Shiloh. She had learned some history from her sister, though she never remembered the kind of details that stuck in Eddie’s mind. “That was really bad, wasn’t it?” Eddie had said the death count from the Civil War battles had been enormous, not to be matched until long into the future.
He nodded.
She wanted to reassure him about Forrest. She’d seen Grandpapa Forrest early this morning, reading his abbreviated copy of the Lavender News. He’d been well and happy, hale for a man in his latter years.
Forrest Stephens had come safely through the war years and had lived to bring up his young son and argue with his father. Even Lavinia had lived to see her child grow to manhood and Dr. Tyler had lived to be quite old.
But she couldn’t afford to offer reassurance. Anyway, what if she was wrong and some twist in fate changed everything? She could not be certain.
Perhaps by just being here she’d changed everything and nothing she’d known in the future could be counted on.
He got up to put on the coffee pot and she made him sit down while she made the coffee herself. By the time it was ready, Doc came in, looking exhausted from his latest call and she served them both with mugs of the invigorating liquid. She was surprised they could still get it; she was sure Eddie had mentioned blockades at the port in Galveston.
But maybe that hadn’t happened yet. This was so confusing, standing at mid-point between two times, as if on a sandbar in the middle of a rushing river. She was in danger of being swept away.
Doc didn’t seem surprised to see her, though he was obviously pleased. “Welcome back, Betsy girl,” he said warmly. “I’ve been wanting to ask if you are by chance my granddaughter.”
Caleb scowled. “Old man, you’re losing your mind. You only have a grandson and he’s hardly more than a babe.”
Betsy ignored him, grinning as she said, “Only by marriage. My mother married your son.”
“So we’re not blood kin?” He looked disappointed.
She couldn’t resist telling him the truth. “You have two granddaughters by blood and me by adoption.”
For once his grim expression lightened. “That is good news.”
“I’d think you’d want more grandsons,” Caleb said with an air of surrendering to the nonsense going on around him. “Most men do.”
“Not me. Boys just go off to war.”
“Girls too,” Betsy said, thinking of the future where Eddie and her husband Zan lived. “But that’s a long way ahead in time.”
His sadness returned, Doc said, “So we fight a futile battle.”
Betsy refrained from confirming that. “But Lavender is different,” she said, offering what hope she could.
Chapter Nine
“But I do not understand how you simply vanished,” Lavinia stressed as she plucked feathers from the chicken, meant for their noonday dinner, a task that Betsy knew would have made her feel faint at the time of their last meeting. “Doc didn’t seem concerned and Caleb was too sick to understand, but I couldn’t imagine what happened to you. I was so worried.”
Betsy looked up from the breakfast dishes she was washing, remembering the dishpan she had inadvertently carried off after her last visit. Lavinia Stephens had grown up since then, matured by work and stress. She was still pretty, her light brown hair neat in a bun and her long-fringed eyes larger in a thinner face, but she looked older and a whole lot less pampered.
Little Evan played with blocks nearby, quiet and thoughtful for such a young child, and Betsy tried not to remember that in another place and time this child had grown up to be her stepfather.
“I had no choice,” Betsy said again. “I had to leave.” She didn’t want to tell the truth. First of all, Lavinia wouldn’t believe her and if she did, well, she didn’t need any more complications in her life. Evan’s mother had been one of the first to die of influenza, she’d heard that story many times. This young woman certainly didn’t need to know the time and reason of her own death.
Even though Betsy drew comfort from the fact that it was a long time off. All of them, Forrest, Doc, Evan and Lavinia had a distance to go yet. This terrible war couldn’t kill them.
But Caleb, nobody mentioned him in the future. She felt sick with fear when she allowed herself to think of this. There was no Caleb in the future; nobody alive talked of memories of him.
Now she tried to dismiss this from her mind as she dried the dishes she’d laid on a clean towel, then put them away in the cupboard. Taking the dishpan of water, she held her breath as she went outside to dump the water on the rose bush. She paused to draw in sweet outdoors air. Even in the airy cookshack, the atmosphere was close and heated from cooking breakfast.
She held her breath again as she went back, successfully entering the kitchen, which smelled unpleasantly of the singed pin feathers on the chicken. At home, she’s accomplished this task herself many times, taught by the capable Mrs. Myers, but right now she was remembering visits to the 21st century ranch in Oklahoma where her aunt and uncle lived. Aunt Lynne and Uncle Moss bought chicken breasts in a package at the big grocery store in town, or even better just picked up already fried or roasted chicken at a little restaurant.
Sometimes she almost missed modern times. Then she remembered the troubles Eddie and Zan faced there and the feeling faded. The place she loved best was the peaceful oasis that was Lavender in 1908 where she lived with Mama and Papa and the rest of the family. But right now, she didn’t want to go there. She had too much to do right here.
Maybe by being here she could see Caleb safely through these terrible times and back home she’d hear how he’d survived and gone on and married to leave children she might meet in her own Lavender.
Funny how that wasn’t entirely a comforting thought.
Caleb was out milking the cow they’d acquired so that little Evan would have plenty of milk to drink. The small flock of chickens provided eggs and occasional meat, as on this day when they would have fried chicken and potatoes and other vegetables from the garden for the after church Sunday meal.
Betsy took over the meal preparation while Lavinia went to get herself and Evan ready for church. By the time the cooked food was on the table, covered by a clean white cloth to await their return, Betsy had to hurry to get ready.
Her room was a tiny one, once used for storage, near the one Lavinia shared with her small son. Washing hastily from a basin with homemade soap, she slipped into the one good dress she had made for herself from cloth bought at great price from the little store just down the street. The light blue cotton she’d worn on arrival served as her everyday dress, covered by one of Lavinia’s aprons while she worked. She did have a hat, a present from Lavinia’s abundant stock of clothing. No decent woman would go to church without wearing a bonnet or hat. Unfortunately Lavinia was so much smaller and slimmer that her other clothing would not fit the taller and more curvaceous Betsy.
They gathered in the living room, a large but sparsely furnished area, to leave for church. Caleb’s uniform, more a matter of spare parts than a unit, was worn, but clean and pressed, while Doc wore a dark suit and hat. Little Evan wore the pants and shirt his mother had made for him from fabric salvaged from outworn adult clothing.
As always, he seemed to Betsy to be unusually solemn for such a little boy, but his small face lighted at the sight of her. She had quickly become a favorite with the toddler.
They walked together to church, Evan between the two women, and the men following behind.
The church did not even slightly remind Betsy of the one she had grown up attending and was more modest even then the little chapel out in the country she’d gone to when her mother worked out on a farm during their early days in Lavender. It was a small wooden building, painted white, with steps that led up to a wide front door.
Inside hand hewn pews awaited those attending and a simple pulpit stood near the front. The family found their way to a pew near the back and Evan was drawn up onto his mother’s lap.
Until now Betsy had begged off coming to church with them, but Lavinia insisted, shocked that any young woman would miss Sunday morning service. Even Caleb, who was something of a social renegade, went most of the time. Doc, who seemed devout, though as out-of-step here as he was everywhere else in the community sometimes went here and sometimes to the Negro church, where the slaves and the few free blacks worshipped. It was just another thing he’d done for years that annoyed his white neighbors.
Now Betsy tried to sit modestly, her eyes looking down at her hymnal, conscious that as a stranger in town she would be the subject of much interest. She knew well enough that most of the people in the little town, so small that it was no more than the bare bones of the Lavender she knew, were well aware that their controversial doctor had kin visiting in his home.
She didn’t dare look up until the singing began, a tune unfamiliar to her, and as others gazed at the pages of the hymnal, she glanced around.
This was a small congregation by her Lavender’s standards and made up of mostly women, children and old men. Of course, she should have expected this. The young and even middle aged men were off to the war, though she saw Bolter Jackson and a few others. Rumor said they had paid others to fight in their stead, an entirely legal maneuver.
The members of the Peace Party, those men loyal to the union, were largely unrepresented. They had resisted conscription, but she knew from Doc and Caleb that these so-called ‘brush men’ were forced into hiding to save their lives.
The women of Lavender, whether loyal to union or confederacy, met here to worship, each no doubt full of fear for their men. Betsy looking mostly at backs of heads wondered how many of the women here were mothers of the people she knew back home.
The minister was an older man with grizzled white hair and a large mustache who delivered a sermon full of fire and brimstone and extremely partisan to the southern cause.
Today he was focused on the divided loyalties in the local community and spoke harshly of treason against one’s own. Betsy saw that many glances were sent in Doc’s direction and wondered that he bothered to come if this was what he met each week. It was as though the preacher was saying that God himself was against this gentle pacifist who hated only war.
She burned with anger in his behalf and it was only when the innocent child at her side touched her arm and she looked down to see Evan smiling at her that she was able to refrain from jumping to her feet and saying what she thought.
That was something Eddie would do, she thought with a glint of humor. She’d always danced to popular approval, being gifted with a higher level of tact than her outspoken sister. Well, she believed in standing up for what you thought, but in this case she might put all of them in danger, even little Evan.
Thanks heavens she knew they would all be safe when this nightmare was over. They had a future ahead of them.
Few of those attending spoke to them when the service broke up and they headed for the doorway. Only Lavinia was exempt from the air of heavy disapproval around them and even she was greeted more with politeness than friendship.
“Does everybody hate us?” she asked as they strolled away from the crowd.
“More like they’re afraid to be painted with the same brush,” Caleb answered her question. “It’s not wise to show sympathy to the enemy these days, not even if that’s where your loyalty lies. Some of our people moved here from free states,” he explained as though excusing them.
They walked rapidly toward the little white house on Crockett Street. The homes here, Betsy knew, would largely be replaced by the time she first came to Lavender by grand new ones with the curls and curlicues of the style that came to be known by the English queen’s name.
The dirt street beneath her feet, dusty now with the heat of late spring, would be paved with elegant bricks. Crockett Street would become one of the most pleasant neighborhoods in beautiful green, flower-growing Lavender.
But now it looked more like a tiny frontier town, most of its buildings new and hastily built, though she’d heard that the plantation houses out in the countryside were nearly as elegantly as those in the deep south. Nobody said much about the quarters out back where the slaves lived, nobody but Doc, who had described those humble dwellings to her.
The clip-clop of horses’ hoofs sounded behind them, but she didn’t turn to see who it was until she heard Lavinia’s welcoming cry. When she did look, she saw that it was Bolter Jackson with his two sons and the little daughter his late wife had died bearing him.
His equipage was elegant, the buggy shining black and new while the horses were clad in black and silver bridles. His daughter, a girl of perhaps ten was all gussied up as well, though Betsy had to suppose she wore last year’s dress as new clothing of any kind was scarce now in the southern states.
A little boy who looked to be a year or two older than the girl called out a cheerful “Hello,” and Bolter touched the brim of his wide hat. “Miss Stephens,” he said, “Mrs. Stephens.” He nodded at Caleb and finally at Doc, oozing conviviality. “I only wanted to ask you, Mrs. Stephens, if you’ve heard from Forrest yet.”
Lavinia’s face tightened with anxiety. “Not since Shiloh,” she said. “I’m so concerned, Mr. Jackson.”
Bolter nodded. “I’ll see what I can find out for you, ma’am.”
Lavinia thanked him with her usual graciousness and with a farewell nod, he sent his team back into motion and they rolled away.
Lavinia stumbled, clutching at Betsy’s arm. Betsy encircled her narrow shoulders and pretended not to see the tears on the other woman’s face. She wished she had some way of reassuring Lavinia that she was quite sure nothing was seriously wrong with Forrest. He would survive and live into the next century and become grandfather to her, Eddie and Sylvie. But she couldn’t say the words because they would seem totally unbelievable to the others.
Caleb wakened with a jolt, then listened, not sure what sound had interrupted his heavy sleep. He heard nothing, but even though exhausted from work he could have accomplished easily before he was injured, found it hard to go back to sleep.
His leg ached, but that was normal enough. Doc offered him medicine for the pain, stuff Hetty put together from herbs and such, but he only took it when he hurt so bad he felt desperate. He didn’t feel right to have even homemade drugs when the troops in the field might be going without.
Tonight it was almost bearable and he knew if he lay still and thought about something else, he’d eventually be able to go back to sleep. So, of course, he thought about Betsy, who always occupied about ninety percent of his thoughts anyway.
He’d been so happy to have her come back, but now he lived in fear that she would leave again. She talked little about her family, but he knew she had to have one. Though she wasn’t spoiled as Lavinia had been, she was obviously loved and missed by somebody.
He turned over, trying to get comfortable, telling himself that Betsy Stephens’ plans for the future could have nothing to do with him. Maybe once, when he was still whole and healthy, he might have dared dream of such once this terrible war was over. But not now, not ever. What had he to offer any woman, maimed as he was?
Then he heard the sound again. Somebody moved furtively through the cookshack, trying to be silent, but now and then making a little creeping sound.
He got up and grasping hold to his cane, found his way to where his door was opened just a crack. From the moonlight coming in the windows, he saw that Doc, carrying his bag, in his hand was moving toward the doorway.
This was not an unaccustomed sight to see Doc creeping quietly out to visit a patient, but what worried Caleb was the small dark boy standing in the doorway waiting for him.
The child was nobody Caleb knew and his heart pounded as he realized he must be a slave child, come to fetch Doc to the quarters of one of the nearby plantations. Damn, but Doc could get himself killed this way.
Anger rising in him, he spoke out, “Doc, you said you wouldn’t do this anymore! You’re putti
ng the whole house at risk by treating those people.”
Doc came close to dropping his bag. He clutched at his heart and swore in German. “Caleb, you startled me something awful,” he added in a voice that bespoke a remarkable calm.
“Hells bells, Doc, you can just be thankful it wasn’t one of those vigilantes catching you in the act.”
“No vigilante has any business being in my home.”
“Like that would stop them. You just stay right there, Doc. You’re not going anywhere.”
“Now, Caleb, you can’t stop me from doing what I must.”
“I’ll hogtie you if I have to,” Caleb retorted fiercely.
Doc tried another tactic. “Caleb, this is Ezra,” he said, waving one hand at the silent child. “His little brother’s taken real sick.”
Caleb told himself he didn’t care about that. Those folks could be taken care of by their own. They could call Hetty, she was the same color as they were, and nobody would hang her for treating their sick.
“Kids get sick,” he said, “but they get well real quick too.”
Large eyes stared at him. “Not my brother. Miss Hetty says he may not get well.”
“Now Ezra, we’ll do our best,” Doc said encouragingly. “We’ve pulled him through before.” He started toward the door.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Caleb protested.
“Would you have me leave the child to die?” Doc asked calmly.
Conscious of the boy’s watching eyes, Caleb couldn’t say ‘yes.’ He couldn’t say he’d rather an unknown child die than Doc put himself in danger.
He drew in a deep breath. “Give me a minute to get some clothes on and I’ll go with you.”
He couldn’t believe he was doing this. He knew better. Even as he kept saying this inside his own mind, he pulled on pants, shirt and shoes, picked up his cane and hobbled out as quickly as he could. He harnessed the buggy, knowing riding horseback was a little too much for Doc these days. Doc and the boy Ezra climbed up beside him and they drove down the silent streets.
Lavender Blue: A Time Travel Romance (Lavender, Texas Series) Page 7