Ella Wood

by Michelle Isenhoff

  Marie laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I spoke with Mrs. Whipple briefly before you arrived. She told me she is on her way to her sister’s house for a visit. Those two will gossip all afternoon. If you slip over to the church, perhaps you can finish without interference.”

  Within fifteen minutes, Zeke was driving Emily into town.

  Summerville Presbyterian Church was located only a few miles from the plantation. The town had cleared out for the winter months as the planters who swelled its population in warm weather returned to their estates. Mrs. Whipple could still expect a fair showing for Christmas, but at the moment, the building echoed hollowly with Emily’s footsteps. Standing alone in the sanctuary, even with the sun streaming through the high arched windows, sent mice feet scratching down her spine. She was glad Zeke waited in the carriage just outside.

  Morning had drifted far into afternoon before Emily finished applying the final twinkle to the last star. Her stomach complained adamantly about missing lunch, but the results filled her with a mingling of pride and relief. She was just rinsing her brushes when footsteps sounded behind her.

  “Mrs. Whipple, I absolutely refuse to make further changes. I think the set looks—” She spun to meet the eyes of Jovie Cutler. “Oh! Hello.”

  He twisted a sheaf of hay in his hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “You didn’t.” She shifted uneasily. “I thought you were Mrs. Whipple.”

  “As I said, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  Emily snorted.

  Dust particles swam through a beam of light that spilled between them. “Well,” he said, propping the hay in a corner, “I’ll get out of your way.”

  “Actually, I just finished.” Emily wrapped a bit of sacking around her dripping brushes. “I want to get away before Mrs. Whipple drops by and makes me change it all again. Did you see Zeke outside?”

  “He’s asleep in your buggy.” Jovie surveyed the set and whistled. “I didn’t know you could paint like this.”

  “You’ve seen my artwork before. Don’t you recall all the times you knocked down my canvas and threw dirt in my paints when we were kids?”

  “Well, yes,” he replied with a twist of chagrin. “But those paintings never looked like this.”

  “Would it have made any difference?”

  “Probably not.” He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Didn’t we have this conversation once before?”

  “I seem to recall.” She chewed on a lip that threatened to curl upward.

  “Am I still forgiven, or must I ask again?”

  Emily tossed the brushes into a crate with exaggerated nonchalance. “One more time probably wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Let’s strike a compromise,” he offered. “The next time I behave like a complete idiot, you let me know and I’ll apologize immediately.”

  She let her smile blossom. “I accept.”

  Jovie stepped onto the stage to admire the set more closely. “Emily, this is very good. Do I see hints of Romanticism in those dark clouds rolling into the background, and perhaps in the light surrounding the stable?”

  “Perhaps,” she answered. “I like some of the artists from that time period: Goya, Delacroix, Thomas Cole, Thomas Jones. I tried to reproduce that same kind of emotion.” She tipped her head. “How do you know about Romanticism?”

  “Fortunately, I’ve just finished a survey course covering works of art from the last few hundred years. I even recognized two of those names.” He smirked. “You know, the talent that performs on this stage will never do your backdrop justice.”

  “They’re bound to be less memorable than two certain shepherds who sneaked a live sheep into the cast five years ago.”

  Jovie laughed. “Mrs. Whipple still hasn’t pardoned us for that. I was sort of hoping I wouldn’t run into her this afternoon, either. Do you want some help cleaning up?”

  “If you need to leave, I can call Zeke,” she answered, stooping to fold her drop cloth.

  He grabbed the other end. “Let him sleep.”

  When the cloth was stowed, they collected cans of paint, wedging them securely into the crate. Emily felt the need to fill the silence. “Are you enjoying your Christmas holiday?”

  “Very much. I am in sore need of some leisure time.”

  “I thought you liked school.”

  “I do, but it can be very challenging.” He carried a bucket toward the door and tossed gray rinse water onto the grass. “I’m quite glad for a break.”

  She knelt to tuck a handful of rags in the half-filled crate, stabilizing herself on one knee. “Have you chosen a field of study?”

  “Not yet. I’m still completing base courses, but next year I can begin narrowing down my interests.”

  “Certainly by now you favor some subjects over others.”

  “I am drawn to the sciences.” He twisted the bucket in his hands self-consciously. “I like the order of natural laws, the way they never change. Astronomy, for example. The heavenly bodies are predictable and reliable. I guess I’m not fond of surprises. But I’m most interested in the field of chemistry.”

  “Chemistry?” Emily exclaimed in surprise. “Mr. Lindquist insisted I take an introductory course. That was enough for me.”

  He strode toward her involuntarily, enthusiasm animating his features. “But think about where that knowledge touches everyday life, the things we use all around us.” He set down the bucket and picked up a jar of paint. “Your pigment must be combined with liquid to make it applicable. Someone determined what ingredients would form the best consistency and how it could be fashioned to dry in the most durable finish.”

  She let both knees rest on the floor and regarded him thoughtfully. “I never considered that.”

  “Chemistry is the basis of medicine, technology, and industry. Everything we see is made up of tiny bits of matter.” Energy seemed to radiate from someplace deep inside Jovie, lighting his face and throbbing to the ends of his fingers. “They combine in an infinite number of ways to form different substances. We’re learning what those elements are, what properties they contain, how they combine with other elements. There is a logic to it, as with astronomy. Men are making so many discoveries. I want to be a part of that, to use that knowledge to move the world forward.”

  Emily admired the green intensity burning in his eyes, like candlelight behind stained glass. It transfigured his entire face. “When you put it that way, chemistry sounds downright noble.”

  He laughed. “That’s me. A knight in shining lab coat.”

  He set the rinse bucket in the crate and pulled her to her feet. Any remaining cloths, brushes, rags, and paint jars were soon added to the pile. Jovie rested his hands on his hips and gave the interior one last appreciative survey. “Do you have more samples of your talent at home? Smaller ones, perhaps?”

  She nodded.

  “I’d really like to see them sometime.”

  Warm pleasure bubbled in Emily’s stomach. Hearing her work praised by someone outside the family, someone with an inkling of knowledge, however small, felt much more gratifying than when her mother or Josephine fussed over it. “That can probably be arranged.”

  “I’ll hold you to it.” Jovie winked and hoisted the overflowing crate. “It’s time to wake Zeke, I suppose.”

  Emily gathered her wrap, closed the church door firmly, and followed Jovie to the carriage. After depositing the crate, he tucked his hands in his pockets and leaned against one of the wheels. “My parents are hosting a dinner party with your family next weekend. Are you going to be there?”

  She nodded. Her mother had already informed her of the Christmas invitation.

  “Then I will look forward to it with pleasure. Till next weekend.” He handed her up into the buggy and slapped Zeke on the shoulder. “Time to go, old timer.”

  Zeke roused with a yawn. “Master Jovie,” he murmured. “Who you callin’ old?”

  Jovie grinned and raised a hand in
farewell. Emily watched him stride toward his horse with new appreciation. In their brief encounter, her impression of the young man had completely shifted. His behavior at her party wasn’t just a show. Her former antagonist was…interesting.

  Back at Ella Wood, Zeke let Emily out in the side yard so she could rinse her brushes and palettes more thoroughly at the well pump. The aroma of baking bread permeated the air and reawakened the dragon in her stomach. When the implements were cleaned to her satisfaction, she wrapped them in fresh sacking and followed the heady fragrance.

  The kitchen was twenty degrees warmer than outdoors. Detached from the house as a fire precaution, the brick building was bright and airy, with whitewashed walls and cabinets brimming with crockery, kettles, utensils, and foodstuffs. A red brick hearth took up the entire north wall.

  As Emily entered, Josephine was pulling a crusty loaf from the oven. Several more sat cooling on a sideboard at the edge of the room. Emily made a beeline for the nearest one.

  “Jus’ hold on, Miss Emily,” Josephine admonished. “Dose be fo’ tonight’s supper.”

  Emily ignored the warning and sawed at the heel of one loaf. “Have pity on me, Josephine. I missed lunch.”

  “Dat be yo’ fault. Meals be at de same time every day.”

  “I couldn’t help it. I was at the church finishing the set for the Christmas pageant. Is there any butter?”

  Josephine clunked down a small dish with a soft harrumph. Emily slathered the slices in a thick layer then cut two wedges from a round of cheese and sandwiched them between. Taking huge, unladylike bites, she settled on the hearth and watched the cook make preparations for the evening meal.

  She’d observed Josephine a thousand times before. The homey sight was as familiar as the cows grazing in the west pasture. Perhaps it was her recent art discussion with Jovie, but this time Emily saw a poise and grace to her movements, a beauty within the tranquil setting.

  She swallowed the last bite of sandwich. “Josephine, I’d like to sketch you while you work. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

  Josephine looked up without expression. “You do whatever you like, Miss Emily.”

  “But you have to act naturally or it won’t come out at all.”

  Josephine set an onion on the sideboard and began chopping methodically with a large knife. “Jus’ keep outta my way.”

  Emily retrieved a sheaf of paper from one of her crates and began penciling in the cook. She chose pastels to capture the bright airiness of the setting. Finishing as the sun spilled its own pallet of colors across the horizon and the servants began arriving to serve the evening meal, she turned the page around for Josephine to see. “What do you think?”

  Lottie had just picked up a tureen of soup to carry into the big house. “Why, Mama, it’s you!” she exclaimed.

  Deena entered at the same moment and quickly removed the heavy tureen from the girl’s arms, replacing it with a tray of sandwiches. “’Course it’s her. Run inside now, and be careful you don’t drop anything, you hear?” When Lottie had gone, Deena examined the image carefully. “Mm, mm, mm…” she hummed. “I can almost smell de soup in de steam risin’ offen de page.”

  “’Course you can smell it. You standin’ in my kitchen,” Josephine reminded her.

  Deena sniffed appreciatively and let out a throaty chuckle. “Well, dat be so.”

  Josephine scrutinized the sketch and gave a satisfied nod. “You done fine work, Miss Emily.”

  Emily gathered her things, carefully placing the picture on top. Like the sketch of Deena, it invoked feelings of comfort and familiarity. She remembered the words Mrs. Harris had called to her as she swept out of sight. Perhaps this was what she meant by putting her voice into her painting. This image spoke of those things that were most important to her—peace and home.

  The thought pleased her. She could complete a whole series of pictures, she realized, based on plantation life. Her work would be the voice of calm she so desperately desired.

  Dusk was falling when she finally exited the kitchen. “Did you get any paint on the canvas?”

  She froze. Jack lounged in the shadows near the front corner of the house. She could see the sharp glow of a cigar as he sucked in a long drag. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that even in the dark I can see you’re a mess.”

  She sighed. “Let’s not do this, Jack. It’s almost Christmas.”

  “Do what?” he asked with feigned innocence.

  “Snip at each other. Let’s just get through the holidays civilly, then you can go back to school and life here at home will return to normal.”

  He stepped out of the shadows. “Cage was right,” he said. “I have been blind.” The proper schoolboy presence he had maintained in Charleston in front of their father was gone.

  “Oh, Jack, have you been hanging out with Cage Northrup again?” That explained a lot. She sighed wearily, closing her eyes. When she opened them, he stood before her with feet apart and arms spread out to the sides. “What are you doing?”

  “Take a look,” he said, popping his cigar into his mouth. “Take a good hard look at the one who will be inheriting this place.”

  “I’m unimpressed,” she drawled. “Why am I doing this?”

  He tightened his eyes. “I’ve seen how much time our father spends with you, going over accounts, riding the property, explaining the minute details of the plantation. Cage said he even saw you snooping around the timber crews.”

  She arched one eyebrow. Was Jack jealous? “Pa’s proud of Ella Wood. He likes talking about it. And you never seemed interested.”

  “I know what game you’re playing.” He leaned forward threateningly. The sour smell of whiskey wafted against her cheek. “The conniving, the feigned interest—you’re trying to steal the estate out from underneath me.”

  “Did Cage tell you that?” she scoffed.

  “You must know you won’t succeed. You’re a girl, Emily.”

  “And you’re drunk, Jack.” Her voice was flat and cold. “Again.”

  “Not as drunk as I’m going to be,” he said with a sneer.

  “You know, I never thought I’d say this, but you could take a lesson from Jovie. He’s figured out how to be a nice person, no thanks to you.”

  “Jovie is a milksop.”

  “Jack! He’s your best friend! Have you really traded him for white trash and—and people who kidnap your family members?”

  “Next time I’ll let them take you.” He cursed. “I’ll be glad when you’re safely married off.”

  She lifted her chin fiercely. “Is Father aware of what you do at school? Does he know about the liquor? The poker? The women?” She was guessing with that last one.

  He seized her upper arm. “No, and you aren’t going to tell him, are you? Are you?” he repeated with a shake.

  “You couldn’t stop me if I chose to.”

  “You won’t.” He squeezed tighter, but she wouldn’t let him see how much it hurt.

  “If I do,” she taunted, “he just might leave the plantation to me.”

  “I’d challenge you in court. There isn’t a magistrate in the South who’d let that stand while there’s still a living male heir.” He shoved her roughly away and stalked off into the gathering darkness.

  Emily couldn’t resist a parting shot. “I’ve rethought my position on your war. I’m all for it. I’ll enjoy the plantation immensely when you’re dead!”

  12

  A stiff breeze blew as Emily alighted from the carriage behind her parents. Forty years newer than Ella Wood, Fairview’s imposing entryway faced the road. At the moment, every one of its windows glowed with candlelight; it looked like a storybook castle radiating fairy dust. The effect softened the building’s austere face and made it warmly inviting.

  A footman preceded them and cordially opened the front door. As Emily stepped inside the lavish foyer, memories washed over her. She hadn’t visited Fairview for years—not since the days befor
e Sophia turned debutante—but she remembered it well. She had whiled away many hours here as a child, both in the house and on the grounds.

  Walter and Edna Cutler greeted them warmly. After a servant took their wraps, Edna ushered them into the parlor where a fire blazed in the grate. “Come in out of that wind. Land sakes! It’s like to blow us into tomorrow.”

  Marie sank onto a chair near the flames. “At least it isn’t raining.”

  “What a gracious thing to say,” Edna replied. “Of course we should count our blessings, especially during the Christmas season. Emily, not there,” she admonished as Emily chose a seat near the door. “Come closer to the fire.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not cold,” Emily replied, clutching her art portfolio.

  “Nonsense.” The woman drew an ottoman near the hearth and insisted until Emily finally relented. “We’ve a few minutes before dinner is served. Time enough for you to get warm.”

  Emily found the heat stifling—a word she recalled Sophia using frequently in regards to her mother. She fought the urge to escape straight back into the blustery weather.

  “Will Jackson be joining us tonight?” Walter asked.

  “I’m afraid he’s feeling a bit under the weather,” William answered. “He asked us to convey his apologies.”

  Jack hadn’t looked ill to Emily. She figured he was halfway to the nearest card game by now.

  “Such a pity,” Edna fretted. “Jovie will be so disappointed.”

  “Where is Jovie?” Emily asked.

  “Oh, he’ll be along soon, dear,” Edna assured her. “He’s entertaining my cousin’s youngest daughter who is visiting from Beaufort. She’s staying through the holidays while her parents visit family in England. A lovely girl.”

  “She didn’t wish to accompany them?” Marie asked.

  “She gets so terribly seasick. Rather than endure a voyage for relatives she’s never met, she opted to spend Christmas with us. And we’re glad to have her, poor child,” Edna finished.