“Seven.” She shook her head. “I lost the twins at birth.”
I searched for the proper thing to say, but she continued before I could comment. “But we made it. God has always been good to me. I’ve got nothing to complain about.”
I probably could have thought of a few things if it were me, but I had to admire her attitude.
“So, Emily,” she said, sitting in a green cushioned chair across from me, “you are taking over the house now? Looks like we’ll be neighbors. That’ll be nice.”
I didn’t have the courage to tell her that would probably never happen, even if I wanted it to, so I just smiled and she turned her attention to Luke.
“What brings y’all out here today? Not a congregational visit, I take it?”
“No, Ma’am,” he said, “not today. I’m helping Emily make some repairs to the house, and I must have misplaced my flathead screwdriver.”
“A handyman without a screwdriver. Seems pretty careless.”
Luke looked sheepish.
Beatrice took a glass of tea and motioned for us to do the same. I sipped mine and ate a cookie, thankful Luke carried the bulk of the conversation. While they chatted about small town church stuff, I took a moment to take in my surroundings. The house appeared old, but well maintained. I could see her loving touch in each framed photograph of what had to be her children and grandchildren. Despite her greeting, I couldn’t help but like her. She had a self-assurance and an overall radiating peace I found fascinating.
I focused my attention back on the conversation when I caught my name.
“Emily is putting a new coat of paint on the shutters. That’s what we needed the screwdriver for.”
Beatrice set down her glass. “Well, you best get to it then. No sense wasting daylight sitting here chitchatting.” She got up and put our glasses on the tray, and then ushered us to the door. “You can get one out of the toolbox in the shed.”
“Thanks,” Luke said, stepping onto the front porch.
“Sure. Emily can bring it back later. Then we can spend a little longer visiting, and I can tell some stories on her aunt,” she said, winking at me.
I grinned. “That sounds nice.”
She raised her brows. “Just call first next time.”
I laughed. “Oh, don’t worry. I will.”
We said our goodbyes and got the screwdriver from the shed. I promised myself I’d have to return and have another glass of tea with my neighbor and take her up on her offer to tell me about my family.
Back at the house, I got the paint can open and Luke returned inside, each of us content to work on our own projects. The hours flew by, hurried along by the satisfaction of my task and the peaceful sounds of nature. I’d made it all the way around the house and back onto the front porch, then stood back to survey my progress. All four sets of shutters and the front door were done, and they looked fabulous, but now the white on the rest of the house looked even worse.
“Hey, Luke!” I called through the house.
He appeared after a moment, wiping his hands on a rag. Sweat made his dark hair cling to his forehead, and he pushed it back from his eyes. “Yes?”
I forced my attention to the shutters. “I’m done with these.”
“They look great.”
I smirked. “Thanks, but that’s not why I called you out here.”
“Oh? I thought you wanted to show off your handiwork—prove you could do it.” He chuckled and winked at me.
I pushed him playfully on the shoulder. “Oh, hush. I already know I did an awesome job. No, what I wanted to know is how much do you think it will cost to get the professionals out here to paint all of it? The new paint looks so good on the shutters I think the white should be done as well.”
“Well, repainting the whole house isn’t going to be cheap, but I guess it will make it look good for a buyer.”
“Or for me,” I said under my breath. If Luke heard me, he didn’t comment. “Will you call someone for me? I’m sure you’ll know who would do the best job.”
“Sure.” He checked his watch. “A little late today, but I know a guy. I’ll call him first thing in the morning.”
It couldn’t possibly be that late—the sun was still blazing brightly. I frowned. “What time is it?”
“Just after five.”
I wiped my hand across my brow. “Wow, I didn’t realize how long I’ve been out here. I guess we should probably call it a day.”
“Okay. Dee invited me to dinner. Is that fine with you?”
I felt an overwhelming need to stay at the house. I couldn’t explain it, but I couldn’t deny it, either. “You know what? I think I might just hang out here for a while tonight. Now that everything’s finalized, I want to go through some stuff before I have to get everything ready for the auction. Would you mind telling Dee?”
A fleeting look of disappointment skittered across his face, but it was so quick I must have imagined it. “Sure. I’ll let her know.”
“Thanks.”
“See you tomorrow morning, then.”
“Thanks, Luke. Good night.”
After he collected his things, Luke waved and drove off, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I sealed the paint cans and set them inside the front door, locking it behind me. I wanted to go through the house and look for any family clues I could find, but it still felt a lot like going through a stranger’s things. I guess because it was.
The best place to start might as well be right where I stood, so I opened the massive book case on the left side of the door and scanned the book titles. I gently pulled out the first of four volumes on the Civil War. The print date read 1885. The pages were still in great shape, hardly yellowed or cracked at all. I wondered if they had ever been opened. How long had these books been sitting in this case in this very spot? Maybe Charles bought them after the war.
I replaced the book and scanned some of the other obviously newer titles, various knickknacks, and figurines that held little interest for me. I checked the shelf on the opposite side and, finding nothing else of interest, stepped into the parlor. I inspected the rug under my feet. Roses, not dogwoods, so it couldn’t be the one Lydia bought. To my right, a narrow wall hanging drew my attention. I stepped closer to examine the tiny needlepoint. It must have taken someone ages to stitch the delicate trail of flowers. The single word “hope” flowed in beautiful script down between the vines and ended with a tassel.
Some of the furniture looked as if it might have been original to the house, so I rifled through a few small end tables but found nothing but pens, paperclips, and common modern junk people usually stuff in drawers. From the parlor I moved to Adela’s bedroom, but hesitated at the threshold. I had to go through the stuff sooner or later, so I might as well start now.
The armoire swelled with clothes you would expect an elderly lady to wear, and floral scented perfumes and pressed powder sat on the vanity. An antique dresser drew my attention, and I opened a drawer to find it stuffed with stacks of papers. Curious, I started pulling them out.
They were records of name searches, court records, and computer printouts. So Adela really had been looking for my father. I put the papers back in the drawer. I would have to go through them more carefully later. I opened the next drawer stuffed full of folders labeled DAR.
The first one contained computer printouts of families from Itawamba County from 1800 to 1850. I looked in the next folder and found more of the same. Excitement grew in me. Adela had seriously researched her family history. I sat on the floor and scanned the papers for any names I recognized, but didn’t find any Harpers, so I kept looking.
Near the bottom of the drawer, I found a large paper creased and yellowing with age. I gently unfolded it and spread it across my lap. Adela’s genealogy. Despite all logic, my pulse quickened.
Adela May Harper, born June 16th, 1922. Parents, Jean Clair and Robert William. Sister, Margret, born May 7th, 1931, died March 3rd, 1967. I calculated the numbers in my head. My fath
er would have been sixteen. She must have died not long after Buford said he ran away. I wondered if she even looked for him.
I stared at the names written in Adela’s handwriting. There was no name next to Margret’s, my grandfather’s name left blank. Margret’s son and only child, Jonas B. Harper was born August 8th, 1961. I ran my finger over the name. Next to his name sat a blank line, the only acknowledgement of my mother. Out from their names was another line. Girl—birthdate unknown. I sighed. Adela had looked for me, too.
I scanned back over the page. Adela had never married nor had children. Her parents, which would have been my great-grandparents, were Jean and William Harper. William was born in 1891. His parents were Robert and Elizabeth Harper. Robert was born in 1865.
I stared at the next line. Robert’s parents were Charles and Lydia Harper. I ran my finger over her name. So, it was true. Lydia was my great-great-great grandmother. I was the children of her children—her family.
I folded the paper and placed it in the drawer, returning it to its proper place. I took a deep breath and leaned against the dresser, but I didn’t want to sort through my feelings, so I got up and continued to riffle through the contents of Adela’s room. Somehow, I now felt like less of a stranger.
I opened her jewelry box and pulled out several beautiful pieces, carefully returning them after inspection. I lifted the top velvet-lined compartment out of the box and set it aside. Underneath were a watch and a brooch. I picked up the pin and examined the delicate gold flowers with mother of pearl petals. It looked antique, and reminded me of Lydia. I decided to keep it and reached for a few tissues when a small slip of old paper caught my attention. I removed the paper from the jewelry box and gently unfolded it.
My dearest Adela,
Forgive my bold greeting, but I fear this may be the only letter that ever gets to you. I won’t fool myself into thinking that even if I ever return to Oakville we can be together, but war has a way of making a man face himself and his feelings. One thing I am certain of. I cannot die knowing I never let you know how I feel.
Before the world once again tumbled into chaos and we had to come fight this evil devouring Europe, I used to dream that things would change and the society that separates us would one day accept such a love. Long have I watched you from afar, the light in your eyes bringing hope even to the worst days. Once or twice I even let myself believe that you had a special smile only for me. How my heart soared on those rare times I was the one who got to take you into town. I know you were only being polite, and a good lady would never lower herself to the level of the help, but know that those smiles meant the world to me.
If I survive this war, I hope to return to America and make something of myself. Then maybe, one day, I will return to Mississippi to find it changed. I wish you a good life, my dearest Adela. Know that you will always be the lady of my heart.
With all my love,
Ford
I turned the letter over, but no dates or post indicated where it had come from. I folded it and returned it to the bottom of Adela’s jewelry box, wondering who the man could have been and if she had loved him in return.
The last of the day slipped away from me as I poked around, and darkness soon descended on Ironwood. I flipped on the lights and walked around through the rest of the house, not even noticing I had missed dinner. I touched various objects and looked through drawers, questions beating through my head with every thump of my heart.
What pieces had stayed since Lydia had lived here? How many people in my family walked these very halls? Had my father been here? Played here as a child? It angered me he’d never mentioned anything. He never told me we had a family. I should have had a chance to meet Adela. My grandmother may have died before I was born, but her sister had been here all along. If I’d known her, would she have taken me after my parents died? Could I have grown up here instead of in foster homes? I fought with the bitterness again and refused to let myself dwell on what could have been had life been fair.
I sighed. Did Adela know her great-grandmother? Could she have shared stories of Lydia with me? There was no way to know. The only things I had now were an old house, the belongings of a great aunt I’d never met, and a hidden diary.
I found myself back in the foyer, unaware of where my steps took me. Adela was gone and my childhood long over. The only stories I would know now were the ones recorded in the diary. I pulled it from my purse and carefully unwrapped it, settling into a chair in the parlor. These were stories Adela might not have known anyway. They were secrets only Lydia and I shared.
I gently opened the pages and found the haunting last words of that day in the woods, glad it wasn’t the final entry. I turned to the next page. The days rushed backward with each word until the world I knew faded and I stepped into Lydia’s Ironwood once again.
June 23, 1862
It has been many days since my last entry. I’d spent much time worrying, wondering what would happen next, worrying over the events in the woods. Charles’s absence only made matters harder to handle and I began to crumble. That was until…
Well, I suppose the best place to begin would be where I last left off. Ruth rose with the dawn the morning after our episode. I felt the need to thank her for her kindness and her attempt at being a friend in my time of need, though I feel it was not very well received. I offered her a day dress so she would not need to wear her sodden one, and though she hesitated, she accepted and left me with something much changed between us. It could be from the trauma or the shared history, or perhaps it is from both, but I know our relationship will never be the same.
We agreed not to speak of the events in the woods to anyone. The storm and broken wheel was all the detail anyone needed to know. After a quick hug and a look of understanding, Ruth went to the kitchen, no doubt to face an onslaught of questions about why she’d spent the night in my room.
I refused breakfast, my mind a flood of questions. Had I injured the man enough to kill him? Would someone find a body in the woods? Or would he emerge to take his revenge on the poor young girls in the quarters? Were there others like him at Ironwood? Did Charles know such things were happening here?
The questions ate at me the entire morning. I fear my sanity would have begun to break if I’d been allowed to continue drowning in them for much longer. But, answers soon came in the form of idle gossip spread among the help. Ruth came to me as soon as she heard the news.
Much to my relief and horror, Mr. Webb did not die at my hand. At least not at Ironwood. Tommy saw him wandering down the road, blood crusted on his face. Tommy tried to hail him, but he cut into the woods without answering. As far as I know, he has not been seen again. As long as he found a physician, I am sure he still lives. I can only hope it is far away from Ironwood.
The plantation is ablaze with questions and speculations. But only Ruth and I know the truth. And we say nothing.
Life continued as usual, though it was only shadows for me. Everything I took for granted came into question as I fought with the inquiries in my heart. I hardly left my room. It is because of this, I suppose, someone sent word to Charles in Jackson.
His return startled me. I’d declined yet another meal, not wanting to sit at the dining room table to eat alone. He found me in the parlor staring at a book filled with words I hadn’t read.
“Lydia, my love, are you all right?”
The sound of his voice broke me free of my dark contemplations, and I rushed to him, throwing my arms around his neck. I breathed in his scent and gathered a handful of his hair, thankful just to hold him.
We stood there for many moments. Finally, when I felt steadier, I pulled back to look into his warm eyes. “Oh, Charles. I did not expect you for many more nights.”
He traced his finger along my jaw, his concerns coming out in rapid succession. “Tommy sent a telegraph saying you were ill. Your maid says you are not eating. My business in Jackson can wait. Are you sick? Should I send for the doctor?”
&nbs
p; I studied his face for a moment, wanting desperately to tell him everything but fearing I could not. However, the compassion in his eyes soon calmed my doubts. I grasped his hand. “Could we talk somewhere else?” I suspected listening ears lurked around every corner.
Charles followed me out onto the upper balcony. It is my favorite place on hot summer evenings, since it is the perfect place to catch the cool upper breeze. I leaned against the railing and looked out over the front lawns in the gathering dusk. Charles stood beside me, patiently waiting for me to begin. Not knowing the best way to start, I finally blurted out my first confession. “I decided to take your rounds and check on the plantation in your absence.”
Charles chuckled. “I am not in the least surprised. Such independence does not shock me.”
“Yet, I hope what I saw during that ride will.” My voice was soft, carried away on the breeze. Charles clutched my shoulders and eased me around to face him. The final red radiance before the sky deepened to purple gave a soft, ruddy glow to his features.
“What did you see?”
My heart pounded in my chest. No turning back now. I told him about the man coming from the cabin and my suspicions of why he was there. I studied Charles’s face closely, relieved to see both surprise and disgust cloud his eyes. I skipped over the moments of pain Ruth and I shared in the woods. I could not betray her secrets, and I couldn’t yet share my own.
When I got to the part of the attack, Charles’s fists clenched at his sides, the muscles in his jaw working. When I told him of how I stabbed that vile man, his eyes widened with astonishment then his face filled with an expression that may have been pride. He gathered me in his arms, stroking my hair. A ragged breath escaped my lips, days of anguish rushing out with it.
“All that matters is that you are safe. I could not stand if any harm came to you. You did the right thing. He will get much more punishment than that when I get my hands on him.” He pulled back, his eyes boring into mine. I saw something there I’ve never seen before. Charles would do whatever he had to do to protect me, but he would never get the chance to seek revenge on Webb. Charles must have sensed my thoughts.
Heir of Hope: Return to Ironwood Plantation (Ironwood Plantation Family Saga Book 2) Page 13