The Heart of Home

by Stephenia H. McGee

  He stared down at the dog, wondering if the canine could sense his humiliation at having to be held up by two small women. The dog tilted its head to the side, as though mocking his predicament.

  The women turned, angling him toward the door leading into the house. The dog bounded on their heels, and Miss Martin admonished it again. The dog plopped down on the porch, chin on its paws. If he didn’t know better, Tristan would swear the poor thing pouted at the injustice of not being allowed inside.

  A fitting sentiment. Just like the dog, Tristan was unfit to sully this place. He attempted to still his feet. “I will not intrude upon your home, ladies.”

  The women paused for only an instant, then without a word began tugging on him once more. He forced words through his teeth, the ache in his head making his will weak. “Just deposit me in the yard.”

  The older woman, clad in blacks and obviously Miss Martin’s mother, barked a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. What kind of people do you think we are, leaving an injured man out in the yard?”

  Miss Martin leaned forward to peer at her mother across Tristan’s borrowed shirt, but she said nothing. Even as he protested, he allowed the women to take him across the threshold. “I could remain on the porch, then. It is enough.”

  “Nonsense, boy. Quit your bellyaching. You’ll take your ease in the parlor until you can get your feet steady beneath you.”

  It took more concentration than he cared to admit to keep a hold of his consciousness. He could not allow himself to fall limp upon these women and leave them with a heap of wasted soldier upon their floor.

  By the time they finally eased him down onto a couch, his head pounded furiously and his stomach revolted. He leaned back without resistance as they stretched him onto his back, fussing with staccato whispers at one another. He meant to thank them, but his lips seemed too thick to move, his voice lost.

  Then the swelling warmth of darkness beckoned him once more, and he slipped into the peace of nothingness.

  “That boy doesn’t look well,” Mama stated, as though Opal couldn’t see that for herself.

  Healthy men didn’t sprawl across the settee with one arm hanging off and knuckles brushing the rug. Opal studied him for a moment longer. “He seems plenty lucid, though I still worry with that wound on his head. There’s no telling how bad it really is.”

  Mama eyed him as though he might spring up from his position at any moment. “Yes, you never can tell what a blow to the head will do to a person.”

  “Do you remember when little Peter Wilson fell out of that tree?” Opal wagged her head. “He wasn’t right after that for a long time.”

  “He was never the same.” Mama eyed Mr. Stuart again. “I hope he hasn’t gone mad.”

  Mad with grief, perhaps. She had seen it etched across his features and shining in his eyes. “I think not. He answered my questions well enough, and seemed normal.”

  Mama lifted her eyebrows in that way she had that told Opal Mama was sorely displeased. “I see you decided to do more than sit at the threshold with the rifle.”

  The rifle. She’d forgotten all about it. Her eyes betrayed her, darting toward the parlor door.

  Mama waved a hand, her critical gaze dissolving as quickly as a rare Mississippi snow. “I already put it back. Wouldn’t be worth much more than a stick to whack him with, anyway.”

  Opal suppressed a smile. “His head had a nasty gash. I thought it might be best to stitch him up whilst he couldn’t do much about it.”

  Mama opened her mouth to reply, no doubt with a quick retort about Opal’s foolishness, but a rap at the door stalled her words. Mama thrust her chin toward the foyer.

  Running a hand down her hopelessly rumpled dress, Opal moved to the door, annoyed the mongrel that insisted upon living with them had once again failed to do the one thing that made it useful—announce intruders.

  She pulled open the door, displeased yet unsurprised to see the oiled Mr. Weir upon the porch. Though Mama had given him permission to return, it was barely a decent morning hour. So much for the hope he would change his mind about Riverbend and move on.

  His eyes roamed over her, lingering on her hair. Opal resisted the urge to reach up to smooth it. Instead, she lifted her nose in an imitation of the look Mama always made when she wanted someone to wither. “Yes?”

  “I’ve come as your mother requested.” He gave a small bow, as though he was an honored guest and not an unscrupulous vulture.

  “This is not a good time.” She waved him back, making certain her meaning could not be missed. “You’ll simply have to return later.” Or not at all. “Mama is currently indisposed.”

  He darted a gaze behind her, and even before Mama spoke Opal could sense her presence. She withheld a sigh.

  “Good morning, sir. We haven’t yet had our breakfast, and I am not prepared to entertain at this hour,” Mama said calmly, sweeping past Opal and outside. Mr. Weir stepped back to allow her room. “But I will speak with you a moment on the porch, if that suits you.”

  “Certainly. I won’t take up much of your time.”

  Mama cast Opal a look over her shoulder. “Why don’t you freshen up and see to the breakfast? This shan’t take long.”

  Opal seamed her lips to keep unwise words properly withheld and returned inside. She pressed her ear to the door, but Mama had likely suspected as much. All she heard was, “Come, Mr. Weir, you may escort me on a walk while we discuss your intentions.”

  Opal gritted her teeth. May as well see to her morning necessities and return to Mr. Stuart, lest he thrash about again and deposit himself on the floor. Perhaps she might even get him to eat something. Upstairs, she snagged a threadbare green gown and tugged it over her head. Then she freed the pins from her hair, shook out her locks, and twisted the length of it into a long braid before wrapping the plait around her head and securing it once more. She’d need to take the yellow gown to wash, knowing it would take days to fully dry in this humidity.

  Once, such things never concerned her. She’d had a wardrobe full of dresses and servants to launder them. Now she had no servants and only two gowns to trade out. And this yellow one would soon need more mending. She’d lost enough weight that she could probably bring in the seams to keep them from fraying open.

  Downstairs, she peeked out the window. Mama had paused in the drive, listening intently to whatever the carpetbagger said. Opal couldn’t see his face, but he gestured with his hands.

  A noise drew her back to the immediate problem at hand. Mr. Stuart groaned, and she pulled herself from the glass panes flanking the front door. Praying Mama wouldn’t do anything rash or foolish, Opal stepped back into the parlor.

  Tristan sat on the dainty couch holding his head, silently cursing both the pain and his slips in and out of awareness. A swish of fabric announced one of his guardians, and he was unable to contain his frustration with himself as he looked up. The glance must have been enough to melt iron, but Miss Martin merely bristled.

  “Are you well?”

  He made a noise low in his throat. “Do I look well?”

  “You do not. Best you lie down again.”

  He pressed his palm against the throbbing in his left eye and glared at her with the other. She had no cause to stare at him with both concern and irritation. He had asked her to leave him outside. It wasn’t his fault he tarnished her parlor. “Why?”

  Miss Martin placed her hands upon her hips. “Why? Because you have a head injury and are having trouble keeping consciousness.”

  Something sparked in his mind, reminding him of how a gentleman should treat a lady, and of the man he had been before the war chiseled at all of his smooth edges. She didn’t deserve such treatment. She only meant to help. Tristan closed his eyes, trying to find the old him he’d nearly forgotten. He lowered his hand, and when he opened his eyes again, he hoped she would see something better.

  Instead, she looked even more concerned and moved closer, leaning near him as she narrowed her gaze. He
pulled back. “What are you doing, Miss Martin?”

  “I am looking to see if your eyes are too large.”

  “Beg your pardon?” Her smell tickled his nose, and he tried to lean farther away, lest he taint her, but he could find no more room in which to do so. Still she came closer.

  Her lips pursed. “Your pupils appear normal, just….” She let the sentence die, leaving him to stare at her, unable to tear his gaze away.

  “Just what?” She was close enough that if he’d had the notion, he could have kissed her. The thought caught him by surprise, and he closed his eyes to try to erase the sight of her.

  She sighed, her breath wafting across his face and smelling like sassafras. “Just…haunted.”

  He barked a bitter laugh, watching her as she stepped back. “That so? I reckon they are no different from any other man who has seen his friends dismembered, seen brothers in arms bleed out in agony, and listened to the screams of families as they burned in their homes.”

  Her features paled, and he cursed his foolishness. Had four years of horror erased all that he had once known of being a gentleman? His mother would be ashamed. Tristan searched for the words that could convey even a portion of his regret at having soiled her, but the front door opened and she spun away.

  In a flash of green skirts she disappeared, leaving him alone with his wretchedness. Whispers floated in from the entryway, too low for him to decipher.

  “What!” Miss Martin’s screech bounced off the walls and slammed into him.

  Tristan clenched his jaw and tried to gain his feet, but no sooner had he found them than a wave of dizziness had him dropping back to the couch.

  “You have lost your mind!”

  Tristan held his throbbing head. The thud of shoes through the house beat in near rhythm with his pulse, followed by the squeak and slam of the rear door.

  Then he was left alone in the silence once more.

  Chapter Five

  Opal ground her teeth so hard they hurt. She spun around in the kitchen, arms folding across her heaving chest. “What has gotten into you, Mama?”

  Mama looked at her calmly, hands clasped together. “This is a bit of an overreaction, don’t you think?”

  “No, I don’t think it is at all.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “You’re not making any sense.”

  With a sigh, Mama settled on the top of a flour barrel. “We can’t go on like this. I’ve been thinking for some weeks now that we need to figure out a way to improve our condition. It seems that answer has arrived on our porch.”

  Opal paced the kitchen, her nerves too aflame to stay in one place. “I know things are hard, but we’ve been better off than most.”

  Mama watched her pace. “Indeed. We still have a standing home and land to sell to free us from this desolate place. It is a blessing we should use.”

  “But….Daddy built this house for you. How can…?” She let the words drift away on the thick morning air. The pain in Mama’s eyes was enough.

  “I must learn to look ahead, not behind. And I must think of you, and the quality of your future.”

  “But I’m—”

  Mama held up a hand to stay her words. “You are a brave girl, and I know you put on a smile for me. But a young woman should be attending balls and entertaining suitors. She should be preparing for her own life, not taking care of a widowed mother in a stripped plantation.” Tears glistened in Mama’s eyes. “I have nothing more I can give you.”

  Opal stilled in her pacing and knelt in front of Mama’s gown. She reached out and took one of her hands. “This is our home. And as you said, many were left without even that. Where would we go?”

  “North. To my cousin Eunice.”

  The words took a moment to sink in, as though they were grains too large for the sifter. “Who?”

  “I have a distant cousin in Massachusetts. She also lost her husband in the war.”

  She stared at Mama. Then hardly believing she had to say the words to a stout secessionist, Opal said, “A Yankee?”

  “And a relative.”

  Opal rose and moved away from Mama, choosing instead to lean against the table. “You cannot be serious.”

  “I have been sending letters to her for the past several weeks discussing the possibility.”

  “What letters?”

  Mama raised her eyebrows. “You don’t know everything I do. I sent a letter to Eunice with my condolences after I learned from Aunt Mable that she’d lost her husband at Gettysburg. We exchanged letters after that, and she mentioned us coming to live with her.”

  “We can’t just move up north to live with a stranger!”

  “She’s family.” Mama lowered her eyes. “And she is a widow living alone who could do with the company.”

  Her heart clenched. Did she not provide Mama the company she needed?

  “And,” Mama continued, “Massachusetts is nearly untouched by the ravishing of war. We could start a new life there away from the destruction.”

  The thought was more tempting than Opal cared to admit. Could they really start over? Live in a place where lawless bandits were not lurking in the shadows on every trip to a burned town? Could they once again wear fine clothes and go to tea with friends?

  “With the money from Mr. Weir,” Mama said, her tone meant to be soothing, “we could purchase traveling tickets, and when we get there, new wardrobes for us both. You could attend social functions again.”

  “With Yankees.”

  Mama sniffed. “You say that as though you are not already friendly with Yanks.”

  Opal’s eyes widened.

  “Or have you forgotten Major Remington served in Yankee Blues?”

  “That’s different.” Opal made a face, even though Mama’s words rang true. “What do you think will happen if we move north into enemy territory? Do you not think we would, at the very least, be ridiculed and shunned?”

  Sadness flitted across Mama’s eyes. “There is no more enemy territory. We are one nation again. Better we suffer the consequences of the war with snide words than with a sparse home and not enough supplies for winter.”

  Mama rose and brushed off her skirts. “Trust me in this. It will be for the best.” She turned away, but not before Opal saw the tears glistening in her eyes.

  Opal sat in silence for several moments before slathering slices of thick bread with jam and taking the platter to the parlor. She found Mr. Stuart asleep once again, so she left the platter on the low table next to him and went to her room to gather her things.

  She stepped out into the warm day and tied the strings of her bonnet. Spine straight, she made it all the way down the porch steps before sighing and turning back to the house. As much as she’d like to storm off without a word, she wouldn’t frighten Mama. If they’d had any paper, she would have penned a note, but that was just another of the things they’d learned to live without.

  She opened the front door to see Mama coming down the stairs.

  “I thought I heard the door. Has Mr. Weir returned already? He said he wished some time to consider his options, but perhaps he didn’t need it.”

  Opal fought back her annoyance with the hope in Mama’s tone. “No. I came back to tell you I am going to visit with Ella for a little while.”

  Mama scrunched her brow as though she were about to protest, but then gave a small nod. “Very well. I will look after the soldier.”

  “I left him some bread. Hopefully once he eats, he will regain a measure of his strength.”

  “Let us hope.” She flicked a glance at the parlor, worry evident in the tight pull of her lips. “Be careful, and keep a sharp eye.”

  “Don’t worry, Mama. It is not far. I will be careful.”

  Mama nodded and Opal hurried back out of the door. The walk was peaceful, if not stifling, and gave her time to think even as she kept a wary eye out for danger. Part of her could see the appeal in starting over in lands unstained by this war. But at the same time, she could not fathom leaving
her home behind, even amid the struggles. Besides, Massachusetts would be far too cold.

  Sweat collected in her hairline and trailed a line down her cheek as though in defiance of her thoughts. Perhaps summers without the constant mosquitoes and oppressive heat wouldn’t be so bad after all. She could stay inside all winter. She swished her skirts as she walked, stirring up little clouds of dust with her hem.

  As she neared the Remington lands, the soulful sounds of the farmers carried across the fields. Once booming only with cotton, they now also grew corn and other food crops to help ease the shortage. Dark-skinned men and women toiled under the hot sun, earning their wages.

  Mr. Remington had worked out some kind of arrangement with the government that had allowed him enough seed to start anew, and Ella had worked out deals with scores of freed slaves that paid them both in coin from the crop sales as well as a portion of the harvest itself.

  Some of them eyed her as she passed, but none stilled from their labors. Their song followed her down the river road for a time, becoming but a wordless melody by the time she reached the grand gates of Belmont.

  The large brick home beckoned her to the comfort of her dear friend’s council, and she hurried her steps. Edged in magnolia trees, the yard teamed with flowers that perfumed the air with their fragrance. The house windows stood open, and Ella’s melodious voice drifted past the sills.

  Opal rapped on the door and waited for Sibby to greet her. The nursemaid was quick in her duty, and in only a couple of moments, her features appeared.

  “Well, if it ain’t Miss Opal done come to call.” The smile on her wide lips faltered and she glanced behind Opal. “Your momma done come wit you this time?”

  “No, Mama is seeing to our…company.”

  “Company?”

  “Sibby!” Ella’s voice came from behind little Lee’s nursemaid. “Aren’t you going to let the poor girl inside?”

  Sibby made a face Ella couldn’t see and pulled the door wide, gesturing Opal inside. “We was just talkin’ is all.”