The town’s telegraph lines were cut. The railroad bridge over Rock Creek had been burned, and seventeen cars pushed over the edge, smashing into the creek bed below. There had been no mail since Friday. No news, except for the rumors slinging back and forth between farmers and townspeople. No trains bringing visitors or supplies. When Liberty had ridden into town with Amelia on Sunday for church, they had found the pulpit empty. Even the reverend had fled town.
Most folks called it annoying isolation. Only a few called it the calm before the storm.
For Liberty Holloway, however, it felt more like the fate of Gettysburg was a pendulum, swinging from one dramatic possibility to the opposite extreme. It was exhausting.
“What do we have for weapons here?”
Liberty pricked her finger and winced as a tiny dot of scarlet beaded on her fingertip. “Weapons?”
“Seminary Ridge is not that far away. If they come much closer, we’ll need to defend ourselves, won’t we? Do you at least have Levi’s rifle?”
“What? Of course not, that was army-issued. All of his equipment belonged to the government and went straight back to the quartermaster when he died. But I do have a couple of washboards.” She chuckled as she ripped out a seam and started over, stitching her own dreams back into place with every plunge and pull of the needle.
Amelia’s laugh was thin. “I suppose humor is your way of dealing with grief. Although I must say, you do seem to have recovered quite fully.”
Liberty’s cheeks grew warm, and she fixed her gaze on the flash of her needle as it seamed together the patchwork. If only she could afford one of those Isaac Singer sewing machines like Hettie Shriver had …
“It’s really quite remarkable. And his murderers just up on that ridge over there. I only wish I had the same talent for resilience that you display.”
Amelia’s words bit Liberty’s ears like a sudden frost nipping the buds off her apple trees. Her hands stilled in her lap. “Murderers?”
“It was Rebels who killed him. Didn’t they?”
Libbie tucked her head down again. She had heard that a mother’s love was so strong, so fierce, that it could compel heroic acts in the face of danger—or be twisted beyond all logic in the face of grief. She should tread lightly.
“Well?” Amelia pressed. “I can read your face plain as day, my girl, you might as well say it outright.”
“It’s just that, well—‘murderer’ seems a bit strong.”
Amelia’s paper-pale face darkened into parchment, her eyes narrowed into slits. “What do you call it when someone deliberately kills someone else? Tell me, because if there’s another name for it, I really need an education. Enlighten me, please.”
The needle Libbie pinched grew slippery. War? But she said nothing.
The older woman threw back her head and laughed. “You look as though I might bite your head off! My mama bear growl was coming back just then, wasn’t it? You mustn’t be afraid of me. I’m sure your mother felt the same about you.”
Liberty’s skin prickled. “I’m sure she didn’t.” She stabbed the needle through a patch of dark blue.
“Liberty, look at me.” Amelia set her knitting in her basket and reached between the rockers to lay a hand on Liberty’s. “You are beautiful. You are smart. You are kind. Levi told me. He also told me your mother died when you were very young, correct? If she didn’t love you the way every child deserves to be loved, it’s only because she didn’t have a chance to know you.”
She had a chance.
Amelia settled back into her rocker and picked up her knitting needles once again. With a gentle push of her foot, she set her chair in motion, and her needles tapped to the swaying rhythm, a half-finished sock dangling beneath them. All traces of mama bear were gone, replaced instead with the countenance of a mother hen. “I would love to hear about your parents, Liberty, if you would care to share. It would do me good to get my mind off my own troubles—and those Rebels who may be on the ridge.”
Liberty pulled brown thread through the square until it caught from the other side. “There isn’t much to share.” She poked the needle through the fabric for another even stitch.
“Then it won’t take long. I’m ready when you are.”
“All I know is what my aunt Helen told me.”
“The woman who raised you?”
“That’s right. Helen Holloway—this is her farm. Was her farm. My father, Gideon Holloway, was her brother.” But his wife was not my mother. She knew better than to say that aloud. “He lived in Virginia, not thirty miles from here, but more than distance separated them. My father held slaves, and my aunt never forgave him for it.”
Amelia’s eyebrows bounced, but her knitting did not falter. “Was he kind to them?”
“I don’t know. Aunt Helen never told me very much about him.” But she did tell me my mother was a woman of the night. Liberty focused on her stitching. Up, pull, down, pull. Up, down. Up, down. The steady bobbing of the silver needle, glinting in the morning sun, soothed her. Piecing scraps of mismatched cloth together until they looked like they belonged that way soothed her.
And she needed soothing right now, as Aunt Helen’s words came back to her—words she could never tell another. After an indiscretion with her father, Libbie’s mother tried to use her pregnancy as leverage to get him to marry her. When he refused to leave his wife, she wanted nothing to do with Libbie once she was born. To my mother, I was a bargaining chip in a gamble that failed. To my father, I was a liability, but he kept me out of guilt. My father’s wife hated me. She tied the thread in a knot and snipped the end off.
“So what became of your parents?”
Libbie threaded the needle once more and dove into the block again. “They were killed in a buggy accident when I was eleven months old. The will said I was to be sent here, to my aunt. So here I am.”
“Your aunt Helen was like a mother to you, then.”
“She tolerated me.” Barely. You don’t deserve a real family, were Aunt Helen’s exact words.
“Well.” Amelia started another row on the sock she was working on. “Someone certainly gave you a lovely name, dear.”
Another symbol. But one Liberty was happy to represent. “I was born on the Fourth of July.”
The sock dropped to Amelia’s lap. “July fourth! Why, that’s only four days away! Let me think now—you’ll be twenty! Is that right?”
A smile spread on Libbie’s face. “Yes. Hopefully there will still be a parade on Independence Day. I look forward to it every year. It’s better than a party.”
“But that’s not for you, silly goose, that’s for the country. No no no, we need to celebrate. Something special, just for you. What do you like? Cake? Pie?”
Libbie looked up. “I—I’ve never thought about it before.”
“Do you mean to tell me, young lady, that no one has ever baked you a birthday cake?”
A lump lodged in Liberty’s throat that no words could squeeze around. If Amelia only knew the full story, she would not think her birth was worth celebrating.
Amelia gathered her black skirts around her and swept over to Liberty’s rocker. She bent down and placed two cool palms on Libbie’s cheeks, looking straight into her eyes. “You are worth celebrating. You always have been. I’m just the first person—who knows how to bake a cake—who can see that.”
“Please Amelia, you don’t have to—”
“I know you don’t want to call me Mama, Liberty. I hope one day you’ll change your mind about that. Because I’ve never had a daughter. And if it’s all right with you, it sure would be my pleasure if I could love on you, no matter what you call me. I can already see you are special.”
Special. That’s what Geraldine had called her before she had clarified the word: symbol. Was she a symbol to Amelia, too?
Amelia pulled Liberty out of her rocker and into a tight embrace, whispering, “You are worth celebrating. Not just because you were my darling son’s wife once upon a time, b
ut because you are you. The sooner you realize that, the better.”
But as she was enveloped by the soft, lavender-scented hug, suspicion grabbed her harder.
Liberty bit her lip as she stared at the third place setting on the dining room table.
“We only need two plates for lunch, Amelia.” She gathered up the plate, napkin, and silverware and brought it back to the kitchen. “Unless there’s a ghost living with us I wasn’t aware of.” She smiled, but her attempt at levity fell flat, again.
Amelia took the plate from Libbie’s hands and plunked it back down on the table. “Perhaps, in a matter of speaking.”
Libbie frowned.
“Call it what you will! But we are not cutting him out of our lives.”
“Who?”
“Levi.”
What about your husband, Hiram? But Liberty didn’t say it aloud. She certainly didn’t want two vacant place settings at every meal. One was more than enough. Still, she wondered. Why would Amelia be so bent on preserving her son’s memory when it was her own husband who most recently died? She wore bombazine now for Hiram, not Levi. Didn’t she?
Amelia gripped the back of the chair she had placed for Levi’s memory—or his ghost—and closed her eyes. “‘We shall meet, but we shall miss him.’”
Libbie blanched as Amelia recited the lines from “The Vacant Chair.” The poem had been written for a Massachusetts soldier after his death in the Battle of Ball’s Bluff in the fall of 1861 and had become popular all over the North and South. Now Amelia claimed it for Levi.
“‘There will be one vacant chair. We shall linger to caress him while we breathe our ev’ning prayer. When one year ago we gathered, Joy was in his mild blue eye. Now the golden cord is severed, And our hopes in ruin lie.’”
Liberty scraped her chair, loudly, across the floor as she sat down. “Yes, that’s quite enough, thank you. Let me ask the blessing for the food.” Libbie said grace for the chicken dumplings before the next stanza could begin, though she was losing her appetite fast. Our hopes in ruin lie? There had been a time when the words would have resonated with Liberty, but not now. After all, it had been two years, not one, as the poem said. She was still young. Her hopes did not lie in ruins.
Liberty was beginning to wonder if it had been a mistake to allow Amelia into her life like this. Still, she was a paying customer, and she sorely needed the funds. Later, when things settled down, her path would not be chosen by her need. Visions of customers coming to Liberty Inn danced through her mind.
A knock sounded at the door, and Liberty jumped up to get it. She reached down to scratch Major behind the ears as she stepped around him.
Surprise snatched the words from her mouth when she opened the front door.
“I wanted to check on you. After what happened, and not being able to help clean up the mess … I felt terrible.”
She swallowed. She did not remember him being so tall. “Johnny, is it? I thought you never wanted to see me again.” Why was her face growing warm?
Major ambled over and bumped into him for attention. He smiled as he rubbed the dog’s fur. “Unfinished business always did bother me. I felt like I ran off too quickly with those two scalawags, and I should have checked the rest of your property to make sure no one else was lurking around.”
She raised an eyebrow. He smelled clean, and his face was freshly shaven. His oak blond hair was combed into place, except for a stubborn swirl of hair splaying up in the back.
“So, are you well?” His eyes skimmed over her as he passed a hand uselessly over his cowlick. “You look well.”
Their argument over her mourning clothes came back to her, and a smile bloomed on Liberty’s face. He would never guess how hard she had fought to stay out of mourning once she had decided he was right. Her smile wilted when she remembered black-draped Amelia and “the vacant chair” waiting for her in the dining room right now. Liberty had not escaped the world of death yet.
An idea sparked. “Are you hungry?”
He smiled, and laugh lines framed his eyes. For the first time, she noticed a sprinkling of grey above his ears. She wondered how old he was. Maybe not so old. War had a way of aging a person.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“So you are here for the food again?”
“No! Not—no.” He sighed. “I told you why I came here. To check on you. But if you’re going to offer me some food, I won’t offend you by turning it down. It does smell divine.” Eyes closed, he inhaled.
Perfect. “We just so happen to have a vacant chair that I would love for you to fill. Please come in.”
Laughter bubbled in her chest as she led him back to the dining room and watched Amelia’s face knot. “Please, sit down.” Liberty motioned to the empty chair with the place setting all ready in front of it. “Amelia, we have company.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am. How do you know Miss Holloway?”
“I’m her mother.”
Liberty balked.
“Well, I’m the closest thing she has to it, even though she won’t call me Mama yet.”
Libbie’s blood ran hot. “This is Amelia Sanger,” she said firmly. A woman whose grief makes her crazy.
Amelia nodded. “Her husband’s mother.”
“No—” Liberty said a little too loudly. She lowered her voice. “My late husband’s mother.” She shot her a look that bordered on a glare. “She’s visiting.”
“I live here.” Amelia smiled sweetly.
“As a guest of Liberty Inn. Here pass me your plate you must be starving.” She strung the words together leaving Amelia no chance to jump in and twist the truth one more time.
Johnny handed her his plate and watched as she heaped steaming chicken dumplings high upon it.
“Whoa, that’s enough.” He laughed, and she realized she’d given him a triple portion.
“We do have plenty, you know. We just happened to have some extra dead chickens lying around.” Liberty gave him a pointed look. “We’ve been eating chicken ever since.”
He colored, but recovered himself. “It does seem like you have a lot to chew on.” He took a sip of water and raised his eyebrows at Amelia, who she guessed he was referring to.
Amelia dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin and smoothed it over her lap. “Well. Pleased to meet you, Mr. …?”
“Just call me Johnny.”
Johnny. Liberty narrowed her eyes at him. Johnny? Her eyes popped wide open as she realized he’d just called her Miss Holloway. She had not offered her last name to this man. How would he have known that unless—Could he be? If he was, why did he not tell her right away? Racking her brain, she stabbed a piece of chicken with her fork and swirled it in the creamy sauce on her plate. After Levi had died, a soldier named Jonathan Welch had written to her, telling her that he had been friends with Levi, had been with him that day he died at Bull Run. Jonathan wrote to her that Levi had fought bravely, she should be proud, and that Levi had loved her. She had written back to thank him, and ask for more details. They had continued the correspondence sporadically, though they had never met face to face. Had never had a reason to.
Liberty looked at the man across from her now. If this was Jonathan Welch, how had he gotten mixed up with the Rebels? Is he a spy? Is that why he never offers a last name?
He caught her gaze and held it from across the table. He seems to know me. Is that why he wanted to make sure I was moving on after Levi?
After the chicken dumplings, Liberty served them Bella’s rhubarb pie and lemonade. When he took his leave, she walked him to the porch, where the scent of her wild roses permeated the sticky air. Curiosity overcame her.
“Johnny.”
Silas looked down into her eyes and saw something that hadn’t been there before.
“Do we know each other?” she whispered.
Silas groped for a response as the June breeze sighed through the hickory trees, smelling of hay and clover just as it had six years ago. He slacked
a hip and leaned against the porch railing he built for Helen Holloway. The woman had not endeared herself to Silas one bit, but he had needed the odd jobs. He was going to buy freedom for his father’s slaves.
Snatches of his conversations with Helen floated back to him now. I think I heard your daughter crying in the hayloft. I thought you’d like to know. Is there anything I can do? Her sharp retort: She’s not my daughter, thank heaven. But she is my cross to bear. Pay her no mind. I am paying you to fix the fences, replace the rotten boards on the barn. I am not paying you to be nursemaid to the child. Leave her be. She has to learn to make her own way.
Silas had wished he could make things better for Liberty. He still did.
“Well?” she asked again, bringing him back to the present. “I feel like you know me …”
“Not nearly as much as I’d like to.”
She smiled, dimples starring her cheeks, and he cursed himself for his uncalculated reply. It sounded like he wanted to court her. All he wanted was to protect her, like he would a sister.
“Will I see you again?” Her face reddened as soon as the words left her mouth.
His neck stuck to his collar. Do you want to? The question cleaved to the roof of his mouth. This was wrong, this was all wrong. He had come here under the illusion of blissful anonymity, only in order to make sure she was all right. If he had any notion she would expect more from him, he would not have come. Would he?
Silas tightened his grip on the railing as Liberty studied him with the same innocent blue eyes that had stirred his sympathies years ago. Before he could stop himself, he scanned the rest of her. She was petite—only coming to his shoulder—but the soft curves of her body reminded him she was no longer a child. She was a woman—capable, resilient—and beautiful. His pulse quickened. He could not, would not trust himself with her. She was not safe with him.
It was time to leave. For her sake.
“I best be on my way. Much obliged for the vittles. Be well.” His bow was as awkward as his parting speech. As Silas mounted Bullet and rode away, he looked back and saw her standing on the porch watching his cowardly retreat. He tipped his hat at her, then spurred Bullet into a gallop, away from Holloway Farm.
Widow of Gettysburg (Heroines Behind the Lines) Page 8