Her hair was covered by a kerchief, and her blue dress was faded and patched, but clean. “I hear’d about two men gittin’ in a fight, and one of ‘em stole’d a silver watch chain.”
Miles frowned and narrowed his eyes at her. “Where’d you hear that?”
She lowered her eyes and shrugged. “Talk gits around, even out in Crow Town. Come to see fo’ myself.”
Miles pointed at her. “Aren’t you the wife of the man…”
“Yes, suh.” Her voice broke, but she lifted her chin slightly. “I be Annie Jarrell. My man, Henry, be the one that them no account drunkards lynched.”
Dale stood and offered Mrs. Jarrell his chair, but she shook her head.
The sheriff’s tone softened. “What is it you’re askin’, Miz Jarrell?”
She drew in a deep breath, as if what she was about to say was going to cost her dearly. “The night they came and dragged my Henry away, I followed, so’s I can see where they take him. But I got lost. I listen hard, but all I hear’d was wind howlin’ like a mournful thing. A while later I see a cross burnin’, and I know…I know what they done to my Henry.” She wiped tears away with her fists.
“When our men went and cut Henry down from that tree, and they’s gittin’ him ready for buryin’, I looked through his pockets. His daddy’s watch chain was missin’. Henry’s daddy was Eli Jarrell. Eli’s massah set him free befo’ the war, and the massah give Eli his old watch chain. Eli, he never had no watch to hang from it, but he be mighty proud o’ that chain. When Eli died, Henry took the chain, and he carry wid him all th’ time, ‘cause it be the onliest thing he have to remind him o’ his daddy.”
Grief strained her voice. “When they hang my Henry, whoever done it stole his daddy’s watch chain.” The set of her jaw defined her anger. “Mm-hmm. Then I hear’d tell ‘bout a watch chain turnin’ up here.”
Dale and Miles exchanged looks, and Miles rubbed his chin. “Miz Jarrell, can you describe the watch chain for me?”
“’Course I can. It be the color of moonlight, and it be as long as from the tip o’ my pointer finger to my elbow. The piece a-danglin’ from one end have a oak leaf on it, and there be a li’l nick near the tip o’ the leaf. The seventh link in the chain is crooked where it broke one time and Henry do the best he can to fix it.”
Miles reached in the desk drawer and pulled out the chain. Mrs. Jarrell covered her mouth as she gave a little joyful cry. Miles stretched it out on the desk and counted the links. The seventh link had a slightly odd shape and the oak leaf fob had a tiny nick at the tip.
Dale reached over and scooped up the chain, picked up Mrs. Jarrell’s hand, and laid the chain in her palm. She raised tear-filled eyes to him. “Thank ya kindly, suh.”
Miles walked her to the door. “Be careful goin’ home, Miz Jarrell.”
Dale stared at the door after Miles closed it. “Is that enough proof?”
Miles crossed to the desk. “That you’re innocent?”
Dale turned and locked eyes with the sheriff. “That Tate is guilty.”
Chapter 15
Charity sipped her coffee. “Hannah, how well do you know Dale?”
Her landlady stirred a few drops of cream into her cup. “I know him better now than I did before the war.”
“Did you know he was married?”
Hannah raised her cup to her lips and looked at Charity over the rim. “Yes.”
Charity shoved aside her mild annoyance that nobody had bothered to mention Dale’s marriage. Why should they? Dale’s personal life was none of her business, and Hannah wasn’t one to gossip. However, the older woman must have detected Charity’s unsettled chafing because she lowered her cup and reached across the kitchen table to cover Charity’s hand.
“It wasn’t my place to say anything.” Hannah’s gentle tone stroked Charity’s heart. “He was married just before the war. There was a notice in the Sentinel. The wedding didn’t take place here in town. They were a very wealthy family and had no use for our little church.” No cynicism laced her voice. “The town folk simply didn’t know a great deal about his wife other than her name—Gwendolyn. She very rarely came into town and didn’t have contact with the ‘common people,’ if you know what I mean. I think her family was from the Athens area.
“I remember seeing Dale from time to time during the war, but like most, he was gone for long periods. You remember I told you that scavengers looted and burned the manor house at Covington Plantation. Nobody here in town knows for sure what happened, but I think Gwendolyn died around that time. Dale doesn’t talk about it.”
Charity’s stomach turned over, imagining the grief Dale experienced. No wonder he was withdrawn. A new ache—a different ache—kindled within her. But this pain wasn’t born of anger toward the Rebels. It was saturated with sympathy for one Rebel—one who had quietly, softly, become very dear to her. When she’d asked him a few days ago why he’d never told her about his marriage, she’d thought it a reasonable question until she saw the haunted look in his eyes. Now the memory of it struck her, and she regretted having put that expression of pain on his face.
Hannah didn’t appear to notice Charity’s discomfiture as she traced the rim of her coffee cup with her finger. “When Dale came home, he’d been wounded. The first time I saw him at the end of the war, he was like a broken thing—a mere shadow of the man he’d been. Within months, carpetbaggers came through the area and began buying up land cheap. He lost everything.”
The front door opened, and Charity recognized Miles Flint’s voice.
“Miss Hannah?”
Hannah pressed her lips together and sent a look of exasperation to Charity. “That man! I’m still perturbed at him for putting Dale in jail.” She called out, “In the kitchen.”
Miles, hat in hand, poked his head through the kitchen door. “Got a man here who could use a cup of coffee. He doesn’t like mine.” Dale’s face came into view behind Miles.
Charity’s heart fluttered as Dale’s gaze locked onto hers. Something unspoken bridged the space between them, and she rose from her chair. If he was angry that she’d asked about his wife, it didn’t show. He looked straight at her, as if there were no one else in the room. She couldn’t have torn her gaze away if she wanted to—and she didn’t want to.
Dale’s pulse accelerated when Charity’s gaze connected with his. His concern for her safety defied definition. He’d been aware for a couple of weeks that he cared about her, but with the confirmation of Tate’s involvement with the lynching, coupled with the remarks he’d made about “that Yankee woman,” sweet relief swept over his heart at seeing her at Miss Hannah’s kitchen table.
Her lips parted. Did she want to say something? Apparently deciding this wasn’t the time or place, she pressed her lips together into the tiniest of smiles.
Miss Hannah plunked her hands on her hips and glowered at Miles. “So you finally found your common sense and let him out.” She crossed the cupboard and pulled out two coffee mugs.
“Miss Hannah, have you seen Tate Ridley?”
Hannah paused in midmotion pouring coffee into the mugs. “Why, no. He wasn’t at breakfast, but I just assumed he left early.”
Miles and Dale exchanged a look. “We already checked at the mill. He’s not there, and Simon hasn’t seen him either.”
Miles scowled and pursed his lips. “Miss Hannah, could I trouble you to go up and check Tate’s room?”
“Of course, but what am I looking for?”
“I’ll come with you.” He followed Hannah from the room.
Charity stepped over to the stove and finished pouring the coffee. She handed a brimming cup to Dale. “Peace offering?”
Dale accepted the steaming, fragrant brew. “For what?”
Charity’s hands fidgeted at her waist. “Dale, I’m sorry. Asking about your wife was none of my business. I should have known better, and I didn’t mean to offend you.”
He gave a slight shrug. “You didn’t. I should have told you sooner.” He lifted t
he mug close to his lips and inhaled the bracing aroma. “Not talking about it won’t change what happened.”
She returned to the table and reclaimed her seat. “At least you can go to the cemetery and put flowers on the graves of your parents and your wife. That must be some comfort to you.”
A chill raced through him, and an involuntary tremble shook the coffee in his cup so that it nearly sloshed over the rim.
Charity’s gentle words carried a thread of sorrow. “I wish I knew where my father was buried. I’ve assumed for a long time that he’s dead, but if I could just visit his grave and lay some flowers there, it would be like telling him good-bye.”
He found his voice, but couldn’t push much more than a mumble past his lips. “My…family—” He swallowed the lump of bitterness in his throat. “They aren’t buried in the cemetery. They’re buried at Covington Plantation, or at least what used to be Covington Plantation, on land I no longer own.”
He couldn’t look at her because he was afraid the sympathy he’d surely see in her eyes would be his undoing. Instead, he studied the black liquid in his cup and took a deep breath, as if coaxing the aroma to his nostrils.
Hannah bustled into the kitchen followed by Miles. Dale looked up at the sheriff. A frown troubled the man’s brow.
“It’s as I feared. All Tate’s things are gone. He probably cleared out during the night.”
The events of the past hour tumbled through Dale’s mind, and he shot a pointed look at Miles. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Mrs. Jarrell?”
“You think she’s safe?”
Miles grabbed his hat. “Only one way to find out.”
Dale set his cup down. “Do you want me to come with you?”
Miles hesitated a moment. “No.” His gaze slid briefly to Charity. “It’s probably best that you stay in town.” He strode out the door.
Charity and Hannah exchanged a glance. “Who is Mrs. Jarrell?”
Dale held out his coffee cup. “If I can have more of that magnificent coffee, I’ll tell you about it.”
By the time he finished telling Charity and Hannah about the woman and her story of the watch chain, their coffee was cold and there were tears in Charity’s eyes.
“What an incredibly brave woman.”
Dale nodded, but he looked with new eyes into Charity’s heart and saw a woman of similar courage. She’d undertaken a task many men would avoid and had not flinched when her mission took her into dangerous territory. And the feeling he had for her went far beyond admiration.
Charity heaved a sigh of relief at supper when Miles told her he’d caught up with Mrs. Jarrell and escorted her the rest of the way to Crow Town. Speculation skittered around the table over Tate Ridley’s disappearance.
Arch Wheeler smirked. “I knew he was trouble the first time I laid eyes on him.” His tone suggested everyone present should compliment him on his discernment. Instead, the sheriff cautioned all the boarders to rein in their imaginations and not start any rumors.
The Ferguson ladies helped with dessert and coffee while Charity carried dishes into the kitchen for Hannah. The landlady scraped thin peels of lye soap into the dishpan and added steaming water from the stove. Suds began to form and suddenly Hannah gasped.
“Oh, Charity! I just thought of something. Oh, why didn’t I think of this earlier? I’m getting to be so cloudy-headed. That’s what happens when a body starts getting old. I’m so sorry, dear.”
Had it not been for the distress on Hannah’s face, Charity might have laughed. “What are you sorry for?”
Hannah grabbed a towel and wiped her hands. “The laundress at the hotel. Her name is Ivy. You should talk to her.”
Charity stared at her, wondering if the dear soul had been working too hard. “The laundress?”
Hannah caught Charity’s hands. “She is a former slave, and she’s been in these parts a long time. I know it’s an awfully slim chance, but maybe she knows something about the man you’re looking for.”
A tiny flame of hope kindled in her heart, and Charity cautioned herself not to fan it into a bonfire, at least not yet.
She excused herself and scurried upstairs to work on her articles, but unable to concentrate, she sat by the small window and looked out at the winking stars. “Heavenly Father, is this woman, Ivy, the one who will lead me to Wylie?” The heavens didn’t reply, but the hope in her heart wasn’t quenched. She snuffed out the lamp and tried to close her eyes. The images that formed were of Essie embracing her son.
After fighting with the bedcovers most of the night, Charity turned down sausage and eggs for breakfast. Her stomach couldn’t handle much more than a piece of bread and cup of coffee. She chided herself again with the warning that this woman might turn out to be one more dead end.
Charity could barely restrain her feet to a ladylike pace. Each purposeful step carried her closer to the hotel. “Please, Lord, I pray this woman will be able to open the door to finding Wylie.”
Instead of entering the hotel lobby where the desk clerk would, no doubt, discourage her from seeking the laundress, she cut down the alley between the hotel and the saloon. Behind the hotel, Charity discovered a half-dozen clotheslines stretched between the building and the broad back fence. Freshly washed sheets flapped from two of the lines. A Negro woman with gray frizzy hair peeking out from beneath a blue kerchief stood at the third line. She pulled a sparkling white sheet from the basket at her feet and began pinning it to the line. While she worked, she hummed a tune around the clothespins stuck in her mouth.
“Excuse me, ma’am.”
The woman spun around and grabbed the clothespins from her mouth. She cast a distrustful gaze at Charity.
“Is your name Ivy?”
The woman didn’t answer but glanced around warily before directing her eyes back at Charity.
Charity offered her a smile and approached easily. “I don’t mean you any harm. Are you Ivy?”
The laundress nodded slowly.
“My name is Charity, and Mrs. Sparrow at the boardinghouse suggested I might come and talk with you. Would you mind?”
Ivy’s eyes read like a book. She clearly didn’t trust anyone with white skin.
Noise from the saloon next door spilled out every time the door opened, and Charity had to raise her voice. “Please, Miss Ivy?”
A glimmer of confusion, followed by a hint of amusement, flickered across the woman’s face, and Charity wondered when was the last time anyone said please to her.
“I hope you can help me. I live in Pennsylvania—a long way from here, and I have a friend there. She used to be a slave, and she was at the Talbot Plantation. Her name is Essie.”
A brief glint of recognition lit Ivy’s eyes, and she nodded slowly. “I ‘member Essie.”
Joy flooded Charity’s heart, and she clasped her hands at her chest. “You do?” She drew closer to Ivy. “Do you happen to remember she had a son?”
Ivy dropped her gaze to the basket of wet laundry and then looked toward the hotel. “I has work I gots to do.”
“Of course.” Charity tried to keep her excitement in check. “Let me help you.”
Ivy’s mouth dropped open and her eyes widened. “Oh no, missy. I cain’t let you do that.”
“Nonsense, I’ve hung plenty of laundry, and I don’t want you to get into trouble.” She took a wet sheet from the basket and shook it out. “Essie is my dear friend, and she hasn’t seen her son for more than eleven years.” She pinned the sheet securely to the line. “By any chance do you remember her son? His name—”
“His name was Wylie.”
Charity almost dropped the clothespins in her hand. “Yes! Yes, you remember him?”
Ivy’s voice took on a pensive tone and her eyes, a faraway look. “I ‘member when Essie first come to Talbot. She weren’t but twelve years old, and the massah put her in the kitchen.”
Laughter and bawdy music from the saloon made it difficult to hear Ivy, as soft-s
poken as she was. Charity moved closer to her and hung on her every word.
“Essie work in the kitchen, and when she get older, dey teach her to sew. When she was…maybe eighteen or nineteen, one o’ the field hands catch her eye. His name be Abe, and he and Essie, dey fall in love right off.” Ivy moved to the next clothesline and Charity moved with her, unwilling to miss a single word.
“Essie and Abe, dey jump de broom, but the massah, he don’t know. Dey keep the secret. The other slaves, dey know, but nobody tell the massah. Essie and Abe, dey be together when dey can, but the massah say he be the one who decide which slave he breed.
“Essie come up in the family way. She try to hide it, but dey ain’t no hidin’ sumpin’ like dat fo’ long. Massah, he get real angry, and he whip Essie, even though her time gettin’ close. But he don’ whip Abe, no. He sell Abe so dey cain’t be together no mo’.”
Tears burned Charity’s eyes, and she gripped the clothespins so tightly they dug into her flesh.
Ivy pinned another sheet up before continuing. “Essie’s baby come, and it be a li’l boy chile. I ‘member she name him Wylie. Some o’ us ask why she don’t name him Abe after his daddy, and she say she ‘fraid if she name him Abe, massah will sell him, too. Massah let Essie keep her boy till he be thirteen year, and old ‘nough to work in da field.” She shook her head. “Mmm-mm.”
The tears Charity tried to blink back escaped down her cheeks.
Ivy’s voice tightened. “Massah send dat boy to a slave auction. Essie—her heart near break, even mo’ than when massah sell Abe. I thought she gonna grieve herself nigh unto death. She hear’d later Wylie sold to Covington Plantation.”
Charity wiped the tears from her face and sniffed. Poor Essie. What cruel heartache she’d suffered.
“Do you know where Wylie is now?”
Ivy dipped her chin and shook her head. “He meybe be sold again, or meybe he run off when the war started. Some went North. Some massahs send their slaves to fight in the war, so lots of dem probably in da grave by now. Dere’s some colored folk live out by Athens road, a place called Crow Town.” She halted and turned abruptly to face Charity. “But you don’ go out dere, missy. No, Crow Town ain’t no place fo’ the likes o’ you.” Ivy reached out bony fingers and grasped Charity’s hand. “You promise ole Ivy, you don’ go out dere.”
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