Blood Moon (Ella Wood, 2)

by Michelle Isenhoff

  The housekeeper popped her head inside the building. “Pair o’ letters arrived fo’ you, Miss Emily, and de newspaper.”

  “Thank you, Tandey. Just set them on the table.”

  “And,” the woman added significantly, “yo’ shoes.” She plopped a pair of leather button-ups on top of the paper.

  “You know I hate wearing those.” With her mother no longer nearby to admonish her, Emily had taken to leaving them around the house in odd places.

  “At least put on some slippers. You gunna catch yo’ death of a cold.”

  “It hasn’t affected me yet.”

  Tandey sighed in frustration. “You want me to have yo’ pink ball gown freshened fo’ de gala at Mrs. Guthrie’s this evening?”

  There was a remnant of individuals—wealthy individuals—who insisted on continuing the Race Week traditions. Indeed, the upper crust whose properties had survived the fire carried on much the same as they ever had. “I wasn’t invited. Besides, Mrs. Bentley asked me to work extra hours this afternoon.”

  “Miss Emily,” Tandey scolded. “I know you wanna go to dat school, but you be workin’ yo’self to death.”

  “I need that money, Tandey.”

  The housekeeper shook her head as she left. “You always was a willful chil’.”

  A glance at the mantel clock showed that she had one hour before she was due at the boardinghouse. The trial period had quickly turned into steady work. That, coupled with Betsy’s lessons, left Emily little time to fret about the military hostilities that had renewed themselves with the lifting of winter, bringing an end to the hopes for a peaceful resolution.

  She hung her apron beside the kitchen door and picked up her letters and the Charleston Mercury before padding across the yard. The new grass felt cool and soft on her feet. Nina and Joey Peterson flew shrieking through the back door ahead of her. By the time Emily caught up to them, Dr. Malone had stepped from his office and was frowning severely at the youngsters. “Children, please lower your voices.”

  “Sorry Dr. Malone,” they answered contritely.

  Abigail peeked from behind the office door, biting down a smile, and waved to Emily unobtrusively.

  “We’ve talked about this before,” Dr. Malone continued, kneeling down to the children’s level. “You must not disturb my patients.”

  The children looked so glum that Emily held an envelope to her lips to cover her own amusement.

  The doctor reached in his pocket and pulled out two gumdrops. “I propose an accord. If you play in the Gardens for one hour, I’ll have two more of these waiting when you return. Mind you, stay away from the guns.”

  The children’s expressions brightened, and two grubby hands reached for the treats. Abigail laughed. “I’ll tell your mother where you’ve gone off to,” she said, but the words had barely escaped her mouth before the children slammed out the front door.

  Emily handed Dr. Malone the newspaper. Since the fire, she’d had no heart for bad news, and it seemed as though that was the only kind ever printed anymore. “Remember how quiet and well-mannered they were when they first came?”

  “Were they?” Abigail quipped.

  Dr. Malone chuckled and returned to his office. “I suppose I’d rather see them boisterous than dispirited. Children are remarkably resilient.”

  Abigail linked arms with Emily and they climbed the stairs together. “For all their noise, I’m glad the Petersons haven’t left yet. It would be terribly dull without them.”

  “Yes, the house does feel rather empty with only two extra families living in it,” Emily teased. The others had found more suitable arrangements or left the city altogether.

  “A matter of perspective.” Abigail smiled. “Are you finished with Betsy’s lesson? My father has two more appointments this morning then I’m free. We could play quoits in the backyard.”

  “Or we could stroll through the Gardens. Nina and Joey will have cleared it out for us.”

  “I’m sure they have. If we’re attacked, we could set those two on the point and repel the entire Union fleet.”

  Emily laughed. “I’d love to play, but I’m due at Mrs. Bentley’s.”

  They paused outside Emily’s bedroom door. “I don’t know how you bear it,” Abigail said, “trudging through the city twice a day. I want to weep every time I smell the scent of ash. It’s all so horribly dismal.”

  Emily had noticed that, unlike the Peterson children, Abigail had not bounced back so quickly. She often grew morose when her attention wasn’t focused elsewhere. Emily tried to distract her as often as she was able, but her schedule left her short on time. “If you stayed busy, you wouldn’t think about it so much. Have you been knitting those mufflers like I showed you? Jack said his regiment could use fifty more of them.”

  “Winter’s over.”

  “Not in Virginia.”

  “But it’s so tedious knitting them by myself. It gives me too much time to think.”

  “Then come with me to Mrs. Bentley’s and do it in her kitchen. She wouldn’t mind.”

  “I can’t bear to walk through the burned streets.”

  “So volunteer in the soup kitchen instead. Or visit Aunt Margaret and keep her company. If her rheumatism isn’t acting up, she’ll probably knit with you.”

  Abigail shrugged noncommittally. “I’ll think about it.”

  She went in search of Mrs. Peterson, and Emily closed the door of her room. Sometimes it seemed her friend actually enjoyed wallowing in her misery, something Emily simply could not understand.

  Holding out her letters, she examined them more carefully. The first was addressed in Jovie’s painstaking scrawl. She shuffled it quickly to the back. Though his letters had contained only safe subjects and been drafted in his warm, friendly style, she had stopped answering them. She had stopped reading them. Life flowed so much more easily when she set him aside and focused on things that made sense.

  Emily flipped over the second letter to find the words “Flag of Truce” scrawled prominently across the envelope. It had originated at a Northern address and crossed the border at a military censor point. She recognized Uncle Timothy’s airy script. Her heart bounced. Could it contain news of Lizzie? Ripping open the envelope, she devoured the first page.

  Dear Emily,

  Your artwork arrived safely, all four portraits intact, though one suffered some damage in transport. Restoration has required a delay, but I assure you that each will be framed and repackaged in perfect order for delivery to their final destination. I’m certain Isaac and Shannon will receive your gift with joy….

  Tears of relief stung Emily’s eyes as she crushed the letter to her chest. Ketch and Lizzie were safe! But what could the veiled reference mean? Had one of the children fallen ill? Had they been found out? Had Ketch suffered an injury trying to protect his family? She read the words again, burning with questions that might not receive answers for weeks. She must satisfy herself knowing they were in good hands and would soon be on their way to Detroit. Offering up a prayer of thanksgiving, she tucked both letters into her top bureau drawer. She would pore over her uncle’s news later, when she had time to savor every word. How she wished she could share her joy with Thad!

  Her eyes shifted to his framed likeness sitting on the bureau. “You keep this,” he had said, handing her the portrait as they exited the racetrack grandstand last December. “The next time we disagree, I want this fellow in your room staring you down.”

  She smiled and ran a finger lightly along the contour of his jaw. It had been good, living so close to him. His schooling and her job left few hours to spend together, but she saw him regularly. Most days, he finished his last class about the time she completed her work. They sometimes purchased sandwiches or took a stroll around the waterfront, and conversation would roll between them like the hoops children trundled in the streets. She much preferred the frequent, short visits over his former weekends at Ella Wood with months in between.

  Setting the portrait aside
, Emily re-pinned her hair, donned a hat and a light shawl, and started briskly up the road. Ida Malone had voiced concerns about her roaming the city unchaperoned, but who had time to accompany her? Certainly not the doctor. So she continued to make the trip alone, secretly relishing the freedom. She noticed so much more when she traveled on foot—the precise pattern of a skirt, a sheen of sweat on the forehead of a passing pedestrian, church bells marking every half hour, the bright flash of a headscarf. Such details passed in an impersonal blur when she rode in a carriage, but on the street she knew the satisfaction of being part of the mass of humanity that made up Charleston.

  Within twenty minutes, the boardinghouse came into view. As Emily hung her wraps on the coat tree in the front hallway, her employer entered with a stack of bedsheets. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Bentley.”

  “Your timing is impeccable, Emily. You may put these in the upstairs linen closet and save me a climb up the steps.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you can help Becca finish making up the rooms.”

  Emily’s impression of the landlady the night of the fire wasn’t inaccurate. Brusque and businesslike, she had provided well for herself after her husband died, succeeding in one of the few opportunities open to her. But age had forced her to depend more and more on the services of others.

  Emily found Becca in the second bedroom, snapping a sheet open at the foot of the bed. The woman’s bright smile contrasted starkly with her skin. “Choose a side, Miss Preston.” A free black and longtime employee, Becca now bore most of the responsibility of running the boardinghouse. Emily had liked her immediately.

  Between them, the bed lay neatly finished in half a minute. They straightened a pair of cushions, tucked the chair beneath the desk, draped a folded blanket across its back, and carried away the soiled bedclothes. Then they moved on to the next room and began stripping the bed.

  At first, Emily had felt uncomfortable in the quarters of strange men. It was Becca who had told her to view each room as a business office. “It’s a simple transaction. They pay Mrs. Bentley, and she pays you.” A few days on the job had acclimated her—except in the case of Thad. Entering the room where he slept, changing his sheets, and washing his clothing still felt incredibly intimate. She even ventured to imagine what it might be like to live together in the same house as man and wife. The vision brought heat to her cheeks. She quickly reminded herself of the long road still before her, but for the first time, marriage held a definite attraction.

  “Is Thad home yet?” she asked, suddenly anxious to see him.

  “You know as well as I do that he plays billiards on Saturday afternoons.”

  “Of course. I’d forgotten.”

  “We got plenty to keep us busy, Miss Preston. He’ll be home soon enough.”

  Becca was right. When the bedrooms were finished, there were linens to iron, silverware to polish, and food to prepare. Emily began cutting apples for the piecrusts Mrs. Bentley was rolling while Becca gathered vegetables for the evening’s soup. The cozy atmosphere reminded Emily of her uncle’s hotel. She smiled, remembering winter evenings spent in the Detroit kitchen.

  “We’re all out of potatoes, Mrs. Bentley.”

  “We can’t be. I checked the pantry myself just this morning.”

  “I put in carrots, spinach, parsnips, and onions.” Becca counted off each one on a finger. “But I only found four potatoes.”

  “How could I have missed them?” Mrs. Bentley peered into the large kettle and clucked her tongue. “Well, that will never feed eight men. Becca, you’ll simply have to make another trip to the market.”

  “May I go with her?” Emily asked as the woman rummaged in a crock that held loose change.

  Mrs. Bentley looked up in surprise. “Why on earth would you want to visit the market?”

  “Because our cook Betsy always does the shopping, and I should like to learn how.”

  The woman stared at her in astonishment before the lines around her mouth twisted with mirth. “Sometimes I forget who you are. Every soul in this city is striving to climb the social ladder, but you’re determined to leap off the top.” She handed Emily a coin. “If you stay tonight until the ironing is finished, yes, you may accompany Becca to market.”

  Thad met them on the front porch steps with a small paper package. “Hello, beautiful.” He pecked Emily on the cheek. “Guess what I have for you?”

  Thad still surprised her every few weeks, when he could procure tickets to a symphony or a lecture, but Emily found herself anticipating the casual moments even more. Like the shiver that radiated down her arm when they brushed against each other in the hall or a few stolen minutes on the boardinghouse porch watching the rain pour down in sheets.

  “I couldn’t possibly guess.”

  He held the package under her nose and she inhaled a nutty fragrance. “Candied almonds!”

  She grasped for it, but he pulled it out of reach. “Just like the ones we enjoyed on our very first outing.”

  She giggled, remembering how incensed Lizzie had been when Emily left the house with him while Aunt Margaret was sleeping.

  Thad tucked the package behind his back. “I’ll share them with you if you agree to join me for an evening stroll.”

  “Do you think I’ll stoop to accepting bribes, sir?”

  He grinned, the dimple flashing in his cheek. “Yes.”

  “Then you’d be right. I’ll see you after dinner.”

  Becca waited for her at the gate. Emily had grown accustomed to working side by side with her and was mildly surprised when she hung back and walked the few blocks to the market several steps behind. The reminder that Becca was still black, free or not, made Emily notice details of another sort—the glint of a metal slave tag granting the bearer license to hire out, signed passes clutched in the hands of men and women of color, an old Negro woman stepping into the muck of the road to let a white child pass on the sidewalk, the suspicious glance of a municipal guard. Yes, it was a far different world, traveling outside of a carriage.

  Emily could smell the market before they arrived. The fragrance of coffee beans, horse manure, dried herbs, live chickens, and fish mingled in the sea breeze and drew them toward the low stalls. No doubt, the crowd had thinned out considerably since morning. Even so, the street was a kaleidoscope of motion and color and sound.

  Having no idea where to find potatoes, Emily feigned interest in a booth selling rice and dried beans and let Becca step past her. A thick-bodied vendor grinned, displaying a wide gap between her front teeth, and encouraged her with a string of Gullah, the creole slave language Emily could scarcely understand. Emily smiled politely and followed Becca at a distance, her gaze drawn by baskets of eggs, crates of spring produce, last year’s apples, and bolts of brilliantly colored fabrics. Ahead, close to the harbor, vultures fluttered among the pedestrians, gobbling up scraps discarded from the meat market.

  She caught up to Becca, who picked through a barrel of spongy potatoes with distaste. “We’re late. The selection is far better in the morning.”

  “Is there always so much variety to choose from?” Emily asked. Why had her father never let her accompany Betsy? The market would have been a fabulous place to play as a child.

  Becca laughed. “You should see it after a few ships have unloaded.”

  Emily handed the vendor her coin, and she and Becca departed with their purchase. As the market fell behind, the grate of carriage wheels on cobblestones followed them up Meeting Street. Emily paid it no mind until she heard a familiar voice call out, “Is this the style now in Paris?”

  Emily looked up to find a fashionable young woman peering out the window of a coach that had slowed to keep pace. She grinned. “Sophia!”

  Her oldest friend grimaced in response. “Charlotte Barton was right. You do look like a fishmonger’s daughter. Stop the coach!”

  Emily threw an apologetic look back at Becca, but the woman walked past without a hint of recognition.

  �
��Emily, get in.”

  She obeyed, maneuvering the high step before the coachman could reach her. “Sophia, how good it is to see you.”

  Sophia was clad in a low-cut gown tailored to showcase her voluptuous curves. Jewels decorated her neck and wrists and upswept hair. The display made Emily feel downright common.

  Sophia returned her embrace stiffly then studied her with a critical eye. “What is this I hear in every drawing room in Charleston? You’re working in a boardinghouse?”

  Emily didn’t know word had spread so quickly, though her failure to receive a single invitation during the entirety of Race Week should have tipped her off. “That’s right. I am.”

  Sophia’s mouth dropped open. “I thought they were just spreading nasty rumors. You know how they can be. But you are? You truly are? Oh, Emily, why would you do such a thing?”

  “Because my father won’t pay for my schooling. I told you, Sophia, I’m going to be an artist.”

  Sophia sniffed disdainfully. “You’re still entertaining those fanciful notions?”

  “I was entirely in earnest when I shared them with you.”

  “Really, Emily, this has gone too far. You’re a dabbler in pretty pictures. You don’t even paint in oils.”

  Emily’s throat tightened. “Oils are not the only medium to work in.”

  “Oh, please. Who purchases a pastel drawing to hang on their wall?” Sophia leaned in closer. “You should hear what they’re saying. That you’re wayward. You don’t know your place. That you’re—” she dropped her voice to an excited whisper “—wanton.”

  “I’ve done nothing to warrant that lie.”

  “It hardly matters. You know you’re throwing your future away, don’t you?”

  “How so? My father can’t disinherit me. Jack’s getting everything anyway.”

  “But who will marry a…a secular woman? You’ll have no suitors.”

  “Then I shan’t have to worry about sorting through them until I’m actually looking for a husband.”

  Emily had heard enough. Rising, she prepared to exit the moving carriage but threw one last parting shot over her shoulder. “My ambition has not discouraged Thad from speculating at marriage.”