The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection

by Joanne Bischof

  Cannelton, Indiana, November 15

  Wind whistled through the hole in the only window the attic had. Shivering, Cora Mae scooped up the rag that had dropped to the floor and stuffed it back in.

  On the bed, June pulled her quilt tighter up under her chin, though it wasn’t nearly time to sleep. “Why couldn’t we keep our old room? Is it because we’re from the South? Did Mrs. Beasley get vexed with us because her son died at Atlanta?” She sucked the end of a strand of her hair.

  “No, I’m sure she doesn’t blame us for that, any more than we would blame her for what Sherman did to us.”

  “Then why?”

  Cora Mae sighed. “We can’t pay what we used to for a regular room. This is what we can afford.” The mill had been shut down for a month now, because there just wasn’t enough cotton coming from the South to mill. And even though she and June did help with the cleaning, it was only when one of the maids couldn’t work.

  “I liked the other room better. It was warmer. And prettier.”

  “Let’s try to be grateful for the roof over our heads, Junebug.” A dripping sounded in the corner, where rain leaked into a pail. “Even if there are holes in it.” Surely the women’s prison in Louisville where most of the mill hands remained was far worse than this.

  June turned on her side and coughed; then she huddled deeper under the covers.

  The coughing was getting worse, and though Cora Mae knew it wasn’t the same illness caused by decades of breathing in cotton lint, the sound of it filled her with the same sense of helplessness she felt for Mama, who she prayed was still waiting for her return after four and a half months.

  Snatching up a stack of newspapers Mrs. Beasley had given her, Cora Mae returned to the window and felt for drafts coming in between the panes. When she found one, she tore the headline of Lincoln’s reelection from the newspaper, folded it in half, and wedged it into place to block the cold air from seeping through.

  Then she stopped. She brought the paper over to the kerosene lamp and slanted the tiny columns of print into its glow. Words jumped out at her: Marietta. Sherman. Burned. She tried sounding out the rest of the words, but it was taking far too long.

  “I’ll be back in a minute, June.” Straightening her hair, she left the attic, paper in hand.

  Downstairs in the dining room, two gentlemen were just pushing back from the table at the end of the dinner hour. She’d seen them before, and they’d been civil. She took a deep breath. “Pardon me, but I’m having trouble making this out. Could you—would you mind? What does this say about Marietta?” She held out the paper.

  “Can’t read, eh?” one of the men muttered, twisting the ends of his mustache back into their points.

  “Not quick enough to suit me.”

  “Pay him no mind,” the younger of the two men said. He took the paper from her and scanned the text. “Says here that Sherman’s troops voted via absentee ballot for Lincoln on November 8, probably winning the election for him, so the war goes on.”

  “But what does it say about Marietta? Did something burn?”

  He ran his finger down the page. “Ah. Sherman’s sixty thousand troops evacuated Marietta by November 13…. Sherman began destroying the railroad behind him…. He had the Union army set fire to the buildings around Marietta Square, too.

  They’re marching south through Georgia.”

  “So there are no more Yankees in Marietta?”

  “Looks that way.” He handed the paper back to her. “You’re awfully lucky to be up here and not down in his path.”

  As Cora Mae climbed back up the stairs and slipped into the garret, she didn’t feel lucky at all. How could she rejoice in her own safety when her homeland was being laid waste?

  Chapter Twelve

  November 20

  Even as Ethan had traveled via train and steamboat from Marietta to get here, he knew the chances of finding Cora Mae were slim. Now, standing before the massive but silent Indiana Cotton Mill, hope guttered altogether. While he stalled on the edge of the street, pedestrians and wagons passed him by, gazing a little too long at the sleeve hanging empty below his right elbow.

  Turning his collar up against the wind, he crossed the mill yard and stood on the bank of the Ohio River, looking south and thinking of Georgia. Cannelton no longer felt much like home. In the two days since he’d been back, he’d gone to the coal company that powered the mill to tell, or rather show, that he’d not be returning to work. Then he’d paid a visit to the doctor who had tended his father in his losing battle with black lung, to pay him the debt he owed for those services. With the mill not operating, there was nothing else here to do.

  Rubbing his hand over his jaw, he could still smell the balsam shaving soap he’d used right before coming here. Sunset gilded the river as steamboats paddled by. He should be on one of them, heading west. Tomorrow, he’d book his passage.

  A knock at the garret door sounded feebly amid June’s coughing. “Miss Stewart?”

  Cora Mae left the girl’s side and opened the door. “Mrs. Beasley.”

  “Such a racket!” The woman’s nose wrinkled as she peered around Cora Mae. “Myra Johnson is ill today, so I need you to clean room six.” She handed Cora Mae a key and a bucket with rag and duster inside.

  “I’ll do it right away.”

  “See that you do, and do it well.” In a rustle of plum taffeta, Mrs. Beasley descended the stairs.

  After tying an apron over her dress, Cora Mae went down to room six and let herself in. The room smelled faintly of boot black and balsam. Inhaling deeply of it, a longing ripped open inside her for the man she’d tried so hard to forget. If she closed her eyes, she could believe she was wrapped not just in his essence, but in his arms.

  Guilt stirred as she dusted the furniture. Soon the war would end, and she’d return to Mr. Ferguson. She’d best not think of another. Kneeling at the hearth, she took the small shovel and scooped ashes into a pail. After sweeping the hearth clean, she trimmed the wicks in the kerosene lamps and wiped soot from inside their glass chimneys. At last, she straightened the counterpane over the bed, swept the floor, and shook the rug outside the window. With her bucket of supplies and the pail of ashes in her hands, she stood with her back to the door, surveying her work.

  Suddenly, the door opened, knocking her forward. As she stumbled, her pails slipped from her hands and clattered to the floor, peppering it with ash. “Oh, no!” she cried and reached for the hearth broom to sweep the mess back into a pile.

  “I’m so sorry!”

  “No, I should have noticed the door was already ajar. I was careless, forgive me.” The boarder knelt beside her and replaced the rags and feather duster back in her bucket.

  Embarrassment scorched her. “Please don’t tell Mrs. Beasley what I’ve done,” she whispered, unwilling to peek at his face. “I can’t lose this job.”

  The man’s hand stilled on his knee for a moment. Then he took the broom from her and set it on the floor. “Yes, you can.”

  Startled, she looked at him fully for the first time. And gasped. Tears sprang to her eyes, and words refused to come. She could only stare. His green eyes seemed to drink her in, though she knelt in a pile of ashes. His lips slowly slanted in a lopsided smile as he rose and offered his hand. She took it and stood with trembling knees. He was every bit the man she remembered him to be, no less masculine or commanding for his shortened right arm. The way he looked at her now…She felt herself unraveling. Realized after a moment that her hand was still in his.

  “In case you’ve forgotten, my name is Ethan Howard. And I’m here to take you home.”

  Tears spilled down her cheeks. Overcome, she covered her face with her hands and bent her head against his shoulder. Everything in her yearned to embrace him. His arms went around her, cinching her against him.

  “I won’t steal another kiss from you, Miss Stewart,” he said into her ear. “But I do want to keep you from falling.”

  Laughter broke through h
er sobs, and her shoulders shook as she nodded.

  “You still want to go home, don’t you?”

  She leaned back and looked at him. “With all my heart. But June’s sick. Her cough is something awful. I don’t know if she should travel just yet.”

  Furrows lined his brow. “Where is she?”

  “In our room in the attic.”

  “May I see her?”

  Leaving the ashes on the floor behind them, Cora Mae led the way up the stairs and into the chilled garret. “June, I have someone here who wants to see you.”

  “Who?”

  Ethan grabbed a chair by its back and set it down next to her bed. “Hi there, little lady.” He sat beside her.

  At the sound of his voice, June turned. “Mr. Howard!” The word caught in her throat, and she began coughing again.

  Ethan shook his head. “That’s too big a cough to come from you.”

  She reached up, and he leaned down, clasping her to himself before gently releasing her. “Are you feeling better?” she asked. “Is your arm sore?”

  Cora Mae cringed, but Ethan didn’t seem bothered. “I’m feeling much better, thank you.”

  “Where you been all this time?”

  He laughed. “Expecting me sooner, were you? I was busy getting healed up and then nursing other sick men down in Marietta. But I’m done with the army now.”

  “That means you can do whatever you want instead of always following silly old orders?”

  “It means I can do whatever I think is best.” He tapped her on the nose. “And do you know what I think is best right now?”

  “No.”

  Ethan stood and walked around the room, feeling the draft come in through the window and roof, despite the newspapers and rags stuffed in the cracks and holes. “The best thing we can do is to trade rooms. You’ll be doing me a favor really. Mine is filthy, ashes all over the floor.” He winked at Cora Mae.

  “Do you mean it? Mama, did you hear that?”

  “I mean it.” With a few long strides, he crossed the small space to Cora Mae. “Why are you up here in the first place?”

  With a sigh, she explained it to him.

  “She’ll never get better in this room, and you’re liable to fall ill yourself. I won’t let that happen. You’ll take my room, and I’ll stay here.”

  “For how long?” June called out. She was already climbing out of bed.

  “Until you’re well enough to go home.”

  June clapped her hands and then fell into a gasping cough once again.

  Cora Mae met Ethan’s gaze, and he put his hand on her shoulder. “I know you’re worried,” he said, too calmly.

  “Yes, I’m worried.” She cut her voice low, so June wouldn’t overhear. “My mother sounded like that, and she’s dying of brown lung.”

  “And my father died of black lung. But little June has neither. She’s sick from the air, and we’re changing that. Do you have use of the kitchen?”

  She nodded.

  “Why don’t you make some tea while I move her to room six, and bring my own things up here. There’s a crack in one of my windowpanes, but it’s nothing compared to this.”

  Cora Mae reckoned that to be polite she should argue with him. But she was so eager for June to be well again, and it felt so good to be taken care of, that she simply agreed to make tea.

  By the time she brought a tray of tea up to room six, June was beaming in the bed, her hair hanging in two coppery plaits over her nightdress. The ashes had been swept from the floor, and Ethan was on one knee, building a fire in the hearth. She set the tray on a small table before joining him at the fireplace. “I can’t believe you found us.”

  He stood and rolled his shoulders back. “I very nearly didn’t. I went to the mill today to look for you, and when I saw it wasn’t operating, I figured I’d never see you again.” He smiled. “Never been so glad to be wrong.”

  She felt herself blushing and quickly moved to bring June her tea. “Sit up, please. It’s hot. Little sips.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “For me?” Ethan pointed to the third cup of tea.

  “Please. Sit.” In the corner of the room opposite the bed where June rested, Cora Mae sat across from Ethan and focused on the steam curling up from her cup, suddenly at a loss for what to say.

  He stirred a lump of sugar into his tea then took a sip. Leaning in, he murmured low enough so June wouldn’t hear, “How long has she been calling you ‘Mama’?”

  She swallowed. “Since Marietta. She thought that would make us more likely to stay together. It sounded strange at first, but it seems to fit now. When her step-pa skedaddled, I agreed to take care of June as though she were my own. And now I feel as if she is.”

  “She is. In all the ways that matter. Now, this man you’ll be marrying. Is he a good man?”

  “He was my father’s friend. He offered to marry me and provide for me and my mother.” Just as Ethan had offered to marry and provide for her. Glancing at June, she was relieved to find she’d set her tea on the stand and had settled down to sleep.

  His gaze bore into Cora Mae. “Do you love him?”

  Her face growing warm, she looked away. The fire Ethan had built hissed and popped while she searched for words to say. “I respect him. My mother and I owe him a debt for the kindness he’s shown in Pap’s absence.” Stifling a sigh, she traced her finger around the rim of her porcelain cup. “It’s a practical arrangement.”

  “I see.”

  She wondered if he truly did. “Do you recall I told you about a textile engineer who came to Roswell?” He was rich, and handsome, and very persuasive.

  “I remember.”

  Cora Mae nodded. “I didn’t tell you that he took a shine to me. Promised to take me up to New York and marry me, and take me every place I had a hankerin’ to see.”

  Ethan’s eyebrows raised beneath a wave of dark blond hair. “And?”

  “He broke his word.” She swallowed. “Because he already had a wife.”

  He let out a low whistle, leaned back in his chair. “Filthy, lying cheat.”

  She shrugged, as if her heart had not been crushed. “He told me I was too common to be his wife, but that I could be his—” Her cheeks burned. Her longing for romance and escape had almost cost her honor. “I said no, of course, and stayed at the mill. Mr. Ferguson is nothing like Charles Hampton. He’s a good man, and loyal. I’ll not break my promise to him the way Mr. Hampton broke his promise to me. I aim to be honorable, Mr. Howard.”

  Ethan coughed into his elbow then drank the rest of his tea, brow furrowed in thought. “All right,” he said at last. “I respect that. And I’ll do my best to help you keep your word. Sherman once said, ‘War is cruelty,’ and he was right. But I still believe God has our good in mind, both for your life and for mine.” He pulled his haversack from where it hung on the back of his chair and set it in his lap. Flipping open the top, he withdrew an odd gray bottle. Grasping the neck, he popped the cork out of it with his thumb then tipped it up until a scroll came out. “Would you mind turning to hymn number twelve?”

  Cora Mae took the scroll, pulled the twine off it, and flipped through it. “What is this?”

  “It’s a Soldier’s Prayer and Hymn Book Chaplain Littleton gave me in Marietta. But the truths inside aren’t just for soldiers. I’d like to read some of this to you.”

  Relieved that he wasn’t asking her to read, she handed the open booklet to him.

  “Listen,” he said. “‘God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform; He plants His footsteps in the sea, He rides upon the storm.’ And then verse three: ‘His purposes will ripen fast, unfolding every hour: the bud may have a bitter taste, but sweet will be the flower.’ ”

  “May that be true,” Cora Mae whispered.

  “Be ever hopeful.” His smile warmed her to her toes. “And now I’ll take my leave so you ladies can get some rest.” Ethan went over to June and tucked the quilt around her little body until she coul
dn’t move an inch. “Look at that! Snug as a Junebug in a rug.” He kissed her forehead, and Cora Mae’s breath caught in her throat at his tenderness.

  “You know something?” June yawned. “You weren’t too bad for a Yankee. But you’re even better as just our friend. Don’t you think so, Mama?”

  A bittersweet smile curved her lips. “A very good friend, indeed.”

  November 22

  Ethan could hear June coughing from the end of the hall as he made his way toward room six. Only two days after he’d given up his room, he didn’t expect her to be well yet. But her rasping still scraped at him.

  He knocked at the door and stood back, gaze drifting to the Chinese-patterned wallpaper peeling away at the ceiling. A large patch had been stripped away from the wall, revealing spidery cracks in the plaster beneath. He wasn’t surprised that even the boardinghouse’s corridor was in disrepair.

  Cora Mae opened the door. Sunlight from the west-facing window behind her glinted on the thick braid coiled around her head. “Getting cold in the garret yet?”

  He wouldn’t admit that his fingers still tingled from the attic’s chill. “Actually, Mrs. Beasley told me if I was so concerned about the crack in your window, I could fix it myself.” He held up a thin sheet of wood. “So here I am. If you don’t mind.”

  She opened the door wider to him, and he stepped past her. Birch branches shook just outside the window, so that when she faced him, light and shadow played across her face. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course. Hello, June!” Ethan strode to where she sat at the table playing with paper dolls cut from newspaper and kissed the little girl on her silky hair. He coughed, and then so did she. “It’s not a competition, you know,” he teased.

  Her laughter brought a smile to his lips. “What’s that for?” She pointed.

  “To cover that windowpane, so wind can’t get through anymore.” He nodded to the cracked glass.

  “Oh, it’s just a tiny smidge of wind.”

  Removing his jacket, Ethan strode to the window in his shirtsleeves. “No smidges allowed.” Tucking the plank under his right arm, he drew several nails from his pocket and held them between his lips before unhooking the hammer from his belt. His tool pressed to his palm with two fingers, he grasped the plank and placed it over the glass. Angling his body, he pinned the wood in place with the end of his right forearm, and froze.