by Caryl McAdoo
She did, then leaned forward, took his hand and intertwined her fingers with his.
“I’d been with the army for a while. The British had landed, but our spies told us they were waiting on reinforcements. Once he was happy with the breastworks we’d dug, Jackson gave a few at a time a day off in town; mine fell on a Sunday.” He shook his head.
“What?” She squeezed his hand.
“Oh, I used to think of it as fate. Know better now. Nothing happens by chance.”
She squeezed a little harder and rubbed the top of his hand with her thumb. She loved his strong hands. “So what did you think was fate?” She met his eyes. “Or should I say destiny?”
“Getting a Sunday off for one thing. Any other day, she wouldn’t have been there.”
“She, being Tess?”
“Yes, ma’am. That day, I was on my way home, but her singing drew me to Congo Square. The rhythm of the drums sounded first, then a velvet alto caught my ear.” He grinned his crooked little boy smile like he was ashamed of the memory. “You ever been there on a Sunday?”
“Oh no, not me. Chester talked about it some, but Sundays were for resting up.”
“Guess I stood out. Not long before she noticed me, and….” He shrugged. “I’d never had anyone sing to me before. I didn’t realize she was a slave. Didn’t understand how different it was here from Kentucky.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Them getting Sunday afternoons off. I didn’t know about that.”
“Chester knew. That was the only thing about New Orleans he liked.”
“Anyway, that evening before we both went back to where we belonged....” Henry lowered his chin. “Couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve relived that day.” He looked up and grinned again. “If I could, I’d change my past, but I can’t, and well… Bull found out about her. And me professing my love, being so naïve over the girl. Then to make it worse, he hunted down her master and made a deal to buy her.”
“So you lied to me?”
“No, when?”
“You told me that the feud between you two was over you shooting your mouth off regarding Bull’s trouble with the ladies, that that’s why he wanted to fight.”
“I didn’t lie. He’d been riding me hard, bragging over owning her someday, then I found out....” A chuckle escaped, and he shook his head. “Your father’s the one who told me about Glover’s problem.”
“Really? How interesting.”
“When it was Glover teasing me, everything was fine, but once Silas gave me the goods to give it back, things changed. Of course, I rubbed in it.”
She leaned back a bit but kept ahold of his hand. “Was she pretty?”
“Oh yes, but couldn’t hold a candle to you.”
“And you’re sure you haven’t been in love with her all these years?”
“Absolutely. I never loved her. What Tess stirred in me…well, I’d call it more akin to lust. I thought it was the real thing, but…” He patted her hand. “At sixteen…it being the first—and only—time with her…. After I got out of the army, Mother and I left New Orleans. Never tried to find her.”
“Why not?”
“No money, plus I knew Mother would not take kindly to me wanting to buy a slave, pretty or not.”
He said all the right things. How stupid for getting all green-eyed over a slave girl. “What did she look like?” Why had she said such a thing?
“A lot like that Sofie girl. Thought for a split second, it was her. You’d think Glover would have kept his son away from his daughter.”
How horrid a man Bull Glover must be. A wave of nausea rolled over her just thinking about it. “Bless God, Henry, that Gwen didn’t run off and get mixed up with the likes of Braxton.”
“Amen. But I’d have killed him and his daddy. Only takes one to hang a jury.”
She tugged on his hand, and he came out of his chair, then pulled her to her feet. She kissed him then leaned back, his arms held her tight. “I would have beat you to it. Nobody messes with us Buckmeyers.”
On the way to Jefferson, Gwen reworked her letter to Clay until Mama declared it perfect, then once her mother’s note to Mary Rachel explaining the misadventure in New Orleans and what a mistake her sister’s first letter to Mister Briggs had been, Gwen relaxed some.
The very morning she landed in Jefferson, she and Mama May insisted on a trip to the post office, post haste, over her daddy’s protest.
Then, it was in God’s hands. And He was merciful.
The stage ride home proved almost pleasant. Surely, it would all work out. Her sister would convince Clay to forget that first letter. He’d come in the spring with Elijah, and everything would be peaches and honey.
That scenario worked until the wee hours of the first night home. The enormity of her sins robbed her of sleep and gnawed at her sanity.
Though she certainly shouldn’t, she lit a lamp and reread the letter Clay had sent. Several times. With each profession of love, the whirlpool in her gut worsened. With each line her eyes scrutinized, the conviction of his pending pain stabbed her heart.
Poor Clay. He would be crushed. Why had she done it?
If only old man Broomfield hadn’t died right when he did. He would have seen Mary Rachel’s letter wasn’t for him. Gwendolyn might never have gone to New Orleans if she’d only known how Clay really felt.
Convinced he didn’t care, she’d chosen her medicine. But she hadn’t known then what a lying toad…would she have chosen the weasel and gone anyway?
So easily deceived!
Each day that dragged by, seemed the weight on her shoulders grew heavier. By her calculations, on the morning it should have arrived, nothing happened. Nothing felt different. If he had, she would have sensed it.
But nothing was different, not one little thing.
Maybe Clay worked at the gold mine. And Mary still had it. That could be good. Give her sister plenty of time to figure out how to make him understand. If he had it, she’d have to know it in her heart. She was sure of it.
The letter had to be sitting on Mary Rachel’s desk, the one she put off to the side of the big picture window in the front corner of the Lone Star Mercantile.
Gwen giggled. That was it. Clay and Elijah were off mining gold, and her second letter would get there before he read the first one. That had to be it. She skipped downstairs. Why had she been so melancholy?
The good Lord watched over her, always had. But down deep, a nagging dark cloud screamed no.
Had she doomed herself to a life of spinsterhood?
Chapter Twenty-three
Of course, Clay knew nothing of Gwen’s calculations. Though just like she figured, he’d been up on the mountain hard rock mining. However, the young miss failed to factor in such favorable trade winds.
They’d trimmed a whole day off the steamer’s trip up California’s coast. Nor could she be aware that Mister Briggs had drawn the short straw the day before.
At that very moment, Clay backed the mine’s empty wagon up to the Lone Star Mercantile’s loading dock with a list of supplies and a ten-page letter that needed posting. He found the lady he hoped that one day would be his sister-in-law sitting at her desk.
“Hey, Mary Rachel.”
The beautiful young woman looked up. “Well, hey yourself. When did you get here?”
“Just now.” He handed over the list and his folded pages. “Can you post this to Gwendolyn for me?”
Taking his offering, she gave him a little nod. “Pleased to, and you my friend, are living right. Just this morning, we picked up the mail, and you’ve got two letters.” She pulled out her middle drawer then handed them over.
The first bore his love’s swirly lettering. He’d know it anywhere, just like he knew his brother’s hen scratching. He stuffed Gwen’s in his shirt pocket and tore open Jake’s.
November 14, 1853
Clay,
Pa took sick. His cough’s turned real bad. If you want to see h
im before he goes on to his reward, best get home. Everybody else is fine. Well Ma is heartsick. We’re not sure if she cries over you or Pa most. And this ain’t no lie she cooked up to get you back Doc says if Pa makes the winter, it’ll be a miracle. You do what you think right, but were it me, I’d get on home. You ain’t just Ma’s baby boy. Might do the old man some good to see your snot nosed face.
Your brother,
Jake
Clay handed the single page to Mary Rachel. “What do you think? It takes a month to get a letter here, right?”
“Yes, about that.” She took the paper, stared at it barely a minute, then looked up. “I’m so sorry, Clay. The same steamer that brought this sails day after tomorrow. Might even be one quicker. Want me to check?”
He closed his eyes. If only he knew for sure his father would still be alive. “What do you think?”
“If it was Henry Buckmeyer, I’d leave as soon as possible.”
“What about Elijah? He still at the farm?”
“He is. Want me to send word?”
“Please. And is Jethro at the bank?”
“Last I knew. You go on. I’ll get Hank to go fetch Elijah.” She stood. “And don’t worry about getting anything back up the mountain. Amos can deliver the supplies.”
Smack dab in the middle of his confab with Jethro and Mister Risen, Clay remembered the letter from Gwendolyn still stuffed in his shirt pocket. On purpose, he waited until he was in his room at Jethro and Mary Rachel’s house to read it.
Instead of enjoying her sweet consoling words of love, he couldn’t believe his eyes.
The news finally sunk in the third time he reread her words.
Gwendolyn was marrying Braxton, and he might as well stay in California. The pain tore his heart then ripped it into little shreds. He blinked backed the tears, but they wouldn’t be denied.
Someone wailed. It was him. For the longest, he cried like the baby his brothers always claimed he was. But it didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered if his one true love married that dandy, Braxton.
How did the likes of that sorry excuse of a human being ever weasel his way into her best graces? Well, she could have him. He hated them both. Hated himself for leaving Texas and coming to San Francisco.
Now, he’d lost his pa and his love.
Once word reached Elijah about Mister Briggs taking to his deathbed, he alternated between praying and debating with himself if he should go with his friend. Bless the young man’s heart.
But by the time he reached the Risen’s place, he’d decided to stay.
Absence for sure made his heart grow fonder.
But he’d given Henry his word, and only holding Cecelia’s hand until married as he’d promised seemed more than he could stand.
The desire to smother her lovely face with kisses had grown so strong, he really didn’t know if he could bear being there any extra time prior to the wedding.
Oh, what a glorious day that would be. He grinned. And an even grander night.
He found Mary and Jethro in the kitchen, helping Francy cook supper. Did his heart good to see the little family together, but it also reminded him that his own Buckmeyer sister was so far away. “Hey, is Clay here?”
His partner threw a nod upstairs. “Best go check on him. He’s taking it hard.”
“But I heard his father was only sick.”
“That’s what his brother’s letter said, but…go see if you can cheer him up.”
After taking the stairs two steps at a time, Elijah tapped the door twice then went ahead and opened it when what sounded like a moan escaped.
Clay stood in the middle of the room holding a piece of paper, his eyes red and cheeks wet, like he’d been bawling or something. Elijah stepped in and closed the door.
“Jethro said your pa was only sick. Have you heard more?”
The man only nodded then extended the page. Elijah took it, read Gwen’s letter, than let it drop to the floor. “I do not believe Henry Buckmeyer would ever give his blessing for her to marry Braxton Hightower. He’s too good a judge of character.”
His face suddenly stone, Clay shook his head. “You don’t know that, can’t say it. He said Cecelia couldn’t be courted until she was eighteen, yet the two of you are getting married come spring.”
“Yes, after her eighteenth birthday.”
“He acts so tough with those girls, but in the end, he gives them whatever they want. And Gwen wants Braxton.”
“I’m sorry, Clay. You’d be there if I hadn’t of invited you to come along.”
He shrugged, then both shoulders drooped. “Me being there wouldn’t have changed anything. Pa would have still taken sick. He’s pushing seventy, he’s lived a good long life. And that last evening at the Donoho, though Gwen acted like she cared, she wouldn’t promise to wait on me. I should’ve realized it then.”
What was done was done, but Elijah still hated seeing his friend in so much pain. “Need me to go with you?”
“No, not at all. I spoke with Mister Boaz, and he said the bank would loan me however much I needed.”
“You don’t have to borrow anything. You’ve got wages coming and your planter money and…”
“No, I’d rather take out a loan, make regular payments on it. I’m coming back just as soon as.…” He turned away, and his hands shot to his face. Elijah studied the floor. He needed to ask Jethro or Brother Paul or someone what was proper.
A part of him wanted to hug Clay, but then another part wanted to slap him and tell him to buckle up and be a man about things.
Crying didn’t help nothing... But then Jesus wept.
His friend turned back and wiped his cheeks. “The day after the funeral, or a week after I get there if he’s already gone, I’m coming back. Texas ain’t got nothing for me. I love it here. Hard rock mining beats sod busting all the way around the stump.”
“I agree. Only thing better is being at the farm with the orphans.”
“Maybe I’ll go back when Bonnie comes of age.”
Elijah smiled at the thought. The youngest Buckmeyer daughter might be the prettiest of them all once she matured, and the young lady had a heart of gold.
But either way, Clay Briggs would always be the younger brother he never had. “It’s settled then. We’ll get you a berth tomorrow. For now, what say we go see if supper is ready? I’m about starved. The little darlings wore me out this morning.”
As promised, passage was booked and with his packed carpet bag in hand and steamer trunk ready, the next morning Clay found himself standing in front of the gangway waiting to board.
He hated it all to blue blazes that everything had changed.
Now, instead of him going home loaded with gold and a high hand, he was rushing back with his tail tucked between his legs.
Plain and simple. Just not right. And truth be told, all he’d probably find once he got there would be Pa’s grave. Ma would be happy to see him though.
“Clay—here. We got this for you.” Mary Rachel held out a golden key with an oversized head, the number seventeen had been engraved in it.
He took it. “What’s this?”
“Your room key. We paid the extra for you to go first class.”
He looked from her to Jethro then Elijah. “You shouldn’t have. Steerage would have been plenty good enough.”
His best friend ever, the man he considered closer than a brother, stepped forward. “We know, but we wanted to do it. Also booked you round trip, so whenever you’re ready, you can get on back.”
Clay eyes threatened to overflow, but he bit his cheek then smiled, waiting to talk until sure his voice wouldn’t fail him. He cleared his throat first. “Thank you, but I’m not going to know how to act sitting at the grown up table.”
Smiles passed all around, but factually, truth filled his words more than mirth. For his whole life, he’d been the baby and treated as such. But never here, not with these folks.
Shamed him some the way he’d carr
ied on about Gwen, but at least he’d read her letter in his room. And the bad news about his pa gave him some cover.
Handshakes and a sisterly hug from Mary Rachel made it all become too real. He really was going back to Texas.
For the first two days, he took his meals in his room, but the queasiness never bloomed into the raging seasickness he’d suffered before. The third night, he dressed in his best suit and took his place at the first class table.
Thankfully, he found his place card across the room from the captain’s table where all the society folks sat, but still nice enough.
The lady across from him extended her gloved hand. “I’m DeStella Volker.”
He took her extended fingers and shook ever so gently. “Clay Briggs. Good to meet you, Mis’ess Volker.”
“It’s Miss. Well, I’m a widow. My husband…he died in a fire.” She smiled half-heartedly, like she didn’t want to. “But please, Mister Briggs, call me Dee.”
“Yes, ma’am. If you’ll call me Clay.”
The next smile appeared more genuine. “Well, Clay, I didn’t mean to spy, but wasn’t that Jethro and Mary Risen I saw you with on the dock”
“Yes, ma’am. You know the Risens?”
“Please, you make me feel so old.” She scanned the room. “But, no, I don’t know them, not really, but I know of them. I daresay most of those in San Francisco know their story. How that scoundrel Caleb Wheeler treated her then got himself killed fighting over a barfly. Jethro and his partner striking it rich, starting the Miners Bank, and building the orphanage. Good Methodists, I hear.”
“Yes, we are.”
For the most of the meal, a nice prime rib with all the trimmings, Dee asked questions. Of course, he acted polite to the lady. Ma would tan his hide if she ever caught him being rude to anyone, but especially a middle-aged widow.
Wasn’t no chance of his mother catching him, but still.… Then to top off the evening, the nice lady invited him to the parlor to enjoy a nightcap.