Ruth felt her ears growing warm. “Lucy. She said it’s a rule that when you carries food from the kitchen to the house, you’re supposed to whistle the whole way there.”
Betsy shook her head. “Well, that’s true enough, I guess. The first Mr. Harper made the little boys whistle when they brought the food ’cause he kept getting little finger holes in his pies.”
Ruth widened her eyes. Who would dare stick his finger in the master’s pie?
“So Mr. Harper, he said those boys had to whistle when they brought his pies because no boy could lick pie off his fingers while he was whistling.”
Ruth laughed. “Is you kidding?”
Betsy shook her head. “It’s as true as the Bible.”
“I don’t think Mr. Harper will have to worry none about me tastin’ his pies,” Ruth said, grinning.
“Then you got no reason to whistle. Now, get this cornbread into the house.”
Ruth tried a little curtsy, to which Betsy rolled her eyes, before balancing the covered platter on one hand and opening the door with the other. Ruth finished bringing the evening meal in and watched the way Mr. Harper looked at his wife with affection. Ruth served them while they discussed bits of unimportant information, all the while unable to take her thoughts away from the tall man she’d met earlier. She found herself wondering where he took his meals.
“Ruth?”
“Oh! Yes, sir? I’m sorry, sir.”
Mr. Harper looked amused. “I said you may be finished for the evening. I will see to my wife.”
Ruth glanced at Mrs. Harper and saw her pale skin turn bright pink. Ruth ducked her head. “Yes, sir.”
She scurried back to the kitchen, grabbed a biscuit and chicken leg off the stove, and hurried to her room before Lucy could find her and give her something else to do. She sank down on her stuffed mattress and ate quietly, being careful not to drop any crumbs that might tempt mice to her bed.
When she finished her meal, Ruth pulled a small charcoal pencil from her skirt pocket. She’d found the writing instrument behind the seat in the parlor. She should have given it to Mrs. Harper, but no one would miss it, would they?
Ruth turned it over in her hands. If only she had some papers. But slaves were not supposed to write. She could never ask anyone for them.
Smooth, whitewashed walls wrapped her in an inviting embrace. They would take the words in her heart. She could tell her story to them. They wouldn’t betray her. Ruth crept to the door and looked out. No one was in the shared space. She latched her door and sat on the floor behind it and wrote I’d only wanted to make my little brother a cake for his birthday. Ruth stared at the words for a long time, her heart constricting in her chest. The pain and guilt ate at her little by little. She shook her head. This was crazy. If anyone saw her, they would whip her for sure.
She clenched her teeth. She had to get the story out. She couldn’t hold it any longer. Ruth put the pencil to the wall again, and soon the anguish that filled her soul made its way down her arm and into hurried words scrawled across the wall.
June 14, 1862
Lydia stood in her room and listened.
The day outside her window beamed with bright morning light. The sky glowed a pristine blue, and vivid green trees stood sentry along the drive, their branches moved by neither breeze nor critter. Everything stood still. Silent.
Lydia ignored the strange feeling that tickled the nape of her neck. Sound. That would break the uneasy feeling that hung around her like a thick mantle. She started to hum softly. Her mother used to sing this song to her as a child. Soon the quiet rumblings in her throat gained momentum and she gave way to the music. The hymn lifted her mood, and she twirled around, letting her skirts flow out in a wide arc around her legs.
She stopped. What was that noise? The front door?
She stepped to the window and looked down but saw no horses tied to the post or carriages in the drive. The lightness that had come with her song skittered away, leaving only apprehension. Where were all the people of Ironwood?
She hurried out of her room, pulling the door closed behind her. No one worked in the hall; no voices echoed in the empty house. Lydia smoothed her skirts and climbed the upper staircase to the third story ballroom. She stepped inside the long, narrow room. Built into the roof, only the center of the room was tall enough to stand in. The sides had been walled off where the roof pitch was too low. Lydia looked around but found nothing out of the ordinary. She turned to leave. Wait. Something caught her eye.
She walked across the room and knelt down next to the wall. A small panel with a tiny hook blended into the woodwork. Lydia flipped the latch and pulled the tiny door open to look inside. Nothing back there but the dark corners of the roof, a storage space filled with cobwebs and likely crawling with tiny creatures with too many legs. She shivered.
Then something began to glow. A lantern? She looked to the rear corner, far back against the house’s outer wall. The light grew until a dark shadow took form.
Her traveling trunk? Who had put it in the recesses of the roof?
The light brightened, illuminating the space until she had to shield her eyes. She slammed the tiny door shut and fled the ballroom, her heart pounding.
A door banged shut.
Lydia’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle the scream that tried to escape. She dashed down the hall, her skirts swishing and tangling around her feet. Ladies shouldn’t run.
She jerked to a halt in front of her bedroom door. It stood wide open. She’d closed it before she went to the ballroom.
Hadn’t she?
She cautiously stepped into the room, wiping her damp palms on her skirts. She would look under the bed. Just to be certain. Her hands trembled as she reached for the ruffle. Gritting her teeth, Lydia snatched the fabric upward and peered underneath. Nothing. She let out her breath in a whoosh. She was being ridiculous. Enough with acting like a frightened child. She drew herself to her full height and stepped over to her window.
She gasped.
In the front yard stood a man staring up at her. She frowned and put her hand on the glass. No. Not a man. A woman dressed as a man. Long, dark hair flowed free down her back and across a brightly colored top that hugged her body closely. Tight-fitting, dark-colored breeches clung to the feminine curves of her hips and legs.
Their eyes met.
Lydia bolted up in bed, her flailing arms connecting with something solid.
“Ouch!” Ruth hollered, her hands flying to protect her face. “I didn’t mean to scare you, ma’am.”
Lydia gasped and stared at the girl covering her head with her arms.
“Oh, my. I am so sorry, Ruth.”
Ruth lowered her arms and studied her mistress suspiciously for a brief moment before dropping her gaze. She straightened her simple green dress and smoothed the clean white apron across its folds.
Never in Lydia’s life had she experienced a dream more vivid. It was as if she had lived each moment. She shook her head to displace the lingering image of the strangely dressed woman in her yard. She frowned and flung the covers off, pushing past Ruth and going to the window. No one stood looking up at her. Of course not.
“Forgive my outburst. I seem to have had a rather strange dream.”
Ruth dipped her chin. “Yes, ma’am. I done brought you some fresh water in the basin.”
“Thank you.” Lydia stretched her arms over her head and busied herself with getting ready for the day. Her shipments had arrived, and she was anxious to begin her new project. “After the morning meal, I want you and Lucy to meet me in the front parlor.”
Ruth helped her dress and then quietly slipped from the room before Lydia could ask her to help with her combs. Ruth had come a long way these last three weeks, quickly picking up on her duties and displaying keen intelligence, but she still seemed wary of Lydia’s hair. Lydia couldn’t fathom why.
Lydia parted her locks down the middle and then twisted her hair into a simple coil at the back of
her head before securing its weight with several pins. She couldn’t manage any fancy styles, but a married woman didn’t need them anyway. She could handle at least this one aspect of her appearance on her own. Satisfied, she strode from her room, leaving the haunting dream behind.
The dining room stood empty, no place set for Charles at the table’s head. She sighed and seated herself, placing her napkin in her lap. Lucy bustled in placing biscuits, honey, and a slice of ham in front of her.
“Lucy? Do you know where Mr. Harper is this morning?”
Lucy shook her head. “No ma’am. I ain’t seen him.”
“Very well. Thank you.”
Lydia ate her meal in silence, listening to the girls giggle from the other room. Something inside her ached for that type of shared female companionship, but she must push it aside. She must remember her place as the lady of Ironwood. Ladies did not giggle; they composed themselves at all times.
And ate breakfast alone.
She wiped her lips in the dainty way Mother had taught and rose from the table. Her boxes had been delivered and unpacked in the parlor. Wonderful. Someone had even moved all the furniture for her. She smiled. They were very efficient around here. One mentioned request and all stood ready.
Feeling determined, Lydia dropped to her knees and shifted the heavy rolled rug across the wood floor. It slid slowly. She took a deep breath and tugged again, forcing the resistant covering into the correct position. There. Perfect. She pulled the twine free. All she had to do now was unroll it out across the floor and….
“Mrs. Harper!”
Lydia jumped to her feet and whirled around. Lucy stood in the doorway with wide eyes. “Oh no, ma’am. Why didn’t you call? We was on our way. You don’t need to be on the floor.” She shook her head vigorously. “We was coming to do it. We was coming.”
Ruth poked her head around Lucy’s wide frame. A look of amusement skittered across her face, but she quickly hid it. Lydia felt the blood creeping into her cheeks. Ladies do not sit on the floor. She clenched her teeth together and inclined her head, indicating the roll behind her.
“We will need to unroll it and position it properly.”
The two colored women hurried to fulfill her instructions. Lydia stood to the side and watched them, crossing her arms over her chest and waited properly while they undertook her much anticipated project.
“This here rug sure is nice, ma’am. I love these little flowers. They kinda look like a cross,” Ruth said, smiling at her.
Lydia brightened. “Thank you, Ruth. They are dogwood flowers. One of my favorites. And yes, you are right. They do look like little crosses.” She eyed the placement across the parlor floor. “I think it’s too far to the right. Let’s move it an inch or so.”
Ruth and Lucy grabbed the edge of the carpet and pulled it to the left. Perfect.
“I think it will look splendid with the new green and white curtains. Don’t you think?”
“Yes, ma’am,” they said in unison. Lydia pressed her lips together. Did they actually agree with her choice, or were they only saying what they thought she wanted to hear?
Strong arms suddenly wrapped around her middle. Lydia gasped. Charles buried his face in her neck, once again disregarding all sense of propriety. The girls giggled and slipped from the room.
Charles spun Lydia around to face him. “Well, Mrs. Harper, how do you like the new shipment?”
She couldn’t contain her smile at the look of boyish excitement on his face, her earlier sullenness melting away. “I am most pleased. What are your thoughts?”
“I think the look on your face is more beautiful than any decoration.” His eyes danced. “And I think I shall buy you anything your heart desires if it will produce such a glimmer.”
Lydia’s insides fluttered, her heart once again battling with her head. He looked so happy. So pleased to have her. What wouldn’t she do to have him always see her the way he did now? It wouldn’t last much longer. Would it? When his desire for her cooled to indifference, her heart would be rendered to shreds. Her head told her she must protect herself from the pain. Her heart only saw eyes that spoke of love. Could it be?
“Oh, Charles. You are so very good to me.” She eased closer to him, ignoring the warnings her mind fired at her. His arms immediately tightened behind her back.
He brushed his lips against hers, and she didn’t even care that they were standing in the middle of the parlor. “That is because I love you, my dear Lydia.”
Her heart thudded. Would he feel the same if he knew the truth? She pushed the thought away. He loved her as she stood here now, and that was all that mattered. “And I believe I love you as well, Mr. Harper.” The words slipped from her mouth before she could regain them.
Charles studied her face and then broke into a boyish grin. “I think I may actually believe you. I am beginning to see it in your eyes, and that pleases me more than I can say.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I came to tell you I must go to Jackson for a while. I have some business to attend to, but I should return before the month is up.”
“You are leaving again so soon? You’ve only been home a few days.”
Charles lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. He flashed his charming smile. “Are you saying you will miss me, then?”
She nearly giggled, remembering the night after their picnic. “Indeed, Mr. Harper, I believe I just might.”
He winked at her, and her stomach flopped. The feeling of sickness that had bothered her the last two mornings settled on her, and she swallowed hard. Should she tell him what she suspected? She was only a few days late for her woman’s time. But if he were going away for more than just business….
Her brow furrowed. “Does this have anything to do with war?”
“A little. With all that is going on, cotton prices are changing. I need to keep up.”
She stared at the new rug beneath her feet. No, she wouldn’t worry him. He would probably stay with her, and if her cycle came, he might have missed something important he needed to do. “Please be careful.”
He pulled her close, kissed the top of her head, and walked out the door. She stared after him for several moments and then walked to the windows to watch them load a trunk into the carriage. Without even realizing it, she wandered to the front porch. She tried to push aside the worry that nagged at her. His hurried departure bode ill even though he appeared casual. She would have to pay more attention to what people said of the encroaching war. She would have to find ways to be more helpful while he was away.
Charles bowed to her before he entered the coach, though his eyes said he wanted to do more. Lydia swallowed hard. Why must her determination for propriety keep them apart? He was her husband. She leaned against one of the pillars and soaked in the sweet freshness of air laced with the delicate scents of flora as she watched the dust boil up from under the carriage’s departing wheels.
She shook off her feeling of apprehension and returned to her duty in the house. Ruth and Lucy had emerged from hiding and were standing on dining room chairs, struggling to lift heavy curtains into place. Lucy began to wobble, and before Lydia could reach her, she toppled from the chair and landed in a heap of fabric. Ruth squealed and jumped from her perch.
“Oh! Lucy! Is you all right?” Ruth dug through the tangle of velvet.
Lucy spit and sputtered like a dangling cat when she emerged. Lydia covered her mouth with her hand. Looking every bit an old mad hen, Lucy’s hair stuck up at multiple angles. Lydia burst out laughing, unable to control it any longer.
Lucy stopped her sputtering and stared at her mistress. Ruth looked back and forth between them, and then started to giggle as well. Lucy crossed her hands over her chest and mumbled, “It ain’t funny.”
Lydia fingers clenched at her sides, tears welling in her eyes. “Oh, Lucy! I’m terribly sorry. Are you all right?”
She huffed. “Yes, ma’am. I reckon ain’t nothing damaged but my rear.”
Ruth giggled aga
in, and Lucy cut her eyes at the younger girl. Ruth clamped her lips together.
“Oh, come now, Lucy. Don’t be cross. You aren’t hurt. But I must say, with your hair sticking up all over the place and that sputtering sound you were making, you reminded me every bit of one of Betsy’s hens when you steal an egg out from under it.”
Her face scrunched, and her hand flew to her head. After a moment, she allowed a begrudging smile and smoothed the tresses back down against her head. She placed her hands on her hips. “Well, it still ain’t no laughing matter.”
Lydia sighed. “Well, we better get back to work. I’ve got many projects to get done. When Mr. Harper gets home, I want to surprise him with a new Ironwood.”
The girls nodded and began gathering the curtains again.
Lydia smiled. Mother would be proud. She just might make a proper lady after all.
Ruth rose from her bed with the sun and readied for the day. She fingered the cotton on her dress. Betsy had pulled several from storage and given them to her with tears in her eyes. Ruth had wondered about the emotion, but her fear kept her from asking. They were a bit too short but otherwise fit nicely. Ruth had never worn anything so fine.
She looked up at her story, which now wrapped around the top half of all four walls. What had she been thinking? What if someone came in here and saw how she’d scrawled all over their pretty white plaster? She couldn’t help it. Even if it meant a beating, she had to get the painful words out. She could handle the whip. It didn’t compare to the pain in her heart. She’d prayed like Momma taught her to, but still the emptiness wouldn’t go away.
Ruth slipped down the stairs and into the kitchen where Betsy was beating biscuits.
“Good mornin’.”
The woman had ears like a cat. Could sense you long before her eyes found you. Ruth stepped up beside her at the big wooden table used for cutting meats and preparing dough.
“Good mornin’, Betsy.”
Betsy dusted her hands with flour and started feeding the dough through the press. “I got one batch already cooking. Why don’t you check to see if they’re done?”
The Whistle Walk: A Civil War Novel (Ironwood Plantation Family Saga Book 1) Page 10