A Time for Everything

by Mysti Parker

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice ragged and strained. “If we are to be married, I want things done right between us. No more regrets and no resentment. I hope you can understand that.”

  He heard her slide off the bed and heard her feet softly padding across the floor. Lydia wrapped her arms around him from behind and kissed his bare shoulder blades. Her lips lingered on the scarred ridges of his wound. “I understand, and this is why I have always loved you. You’re a good and honest man. No other suitor ever had the integrity you have.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.

  “Goodnight, Beau.”

  “Goodnight, Lydia.”

  After she left, he found some less desirable relief and slept for a few fitful hours.

  ~~~~

  Monday morning, Beau sat on the porch, letting his breakfast settle. He expected Lydia to arrive any minute with another team of wedding preparers. He’d have to make sure he was out of sight, get busy with… anything to keep from thinking about a future without Po in it.

  He strode to the barn with the wind nudging at him, threatening to throw him off course. But with every gust, thorns of guilt pricked his conscience. Po deserved compensation. Now, not later, and not from his soon-to-be wife’s dowry. She deserved to have some happiness in her life, and he had failed her miserably in that regard. There had to be something he could do for her, to show her his gratitude.

  Nashville. Her brother had told her about a potential job there. Some Irishman that had founded a school for blacks. Whether or not the man was still in town, he didn’t know, but surely someone would remember him and hopefully know his whereabouts. Maybe Beau could convince the man to travel to Brentwood and meet with Po. She’d make a fine teacher for any school.

  He saddled up Scout and rode into town.

  ~~~~

  Beau approached the general store, where one of the town busybodies tried to intercept him on the sidewalk. “Congratulations, Mr. Stanford. We are on the guest list, I hope. I keep watching for the invitation…”

  “Keep watching,” he muttered and walked inside. He headed straight to the counter. The young shopkeeper was there again and offered a hopeful smile.

  “Come to buy that broach, Mr. Stanford? It’ll look good on Miss Clemons.”

  He must have finally heard the news of the engagement. “No, um…” The boy’s name eluded him.

  “Theodore.”

  “Right, Theodore. Actually I’m looking for someone.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know his name, just heard of him in passing — an Irishman — he was seen at the tavern.”

  “Hmm.” Theodore looked thoughtful as he tossed the broach in the air and caught it a few times. With a sudden smile, he captured the broach in his fist and slapped it down on the counter. “Yes, now I remember! It’s McKee. Reverend Joseph McKee. He’s been back and forth between here and Nashville, but lucky for you, I think he’s in town today. My pa said he ran into ‘that Irish fella’ near the post office this morning.”

  “Thank you.” Beau fished a few coins from his pocket. He needed more rope, but this news was worth the sacrifice. “You know, I think I’ll buy that necklace from you, after all.”

  ~~~~

  This whole idea was a long shot. Even if he did find the good reverend, he might offer nothing but a long-winded prayer and a, “Thanks, but no thanks.” The only thing he could bank on was the man’s connection to colored folk. If he had founded a school for colored children, he could use a teacher like Po, and if he didn’t need her there, perhaps he would know of another position she could take. And then again, this whole idea might be a waste of a morning.

  But he had to try. Portia’s departure cut him too deep to carry on like she never existed at all.

  He searched the bank, the post office, and tavern, asking about Reverend McKee as he went. Everyone pointed him back to the place he had just left, but they didn’t let him escape without mentioning the upcoming nuptials.

  To which he answered only with a tip of his hat.

  He was about to give up and ride toward Nashville in case the man had traveled back there already. But he tried one last place. Fakes & Taylor Shoes, where he walked in and heard a man haggling at the counter… with a thick Irish accent.

  “Come now,” he said to Mr. Taylor, “you say you’re a man of the Presbyterian faith. As brothers in our dear Lord Jesus Christ, you should charge me a fair price for these boots. I’m a pastor, sir, of modest means.”

  Beau liked him already. Taylor was one tight-fisted, greedy businessman who no one dared to challenge. Beau cleared his throat. McKee and red-faced Mr. Taylor both looked his way.

  “Reverend McKee?”

  “Yes?” The man looked to be about Beau’s age. He was stick thin and pale with dark shadows under his eyes, but enthusiasm shined through his sickly pallor.

  “I’m Beau Stanford. Could I have a word with you, please?”

  “I suppose.” The reverend abandoned his boots on the counter and strode over to Beau on legs like stilts, offering his hand. “Joseph McKee at your service. It’s a pleasure to meet you — I heard you were to be married soon.”

  “Did you?” Beau said with a chuckle.

  “Do you need a man of God to officiate the service?”

  “No.” Before the reverend could look too offended, Beau added, “Could I buy you a drink at the tavern?”

  “I’ve never been one to turn down a free drink.” He waved at an unhappy Mr. Taylor as they headed out the door and said, “While I’m away, perhaps you’ll reconsider the price of those boots.”

  At the tavern, they sat at a small table against the wall. Luckily, the place was nearly empty. While they waited for their drinks and an order of fresh cobbler, Beau took a deep breath and explained the situation — quietly of course — gossips lurked around every corner. He wasn’t Catholic, but by God he needed a good confession. He told him everything about Harry, Lucy, and Tipp, the marriage contract, and Portia’s untimely departure. McKee rubbed his chin as he listened, brow furrowed and seemingly concerned.

  They went silent when the bartender brought their order — beer for Beau and bourbon for McKee.

  “I didn’t think preachers partook in such strong drink,” Beau said.

  Reverend McKee laughed. “I’m Irish-born, Mr. Stanford. The Holy Spirit understands our relationship with these spirits and blesses it, I’m sure. So long as we practice moderation, mind you.”

  “Of course. Now that I’ve confessed my sins and shared a drink with you, do you think you could offer her a position?”

  The reverend spoke softly. “Yes. Mrs. McAllister’s late brother, God rest his soul, was very forthcoming after a few rounds. I’m only sorry I didn’t come to meet her sooner. I’ve had a great deal of other business to attend to as of late.”

  Beau slumped over his beer. “I can’t speak for her to know whether she still wants the job or not, but I know once she’s set her mind on something, she’s going to do it to spite the devil. If she accepts the position, you couldn’t find a more hard-working employee.”

  “She sounds like the perfect candidate, and I’ve no qualms about traveling to Brentwood to interview her myself. But what about you?”

  “Me? I’m not worried about me. I just want her to be happy.”

  “Spoken like a man in love. But you see, we still have the issue of Oliver Clemons. He’s got this family held hostage while you’re set to become his next slave. I cannot in good conscience leave you with such a fate. So, what if I told you there might be a way out of your predicament?”

  Beau sat up straight, doubt and hope warring in his veins. “I don’t see how.”

  “Can you provide something that will turn a quick profit?”

  “Even if I could, I’ve signed a contract. If I don’t marry Lydia and hand over the deed, he won’t let them go, so no amount of money I could scrounge up will change that. Besides, even if I had something to sell, there’
s no one around here who could pay me enough to matter.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that, Mr. Stanford. Surely you have something of value — a horse or work of art…”

  Staring down at the table top and its circular markings left from years of drink and similar confessions, Beau remembered the horse Lydia gave him. That was the best, and only, bargaining chip he had.

  “Have you heard of the great Hambletonian?” he asked.

  “Father of all Standardbreds, isn’t he?”

  “I knew you were a horse man. One of his descendants would be worth quite a bit to the right buyer, wouldn’t it?”

  “I would imagine so, yes.”

  “Then I have the goods. Can you find me a buyer?”

  “In two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  “And then?”

  “Can you get away for a while tonight?”

  “I can make it happen.”

  “Good,” Reverend McKee said with a wink. “I’ll meet you up at the end of your drive at ten o’clock. Bring the horse.”

  “You seem awful sure of yourself, Reverend.”

  “I’ve learned to make the right friends in the right places. Comes in handy when you have angry mobs chasing you, but that’s a story for another day.”

  “Then… I guess it’s a deal.” Beau held out his hand, and they shook on it.

  Quite the irony that the purebred, expensive mare Lydia had given him could be the ticket to her servants’ freedom. Still, he dared not get his hopes up. Even if some miracle occurred and he could obtain twenty thousand dollars overnight, he had no guarantee Oliver would let them go. And if he did let them go, and if Beau could call off this wedding, there was no guarantee Portia would want anything to do with him again.

  But he had to take the chance.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Drizzle carried by the relentless wind pricked Beau’s face like cold needles. He rode beside McKee, ponying the purebred mare along with Scout. He had no idea where they were headed, until they arrived across town at the entrance to a very familiar estate. McKee turned his horse down the drive.

  “This is the Hamilton Estate,” Beau said, kicking Scout to a trot to catch up.

  “That it is.”

  They reached the house as Beau said, “Amelie Hamilton — my late wife’s aunt.”

  “Small world, eh?”

  “She’s just an old spinster living alone with her help, and not to sound disrespectful, but the poor old girl is a bit… well… senile.”

  McKee just laughed as he slid out of the saddle and tied his horse to a hitching post. Beau followed, removing his hat as he climbed the steps to the big front porch. With a huge smile on his face, the reverend knocked on the door and stood there, hands behind his back, rocking on the balls of his feet. Maybe Amelie had a visitor who could help them — or Reverend McKee was out to swindle poor Amelie out of her money, if she had any left. He couldn’t imagine the Hamilton fortune sitting for all those years, untouched. Oliver would have surely absorbed it into his own pockets.

  And if she did have access to any of her inheritance, Beau had no desire to trick a senile old lady into signing a big fat check for a horse she didn’t need and wouldn’t realize she was buying. But he decided to hold his tongue for now. Hopefully the Irishman wouldn’t disappoint him.

  Saul finally opened the door. Standing well over six feet tall and built like an ox, the colored man intimidated everyone at first glance.

  Yet he greeted them in his uncharacteristically soft voice, “Come in, please, Mr. Stanford, Reverend McKee.” They stepped inside, and he added, “May I take your coats and hats?”

  “Certainly,” McKee answered, handing him the requested articles. Beau followed suit.

  “Here to call on Miss Amelie?”

  “Yes, Saul, can you tell her we’re here?” McKee said, smiling at Beau.

  “Yes, sir. Make yourselves comfortable.”

  Beau and the reverend took seats in the drawing room. The place was furnished with items from all over the world — French Monet landscapes painted in soft, soothing colors, a nude Donatello sculpture from Italy, with its private parts discreetly covered by a silk handkerchief. Even the furniture was the design of some famous foreign artisan, though Beau couldn’t recall the name. Claire’s dearest aunt had certainly traveled extensively in her younger years. Pity she probably couldn’t remember most of it.

  “I don’t like this,” Beau admitted. “Even if she has the money, she hasn’t the mind to know the purpose for it.”

  “You know, people aren’t always what they seem,” McKee said.

  It wasn’t long before Amelie entered the room, holding to Saul’s hefty arm. She wore a high-necked white dressing gown and a puffy nightcap over her silver hair. Beau felt even worse, knowing they woke her for a plan he doubted would benefit anyone.

  She squinted at her visitors, let go of Saul, and shuffled over to Beau. Pinching his cheek, her voice was frail as she asked, “Did you bring Claire this time? She hasn’t called on me in ages.”

  Beau gave McKee a see-what-I-mean look, but the reverend addressed Amelie. “My dearest Miss Hamilton, Mr. Stanford and I have come to call on you, just the two of us.” His voice took on a serious note as he added, “All is well in heaven and earth.”

  What a strange thing to say. Beau figured it must have been some Irish greeting when Amelie straightened her back, gaining at least two inches in height. She twisted right and left with a crack and pop.

  Much to Beau’s surprise, she responded to McKee in the no-nonsense drawl of the Southern belle he once knew. “I thought you’d stopped in at this ungodly hour to ask me if you could have your wedding here or some such nonsense.”

  Looking at the grinning McKee, Beau answered, “No, nothing like that.”

  “Well, spit it out, then. A woman needs her beauty sleep, even at my age. Saul…”

  She held her hand toward the very large man and wiggled her fingers. Saul pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. She stuck it between her wrinkled lips, while Saul struck a match on his thumbnail. It blazed to life, and he lit her cigarette.

  “Thank you, dear,” she said to him. “Now shut that door while I have a visit with these gentlemen.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Saul said, nodding to Beau and Reverend McKee as he disappeared on the other side of the closing double doors.

  Amelie took a long draw from her cigarette, exhaled a hearty cloud of smoke, and had a seat in a high-backed brocade chair embroidered with swans. Her shrewd eyes landed on Beau as though waiting impatiently to hear his story.

  He stammered, “I… um… I’m sorry, but I thought…”

  “Yes, yes, you thought me a stooped over, senile old woman, standing at the precipice of death. Good. That’s what I wanted you to think. If I didn’t trust Joe so much, you would still see me that way.” She turned to McKee. “Now, what I want to know is why you think I should blow my cover here in front of my nephew-in-law.”

  “He’s in quite the predicament and needs to turn a quick profit,” McKee said.

  “Is that so? I thought you were right where you wanted to be, marrying my niece’s dowry. You can’t wait another few days to get your hands on it?”

  “No,” Beau said, still finding this whole situation unreal. “I don’t want any of that. I want to buy Lucy and Tipp’s freedom.”

  He proceeded to tell her everything about the contract, but he left Portia out of it. There was no sense bringing her up if none of this resulted in his freedom to be with her.

  Amelie took another puff from her cigarette and nodded. “So, that’s how they got you. Life for a life, huh? I’ve known you a long time, Beauregard Stanford, and I didn’t think you would marry that little hussy, but then I heard the news…”

  Beau had to smile at the old lady’s assessment of Lydia. “Why, Amelie, that’s your niece.”

  “I don’t care who she is, if the shoe fits…” She took another long draw from her
ever–shrinking cigarette and flicked the ashes into a nearby ashtray. “Look, I love my sister, but she made a real mistake marrying Oliver Clemons, and she knows it.”

  “So, she knows about…”

  “She knows everything. They haven’t shared a room in years, but he’s never slept alone. She might be stupid, but she’s not blind or deaf.”

  “I see.”

  “You’re a good man for wanting to help them. I’ve been trying to for years but couldn’t without implicating myself. Can’t trust those northerners if you’re from below the Mason-Dixon Line. And goddamn, Oliver’s got ’em watched like hawks. One step out of his sights and they wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “I don’t understand… how are you and McKee here connected?”

  McKee smiled at her like he could be her long lost grandson. “Amelie has funded my abolitionist movement for years. Thanks to her, a great number of black Americans are enjoying their freedom today.”

  Beau laughed and shook his head. “All this time, Saul and the others…”

  “Oh yes, just like Isaac and Bessie. They’ve always been free. Ever since I inherited this place, that is. Never did cotton to slavery. I hated what Daddy did to our people. Treated them like beasts of burden instead of humans. Not me. And as you can see from Saul and my other boys, if you treat people kindly and allow them the choice, they’re much more likely to be loyal. So, how much you need for that pretty horse? I’ve got a ‘buyer’ in Nashville who’s been funneling my money for years. He’ll be really interested, I’m sure, though it will take a couple days to arrange it.”

  “Twenty thousand.”

  Amelie whistled. “He really put you in a bind, that old devil. The money is no issue. Lucky for you, I didn’t put all my assets in Confederate coin. I’ll even pay off your debt now that I know you’re not an idiot.”