Ebb Tide (Ella Wood Book 3)

by Michelle Isenhoff

  She carried that sense of comfort with her to the stable where Chantilly nickered a welcome. Her heart swelled as she embraced the long face hanging over the half-door, breathing in the warm equine smell. How she’d missed this connection. The unconditional affection of an animal shot clean through a person and made the soul bigger. “Ah, Chantilly,” she sighed, touching her forehead to the mare’s. “I’ve been gone too long.”

  The mare snorted her agreement.

  Abel popped his head out of the tack room, his grin appearing bright in the barn’s dimness. “She been pinin’ for you, miss.” He’d risen to head groom sometime last year, her mother had written. Emily approved of the appointment; he’d always been her favorite stable boy. “You want me to saddle her for you?”

  Emily fingered the whorl of hair beneath Chantilly’s forelock. “I think a bit and bridle will do.” She hadn’t ridden bareback in years.

  Abel returned with the tack, and Emily led the bridled horse to the mounting block. She settled into her seat feeling twelve years old. With a grin, she turned Chantilly toward the woods.

  Lune was in the Thoroughbred pasture. It must have been Lune, though she wouldn’t have recognized him. He’d grown into a fine stallion, sleek and hard-muscled. His coat had lightened to a shimmering silver that glistened as he trotted on the other side of the fence. How had her father managed to retain both horses?

  The thought of foragers sobered her. For a sweet hour or two, she wanted to forget the war, her grief, her father, and the future. There was only now. Just her and Chantilly and the awakening woods.

  She let Chantilly have her head. The mare meandered down the usual paths, as eager as Emily to revisit their old haunts. Emily rode until her back ached. When Chantilly paused to graze in a grassy clearing, Emily lay across her body and watched a foam of clouds skim over the tops of the trees. Ella Wood wore as comfortably as an old pair of shoes. The sky, the trees, the birdsong, they were unchanged. If she didn’t look too closely at the corn in the rice fields or the empty Thoroughbred pasture, she might fool herself into believing she’d never been away.

  But she had been away. She’d come home altered. And though she didn’t want to admit it, her return had the unsettled feeling of impermanence. She knew she was simply marking time. Waiting for the day she would leave again. Waiting for the war to end. Waiting until she might return to Baltimore and finish her education.

  And to what end? To work in a photography studio? To live in a boardinghouse? To purchase a home and live in it alone? Her plans beyond school had always included the vague presence of Someone Else. At one time, she had thought Thaddeus Black might be that person. It had taken her far too long to realize that place had always and ever been reserved for Jovie Cutler. How could she possibly plot a future without him?

  She sat upright and tugged at the reins. She would visit Jovie’s parents. They needed to know about her father anyway. Maybe they had some news of their son.

  She rode into the Cutlers’ yard with a bitter twist of nostalgia. The last time she visited had been at the beginning of Jack and Jovie’s enlistment. She had begged Jovie not to go, all while denying that she had any affection for him. School had been her entire focus. Blindly and foolishly, she had left him standing beneath the grape arbor. Now she’d give anything, anything at all, to see him standing there again.

  A stable boy came from the barn to take charge of Chantilly, and Emily wondered how many horses, if any, the Cutlers had retained. But she didn’t ask. She made her way around the side of the house to the front door, catching sight of Jovie’s younger brothers wrestling beneath a sprawling live oak. They must be ten and twelve by now—no longer the small children she remembered. Neither looked up, and she didn’t pause.

  A footman admitted Emily at her first knock. Fairview felt as familiar as her own home. Once upon a time, she had spent half her waking hours here. But that had been a long time ago.

  Footsteps tapped across the tile behind her. “Hello, Emily. I thought I heard Jacob admit someone.”

  Emily turned to meet the youngest Cutler daughter. “Jennie, look at you! You’re the spitting image of Sophia!”

  Jennie smiled. “I hope that’s a compliment.”

  Sophia’s two sisters had divided up her personality traits; Jennie got all her charm and good humor while Cora, two years Jennie’s senior, received a double share of Sophia’s arrogance. But there was no flaw in the Cutler beauty, even draped in clothing two seasons out of fashion. “You look beautiful,” Emily said. “I imagine your beaus are lined up ten deep.”

  “I won’t debut until next spring. But Cora could have that many if she didn’t treat them like insects. What are you doing here?”

  In her urgency, Emily hadn’t considered the inappropriate hour. “I’m not too early, am I?”

  “We’ve finished breakfast. I mean, why are you home? I thought your father wouldn’t let you return.”

  “He didn’t take it too well.” Emily grimaced. “It’s one of the things I need to speak to your parents about.”

  “Well, don’t expect much of a welcome from my—”

  “What are you doing here?” They were the same words Jennie had used, but spiny edges shaped them into an accusation. Emily turned to find Edna Cutler posed in the doorway, as forbidding as a pagan goddess.

  “Mama’s been speaking with Sophia,” Jennie murmured.

  Emily recalled the brusque way she had dismissed Sophia the last time her friend had tried to drag her to yet another social event. Sophia hadn’t appreciated the dismissal. And apparently, her censure was catching.

  “Jennifer, you are dismissed,” Edna said curtly.

  Jennie shrugged apologetically. Edna waited until her daughter was out of earshot before repeating, “Why are you in my house, Emily?”

  “Mrs. Cutler, I have no quarrel with Sophia—”

  “Just state your business.”

  Emily took a breath and let it out slowly. “It’s about my father.”

  “I imagine he wasn’t too thrilled with your return.”

  “I’m not sure he’s even aware of it. He’s in a bad way.”

  Edna’s haughtiness dropped away. “What happened?”

  “He’s suffered a spell.”

  “And how is your mother?”

  “Mrs. Malone is with her.”

  The woman whirled for the hallway, patting her hair and smoothing her skirt. “Good heavens, I must go to her!”

  “Is your husband home?” Emily called before her presence was forgotten altogether.

  “What? Oh, yes. Jacob, fetch Emily to Mr. Cutler’s office.”

  Emily breathed a sigh of relief as she followed the footman down the hall. She had played her cards just right. Edna could be as capricious as her daughter, but unlike Sophia, her concern for others was genuine. Now perhaps she could get some answers.

  Walter Cutler came to the door himself. “Emily, how good to see you!” He was a cheerful man, good-natured and portly, but Emily could see how loosely the flesh hung on his bones. “Sit down! Sit down!” He ushered her to a mahogany chair. “To what do I owe this honor?”

  “I’m afraid I have some rather bad news. It’s about my father.”

  His attention sharpened. “Is he unwell?”

  “He suffered a fit of apoplexy yesterday evening. He appears comfortable enough, but he hasn’t regained his senses.”

  Walter sank onto the edge of his desk. “Has Dr. Wainwright been there?”

  Emily nodded.

  “What’s his prognosis?”

  “We…don’t really know.”

  “How did it happen?”

  Emily bit her lip. She’d rather not delve too deeply into that answer. “He lost his temper and just toppled over. He’s been out of sorts ever since.”

  Walter sighed deeply. “It seems there’s never any good news anymore.” He rubbed a hand over features that seemed well-acquainted with the gesture. “We’ll certainly pray for the best. I’ll b
e over later to see if your mother needs anything.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Cutler.”

  She didn’t rise.

  “Is there something else?”

  “Yes, I—” She glanced down at her hands twisting in her lap. “I was wondering if you’ve heard anything further about Jovie.”

  Walter aged ten years in a moment. His shoulders drooped and his body sagged forward. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I’ve contacted everyone I can think of, military command, medical staff, those who communicate with prisoner of war camps. Your father even used his political connections. So far, no one’s been able to tell us anything. Jovie’s simply disappeared.”

  Emily’s tongue dried into leather. “Have they given you any hope at all?”

  “None. We did receive a letter written in Jovie’s hand. A good-bye letter.” Walter walked around his desk, withdrew a smudged sheet of paper, and laid it on the desktop. “I’m told letters are commonly traded before a battle in the event that either soldier fails to make it out alive. But no one knows who mailed it.”

  Emily glanced at the page, noting the heading written in Jovie’s familiar scrawl: Dear Mother and Father… She read no further, unwilling to invade their privacy. “Have you contacted any of Jovie’s friends?” she asked. “Perhaps one of them knows something more.”

  “They’ve all been thoroughly questioned by their company commander. He assumes Jovie became separated somehow and exchanged letters with a stranger when their situation began to look hopeless. There’s a great deal of confusion during a fight. Just one thing remains out of the ordinary.” He pulled another small object from the drawer. “This was included with the letter.”

  Emily blinked in surprise at an image of her own face. It was a daguerreotype taken several years before. Her mother had insisted on a likeness of each of her children before Jack left for college. She had no idea how Jovie acquired it.

  “Jovie’s comrades verified that he kept that image on him at all times. They were adamant that he never would have given it up. No one can explain how it came to be included with the letter unless both were removed from his dead body.” His voice wavered but didn’t break. “But in that case, why weren’t they used to identify him? Where is my son?”

  Emily stared down at the tattered photograph, fighting to keep her emotions in check. The paper was creased and the edges torn, a testament to Jovie’s enduring patience. She swallowed hard—twice—before she could speak. “Without a body, these prove nothing.”

  “No, but neither do they offer much hope.”

  Emily blinked rapidly at the image blurring in her hand. “May I keep this?”

  “It’s already yours.”

  She tucked it up her sleeve. It would serve as a precious reminder until she received further word. “What will you do next?”

  “I don’t know.” Walter leaned back in his chair, his jowls sagging in a pendulous mask. “I haven’t dared to tell Edna the contents of General Kershaw’s last correspondence.”

  Emily hardly dared ask. “What did he say?”

  He closed his eyes as if to shield himself from the answer. “He suggested we lay Jovie to rest.”

  3

  Sorrow knotted into physical pain as Emily guided Chantilly back onto her father’s property. Only seven weeks had passed since Gettysburg, she told herself. Jovie could still reappear. Lack of an official identification left open the very real possibility of his survival. He might have been misidentified in a field hospital. Or suffered memory loss. Maybe there’d been a clerical error in a prisoner of war camp. Perhaps he’d simply deserted; God knew he’d done his fair share of fighting. She could think of a dozen plausible explanations for his disappearance. She must remain patient and optimistic.

  But it was so hard to countermand the misgivings in her heart.

  She studied the photograph of herself, humbled and overcome by the knowledge that Jovie had carried her image into battle. She’d been just fifteen when it was taken—young, naïve, untouched by tragedy. What had Jovie thought when he looked at it? What comfort had he taken from the likeness of a girl who never reciprocated his feelings? Could he have purposefully set it aside? Had she come to love him too late?

  Chantilly passed from the woods into the stifling heat of the yard. In the distance, Emily could see teams of slaves laboring in the open fields, their skin as dark as ebony. Names and faces came to her across the span of her absence—Lewis, Josephine, Coffey, Wilson, Ada, Jupiter. These were personalities she had known since childhood. Individuals her family had long been responsible for.

  Slaves Jack had planned to set free.

  According to Mr. Lincoln’s proclamation, they were already legally emancipated. Of course, the government in Richmond hadn’t honored that law. And neither had her father.

  Emily returned Chantilly to Abel’s care. “I brung Lune in, Miss Emily,” he told her as he scooped grain into the mare’s feed trough. “I thought de two of you might like to get reacquainted.”

  “Will he remember me, do you think?”

  “Oh, he remember. But he ain’t de same baby you lef’. He near full grown, wid a grown-up temper to match. He boss round here now. You’ll fin’ him in de las’ box stall.”

  She hesitated. “You don’t happen to have a handkerchief, do you?”

  Abel pulled a length of cloth from his pocket and handed it to her with a knowing smile.

  Emily filled the cloth with oats, tied it in a loose knot, and approached Lune’s stall eagerly. At the sound of her footfalls, the stallion stepped to the door and regarded her through wide, liquid eyes. He didn’t flinch when she laid a hand on the bridge of his nose. “Hello, handsome.”

  His ears swiveled forward, but he gave no nicker of welcome, no gentle nuzzle with his lips.

  “I brought you something. What do you think of this?” She held up the clothbound oats. He sniffed the bundle with interest, but he didn’t snatch the fabric and carry it away like he had as a foal. Instead, he paced backward a step and turned away. Emily bit back her disappointment. Unlike Chantilly, Lune had been too young to form a lasting bond with her.

  But that didn’t mean he wasn’t marvelous. The stallion had developed the long neck, high withers, and deep chest characteristic of his breed. His head was finely chiseled, his eye intelligent, and his body more heavily muscled than Chantilly’s. Lune was a fine animal indeed.

  She untied the handkerchief and poured the oats into her palm. Lune returned to politely nuzzle them from her hand and stood quietly as she stroked his face.

  “You’ve done a fine job with him, Abel. He’s very well-mannered.” Ungelded horses were often noted for their aggression, but Lune was even gentler than she remembered.

  Abel leaned his forearms on top of the stall. “Ain’t no one here for him to fight wid.”

  “It makes your job easier, I suppose.”

  “Too much so.”

  “You miss the horses?”

  He frowned. “I miss a lot of things.”

  She tipped her head to one side. “For instance?”

  He shrugged. “Everything be different. Before de war, nobody dared walk onto Ella Wood an’ demand our food an’ our animals. Now we always wonderin’ when dey be back, or if de Yankees come burn de place down. An’ everyone gone restless wid talk ’bout Mr. Lincoln and ’mancipation. De whole world feel unsettled.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to be free?”

  “’Course I would, Miss Emily. Though I ’spect I’d still be right in dis here stable. Someday, I gunna ask at de Pearly Gates to take charge of dat white horse de good Lord gunna come ridin’ in on.”

  Emily laughed. Apart from Zeke, this was the most candidly any of their people had ever spoken to her. But she guessed Abel’s view to be unusual. He was working at a task he loved. He’d never waded knee-deep in rice fields day after day, toiling under a blazing sun.

  “I jus’ wish change would come wid a lighter step. It be wearin’ thick boots, smashin’ de good wi
d de bad. What use be freedom to a dead man?”

  He had reduced the war to its most basic terms. This monster that men created had outgrown them all, catching up slave and master alike. Sometimes Emily wondered if anyone would survive it. “My mother said the army has come twice.”

  “Dat’s right. De firs’ time weren’t so long after you lef’. Las’ winter dey come back. We some hungry by springtime. But yo’ pa, he a clever man.” He grinned. “Dis year we be hidin’ food in de woods.”

  “Did my father really save Lune and Chantilly?”

  “Yes, miss. I seen it myself. He say dey can take any horse dey like, but de man who lay a hand on either o’ yours gunna reckon wid a rifle barrel an’ a list o’ lawmen three feet deep.”

  Emily listened to his story with amazement. Perhaps, after all their disagreements, her father did still hold a soft spot for her in his heart.

  Lune decided he’d been friendly long enough. He retreated to the rear of his stall, and Emily wiped her hands on the handkerchief. “You said some of the others are restless. How so?”

  Abel instantly became more guarded. “Oh, you know. Some folk jus’ talk.”

  She knew she’d never convince him to reveal who’d been doing the talking or what they were speculating about, but she could make some very good guesses. “My mother said there have been many runaways. Who were they?”

  The groom clamped his jaw shut.

  “You won’t be telling me anything I couldn’t learn from my mother.”

  He glanced at her sideways then dribbled out a list of names. She’d known only one of them well. “Herod,” she repeated. Lottie’s brother had fancied himself in love with Lizzie. He’d always been shifty, even when they were all growing up on the plantation together. And when he learned of Lizzie and Ketch’s escape plan, his spite had nearly ruined everything.

  “He run off de night you lef’.” Abel glanced at her keenly. “De same night Ketch and de boy got away. But Mr. Turnbull caught Herod.”