by Mysti Parker
From the pulpit, the pastor sang with his throaty bellow, waving his hymnal along with the organ music. The congregation joined in.
“Holy, holy, holy, Lord God almighty
Early in the morning, our song shall rise to thee!”
Beau’s eyes drifted back to Portia and took in a few more details. Not bad-looking, certainly. The yellow print dress she wore was probably her best gown, but she had taken good care of it. Strands of honey-brown hair had escaped her bonnet to lie on the nape of her neck. She couldn’t be much taller than Jonny. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder.
“Holy, holy, holy, merciful and mighty
God in three persons, blessed Trinity!”
He felt the stares before he found their source. Sure enough, the town gossips, young and old, had honed in. Soon as he turned his head toward them, they looked away. Portia was about to be the talk of the town — a young widow living without a chaperone in the Stanford home. So scandalous! He pinched his lips together so he wouldn’t laugh. Even the war hadn’t silenced these busybodies.
The preacher hollered, “Page 152 — Nearer My God to Thee!”
Mrs. Murphy’s round jowls shook as she sang from her organ bench. Beau mouthed the words, but he never really sang. He couldn’t hear over the women crowing to his left anyway. He stopped moving his mouth and listened to Portia singing.
“Though like the wanderer,
The sun goes down,
Darkness be over me,”
Her eyes were closed, and though her singing voice wasn’t perfect, it was pleasant and soft. Maybe an octave lower than Claire’s used to be.
“My rest a stone;
Yet in my dreams I’d be
Nearer my God, to thee!”
Tears escaped from the corners of her eyes by the time the song ended, drawing him ever closer to the conclusion that he was indeed the heartless one, not Portia. Beau fumbled for his handkerchief, but Harry found his first. Portia took the cloth and dabbed her eyes. Beau started to ask her if she was all right, but Harry wrapped one arm lightly around her shoulders and whispered the question instead. She sniffed and nodded.
Adjusting the shirt collar that suddenly seemed too tight, Beau forced himself to focus on the pulpit.
Once the hymns were sung, the service dragged on for an eternity. The preacher bellowed his usual fire and brimstone while a few stray, “Amens,” arose from the congregation. Portia stared at her lap most of the time and fiddled with her gloves, nodding and glancing up as Harry whispered to her. Ezra’s head drooped down to his chest, while Jonny had fallen fast asleep on his arm by the time the preacher started losing his voice. An onerous snore from the old man finally stalled the sermon.
The preacher snapped his Bible closed on the pulpit. “Well, now,” he said, dabbing the sweat from his brow and smacking his fleshy lips, “let’s all be dismissed for dinner on the grounds.”
With Beau bottlecapping the row, he had to go first, so he stepped into the aisle and stood aside to let the others out. Harry, with his hand flitting over the small of Portia’s back, led her toward the doors. Ezra and Jonny ambled out, both of them yawning and rubbing their eyes.
He tried to follow right behind them, but the town gossips, led by Mrs. Peabody, crowded in front of him. He hoped Harry could at least keep Portia out of their talons long enough for them to settle apart from the crowd and have a peaceful meal.
The preacher slapped him on the back before he could make his escape. “Brother Stanford, what’s all this about a young lady coming to your home? Should I assume…?”
“No, you shouldn’t.” At the preacher’s taken-aback look, Beau added, “We’ve just hired her on as a housekeeper and tutor for Jonny. She’s a war widow from Brentwood and had nowhere else to turn.”
That last part was a stretch, but he figured God didn’t mind a little stretching when the moment called for it so long as the basic truth remained intact.
“I see, I see. Confederate or Federal?”
Beau crossed his arms. When would the time come that such distinctions weren’t needed? “Confederate,” he admitted, hating the feel of that word on his tongue.
The preacher slapped Beau on the back again, this time hard enough to make him wheeze. “Glad to see your Christian charity extended even unto thine enemy. You Stanfords have always done good in the sight of God, no matter what other folks say about it. Why, where would Harry Franklin and them Negroes of yours be without y’all? Speakin’ of… looks like Harry might have taken a shine to her.”
One more backslap, and he elbowed past Beau and out the door. Nothing moved that man faster than the prospects of cold chicken, molasses, and hoecakes. With his back stinging from the repeated assaults, Beau continued down the aisle and over the threshold, ignoring a few people who scowled at him on the way out. He couldn’t let Portia face all those biddies alone. Not alone, of course. Harry’s taking care of her. The thought didn’t bring him any comfort. He wasn’t sure why, except that Harry’s intentions weren’t always good, especially with women.
Rounding the side of the church, he groaned. Mrs. Peabody and the rest of the gossip flock had swarmed around Portia. They ushered her off under a cedar tree for further pecking. Harry, Ezra, and Jonny were setting up the picnic. He started to step in and save her, but she smiled and chatted with them and didn’t seem too flustered. More hair had fallen onto the graceful line of her neck. She twirled a lock of it around her finger and glanced at him. He nodded in return.
Harry sauntered over with a conspiratorial look on his face. “Why didn’t you tell me that Lydia is coming back?”
Beau pulled his gaze from the women. “What?”
“Lydia Clemons is coming back from Philly, and you didn’t tell me. She’s got to be what, twenty, twenty-one by now?” Harry slicked his hair down as though Lydia were standing right in front of him.
“I haven’t thought much about it since Pa told me. They’ll be staying with us until their home is renovated.”
“You’d better be thinkin’ about it, Beau. Lydia’s had her eyes set on you ever since she was a child.”
“She’s Claire’s little cousin, for goodness sake. I can’t think of her that way.”
“Yeah, well, Claire’s not coming back, and you’re not getting any younger.”
Beau clenched his jaw and bit back words that were not at all appropriate on church property. He managed to strain a more neutral statement through his gritted teeth. “I really don’t want to talk about this right now.”
“Come on, man, think about it. Why would they come back at all, if not for you? Oliver owns half of Philly already. It’s not like they have to come back here to this mess. I’d bet my bottom dollar they’re coming back because of you.”
“Nonsense. They’ve got roots here, that’s all.”
Beau scuffed up some grass with his boot. Harry’s notion had to be way off. His memories of Lydia consisted of pink ribbons and curly blond hair, skipping around Paradise Plantation back in its heyday. He could hardly imagine her as a woman now, especially one interested in marrying him. Then again, she had written him several letters since his return. I’ll forever cherish those days when you taught me to ride. They were the happiest of my life…
Harry shrugged. “I guess we’ll see then, won’t we? It’ll be fun having old Oliver back in town. He always had the best smokes.”
“We’ve got a lot of work to do,” Beau said. “I’m not exactly looking forward to entertaining house guests.”
“Portia can help with that, right?”
Beau craned his neck to check on her. She wasn’t smiling anymore, but crossed her arms and fiddled with her dress collar. The ladies had her cornered against the cedar’s trunk, all of them gesturing and nodding passionately among themselves.
Harry shook his head. “I’ll go save her.”
“No, let me.”
Beau hurried past Harry before he could respond. Why he felt compelled to play Sir Knight, he
didn’t know, except he didn’t want to talk about Lydia’s imminent arrival anymore. And he had hired Portia, after all, or at least given his consent for Ezra to hire her, so the least he could do was keep her out of harm’s way.
He reached the circle of vultures in time to hear Mrs. Peabody’s scathing remarks. “I’m not sure how you all do it in Brentwood, but around here at least, it’s considered proper to wear only black or a very dark gray for at least an entire year to mourn properly. And your daughter’s been gone for only eight months? We can lend you something, I’m sure…”
“Oh, yes, yes,” the others clucked in response.
Beau started to interrupt, but Portia lifted her chin and addressed them all. “While your concern for my apparel is appreciated, I do not need nor want your charity. Abby was the light of my world. I do her memory no justice to go around wearing darkness. Now if you will excuse me.”
She pushed past them and seemed startled to see Beau there.
“Good day, Mrs. Peabody… ladies,” he said in the most cordial manner he could muster. “I see you’ve met my new hire, but I’d rather you not scare her off before she has a chance to get settled.”
He offered his arm. She latched onto him quickly.
“It’s a shame,” he added, looking at Portia, “that some folks are more worried about traditions than Christian hospitality.”
The ladies fluttered their fans and looked to be on the verge of fainting while he led Portia away.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes.” Portia exhaled as though relieved. “Thank you… for intervening, Mr. Stanford.”
“I’m sorry you had to endure that bunch. They’ve been ruling the roost around here since before I can remember. They weren’t even friendly with Claire for a while after we married. Here she was the daughter of a respected slave-owning family marrying an ‘abolitionist’. You’d think the past few years would have tempered them down a bit.”
“Yes, one would think so.” She laughed softly. Thankfully, she seemed able to recover well under such pressure.
“We have Bessie’s chicken to look forward to.”
Her stomach answered with a loud rumble.
He had to smile at that. “Hungry?”
“Very.”
Harry stood up from the picnic blanket with a concerned pout wrinkling his forehead. “Portia, dear, did those women bother you?”
Her cheeks reddened. “No, I’m fine, thank you.”
She didn’t even look at Harry’s outstretched hand as she settled herself on the blanket. Beau sat across from her by Jonny. She straightened her skirt and helped Harry pass around the plates. They leisurely ate their lunch, conversation at a minimum, while Beau kept a discreet eye on Portia and Harry. She didn’t seem to be warming up to him at all, actually. He tore a hunk of meat off a chicken leg and chewed slowly, wondering what to make of that.
A chilly wind and light drizzle kicked up leaves and stung Beau’s face by the time they reached the house. Plans to sit and rest on the front porch were ruined, so they all gathered in the parlor. Claire had taken great pains to decorate this room for guests, and Beau thought of her every time he came in here. She’d spent hours sorting through fabric samples until she decided on green brocade for the curtains. She even made him return a brand new settee the same day they bought it because the upholstery color didn’t match perfectly. But her fussiness was worth it, because there on the green velvet by the light of a warm fire, they conceived Jonny.
The settee wasn’t nearly as lovely with Harry sitting there. Beau sighed quietly and sank into the soft cushiony seat. Portia sat in a chair by the window, her shawl and bonnet placed neatly on the table. She picked up a book and thumbed through it, while the usual discussions began about the week ahead.
Harry said, “I’ll head out early tomorrow and check on that filly in Lockport.”
“I swear, if you bring back another idiot horse…”
“Don’t start on me, Beau.”
Ezra cleared his throat and expelled a puff of cherry-scented smoke. “Settle down now, boys. Ain’t neither one of you got to paint fences tomorrow, and these old knees are already complainin’ about it. So, quit your gripin’.”
Portia laughed, and Ezra winked at her. Beau had to admit, it did feel lighter with a woman’s laughter in the house again, Rebel or not.
Isaac walked in, removed his hat, and took a seat by Ezra.
Beau nodded to him. “Let’s get that field over there by your place plowed if it’s not too wet tomorrow. We need to get some cotton in the ground.”
“All right,” Isaac answered. “Ol’ Samson is raring to go.”
“Good, and we better get on those fencerows too. I’ll see if I can do something with the crazy filly.” Beau cast a disgruntled look at Harry, who fiddled with a new pocket knife and pretended not to notice.
Resting his elbows on his knees, Isaac rubbed his chin and looked at Beau in all seriousness. “When’s the last time ya slept?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Them circles under your eyes is as dark as me, that’s why.” Isaac turned to Ezra. “He ain’t been sleepin’, has he?”
“No, not since…”
Beau cleared his throat and flicked his eyes toward Portia, who had been watching them with mild curiosity. Noticing everyone looking at her, she lowered her head back to the book on her lap. They hadn’t had any guests since he came home from the war, so they’d fallen into their familiar roles, and Beau hadn’t thought twice about it until now. Though in private, Bessie and Isaac were part of the family, they’d been careful over the years to show the public more distance between them. And he couldn’t be sure of Portia yet, considering her affiliation.
“Well, Bessie will make ya somethin’ that can help,” Isaac said with a note of finality.
Beau hid a smile behind his hand. That old bugger always had to get in the last word.
Bessie entered with a tray of coffee and cookies, followed by Jonny. He grabbed a sugar cookie off the plate before she could set it down.
“Jonny, where’s your manners, boy?” she chided, but there was no real sting to it.
He put it back on the plate, and with his hands behind his back, flicked his gaze from the cookie up to Bessie. This was Jonny’s way of asking nicely, now that he didn’t speak.
“Of course, you can have one, honey.”
He snatched one up and took a huge bite.
She set the tray on the table beside Portia. Her voice turned as chilly as the wind outside. “Help yourself.”
“Um, thank you,” Portia said. “Shall I help you serve?”
“No, you best relax until tomorrow. Before the week’s out, you’ll be prayin’ for Sunday to come along again.”
Portia lowered her eyes and shifted in her seat. Beau had expected Bessie to be standoffish to their new hire, but her cold reception clearly made Portia uncomfortable. Maybe she had figured out Ezra’s matchmaking scheme. She poured coffee and passed it out to the men. She added one lump of sugar to Beau’s and handed him the cup.
“Thank you,” he said, remembering the days when two sugar cubes in his coffee wasn’t a luxury.
Jonny plopped on the floor with his sack of marbles and ate a cookie in two bites. Loosening the drawstring, he poured the marbles on the rug. The colorful glass globes rolled in random directions and plinked softly against one another. They were imported from Germany, a gift from Claire’s uncle Oliver before the war began.
Portia closed her book and placed it back on the table. She eased down to the floor beside Jonny.
“What are those?” she asked, as though he would miraculously answer.
He arranged them into a line along one of the grooves in the rug and didn’t look up. “Marbles,” Ezra said.
“How do you play with them?”
Jonny sat still for a moment, but then picked up the biggest marble and held the clear glass ball between his thumb and forefinger. He glanced at his gran
dfather.
Ezra narrated. “You take that big one, see — it’s called the shooter. And the little ones are your targets. You flick the shooter and see if you can hit the targets.”
“Show me.”
She kept her attention on Jonny, even when Pa answered for him, and she didn’t seem to be feigning interest. Still, Beau couldn’t help wondering who she was trying to impress.
On knees and elbows, Jonny leaned close to the floor and closed one eye. With his tongue poking out one side of his mouth, he aimed the shooter by cradling it in the crook of his index finger. He cocked his thumb behind it and let it go. The shooter flew forward across the rug and plinked into a red-painted smaller marble, knocking it out of the rug’s groove and onto the wood floor.
Portia caught it before it could roll under the chair. “May I try?”
Jonny shrugged and gave a little nod.
Mimicking Jonny’s posture, Portia leaned close to the floor. She even closed one eye and stuck her tongue out. Ezra chuckled. She took her shot, and the shooter hit a blue marble at dead center, sending it flying off the rug, across the floor, and straight into Beau’s boot.
Jonny’s eyes were bright with excitement. He even bounced up and down on his knees but turned to Ezra again.
“You shoot good, Mrs. McAllister,” Ezra said.
“I shoot well,” Portia corrected.
“Yes, ma’am, very well. Seems I picked the perfect teacher.”
“Truly amazing, Portia.” Harry nudged Beau. “She’s really somethin’, huh?”
Cheeks red as beets, she stared down at the marbles and fiddled with her skirt.
Ezra tapped his pipe on the ashtray to empty the ashes. “Hush now, Harry. Poor girl’s face gonna burn plumb off. Jonny, why don’t you go show her the study? She might want to get ready for tomorrow.”