Finding Mercy

by Cindy Kelley

  “The only thing I know is her name was Marie,” Charlotte said, “and I practically had to drag that information out of Chessie.”

  Betty Ann smiled. “I would have loved to see your reunion with her. She must have been so happy to see you.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “I get the impression she isn’t happy with me at all.”

  Betty Ann looked perplexed. “I can’t believe that. She loved you like you were her own child. Chessie’s the one who always fixed up our skinned knees and bruised shins. In fact, Chessie’s the one who stitched your shoulder closed that time you ripped it on that tree branch.”

  Charlotte reached up to her shoulder, and she felt the scar under her fingers. “I wondered how I got that scar.”

  Betty Ann grinned. “You and I and Bobby were by the river. He was teasing me something fierce and said I was the slowest girl in McIntosh County and challenged me to a race. You were bound and determined for me to win, if for no other reason than to shut him up with all his pontificating about how fast he was … so when we started to run, you jumped on Bobby’s back and he carried you like that till he ran under a tree and a low-hanging branch tore through your shoulder.”

  “Who won the race?”

  Betty Ann giggled. “I did. He declared the prize to be a kiss from the loser and that was the first time he ever kissed me.”

  Charlotte laughed. “Sounds like the loser got what he wanted.”

  “He did. Got the kiss and the girl forever,” she said. “Those were good days between us.”

  Betty Ann suddenly sobered. “I’ve been so angry at you, Char. So—angry and hurt. All we went through together and you didn’t even tell me good-bye—never said you were leaving. You just—left.”

  “I’m sorry, Betty Ann. I wish I could explain it …”

  “You and Bobby were all I had left here,” she said, “and you knew that. Daddy lost his smithy shop halfway through the war and moved the whole family to Savannah. Then Bobby left to fight and a year later you said good-bye to me after your pa’s funeral—but it wasn’t the kind of good-bye that says I won’t see you again for years, or even forever. It was a good-bye as if we’d see each other the next day or the next week. I didn’t even know you were gone—I had to hear it from one of the slaves at Fox Burrows.”

  “Fox Burrows?”

  “The Wilkes family plantation. Foxes everywhere when they built the place. Anyway, Bobby and his daddy had gone off to fight the Yankees, so Frances and I were left trying to keep things running at home, and one of our slaves told me they’d heard from one of your slaves that you’d run off.

  “I didn’t for one second believe it,” Betty Ann said. “I hightailed it over to see for myself, and Victoria told me it was true.”

  “I’m so sorry, Betty Ann. I can’t tell you what I was thinking or why I did what I did … but I am sorry I hurt you.”

  Betty Ann studied her for a moment. “You know what? I don’t care about that anymore. Here you are. Back in my life again.”

  Betty Ann got up and went to a curio cabinet against the wall. She opened the glass and pulled out a silver-framed daguerreotype. She handed it to Charlotte. “Look. Our wedding day.”

  Charlotte studied the picture and was astonished to see herself standing next to the bride and groom. “I was in your wedding.”

  “Who else would have been my maid of honor? You were the reason I met Bobby in the first place. I never would have been in the same social hemisphere as he was, if it hadn’t been for our friendship.”

  “It’s so strange to see myself then,” Charlotte said. “I’ve almost started to think of it as my other life.”

  “It kind of is that way now, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I’m not sure what I expected when I finally figured out where I was from …”

  “At least it seems like your stepmother has buried the hatchet,” Betty Ann said.

  “What do you mean?”

  Betty Ann shrugged. “The lovely party she had for you. They were so gracious about having you back. Made me believe they were actually happy you were home.”

  “I don’t understand,” Charlotte said.

  Betty Ann made a face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Me and my big mouth.”

  “No, no. Tell me …,” Charlotte said.

  “Let’s just say that Miss Suzanne was always pleasant when your daddy was around,” Betty Ann said, “but when he wasn’t, she wasn’t the sweetest thing in the world to you.”

  Charlotte frowned. “We didn’t get along?”

  Betty Ann shook her head. “Not even a little bit. And then when your daddy left for the war … things got even uglier. They didn’t have to put on a show for him anymore. Sometimes you’d ride over to Fox Burrows to see me, hide out until the dust would settle from your latest go-round with Beau or Suzanne.”

  “Was it always that way?”

  “For as long as I can remember,” Betty Ann said. “I tried to get you to talk to your daddy about it, but you wouldn’t. I don’t think you wanted him worrying about you.

  “Here, I’ll take that,” Betty Ann said, holding out her hand for the daguerreotype Charlotte still held.

  “You were a beautiful bride,” Charlotte said. “And Bobby looked very handsome.”

  Betty Ann stared at the picture. “The girl in this photograph could not have imagined the life I’m living right now.”

  She looked up with a quick frown. “Don’t get me wrong. I love Bobby as much today as I did the day we married,” she said. “But all the changes since the war have made it hard for him to even want to get up in the morning. I grew up in a house half this size, but Bobby grew up privileged, like you. I think the day they lost the plantation was harder for Bobby than the day he lost his leg. Fox Burrows was his legacy—little Bubba’s legacy. That’s all gone now.”

  “It must be hard for all of you,” Charlotte said.

  “The world’s a tough place right now. Not just for us, but for lots of folks,” Betty Ann said. “Suzanne has kept your daddy’s place alive and thriving. I don’t know how she’s doing it, but she is. That’s something in these times.”

  “Knowing how they feel about me now, I’m not sure I can stay there,” Charlotte said.

  “I think your daddy was the problem. He loved you more and they knew it. Now that he’s gone, I’d figure out how to get along with them, do things their way. It’s too hard out there.”

  “That was my hope,” Charlotte said.

  “Unless of course you find a man that can give you the kind of life to which you’ve become accustomed. Do you have any husband prospects?”

  Charlotte smiled. “No, I don’t.”

  “What about that handsome Mr. Hale I saw you dancing with?”

  “He’s gone,” Charlotte said, with a pang of regret she wouldn’t admit to Betty Ann or anyone else. “He left just yesterday, as a matter of fact.”

  Betty Ann looked disappointed. “Oh. Too bad. I declare, unless I’m in town to hear the latest gossip, the whole world could be on the verge of collapse and I wouldn’t know it.”

  Charlotte thought of the latest gossip that would be making its way around town and remembered she had a message to deliver to her family.

  “I should be getting back home.” Charlotte stood. “Thank you for the visit. I hope we can do it again soon.”

  Betty Ann got up and gave her a quick hug. “I know it’s nothing as grand as Fox Burrows,” Betty Ann said, “but if you ever need a place to run to till the dust settles, you’re always welcome here.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  When Charlotte entered the house, she heard voices coming from the parlor. She crossed the foyer, thinking she’d deliver the news about Newton to her mother, and then since she hadn’t had a bite since breakfast, she would find something to eat. Maybe she could
convince Juba to make her a middle-of-the-day snack.

  Her mother was in the parlor with two women. Charlotte vaguely remembered their faces from the homecoming party, but for the life of her, couldn’t remember if they’d been introduced or not. Mother turned at her entrance and smiled.

  “Ah. Charlotte. I’m glad to see you’re finally home,” she said. “I was beginning to worry.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” Charlotte said. “I didn’t intend to stay gone so long.”

  One of the women, thick around the middle, with deep-set lines around her eyes, lifted her brows. “At least it wasn’t three years this time.”

  Her mother laughed politely. “Very true, June, very true.” Charlotte could see she was not amused. “Charlotte, this is June Clifton and Hattie Bedford. They came from town to let me know the third man who tried to attack us was found dead.”

  Charlotte nodded. “I was just coming in to tell you.”

  “So you already knew it.”

  “Yes, I went to … identify him at the undertaker’s earlier today. It was definitely him.”

  “And that was … how long ago?”

  Charlotte saw the two women trade knowing looks.

  “A few hours ago, I suppose,” Charlotte said. “I went to have a visit with Betty Ann after and …”

  “I know this entire thing has been very hard on you, dear, but I would think you’d have come straight home to tell us you were safe before you went on a social call. After all, we have been in fear for your life,” her mother said. “And when you didn’t turn up sooner, I was thinking the worst—until June and Hattie here arrived to dispel my fears with the news from town.”

  All three women looked at her expectantly, and she felt withered by their judgment.

  “You’re right, of course,” Charlotte said. “I apologize. It was selfish of me.”

  Her mother’s glare was cold, but her tone pleasant. “Apology accepted. It’s all over now. And we’ll sleep so much better tonight knowing there isn’t another Yankee scoundrel lurking about the plantation waiting to do you harm.” She smiled and it seemed frozen on her face.

  “Are you going to join us, Charlotte?” June asked. “We’d love a chance to catch up with how you’re doing. Other than this terrible ordeal you’ve just gone through, of course.”

  The look on her mother’s face was anything but inviting and the very last thing Charlotte wanted to do was sit in the parlor with those women and be grilled about her recent past.

  “I hope you won’t think me rude if I decline, Mrs. Clifton,” she said. “I have a bit of a headache and I think I’ll go up to my room and lie down for a while.”

  “I’m sorry you aren’t feeling well,” June said. “Another time, then.”

  Charlotte nodded. “Yes. Another time.”

  “Go along, dear, and get some rest,” Suzanne said. “I’ll check on you later.”

  Hours later, Charlotte sat near the French doors in her room and stared out as the sun sank into the water. She heard the door to her room open, then close. She turned to see Chessie carrying a dinner tray toward her.

  “I’m not hungry,” she said.

  “Den don’t eat it,” Chessie retorted.

  Charlotte watched as she put the tray on the dressing table. “Did Mother ask you to bring that up to me?”

  “No. Juba did,” Chessie said. She turned to shuffle back across the room.

  “I’m still not going to eat.” Charlotte felt as irritable as she sounded to her own ears.

  “Don’t care one way or t’other,” Chessie said.

  Charlotte had had enough of the mystery, innuendos, and barely veiled hostility from Chessie.

  “You raised me, took care of me.” She could hear her voice rising in pitch and volume, the tone accusatory. “You probably held me when I was sick. You should care!”

  Chessie turned, and for the second time, Charlotte saw raw emotion on the old woman’s face—unveiled anger. Though Chessie didn’t say a word, she trembled under the weight of her own silence.

  Charlotte continued. “I want to know why people tell me we were close, while you barely look at me. Won’t talk to me. I don’t know what happened between us, because I can’t remember!”

  Chessie crossed a few steps back toward her. “How nice dat must be for you not to remember. Not to know all the ugly that happened.”

  “I want the truth! You owe me the truth!” Charlotte shouted.

  Chessie’s dark eyes flashed again with emotion, and her top lip curled back with contempt. “I had one livin’ relative in dis world, and you took him from me!” Her next words seemed to tear straight out of her soul. “You took my grandson to auction!”

  While Chessie seemed to heave out a pent-up breath with the statement, Charlotte felt as if all her air had been sucked out of the room.

  “Dat’s why I gots a problem with you and things ain’t the same between us,” Chessie said. “You think God take yo’ daddy, and you gonna play God and take my Kitch ’cause he friends wit’ da man who kilt da master! I owed you da truth?” Chessie gave her a curt nod. “Consider my debt paid.” She turned and left the room.

  Charlotte stared at the closed door, her mind refusing to accept what she’d just heard. She’s lying … I could never do such a thing. Never. But in her heart, she knew Chessie hadn’t lied. What possible reason would she have to make up such a thing? She could have blamed the chasm between them on anything else. Maybe Charlotte had been a spoiled brat—disrespectful, ungrateful. Didn’t say good-bye when she left home—anything. But not this. Not something so hateful and unforgiveable.

  No wonder she looks at me the way she does. No wonder she can barely tolerate being in the same room with me.

  Charlotte went to the dressing table and sat down. The food on the tray had cooled, the gravy congealed and unappealing. She had no appetite anyway. She picked up her brush and tugged it through her long hair. The face staring back at her was once more the face of a stranger. With this new knowledge of her past, she studied her reflection and wondered what she was really capable of doing. She’d proven she had a temper, proven when backed into a corner that she was capable of some truly terrible thoughts. She couldn’t even blame her brokenness on the self she couldn’t remember. The woman she was at this moment was also broken, also capable of making decisions pushed by fear and self-preservation. Her own reflection made her feel sick, and she pushed to her feet, crossed to the window, and looked outside. The moon glow made everything look so calm and peaceful—the opposite of how she felt. She thought about the heartache she’d caused Chessie—“All the ugly that happened.” Charlotte knew nothing could ever make up for her past cruelty to the woman who’d raised her, knew that a violation of that magnitude could only be forgiven supernaturally. She hoped someday she’d be able to look Chessie in the eye again without seeing all the pain she’d put there. But in the meantime, she would give Chessie as much distance as she wanted between them. It seemed like the very least she could do.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Elijah tied his horse to a hitching post in midtown St. Louis. Every muscle in his body ached, every bone punished beyond repair. The wound in his belly made him feel as if he were on fire as he pushed through the revolving door of a Gothic-style four-story building. His bearded, ragged appearance garnered more than a few looks from people in the lobby. His shirt bore the hallmarks of heavy bleeding, and he hadn’t slept properly in days. The constant pain had worn him down to a shadow of his former self. Suffice to say he was given a wide berth as he made his way across the marble floor. At least this wound is coming in handy. He stopped when he found what he was looking for. The specific office was well marked with a name etched into the glass of the interior door. He didn’t bother to knock before he entered.

  Rand Prescott, Mercy’s former fiancé, sat behind a desk cluttered with files a
nd paperwork. Only a few weeks before, Elijah had seen him standing in the dark outside Gratiot Street Prison the night Mercy was released. Elijah could see the shock on Rand’s face at his presence.

  “Hale?”

  Elijah crossed to the desk and braced himself on the edge of the fine cherrywood. “We need to talk.”

  “What’s happened to you?”

  “Mercy.”

  Rand stood. “What about her?”

  “You were right about her.” Elijah put a hand on his belly wound. “All told, the woman’s tried to kill me three times. I was lucky to get away when I did.”

  Rand frowned. “I don’t understand. I thought you were trying to help her. Why—”

  “She hates me. Sees me as the reason her life fell apart,” Elijah said. His face broke out in a sweat and he glanced around. “I need to sit.”

  Rand went to grab a chair from the corner of the room. “Did you take her to the state line?” he asked. “That was the plan—right?”

  “We went north, figured it would throw off anyone hunting her,” Elijah said.

  Rand put the chair behind Elijah, who promptly lowered himself into it. His relief wasn’t an act, and nor was the grimace on his face from the pain.

  “And are there people … hunting her?”

  Elijah slanted a look up at him. “You know the answer to that. You probably even know the price on her head.”

  Rand moved back around his desk, though he didn’t sit. He faced Elijah but crossed his arms across his chest.

  “I don’t know anything about any of it,” Rand said.

  Elijah studied him. “I came here to tell you I was wrong about Mercy. I shouldn’t have interfered with her hanging. I should have let the judge’s sentence stand. But I felt too guilty about my part in exposing her as a Confederate.”

  “Her own words in her journal exposed her,” Rand said.

  “Words she’d never have written if I hadn’t told her who she was. Must have been so confusing for her … but it doesn’t matter. I’m trying to tell you I’m on your side now. I can see she can’t be trusted.”