A Rebel Heart

by Beth White

  “No. I’ve saved my money, pinched pennies until they scream bloody murder. I’ve made a few investments. The money is mine, the bank credit is mine.” Schuyler’s face flamed with controlled rage. “But don’t you see, if the railroad fails, Daughtry House will fail too! People read tripe like this in the paper, they believe it, and they vote. They write their congressmen and laws get changed. I’ve got to find out who wrote this and make them retract it.”

  “But Schuyler, it’s just one article. Surely it can’t have that much influence.” She took the paper from him, found the editorial, and read it again more slowly. “Besides, it’s very contained and reasonable, compared to some of the other—”

  “Oh, never mind. I’ll deal with it myself.” He took the paper from her again and crammed it under his arm. “What I really came over to talk to you about is the house party.”

  “What house party?”

  “The one we’re going to host in two weeks, as a pre-opening introduction of Daughtry House to the public.”

  Selah reached up to place the back of her hand against his forehead. “It’s funny, you don’t seem to have a fever.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, clearly, you are raving with some sort of debilitating disease. We won’t be ready to introduce Daughtry House to the public for at least another month.”

  Schuyler spread his arms wide, flourishing the paper. “It’s going to have to be sooner than that. I want to start by drawing attention to you three beautiful sisters running the place—in fact, we’re going to have your picture done, all dressed in ball gowns, to use for publicity. So start looking for a seamstress. Go shopping! Whatever it is you women do to get gussied up for a special occasion. Because that’s what this will be—the most special occasion you’ve ever had in your lives.”

  “I don’t object to seamstresses or shopping. But—Schuyler, two weeks? No.” She laughed. “No!”

  “I say yes.”

  Selah turned to find Aurora coming down the stairs. “What? I didn’t even know you were here.”

  “I came in while you were out in the kitchen.” Aurora reached the bottom step and paused dramatically, one hand on the newel. “I’ve been to take a look at the progress upstairs, and it’s remarkable what we’ve accomplished just since Grandmama and I arrived. Oh, and Schuyler.” She smiled at him. “He’s right. We have to overcome the bad press someone has launched against us.”

  Selah shook her head. “But it never mentioned us by name—”

  “It’s there by inference. If I saw it, others will too.” Aurora bestowed her dimpled smile on Selah. “Besides, a party is always a good idea, and the sooner the better.”

  Selah prided herself on never allowing anyone to talk her into something she hadn’t thought through. “Schuyler, you made me the manager for a reason. I’m going to sit down and list all the pros and cons, see how the accounts add up. I’ll talk to Levi and Horatia, see if they think the work on the ground floor and the yard can realistically be completed within two weeks. And someone has to think about feeding—How many people do you want to invite?” She was remembering the last Christmas party her parents hosted before the war. Her mother’s feverish work to get everything ready. How many people that took.

  Schuyler glanced at Aurora, his ally. “Eight or ten selected overnight guests. Fifty or so more for a ball—”

  “Eighty,” Aurora interrupted. “Or a hundred. We want the word to get out that Daughtry House will be the summertime destination of north Mississippi. We want to have to turn down reservations.”

  Schuyler beamed at her. “That’s my girl! Sometimes you have to spend money to make money.”

  Selah pulled a notebook out of her apron pocket. “You people,” she spluttered. “Oh you!”

  Levi got back to Daughtry House around lunchtime, driving a wagon loaded down like a traveling peddler’s caravan.

  In his pocket was a telegram from Pinkerton that had thrown another twist in his investigation. Apparently an Oxford, Mississippi, telegraph operator named Scully had written to the address on L. E. Vine’s business card. Said he might have information leading to the location of Archibald Priester’s kin, and would Mr. Vine please return to Oxford as soon as possible to discuss the matter. Pinkerton wanted Levi to make the trip to Oxford as soon as possible.

  The timing couldn’t have been worse. Now that Beaumont, his prime suspect, was here in Tupelo, and events had heated up with the attack on the cupola and the discovery of those explosives in the ice house, he couldn’t help wondering what information the telegraph operator could provide. Wyatt’s involvement as Priester’s son seemed peripheral at best.

  On the other hand, a wise investigator never ignored a loose thread. He’d replied with his own message, updating Pinkerton and asking how Agent Hodges was faring with regard to the robbery aspect of the case. Weighing heavily on his mind was the fear that he might be avoiding truth staring him right in the face because of his growing attachment to Selah Daughtry. There was tension between her and Schuyler Beaumont; Levi just couldn’t tell if it stemmed from the natural strain of partnership or from genuine antagonism left over from that early clash between Schuyler and Joelle. It was difficult to determine if he had one case with two related angles—or two separate cases.

  Teeth gritted in frustration, he drove down the rutted lane from the main road to the house. Under normal circumstances, he would long since have begun to openly court Selah Daughtry. But because he was operating under cover, as he had during the war—ferreting out information for larger purposes than his own emotional well-being—he couldn’t even reveal to her his full identity. He was very glad he had used his real name when he’d first met her. At least he wouldn’t have to later undo an alias.

  The case would eventually be solved, hopefully without her at its center, but the longer that took, the greater the risk of ruining their relationship with lies. How would she ever be able to trust his word, when he’d fooled her as to his very identity for months on end?

  And if he broke every rule of common sense and revealed it to her now? She would still have good reason to think of him as a cheat, liar, and spy. Plus, if she was involved in the scheme to defraud the stockholders of the Mississippi Central Railroad, then he, Levi Matthew Riggins, would become known as the biggest dupe in the history of the Pinkerton Agency.

  By the time he stopped the wagon in the kitchen yard, Horatia and her daughter, Charmion, waited to take charge of unloading. Horatia sent Mose to gather the men of the house to haul in the heaviest crates, and the lot of them emptied the wagon in short order.

  Levi found Nathan’s wife to be a lovely light-skinned girl, blooming with child, with a bright pair of dark eyes and a shy, pleasant manner. She deferred to her mother, but it was clear the sun rose and set for her in the tall young blacksmith. He could see how Charmion had been willing to forgo her parents’ approval in favor of such a happy marriage.

  When the last of the supplies had been disposed of, Levi called Nathan aside. “Have you got a few minutes to come look at something before you go back to the forge? I want to add a project to your waiting list.”

  “Yessir, of course.” Nathan called to Charmion, “Don’t you be lifting nothing heavy, girl. Your mama gon’ tan your bottom, you try anything silly. Right, Miss Ray?” Winking at Horatia, who responded with her patented “Hmph,” he followed Levi toward the pagoda.

  “You familiar with the ice house?” Levi asked as he walked around the pagoda.

  Nathan shrugged. “Back in the old days, I used to be the one have to haul blocks of ice from the river and stow it. You know, since I’m such a good-size boy. Been a long time since anybody been able to afford ice, though.” He stopped in the path outside the ice house. “Why?”

  “Selah and I inspected it the other day and found broken hinges in the trap door and other spots that need to be repaired before it can be used.” Levi covertly studied Nathan’s expression and the set of his posture. He seeme
d not to be uneasy, just curious as to Levi’s purpose.

  “Well, let me see what I can do.” Without hesitation Nathan yanked open the outer door and poked his head in. “Pretty dark in here, since they’s no windows. Got a lantern?”

  “Hanging on a nail right there.”

  With the lantern lit, Levi showed Nathan the broken door and narrow, winding stairs.

  Nathan hesitated on the top step. “You go down first, boss. I never did like this skinny staircase.”

  “I went down it the other day. The steps are intact.”

  “Still . . .” Nathan took a step back. “I’ll fix anything you need me to. But I’ve growed a lot taller and broader than I was eight, ten years ago. Call me a chicken if you want to, but I ain’t going down there.”

  Levi lifted the lantern to study Nathan’s face. If the big blacksmith wasn’t genuinely afraid of that dark two-level basement, he was a better actor than a lot of stage thespians. Which meant he had not placed those explosives down there himself. Which meant Wyatt had been misleading Levi last week—or he had been referring to some other Negro. Mose, maybe? That was even more far-fetched an idea. Mose had been laid up in bed with a busted head.

  “All right,” he said. “So what can you tell me about a stash of explosives materials I found down there last Thursday?”

  Nathan’s mouth fell open. “A stash of what?”

  “You heard me. I found Wyatt down there poking around with that stuff—chemicals, fuses, powder—and he very deliberately said you had been nowhere in the vicinity—when nobody had brought up any such thing. You know, a little too much protest? Which leads me to believe you might know something about it.”

  Stone-faced, Nathan returned Levi’s stare. After a moment, his white smile broke. “I might at that. But it ain’t what you think.”

  “Nathan, I frankly don’t know what to think. I know you couldn’t have been the one to take those shots up into the cupola. I know you’ve gone out of your way to help me and Selah get this operation up and running. So let’s go sit on the steps, you tell me what you know about that stuff, and we’ll see where we are.”

  Looking relieved that he wasn’t going to be asked to descend into that dark hole after all, Nathan stepped outside and waited for Levi to follow. They perched on the pagoda steps, Nathan clearly uneasy and Levi working hard to figure out his strategy.

  Before he could say anything, Nathan sighed. “First of all, Wyatt, he just a dumb kid. Doc shouldn’t have let him see the project to begin with.”

  Levi blinked. So now suddenly Doc was involved in this mess? “Doc Kidd? Is that where Wyatt is right now? I thought they were studying for medical school. What kind of project?”

  Nathan shook his head. “I don’t know where Wyatt is right now. Doc’s gone to Oxford to meet with Professor Quinlan, his partner in the electric magnet project. But please, boss, don’t tell anybody else, or I could get in trouble.”

  Selah was fond of lists. In thinking about the wisdom of throwing a house party before said house was ready for public viewing, she had made several of them. One concerned everything to be gained from early publicity. Another took on all the possible disasters. A third enumerated the costs that a three-day house party and grand ball would entail.

  In the end, she came to one of her mother’s favorite Proverbs: “Without counsel purposes are disappointed, but in the multitude of counselors they are established.” Tucking the lists in her apron pocket, she’d sought out Horatia and offered to help prepare supper for the family and work crew—to be served in the big house.

  “Miss Selah, you do know when this place turns into a hotel, you folks not gonna eat in the dining room with the paying guests—don’t you?” Horatia hoisted a tray laden with a big pot of chicken and dumplings and headed for the kitchen door.

  As Horatia bumped the door open with her hip, Selah picked up the cornbread basket and butter. “Today we are all in need of a treat, if only something so small as a meal on a fine dining table, with real silver and china.” She shot Horatia a straight look. “And the Lawrences will join us.”

  “Your grandmama would have a conniption. Besides—” Horatia sniffed—“the Lawrences don’t need a fine table to enjoy a good pot of dumplings. The kitchen will do us right fine. That way Mose can smoke his pipe without me fussing about stinking up the linens.”

  Selah laughed and followed Horatia down the new covered walkway to the house. “I wouldn’t want to spoil Mose’s after-dinner pipe. But Horatia—” She hesitated. “I wanted to ask you about something.”

  “I knew they was something on your mind.” Horatia stopped and wheeled so suddenly that Selah nearly plowed into her. “Last week or so, you been closeted with Mr. Riggins every time I turn around. Did he finally get up the nerve to court you like a girl ought to be courted?”

  Why did everyone assume Levi must be the first and only thing on her mind these days? “Of course he hasn’t—I mean, I have no idea what you mean!”

  “Hmph. I ain’t just fell off the turnip wagon. Everybody see the way that man look at you.”

  “What way is that?”

  “Like he want Selah puddin’ for dessert.”

  “That’s just ridiculous.”

  “Yes, ma’am, it purely is. If I was a laughing woman, I’d be rolling on the ground with it.”

  Selah gathered herself and marched on into the house. “Mr. Riggins is very busy, he has said nothing untoward to me, has done nothing to make me think he regards me as anything other than an employee. Or at the very most, a good friend.” Well, that was not precisely true. Did good friends hold hands? “Anyway, speaking of pudding, what I wanted to ask you about is the possibility of finding enough foodstuffs at this time of year to feed a party of ten—in addition to staff, I mean—for three days, and then refreshments for a large ball. Assume that cost is not a factor.”

  Horatia didn’t answer for a moment, her broad, strong brow knit as she dealt with dumplings and cornbread on the serving counter. Finally she looked at Selah, expression bland. “You do know your pa kept five hundred turkeys on hand, plus the chickens and geese and ducks. We’d often butcher over four hundred hogs in a month. There was cows for meat and milk. And in the summer we’d harvest sixteen hundred bushels of peas in a day, then twelve hundred more two days later. And that don’t take into account the fresh oysters that came up from the Gulf and other luxuries wealthy folks look for when they guests somewhere. I’m not sure where we’re gonna get all that.”

  That was reality, Selah knew. Keeping her feet on the ground was the very reason she’d come to Horatia with her question. But on the other hand, she wanted to remain hopeful. It seemed to her, the more she thought about it, that the Christian life was all about hope. Maybe Horatia needed a little hope too.

  “I’m not sure either,” she said with a rueful shake of her head. “But I’m not sure we need to be that extravagant. Think about it. The reason we had to have all that food back then was to keep the . . . the slaves fed. When you own something, you’re responsible for caring for it. I’m just going to say this, and you tell me what you think about it. Nobody owns you and Mose anymore, Horatia. You’re responsible for sustaining yourselves. That’s not to say I don’t care what happens to you, and it’s not to say that as your employer I don’t have to pay you fairly for your work. But we can negotiate how much of your wages comes in the form of food and other nonmonetary goods. So what I’m thinking is, it should take a lot less food to run this non-slavery-based hotel than a cotton plantation. We’re going to send most of our employees home at the end of each day and let them provide for their own bed and board.”

  A glimmer appeared in Horatia’s dark eyes. “You want to know what I think about that? I can have chicken livers and onions for supper if I don’t want dumplings. So I’m gonna find a way to help you make this house party happen if I have to send Mose all the way to Mobile for oysters!”

  Twenty-Four

  AFTER SUPPER, the entire comp
any—tired from the long day and full of dumplings—adjourned to the back porch with tall glasses of Horatia’s lemonade to watch the sun go down. The windows and doors of the house stood open to the evening breeze, and Levi imagined the music of Joelle’s piano drifting down the breezeway from the parlor, as it must have all those years ago when the family gathered after similar congenial meals.

  Tonight, elderly Mrs. McGowan occupied the most comfortable chair, a cane rocker whose cushions had already been remade by the nimble-fingered Charmion. Levi would normally have made his adieus and started for town, but he’d been thinking all day about the convoluted knot this investigation had become. It was time to get some answers. So he waited until most of the party had drifted to rockers, straight chairs, and the three-seat swing at one end of the porch, then chose the top step between Selah and Wyatt.

  The boy had been very quiet since he’d returned from a hunting expedition with barely enough time to wash his hands before supper. During the meal, his gaze had stayed on his food, which he’d picked at with none of his usual healthy appetite.

  Selah apparently noticed his abstraction too. “Wyatt, what’s wrong with you? I know you missed your tutoring session today, but it’s not like you to be so—so—” She waved a hand. “So unlike yourself.”

  Wyatt snickered. “If I’m not like me, then who do I remind you of? Oh, yeah, someone else.”

  She laughed. “That’s more like it. Tease the people who don’t have your giant vocabulary.”

  “Tell us a little more about what you and Doc are working on,” Levi said. “I understand it has something to do with electromagnetism, I presume with medicinal applications?” He remembered the first time he’d visited Kidd at his office. The doctor’s momentary irritation had undoubtedly been because of the interruption to some research or experiment.

  Wyatt’s face lit. “He told you about that? He’s made me keep it quiet.” He paused, but when Levi neither confirmed nor denied the source of his information—rather, simply made his interest apparent—continued eagerly, “Doc was initially interested in the uses of electricity and magnetics in the way that Aepinus worked with tourmaline in electrotherapeutics, which led to the discovery of the pyroelectric properties of sulphate of quinine and quartz. I immediately understood what he was getting at, so he let me read his books and papers on torsion balance found in Coulomb’s law.”