The wagon stopped. “Where you heading?”
“Home,” she answered. “Near Ladson.”
“Hop aboard. I’m headed to Summerville.”
“That was foolish,” Jovie scolded when she returned and fetched their bags, but she was too pleased with their good fortune to pay him any mind. His anger vanished as seven whole miles passed beneath the creaking wheels of the wagon.
They slept a few hours inside the vacant Ladson depot, a stuffy but effective respite from the mosquitos. First light found them staggering onto Ella Wood. Halfway up the drive, Emily stopped to stare. Where the grand house once stood, nothing but two blackened chimneys remained, a pair of cold sentinels standing watch over the dead. The rest of the house was nothing but charred rubble, opening an unobstructed view straight through to river.
Emily dropped her bags and broke into a run. “Mother? Mother?”
A black face peered out the kitchen doorway. Even from thirty yards away, Emily could see Josephine’s astonishment. The woman hoisted her skirts and darted through the trees in the direction of the overseer’s house. Emily followed, breaking through the foliage in time to see her mother emerge onto the front porch still clad in her dressing gown.
“Emily, child. Is it really you?”
“Mama!” Emily was sobbing as she pounded up the steps. Marie felt as fragile as a dried rose, but Emily clung to her tightly, burying her face in her neck.
“There now. Let me look at you.” Marie held her out at arm’s length and smiled through her tears. “My beautiful daughter, a married woman. Are you happy?”
It seemed an odd question, standing there in the shadow of Ella Wood’s ruins with sorrow streaming down each face. “Exquisitely so.”
“Your father would be so pleased, child.”
Marie looked ten years older than when Emily had left, shrunken and withered. “How are you doing with—all this?” Emily asked.
“Better now that you’re here.”
“What happened?”
Marie sighed, her anguish nearly too much to watch. “It was night and I—I couldn’t get to your father’s room. It all just happened so fast.”
“Was it Yankees? Did anyone see anything?”
Marie could only shake her head.
Emily pulled her close again.
A collection of familiar faces waited on the porch behind them—Josephine, Lottie, and Zeke. The women still wore expressions of utter disbelief. Emily greeted each one.
“Miss Emily, we thought you was dead!” Lottie blurted.
Until that moment, Emily hadn’t considered how many people would be affected by her deceit. Poor Deena had gone to her grave believing the lie. Her heart cramped. “I’m so sorry, Lottie. I was just trying to protect all of you.”
Marie gestured toward the door. “Come inside.”
Emily hesitated, turning back. “I left Jovie—”
He lurched out of the woods at that moment. Zeke hastened to relieve him of the bags flapping against his crutches, and they all entered the house together. All but Josephine.
“Breakfast be done soon,” she called through the screen door. “Lottie, go fetch Miss Emily an’ Mister Jovie some water. Dey look plumb tuckered.”
The house was small, only a single story. Emily hadn’t been inside it for years. The front door opened into a sitting room outfitted with a shabby sofa and three tattered chairs. The dining area where Lottie had disappeared stood off to one side, and two tiny bedrooms opened off the back. Though she was grateful her mother had shelter, returning to the overseer’s house felt completely alien.
“I didn’t hear any horses. Did you walk all the way?” Marie asked.
“Most of it.” Emily sank gratefully onto the sofa beside Jovie. The day had barely started and she was already exhausted. “Where is Mr. Turnbull?”
“I let him go. I didn’t see much point in employing him after the fire.”
“What will you do now?” Emily asked. “With the property?”
“We’ll talk about it later.” Marie moved toward her bedroom. “Will you send Lottie to me when she returns?”
Jovie called out a single question before she closed the door. “Is Thaddeus Black home?”
“I haven’t seen him for months.”
Emily breathed a sigh of relief. After drinking the entire glass of water Lottie delivered, she yawned, curled into the crook of Jovie’s arm, and fell fast asleep.
***
The whole flavor of Ella Wood had changed. Without Deena, without William, without the house and all its reminders that could keep their memories alive, the very air carried sadness. Marie was saturated with it. Though she puttered in the garden and undertook some of the light housework, she seemed a frail shadow of her former self.
About twenty Negroes remained—some had returned after finding freedom too lean. A few had never left. There was no direction. The former slaves simply carried on doing what they’d always done, tending their gardens, chopping firewood, cooking meals, eating, sleeping, living. Emily and Jovie pitched in, tending and harvesting that which had already been planted. It was too late in the year to make changes.
Jovie soon realized that plantation work required two legs. With Tink’s help, he set about designing one. Within a few days, the blacksmith had forged a jointed metal frame that fit into a wooden boot and attached at the thigh with a series of straps and buckles. The first time Jovie stepped outside without crutches and with his pant leg let down, Emily was picking beans with Josephine. She screamed, toppling her basket and trampling a tomato plant in her haste to reach him. She threw herself into his arms, nearly knocking him off balance. “It works! Oh, Jovie, you’re walking!”
He scooped her up in both arms and kissed her full on the mouth. “I’ve always wanted to do that.” He grinned.
Josephine resumed hoeing with a smile and a shake of her head.
Emily inspected his trousers from all angles. He’d taken to wearing his revolver in a holster at his belt. It looked far more intimidating without the crutches knocking against it. “You look completely natural, all the way down to your boots. How does it feel?”
He swung his leg, and the knee extended with a soft click. “It will take some getting used to, but it’s far better than those cursed sticks.”
“I’ll practice walking with you,” she said, looping an arm around his waist. “I could use a break anyway.”
They wandered toward the Thoroughbred pasture where George and Martha were grazing. Other than a slightly early shifting of weight when he rolled off the false leg, Emily couldn’t see any difference in his stride.
“I want to talk to you about that,” Jovie said. “I admire your tenacity, but I think you’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”
She’d jumped headlong into the plantation’s many tasks with a fervor that left her continually drained. Just that morning she had fetched and heated water, washed and hung linens, filled the wood bin, and hoed the tomato patch, and it was only an hour past lunch. More of the same awaited her that afternoon. She sighed. “I can’t help it. There’s so much that needs to be done.”
“Not all at once.”
“Josephine and Lottie do it every day.”
“Exactly. They’re acclimated to it. You just got back.” He stopped beside the pasture fence. “Take a nap this afternoon,” he encouraged, tugging at her braid. “You’ve fallen asleep in your supper every evening this week.”
A sly smile sprang to her lips. “You wouldn’t have any ulterior motives behind this advice, would you, Jovie Cutler?”
He smiled, wrapping his arms loosely around her waist. “Perhaps. But I didn’t bring you here to wreck your health. Give yourself time to readjust.”
She opened her mouth to object but thought better of it. She could work harder after some rest. “All right.”
They continued on, veering unconsciously toward the cemetery, crowned with crepe myrtle and bejeweled with sweet strands of honeysuckle. “Have you been here yet?” Jov
ie asked as the stark new grave became obvious within the colorful oasis.
She shook her head. “I’ve been avoiding it. Living in the overseer’s house, I can almost pretend he’s just gone somewhere. There’s no memory of him there.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.” He frowned. “I thought you and your father reconciled.”
“We did, fortunately. But it was so complicated for so long. I guess I just haven’t had the energy to come sort out all my emotions.”
Standing outside the iron fence, however, she felt nothing but sadness. Strong, proud, and stubborn, William Preston had been a physical embodiment of the South, and in the end he’d shared its fate. It was a tragic conclusion to a tumultuous story. But as she gazed down at the still-fresh grave, she decided she needn’t pick up that ending and carry it with her. She had her own story to write. She could set his down and leave it here. And she did.
“Good-bye, Papa,” she whispered, tossing a cluster of honeysuckle blossoms onto the scarred earth. “I loved you so much.”
She walked to the house without looking back.
Jovie left her on the porch. “I promised Lewis I’d take a look at a flooded field with him this afternoon,” he said, removing the revolver from its holster. “I want you to keep this while I’m gone. Do you know how to use it?”
She took the gun and, in one easy motion, snapped the hammer back and aimed at a distant tree.
“Careful with that. It’s loaded.”
She grinned and uncocked the gun. “You were there when my father taught me to shoot.”
“I remember. I just wanted to make sure you still did.” He relaxed. “Put that under your pillow while you sleep.”
***
Jovie splayed his hands on the mattress on either side of Emily’s head. “Feel better?”
She opened her eyes and stretched luxuriously. “I feel wonderful.” Then she reached around his neck and pulled him down.
He kissed her soundly before prying her hands loose. “I’m afraid that will have to wait. I’m under strict orders to fetch you for supper.”
“Supper? Already? How long did I sleep?”
“About four hours.”
“Four hours! I’m never going to sleep tonight!”
Jovie grinned, his teeth flashing against his beard. “I know.”
Marie was waiting for them, a loaf of bread and a kettle of fish chowder steaming on the table before her. Zeke stood at the corner ready to dish it out.
“Ah, there you are,” Marie said. She looked pale and drawn, with every vein visible beneath her skin, but today there was purpose in her upright posture. “I was starting to wonder if you planned to sleep till morning.”
“Sorry, Mother.” She slipped into a chair across the square from her. Jovie sat between them.
“Never mind. I’m glad you’re alert. I’ve got some things I’d like to discuss with you both.”
Zeke placed a bowl of chowder before each of them and stepped back while Jovie said grace.
Marie picked up her spoon, swirled it around the edge of her bowl, and took a tiny sip. Her eye fastened on Jovie. “Did you and Lewis mend that gate? Herod fixed it last year, but apparently not very well.”
“Tink is going to fashion a part for us. Once it’s in place, it should hold until after the harvest.”
“Where is Herod?” Emily put in. “I haven’t seen him.”
Marie waved her spoon. “He ran off with the rest of them as soon as the Yankees went through. Now then.” She cleared her throat. “I’ve decided I no longer wish to remain at Ella Wood without my husband. Now that you are married, I will be leaving the estate entirely to the two of you.”
Emily glanced at Jovie. This was not in their immediate plans. But he seemed unperturbed, calmly spooning soup into his mouth.
“Where will you go?” Emily asked.
“With the war finally over, I would like to move to town. I have not stepped foot off this plantation in three years, and I am heartily weary of solitude. Did you happen to check on the Charleston house when you were in the city?”
“No.” Emily glanced again at Jovie. This time he met her eye. “Mother, Charleston is unrecognizable. And the house was within range of enemy fire. If it’s still standing, it will be a ruin.”
Marie slowed only a moment. “I have been transferring your father’s accounts over to Jovie all week and I have something I’d like to show you.” She pushed back her uneaten soup and stood to retrieve something from the mantel above the unused fireplace.
Emily looked at her husband in surprise.
“You were asleep,” he murmured.
Marie returned and set something on the table. It was a small book with a black cover and gilt pages. Emily let out a gasp. “Is that…?” Her eyes whisked toward Zeke, who gave her a broad wink.
“Your brother’s journal.”
Emily picked it up reverently and opened to a random page. Jack’s bold handwriting covered it from top to bottom in neat black rows. “Where did you find this?”
“It came in the mail after Charleston fell. Apparently, he took it to the army with him and left it with a friend for safe keeping.” Marie’s voice quavered. “You were right. You were not the only peculiar Preston child.”
Emily could only imagine how stirring it must have been for her mother to hear from her child beyond the grave.
“Read his words, Emily. Then do with Ella Wood whatever you choose.”
30
Emily and Jovie began reading the journal together. In his own powerful words, Jack recorded his metamorphosis from entitled son of a slaveholder to avid abolitionist. The entries began on his eleventh birthday and included a few childish observations about his life and activities, but the book was scarcely used until the alligator attack that first alerted him to Zeke’s slave-smuggling operation. There he wrote in earnest—of his friendship with the orphaned runaway boy and the conflict of conscience it produced.
I hardly know what to say to him. I know what I would feel if I’d just lost my father. Or I think I do. But I would still have Mother and Jolly and food and a house to live in. Mingo has none of these…
I know I should turn Zeke in to Mr. Turnbull. I know that by helping Mingo, I would be robbing a man just like Father. But he is frightened and alone. Sometimes he weeps. It makes me so sad to hear him that I cannot think what to do...
The entries were often sporadic, with months passing between. Then Jack might include long pages about one specific person or encounter. He wrote of the runaways’ scars, their physical ailments, their psychological trauma. He recorded their stories. Sometimes he questioned how such a system came about. Other times he justified it. But over the course of his evolution, he moved steadily into the man of purpose and conviction that Emily had finally come to know.
Sometimes I wish I could hold a mirror to Father’s face in which he could realize his own arrogance. I would open the eyes of Southern men to the cost of their greed. Theirs is a willful blindness, and their hearts are further hardened by the demands of outsiders. Does the North not understand that accusation is the surest way to solidify the action they most wish to change?
The latter part of the book include some of Jack’s experiences in the war and his suspicions about Thad as well as musings on how to move Ella Wood to a system of free labor. Emily suspected this was the reason Marie had made the journal required reading. Because now, if the plantation was to remain profitable, they had no other choice.
Despite her strong engagement with the text, Emily often could not keep her eyes open. Jovie soon passed her and took to reading it on his own. She could not tell what thoughts crossed his mind, and she refrained from asking. Instead, she let Jack himself speak into her husband’s soul.
It was with pensive sobriety that Jovie handed her a small, folded piece of paper on waking one morning. “I found this last night tucked into the final page of the journal. I met this woman once, several years ago. I don’t know if she and J
ack—” His voice broke. “He was always so secretive.” He shook his head, kissed her cheek, and slipped from the room.
Her curiosity piqued, Emily opened the page.
Dear Emily,
I am sending your brother’s journal to you at his request…
Emily’s fingers tightened around the page. The journal had come addressed to her, not Marie.
…We spoke of its contents often. He left it with me the last day we spent together and asked me to see it safely into your hands in the event of his death. I held it until I could be certain it would reach you without censor or alteration.
Please accept my condolences on your brother’s passing. He loved you deeply and wanted you to know it. On that horrible September day, you lost a brother, I lost a dear friend, and the world lost a compassionate man.
Sincerely,
Amelia Franklin
Emily blinked rapidly, sensing her brother’s affection from beyond the grave. Jack had wanted her to have the journal. He’d known how much she would need it. Had he foreseen the effect it would have on Marie? On Jovie? But how could he?
She glanced at the signature one more time. Who was Amelia Franklin? So much of her brother’s life remained a mystery. Had Jack found love before he died? She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her nightgown. She hoped so.
She’d probably never know.
***
In the meantime, Ella Wood passed into the heat and pestilence of August, with no letup in its schedule. When Josephine announced that she would be preserving peach butter the next morning, Emily rose early to help.
Josephine and Lottie were already in the kitchen when she arrived. Josephine immediately plunked a bowl of apples in front of her.
Emily looked at them blankly. “I thought we were cooking peach butter.”
“A few apples thicken it up. Peel ’em and core ’em.”
Emily exchanged an amused glance with Lottie. “Yes, ma’am.”
Ebb Tide (Ella Wood Book 3) Page 32