by Mysti Parker
Oliver yanked his napkin from his collar, swiped his mouth with it, and tossed it on the table. An amused smile puckered his thin lips and creased around his eyes, but Beau could see the fury behind his mask.
“Mrs. McAllister, did your late husband ever own any Negroes?”
“No.”
“I see. If you had, then you might understand the weight of my words. Why, we have a little colored child in our midst.” He pointed toward the kitchen, where Sallie Mae peeked around the doorway. She quickly darted out of sight. “Perhaps you will feel the impulse to teach her a thing or two while she is here, and then you will see how futile your efforts will be.”
“Perhaps I will take you up on that challenge.” She flattened her hands on the table like she might launch herself at Oliver and claw his eyes out. Her chest heaved and nostrils flared. Not taking her eyes off the old bastard, she turned her head slightly and said, “It’s getting late, Jonny. You should go to bed.”
The poor boy looked scared to death, but damn, Portia sure could put up a fight. Beau cupped Jonny’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Go on now, get upstairs.”
He nodded, shot out of his chair, and fled the room.
Beau would have loved to do the same, but instead, he rubbed the throbbing pain in his temple and abruptly stood. “I think the ladies should convene in the parlor while we take our conversation to the study.”
Lydia nodded emphatically. “Great idea.”
Portia was up and gone before Harry could help with her chair, but he took off after her. Beau heard the front door open and slam shut, and it took everything he had to keep from following them. He wanted to reassure her that Oliver Clemons would be here no longer than necessary, and he hoped to God she wouldn’t let the bastard drive her away. Harry was probably saying as much. He should have been grateful, but as the man of the house, it was Beau’s job to protect her. But he had to stay there and play host, if nothing else, so he could keep an eye on Oliver. He would have to apologize to her when he got the chance.
Lydia, Polly, and Amelie headed to the parlor.
“Women never know when to keep quiet,” Oliver said, grasping his lapels like he’d conquered an army.
Beau waited until Pa left the room before he stopped Oliver at the doorway. “I’d like to have a word with you, please.”
“I’m listening.” The older man pulled a cigar from his pocket and struck a match on the door facing.
Standing half a head taller than his ass of a houseguest, Beau closed the gap until mere inches separated them. He held the stubborn old man’s gaze with one just as commanding. “I’ve always tolerated you because you’re Claire’s uncle, but this is my house. I will not have my decisions questioned, or my employees disrespected. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly.” Oliver puffed on the cigar and grinned around it. “But you know why we came back. Lydia hasn’t shut up about you since we left. So I expect that our return won’t leave her disappointed. Besides, this little farm of yours could use some financing, couldn’t it?”
Beau didn’t answer. True — he needed money, and Lydia probably had one hell of a dowry. He had to do the right thing for his family and make certain they would have food on the table and a roof over their heads. If marrying Lydia meant he could do that, then he had to consider it. But goddammit, he wasn’t about to let Oliver or anyone else force him into marriage. If Lydia really had marrying on her mind, he had to get to know her as the woman she had become before he made any decisions. Oliver he couldn’t care less about, but he didn’t want to hurt Lydia. She might be spoiled and materialistic, but she didn’t seem to have inherited her father’s nastiness. Besides, Claire had been crazy about her, so Beau had to play this right.
Calling forfeit to the stand-off for now, he stepped back and gestured toward the study.
“Smart man,” Oliver said through a cloud of acrid tobacco smoke. “Let’s go have a shot or two. I’m in the mood for some libation.”
In the study, Pa perched on the chair by the fire, stuffing his pipe. Beau poured their drinks and passed them around, while Oliver plopped down on the settee and raised his glass.
Oliver toasted the occasion, eyeing Beau expectantly. “Here’s to a strong and united country and a bright new future!”
“A bright new future,” Ezra muttered.
Beau downed his shot, hoping the whiskey would numb his pounding headache. Lydia’s laughter rang out from the next room. He poured another one and in hindsight, realized he should have followed Portia outside instead of letting Harry chase after her. She was probably out there now, all wrapped up in his arms. Beau stared at the window but couldn’t see anything in the darkness on the other side. The only thing he knew was that he didn’t like the notion of Portia and Harry together. Not at all.
Chapter Fifteen
Portia stood at the far right end of the porch, one arm wrapped around the freshly painted corner post, the other hand gripping the top of the porch railing as though she needed anchoring to keep her from flying into a blind rage. Stars twinkled in the indigo sky, and a gentle breeze ruffled her dress. Her hair had already started to escape, and now rogue strands of it whipped about her ears and neck. Leaning her head against the corner post, she breathed in cool April air scented with daffodils and horses.
She’d come there to get away from the toll grief had taken on her but had never expected to be barraged with different emotions that were equally as strong. How could she handle this job if she was always in a state of such constant turmoil? She had to calm down and focus on her work. Beau, Ezra, and the rest of the family were good people. They were the only ones she should concern herself with, not that hateful old pig of a man.
Harry had followed, much to her dismay, and now he stood beside her, telling her something about how Oliver had been one of the wealthiest slave-owners in Wilson County.
“He’s just upset that his old way of life is gone,” Harry said. He rested his hand on hers softly, but she didn’t recoil from his touch this time. “I’d guess two, three weeks at the most, and they’ll be out of here. Beau and Oliver never did see eye to eye, but Claire always tried to get along with him. Her folks died young, so she wanted to cling to what family she had left. I guess you can understand that.”
Portia nodded. Harry squeezed her hand gently, staring at her like he thought she might break into a thousand pieces at any moment.
She looked out over the starlit yard. “It must be hard on Beau, trying to be hospitable to his wife’s family without her here.”
“It is,” Harry agreed, moving in a little closer. He picked up her hand and brought it to his lips, applying a warm, gentle kiss to her knuckles. “I’m sorry you had to witness all that.”
“Thank you.” She wanted to pull away and go to bed so she could fall into the blessed oblivion of sleep. But much as she didn’t want to admit it, Harry’s presence and touch were comforting. At least he cared enough to apologize. Beau was still in there smoking and drinking, maybe even making wedding plans. Surely he was smitten with the beautiful Lydia Clemons. What man wouldn’t be, especially if he thought she wanted him?
Harry let go of her hand and slid an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. “It’s hard being people like you and me, not much more than poor relations and no real power to change anything. The only way to survive is to show ’em we can stand on our own two feet.”
Portia lowered her head, turning it away from him, and squeezed her eyes shut. She shouldn’t be out there alone with Harry. She shouldn’t want to lean into his strong arm and the warmth of his chest. She shouldn’t be trembling with the need for his gentle voice in her ear, someone to whisper away the shroud of loneliness she had worn for so long — especially when she didn’t really feel anything for him where it counted. And especially when she pictured herself in Beau’s arms instead.
Growing closer to Harry felt a little like standing on the edge of a snake pit. If she took another step, she could be
bitten. It had never been that way with Jake. Maybe her emotions were out of control, making her more scared than a woman in her position ought to be, but she couldn’t take any risks in becoming attached to anyone… not yet.
Shrugging from his embrace, she took two steps away — just out of reach — and said, “Thank you for your kindness. I’m tired, so I’ll retire for the evening. Goodnight, Harry.”
“Goodnight, Portia.”
The disappointment in his voice made her wince. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, went back inside, up to her room, and shut herself away from the world.
~~~~
April 27, 1866
Dear Ellen,
Oliver Clemons is an insufferable fool. He had the nerve to say black children didn’t deserve to be educated. He even challenged me to teach Sallie Mae. If the occasion arises, then mark my words, I will do just that. Lydia’s pointless chatter is almost as intolerable as her father’s hatefulness, but at least it’s harmless. I think Mr. Stanford confronted Mr. Clemons after that first horrid display, because he’s been quiet over supper ever since. I should probably thank him, but I’m not sure how or if it’s proper to do so.
To show my gratitude, I am putting extra effort into my work. Jonny and I are having lunch and drawing lessons by the creek when the weather allows. He’s not as interested in art as I hoped, but he confides his troubles and dreams with me, and I’d not trade that for anything.
Lucy and Bessie are taking on most of the housework themselves, but I’m pitching in when I can. The gladiolas and daffodils are in full bloom, so I arranged a centerpiece for the dining room table. It seemed to brighten everyone’s spirits, even Mr. Stanford’s. He remarked that the table hadn’t looked that nice in a long time. He smiles more often now, though I’m sure Miss Clemons is responsible for the change in his demeanor. No matter the cause, he seems happier, so I’m happy for him. I hope his good spirits will lead him to pay more attention to Jonny.
In the evenings, I am joining the other ladies in the parlor to knit blankets and socks for Miss Clemons’ charity. I think she is really sincere about it, though she is planning monthly brunches and socials for their ‘meetings’. So long as the items go to a good cause, I don’t concern myself with what she does. My priority is Jonny’s education. He is such a bright and sweet boy…
~~~~
Saturday arrived with a bright blue sky and not a cloud to be seen. Jonny escorted Portia on another riding lesson, which led them along a trail that looped around the property. They ended up at the top of a hill, surrounded by tall cedars. Portia could see the entire town from there. She started to comment on the gorgeous view when high-pitched giggles drew her attention back to the base of the hill. Through the papery tree trunks, she caught glimpses of Lydia’s yellow silk dress atop her horse. Beau’s hat bobbed in and out of view beside her.
“Let’s go,” Jonny said, mouth puckered and eyes narrowed at the two riders below. He kicked Jack with more force than usual, and the pony took off at a fast trot down another path that wouldn’t intersect his father and Lydia.
Portia kicked her snail of a horse into something like a trot and followed after him. She wished she could reassure him that everything would work out as it should, but how could she? Uncertainty still hovered all around her, making the future clear as mud.
Before she could coax the horse more than a few yards, something wet dripped on her cheek. She wiped it away. Thick, gooey liquid the color of molasses coated her fingertips. Flies buzzed around her face. She shooed them with a sweep of her hand, but a smell wafted in — the odor of decay, blood, and burned flesh.
The horse lowered its head to graze on whatever grew beneath the tree. Every bit of moisture evaporated from her mouth, and though her mind screamed, “Don’t look, don’t look!” her eyes drifted upward toward the treetops, where a pair of feet spun in a lazy circle over her head. They were bare and attached to a dead man. Another drop of blood hit her forehead.
She screamed. Her horse reared, and she fell backward, trying to grab hold of the reins, the saddle, the horse’s tail, but she caught only air. The ground met her back, knocking the wind from her lungs. Her horse galloped down the trail, passing Jonathan. He turned his pony around to come see about her.
Worry shrouded his face; he slid off his pony and rushed to her side. Pushing herself up on her elbows, she waved at him to get back. She tried to tell him to stop, but she wheezed instead.
Jonny hit his knees. “Are you hurt?”
Portia shook her head. Her eyes flicked toward the body above them. Before she could stop him, he looked up. A second later, he twisted away from her, fell on all fours and wretched. Beau and Lydia galloped up the trail, bringing their horses to a stop ten feet away. Without noticing the corpse, Beau flew off the saddle and ran straight to Jonny.
Falling to his knees mid-run, he slid the last few inches to his son and put his hand on his back. “What happened?”
Beau pulled out his handkerchief as Jonny coughed up the last of his stomach’s contents. He wiped Jonny’s mouth and helped him up to his knees. In a rustle of silk and petticoats, Lydia caught up with him.
“Jonny — what happened?” she asked in a breathy, shocked whisper. “Mrs. McAllister?”
Portia pushed herself to a sitting position and pointed upward. Beau and Lydia both turned their eyes to the hideous sight in the tree. Lydia let loose a banshee’s scream, both her arms making an X in front of her as though the dead man might fall to the ground and come after her.
Beau took another look at the body. Then he helped Jonny to his feet. Arm around his shoulders, he led him away toward their horses and to his blonde houseguest. “Lydia? Lydia, look at me. It’s just a dummy. Probably soaked in pig’s blood.”
The breeze picked up. Portia dared a look at the corpse as it swung lazily back and forth on its creaking rope. Suppressing a gag, she finally noticed the crudely stitched seams down the legs, sewn-together toes, and farther up, the stuffed head adorned with only a stitched mouth curved upward in a taunting smile. She tore her eyes from it and focused on Beau.
He ran his hands up and down Lydia’s arms, speaking in the calm, soothing tones he’d used with the spooked filly. “Take Jonny to the house. Send Isaac out here. Understand?”
Her pretty head gave a quick nod; she put her arm around Jonny’s shoulders and led him to Jack. “Follow me, Jonny, all right? Don’t look back.”
Once the two of them set off down the trail, Beau hurried to Portia. He held out his hand and helped her to her feet. “Are you hurt?”
“No, just had the wind knocked out of me. I’ll be fine.”
He held her hand for a few seconds. When he released it, her eyes released the tears she’d been holding back. She pulled out her handkerchief and wiped her cheeks, refusing to look at the ugliness she had discovered.
“Why, Beau? Why would anyone…?”
“I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”
~~~~
Crickets chirped and tree frogs answered the nocturnal roll call as midnight closed in. Sitting on the front porch steps, Beau waited for Harry. Like most Saturday nights, his closest friend was out late doing God knows what. The lantern flickered softly beside him, its wick turned as low as possible so as not to attract attention. He rested the side of his head against the porch railing but jerked awake at the sound of horse hooves on the drive. A few minutes later, Harry staggered toward him. Beau turned the dial on the lantern to raise the wick; light flared out to illuminate Harry’s unsteady feet.
Wearing a grin fit for a possum, he slid to a sudden stop about three feet from the porch. “You waitin’ up for me now? Am I in trouble, Pa?” The words wobbled from his drunken mouth.
Without a sound, Beau got up and carried the lantern to the cart he left in the drive. He reached for the man-shaped lump lying in the back, picked up the corner of a thick horse blanket, and threw it back. The bloody effigy they’d found earlier that day smiled back with its
nightmarish stitched mouth.
Harry stumbled back, waving his nose and coughing. “Shit, did you kill somebody?”
“No, but I’m about to if you don’t tell me why this dummy was hanging in a tree on the riding trail.”
“I don’t know nothin’ about that nasty thing. Why you askin’ me?”
“Because when Isaac and I cut it down, we found this on it.” He held out a blood-dampened, wrinkled note.
Harry came close, snatched it out of Beau’s hand, and retreated as far as he could. Holding the paper at arm’s length into the lantern light, he squinted at the messy handwriting, eyes growing wider as the seconds passed. He dropped the note and smacked his forehead, fingers forking through his unruly hair.
“I… look, I’ll talk to ’em. Tell ’em I need more time. I’ve been savin’ up some money—”
“Who is it, Harry? Who’s got you cornered this time?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, and he shook his head. “I can’t say.”
“Pack your things and get the hell out of here.”
“What? Where am I gonna go? Nobody around here gives a whit about us ‘Yankees’, and if I leave town without paying… they’ll do worse than that, and they won’t stop with me. They’ll get their money however they have to.”
“I swear to God, if Jonny or anyone else gets hurt, you’ll wish it was you in that tree.”
“I know, and I swear I’ll pay ’em. If I had a little cash to start with, that would settle them down some.”
Beau removed his hat and waved it at Harry to keep from knocking his teeth out. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve gathered since we came back? No wonder the folks in this town have no respect for me or you. They see you stumbling around drunk and on morphine when you ought to be working ’til your fingers bleed like the rest of us.”