Blood Moon (Ella Wood, 2)

by Michelle Isenhoff

  “No.” She sank into a defeated heap on the mattress. “You don’t know what it’s like when he’s gone. None of the servants will mind.”

  The admission surprised Emily. Judging by the way her friend had always manipulated her tutors and her parents, she figured the control of a few slaves would prove easy. “So you hide in your bedroom,” Emily said with the dawn of understanding. Apparently, Sophia had been waging a long, losing battle. “Have you asked your overseer to step inside?”

  “Twice, but Matthew has forbidden it. He says Mr. Croft has his own duties to attend to and that I must find a way to manage my own Negroes.” Tears formed in her eyes. “Keturah is the worst. Her insubordination spreads to all the others. But Matthew won’t sell her because she is a skilled cook, and she knows it. I don’t know what else to do.”

  Emily sank onto the edge of Sophia’s bed. This sort of uprising never happened at Ella Wood. Her mother commanded too much respect, and her father backed her fully. The problem tugged at the heart of the conflict she’d wrestled with for nearly two years. Plantations required labor. Labor required control. But what if the workers wished to be free?

  Her mother, she knew, would send Keturah out to Mr. Croft to spend a few days in the fields. Emily didn’t want to be the one to suggest such a thing. Neither did she wish to see Keturah beaten again. Even so, she couldn’t help feeling a pang of sympathy for her friend. “When does Matthew return?”

  “Tonight. I had to schedule tomorrow’s luncheon for a day I knew he’d be home.”

  Emily smiled encouragingly. “Then we’ll just have to make do.”

  ***

  Emily awoke the next morning to find sunlight peeking around the edges of the curtain. She stretched sumptuously beneath the linens, easing the ache in her muscles from yesterday’s long ride. Not having to trek to Mrs. Bentley’s still felt like a luxury.

  Rising, she pulled back the curtains and breathed deeply of sun and field and flower. It had rained during the night, lending a vibrancy and freshness to the morning. The outdoors called to her, and she decided to scout the plantation for faces she could capture on paper. Perhaps she’d find a subject that might pique the interest of a Northern magazine editor.

  Not hungry for breakfast, Emily donned a ruffled day dress in bold red and black plaid and had just gathered her bag of art supplies when a hesitant tapping sounded at the door. “Miss Preston?”

  “Come in.”

  The door swung open to reveal a tall, strongly African-featured woman only a few years older than herself. “Mrs. Buchanan sent me to see if you be stirrin’ yet. Said I’s to help you while you here.” She carried a pitcher of fresh water, which she left on the bedside table, and retrieved the chamber pot from under the bed.

  “You must be Nelly.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  Emily smiled. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “Can I be gettin’ you anything, miss?”

  “Not at the moment, thank you.” She’d been fending for herself for months and felt awkward being served now. “Though we’ll both be in trouble if I’m not presentable for Mrs. Buchanan’s party. Will you check back at noon?”

  “Yes, miss.” The woman left with the soiled pot.

  Emily continued outside and stopped to sketch Finn brushing a fine, sleek stallion. It turned out far from satisfactory; Finn kept peeking at her work with a ridiculous grin on his face. When she finished, she handed him the portrait. It might have been a Christmas ham, judging by the enthusiasm he displayed when accepting it.

  She moved on, sketching the dilapidated condition of a slave cabin followed by the pure joy on the faces of two young Negro children who were playing with a litter of kittens. Then she sat in the wet grass to study an old woman hoeing in her garden. The woman was so thin and frail Emily couldn’t imagine her strokes had enough power to cleave the earth. But her movements were efficient and true, the sum of eighty seasons of repetition. Emily sketched the record of cares and pleasures that had etched themselves deeply into her face. She captured the trials that bent her posture, the ache in her arthritic grip. Yet for all the troubles represented, the image radiated serenity. Emily peered hard at the page, at the strength that stared back at her. Life had not defeated this woman. She tucked the portrait carefully into her portfolio.

  Ambling back across the yard, Emily waved to Matthew, who passed in the opposite direction. She’d heard his arrival late last night. He nodded in return and continued about his business. Emily heard Sophia’s voice carrying from the dining room when she entered the house and headed in that direction. “Sophia, I forgot what time the women will be—” The words broke off in her throat.

  Her hostess sat at the table with both hands pressed around the warmth of a coffee cup. Beside her, with his mouth open to receive a forkful of griddle cakes, sat Jovie.

  “Good morning, Emily.” Sophia smiled with morbid anticipation, like someone looking forward to a hanging. “Look who dropped in for a visit.”

  Jovie set down his fork and stood. He appeared thin and weathered, almost too gaunt, with every muscle standing out beneath a worn shirt. “Hello, Emily. My sister didn’t mention that you were here.” He glanced accusingly at his twin.

  “You didn’t ask,” Sophia replied breezily. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll step out to oversee luncheon preparations. I’m sure you two have much to talk about.” With a smirk, she swept past them and out the dining room door.

  Emily pulled in three constricted breaths before Jovie cleared his throat. “You look well,” he said. It was a simple observation, but his tone conveyed an undeniable coolness. Not that she could fault him for it.

  “I’m well enough, thank you.” Another awkward pause, then she added, “You’re not in uniform.”

  “I’m on leave. They gave me two weeks before taking two years,” he remarked laconically.

  “Yes, I heard.”

  They eyed each other across the table, neither one willing to look at the other directly. Emily twisted the cuff of her sleeve and wracked her brain for something sensible to say while he rapped his knuckles idly on the table. He looked as worn as his clothing, the planes of his face sharpened from loss and hardship. She felt fresh guilt for cutting off all contact during such a difficult time. Finally, he blew out a long breath. “I think I’m just going to head back to my regiment. I’m due in a few days anyway, and travel is always a gamble.”

  Something within her condensed as he pushed past, and she knew she couldn’t leave things as they stood. Not with the war waiting to reclaim him. Not with her heart reprimanding her for creating this wall between them. It was wrong, all of it. “Jovie, wait.”

  He paused, not turning.

  “Don’t go.”

  He faced her cautiously. “Will it change anything if I stay?”

  She bit her lip instead of answering. “Sophia shouldn’t have told you.”

  “Who did you want to inform me of your engagement?” he bit out. “Your first child?”

  “I’m not engaged.”

  He took a step nearer, hope blooming on his face, but she held up a hand. “Thad asked me, but I haven’t agreed yet.”

  “Yet,” he repeated flatly.

  “I promised him an answer when I return.” She shook her head. “I’m not sure what I’m going to say. But I do know that I need to clear things up with you before I can tell him anything at all.” She grimaced. “I must have started a dozen letters.”

  “I noticed you didn’t finish many.”

  She looked down at her hands clenching and unclenching around the fabric of her skirt. He sounded so cold and cynical. “Jovie, I’m so sorry.”

  He started toward her, stopped, and raked both hands through his hair. “You don’t know what it’s like, Emily, to live this horrible dream with no way to waken. Your letters, they were my reality, and suddenly they just cut off.” His face filled with torment, laying bare his fears and uncertainty. “Why?”

  Tears blur
red her vision, and she didn’t care if he saw them. Part of her wished to take him in her arms and soothe away his pain, but she held back, wrapping her arms around herself. “I didn’t know how to respond to you after…” She let the thought trail off. “Everything just got too complicated. I wanted to block out the war, block out the confusion. It was pure selfishness. I realize that now.”

  “Do you love Thad?”

  The question was unexpected. “I—I think so.”

  “No, Emily. You have to do better than that.” His face had turned savage, and he gripped her with ungentle hands. “Do you love him?”

  “Of course I do!”

  His gaze was narrow and searching—the keen eyes of a wolf. She had seen the expression once before, when she’d deceived him by coming to Charleston without her father’s permission, but the war had honed it razor sharp. “I love him, Jovie. I do.”

  “Is he making you choose between him and school?”

  “No, he’s suggesting we do both. He wants to marry and move to Baltimore.”

  “And you don’t agree?”

  She hesitated. “I’m not so sure the timing is right.”

  “What’s his hurry?”

  Emily felt her cheeks heating. She didn’t answer, and he didn’t seem to expect her to.

  “He’s a fool,” Jovie scoffed, releasing her. “If I were to take a wife, I’d wait until I was darn sure nothing else competed for her affections.”

  It was the generosity of his statement that caused Emily’s chest to compress. A glimpse of his heart that had not changed despite all he had endured. Her explanation felt weak and selfish. “If we delay, anything could happen.”

  “Is he joining up?”

  Observing Jovie’s ragged state, she felt a twinge of embarrassment. “No.”

  “I don’t blame him. War is hell.”

  Another silence fell between them, but more gently this time. His ferocity had fled. Weariness had taken its place. “Is Thad the man you want, Emily?”

  She knew exactly what it was costing him to ask that question. Regret stirred her heart. “Jovie—”

  A warning flickered in his eyes. “I don’t want your pity, Emily. I want the honest truth. Is Thad your choice?”

  Her eyes skipped between his. “Yes,” she whispered.

  He swallowed once and resignation hardened into resolve. “If you are sure, then I will honor your decision.”

  Emily tried to read his thoughts, but he had fastened his emotions behind storm shutters. She’d been shut out. “I’m sorry, Jovie.”

  They regarded each other carefully, both keenly aware that their relationship had just changed forever. “You’ll forgive me if I cut my visit short.” Jovie’s voice sounded flat and dull.

  She nodded. “Where is your regiment?”

  “When I left, we were holed up in Yorktown, facing off with McClellan and disrupting his march to Richmond.” Tension angled the shape of his eyes. “I don’t know what I’ll find when I return.”

  She took a step forward. “I’ll write to you. You have my word this—”

  He held up a hand to stop her. “Under the circumstances, I think it would be better if you didn’t.”

  The words struck her like a blow. She simply stared at him, realizing what her choice had truly cost. “I—I suppose this is goodbye then.”

  “I believe that would be best.”

  He hesitated, then reached out one hand and cupped her cheek. Her hand raised instinctively to cover his. Their eyes met, and a thousand childhood memories washed over her. Then he pulled away and the spell was broken. “Goodbye, Emily.”

  She watched him stride from the room, straight to the back door where he gathered a small bundle. His steps were firm and purposeful. He left the house without a backward glance.

  She twitched the curtain aside. She thought resolving their misunderstanding would free her to make a clearheaded decision. It brought closure; it also brought heartache. Their long years of childhood shriveled like sunburned grapes as she watched him walk away. But she could not marry one man and maintain an intimate friendship with another. It was part of life. Part of growing up.

  She just hadn’t thought it would be so hard.

  13

  “Emily, are you awake?”

  The hesitant knock and Matthew’s soft voice caused Emily to spring into wakefulness. She threw on a wrap and opened the door. “What’s wrong? Is someone ill?”

  “Everything’s fine. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you. I just wanted to show you something.”

  “You’re serious?” Emily stifled a yawn. “Matthew, it must be two o’clock. Can’t this wait until morning?”

  “It’s three o’clock. And if you wait, you’ll miss it.”

  Emily eyed him distrustfully. “Where’s Sophia?”

  “Sleeping. I tried to wake her, but you know how she is.” He turned and headed for the stairs. “Believe me, you’ll want to see this.”

  She considered for half a minute. Her eyelids were heavy with sleep, but in the five weeks since his return, he hadn’t made any such odd request. Her curiosity was piqued. She buttoned her wrap securely and padded from the room.

  The stairway was dark, and no lights shone from the hallway below. She stepped around the bottom corner to feel warm, fragrant air wafting in from the front porch. The door was open wide, framing two silhouettes against the luminous heavens. Both Matthew and Ned had their heads tipped back, gazing at something in the night sky.

  She paused in the doorway. “What are you looking at?”

  Matthew gestured her closer. “Come see.”

  The porch roof receded as she stepped forward. Her breath caught in her throat. There, suspended above the dogwood tree, shone a full moon stained the deepest shade of crimson. “A blood moon.”

  “A lunar eclipse. The moon has passed into the earth’s shadow. The red color comes from light that has refracted around the surface of the earth. It’s eerie, isn’t it?”

  Emily had always been fascinated by the heavens, an interest she had inherited from her father. She knew what she was viewing even before Matthew explained, though she’d never actually seen one before. “It’s breathtaking.”

  “Not everyone would agree with you. Many see it as a bad omen, a harbinger of blood and terror. In legends around the world, it’s been associated with fear, with death, with demons, dragons, and pagan sacrifice. It’s even referenced in biblical prophecy.”

  “‘The sun will turn into darkness, and the moon into blood, before the great and terrible day of the Lord comes,’” Emily quoted.

  “Joel 2:31, a reference to a future period of tribulation, bloodshed, and disease. Rather a fitting description of war, is it not?”

  His words set the hair on the back of her neck on end. She leaned against the porch support and hugged her arms to her chest. A skim of clouds dipped themselves in the orb’s bloody light before shaking free and hustling away into darkness. “I hope this moon is merely a commentary on what we’ve already suffered, not a warning of what still lies ahead.”

  “It is easy to see how the ancients could make up such legends. My imagination has been running away with me all night.”

  Ned’s slow, mellow voice came to them from the shadows. “My people hab a story of a great battle between de sun and moon,” he said. “De moon ran wid blood when it suffered a severe blow. My ancestors, who feared a world widout heavenly lights, set up a mighty clamor and pleaded fo’ peace. De sun and moon stopped fighting. De moon healed. An’ to dis day, each time a red moon appear in de sky, it be a reminder to settle old feuds and work out our differences peaceful like.”

  “I like your story better, Ned,” Emily brooded. The image of Jovie striding back to his regiment was still fresh in her mind. “We could use some of that reconciliation right now.”

  Matthew stretched and settled into a creaky rocking chair. “I guess we’ll see which one plays out.”

  ***

  During Matth
ew’s weeks at Maple Ridge, Sophia had carted Emily to one social event after another, gaily parading her before the most pretentious figures in Dorchester County, many of whom would have swooned if they knew how Emily had spent the last four months. But when Matthew departed only days after the blood moon, the household fell apart.

  Sophia would plunge into violent bursts of rage followed by crushing depression. Emily spent much of her time putting her back together and performing many of the menial tasks required to feed and clothe her. Sophia’s instability left Emily emotionally exhausted and concerned for her friend’s mental health. She had originally planned to return home the following week—she desperately wished to escape back to Charleston—but considered extending her visit simply because she was afraid to leave Sophia alone during Matthew’s absence. But she couldn’t stay forever.

  Emily carried a breakfast tray up to Sophia’s room. It contained a cup of tea with cream, buttered toast, and a few hard-boiled eggs Emily had found in the larder. Food was far more plentiful in the countryside, even if she had to prepare it. She braced herself outside the bedroom door, uncertain what she’d find inside, and pushed it open.

  “Rise and shine!” she called out cheerily, setting the tray on the bedside table and opening the curtains. “It’s nine o’clock. The day is passing you by.”

  “Let it pass.” Sophia pulled the pillow over her head.

  Emily removed it. “Nonsense. I’ve brought you breakfast. Sit up and eat.”

  Sophia dragged herself upright, bleary and disheveled. “I don’t want any breakfast.”

  Emily let some of her irritation show. “You have to eat something after I went to the trouble of making it for you.” She pushed the plate of food forward.

  Sophia shook her head and backed away with a look of revulsion. Then she threw both hands over her mouth, dove off the side of the bed, and retched into the chamber pot.