The girl looked up and nodded.
“What field are you studying?”
Anna opened her mouth, but Lucy broke in before she could say anything. “Anna doesn’t know what she wants to do. Her father just sent her here to get her out of his house.” Her smirk crept back into place. “At least he can afford it if she discovers she has no natural talents.”
Angela snickered. Anna’s face burned red, and she hunched a little lower in her seat. Lucy, however, was watching Emily keenly. The barb had been spoken, Emily realized, solely to gauge her reaction.
Her eyes narrowed. Turning to Anna, she said more gently, “Then it looks as though you and I are in the same boat, doesn’t it?”
Anna’s eyes flicked her way and returned to the game just as quickly. But Emily thought she saw a shy smile of friendliness.
Lucy dealt another hand, snapping down each card. Emily could feel the tension thicken between them. “Don’t be too hasty to lump yourself in with anyone sitting at this table. Your accent isn’t from Maryland. Where did you say you’re from?”
“I didn’t. But it’s no secret. I grew up outside Charleston.”
“South Carolina?” Lucy asked with overdone surprise.
“That’s right.”
Anna jerked her head up sharply. Her expression had turned stony.
“Well, well. The city that started the war.” Lucy was almost gloating. “How unfortunate. You see, Anna here has a fiancé in the Union army and doesn’t take too kindly to Confederates.”
Emily lowered her cards and met Anna’s gaze squarely. She didn’t look old enough to marry, but there was no mistaking the animosity in her eyes. “I have no argument with any of you.”
“Your people might be taking aim at Anna’s beloved,” Lucy said smoothly. “I’d say that’s a pretty weighty argument.”
Emily’s eyes flicked between Lucy’s triumphant gaze and Anna’s openly hostile one. She had the suspicion that Lucy had scripted the entire episode, working it out as soon as she heard Emily speak. She didn’t know why, and she didn’t care. “Very well,” she said, setting down her cards and rising to her feet. “I didn’t come to Maryland to make friends anyway.”
“That’s just as well, Miss Preston.” Lucy intoned. “Because you won’t find many.”
16
Emily set the frame containing Thad’s portrait on top of her pillow when her roommate opened their bedroom door. “I’m sorry. I should have warned you about Lucy.” Missouri pulled out the desk chair and dropping into it. “Under all that pert cuteness, she’s mean as a rattlesnake. I usually try to steer clear.”
“I see why.”
“She’d like to be the empress of a small country. But since that hasn’t worked out for her, we’ll do. Your beau?” She indicated the picture.
“My fiancé.”
“Very handsome.”
Emily absently touched the glass covering his face. It seemed forever until his visit. “Why do the others tolerate her?”
Missouri shrugged. “Anna doesn’t have enough backbone to stand up to her, and Angela doesn’t have enough brains.”
Emily snorted. She set Thad’s picture on the desk then dug through her bureau to pull out a nightgown. “I didn’t want to play cards anyway. I’m exhausted and sooty as a smokestack. Will you show me where I can heat some wash water?”
***
Breakfast felt stilted the next morning. The young women divided like two armies eyeing each other across a river—Lucy, Angela, and Anna on one side, Emily and Missouri on the other. Emily could sense the disdain rising like campfire smoke from across the table. There was no conversation, however, so Grace and Mrs. Bentley didn’t seem to notice.
Eagerness soon quelled any enmity their actions might have provoked. Emily had been waiting for this day all her life, and she wasn’t about to let three silly girls ruin it. She’d never been one to surround herself with people anyway. After the others departed, she stepped outside and drew a lungful of air. It smelled of freedom.
Her blood raced with excitement. Indeed, the whole world seemed alive with it. An overnight shower had left the street sharp with the odors of horses and cook fires, and half the town, it seemed, had poured from their homes, bustling on their way to somewhere. A fidgety sea wind dodged between them, rustling skirts and snatching at top hats like a naughty child let out to play. Anticipation rose within Emily to be a part of it all, to be one small player in the city’s vast human drama with a whole new act about to be written.
At the entrance to the school, new students were directed up a flight of stairs and into the Great Hall where approximately seventy young women filled the seats. Their brightly colored skirts turned the room into a garden. If Emily closed her eyes, the rustling of gowns could have been the sound of a gentle wind playing through foliage and the women’s eager conversation the twittering of birds. Anna sat among them, studiously ignoring Emily.
Mr. Woodward soon took the stage, and the animation stilled. “Welcome, ladies, to the Maryland Institute for the Promotion of Mechanic Arts.” He beamed at them. “In recognition of your various abilities, you have been given a great opportunity—the same opportunity awarded to young men. New fields of employment are opening to women every day, and on behalf of this fine school, I am proud to be a part of the process of equipping your minds and talents for the workforce.
“Here at the Institute, we propose to furnish young ladies with adequate means of self-support, a noble undertaking in which each of you has chosen to take part. This past July, we awarded diplomas to a dozen young women, many of whom have already gone on to gainful employment. For those of you who will continue your studies for the entire program, I anticipate the day I may congratulate you on this very same stage as official graduates of the School of Design.”
His announcement was met with enthusiastic applause.
Orientation passed in a flurry of activity and information. Emily registered for classes, purchased required materials, met several of her instructors, and read through the goals and expectations of each course. By afternoon, her strength was depleted. She crawled into bed soon after arriving at the boardinghouse, and that’s where Missouri found her hours later.
“You all right?”
Emily opened her eyes to see her roommate peering down at her. “Mrs. Calkins said she hasn’t seen hide nor hair of you all day.”
Emily stretched. “I’m fine. Much better now.”
“You been sleeping this whole time?”
She nodded. “I was ill this summer. It simply caught up to me.”
“I thought maybe you’ve been up here hiding from Lucifer.”
Emily laughed. “I’ve hardly seen her. We won’t have any of the same classes.”
“That will improve your school day a hundredfold. What classes are you taking?”
“Just prerequisites: Basic Drawing, Basic Painting, and Elements of Design.” She hoped to attend evening session, as well. They would cost no extra and she would graduate sooner, but she thought it best to recover her strength first.
“Do you like it so far?”
Emily sat up. “Classes don’t actually start until Monday, but I have no doubt in the world that this is where I belong.”
“I’m glad. At the moment, however, you belong down in the dining room. Mrs. Calkins has supper on the table.”
Emily spent the remainder of the weekend sleeping, reading, and recuperating from her long trip. When Lucy, Angela, and Anna left to purchase pastries on Saturday afternoon, Emily enjoyed tea and quiet conversation with Grace and Missouri on the boardinghouse’s front porch, grateful that two of her housemates, at least, had proven agreeable. But the restful inactivity in no way diminished the anticipation that boiled like a caldron in her belly.
On Monday morning she awoke with the same fire and excitement she had felt when Jovie took her to the Renaissance lecture so long ago. Despite a lingering weariness, she felt more alive than she ever had. She left the boardin
ghouse before the others and was the first student to arrive for her 9:00 class.
“Good morning, Miss Preston,” Mr. Goodrich said as he entered the classroom. He was a grandfatherly man, with round spectacles and thinning white hair. Emily had met him at orientation. He set his briefcase on his desk and smiled at her warmly. “You are here early. Eager to begin the school year?”
“Very eager, sir.”
He seated himself in his chair with a creak of joints. “I always enjoy the fresh energy of a new academic year. It feels to me rather like springtime, even though the year is nearing autumn. Perhaps it’s because we start out with such a bang.”
“You mean the Exhibition?”
“What else?”
“So it’s still held in October then?”
“Yes, indeed. Have you ever attended?”
“Just once. When I was very young.” She smiled, recalling the long-ago outing with her father. Despite his more recent behavior, the memory was still special.
Mr. Goodrich opened his briefcase and withdrew several pages, tapping their edges even against the desktop. “The entire school will begin gearing up for it soon. It’s quite a production, attracting mechanics, inventors, artists, and merchants from all over America.”
“Are you on the board of directors?”
“Me?” He chuckled. “No, no. I’m getting too old to do more than teach a few courses and paint in the evenings. I’m retired, you know.” He gave her a wink. “But I’ll attend, most likely. I enjoy looking at all the new products. And sampling the food.”
Emily remembered the crowds that had turned out during her childhood visit and suspected the Exhibition would be well attended again this year, if only as an escape from the realities of war. The month-long event had a carnival atmosphere, with celebrities, guest lecturers, food vendors, and music. Students and local craftsmen were also given the opportunity to participate, each competing for cash prizes in dozens of categories. Newly enrolled, Emily would not be submitting anything for display. Nevertheless, she greatly anticipated revisiting the scene that prompted her interest in the Institute so many years ago.
At exactly 9:00, Mr. Goodrich took his place at the front of the class and cleared his throat. “Good morning, ladies. It is a pleasure to meet all of you. I will be your instructor for the next twelve weeks, covering the elementary rules of drawing. I am aware that most of you have been fiddling with a pencil since you were very young children and, most likely, have become quite accomplished artists. You may be wondering why the school is requiring such a low level course. I will tell you. Just as the ground must be cleared and scraped before the building of a new structure, so will we unlearn bad habits and improper techniques. Only then can we begin to lay a flat, even foundation upon which we can build. Ladies, in my class we will begin construction properly. Please take out your texts and begin reading on pages five and six…”
And with that introduction, Emily’s university career began.
Her days soon formed a routine. After class, she returned to the boardinghouse for lunch and spent a few hours in her room, finishing her homework, supplementing what she learned with books checked out of the school’s substantial library, and—once her back issues of Harper’s Weekly arrived—emulating the works of Winslow Homer. She also began following Dr. Malone’s advice and walked before dinner each evening, pausing whenever she found a suitable place to rest. She’d start with a visit to the post office then wander in concentric circles, widening her knowledge of the city’s geography. Rather than taxing her energy reserves further, she found the recreation wonderfully restorative.
On a beautiful blue afternoon in mid-September, while pristine clouds played leapfrog with the sun, Emily strolled down Fayette Street. The buildings formed a canyon bright with awnings and advertisements. Just about the time they began to space themselves out, the soaring shot tower rose above the trees and emitted a strong odor of molten lead. Its cornerstone, she’d been told, had been laid thirty-five years before by the last remaining signer of the Declaration of Independence. And though it cast round shot, not minie balls, it was to Emily another reminder of war. But as it dominated the city skyline, it was unavoidable.
Not far beyond, she stumbled across a symbol of peace, a humble Quaker meetinghouse nestled between a cluster of houses. Devoid of all ornamentation, it bore no resemblance to the Lutheran church to which Mrs. Calkins accompanied all six of her boarders on Sunday morning. But it did resemble the meetinghouse in Charleston and made Emily think immediately of Sarah and Angelina Grimké, whose antislavery pamphlets she had studied in such detail. After leaving Charleston, the sisters had become Quakers, though they had settled in Philadelphia and had probably never darkened these doors. Even so, Emily gravitated toward the building. She would rest here.
The door was unlocked. “Hello?” she called. “Is anyone here?”
No answer met her summons. She stepped inside.
The ceiling rose up two stories to the roof, with two tiers of windows casting light on the room below. Even so, the interior was dim, darkened by somber furnishings and the black, unfinished beams with which it had been constructed more than a century before. Emily sat down on a rough pew, her thoughts turning from war to heaven, and paused to pray for her family, for her country, for Jack and Jovie, and for Thad and his blockade runners. She pleaded with God to bring a speedy end to the bloodshed and heal the rift between North and South. The future was no more certain for her supplication, but she felt better able to face it. With her spirits bolstered and her strength refreshed, Emily turned for home.
She received an answer to her petitions almost immediately.
Arriving home a few minutes before seven, she lingered outside the boardinghouse door and watched the sun wash the western sky with tones of tangerine and marigold, casting the city’s silhouette in sharp relief. Peace flooded her heart, and she wished she could put it to canvas.
A wave of thunder swept the landscape. She closed her eyes, anticipating the first cool drops of rain before she remembered that no storm clouds marred the horizon. Her eyes flicked open. The faint rumble rose and fell, rolling in from some great distance, but it never ceased. Emily’s tranquility shattered. Her joy grew as heavy as lead shot. Leaping to a chair, she strained ineffectually to see beyond the limits of her vision, but she already knew. This time, God had answered with a resounding “no”.
It wasn’t thunder she was hearing. It was artillery fire.
Emily remained rooted to the chair for an hour. She didn’t notice the neighbors standing in the street with their faces pointing west. She didn’t see the sun sink behind the horizon or hear Anna slip outside to stand on the opposite side of the porch. She didn’t feel the damp or the dark or the chill until Missouri reached up to set a cloak around her shoulders. “Come inside before you take ill again,” she said, guiding her down from her perch.
Woodenly, Emily donned her nightgown and climbed into bed, but she didn’t sleep. Not even after the thunder died away.
The guns resumed at dawn. Missouri and Mrs. Calkins both urged her to attend class. She followed their prompting but soon learned that the strain she had lived under for over a year, of knowing her loved ones might be in danger, was vastly preferable to actually hearing the guns that sought to kill them. And nowhere could she escape the continual drone. For all the instruction she retained, she might as well have stayed home in bed with a pillow over her head.
The city’s close proximity meant general information found her ears rather quickly. Lee had driven his men into Northern territory. McClellan halted him at Sharpsburg, a small town situated along Antietam Creek. Afterward, Lee withdrew back across the Potomac. But the far more important answers remained elusive: Was Jack all right? Was Jovie?
The day after the battle, Emily was sitting near a window as her instructor rattled on about the distinctions between various methods of creating perspective when a commotion in the street snapped her from her stupor. A caravan of horse
-drawn ambulances had pulled up outside, and people began unloading wounded and carrying them into the school.
The scene drew the attention of others in the class, some of whom actually stood up to see better. Setting aside the paintings with which he’d illustrated his lesson, Mr. Shaw cleared his throat. “As you all know by now, the battle at Antietam Creek produced an extraordinarily high number of casualties. The wounded are being railroaded from Sharpsburg across a hundred-mile radius, and the Union army has decided our Great Hall would make a suitable hospital.”
At this, the remainder of his students rushed to the windows. Professor Shaw spoke above their exclamations. “The arrangement will be temporary. The army and the school administration have agreed that classes will continue, and the Exhibition will take place as scheduled. However, we have been asked to put forth a call for nurses and make allowances for any student willing to serve during the time our troops are housed here.”
Emily declined this call with aversion. The wounded men were a vivid spark for her imagination. She knew the kinds of injuries Jack and Jovie could be suffering from. They could even be dead. She had no way of knowing. She went out of her way to avoid the hospital completely.
For the next few days, she went through the motions of living. Lucy and Angela’s snide comments went unheard. So did her lessons. During class time, she often found herself outside the rooms utilized by the school’s music department with no memory of how she had gotten there. She would close her eyes and sit for hours, letting the notes drop on her one by one. Each was a bright spot of color, a breath, a fragile thread tying her to sanity.
Eight days after the guns fell silent, Mrs. Calkins bustled into her room to interrupt her studies. “Emily, there is a young man here to see you. He didn’t give a name, but he said it’s urgent.”
“Did you show him into the parlor?” she asked as they navigated the stairs.
Blood Moon (Ella Wood, 2) Page 17