Ebb Tide (Ella Wood Book 3)

by Michelle Isenhoff

  “Does yo’ father know ’bout dis?”

  “I haven’t had much contact with my father lately.”

  “How ’bout yo’ mama?”

  “What do you think?”

  He sneered. “Too risky?”

  She straightened. “What do you want, Herod?”

  He crossed his arms and uttered a humorless chuckle. “You jus’ keep on askin’ yo’self dat. See if you can figure it out.”

  “Well, you obviously had no interest in learning to read,” she said, resuming her task. “So why bully me into offering reading lessons to everyone?”

  “Maybe I was seekin’ de betterment o’ my fellow man.”

  “A philanthropist, are you? That would be vastly out of character.”

  The squint of his eye grew tighter. “Maybe I jus’ wanna see a white girl do what I say fo’ a change.”

  That, most likely, was the real reason. His challenge to teach the slaves had simply been an opportunity to aggravate and belittle her. “Look, Herod. Despite your insinuations, I am on your side. The fact that I was thrown out of my home for eighteen months should be proof enough.” She slapped the last newspaper onto the pile. “What else do you want from me?”

  He crossed the space between them in a rush, his face sharp with anger. “I wanna know what you tryin’ to do here, Emily. What game you playin’?”

  “I’m teaching four dozen slaves to read because someone coerced me into it,” she ground out.

  “You ain’t jus’ teachin’ ’em letters. You givin’ ’em hope! You know as well as I do dese people ain’t never gunna see freedom.”

  She pressed her palms flat against the pile of newspapers and leaned her weight toward him. Her ire matched his. “Hope and freedom are exactly what I’m working toward.”

  He scoffed. “Ain’t no white people set dere niggers free.”

  “I already have.”

  “Not all of ’em.”

  She pulled in a deep, calming breath. “You understand authority, Herod. Your father is one of the drivers who keeps this plantation running. When he speaks, people obey.”

  “Only if he in agreement wid Turnbull.”

  “Exactly. We’re all subject to authority, and I am no exception. My name is not on Ella Wood’s deed.” She held him with the intensity of her gaze. “But someday it will be.”

  He regarded her warily. “What you sayin’, Emily?”

  “I’m saying someday you’ll be a free man, Herod!” she burst out. “What do you think I’m saying?”

  Deep skepticism distorted his features. He’d be a handsome man if his face gave up its perpetual scowl. “Why?”

  Her body lost strength, pooling over the prop of her arms. “Oh, Herod. Not everyone looks at the world according to what they can gain from it.”

  But she saw he could neither comprehend such a sentiment nor accept her meaning at face value. Distrust turned his words to sharp-bladed mockery. “We’ll see, Emily.”

  ***

  “Miss Emily, wait!”

  Thin and tattered by the wind, the call came from the direction of Fairview as Emily crossed between the stable and the house. Who would be out in this weather?

  “Miss Emily!”

  One of the Cutlers’ footmen came jogging out of the woods holding something above his head.

  “Jacob! What are you doing out here?”

  He slowed as he neared and thrust a thin volume into her hands. “Yo’ mama come by for tea yesterday,” he panted. “She and Missus be talkin’ ’bout dis book. Missus finally found it. She tol’ me to hustle quick and bring it before de storm.”

  Emily read the title and smiled. A Christmas Carol. “I’m certain her gift will be appreciated, but I’m not sure it required such urgency.”

  “I jus’ doin’ what I be told, miss.”

  “Well, thank you very much. Now hurry home before you get drenched!”

  Emily jogged into the house with her satchel of newspapers. The wind blew steadily, ever growing in intensity. The first smatters of rain struck just as the door slammed behind her. “We’ll have a tropical storm by morning,” she called to anyone within earshot.

  No one even looked up. But Marie poked her head into the hall at the sound of her daughter’s voice. “Emily, where have you been?”

  “Where is Aunt Margaret?” Emily asked, holding up the book. “She’ll want to read this.”

  “I haven’t seen her since supper.”

  “Do you think she’s awake?”

  Marie glanced at the mantel clock. “If she isn’t, she’ll be wheeling around at all hours tonight.”

  “I’ll go deliver it.” When Aunt Margaret couldn’t sleep, nobody slept.

  Emily jogged up the stairs and stashed the newspapers in the back of her wardrobe before crossing the hall. “Auntie.” She knocked and waited.

  “Aunt Margaret?”

  No doubt she’d asked Trudy to wheel her into William’s room. Emily pushed the door open to place the book on the bed and paused, surprised to find the old woman still asleep.

  “Aunt Margaret,” she admonished. “You’ll be awake all night.”

  She reached out to jiggle the old woman’s foot beneath the covers. It was stiff as wood. Emily leaped backwards with a cry of alarm.

  Aunt Margaret wasn’t asleep. She was dead.

  10

  “Marie, you’ll never believe who I ran into in Summerville last week.” Edna Cutler presided over the annual Christmas celebration with exaggerated enthusiasm.

  “Tell me.”

  “Annette Debussy! You remember her, don’t you? From Mount Pleasant? Judge Carter’s daughter. She debuted the same year we did.”

  Emily blinked dully at the fire casting too much heat in the too-festive parlor. Jennie sat beside her playing checkers with Cora, and Walter Cutler and Matthew Buchanan slouched in a pair of chairs across the room, looking as wholly benumbed as she felt.

  “Of course I remember Annette,” Marie answered. “How is she?”

  “Showing her age like the rest of us. She’s in the area visiting relatives for the holidays.”

  “We must invite her for tea.”

  “I already have.”

  Sophia piped up, “Isn’t she the one who put rotten apples into her beau’s coat pockets?”

  “She had her maid do it while she was entertaining.” Edna snickered. “She couldn’t stand the fellow. It stopped his suit immediately.”

  “Oh, good heavens!” Marie giggled. “I’d forgotten about that. He smelled like vinegar for weeks.”

  Walter roused from his semi-comatose state. “I heard her husband was with Bragg in Tennessee. Some heavy fighting out that way. He still living?”

  The women’s merriment died away. “Oh, for goodness sake, Walter,” Edna snapped. “How should I know? I would never ask such a thing.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause then Sophia chirped out, “Aren’t the decorations festive? It took Sarah and Ezra half the week, but they did such a fine job. And the aroma is simply heavenly.”

  The room did look lovely, bedecked with green boughs, juniper berries, and at least three varieties of pinecones. But as the women latched onto the topic with over-eager exclamations of agreement, Emily overheard Mr. Cutler mutter to Matthew, “It smells like a bloody forest in here. It’s set me to sneezing twice.”

  Emily snatched up her cocoa mug and hid a smile behind its rim. For two years she had dreamed of being home for a Christmas gathering, but this one wasn’t living up to her expectations. Aside from her sheer boredom, several faces were conspicuously absent, and their names were being studiously avoided by her companions. The omissions seemed absurd, as if the roof had blown off and those within pretended not to notice.

  The ridiculous conversation faded into the background as she recalled another Christmas in this same room. It was the year Jovie’s cousin Savannah had stayed with the Cutlers over the holidays. Emily had wanted to show Jovie her portfolio, but he’d been busy s
eeing to his cousin’s welfare. Emily hadn’t admitted it at the time, but she’d been green with jealousy. Painted head to toe with it.

  Jennie leaned in close. “Sophia’s doing it on purpose, you know.”

  “Doing what?” Emily asked.

  “Ignoring you. She told Mama she wouldn’t enter the same room as you. Mama warned her that if she wasn’t civil, she’d tell everyone about the year Sophia had been sent off for a bath only to return to the Christmas party twenty minutes later completely naked.”

  Emily had never heard that story. She couldn’t help it; she stifled a giggle.

  “But I’ve noticed Mother hasn’t spoken a word to you either.”

  “It’s all right. I haven’t been much in the mood for conversation.”

  “Is it because of Mrs. Thornton?” Jennie asked sympathetically.

  Emily sobered. It had only been three weeks since Aunt Margaret’s funeral. They’d held a private wake and buried the old woman in the family graveyard beside Jack. Her absence left a vast emptiness in the house. “I suppose.”

  Jennie cocked her head curiously. “You really loved her, didn’t you?”

  “Thunder and all.” Emily grimaced in a poor attempt at a smile. It crumpled quickly. “I’m sorry, Jennie. I’m just not feeling very festive this evening. Would you mind if I excuse myself a bit early?”

  “Of course not.” Jennie reached for Emily’s hand, her face momentarily betraying her own grief. “I feel it too. They should be here, but they aren’t.”

  Emily felt a brief connection with the girl and was tempted to confide in her. How good it would be to share her anxieties with someone else who loved Jovie! But the impulse passed. It seemed a morbid foundation on which to build a friendship. She set her cup on a lacquered table. No one even looked up as she exited.

  Sarah met her outside the parlor door. “You leavin’, Miss Emily?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll go fetch yo’ wraps.”

  The evening was mild, but Emily allowed Sarah to drape the cloak over her shoulders. “I received another letter from Jeremiah,” she whispered.

  The slave’s face remained studiously impassive.

  “I’ll send Lottie over with it later tonight.”

  “I can’t read, miss.”

  Emily smiled. “Then ask Lottie to teach you.”

  Last month’s storm had littered the pathway with branches that no one had removed, so she rode home in the carriage. The house was dark and silent, with most of the house slaves off duty for Christmas. The only light shone out of her parents’ bedroom where Deena tended William. Instead of going inside, Emily walked to Lewis and Josephine’s cabin.

  Lewis opened the door at her first knock. His face registered mild alarm when he recognized her. “Miss Emily, dere be a problem?”

  Emily could see the anxious faces of Josephine and Lottie peering at her from behind him. Herod glowered into the fireplace. The cabin was decorated with pine boughs that pushed their woodsy fragrance out the door, but the smell of cooking ham—the customary gift granted to each slave family on Christmas—had been replaced by rabbit.

  Emily set their fears to rest. “Everything is fine. I just need to speak with Lottie.”

  Josephine frowned. “It be Christmas, miss.”

  “It will only take a moment.”

  Lottie stepped outside and closed the door behind her. “Yes, miss?”

  “Would you be willing to read Jeremiah’s latest letter to Sarah tonight?”

  Lottie perked up. “You think I can?”

  “I’m sure of it. Come up to my room later and I’ll help you practice.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  Emily chuckled to herself. Since she’d told Lottie about Sarah and Jeremiah’s romance, the girl had coveted every detail Emily would divulge.

  The night was still and mild, with a full moon shimmying above the tree line. Unwilling to spend such a fine evening alone in her room, Emily meandered toward the graveyard where two of the people she missed the most now kept each other company. She leaned over the wrought iron fence and addressed the new mound of dirt. “So, did Jack welcome you properly? Is he showing you around inside the Pearly Gates?”

  She smiled at the thought of the two of them reunited in Heaven. She didn’t even know they’d been close until Aunt Margaret mentioned Jack’s weekly visits when he attended Charleston College. Now they were both gone. She would trust that Jovie wasn’t with them. But she couldn’t help wondering if William would be next. The thought shot a dart of shame somewhere in the direction of her heart.

  Such pangs had nagged at her regularly since that last explosive conversation with her aunt. To be honest, they’d started months earlier, when Mrs. Malone first questioned William’s recovery. Now they bombarded her with infuriating frequency. She could almost hear Aunt Margaret admonishing her, “Don’t be a fool, child.”

  “It’s not foolishness to avoid someone who hates you,” she muttered to herself.

  Her imagination provided her aunt’s response. “He loves you, child.”

  “He has a horrid way of showing it.”

  “Give him a chance to do the right thing.”

  “He’s had a million chances!”

  But she could see her aunt’s tight-lipped frown of disapproval as if she still sat right in front of her. “You’re assuming you have a lifetime to make amends, but those years aren’t promised to either of you. Make amends now before it’s too late.”

  Oh, blast her conscience!

  She sighed. “Okay, Aunt Margaret. You win.” Maybe Christmas had weakened her resolve. Maybe she was just tired of going round and round in her head. But she finally gave in. “I still don’t like him, but at least I’ll try to keep him alive.”

  Immediately, her heart felt lighter and her feet heavier.

  She approached the house, warily eyeing the one lighted window. Every step dragged. Her hand trembled on the knob. Taking a stabilizing breath, she shored up her shoulders. If she was going to do this, she would do it confidently, not like some quaking child who was defeated before she ever began. She opened the door and swept up the steps, planting each foot determinedly.

  She knocked and entered all in one movement, startling Deena awake in the corner. “Miss Emily, what de matter?”

  Emily marched straight to the bed. “Merry Christmas, Father.” He looked thinner than she remembered, and sallow after so much time indoors, but she saw recognition in his eyes. And hopelessness. Though the stroke had affected only half his body, he was a man who had given up.

  She reckoned she could elicit a response.

  “Did you have a lovely evening, lying here like a dead man in a tomb? Mother and I enjoyed excellent food and conversation at the Cutlers’. It’s too bad you couldn’t join us.” She smiled. “But I’m sure your entertainment was far better. Someone spooning mashed-up Christmas cake into your mouth. Someone wiping dribble from your face. It’s a fine way to celebrate the holidays, don’t you think, Deena?”

  The old slave woman scowled in disapproval. “Miss Emily, you bein’ mighty harsh. You know Marse Preston confined to his bed.”

  “Of course I do. He must prefer lying in it to actually living. Because he certainly hasn’t put forth any effort to get himself out.”

  She watched anger spring up in her father’s eyes, but she didn’t care. Some strong emotion would do him good. She crossed her arms, and her chin jutted stubbornly. “I know we’ve haven’t seen eye to eye. But I’m not going to stand by any longer and let you waste away to the grave. We’ve buried enough Prestons. And if you can’t find the determination to recover, I’ll lend you some of mine.”

  She matched him glare for glare, counting off her pronouncements on her fingers. “From now on, nobody pampers you. If you don’t feed yourself, you don’t eat. You will spend a few minutes of every day sitting upright in a chair to recover your strength. And you will attempt to communicate your needs to us verbally or they will not be met.
No more letting Mother be your mouthpiece.”

  Deena twisted her hands. “Missus Preston ain’t never gunna agree to dis.”

  “She can’t match my resolve. And when she sees how much he improves, she’ll forgive me.”

  “But Miss Emily, what if he don’t?”

  Emily met her father’s eyes and issued her final challenge. “He will. How quickly and how much depends on how badly he wants it.” She leaned down to kiss his cheek. He flung out an arm, but she easily overpowering his attempts to push her away. “Good night, Father. Sleep well.”

  She smiled as she closed the door. Perhaps it hadn’t been accomplished with grace and patience, but she felt good about her decision. A contest of wills was exactly the motivation her father needed, and issuing the challenge had been wickedly enjoyable.

  She was still grinning to herself when her mother met her at the top of the stairs. Marie’s skin was pale as paper, and her breath came with effort. “Emily, I’m glad I found you. I didn’t see you leave the party.” She guided her daughter into her bedroom and closed the door. “Sit down, child. I want to give you the bad news before you hear it from somebody else.”

  Emily sank onto her bed. Fear spiked through her like the points of a splintered branch.

  “Mr. Cutler made an announcement after you slipped away. They’re leaving. They’re selling their estate and moving…somewhere.”

  A moment passed before Emily realized this was her mother’s terrible tidings. Not the news she had expected. Not the news that would have torn her heart into tiny, worthless pieces. Her spirits soared. Jovie could still be alive!

  Then her brow puckered. “But if they leave, how will Jovie find them when he returns?”

  Marie shook her head. “It’s so dreadfully sad. They’re holding a memorial service the day after New Year’s. The Cutlers have decided to lay Jovie to rest.”

  ***

  Emily took an unconscious step forward as the train inched to a halt and waited eagerly for the compartment doors to open. A handful of people disembarked—a man in a derby hat and a snappy business suit, a matron with three children in tow, and a black man in a porter’s uniform. The passengers hastened into the Ladson depot to avoid the misty drizzle that stripped all color from the day. Then a young woman stepped from the third car, easing herself down with cautious movements. Though still molded into a shapely hourglass, the lower half of her figure blossomed more fully than Emily remembered.