by Beth White
He might have been offended by the blunt question, but he saw that she was genuinely curious. I wanted to see you again. I needed to exorcise my demons. I’m afraid you’re involved in a scheme against the M&O Railroad. None of those things could he say aloud. “I wondered whether you and Wyatt arrived safely. And then I ran into a good excuse to find out.”
Her fine eyebrows rose. “Then perhaps you’d better come inside and tell me about it.” She turned and led the way back to the office. On the porch, she waited, looking back over her shoulder, a hand on the doorknob. “Wyatt will be glad to see you.”
Are you not? he wanted to ask.
But Selah had already opened the door and stepped inside, so he followed and found himself in a large, cozy office with a fire burning merrily in a corner grate. Selah cast her shawl across the back of a chair near a large oak desk, then faced him, hands clasped at her waist. She was not as calm as she would like to appear. “Would you like tea?” she asked. “Or coffee? I’m afraid we don’t have liquor in the house—”
“Nothing, thank you. I don’t wish to inconvenience you in the least.”
“It would not be—that is, please, sit down, Mr. Riggins, and tell me why you’re here.”
So they were back to “Mr. Riggins.”
He sighed and chose a wingback chair beside a table piled with books. The office was, in fact, floor-to-ceiling books, on every wall except the fireplace and where the desk sat under a series of cubbies stuffed with papers. If Selah had read even a tenth of these, it explained the extraordinary depth of her intellect.
She turned the desk chair around and sat on it, folding her hands neatly in her lap. Her expression remained polite and inquiring, if not exactly warm. Perhaps her grandmother had taught her the trick of making adversaries squirm. The thought made him smile.
“Do you find my impecunious circumstances funny, Mr. Riggins?”
He sobered. “Of course I don’t—Selah, don’t put me off this way!” he blurted. “You know I wouldn’t—”
“I don’t know anything about you, short of what you told me,” she said coolly, “and even that is subject to verification.”
She had a point. He wouldn’t want one of his sisters to take any man’s blandishments at face value. Controlling his emotions, he spoke reasonably. “You are of course correct, but I bring you a letter from someone who is, I believe, well known to you. Someone with whom we share a mutual interest.”
“Indeed?” Her tone was suspicious. “And who would that be?”
He withdrew Beaumont’s letter from his coat pocket. “Here. See for yourself.” He handed the letter to her.
Selah desperately tried to control the shaking of the folded and sealed paper in her hand. When Wyatt had come skidding into the office on a gush of cold air, she’d opened her mouth to reprimand him, then remembered Wyatt rarely got excited about anything.
“Miss Selah!” he’d panted, bent over with hands on knees in the attempt to catch his breath. “I ran all the way from the big house because there’s a strange horse tied in front. I didn’t see anybody, but I thought you’d want to know you got company. Want me to get the rifle and come with you?”
She laughed, told him it was probably a neighbor, and put on her shawl to see who’d come calling.
And found Levi Riggins standing under the pagoda.
Now he was here in her office, her home. Big, powerful shoulders and long legs taking up space the way her father used to do, smelling of cold air and horses, his hazel eyes intent on her face. He sat relaxed, the hat he’d removed resting on one knee, free hand tapping a tattoo on the arm of the chair.
She tried to focus on the letter, written in a masculine scrawl and signed at the bottom.
She looked up at Levi. “Schuyler Beaumont? You brought me correspondence from that—that vulture?”
He laughed, that engaging dimple flashing. “Now, Selah. Even you would have to admit that Beaumont is quite the golden-haired dandy, with no resemblance to black birds.”
She crumpled the paper without reading it and tossed it into the fire. “You know what I mean,” she said through her teeth. “He is no friend of mine. I told you how he expected me to hand over my property at the price of one-third its value.”
“Well, of course he would try that—that’s what smart businessmen do—but it doesn’t mean you can’t come back with a reasonable counteroffer. In fact, I’m here as a sort of intermediary. I told you I would try to find a way to assist you out of your difficulty.”
“How did you meet Mr. Beaumont? I don’t recall telling you his name.”
“We happened to share a meal at the hotel Saturday evening. When Beaumont described his business plans, I saw the opportunity to act as agent for you in what could be a profitable venture for everyone concerned.” Levi held up a hand, forestalling the protest burning on her lips. “No, listen. I’ve thought this through, and I think you’ll like my idea—if you’ll let me explain.”
She sat back, frowning. “All right. Go ahead.” She was inclined to throw Levi Riggins out on his presumptuous ear. But since she owed him her life, perhaps she could at least give him five more minutes.
“I knew you were an intelligent woman as well as a brave and generous one. What one has to do is think long term about real goals, avoiding the pitfalls of pride and immediate satisfaction.”
“I’m not—” She stopped herself. If she were honest, pride had been a motivating factor in resisting her grandparents’ offers of assistance and giving up the plantation. A niggling conscience had brought the issue to her prayer life often of late.
Levi seemed to understand her dilemma. “Selah, what is it you want out of life? Do you really want to live it out in this little cottage next door to your home, while it gradually disintegrates to rubble right before your eyes?”
“There is no shame in living in a small cottage,” she said, chin up.
“True. But you haven’t answered my question. What is driving your refusal to sell?”
“As you’ve never been inside the big house, you wouldn’t understand.” For some reason, he flinched, but she ground on. “You don’t know how hard my parents worked, designing and building and furnishing every square inch of the place. Yes, it’s excruciating to watch it decline, but that has been going on for nearly ten years, from the day we were invaded by Federal soldiers. You won’t find many of us left here who don’t acknowledge that the institution of slavery had to go. It was a horrible blight on our state and our nation. But now that it is gone and we’ve paid the price, there is nothing to be gained by throwing away every bit of beauty and heritage remaining.”
“I’m not suggesting—”
“Aren’t you?” Blinking away useless tears, she faced him, back straight and fists clenched in her lap. “You asked me what I want, so I’ll tell you. I want to bring my home back to its glorious ability to feed and clothe an entire community. I would love to employ the people who were my father’s slaves, giving them decent wages for honest work. I want to help Joelle in her passion to educate them so that they can start their own businesses and farms. I want to bring my little sister Aurora home, so that she can learn to become a woman of intellect and usefulness, rather than the china doll my grandmother would make of her.”
“Selah—”
“I’m not done!” Hardly recognizing her own passion, but unable to contain it any longer, she jumped to her feet and glared at her visitor, who stared up at her with the beginnings of a grin curling his mouth. “What do I want, Levi Riggins? I want to be fearless! I want to climb out of train wrecks and take in orphans and use my head for more than a hat rack!”
Sitting down again with a plop, she pulled her handkerchief from her skirt pocket and dabbed at her suddenly hot face.
Levi leaned toward her, elbows on his knees. “In that case,” he said quietly, “let us discuss what was in that letter you just burnt.”
Because she had used all the words that had been churning about in her m
ind and heart for quite some time, she simply nodded.
“From what I understand,” Levi said, “Beaumont doesn’t want to tear down the house. On the contrary, like you, he wants to return it to its former glory—and he has the cash and credit to make that happen. What he didn’t grasp, at least until I pointed it out, was that no one knows the ins and outs of running such a large place like one who has grown up here and learned the minutia of its daily operation, literally from the ground up.”
Selah straightened. “Exactly—”
“Which is why I proposed a long-term lease, rather than a buy-out.”
She stared at him. “What on earth are you talking about? I’m not going to lease my home to a railroad executive’s wastrel son.”
“Well, here’s where things get a little outside what you have probably envisioned.” Levi’s tone had taken on a somewhat oily persuasiveness that Selah instinctively mistrusted. She felt like a cat with its fur rubbed the wrong way. But before she could object, he continued. “Beaumont has what you need—money. You have what he needs—a good head for business and a working knowledge of the facility and its neighborhood, not to mention solid relationships with potential employees and suppliers.”
“Facility? What kind of facility?”
“The hotel, of course. You knew that’s what he wanted the property for. But I’ve convinced him that unless you and your sisters are allowed to remain on site in a managerial role, he has little chance of avoiding the complications of litigation.”
Selah’s hackles definitely rose. “Managerial role? I’m to stay and help turn my home into a wayside inn?”
“Not just any wayside inn. Beaumont has in mind an exclusive resort hotel for only the wealthiest of clientele. And if you negotiate the contract wisely—which I’m here to help you do—you will find yourself in absolute control of most elements of the daily operation of the business. It seems to me you’d have the best of both worlds—the satisfaction of bringing Ithaca back to its original beauty without having to pay for it. On top of that, you’d actually get paid to live here, drawing a salary as manager. Listen to me, Selah,” he said more gently. “I don’t expect you to jump on this right now. In fact, I’d be disappointed in you if you didn’t take several days to think about it before you make a decision. But I hope you’ll see that the advantages of the arrangement far outweigh the negatives.” Levi pulled a second folded paper from his pocket and laid it on the desk. Then he stood, replacing his hat upon his head. “This is a copy of Beaumont’s letter. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take my leave. I believe I’ve given you enough to ponder for the moment.” He gave her a short bow and stepped toward the door, where he stopped and smiled over his shoulder. “I’ll come back in a few days for your answer. Perhaps then you’ll agree to show me through the house so I can see this legendary place for myself.”
He was gone, leaving a blast of cold air in his wake.
Selah stared at the door. What in the world had just happened?
Nine
Tupelo
Levi pocketed Pinkerton’s response to his explanation of the current status of the investigation, peripherally aware of the telegraph operator going back to his mail-sorting duties. Besides the code of ethics that prohibited revealing information contained in any telegraphed message—be it ever so incriminating—operators in small Southern towns like Tupelo were routinely required to perform a multitude of tasks for long hours, and this fellow appeared too busy and preoccupied to have time for memorizing his customers’ transmissions.
Convinced that the clerk had no interest in the personal business of a Yankee businessman, Levi stepped out onto the porch to read his telegram.
UPDATE RECD STOP PROCEED STOP WILL WIRE FUNDS STOP ORIG ASGMT TO HODGES STOP KEEP INFORMED STOP
Gratifying to have Pinkerton concur with his plan of action. He wondered what the famous detective—a brilliant judge of character—would have thought of Selah Daughtry. Levi wanted to trust her, but frankly feared his own attraction. Beautiful women had been used from the dawn of time to cozen susceptible males. Even their own agency employed women trained for that very purpose. And he’d known female spies on both sides of the late conflict between North and South who had used their charm to trade in information.
For a moment he stood pondering all the shades of Selah Daughtry he’d witnessed yesterday afternoon, beginning with her flustered embarrassment when she brought him into the cottage—not exactly a warm welcome, but rather a stunned surprise that he’d kept his promise to visit. It made him wonder what sort of men she had been accustomed to in the past.
Then there was her obvious suspicion and ire when he brought up Beaumont’s offer of partnership. There was bad blood there. Beaumont had warned him, and he hadn’t taken it seriously.
But he’d never forget the final breaking of the dam of her reserve. Something in that impassioned declaration of yearning—the desire to reach out beyond the restrictive scope of expectations for an impoverished gentlewoman—caught his admiration and made him want to help her. He knew it wasn’t just talk, because he’d had to force it from her.
He didn’t know many men with dreams that big.
With a frustrated shift of his shoulders, he stuffed the telegram back into his pocket and headed for the mercantile across the street. After leaving Selah and Ithaca, he’d returned to town and settled into the Gum Pond Hotel, located on Main Street just a block away from the train station. It was a decent establishment for a town this size, but there were a few personal items he’d need to purchase if he was going to be here any length of time.
And it looked like he would be.
Whitmore Mercantile proclaimed itself (according to the sign on the door) the purveyor of every description of new and desirable items, including white goods, hosiery, notions, and a long list of other merchandise Levi hadn’t time or interest in reading. Hurriedly gathering some personal grooming supplies, two pairs of socks, and a batch of writing paper, he headed to the counter to settle up.
He was met by a short, pudgy man of middle years, wearing wire-rimmed spectacles. A bad toupee, matching neither the ring of hair at the base of his head nor his extravagant mustache, tipped rather crazily to one side of his bald pate. “We were just about to close,” this gentleman said, as if he’d conferred a great favor upon Levi, merely to address him instead of booting him out on his ear. “You must be new in town.”
“I am,” Levi said mildly. “Thank you for taking my money.”
The merchant stopped in the act of figuring prices. “And from northern climes, if I recognize that accent. Michigan? Iowa?”
“Illinois. How much do I owe you?”
“A dollar forty-nine. But don’t imagine I hold a grudge against you Yanks. Let bygones be bygones, I always say—and money is green on both sides of the Mason-Dixon! Haha!”
Levi grinned and relaxed. “It is indeed. I won’t keep you, Mr. . . . Whitmore, is it?”
“I’ll admit this is my own establishment—and trust me when I say that I keep a weather eye on every detail for my own self, for no hired man guards the sheep like the shepherd, am I right, Mr.—and what am I to call you, young man? For I hope you’ll give me your return business while you’re in our fair city!”
“I’m sure I will. The name is Riggins, sir. I’m putting up at the Gum Pond, which is, if you ask me, a rather unfortunate name for a hotel.”
Whitmore chuckled. “Some fool wanted to name the community after the tupelo gum trees in the swamp that was drained to make way for the first saloon. But when we came to incorporate last month, someone else”—he puffed out his chest—“had the better notion of using the more felicitous first part of the appellation.”
“I salute whoever that was,” Levi said dryly.
“Yes, but the name of the hotel unfortunately stuck. Haha! Stuck—get it?”
Levi laughed, handing over six two-bit pieces. “Mr. Whitmore, you’ve been very kind to put off your dinner while waiting on me,
but perhaps you could answer one more question. I’d like to know where I might secure workers for a large construction project.”
“I’m afraid the news isn’t encouraging.” Whitmore shook his head. “Most of the men who returned home after the war are maimed and sick, and the healthy ones are busy rebuilding what property they have left. The ones who never went—well, let’s just say they wouldn’t be real reliable workers.” He paused. “I don’t reckon you want colored men working on your project. Do you?”
There was judgment in the question. Levi had spent four long years in hell for the right to answer truthfully. “I wouldn’t mind it, if they’re willing to work hard.”
“At least they’d work cheap.” Whitmore shrugged. “If you want to go that route, the best blacksmith in town is Nathan Vincent. He was a slave at Ithaca Plantation, but now he’s got his own shop over on the colored side of town near the ponds. He’d probably put you in touch with others who need work.”
Levi nodded. “I’ve heard of Ithaca. Run-down place near the river?”
“Yes. Sure ain’t what it was before the war.”
“I hear there’s talk of a new rail spur going in from here to Oxford. You know anything about that?”
Whitmore straightened. “I thought that was just an unfounded rumor. Wouldn’t that be a boon for business? Speaking of . . . what line of work did you say you’re in? You’re not actually working for the railroad, are you?”
Levi laughed. “Can’t put anything past you, Mr. Whitmore. Just between us, the M&O sent me in to smooth the way—which is why I’m particularly interested in Ithaca.”
“Ha. Well, you’d better come up with another route. The old Colonel never would sell to the railroad when the M&O first came through here, and I can’t imagine Miss Selah going against her father’s wishes—be she ever so deep in debt. That bunch would rather starve than give up one inch of soil from that plantation.”
Ithaca
Selah went looking for Joelle and found her in her favorite spot, curled up in her mother’s rocker by the kitchen fire. Red-blonde hair falling in disheveled glory from a waterspout atop her head, a smear of ink running the length of her elegant nose, she sat scribbling in a leather-bound journal left over from their days at the Holly Springs Female Institute.