Blood Moon (Ella Wood, 2)

by Michelle Isenhoff

  “Please, sir.” Emily leaped up. “I’m conducting a reading lesson. The door was unlocked, and we saw no harm in letting ourselves in.”

  The man narrowed his eyes, taking in the pair of them. “I’ll see thy text.”

  Jeremiah stood up slowly, regarding the newcomer with equal suspicion, and handed him the primer.

  The man examined it, regarded them again, and handed the book back. “Well then,” he relented. “It is not against the law to teach a man to read.”

  “It is where we come from, sir,” Jeremiah said.

  Emily stepped forward. “My name is Emily Preston, and this is Jeremiah—a former employee of my family.” She hesitated but decided the full truth might serve them best. “He has recently gained his freedom and wishes to learn to read. We would appreciate it very much if you would grant us permission to continue using the meetinghouse. We have no place else to meet, you see.”

  “No, I don’t think I can do that.”

  “Please, sir. We won’t damage anything. Truthfully, we’ve been here several times already, and you’ve never noticed our presence.”

  The old man held up a hand to cut off her protests. “I’m afraid thee cannot change my mind. A drafty building in weather such as this. Thee must come home with me and conduct thy lesson in the comfort of my kitchen.” He smiled and held out his hand. “I am Gregory Heatherstone, a member of this congregation of Friends. My house is just there, across the way.”

  Emily glanced at Jeremiah and saw his face relax. He nodded briefly. She turned to the Quaker man gratefully. “We would be most appreciative.”

  They rebundled against the weather and trudged through the downpour to a modest house at the edge of the green. “I live alone,” he told them as he ushered them through the front door. “My wife, God bless her soul, possessed all the cooking talents in my household, so I’m afraid I can offer thee little refreshment beside hot coffee and hard biscuits.”

  “Coffee sounds wonderful,” Emily said, taking off her wet wraps. She still didn’t care for the drink, but the warmth would be most welcome. “Thank you.”

  Mr. Heatherstone led them through a rather spartan parlor to a snug kitchen at the rear. Herbs hanging from the rafters were the only decoration, yet it was neat and scrubbed clean. The cookstove threw off a delicious warmth, and a plank table, scored from years of use, invited them to linger.

  “Sit down and make thyselves at home.” Mr. Heatherstone fetched three earthenware mugs from a shelf and placed a tin of biscuits on the table. Then he snatched the kettle off the stove with a folded cloth. “How is it that a slaveholder has come to tutor her former servant?”

  “It’s a story that spans years, sir,” Emily answered. “Suffice to say, not everyone from the South agrees with Southern politics.”

  “Perhaps I can hear it sometime.” He poured the coffee then set cream and sugar on the table and stirred a little of each into his own cup. “For now, however, I’ll leave thee to thy lessons.”

  “Please, sir, we don’t mean to drive you away from the warmth,” Emily protested.

  “Nonsense. This will heat me from the inside out,” he said, lifting his coffee. “Besides, I’ve lived alone so long now that I can’t concentrate on my reading if there are conversations taking place in the room. I’ll be right outside should thee need anything.”

  The old man exited, and Emily exchanged another glance with Jeremiah. She spread her hands as if to ask, “What just happened?” Jeremiah shrugged, grinned, and took a biscuit.

  Emily picked up where they had left off, reading the primer’s comprehension questions, which he answered easily. Then she reviewed the new vocabulary words and led him in the syllabication of each one. It took only a few minutes to finish the entire lesson.

  “I think I may need to ask Grace for a more difficult level,” Emily noted. “Shall we continue with another?”

  The second lesson, entitled “The Little Idle Boy,” proved equally easy and perhaps even more irrelevant. Emily snickered to hear Jeremiah read about a child “not higher than the table” who skipped school to play outdoors.

  “Perhaps next time I’ll just bring a copy of the newspaper,” she sighed when he had finished.

  He chuckled as he closed the book and took a sip of his coffee. “This is a sight better than that drafty old meetinghouse, isn’t it?”

  She wrapped both hands around her mug and nodded appreciatively. “It was quite unexpected.”

  “So, have you heard from Mr. Black since his visit in February?”

  “Thad?” she asked. “No I haven’t, which is very likely for the best. But neither have I heard from—” Her voice grew troubled, and she broke off.

  “Who?”

  “Jovie,” she answered miserably.

  “I thought you and he were friends.”

  “I thought so, too.”

  “What happened?”

  She dipped her head. “I don’t know. He hasn’t answered any of my letters.”

  Over the past three months, Emily had worked through nearly all his year-old correspondence, opening one envelope each Sunday afternoon. It had become her favorite hour of the week. Jovie had an incredibly appealing way of viewing the world and setting it down on paper for others to share. His words eased her longing for home and provided an escape from the constant tension of war. After their cordial encounter in Winchester, she didn’t hesitate to answer each one. She hoped her replies served him half as well, but she hadn’t received a single response. He couldn’t be paying her in kind for last year, could he?

  “That doesn’t sound like Mister Jovie.”

  “No. Well, I haven’t heard from him since we parted in September.”

  Jeremiah took another sip and gave her a keen look. “And that grieves you more than not hearing from Mr. Black?”

  She looked up sharply. “I hope I never hear from Mr. Black again.” She knew what he was really asking, but answering indirectly was far easier than letting him read too much into an honest reply. She just knew she missed Jovie’s friendship deeply, and every week his silence drove her sense of loss a little deeper.

  He shrugged. “Perhaps your letters aren’t getting through the checkpoint. You are writing to an enemy soldier, after all.”

  “Yes.” She brightened noticeably. “Yes, of course. That must be it.”

  “Did thee finish thy lesson already?” Mr. Heatherstone asked as he returned to refill his cup. “That took very little time.”

  “Jeremiah is an exceptional student,” Emily answered. “And we’d already finished much of it in the meetinghouse.”

  “Then thee wouldn’t mind a bit of conversation? It gets mighty quiet in this house.”

  “Of course not. Please, join us.”

  Jeremiah slid over to make room, and Mr. Heatherstone settled himself into another of the kitchen chairs. “I’m very curious to hear thy stories. Where are thee from and how did thee come to Baltimore, if I may ask?”

  “Jeremiah and I both grew up near Charleston, South Carolina. My parents own a large plantation not far from the city.”

  “Charleston? Well, there’s a coincidence. Thee has heard of last week’s naval assault in the harbor, no doubt?”

  Emily felt her limbs go cold. “No, I haven’t.”

  “Well now. The navy sent a fleet of warships and ten thousand men to ‘strike a definitive stroke against the seat of Secession,’ or so the newspapers said. Turns out they were counting their chickens prematurely.” He chuckled softly.

  “Please, what happened?”

  “They didn’t manage to accomplish much besides breaking up some of Fort Sumter’s masonry. In return, the Confederates incapacitated their entire fleet. Ground troops never even made land. There was a commentary in today’s edition of the American. The entire North is quite disgusted with the failure.”

  Emily’s fingers clenched the coffee mug so hard they ached. “Is the city intact?”

  “Untouched, it seems. Though the n
avy only retreated as far as Port Royal.”

  “Will they attack again?”

  “Who’s to say?” He shrugged. “But I believe they will.”

  In her heart, she knew it, too. The public would demand it. “May I see the newspaper?”

  “Of course.” Mr. Heatherstone retrieved it from the parlor and handed it to her. “Page three.”

  “I thought Quakers were pacifists,” Jeremiah commented as Emily unfolded the article.

  “We are. But one can hardly ignore the beast that’s swallowing him. I like to stay informed.”

  Emily had scanned only the first few lines before her hands began to tremble. “Mr. Heatherstone, may I borrow this? I—I think I should like to read it at home.”

  “I’ve finished with it.”

  She stood up, and Jeremiah rose as well. “Please, stay,” she told her half-brother. “I’m sure Mr. Heatherstone would enjoy the company. I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re certain?”

  She nodded, and he returned to his seat.

  Emily tucked the newspaper beneath her cloak where the rain could not dampen it. “Thank you so much for your hospitality, Mr. Heatherstone. I apologize for my hasty departure.”

  “Not at all, my dear. Thee and Jeremiah are welcome anytime.”

  25

  At the boardinghouse, Emily shed her sodden cloak and raced upstairs to scour the article in the privacy of her own bedroom. As Mr. Heatherstone said, the battle had moved no farther landward than Sumter. Even so, her heart was thumping as though she’d just had a narrow escape. She needed to know her family was safe. If only she could magic herself home with a twist of a ring or a nod of her head.

  Jogging back downstairs, she found Mrs. Calkins setting the table for dinner. “Have you kept any recent newspapers, Mrs. Calkins?”

  “I stack them beside the wood box when I’m finished and use them to start the fire in the mornings,” she answered. “You’re welcome to whatever I have left.”

  Emily carried away half the pile and spread them out on the floor of her room. Missouri found her immersed in them minutes later. “Did the war end while I was at work, or did Mrs. Calkins redecorate?”

  “There was a battle in Charleston harbor,” Emily answered without looking up.

  “And…?”

  “We won.” Emily located another article and skimmed the first lines. She hadn’t found much new information about the battle, but she’d gleaned a great deal about Northern determination. Up to this point, the war had given the Union little to celebrate, but a victory against the city that started the rebellion? She could think of no greater morale booster.

  “You don’t seem too pleased.”

  “What?” Emily tore her attention away from the print.

  “I said you don’t seem pleased. About the victory.”

  “My aunt and my friends live three miles from Fort Sumter.”

  Missouri sank down beside her. “I see. Are they okay?”

  “I don’t know.” Emily folded the paper and her met her roommate’s eyes. “Even if they are, this isn’t over. I’ve seen how the North blames Charleston. They’ll try again. And again. And they’ll keep trying until they succeed or the South wins its independence. Everything has changed since I left, Missouri. Washington has set its sights on my home, and I need to be there.”

  “You still have three weeks left in your term. If you leave now, you’ll lose nine weeks’ work.”

  Emily closed her eyes. “I know.”

  “I’m sure they’re fine,” Missouri assured her, patting her hand encouragingly. “Wait to hear from them before you do anything.”

  The following week held a breathless expectancy that followed Emily like a shadow. She reminded herself that if the fighting resumed, Dr. Malone would take any precautions necessary to ensure the safety of everyone under his care, even if that meant sending them out of the city. But Aunt Margaret could be stubborn and unreasonable. And the doctor had warned Emily about the effect anxiety could have at her age.

  She finished assignments with jerky impatience, skimming over details to which she normally applied painstaking hours. Her attention span was short, and her stomach muscles ached from clenching them into knots. She sprang from her seat when Mrs. Calkins announced, “I stopped by the post office today, Emily, and picked up a letter for you.”

  Emily hastily excused herself and tore open the envelope as soon as she slipped from the room.

  Dear Emily,

  Relieve yourself of worry, niece. We are all fine. Not a shell from the recent battle reached the city, and our troops suffered only five casualties. The battle was a glorious victory. One of the Union gunboats even sank off the coast of Morris Island. Attempts are being made to recover it for the Confederacy.

  The city was ordered to evacuate prior to the battle, but judging by the crowds overrunning the battery, no one obeyed. Every wharf was crammed with spectators. What a hue and cry rose over Charleston as those Union ships limped out of the harbor after the drubbing we gave them…

  Lucy sauntered past on her way out of the dining room and flicked the back of the page with one finger so that it fluttered to the floor. “Charleston may have won this round, but it’s only a matter of time before the Union smashes it into submission. I hope your family doesn’t get ground underfoot.” Her smile was insincere.

  Something inside Emily finally snapped. Something that had been stretched taut for far too long. She reacted out of instinct, grabbing Lucy by the shoulders and shoved the shorter woman roughly against the wall.

  “What is this infernal hatred you have for me, Lucy?” she demanded, glaring into the girl’s shocked-open eyes. “Angela doesn’t have enough thoughts in her head to string into a paragraph, and Anna has a fiancé in the Union army, so I can forgive them both their coldness. But you have no one in the war. You’re intelligent and talented. You have family support and a great job waiting when you graduate. What reason do you have to be so horrid?”

  Lucy’s nostrils flared. “You have no right to accuse me. You Southerners ripped the nation apart to protect your precious slave economy. It’s your fault our nation is bleeding to death. Yours. Every single drop of blood is on your head.” Lucy’s face had flushed a deep magenta.

  There it was again. That same misguided blame. Emily pressed her face closer, her breath stirring the young woman’s hair. “You took an instant dislike to me when I didn’t bow to you my first night here, and you’ve been using this whole North/South conflict as an excuse ever since. You never even bothered to find out that I’ve spoken against this war from the beginning and that I hate slavery just as much as you. Are you this insecure? Or just this spiteful?”

  Lucy struggled futilely against Emily’s grip. “Unhand me, you barbarian!”

  Emily chuckled dryly. “I’m not well-known for conforming to the rules of civilized behavior.” She gave the woman a firm shake. “This disrespect ends now, do you understand me? Or I will show you how well I handle a riding crop. And I assure you, I am a very accomplished rider.”

  She let Lucy go with a final shove. Picking up her letter, she absorbed the mixed reactions of the onlookers—astonishment from Grace, Angela, and Mrs. Calkins; grudging respect from Anna; and glee that Missouri barely managed to suppress behind her cupped hands—and walked sedately to her room where she read her letter through without disruption.

  Aunt Margaret’s words sounded confident and cheerful. Too cheerful. Emily recalled how terrified the old woman had been last year after Secessionville. How her health had been steadily declining. How she had blustered and bluffed when the danger passed. What if something happened to her?

  Emily tapped the fold of the letter against her chin. Before she left Ella Wood, she probably wouldn’t have cared. Her aunt was just a crotchety old relative who showed up for holidays. But after spending so much time with her last summer, Emily had discovered the humor, generosity, and loneliness beneath her eccentricities and come to care for her a grea
t deal. If some tragedy befell her because she stayed in the North, Emily would never forgive herself.

  She determined to talk to Mr. Woodward at the first opportunity.

  ***

  The next morning, Anna dropped back to wait for Emily. Tall and gangly, she had always reminded Emily of Lune as an awkward foal. Now she hunched over her books self-consciously. “Will you walk with me?” she asked, looking at the ground.

  “Of course.”

  They strolled together in silence. Twice Anna cleared her throat. It was plain she had something on her mind, but she couldn’t seem to find the courage to speak.

  “Anna, may I ask you something?”

  The girl nodded shyly.

  “Why do you tolerate Lucy and Angela?”

  Anna shrugged. “I’ve never been brave enough to stand up to her as you did.”

  “Is that why you’re walking with me, because of what I said to her last night?”

  Anna nodded again, clutching her books to her chest. “It made me ashamed of myself. I mean, we may be on opposite sides of the war, but you’ve never been unkind or disrespectful. And I’ve been hateful to you.”

  “You haven’t been hateful.”

  “I haven’t been cordial.”

  Emily considered her words carefully before she spoke. “It’s been difficult, living here where I know I don’t belong. I hate this war, Anna. It’s created a chasm between North and South. But we have far more similarities than differences. Missouri helps me remember that. I’m willing to be friends if you are.”

  “I’d like that.” Anna smiled, and relief seemed to pour off her. “I’m sorry the front has moved to your city. I hope your family stays safe.”

  “Thank you. I hope so, too.”

  The silence that resumed was much more palatable.

  “Anna, why did you come to the Institute? I’ve always had the strong impression that you really don’t care to be here.”