seen him earlier . . . riding in my car . . . He crawled over . . . and freed my leg . . . so I could get out . . .”

  As he listened, Sy felt an ache inside him for the pain she’d endured and for his father, again, for how he must have suffered too.

  After a while Miss Glenn’s eyes started to close. Bliss gave Sy a subtle nod and stood. Sy followed his lead, able to see that their visiting had come at a cost.

  But Miss Glenn held up her hand. “One more thing . . . please . . . before you go.”

  Sy paused.

  “Do you know if . . . anyone else . . . from my railcar . . . survived?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t, Miss Glenn. I’m sorry.”

  She nodded. “I wanted to . . . thank the man . . . who saved me . . .”

  Sy thought of Luther Coggins and how important that had been to him too. “I wish I could tell you, Miss Glenn. But I’m afraid there’s no way of knowing.”

  One side of her face edged up. “It’s just that I’d . . . never seen a . . . white man traveling . . . in a freedmen’s car.”

  Sy went still inside. His throat tightened. “A . . . white man, you say?”

  She nodded. “I overheard him talking . . . with the workers . . .”

  “About their contracts,” Sy finished for her, and watched the smile that couldn’t quite touch her face bloom in her eyes. He cleared his throat. “In fact, I do know that gentleman’s name, ma’am. David Thompson,” he said softly. “He’s . . . a very fine man, from what I hear.”

  She reached for his hand, an urgency in the act. “Could you . . . tell him . . . thank you . . . for me?”

  Sy hesitated, her hand in his, as he struggled to find his voice. “I believe I can do that, Miss Glenn.” He leaned down and barely brushed his lips against the scarred skin of her hand, not wanting to hurt her any more than she was already hurting. “Thank you, ma’am, for meeting with me today. I wish you comfort . . . and peace.”

  “I wish you . . . the same . . . Mr. Rutledge.”

  Rushed for time, Sy ran back by the hotel and grabbed his bag from his room, still trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened. David Thompson—Alexandra’s David—hadn’t died in the accident immediately. But what last moments he’d had, he’d used to save another’s life. Again Sy felt the push of emotion in his chest. This was the man Alexandra had loved. Still loved, for all he knew.

  He checked out at the front desk and was nearly to the door when he heard his name and turned back.

  “A telegram came for you, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Sy grabbed it and headed toward the station, hoping it was from his suppliers, informing him they’d corrected the problem as they’d assured him they would when he was in Memphis last week, and that the new shipment would be in Nashville tomorrow as promised.

  He opened the envelope and read the name of his Charlotte attorney at the top.

  Investor Funds Confirmed Stop North Carolina–West Virginia Project Ready to Proceed

  Not the news he’d been expecting, but welcome news all the same. At least in one regard. But it also meant he wouldn’t be headed back to Nashville today, or possibly even that week. He only hoped he could get back in time to say good-bye to Alexandra before the singers left on their tour—if she hadn’t changed her mind about going along. Which he hoped she hadn’t.

  Certain opportunities only came around once in life. And once they were gone, they were gone for good.

  Chapter

  TWENTY-SIX

  Alexandra paused beneath the shade of the familiar sycamore trees in front of her parents’ home, which somehow seemed larger and finer than she remembered. The past three weeks had been a whirlwind of finishing her introductory classes at Fisk and helping prepare for the upcoming tour
. But she couldn’t leave town in the morning with Mr. White and the singers without saying good-bye to her parents.

  She didn’t feel comfortable entering by the front door, so she skirted around to the back.

  While recent days had flown by in some ways, they had also crawled. Because Sy had yet to return to Nashville.

  He’d wired her from Cleveland saying the land deal was moving forward and he was headed to Charlotte for a week or two. He’d written her not two days later saying he’d do his best to be at the station in the morning when the train left, but he’d stopped short of promising. And she understood.

  She could still feel the surge of the locomotive beneath her feet. He’d been right. The experience was one that had stayed with her. Yet as the days had passed, the exhilaration had ebbed and old fears lurked in the shadows.

  But she was doing her best to keep them at bay.

  Sy had written that the meeting Mr. Bliss had arranged with the survivor in Ohio had had been encouraging, and he would relay more details when they were together. As for this Mr. Philip Paul Bliss—Sy spoke so highly of him, she couldn’t wait to meet him. Which apparently wouldn’t be long from now. Mr. Bliss and his wife were scheduled to attend one of the concerts on the tour.

  Alexandra hurried across the backyard to the kitchen door and peered inside. Empty. She had no way of knowing whether or not her father was home. But it being Thursday, the day of his standing luncheon with fellow attorneys, she felt certain it was safe.

  The knob turned easily in her hand.

  Her mother had never responded to the message she’d sent through Melba—twice. Melba hadn’t responded to the missives either. So Alexandra could only hope her visit would be welcomed.

  Scents of home greeted her and tugged at emotions worn thin in recent days and weeks. On the counter, Melba’s sour cream pound cake sat on a cooling rack warm from the oven. Beside it, an early pumpkin rested on the worktable, no doubt destined to be blended with savory spices and baked into one of Melba’s flaky pie crusts.