To Whisper Her Name

by Tamera Alexander

  Olivia sighed. Doctors didn’t always know best.

  As agreed, she would keep her promise to the general not to tell. But it wasn’t right … a husband keeping such a thing from his wife. Equally in the wrong was the doctor who instigated the deception.

  She was weary of a world where men wielded such power. If the tables were turned, men wouldn’t stand for it. So as women — her breath fogged the pane — why should they? The unspoken question hung in the silence like a forbidden whisper. But unlike the vapor on the window that quickly vanished and was gone, Olivia’s question lingered.

  She’d gone from her father’s home to Charles’s house, and now — with only a brief respite — would be married off again to a man of the general’s choosing. She sighed, watching a mockingbird light on a nearby branch. What was it like to be free? To have choices as men did? And the ability to pursue them. To be able to choose marriage? Or not.

  The questions felt so preposterous, she was tempted to smile.

  But didn’t.

  Through the misty haze of a half-risen sun, she spotted one of the general’s thoroughbreds in a corral by the stable and was grateful no one had been hurt in the fire last evening. General Harding said the damage to the building was minimal compared to what it could have been and that while he had no idea who had started the blaze, he was determined to find out.

  Hearing the distinct clink of pots and pans from the kitchen directly beneath her, Olivia set about getting dressed. She glanced at her trunk and thought of Mr. Cooper, wondering where he’d sheltered for the night after the general had sent him away. Ridley Cooper had carried her trunk all that way without complaint. And the shell he carried … Such sentimentality for a man who seemed so wild and untamed.

  A servant had hung her gowns — including yesterday’s dress, now clean and mended — in the wardrobe. Having brought only two with her to Belle Meade — one black, one grey — made choosing easy. She’d been forbidden by Charles’s brother to take any other dresses with her, and she’d complied. Except for one. She reached past the two mourning ensembles to the rich russet-red fabric. She pulled out the dress and held it to her face. She breathed in, but the scent of her mother’s perfume had long since faded.

  Holding the dress against herself, she looked in the full-length mirror. She’d never be able to wear the gown. She was taller than her mother had been, so the dress was several inches short. Plus it was sleeveless, not a fashion recommended for a woman with a scar extending halfway up her arm.

  Other than the richness of the fabric, the dress was simple. No lace or fancy piping. But she remembered her mother in this dress as clearly as if she’d seen her in it yesterday, and leaving it behind was something she simply hadn’t been able to do.

  With a sigh, she returned the dress to the wardrobe. After using the chamber pot, she dipped a fresh cloth into the tepid water in the basin on the washstand before running it over her skin, relishing the coolness. By the time she dressed, the aroma of sausage, eggs, and biscuits filled every corner of her room; and Olivia quickly decided she was going to like living above the kitchen. No matter that her room wasn’t located in the same wing as the family bedrooms. Not only did her quarters come with a lovely view of the sunrise and this aromatic preview of breakfast, but an open-air porch just outside her door connected this wing to the main house.

  Lizzie Hoover’s room was next to hers, she’d learned; but she hadn’t seen Cousin Lizzie since dinner last night, nor had there been a light beneath Lizzie’s door when Olivia had retired. Perhaps Lizzie and Mary had stayed up visiting.

  Mary Harding. Now there was a story waiting to be told, but it was one Olivia already knew. She’d learned a great deal about the girl simply from watching her at dinner. Noting Mary’s furtive glances at her father, watching him as he watched Selene tell a story. Listening to Mary tell a story of her own right after, her expression hungry for her father’s same laughter and approval. Mary’s smile dimming bit by bit throughout the evening when his reactions were always slightly less enthusiastic for her than for her older sister.

  Olivia smoothed a wrinkle from the corner of her bed. Perhaps there were advantages to having been an only child. She’d never worried about being her father’s favorite. She knew from the time she could talk that business was her father’s priority. But she’d had her mother’s love. And that had been enough.

  Most of the time.

  Olivia stepped onto the porch and reached to close the bedroom door behind her, but stopped and crossed back to shut the window first. Flicking the lock into place, she glanced out the window and paused, seeing a cloaked figure emerge from the woods, cut across the meadow and head in the direction of the house. Olivia observed for a moment, quickly deciding it must be a woman. The person moved with too much grace to be masculine. But what was a woman doing out in the woods this time of morning?

  As the woman drew closer, Olivia concealed herself to one side of the window, nudging the curtain back. The woman carried a sack of some sort. Judging by how she maneuvered it, it looked heavy. Olivia squinted, trying to see if she could tell what —

  The woman stopped and looked directly up at Olivia’s window.

  Olivia jumped back, heart in her throat. She winced and gritted her teeth, praying the woman hadn’t seen her, but she knew better. The woman — older, in her fifties, perhaps — had looked up with purpose, as if wanting Olivia to know she’d been spotted.

  Regardless of whether or not the woman had seen her face, Olivia knew she wouldn’t forget the woman’s skin, which was the subtle brown of heavily creamed coffee, and her dark hair — hair more like a white person’s than a Negro’s. Beautiful too. Curly and wild about her head, as if the cloak’s hood could scarcely contain it.

  Not daring to move for at least a full minute, Olivia finally relaxed. She’d only been looking out the window, after all. It wasn’t as if she’d done anything wrong. Summoning courage, she peeked back around the curtain.

  But the woman was gone.

  Chapter

  TEN

  I ain’t never had a white man stay as a guest with me before.” Green closed the cabin door behind them, the pinkish hue of dawn swiftly giving way to golden yellow. “You don’t reckon we’re breakin’ any laws by you stayin’ here, do you?”

  Green’s chuckle drew a smile from Ridley. “I imagine in some people’s books we are. But I don’t particularly care what those people think.” Ridley paused at the edge of the porch and stretched, still a little weary, somewhat sore, and definitely hungry. The jerky stew Bob Green had served him last night — a fair portion for one man, but slim for two — had warmed his belly but hadn’t come close to filling it. Still, Green had shared what he had, and Ridley was grateful. “We fought a war.” Ridley shrugged. “And they lost. They don’t get to make the rules anymore.”

  “That’s just the kinda smart talk that gets your face all messed up. Like it is now and like it was when I first met you —”

  Ridley touched the purpling bruise on his cheek.

  “— and that kinda talk is somethin’ you can’t do. Not workin’ here at Belle Meade anyway. I know the war’s over, but these people … they still ain’t readin’ from the same book as you.”

  They cut a path toward the main house.

  Ridley looked over at him. “You know I wouldn’t say that to just anyone else. I can be discreet.” He smiled. “When I try, Uncle Bob.”

  Green just looked at him. “But that’s just it. You don’t have to say anything. You say it without even openin’ your mouth. It’s in the way you carry yourself. The way you treat folks. The way you treat me, more like a white man than what I am. Everybody tells a story, Ridley, whether they want to or not. Oh, some folks is good at hidin’ it. But all you got to do is listen, just listen … and you’ll hear it.”

  Letting that settle inside him, Ridley focused ahead and felt a smile coming as he watched what might have resembled a horse in another lifetime slowly plod toward the
m. The gelding’s sway back and drooping lower lip revealed its age, as did the balding patches in its coat. “Looks like one of your lead stallions is trying to make a run for it.”

  Uncle Bob laughed. “That’s just Old Gray. He been here at Belle Meade for years. He ain’t dead, but he been workin’ on it for a while.”

  “Looks like he’s working extra hard at it today.”

  “Aw, come on now.” Uncle Bob walked the short distance to the fence and gave the gelding a good rub behind the ears. “Old Gray been a good friend. He still pretty strong. He just don’t move too fast no more. But he still got some good days in him.”

  As they walked on, Ridley studied the side of the stable damaged by the flames. “Who do you think started that fire last night?”

  Green shrugged. “Somebody jealous over General Harding havin’ the best thoroughbred farm in all of Dixie. There be plenty of them folks to go ‘round. Ain’t the first time somethin’ like this happened. Probably not the last.”

  They took the steps up to the side porch, and Green knocked on a door. It opened and a tiny slip of a woman grinned big, then waved them inside.

  “I was startin’ to think you wasn’t coming this mornin’, Uncle Bob. You’re later than usual. And you brought somebody with you too.” She patted Ridley’s arm. “I love havin’ men in my kitchen.”

  “Mornin’, Susanna.” Green settled himself at a small table in the corner and motioned Ridley to do likewise. Two other women working at the stove turned and greeted them. Ridley nodded in their direction, and they both smiled back, then looked at each other and grinned.

  “Susanna, this here’s Mr. Ridley Cooper. He —”

  “I know who he is,” she said, glancing at the other women. “We all do. You the man who almost got hisself blamed for the fire last night.”

  Ridley nodded. “Yes, ma’am. That’s me. But I didn’t do it.”

  “We know.” She smiled. “That’s why I said almost. Don’t you worry. None of us pay Grady Matthews no nevermind.” She motioned. “You need something for that?”

  Ridley touched the bruise on his cheek. “No, ma’am, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “Mr. Cooper’ll be workin’ with me for a while,” Green continued. “And this woman here is Susanna Carter.” Green inhaled deeply, eyeing the scrambled eggs with sausage and biscuits she was serving up. “Best cook in the whole of Dixie and wife to Big Ike. So you best watch your step around her, or Big Ike’ll make sure you do.”

  Susanna playfully shushed him.

  “And helpin’ her over there is Chloe Harris and Betsy Lee. They got husbands who work here too.”

  Susanna set a full plate before each of them, and Ridley could only stare, unable to remember the last time he’d eaten so well.

  “Everythin’ all right, sir?” she asked.

  “Everything’s fine, ma’am.” He glanced up. “More than fine. It looks delicious. Thank you.”

  “Not as good as my stew last night.” Green huffed. “But it’ll do.”

  Ridley grinned and scooped a forkful of eggs, then saw Green watching him and set his fork back on his plate.

  “For this fine eatin’, Lawd, we thank you. And for these women who get up long before the sun …”

  Bob Green didn’t bow his head, didn’t even close his eyes, yet he spoke the words with such respect, nobody listening could have doubted his sincerity or who he was addressing — and that Green believed with everything in him God was listening. Susanna and the other two women had paused from their work.

  “… cookin’ and carin’ for this family like they do, and for me too, I thank you, sir.”

  Without ceremony, Green took a bite of a warm biscuit and looked like he was about to pray all over again. Ridley took a quick bite before it was too late and continued eating for five minutes straight. He only stopped for sips of coffee, before using the last of his second biscuit to sop up every last bit of butter and goodness on his plate.

  Susanna motioned. “You want more? There’s plenty.”

  He eyed the eggs in the pan. “No, ma’am. I’m good. Thank you.”

  She just laughed, grabbed his plate, and piled it high again.

  “You know anything new?” Green asked her.

  “I do,” Susanna answered, stirring a pan on the stove. “But it ain’t good.”

  Green paused, looking at each of the women. “Anybody we know?”

  Betsy nodded. “You ‘member Bud and Luvenia and their two boys? Over at the Foley place?”

  Green nodded, frowning.

  Susanna pulled the pan off the burner. “Them boys started goin’ to school. A freedmen school, for us folks.” She looked at Ridley, who nodded. “Bud and Luvenia’s boys got beat up day afore yesterday. White men come into the classroom, dragged everybody out. They took a stick to some of the kids, but they ‘bout beat the teacher to death. He was a Negro come down from New York City. Just to open the school, the paper said. He’s supposed to live, but they won’t be openin’ the school again. Not that they could find anybody to teach even if they did.”

  A hush fell over the kitchen. Ridley set his fork on his plate, keenly aware of the tension in the air and the color of his own skin and of all the battles yet to be fought despite a war having been won.

  A moment passed and Green drained his coffee cup. Susanna filled it again. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said softly. “So …” Green looked up, the tone of his voice clearly marking a shift in the conversation. “How’re things here in the house? How’s the missus?”

  When Susanna didn’t answer, Ridley looked up, sipping his coffee, and caught the tail end of a look she’d tossed Green.

  Green paused, then looked pointedly over at him and back to the women. “It’s all right.” He nodded. “He’s with us.”

  Only then did Ridley realize what Susanna had been asking. And he felt more than a little honored by the acceptance.

  “She ain’t feelin’ too good this mornin’.” Susanna was petite but she wiped down the tabletop with a vengeance. “She got the weariness again. Took breakfast in her room.” She exhaled. “She ain’t hardly ate a bite. She just too good is what it is. She done give and give all these years. Now she ‘bout give out.”

  The other women nodded, as did Bob Green. Ridley couldn’t help but think of Olivia Aberdeen and knew she would be concerned about her friend.

  “The widow who come yesterday.” Green sipped his coffee. “What’s she like?”

  Ridley’s interest ticked up a notch, though he tried not to show it.

  “She seem nice enough.” Chloe joined them at the table, buttered biscuit in hand. “I went to turn down her bed last night, but she was already in there. Thought I heard her cryin’.”

  Susanna sighed. “Can’t blame her after all she been through.”

  “All she been through?” Betsy turned from where she was kneading a lump of dough. “Here she been, livin’ high and mighty. And all the time knowin’ that her man was a —”

  “How you know she knew?” Susanna frowned. “You don’t know that for sure. ‘Sides, if Missus Harding took her in — which she did — then that widow must have some good in her. I ain’t sayin’ that maybe she ain’t done somethin’ she shouldn’t. I am sayin’ it ain’t right how a woman gotta pay for her man’s wrongs. And we all know that’s the way of it.”

  Chloe gave a soft mmm-hmm. And even Betsy nodded.

  But Ridley waited, wanting someone to say more about Mrs. Aberdeen. About her late husband. What he was or — more rightly — had been.

  “Jedediah told my Richard,” Chloe continued, “‘bout pickin’ her up in town yesterday. People starin’ real ugly like.” Her voice lowered. “There was this one white woman, he said, looked straight at her” — she made a face — “and spit! Right there in front of everybody.”

  Ridley felt as though they had to be talking about someone else. It couldn’t be Olivia Aberdeen. But she had arrived yesterday, and Jedediah had brought her. So it had to be
her.

  “Sure hope she don’t get too much in your way, Susanna,” Betsy said over her shoulder. “Helpin’ with runnin’ the house and all.”

  “Oh, the widow ain’t helpin’ Susanna with the house.” Chloe rose from the table. “Not no more. That other woman, she gonna be doin’ that.”

  Green looked up. “What other woman?”

  Ridley frowned. So Olivia Aberdeen wasn’t going to be the Hardings’ head housekeeper after all.

  Susanna laid aside the dish she’d been drying. “The daughter of the general’s first cousin. Miss Lizzie Hoover. She ain’t never married. Her parents both gone now, so the general took her in.”

  “She gonna be livin’ here for good then,” Green said, more a statement than a question.

  Susanna nodded. “I think she work out fine. She done asked me last night to help her learn what to do. I told her I’d teach her right. Show her how Missus Harding likes things done.”

  “So what’s that widow gonna do?” Green asked.

  Ridley looked back at Susanna.

  “Don’t rightly know.” She gathered their empty plates. “But Missus Harding is right partial to her, I could tell right off. So all of us is gonna be kind,” she said, looking pointedly at the other women. “We gonna make her feel welcome.”

  Chloe and Betsy both nodded. Betsy more reluctantly.

  Ridley drained his coffee cup, eager to leave so he could ask Bob Green privately what they were referring to.

  “Jedediah told my Richard somethin’ else too …”

  When Chloe didn’t continue, Ridley looked up to find her looking directly at him. “What’s that?”

  Chloe’s smile bordered on suspicious. “Jedediah say you walked her the rest of the way here, after the carriage wheel broke. And that you toted her trunk all that way.”

  He nodded slowly. “Yes, ma’am. That’s right.”

  The women glanced at each other as if knowing something he didn’t.

  “He also say that when he got back to that carriage,” Chloe went on, a teasing quality sparkling in her dark eyes, “that door still be locked tight as a sugar chest. Which got us to wonderin’ …” She glanced at Susanna and Betsy. “How’d that woman get herself outta there? Her wearin’ that big ol’ dress and all.”