Ella Wood

by Michelle Isenhoff

  “Of course you’ll want to get settled,” Sophia said. “Caesar, Anthony, bring Miss Preston’s things.” She started up the stairs. Emily and the servants followed along dutifully. Opening the first doorway, she stepped into a cheery yellow room with gingham curtains at the window.

  “It’s lovely,” Emily said, spinning slowly. The room was clean and airy, marred only by a water stain in one corner of the ceiling. A dresser held a bowl and pitcher, and a dainty bedside table bowed to a proud armoire. In one corner a blanket was neatly folded for Lizzie.

  “I had Susan prepare it for you yesterday.”

  “Just set my trunks by the bed,” Emily directed. When the footmen were gone, she turned her attention to Sophia. “It truly is good to see you. Married life agrees with you.”

  “It agrees with me more when my husband is actually home.” Sophia gave a sulky half-smile.

  “Matthew did mention that he was leaving on business next week.”

  “Business, business, business.” Sophia rolled her eyes. “He’s always away on business.”

  “Perhaps you could travel with him sometime.”

  “I’d just be in his way. I have no head for such things, you know.” She frowned. “He goes so often, though, sometimes I think he makes these trips up just for an excuse to leave the house.”

  “You know that’s not true. My father is away often, as well. It takes time and effort for a man to juggle so many responsibilities.”

  Sophia considered her words. “He does make a lot of money.”

  “He’s a talented man. And perfectly sweet. You are a very lucky woman.”

  Sophia straightened, drawing confidence from the words. “I am, aren’t I?”

  Emily picked up her bag and set it on the bed. “So, how do you fill all your free time?” She knew Sophia didn’t especially like to read or write letters or fiddle in the garden. She would apply herself to needlework if the mood seized her, but Emily had never known her to willingly undertake any kind of task.

  “Oh, you know. I do my fair share of entertaining. Mrs. Matthew Buchanan has quite the social standing to maintain.” Sophia laughed breezily. “Do you know how many women were trying to win that title?”

  Emily smiled. “I’m glad you’re happy.”

  “I am!” Sophia giggled and grabbed Emily’s hand. “Oh, we are going to have such fun while you’re here! I have a whole itinerary planned and,” she said with a mischievous twinkle lighting her eyes, “a particularly delicious surprise up my sleeve.”

  Emily groaned. “I hope you are referring to food and not unmarried men,” she said, but she knew it was completely hopeless to argue with Sophia.

  “Never you mind what I’m referring to. You’ll find out all in good time. But here I am keeping you from resting when I’m certain you’re exhausted from your travels.”

  “It was only a two-hour trip. I’ve already worked out all the kinks.”

  “Nonsense.” Sophia whirled for the door. “Dinner is at seven. I’m having Keturah prepare an extra-special meal.”

  “I’d like to see the rest of your estate tomorrow. You will show me, won’t you?” Emily asked, flipping open the lid to one of her trunks.

  “Of course. I’ll see you at seven.”

  Two hours later, Emily set down her copy of Longfellow’s poems. The volume was special, given to her by her uncle on the day of her departure from Detroit, but she’d remained motionless long enough. She tucked the book back into her trunk, splashed her face with water, and left the confines of her room.

  As she descended the stairs, she heard the clink of silverware coming from the dining room as servants prepared for the meal. It wasn’t quite seven o’clock, however, so she slipped out the back door for a peek at the grounds.

  The house sat on a low hill that sloped down to spent cotton fields. The land was dry, cleared, and unattractive, not nearly as beautiful as Ella Wood with its acres of woodlands. A dirt lane dotted with rundown slave quarters ran past a lonely live oak. The only saving graces were a fine stable in better repair than any other building on the property, the slave gardens with their hardy winter greens, and a line of magnolia trees that were surely a sight to behold come springtime.

  Emily overheard conflict erupting through the open kitchen door. “Keturah, you lazy, stupid slave!” Sophia shrieked.

  “I sorry, Missus.” The reply didn’t sound contrite at all.

  “How could you burn the pie? I told you it is Miss Preston’s favorite dessert. Now you’ve ruined it.”

  “I said I sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

  “Of course you meant to or you wouldn’t have done it. You’ve made pumpkin pie for Mr. Buchanan a thousand times. You are willful and infuriating, and this is not the time for it. Not when I have a guest.”

  A pot crashed to the floor, startling Emily. Sophia’s cry rose in dismay. “You did that on purpose, you dreadful woman!”

  “You frightened me, Missus!”

  The outburst was followed by a sharp slap.

  Emily ran into the kitchen to find a fuming Sophia standing over a cowering black woman whose head was wrapped in a bright handkerchief. Mashed potatoes splattered the floor, smoke sullied the air, and three scullery maids looked on in various states of shock.

  Sophia whirled in surprise. “Emily!” She cupped her hands around her face then let them drop in defeat. “This was supposed to be a perfect meal,” she mourned, struggling to control a tremor in her voice, “to show you how well I’m managing my household.”

  Emily took in the truth. She’d never seen her friend look so pathetic. She stepped forward optimistically. “It’s all salvageable. Well, perhaps not the pie,” she admitted, catching sight of the blackened disc on the sideboard. “But most of the potatoes stayed in the pan. And do I smell fried chicken?” She inhaled appreciatively. “You remembered how much I love fried chicken.”

  Sophia gave her a grateful look.

  Emily bent down to retrieve the potato pan. “Keturah, clean up the mess you’ve made. There’s more pumpkin on the stove. It’s an easy matter to spice it and fill another pie shell. I expect you’ll watch the second one more carefully.”

  “Yes, miss,” Keturah said contritely, but she eyed her mistress smugly as she rose.

  The meal was a quiet affair. Emily attempted to engage her friend in conversation, but Sophia was mortified and unwilling to speak. Only after they ordered tea and began a game of backgammon in Sophia’s sitting room did she truly relax.

  Emily had brought along her portfolio. “Sophia, how far is it to the nearest post office?”

  Sophia poured them each a cup of tea. “It’s in St. George’s. Why?”

  “Because I have something to mail, goose.” She held up a charcoal sketch.

  “You’re posting a picture?” She peered closer. “Say, isn’t that Deena?”

  She nodded.

  Sophia’s brow furrowed. “Who wants a picture of Deena?”

  Instead of answering right away, Emily placed the sketch and a brief note between several layers of paperboard, wrapped them in brown paper, tied it with string, and carefully printed two addresses. Then she handed the package to her friend. “Would you be willing to forward two or three of these for me over the course of the spring? I have someone else helping me, too, but it would be less suspicious if I spread them out across two locations.”

  Sophia read the address aloud: “The Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts.” Then she read the return post: “Mr. Thomas Wilson, Esquire.” She turned curious eyes on Emily. “Who is Thomas Wilson?”

  “Me.” Emily grinned. “This is my first assignment for a correspondence course.”

  Sophia’s eyes widened. “All that art talk when we were growing up—you were serious? I thought you would have outgrown such silly notions by now.”

  “I am completely serious.” Emily leaned forward. “After my father and I visited the Exhibition at the Maryland Institute when I was a child—you remember?” Sophia no
dded. “We began receiving annual mailings. My father always let me read them when he was finished. One year, when I was ten, a single line of text leaped from the page at me: ‘Maryland Institute to open its new School of Design to women.’ At that moment I knew what I wanted to do.”

  Sophia looked aghast. “You don’t mean you’d consider attending a public university?”

  “It’s only correspondence right now, but someday, yes, I’d like to attend class on site.”

  Sophia looked at the letter in her hand. “And you want me to help you why?”

  Emily shook her head. “My father doesn’t agree. I’m hoping that if I can gain some recognition for my abilities as a man, it might sway him into giving his consent to my attending the Maryland Institute as a woman.”

  When the shock of her words wore off, a gleam of interest leaped to Sophia’s eye. “It is completely absurd,” she raved. “Of course I’ll help you.”

  “You’ll forward all correspondence I send you? And mail any replies to me promptly?”

  Sophia agreed with a peal of laughter. “I’m sure the drama will prove highly entertaining.”

  Emily sagged with relief. She hadn’t realized how much courage she was drawing from Sophia’s corroboration. “You must tell no one,” she cautioned.

  “I promise.” Sophia handed the package back.

  “St. George’s is an easy ride,” Emily prompted. “Do you want to join me tomorrow?”

  14

  Judge Falmouth’s party was held at Melville Place, a fair-sized estate just outside the town of St. George’s. Sophia hung on her husband’s arm all the way, merry and laughing, as though nothing at all had been amiss while he was gone. “You will love Mrs. Melville,” she gushed to Emily. “She’s a positive gem. She’s hoping to marry off her last daughter this season. Her son Frank is quite handsome and quite unmarried, though I believe Caroline McPherson may have sunk her claws into him. I’ll have Matthew introduce you just in case.”

  “Is he the ‘delicious surprise’ you hinted at?” So far their entertainment had only included neighbor women and, at Emily’s insistence, a few excursions across Maple Ridge on horseback, but tonight her friend was in her matchmaking element. Sophia smiled secretively.

  They joined a parade of carriages traversing a tree-lined drive and pulled up to the door of a large plantation house. Strains of music sifted through the entryway. As they alighted and joined the queue waiting to greet their hosts, a chill breeze spiraled beneath Emily’s skirts.

  The Melvilles were a jolly, middle-aged couple. Laugh lines tugged at their cheeks when Sophia introduced Emily. Mr. Melville bent over her hand, and Mrs. Melville planted a kiss right on her cheek. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Preston.”

  Emily followed Sophia to the ladies’ coatroom where they shed their wraps and picked up dance cards. “Isn’t this exciting?” her friend prattled. “All the most important families in Judge Falmouth’s jurisdiction will be represented here tonight. And they all consider me an appropriate chaperone for you!”

  Jittery laughter bubbled out of Emily. She hadn’t recognized a single face, and the familiar discomfort of nerves rattled in her belly. She reminded herself that tomorrow, should she meet any of these gentlemen on the street, she needn’t acknowledge them. The thought helped calm her.

  Matthew stood waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs, conversing with a sober-looking young man who watched Emily descend. “The judge arrived while you two were upstairs,” Matthew told them. “And now that the dancing has begun, I’d like to introduce this fine gentleman.” He pulled his companion forward. “Miss Preston, this is Mr. Darius Johnson. Darius, Miss Emily Preston.”

  “How do you do?” Emily curtseyed.

  The introduction sparked an unbroken string of dances. Emily still hadn’t mastered the graceful art of small talk. But she could fudge a dazzling smile, and that seemed to be enough for most of her partners. Her gloves disguised the nervous moisture on her palms.

  As she passed from hand to hand, Emily took note of Melville Place’s architecture. The ballroom wasn’t as large as the one at Ella Wood, but tall rounded windows gave it the impression of height, and a series of gracious arches opened the wall to the grand entryway. The effect was elegant and spacious. But Emily’s attention was arrested by an exquisite display of artwork.

  She could not get a clear look at the pieces, though they distracted her from more than one partner. She thought she recognized a bust by Thomas Crawford, as well as a landscape by Asher Brown Durand of the famous Hudson River School. At her first opportunity, she slipped away to observe them more closely.

  “Are you having fun?” Sophia asked, delivering a glass of punch.

  Emily nodded and drank greedily, her eyes still locked on the Durand.

  “Mr. Johnson seemed quite taken with you. His father owns a sizeable rice estate on the Cooper River. And he’s dreadfully handsome, you have to admit.” Sophia seemed to be searching for someone.

  “Does he ever smile?” Emily wondered.

  “Not often, but he isn’t unpleasant,” Sophia answered. “I was just speaking to Alice Melville. I haven’t seen her since last spring—”

  A painting of a peasant man driving his cattle to the barn caught Emily’s eye. She grasped Sophia’s arm and dragged her toward it. “I want a closer look at that landscape.”

  “It’s pretty,” Sophia admitted when they paused before it.

  “It’s exquisite.” Emily sighed, studying the painting enthusiastically. “Probably French—very detailed and realistic. Do you see the use of light here in the water? And there behind the farmer? It draws the eye toward it. And look at the texture in the mud. You can almost feel it sucking at his boots.”

  “I like his dog,” Sophia commented.

  Emily groaned. “Sophia, just…don’t talk.” For long minutes she blotted out the noise and commotion and simply admired the piece in reverent silence.

  “Hello, Emily.”

  She whirled. Sophia had disappeared. Before her stood a picture nearly as perfect as the one she had been studying. Her heart gave a wild thump. “Hello, Mr. Black.”

  “Still so formal?”

  “Still proper,” she corrected, smoothing the front of her dress with nervous fingers. What was he doing here?

  “I see you weren’t expecting me. Mrs. Buchanan didn’t say anything?”

  Emily’s eyes scanned the room in search of her friend. She spotted her gliding smoothly through the nearest arch. Sophia glanced back once, threw a smug smile over her shoulder, and disappeared. So this was her big secret. “No, she didn’t mention you.”

  “That’s interesting. I have cousins on my mother’s side in St. George’s. When Jovie mentioned that you two would be in attendance, I wrangled an invitation.” He appeared quite pleased with himself.

  Emily had forgotten just how good-looking Thaddeus was. Though he wore the same style suit as every other man in the room, somehow it looked more dashing on his athletic frame. With her eye for detail, she noted the thick, sandy hair tumbling over his forehead and the straight nose descending like an arrow from the curve of two jaunty eyebrows. Then she fixed on the contours of his mouth, so mobile and expressive. His lip ticked upward with a delicate movement. She glanced up to find laughter sparkling in the crinkle of his eyes. With horror, she realized he was watching her study him.

  He leaned forward as though he had a secret. “Dance with me.” His nearness sent a jolt coursing through her body. When she didn’t pull away, he spun her onto the dance floor.

  The last time they’d been paired like this, she’d been too furious to notice anything but her anger. On the streets of Charleston, they had been flirtatious but distant. This time, she was totally aware of the intimacy of their contact—the bulge of his bicep, the coarse prickle of his chin against her forehead, the press of palms separated only by thin leather. His hand burned on her waist, spreading warmth up her body and over her face.

 
“You’re beautiful when you blush.” The words whispered against her hair.

  She couldn’t respond. She was caught in a current of music, as helpless as a flower borne on a mountain stream. Her movements blended effortlessly with his—graceful, beautiful, dizzying. Though she’d danced with dozens of partners, it had never felt like this.

  When the music ended, she stepped backward, inhaling sharply to break the spell. “I—I—” Her head felt wooly. She panicked. “I have to go.”

  She whirled, fleeing through the entryway and up the stairs. In the privacy of the coatroom, she sank onto a floral settee. A mirror on the wall caught the reflection of her face. She pressed her hands against her cheeks. Her skin was flushed, her eyes fever bright. Why had he affected her so strongly? She tried to reason that she’d been surprised, caught off guard, but it didn’t sound convincing, even to herself.

  “I’m going to be an artist,” she admonished herself. “I have no time for such foolishness!”

  A pair of women entered the room, chatting amicably. They greeted Emily and checked their reflections in the mirror, blotting out Emily’s view of herself. As they powdered their faces and switched into clean gloves, Emily willed her pulse to slow and her color to return to normal. By the time the women were finished, she felt steady enough to return.

  When she left the coatroom, she returned to the stairway and scanned the crowd for Sophia. Spotting her in discussion with Mrs. Melville, Emily waited until the hostess moved on to another guest before approaching her friend.

  “You knew he was coming, didn’t you?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know to whom you are referring,” Sophia replied innocently.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  Sophia giggled. “Of course I did.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “And have you come up with some silly excuse not to come? I saw the way you two looked at each other at your birthday party. And you just proved my suspicions correct, even if you do try to deny it.”