by Beth White
“No, my home is just outside of Tupelo, about fifty miles east of here.”
“T-Tupelo?” The stammer that still occasionally plagued him chose that moment to surface. “What is your family’s plantation called?”
“Ithaca. Have you heard of it?”
Numb, Riggins stared at her. “I’ve—yes, I have,” he finally said. “I was engaged in action nearby during the war.” He proffered a stiff bow, bringing her gloved hand briefly to his lips. “I imagine I’ll be able to find it after I’ve concluded my business here. Until then, goodbye, Miss Daughtry. May fortune smile upon your efforts to keep your property.”
He dropped her hand and walked away, forcing himself to neither run nor look back.
Sometimes it was best if one’s questions went unanswered.
Selah watched Riggins walk away with the athletic gait of a horseman, his broad back ramrod straight. What on earth had she said to offend him? Usually it was her sister’s beautiful face that caused men to suddenly drop her hand and drift away. This time . . . this time he’d asked Selah all manner of personal questions, so that in less than twenty-four hours he knew almost all there was to know about her—then walked away before she could discover so much as his reason for traveling on that train.
Now that she thought about it, yesterday before the wreck he’d sidestepped that very question. He, on the other hand, demonstrated a knack for eliciting information from everyone around him. The thought left her both uncomfortable and puzzled to the core.
Well, there was nothing she could do about it. Either he would follow through and come to find her later . . . or he would not. Mentally dusting her hands, she opened the door to the bank and went inside.
He hadn’t lied to her.
But as he entered the telegraph office, Levi admitted to himself with a certain amount of self-disgust that he’d led Selah to believe he’d seen action near her home without actually setting foot onto her family’s property. And oh, how he wished that were true.
One thing he knew: she hadn’t been there on that day long ago. Selah would have been in her late teens or early twenties back then, and he had not seen any young white women. He’d seen only one white lady, the one in the upstairs bedroom. The one his men had—
No, not “his men.” They were deserters he’d been sent to apprehend.
And he hadn’t gotten there in time to prevent the atrocities they’d committed. No matter how many times he tried to force the memory of that day back to its proper blurry state, nearly every moment was crystal clear. The woman had been middle-aged, forty at least, with deep blue eyes nothing like Selah’s. Her hair might have been the same color, though, a deep mahogany brown with lustrous red undertones. And the bruises and swelling of her face would have concealed its shape and bone structure.
Could that woman have been Selah’s mother? He didn’t really want to know.
Where would Selah and her sisters have been when the attack came? They might not have even been on the plantation—perhaps they’d been with the grandmother in Memphis she’d mentioned. But what if they’d been watching from some hiding place, had seen the deserters coming? Then they must have also seen Levi arrive, too late to stop it. But if that was true, wouldn’t she have recognized him?
Generally he got looks of suspicion when Southerners heard his natural pattern of speech. That was why he either stayed quiet or, when conducting an interview, adopted a fairly spot-on drawl. But yesterday on the train, and this morning, for that matter, Selah had not batted a single one of her long eyelashes at his Northern accent. She had treated him like an interesting stranger, not at all like an enemy.
She didn’t know who he was.
The questions went round and round. What was he going to do about her? Pursue her, using the excuse of helping Wyatt? Pretend they’d never met and go on with his life?
He’d never struggled with physical cowardice, but the thought of provoking the scorn and disgust of one lovely Southern belle filled him with terror.
Action. The requirements of his job had saved his soul in the past, and now . . . It was all he knew to do.
He focused on his surroundings. Oxford’s telegraph office should be a source of speculation and rumor—both of which often led to real information—if one persisted in asking the right questions.
The rectangular office—twice as wide as it was deep, with a long counter at the back—was decorated along bare-bones lines, with a row of sturdy chairs along one wall and a desk with writing supplies and telegram forms stationed against the other. It appeared he had arrived at a fortuitous time. Behind the counter a clerk in a dark suit stood taking down the message of a man accompanied by his wife and two small children—the only customers in sight.
Levi waited until the family had completed their business and left the office, then approached the clerk. “Good afternoon, sir.” He leaned over the counter confidentially. “I’m surprised to find Oxford so quiet on the day after such a tragic event as the wreck at Buckner’s.”
“Yes, sir. Our folk are used to the disruptions of the rail industry—though not typically of such a dramatic turn of events, I’ll grant you.” The clerk did not quite meet his eyes, a fact which struck Levi as odd and somewhat evasive.
Levi decided to dig a little deeper. “Having met several of the Mississippi Central employees and other Oxford citizens, I’ve established quite a positive impression of your ‘folk.’ You are acquainted with Mr. Spencer, Justice of the Peace, I’m sure.”
“Indeed I am! In fact, he owes his election in large part to my handling of his campaign. Good fellow, Spencer. In what regard are you acquainted, sir?” The clerk’s bushy eyebrows rose above his spectacles.
“I met Mr. Spencer while assisting in the removal of passengers from the scene of the accident. In fact, I just came from his home, where his excellent wife served a most filling pot of grits.”
“Belinda Spencer is one of the finest cooks in five counties. She and my wife are thick as thieves.” The clerk grinned and put out a hand for Levi to shake. “Ford Scully at your service,” he declared. “Was there something I could do for you?”
“I do want to send a telegram to my boss shortly, but first I’m hoping you won’t mind answering a few questions. There’s a man who died on that wrecked train, name of Priester. I’d like to locate any relatives who may be asking for him.”
Levi watched Scully carefully for signs of surprise or recognition. But the clerk shook his head, expression only mildly curious. “I’m afraid not. But if someone else does come looking for him, who shall I tell them to apply to?”
“Here’s my card.” Levi reached into his pocket and laid the card on the counter. It simply read “L. E. Vine, Esq., Attorney at Law. Chicago, Memphis, New Orleans.” The address was a Chicago post office box. “Please tell any interested parties to leave their name and direction with you. I’ll try to check back sometime in the next few days, or you could always write to the address on the card.”
Scully, interest clearly piqued, nodded. “Yes, sir, Mr. Vine. So you’re a Chicago man. I thought that accent sounded a bit, shall we say, north of the Mason-Dixon line.”
Levi chuckled. “I’m glad you are not one of these Southerners prejudiced against everyone without a drawl.”
“Oh, there are plenty of those about!” Scully snorted. “You Illinois crackers rather ran rough-shod over us, after all. But a body with common sense won’t cut off his nose to spite his face. Yankee money spends just fine.”
“And there might just be some of that to go around, if Priester’s connections can be located.”
Scully shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t know anything about that. But anybody will tell you there’s a Mississippi Central executive from the New Orleans office by that name.”
“That’s what I hear,” Levi said. “This wreck is going to put a bad taste in the mouths of potential customers, if even their own officials aren’t safe on the rails. In fact, I’m changing my own travel plans
, heading over to Tupelo to buy a ticket on the M&O.”
“I hope you won’t do that, Mr. Vine! The Mississippi Central will make right any inconveniences caused by this accident and do their utmost to discover its cause and rectify the situation. In fact—” Scully scowled. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the Mobile and Ohio is discovered to be at fault somehow. They’ve been trying to buy us out since Christmas, and their board is ruthless.”
Levi noted Scully’s shaking hands, fumbling to set straight the spectacles that had gone askew. Pay dirt. He shrugged, as if unconvinced. “Perhaps.”
“I’ll tell you what—” Scully leaned closer—“that young Beaumont whelp has been in town for the last two days, up to no good, I’m sure. When he was a student here, everyone knew what a wild rapscallion he was.”
Levi quirked his eyebrows. “Beaumont?”
“The younger of the two Beaumont brothers—Schuyler, I mean. Their pa has been on the board of the M&O since before the war. Schuyler always was a troublemaker, trying to outdo his big brother, but he generally only succeeded in costing his pa a bushel of money.”
“Hmm.” Levi had no idea which part of the man’s blather could be trusted, if any, but at least he had some new leads to investigate. Conflicting testimony could always be compared, timelines developed to establish facts and root out the lies. He withdrew his notebook and pencil to record the names. “Any idea where I might find Beaumont? Have you seen him today?”
“I saw him driving around the square earlier today, no idea where he was going. But when he’s here, he generally puts up with friends from university days, since the Oxford Inn—along with half the town—burned during the war.” Scully sniffed. “The new Thompson House just opened, though, and I read in the Falcon that they’re hosting a hop for the young people tonight. That would be just the sort of entertainment Schuyler Beaumont would patronize.”
“Thank you, sir. Should you hear anything else, I’d appreciate it if you’d send me word.” Levi tapped a finger on his card on the counter. “Now I’ve a wire of my own to compose, if you’ll excuse me.” With a smile, he turned and headed for the desk across the room. Pinkerton, who generally gave his agents great latitude in following trails of information, would likely carp at such a frivolous expense, but Levi counted on the value of this new lead outweighing the price of a ticket to a dance.
Five
Tupelo, Mississippi
Getting herself and Wyatt home to Tupelo involved riding a spur line from Oxford to Holly Springs, then taking the connector home. They arrived that evening at the Tupelo station, tired, sore, and not a little anxious about the future. Grateful to find her feet firmly on the wooden platform and her shoulders no longer jarred by the rumbling of wheels on rail, Selah disembarked with Wyatt close on her heels. As she thought of her last sight of Mr. Spencer waving her off from the Oxford station, his stocky figure receding through the smeared train window, she fought an absurd mixture of nostalgia and regret. How could she have grown so fond of people she’d encountered for the first time only yesterday?
Now, with Wyatt hovering close to her elbow, she scanned the noisy, milling crowd for her sister. If Joelle hadn’t managed to find transportation, they were going to have a difficult time getting home. “Wyatt, let me know if you see an empty livery wagon—”
Suddenly, above the heads of all the other women and some of the men, she caught sight of bright strawberry-blonde curls blowing in the frigid breeze from beneath a shapeless felt hat.
“Joelle!” Selah dropped her valise and waved her hand. “Over here!”
Joelle waved, and the ugly brown hat began to make its way through passengers and train personnel.
A few moments later, Joelle burst into sight, blue eyes shining like sapphires, a welcoming smile banishing her habitually preoccupied expression. “Selah! We were worried to death when we heard about the wreck!” Joelle snatched her close.
Selah gave her sister’s shoulders an affectionate squeeze before pulling away. “You should know a little thing like a train wreck wouldn’t keep me from coming home. How did you get here?”
“Gil’s waiting with the wagon.” Joelle gestured vaguely.
Selah stood on tiptoe but didn’t see the tall, gangly preacher anywhere. Generally he followed Joelle around like a lost puppy. “Where?”
“I don’t know.” Joelle looked guilty. “I was thinking of something else . . .”
Joelle’s brain functioned on a different level from anyone else she knew. One minute she’d be talking about milking the cow, the next she’d be off on some philosophical tangent espoused by Aristotle or Socrates or some other long-dead Greek fellow, and who knew when or where she’d come out.
Selah snorted. “Of course you were. One day Gil is going to talk you into getting married when you’re not paying attention.”
“I’m not that absent-minded! But he did mention it again on the way over here. Honestly, Selah, he’s the funniest thing. But can you see me as a pastor’s wife? I can’t cook, I don’t like social things, and I’d say something outrageous without thinking and he’d get fired!”
“We certainly wouldn’t want that,” Selah said dryly. She looked around for Wyatt and found him listening to their conversation with a wrinkled brow, as if trying to interpret some foreign tongue. “Jo, I want you to meet Wyatt. He’s going to be staying with us for a while.” She pulled the boy closer.
Joelle blinked and looked down at the boy with little more than a quirk between her beautiful red brows. “Is he indeed?”
On the train, Selah had been working out how she would present this situation to her sister and ThomasAnne. Even the oblivious Joelle knew how stretched their household funds had become of late.
“Yes,” Selah said firmly. “He was involved in the accident with his father, who didn’t survive. So I’ve brought him here until his guardianship can be sorted out.”
Joelle’s blue eyes filled as she put her hand on Wyatt’s shoulder. “Well then, I’m glad to meet you. My name is Joelle.”
Wyatt stared, slack-jawed and wordless, at Joelle.
Joelle smiled. “You look like a college man. Are you on holiday?”
Wyatt’s chest puffed. “I’m only fourteen. But I plan to go to medical college as soon as I can get my prerequisites in.” He swallowed. “Are you really not married?”
“Well,” Joelle said with laudable gravity, “I’ve yet to meet a man more interesting than Alexandre Dumas. Have you read The Count of Monte Cristo?”
Wyatt brightened. “Yes, did you know Dumas is one-quarter Negro?”
“How do you know that?”
“I dunno. Picked it up somewhere, just thought it was interesting.” Wyatt shrugged. “Anyway, I like science better than literature.”
Of course Joelle wasn’t going to take that lying down. Ignoring the ensuing debate, Selah scoured the crowd in search of Gil. At last she found him—a tall drink of water with an oversized nose and lugubrious expression—holding the horses in a long line of wagons hitched in the shade of the station. She lifted her hand to wave to him, then turned to Joelle. “All right, you two, continue this later. Wyatt, can you get our bags?”
“’Course I can.” The boy slung his smaller case over his shoulder and reached down to pick up Selah’s.
Joelle took Selah’s arm and led the way toward the wagon. “So how did the battle with Grandmama go?”
Selah let out an inelegant whistle. “She was loaded for bear.”
“I’m surprised she didn’t lock you in the attic and forbid you to return home.”
“If I hadn’t left you and ThomasAnne here, she would have.”
Joelle looked at her sideways. “I don’t know who’s more stubborn—you or Grandmama.”
“That’s easy. I am.” Selah frowned. “I’d rather eat pig shucks for the rest of my life than find myself a prisoner in that place!”
“Now, Sissy, it’s not as bad as all that.”
“Yes it is! Don’t you
remember the last time we visited, when Grandmama made us all dress alike and sip that nasty concoction of lemon juice and cider vinegar because she said it would improve our complexions? And we had to go to those crushing parties and dance with pimply boys who’d never ridden anything more spirited than a mule in their lives!”
Joelle laughed. “She’s desperate for us all to marry, isn’t she?”
“Yes, and she doesn’t care to who, as long as he has the right pedigree—as if we were brood mares!”
“Selah, don’t be vulgar. Don’t you want to get married one day?”
“Not unless I can find a man I can’t boss around.”
“You don’t ask for much, do you?”
“Actually, yes. I do. I want it all, Jo, and I’m not settling for second best.” Selah gave an explosive sigh. “Which means I’ll probably never marry at all. I’ll be crazy Aunt Sissy, sitting on the porch, spitting snuff into a coffee can.”
“That is a horrid idea, and you mustn’t even think it. Besides, I’m the one who’s not going to marry.” Joelle’s lips tightened as her gaze flicked to Gil Reese. “No matter how many times he asks.”
Selah patted her sister’s wrist. “It’s your choice.”
“Indeed it is,” Joelle said tartly. “How is Aurora? She never writes.”
“I think Grandmama won’t let her. She gave me an earful of complaining about restriction and boredom. She doesn’t seem to understand how much better off she is in Memphis than here with us. Don’t get me wrong—I miss her. But we’ve got to get the creditors off our backs before she can come home.”
“What did Grandpapa say about interceding for us with the bank?”
“He claims it would be a waste of time and energy.”
“Did he know you were going to Oxford to apply for a loan?”
“I certainly hope not. As far as he knows, I came straight home to Tupelo through Holly Springs. He won’t even know I was on the train that went off the bridge, so don’t you dare write and mention that!”
“How can I possibly keep something like that from them? What if your name lands in the paper?”