No further words explained the mystery, only the garbled sobs and Zeke’s soothing murmurs. She tiptoed in retreat and flew back to the stable. “Abel, bring me Tobias!”
“I jus’ took de saddle off, miss.”
“I only need the reins.”
When he brought the horse, Emily climbed a stall and threw her leg over the gelding’s broad back. She didn’t care who saw her riding astride. She didn’t care that it was still early morning. She didn’t care that Jovie was betrothed. And she didn’t care that she hadn’t seen him since Christmas. She was going to demand that he tell her everything he knew about her brother’s activities—now!
It took only minutes to gallop into the front yard of Fairview. Someone was bound to be awake. She followed the drive around the back of the house and caught sight of Sarah, one of the Cutlers’ house slaves, pumping water at the well. “Sarah, is Jovie here?”
Sarah straightened. “No, miss. It only Friday mornin’. He ain’t come home from school yet.”
She blinked. It was Friday?
“Blazes!” She regretted her outburst at once. If that should get home to her mother…
Alarm sprang to the serving woman’s eyes. “Should I call Marse Cutler?”
Emily forced herself to calm down before the whole plantation witnessed her discomposure. Her parents often accused her of acting too impulsively. She should have taken time to think this through. “No, Sarah. There’s no problem. You needn’t tell anyone I was here.”
She took the ride home at a slower pace and came across Jolly munching grass at the edge of the road. Catching up his reins, she led him home and deposited both horses with the groom. But a head full of unpleasant questions soured her peaceful morning.
Why had Jack come home without Jovie? She remembered the disdain her brother displayed for his friend at Christmas, and how he had avoided the dinner party at Fairview. Were they still arguing? Whatever had Jack been doing in the woods so early on a Friday morning? What caused his breakdown? And most importantly, had his actions brought new danger to Ella Wood?
She narrowed her eyes. Her brother had some serious explaining to do.
***
That afternoon, Emily was transplanting pansies and geraniums into the marble garden urns outside the back entryway when she heard the hoofbeats of a single horse. She turned to find the elder Mr. Northrup handing his reins to a stable boy.
“I’m here to talk to yer pa,” he said brusquely, stomping up the concrete steps. “He in?” He looked just like Cage, only thinner, sharper, a more pinched and wasted version of his son. Habitual displeasure had carved deep lines into the planes of his face.
“Yes, sir,” Emily answered. “Ben,” she called to the young man sweeping the walkway. “Will you inform my father that Mr. Northrup is here to see him?”
“Yes, miss.” He leaned the broom against the house and disappeared inside.
“I got a few things I want to say to him that he can carry back to Columbia.” Northrup shoved his hands under his braces and peered at her accusingly, as if she were to blame for his discontent. “Why are you mucking about with those pretty white hands. Ain’t you got enough slaves to suit you?”
“I like garden work, Mr. Northrup,” she answered, a bit more sharply than she intended. The way the man followed her movements made her uncomfortable. “Would you care to sit down?” She indicated a pair of straight-backed rocking chairs.
“I’ll just have to get back up again, won’t I? Unless yer pa figures his time is more valuable than mine.”
“I’m sure he’ll send for you directly.” She moved another pair of flowers into the urns. “How is your wife?”
“Too darn fragile.” The man crossed his arms and regarded her shrewdly. “Costs me more’n she’s worth. Sure am glad I never had me no daughters.”
The unprovoked insult caught her off guard. She regarded him coolly. “I’m sure it wasn’t you the good Lord was thinking of when he deprived you.”
“Cage said you was sassy.” His eyes narrowed. “Bet he could knock the moxie out of you.”
She choked out a humorless laugh. “Mr. Northrup, I wouldn’t marry your son if he were the last man in South Carolina.” What was taking her father so long?
Northrup grunted and dug a finger into the pocket of his greasy shirt. “My woman sent this here letter to yer mum.”
Stiffly, Emily took a corner of the note between her soiled fingers. “Lizzie,” she called.
The maid peeked out an open window. “Yes, miss?”
“Take this to my mother, please.”
Emily didn’t miss the hungry way her neighbor’s eye roved over Lizzie’s figure as she appeared on the back porch to take the letter. That did it. She was going after William herself.
“Excuse me,” she muttered. “I want to see what’s keeping my father.”
She wiped her hands on her garden apron then practically ran down the hallway, eager to put every possible inch between itself and her repulsive neighbor, and burst through the study door without knocking. William looked up from the letter he was blotting. “What’s wrong?”
She shivered involuntarily. “That man makes a bull look sociable.”
“He do something to do you?”
“Just lavished me with insults.” She leaned against the doorframe. “Remember when you told Mrs. Cutler we need men like him?”
He nodded.
“I think I’ll have to vehemently disagree.”
William chuckled. “It’s true nonetheless. For all his unpleasantness, Ernest Northrup would fight tooth and nail to defend slavery. Without that support, our people could slip off our land and disappear, just as they do in the North.”
“Why does he care?” she asked. “He’s poor as dirt. He’ll never own a slave.”
“Because slavery insures that Ernest will never be the bottom rung on the ladder.”
Emily rolled the new thought around on her tongue as she followed her father back down the hall. It tasted a little sour. Most of their Negroes were far better people than the Northrups.
William strolled lazily onto the back porch. “I do declare, I should have come out here sooner. The sun is glorious.” He pressed his hands into the small of his back and squinted into the sky. “What can I do for you, Ernest?”
“Got summat I want to talk to you about.”
“My garden or my office?”
“Office.”
William gestured him inside. “After you.”
Emily returned to her flowers and finished the urns before moving on to a tiny section of garden that Abraham let her tend. It grew rampant with two dozen varieties of blooms, both wild and domesticated, that were allowed to tumble over each other in a rebellious frenzy. She loved the tumult of color and greenery. When she was feeling especially restless, she could slip away to this tiny haven where flowers, at least, need not adhere to any rigid rules of propriety.
One line of roses, however, she kept in strict formation. Each one was a gift from her Aunt Shannon and a reminder that sometimes life did indeed require discipline. She bent to snip a bit of dead wood from the white bourbon rose.
“Hello, Miss Preston.”
Adrenaline surged through her as she recognized the voice and the shadow that fell across the plant. She forced her hands to work the pruners without shaking. “You don’t give up, do you?”
“Not when I know the prettiest girl in South Carolina lives only a few hours away.”
“I hope you didn’t come all this way just to see me.” She straightened, wiping filthy hands on her apron, and set both apron and shears on a bench. “I was just going to go check on my mare.”
Thaddeus stepped in front of her. “Jack invited me for the weekend, but I did hope I might find you. I have some rather exhilarating news.” He grinned impishly and caught her up in an impromptu waltz. “I just rode twenty miles in a crowded train car bursting with my secret, but I didn’t tell a soul because I want you to be the first to hear i
t.”
They twirled in a ridiculous fashion there on the garden path, and she couldn’t help but laugh. He always seemed to find a way to cut through her reserve. “What is it?” she asked, pulling away.
“My lady.” He let her go and bowed deeply. “I just landed a part at the local theater.”
“Thad, that’s wonderful! I’m so happy for you,” she replied, clapping her hands together. “I didn’t know you were interested in drama.”
He regarded her steadily, his lip quirked upward in a half-smile. “What did you just call me?”
She replayed her words and raised a hand to her mouth as she realized her slip. And of course she hadn’t simply called him Thaddeus. She’d shortened it to the nickname her brother and Jovie used. “I—I’m sorry. I guess I’m just so used to hearing Jack say…” her voice faded with embarrassment.
“Don’t apologize. I’ve never appreciated formalities. We are friends, after all, aren’t we?”
She hesitated only a half a heartbeat. “Of course we are.”
“Well then, first names are much more…intimate. Don’t you think?”
Her thoughts tripped over the word. She hastily agreed and plowed on to safer ground. “Tell me about your involvement in the theater.”
“It’s just a fancy.” His shirtsleeves were pushed up, and he rubbed lightly at the hairs curling on his forearm. He was playing casual, though she could see the way his dimple fought to appear. “I see one of the actors from the New Theater at my favorite tavern now and then. He told me they lost a few of their company to the army and encouraged me to try for the part.” He shrugged. “I landed it.”
“What character are you playing?”
“Francisco.”
“From Hamlet?”
“I only have a few lines.”
“But they’re all performed in the opening minutes and therefore very important. You must let us know when you are to perform.” Her enthusiasm wilted. “Although, if things don’t return to normal in the city very soon, my father will never let me attend.”
“It can’t be helped, I suppose.” He hooked his thumbs in the top of his trousers and tried not to show his disappointment. “Is your brother hereabouts? He’s supposed to show me his Revolutionary War relic collection and let me shoot off a few of the old firearms. It’s the official reason I’m here.”
“I think he’s awake.”
“I hope he’s awake. It’s two o’clock.”
“We had an uncharacteristic morning.” She frowned. “I’m worried about him, Thad. Jack’s behavior is getting more and more erratic. You see him more than I do. What has he been doing?”
“Besides earning top marks in his class?” he asked, making light of her question. But Emily wouldn’t be put off. She skewered him with a long, steady stare, waiting to let the truth rise so she might skim it off the top of his story.
“All right,” he conceded. “I didn’t want to worry you. Honestly, he spends most evenings down at Mulligan’s Tavern with a pretty rough crowd. The place draws its customers from the lowest level of society: dockhands, sailors, prizefighters, bounty hunters, and even a few gentlemen who amassed their fortune through questionable means. I’ve been there once or twice. I wouldn’t want to be in debt to any of them, if you know what I mean.”
“He’s still gambling,” she guessed.
He nodded. “So far he’s been able to pay his losses, though they had to get real serious with him once or twice.”
“Like the night of my party.” Her lips formed a hard gash across her face. “Is that where he was last night?”
“Possibly. I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning.”
Throwing up her hands, she paced the garden path. “Why does he always have to learn things the hard way? His behavior is putting us all in danger. I don’t want to end up dead because of his foolish choices.”
“I would never let anyone hurt you. Not Jack. Not anyone.”
“And just how would you stop them?”
His face grew hard. “Any way I had to.”
He was serious—the image of a cold, beautiful vigilante ready to ride to her rescue. The thought was frightening and flattering all at the same time. Suddenly, she didn’t know what to do with her hands. Clasping them behind her skirt, she inched toward the house. “I’m going to go see if Jack’s awake.”
Taking each stair slowly, deliberately, she reminded herself of every art class she still wanted to take. Her hopes were thin enough already. Marriage would nullify any chance at independence. She reached her brother’s room and rasped out his name.
A muffled “Go away” answered her summons.
She swallowed and rapped on the door. “Jack, wake up. Thad is here.”
No answer. She opened the door. The room was dark. Her brother lay in bed with the covers drawn over his head. At the sight of him, Emily remembered her anger and took special delight in ripping open the draperies and flooding the bedroom with sunlight.
He sat up, bare-chested, and heaved a pillow at her. “Get out of here!”
She dodged it easily. “Thaddeus Black is here. He wants to see your collection.” She indicated the weapons that decorated his walls. “Though I don’t understand what’s so compelling about the many means—physical or relational—by which someone might get themselves killed,” she added pointedly.
He ran a hand over his face and through his hair. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about liquor, cards, and Mulligan’s Tavern.”
He dropped back onto his bed with a moan.
“That’s what you were doing last night, isn’t it? That’s what you were talking about with Zeke this morning, and it’s why you were out so late. You were just arriving when I found you this morning, weren’t you?”
He didn’t deny it.
She picked up the pillow and tossed it on a chair. “Jack, you are a miserable, sorry excuse for a man, but you’re still my brother. Despite what I may have said, I don’t want you dead.”
He brought both hands up to his eyes to shut out the light. “I can take care of myself.”
“If you insist on living so recklessly, join your cause and at least die honorably. Yankee bullets won’t sneak onto Ella Wood to drag your family off into the night.”
His voice grew sharper. “Is that what this is about? Damnation, Emily, that was months ago! Why are you still harassing me over it?”
“Because you’re still involved with the thugs who came here.” She stared down at him, pleading now. “I’m scared, Jack. The country is falling apart, and you’re acting like a spoiled, self-indulgent brat. When are you going to grow up and show consideration for someone beside yourself?”
Jack tore off the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “Are you finished?” he snapped, reaching for a shirt and yanking it over his head.
“Not unless I’ve managed to convince you to start acting like the son our father thinks you are.”
He towered over her. “Do you think you’re the only one with a conscience? With fears? With worries?”
“I think I’m the only one in this room concerned about the well-being of our family.”
“Out there,” he seethed, gesticulating toward the window, “there are events taking place that you know nothing about. Moves and countermoves, strategies and risks. Life is a gamble, sister. A game of chance. I’m living at the point where the dice hit the table. And you would lecture me over my methods?”
“Now you’re just being melodramatic,” she retorted. “Secession isn’t a good enough excuse, Jack. You’re wasting your life—squandering a lot of money as well as your chance for an education, only you’re too cowardly to admit it.”
He swore. Snatching a vase from his dresser, he smashed it against the wardrobe door. She leaped back, dodging his sudden violence.
He shoved his face close to hers, the veins in his neck bulging dangerously. “I walk a line so tight I could snap it with my little finger. One ti
ny slip and I’m dead. Do you hear me? Dead!”
Emily processed his fury through wide, gibbous eyes. “Then stop,” she croaked. “Get out. Make new friends. I don’t understand why you’re drawn to such dangerous activity.”
He shook his head, letting his breath out in a snort of disgust. “You’re so preoccupied with your narrow little world that you see nothing beyond your own sainthood.” He leaned toward her threateningly. “Don’t judge me for my choices until you take a good look at your own.”
He stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him and leaving Emily standing, stunned, in the middle of the room.
16
Supper was a subdued affair. William and Marie engaged Mr. Northrup—who required no urging to accept their dinner invitation—and Thaddeus in conversation while Jack and Emily glared at each other across the table.
“Your wife sounds like she is in better spirits, Ernest,” Marie ventured. “Do you think she’d be strong enough for a social call next week? Emily and I would be happy to pay her a visit.”
Emily shot her mother a morose look that Marie adroitly evaded.
“I reckon she could get off her backside long enough to entertain you, Mrs. Preston,” he answered.
“She’ll do no such thing. Your wife has been very ill, Mr. Northrup. I’ll take care of all the refreshments.”
“Reckon you know best, Missus,” he answered without much interest. “Say, think you could bring by a batch of these corn dodgers? Ain’t nobody makes them like yer woman Josephine.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Northrup.”
“Brown sugar,” Emily snapped.
The adults turned to her expectantly. She pulled her gaze away from her brother just long enough to spit out an explanation. “It’s no great secret. She makes them with brown sugar and cinnamon.”
“Emily,” her father warned.
Mr. Northrup smacked his lips, undeterred. “Whatever she does, they’re more agreeable than a full-figured woman.”
Every eye whisked to Mr. Northrup, who continued shoveling food into his mouth with rapt pleasure. Jack made a soft choking sound and Thad looked like he’d swallowed a handful of feathers. Emily chastised them both with a fierce glare.
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