The carriage pulled away, and Mammy leaned slightly forward, her black eyes twinkling. “Yo’ gonna have the dressmaker sew you up a pink silk gown?”
Auralie pressed her lips together and sent Mammy an exasperated look. “You read Perry’s letter!”
“‘Course I did. You lef’ it on yo’ bed table las’ night. An’ since when you and me kep’ secrets from each other?” Deep dimples of amusement sank into Mammy’s cheeks.
Auralie could never be annoyed with Mammy. The woman protected her heart like a precious thing hidden away in her pocket. “Never.” She shrugged. “And I’m not ordering a pink gown. I don’t care what that letter says.”
They rode in silence for a time. After a few miles, the playful expression returned to Mammy’s eyes. “Ah hear’d yo’ mama talkin’ with yo’ brother’s intended.”
Auralie’s older brother, Dale, and his fiancée, Gwendolyn, had announced their wedding date months ago. Gwendolyn and her mother had visited Covington Plantation on a few occasions to discuss wedding plans with Auralie’s mother. It was apparent that her soon-to-be sister-in-law was much more eager to become a Covington than Auralie was to become a Bolden.
Mammy broke into her reverie. “I hear her say she havin’ six bridesmaids. Mmm, gonna be some fancy doin’s. She showed yo’ mama swatches o’ cloth for the dresses, and ever’one of ‘em was pink.”
“No!” Auralie stabbed the floor of the carriage with her yellow parasol.
Mammy slapped her knees and threw her head back with a deep-throated chortle. “Yo’ gonna wear pink one way or the other.”
The knot in Colton Danfield’s stomach tightened the way it always did when he prepared to go to town and leave Barnabas working alone. He swept his gaze across the field all the way to the tree line. Even though Barnabas was no longer a slave, Colton wasn’t so naive as to believe a slave catcher who thought Barnabas might be worth a bounty wouldn’t try to take him, despite the paper he carried in his shirt pocket.
The law stated Colton was expected to see to it that Barnabas left the state upon being freed, but Barnabas rejected the idea. Colton could still hear the man’s impassioned plea.
“Please don’ make me leave you, Mistah Colton. Dem bounty hunters search fo’ ever’ colored man who travel no’th, free or not. I’s gettin’ too old to run from dem dogs. Let me make my mark on a paper sayin’ I workin’ fo’ you. Dat’s what I want to do. Please, Mistah Colton…”
The memory made Colton smile. He’d written up an indenture agreement, read it to Barnabas, and let him make his mark, just to keep everything legal. But in Colton’s heart, the man was an employee and friend. He slept in the lean-to behind the cabin, and Colton paid him a wage. Even after four years, Barnabas’s eyes glistened every month when Colton placed eight silver coins in his work-scarred hand.
Colton slipped his arms into the black wool coat Pastor Winslow had given him. Though slightly too large for Colton, he didn’t care. The coat, given to the pastor by a parishioner, was the only garment of fine quality the old preacher ever owned. The elderly saint had precious little to his name when he died, other than the forty acres and small herd of sheep, all of which he’d bequeathed to Colton. Over the past four years, Colton had made a few improvements as he was able and was pleased with the way his corn crop was growing and with the number of spring lambs that frolicked in the pasture. But Colton would give it all back in a moment if it meant sitting with Pastor Winslow one more time and gleaning nuggets of wisdom from the dear old man.
He ran his fingers over the well-tailored sleeve and smiled with remembrance. How he missed his friend and mentor.
Colton glanced at the position of the sun. If he didn’t get moving, he’d miss the meeting at Maybelle’s Café in town this morning. No doubt much of the debate would center on the upcoming election. While Colton wasn’t overly vocal about his opinions, this morning was different. Jack McCaffey, the owner and publisher of the Juniper Springs Sentinel, had asked Colton to speak on behalf of the area farmers. Joseph E. Brown, the current governor, had yet to take a stand one way or the other regarding secession, but Colton had serious doubts about the scruples and ethics of Shelby Covington, the man running against Governor Brown.
He saddled his horse, Jasper, and led the animal out to the edge of the cornfield where Barnabas worked. The former slave straightened and sent Colton a grin.
“You must be fixin’ to go to town. You’s wearin’ the preacher’s coat.”
Colton smiled and nodded. He normally saved the fine garment for going to church, but he hoped wearing Pastor Winslow’s black worsted might rub a bit of the preacher’s sage insight onto him before he spoke at the meeting.
He pointed to the far side of the cornfield. “What do you think? Should we wait another week before planting the other half?”
Barnabas raised his hand and shaded his eyes. “Yes suh, that be about right. This here first plantin’ oughta be over a foot tall by then.”
Colton turned and glanced across the footpath from the cornfield where a black-and-white dog sat in the shade of the pin oaks and kept vigil over the three dozen sheep and another dozen lambs. Colton turned to look over his shoulder at Barnabas. “I have to admit you were right about getting a dog to help watch the sheep. He’s been worth every penny.”
The presence of the dog also eased Colton’s mind somewhat when he had to leave Barnabas alone on the place, knowing the animal would bark if he picked up the scent of any strangers nosing around. It always made Colton smile when he remembered the day he brought the pup home and let Barnabas name him. “Freedom,” he’d said. And from that day on, they called the dog Freedom, or Free for short.
Colton hoped to one day acquire more land, expand the flock, and plant more acreage, but not until he could afford to pay another man to help work it. It pleased him to pay Barnabas a wage, even if it did mean they ate beans and salt pork most days. The corn crop looked good, and his herd of sheep had doubled in size. The future held promise, but only with God’s blessings.
Barnabas dragged his faded sleeve across his forehead. “Mistah Colton, you gots any plans fo’ gittin’ yo’self hitched?”
“What?” Colton shook his head, certain he’d misunderstood.
Barnabas grinned and his eyes danced. “Iffen you was to marry and have yo’self a passel o’ sons, you and me could set on the porch in a couple o’ rockin’ chairs while the young’uns worked the field.”
Colton snorted. “Marriage is a long ways off for me. If God wants me to marry, He’s going to have to put the woman right in front of me so I trip over her.”
Colton put his foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle, but tugged the reins to hold Jasper in place. “Barnabas, do you have—”
Barnabas patted his shirt pocket where the paper declaring him a free man lay folded and tucked. “Right here, Mistah Colton, jus’ like always.”
An uneasy smile stretched Colton’s face as he returned Barnabas’s wave. He bumped his heels against Jasper’s flanks and pulled his thoughts back to the meeting being held at Maybelle’s Café. In addition to the speculation over the governor’s race, the topic of secession had several folks engaged in hot debate. None of the landowners attending today’s meeting used slaves, and most of them, like Colton, had farms under a hundred acres. The wealthy and powerful plantation owners whose holdings were vastly larger than Colton’s claimed they couldn’t turn a profit without slaves. That philosophy always soured Colton’s stomach.
The town of Juniper Springs came into view. He reined in the chestnut gelding and dismounted, taking note of the men headed in the direction of Maybelle’s Cafe. Colton knew most of them and didn’t see anyone who stood out as suspicious. The last thing they needed was someone carrying information back to the plantation owners.
He stepped aside to let a young woman in a sweeping yellow dress with a matching parasol pass. The older Negro woman with her scowled at Colton, as if she considered him a threat to the lovely you
ng woman in front of her. He tipped his hat and mumbled a good morning, moving on to the door of the café.
A lively discussion was already underway when Colton stepped inside. Maybelle Gooch, proprietor of the café, put a cup of coffee in his hand the moment he entered. He gave the plump, middle-aged woman a smile and a nod of thanks, and made his way to a table already occupied by two other men. As Colton listened to the speakers, most agreed on the immorality of slavery and thought secession was a bad idea. Colton took the floor and presented the position of the farmers with small acreage, the most pressing issue being how to protect their properties in the event the politicians in Atlanta voted to secede and war came to their part of the country.
Several of the attendees called out their agreement as he made his way back to his seat.
“I’m with you, Colton.”
Another added, “Colton knows what he’s talking about.”
Slight movement of yellow near the entrance caught Colton’s attention. The same woman he’d passed on the boardwalk stood just inside the door, listening intently. Judging by her attire, she was from a wealthy family, and if the Negro woman with her was an indication, her family owned slaves.
Colton fixed his eyes on the woman in yellow. What was she doing here? Did she plan to take a list of names of the attendees back to her fancy home? At that moment, the woman’s eyes met his and his breath caught. Something flickered across her face, as though she recognized him. But Colton had never seen her before in his life. If he had, he’d remember a woman as beautiful as this one.
The door opened and two more men shuffled in, blocking Colton’s view. When the men moved, the woman was gone. But what information might she divulge? He rose, hoping to see which way she went.
Chapter 2
Needles of panic spurred Auralie from the café where she’d merely stopped for something cool to drink. How was she to know she’d stumbled upon some kind of political meeting? Distracted over the arrival of Perry Bolden’s letter, she was completely taken by surprise when she heard some of the men call him by name.
Confused thoughts raced through her mind. How did he arrive back in the States so soon? Had he traveled on the same ship with his letter? And why was Perry attending such a meeting? When she realized she’d just stared into the face of the man whose return she dreaded, the blood in her veins turned to ice. All she wanted to do was hide behind her parasol and set her feet to flying as fast as she could run. She shoved the questions away and allowed flustered confusion to carry her out the door.
The parasol resisted her effort to thrust it open, and the horrid thing took on a mind of its own. She gave it one more hard yank, and it leaped from her grip like a rock from a slingshot. A man on the boardwalk made his acquaintance with the cantankerous thing when it propelled itself into his stomach.
“Oof!” He doubled over and grabbed his middle, gasping like he’d just run uphill.
To Auralie’s further mortification, the poor man fell forward just as she bent to retrieve the parasol, and he tripped over her, sending her sprawling across the boardwalk in a most unladylike fashion.
With a groan that sounded like a strangled cat, the gentleman untangled his arms from hers and scrambled upright. Flames rushed up Auralie’s throat and into her face. Her stomach twisted into a knot. From her face-down position on the boardwalk she could hear Mammy sputtering close by. But the hands that reached down to cup her elbows and help her stand weren’t Mammy’s. They were strong, calloused hands. Masculine hands. White hands.
Once she was steady on her feet, the man released his grip on her arms and proceeded to retrieve his hat and brush dust off his finely-tailored coat.
She sucked in a breath and whisked an errant curl away from her face before raising her eyes to meet his.
It was him.
While he continued to wheeze air in and out as he clutched his hat, mahogany eyes arrested her and she froze in place. She’d tried a hundred times to remember what Perry Bolden looked like as a child. Were his eyes this dark? Was his hair the color of walnuts? She certainly didn’t remember him being this devastatingly handsome. But then, he was only fourteen years old, and she eleven, the last time she recalled seeing him. She opened her mouth, but the only sound that emerged was an undignified squeak.
“Now see what you done?” Mammy sent a venomous look at Bolden before fluttering like a mother hen over her. “You all right, honey girl?”
Auralie tried to snatch her composure and stuff it back into place. She cleared her throat and begged God to give her coherent words to speak to this man who stood before her. But he spoke first.
“I’m terribly sorry, miss. Please forgive me. I hope you are unhurt.”
Her throat tightened like it was trussed up in a corset. Ever since his letter had arrived yesterday, she’d tried to imagine what she might say when she faced her fiancé for the first time. Nothing she’d learned from Miss Josephine Westbrook at the Rose Hill Female Academy came to mind. She commanded her scrambled thoughts back into some semblance of order.
“Ah, yes…I’m unharmed.” Finally. A lucid thought.
Mammy fussed for a few more moments, and Auralie used the time to regain her poise. She fixed her feet in place and refused to allow them the freedom to do as they pleased, which was to flee in the opposite direction. But no amount of finishing school training or memories of Miss Westbrook’s prim examples could curtail the angst that twisted through her over Perry’s arrival. She’d barely had time to digest the implications of his rumpled letter tucked under her handkerchief box in her bureau drawer. Couldn’t God have at least given her a couple of weeks to get used to the idea? She shrugged off the plea. She’d had four years to get used to the idea, but the arranged betrothal appealed to her even less today than it had on her sixteenth birthday when her father announced it. She disciplined her lungs to draw a slow, even breath and then discreetly release it.
“I, too, apologize, Mr. Bolden.” Had her father orchestrated this encounter, he’d have her strike an aristocratic pose of resplendent grace and reply with demure dignity. No such formalities fell within her grasp at the moment, so she merely lifted her chin. “I had imagined our first meeting would take place under much different circumstances. I only received your letter yesterday, and as you can imagine, we haven’t had time to prepare for your arrival. My father will be pleased that you’re here of course. I suppose you will be coming by the house to finalize the terms of the agreement.”
The man’s eyebrows dipped and he shook his head, puzzlement etching lines into his features. “You must have me confused with someone else, miss. My name isn’t Bolden. It’s Danfield. Colton Danfield.” He drew his hat up over his heart in a gentlemanly gesture.
Auralie blinked and her heart paused before resuming its erratic tapping. While embarrassment still heated her face, wilting relief coursed through her—a bewildering duet of emotions. Her knees wobbled as the tension drained from her and reprieve took its place. She started to flap her hand in front of her face, but genteel restraint curled her fingers closed and she returned her hand to hide within the sunny folds of her skirt.
“Oh my. It does seem as though I’ve made an error.” How she wished she had a fan in her possession to obstruct Mr. Danfield’s view of her fiery countenance. She didn’t dare give her parasol another opportunity to inflict further damage. “In addition to nearly skewering you with my parasol, I’ve compounded the insult by assuming you were someone else. Dear me, do accept my apology, Mr. Danfield.”
A slow, polite smile stretched Mr. Danfield’s lips and he gave a slight bow. “Think nothing of it, Miss…”
“Covington. Miss Auralie Covington.” She extended her hand, which he took and held for the briefest of moments.
Covington? Surely she wasn’t…
“Of the Covington Plantation?”
Her light brown hair reflected the sun, and the curl she kept pushing back tumbled again when she nodded. “That’s right.”
&nbs
p; Shelby Covington’s daughter?
Cautionary flags waved in his brain. He’d noticed her standing by the café door long enough to hear much of what was said, but he mustn’t allow his imagination to run rampant. Still, it was entirely possible she’d been sent to spy and report back to her father the names of those in attendance at the meeting. After all, who would suspect a lovely young woman with her mammy in tow?
Shelby Covington would like nothing better than to bully the area farmers into deference to his ambitions. Small farmers may not have the money or power the larger plantation owners did, but each one still had a vote. Covington’s ability to gain votes in exchange for political favors might work in wealthier circles, but for those farmers who had to sweat and scratch to eke out a living, money might sway people to cast a ballot for a man with whom they otherwise had no affinity. Colton hoped he was wrong about Miss Covington’s reason for being at the meeting, but for the moment, he couldn’t think why a refined young woman would patronize Maybelle’s Café.
Maybelle’s place was clean, but the furnishings were plain, and she served tasty, but simple fare. It wasn’t the kind of place Colton expected to see a person of wealth.
He switched his hat from one hand to the other and gave her a polite nod, guarding his words and measuring her reaction. “I see.” Careful. “The news of your father’s run for the governor’s seat is all over town.”
After the initial humiliating encounter, Miss Covington now appeared to have a tight grip on her dignity, but she didn’t resort to batting her eyelashes or employing flirtatious coyness. His level of respect increased a notch.
She looked him straight in the eye. “Father doesn’t discuss such matters around me or my mother. Perhaps I’ll buy a newspaper after I visit the dressmaker so I can read about my father’s political ambitions.”
Brides of Georgia Page 17