by Mysti Parker
She took a deep breath and decided to let a few memories loose. “Jake was a farmer.”
The old man settled back onto the mossy earth and rested against the tree trunk again.
“He grew corn, soybeans, wheat — whatever the soil would take.”
“Honest profession, farmin’.” Ezra refilled his pipe from the can in his bib pocket.
Portia rubbed her hand along the velvety moss between them. “He never was that good of a farmer. His brother Frank shared the land with him. He was better at it. Jake would have rather been hunting or fishing than plowing a field.”
“We’d have got along good,” he said with a quiet chuckle. “I hate farmin’.”
She had to laugh at that, and discovered she really liked Ezra. He reminded her of her own daddy, before he became a drunken monster.
Portia drew her knees to her chest and rested her elbows on them. “Jake was a good man and a good father. He never should have left.”
“That seems to be a pretty common sentiment nowadays.” Ezra took his pipe from his mouth to rest it against one knee. “I didn’t think Beauregard was gonna come back to us either, and when he did… well, he ain’t been the same man since.”
“It must have been hard raising him on your own.”
“It was. Hadn’t been for Bessie, he might have starved to death. Lucky for Beau, her youngest boy Curtis was born just a few months before. And Isaac was a real big help when Harry came to live with us. Them boys was a handful.” He grinned as though remembering some of their adolescent capers. “Tell me about your folks. I knew a few people from Brentwood back in the day.”
“They were Sullivans — Charles and Iris.” She waited for any sign of recognition on his face, but his expression didn’t change. She wiped her palms on her skirt, and her heart raced, uncertain how much she should reveal about them. “Daddy was a good carpenter. I think every home in Brentwood had a piece of his furniture. But he stopped working and turned to the bottle when my older brother died. Nothing was the same after that.”
He took a long draw from his pipe, lowered it from his mouth, and let the smoke out slowly. The gentle warmth in his eyes eased her spirit. “Ain’t right for a man to mistreat his family. I reckon everyone handles grief different, like you and Beau and Jonny. But you know somethin’? I still believe in the good Lord, and I think he brought you here for a reason.”
“Do you? And why’s that?” She tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice but failed miserably. God’s reasons didn’t seem to serve any purpose but to take whatever He wanted when He wanted it.
Ezra’s mustache curved upward like a fuzzy gray caterpillar arching its back. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”
~~~~
After supper, everyone settled in the parlor as a spring storm raged outside. It didn’t faze Aunt Amelie, who nodded off not five minutes after she sat down. Beside her sat Polly, hunkered over some knitting. Lydia was upstairs somewhere, as was Jonny. Oliver lit a cigar as he, Pa, and Harry discussed politics or some such thing.
Beau was in no mood for it, so he sipped some whiskey and tuned out their conversation. What had politics done but tear the country apart, leaving honest working folks like himself broke while filling the pockets of opportunists like Oliver? His foundry in Philadelphia supplied the steel for railroads — those same railroads and locomotives the Rebels had destroyed.
He threw back the rest of his whiskey, savoring the burn. A good distraction is what he needed — some pleasant conversation to take his mind off his finances, or a friendly verbal sparring.
Portia sat a couple yards away.
An open book lay on her lap, but she wasn’t looking at it. She stared out the window, lost in her own thoughts. He let his eyes linger on her — watched the lightning flicker in her eyes, and the way she tucked her thick hair behind her ear only to have it escape again a moment later. He wanted to ask her what was on her mind when Lydia came in, carrying a large framed portrait. Tipp followed behind at a respectful distance and waited near the door. Beau gave him a friendly nod in greeting, and Tipp returned the gesture. He’d have to snag him for a checkers game soon.
“I have something for you,” Lydia said, smiling and wiggling like an excited puppy.
“Oh?” Beau glanced at Portia — who didn’t seem to have acknowledged this interruption — and put on a smile for Lydia.
Lydia flipped the frame around and waited expectantly. It was a church, or maybe a school, with a tall steeple. White birches or fence posts surrounded it. What looked like a cemetery — or were those stepping stones? — sat in the foreground.
“Well, what do you think?”
He strummed his fingers on his glass and put on an expression that he hoped said, I’m impressed. “It’s… really nice. Did you…?”
“Yes.” More excited wiggling. “I painted it while at Hampton’s. It’s the St. Peter’s church in Philadelphia. A wonderfully historic old building. Where can we hang it?”
“Uh…” Beau scanned the room. Plenty of bare spots to choose from, since they had sold so much to make ends meet. “I guess anywhere’s fine.”
“How about over the mantle?” she suggested and waited for Beau’s nod of approval. “Tipp, would you mind?”
Tipp answered with, “Yes, Miss Clemons,” and came over. He took a footstool and set it in front of the mantle. Luckily a nail still stuck out on the wall from whatever had been hanging there before. Lydia handed him the painting, and he started to step on the stool, but Oliver cleared his throat loudly.
“Take your boots off, boy. You’ll ruin the upholstery.”
“Yes, sir,” Tipp said in an even tone and did as commanded, but a mixture of humiliation and anger emanated from his eyes.
Still slaves as far as Oliver’s concerned.
Once the picture deed was done, Tipp strode from the room.
Oliver chewed on his cigar and looked right at Portia. “You can never civilize a nigger.”
Portia snapped her book shut, got up, and walked out without a word. Glaring at the hateful asshole, Beau went after her into the foyer. But she had already made it halfway up the stairs when Lydia grabbed his shirt sleeve.
“Beau, wait.” She pulled him around and away from the parlor’s door; her pretty face was grief-stricken. “I apologize for Daddy. You know how he is — but he’s got a good heart, really. If he’s upset Portia, I’ll talk to him and get him to apologize.”
“I won’t hold my breath.” He glanced up the stairs; no Portia, just the click of a shutting door.
A huge streak of lightning and clap of thunder rattled the house. Lydia flinched; her shaking hands rested on his chest. “Trust me. I know my daddy. He’ll listen to me.”
“I’ve had enough of your daddy tonight.”
“I know. I hate that he soured the evening. Claire kept such a beautiful home here that I simply wanted to help restore it to its former glory.”
“It’ll take more than one painting to do that.”
Her hands migrated from his chest to his waist. Beau’s jaw clenched; damn it — why did her touch have to feel so good?
“Let me take care of it, then. Let me buy what’s needed to refurnish this place.”
“It’s my job to provide for this home, not yours.” He narrowed his eyes and removed her hands from his waist, keeping hold of her wrists so she couldn’t touch him into submission. Either she was naïve to a man’s pride or she had already assumed the role of his wife. Neither of those options sat well with him, even though the latter choice would ensure they’d never want for anything again.
“I know, but I want to do it. For you, and for my cousin’s memory.” She wriggled from the trap of his hands like a clever escape artist. Gripping his forearms, she pulled her body right up to his and guided his hands around her waist.
“Lydia…”
“Please, Beau, let me do this,” she whispered. Then her lips were on his, and he was caught in her spell — the world spun
out of control to the tune of her tongue flicking against his.
His arms tightened around her. Her breasts molded hot and soft against his chest. Her body trembled with excitement under all the trappings of dress and corset. Telling her no wasn’t possible now. But with eyes shut tight and lips locked into the deepest kiss he’d had in a very long time, he wasn’t picturing himself with Lydia.
Or Claire.
It was Portia he pictured, and he had no power to stop it. The funny thing was, he didn’t want to.
Chapter Eighteen
May 7, 1866
Dear Ellen,
The morning has brought us a warm day and a cloudless sky. I’ve opened all the study windows, and oh my! Sweet honeysuckle-scented breezes are refreshing the air in this house. There is the occasional fly, but even their buzzing is a welcome sign of spring in full bloom.
Sallie Mae is soaking up knowledge like a little seedling. She finished one primer already. She writes quite well, so I assigned her the task of writing verses from Psalms. I think I’ll collect her work and make her something special with it, because I don’t know how long I’ll have the privilege of tutoring her. I must make every moment count. At the rate she is learning, I expect her to be doing figures right along with Jonathan by month’s end. They get along so well one might think they were brother and sister but for their different skin colors.
Mr. Clemons has moved back into his own home to supervise renovations that are nearly complete. Everyone’s spirits are lighter with him gone, and I don’t care to ever lay eyes on him again, he’s such a hateful man. Amelie is back in her home being cared for by devoted former slaves. I do hope she fares well. I worry that her mind is too far gone for her own good. I wish I could say that Miss Clemons and her mother had gone as well, but they have remained here for now. I suspect they view me as competition for Mr. Stanford’s affections. They are wrong, and I want no part of such manufactured ideas.
I will remain forever grateful for Mr. Stanford allowing me to teach Sallie Mae. He can be quite reasonable and kind when he chooses to be, though Jonny is still not speaking to him, nor is Mr. Stanford encouraging him. I do believe he is genuinely regretful over that disgusting effigy we stumbled upon. Two lawmen now patrol the property several times a day, though I can sense Mr. Stanford’s unease about the situation. He is already overburdened from work and lack of sleep. In regards to sleep, I neglected to tell you that I saw him
You must be thrilled to have your mama there with the little one coming so soon. Did she bring any of those Irish ginger ales? I’d so love to drink one again. Please give her my love and write to me as soon as you can when the baby comes…
Portia finished the letter and sealed it. She smiled at Sallie Mae and Jonny. They were working diligently on their assignments. Such a peaceful morning. She settled back in the chair and let the warm breeze caress her face.
Harry came bursting in like the place was on fire. “Get ready! Let’s go!”
Portia sprang from her seat as a dozen terrible scenarios swam through her mind. Pencils, paper, and who knew what else went flying. “What’s wrong?”
Harry doubled over laughing.
Hands on her hips, she narrowed her eyes and admonished him. “I see nothing funny about scaring people half to death, Mr. Franklin.”
“It’s Harry, remember?”
She answered with a glare she hoped would wipe the mischief from his face.
It worked. His clownish smile fell into a contrite frown. “I’m sorry. Anyway, it’s Market Day, so close those books and let’s go!”
She opened her mouth to protest when Jonny yelled, “Woohoo!” and took off with Sallie Mae right on his heels. “I’ll buy you some candy,” he said as they ran out the door.
“Honestly!” Portia said, gesturing after them. “I don’t see the need to cancel lessons just for a jaunt in town.”
That boyish grin returned as Harry sidled over to her in a checked shirt with rolled-up sleeves. He slipped an arm around her shoulders; she did her best to not shrink away.
“Po, honey, you’ve been working too hard. Let me take you out for a good time, show you around town.”
“You already did that.”
“Not on Market Day I didn’t. Maybe you can even find you a little trinket or something.”
“I have no money for such things.”
“Well, I do.” He patted his pocket, which jingled in return, and held out his arm. “Shall we?”
Harry hadn’t officially asked for her courtship, but he sure acted as though the two of them were headed for the altar. She had to be honest with him and couldn’t put it off anymore. Taking a deep breath, she decided it was now or never.
“Listen, Harry. I appreciate how very kind and hospitable you’ve been to me, but… I’m not ready for… an association beyond friendship. I hope you understand.”
Harry’s jovial expression sank into seriousness. His shoulders drooped as he put his hands in his pockets and studied the rug at his feet. “That’s fine. I just thought that…”
“You’re a good man,” she said and stepped closer, until he looked up at her again. Hurt filled his eyes, along with… anger? She guessed she couldn’t blame him. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged and blew a breath through his tight lips. “Don’t be. I shouldn’t have assumed anything. We’ll still be friends, right? And maybe, someday…”
“Maybe,” she answered.
“Then let’s go to Market Day as friends and nothing more.” He jingled the change in his pockets again. “Will you at least let me buy you some treats when we get there?”
“I don’t know…”
“Trust me, you’ll want to try ’em.”
“All right. I am a bit hungry.”
~~~~
Market Day in Lebanon surely was a grand event. Carriages lined the sides of every street. Harry found an empty space on Spring Street and parked the buggy. Beau, Jonny, Lydia, and Ezra rode in a separate conveyance. Portia didn’t see them anywhere. She wished Sallie Mae had been able to go, but her heart swelled a bit knowing Jonny intended to buy her some candy.
But her mind didn’t linger on their whereabouts. The festivities around them overwhelmed all her senses.
People on foot wound between horses, mules, and cattle of every color and breed, many of them up for sale or trade. Music played from somewhere. Banjo, French harp, and fiddle battled it out for the best melody, depending on which way she turned her head. Merchant stands occupied every corner with cries of, “Come one, come all!” and, “Get it while it’s hot!” And the smells — oh, the smells! Portia’s mouth watered as Harry helped her out of the carriage. Popcorn, caramels, fried goodies — their aromas coated the air and tempted her nose, and she found herself actually pulling Harry’s arm to get to the food faster.
He laughed. “Told ya you’d like Market Day.”
They bought some treats and strolled past fluffy white lambs kept in a temporary pen.
“I have my calves up for sale. Let’s hope they sell,” Harry said.
She stuffed her mouth with some kind of fried cake sprinkled with sugar. “Mmm hmm.”
Harry limped to the next merchant stand.
She swallowed down her cake and asked, “Are you all right?”
He turned around, flashing his usual boyish smile, but his cheeks had grown pale and sweat dampened his forehead. She could tell he tried to hide his limp as he walked back to her.
“Try this.” He handed her a dark bottle of something.
“What is it?”
“Sarsaparilla.”
“I don’t partake.”
“It’s so gentle a baby could drink it from a tit.”
Portia’s cheeks grew hot.
“Sorry. Slip of the tongue. I’m distracted by a certain pretty lady.”
She attempted a smile and took a sip. Not bad — cool with a licorice taste, but guilt diluted her enjoyment of it.
Harry scrubbed a shaky hand across his foreh
ead. “I’ve got to run an errand. Why don’t you do a little shop-gazing on your own, and I’ll meet up with you later.”
“I can do that. Are you sure you’re…?”
He had already taken off, limping across the street and into the crowd. Not having any prior experience with rejecting men, she couldn’t say whether she had handled it well or not. He didn’t scream or shout or burst into tears, so hopefully she hadn’t hurt him too much. She sipped her drink and strolled down a sidewalk toward the general store.
She stepped inside. Shoppers packed the store, browsing the coffee, fabric, flour, and all manner of merchandise. Weaving her way along the aisles, she eyed the goods as she passed. With no spending money, she wasn’t tempted to buy anything, so she lingered on nothing in particular.
Circling her way back toward the front of the store, she spied Beau perusing some jewelry and other baubles at a glass merchandise case. The man behind the counter was young, probably in his teens. He placed a few brooches and rings on a swatch of velvet when Portia came up beside Beau.
“Those are pretty,” she said.
A flash of surprise registered on his face, but then he smiled. “Which one do you like best?”
“Um…”
The shopkeeper held up a pretty bronze charm with a white cameo of a woman in the center. It hung from a gauzy lavender ribbon.
“It’s the Greek goddess Athena,” the young man said. “And it would look lovely on your missus here.”
Portia’s eyes flicked from him to Beau. “But I’m not—”
“A woman to flaunt fine jewelry,” Beau added with a mischievous grin. “But you really should let me spoil you from time to time, my dear.”
The shopkeeper nodded like he was truly an expert on the subject. “Oh, I see — your wife is a modest woman. That’s a commendable trait, but I can assure you that many a fine Christian lady has adorned her neck with this very necklace.”