“Tonight is certainly a lovely night,” I finally said, breaking the silence.
“Weather often mirrors occasions for people—beautiful night, beautiful woman. I believe I will enjoy the time I intend to spend at the Monroe plantation.” He stepped close to me and touched my cheek. “I spoke with your father a few times regarding our introductions and I must say, if I knew Nathanial Monroe’s daughter was such an attractive, charming young woman, I would have requested our introduction sooner.”
I sought a proper response, more than a simple “Thank you,” which seemed dull and cliché, but could manage only a smile. Though his eyes glistened, I found no warmth in them, only coldness—a perfect match for their ice blue shade.
A small detail I must overlook.
“When do you begin your work for your parents?” I asked, shaking aside my thoughts.
“Father wished for me to begin immediately and so I obliged. However, proper men and women should not speak of business while at a celebration.” His smile faded a little as he lost the sparkle in his contentment.
“How foolish of me to ask,” I whispered to myself and studied the ground.
Nothing distracted my attention from the uncomfortable silence, and I began to panic at the thought of acting improper in his presence a second time.
Lord, please, I cannot mess this up.
“Does your family have any holiday plans for the summer?” he asked.
“I can't think of any that I’m aware of. John will begin his term at Brown University next spring. I believe he and Daddy will travel to the university in the fall to get his affairs in order. Whether Mama or I will accompany them, I don’t know.”
“Brown University is a fine school. I know a few acquaintances who’ve attended the university, and I’ve heard nothing but outstanding reviews.”
“Did you enjoy growing up in the eastern part of the country and attending the schools there?”
He frowned and let out a deep, growling sigh. “I enjoyed them all.”
I bit my lip, confused at his annoyed reaction and his gruff tone, which sent chills down my spine. Touching upon a loathed subject wasn’t something I wished to do, and apparently, it was exactly what I had done.
“Are you cold, Alexandra?”
“Yes, I am. I should’ve brought my wrap with me.”
“Perhaps I have stolen you away from the other guests long enough,” he said, holding out his arm for me. “I should return you to your celebration.”
He paused before opening the door and leaned his body into me, his face inches away from mine. To think myself nervous at our introductions was foolish compared to now as my knees trembled, and I couldn’t look into his eyes for more than a few seconds. How could any lady keep calm when a man stood so close against her that the warmth of their bodies intertwined?
“I really should return you to your celebration,” he whispered with his lips grazing my ear and neck.
“You said that already.” Barely able to speak, my words were faint sighs, quieter than a whisper. I closed my eyes, bracing myself for the feeling of his lips, but instead all I heard was the click of the doorknob and the door opening. Embarrassed, I opened my eyes and followed him inside.
“Did you two not have a good conversation?” Emily mocked as we strolled into the parlor. “Pity, though I am not surprised. Alexandra often finds herself without anything interesting to say.”
“On the contrary, Miss Grant, I find Alexandra most interesting. I would have preferred to have her all to myself this evening, but I would not wish to be rude. If you would please excuse us, I must see to it that Alexandra continues to have a lovely night.”
Tracing my finger along Emily’s cheek as I passed, I whispered. “As long as I receive his attention and you don’t.”
Chapter 4
Montgomery had grown in the last several years with the explosion of cotton in the south. Men traveled and relocated to Alabama in droves in the hopes of making fortunes beyond their dreams—the ever-changing city that “will be bigger than New York,” as Daddy had said once, though I never believed him.
Weaving the carriage through the streets of the once distant town, Sarah asked, “Ya ever gonna tell me ‘bout ya party, Miss Alexandra?” As the head of our housemaids, her ever-present thick southern drawl made her words richer.
“It was simply another party, the same lackluster people talking about the same mundane subjects.”
“I know Mis’ress didn’t order me to make that dress for no dull party.”
I laughed. “I suppose finally meeting Thomas Ludlow couldn’t be considered mundane or dull.”
“Did ya like him?”
Trying to avoid her question, I fidgeted with my hat. “Why does Mama have to choose such dreadfully uncomfortable hats for me to wear?”
“Don’t think I don’t know what’cha doin’, young lady.”
Annoyed, I crossed my arms in defeat. She always knew my secrets.
“He is handsome and bears an amazing smile. He seemed charming, and I did enjoy his company. But, one evening holds scarcely enough time to be certain of one’s feelings for another, and I refuse to be like Emily, swarming around him like a bee on honey.”
“Why the hesitation, child?”
“I suppose I just feel disappointed that I spent the whole night at his side and I barely know him. I desire to know about his life from him, and not from the rumors and gossip of the lady down the street, or Emily, or from Mama.”
“Ya’ve always been a deep ocean, forced to live as a shallow pond. Cravin’ conversations that don’t revolve ‘round mindless chatter jus’ means all ya wantin’ is jus’ more out of life.”
Unable to believe the simplicity of her answer, I shrugged. Not so long ago, I believed young ladies should know everything about a man who courted her, before they married. I now doubted my belief. Perhaps it was too much to ask of a proper gentleman. Perhaps a lady should live as blindly as Mama did, a sickening thought which left a bad taste in my mouth, but undeniable just the same.
Sarah halted the carriage in front of a familiar building. Years of weathered seasons had taken a toll on the old bricks of the general store—the once bright shade of dark red had faded into a pale cherry color, like every other building in the city.
Looking around at the old buildings, dirt roads, and cobbled footpaths, the notion Daddy’s idea of a bustling, metropolis city such as New York just seemed foolish.
“Afternoon, Miss Monroe,” called a voice from the building. I glanced over to find Mr. O’Brien by the door with a broom in one hand and waving the other. The volume of his thick Irish accent overwhelmed the chirping birds in the oak trees above.
A pair of young boys ran past the carriage, one betting the other he could leap up and batter the store’s painted sign while the other could not. After catching Mr. O’Brien’s glare, however, they both seemed to realize their theory would go unproven.
“It sure is a pleasure to see yeh two around here again,” Mr. O’Brien said as Sarah and I approached.
I braced my stance on the cobbled stones, a footpath, which didn’t show women’s shoes any kindness, and watched Sarah blush as she and Mr. O’Brien chatted about the weather. The humid moisture in the air stuck to my skin as the sun’s heat deepened. I longed to be one of the little flowers blooming in the shade of the tree trunks that stood rebelling against the cobbles confining presence.
A group of men stood around one another a few yards away. A couple of them appeared as though they were trying to keep peace within the group while others seemed to be getting more irritated. Since Alabama’s secession from the United States of America, encountering crowds of men either arguing over the hostilities or playfully slapping each other in displays of admiration, gratitude or agreement had become routine.
“My claims speak nothing but the truth. We all have thought on the matter and Robert E. Lee should die a traitor’s death for what he did.”
Several of the men shook their heads as the first man yelled again. “To condemn him in such a way is deplorable. He is nonetheless a respectable military man and a fine soldier.”
Glancing at Sarah still prattling on with Mr. O’Brien, I inched forward a few steps, trying to listen in on the men’s conversation.
“Son, watch out,” a man shouted behind me.
As I turned around, my body collided with another’s. Fingers wrapped around both my arms, and held me strong and steady until I regained my balance. The grasp shocked me, sending an unexpected pulse through my body. I squinted to see the person’s face, but the sunlight blinded me until he shifted his head and blocked the bright light.
A perfect set of chocolate brown eyes stared at me, sending chills down my spine. Inhaling the intoxicating, nature-like scent of his Muscogee caramel-skin, everything and everyone around us disappeared—only the two of us stood in the street, alone, and looking into each other’s eyes. His grip around my arms loosened, and for a moment, my body inched forward moving with his, never wanting him to let go.
Speech, breathing, all lost to me, along with the power to look away from this perfect young man standing in front of me. I memorized his face, his chiseled jaw line, and flawless lips. His eyes were perfect, his nose was perfect, and he was not to be faulted.
He was breathtakingly handsome.
I couldn’t explain, nor understood, why I felt overwhelmingly drawn to him, and my interest intrigued me.
The young man stared at me with curiosity in his warm eyes and an ever so slight grin that spread across his lips. Before either of us could open our mouths to speak, one of the men from the group yelled again, and the young man’s eyes darted toward the crowd. His smile faded, and he marched away from me without uttering a single word.
“Please excuse my son, Miss,” the older man whispered.
I nodded, and he sauntered off after his son.
“Miss Alexandra, ya all right?” Sarah said in a hushed but frightened tone. Her question was barely comprehensible, much less answerable. “Dang fool should watch where he walkin’. Well, come on, let’s get inside ‘fore anythin’ else happens to ya,” she muttered, grabbing my arm.
“Sarah, I don’t need help.” I brushed her hand away. “Just go inside, I shall meet you shortly.”
She stared at me for a moment with one eyebrow raised and released my arm. I ignored her shocked expression, and adjusted the buttons on my sleeve. Without another word, she nodded and turned away, conceding to my command with a knowing smile on her face that annoyed me.
Mr. O’Brien held the door for her as she entered the store, shaking her head and giggling over his chivalry. After the door shut behind them, I looked over my shoulder and watched the young man and his father walk away.
His long jet black hair was half pulled back at the crown and banded into a small braided ponytail. Beads of jade and turquoise adorned his neck and the white feather tethered to the end of the braid fluttered in the breeze.
He glanced over his shoulder, too, and our eyes locked.
Thoroughly embarrassed, I darted through the store’s entrance. My cheeks burned as I pressed myself up against the inside wall.
“What’cha doin’, child?” Sarah asked.
Straightening my posture, I cleared my throat, trying to think of an excuse for my hasty entrance.
Drat…nothing. I could think of nothing.
A bead of sweat dripped down my neck, moistening the lace collar on my dress. Glancing around at the stocked shelves, I began to straighten the jars of pickled vegetables. The dust on the shelves tickled my nose, making it more difficult to think of something, of anything, to say to Sarah.
“Ya gonna stand there, clearin’ ya throat and cleanin’ or ya gonna answer me?”
“Um, my . . . shoe . . . my shoe heel . . . caught the inside of the door . . . and I stumbled.”
“Ya stumbled?” Her tone told me she didn’t believe me, but I nodded anyway. “Sometimes, child, I jus’ don’t understand ya.” She laughed and strolled around the corner, leaving me alone with my shoulders hunched over, deflated, and embarrassed.
How could a stranger have such an effect over me, especially when he never uttered a word?
Ignoring my own thoughts, I walked around the corner and came face to face with an irritatingly, happy Mrs. O’Brien.
“Miss Monroe,” she gushed. “What a pleasure to see yeh again, my dear. I hope yeh are well.” Her own accent filled the room more than her husband’s.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. O’Brien. I am well, thank you.”
“Let me have a look at yeh.” She cupped my face in one of her palms. Her hand was ice cold and smelled of carrots and potatoes. “Yeh have grown into such a beautiful young lady. I can’t believe I haven’t seen yeh in months.”
When I was younger, the O’Brien’s General and Supply store had been one of my favorite places to visit. The building smelled of old cedar wood, an amazing smell that awakened many memories of living in this town. Over the years; however, my visits had dwindled. Mama always seemed to have some excuse to keep me from traveling to town and away from Sarah.
Sarah and Mrs. O’Brien chatted as they walked through the store. Their laughter about town gossip turned into arguing about which lard was the best for pie crust. I left them to their babble, of course, not wishing to be a part of any conversation, and walked around.
Several of the old, uneven wood boards creaked and moved underneath me. New sewing machines still in their shipping boxes sat on the tops of barrels, while stacks of all different colors of thread and jars of brightly colored and different shaped beads lay around them. Large stacks of fabric lay on tables near the wall where shovels, hoes, and rakes hung from large hooks.
On the counter sat the old cash register with many layers of dirt and patches of black tarnish that eclipsed a little of its beauty, like looking through an old window into the years that the counter had been its home. How many times had the cash drawer been opened, or each of the buttons been pushed? Out of everything that came and left the store, it stayed—a part of the building more than anything else.
A large white calendar with large black letters and numbers hung on the wall behind the register. Some of the edges were torn and others looked like a liquid of some kind had been spilt on them and then dried. Bright red ink encircled a few of the dates, perhaps planned important events or supply delivery dates.
Drawn to the window, I paused in front of it and gazed at the world outside. The group of men had disappeared, leaving only a few women strolling down the cobble footpath. A couple of girls across the road played while their mothers talked and laughed. One mother held a tiny sleeping baby. Horse-drawn carriages occupied parking spaces along the sides of the street. The hay bags tied around the horse’s necks kept them content while their tails swished at the annoying flies.
I stared at the brown and gray cobble, confused over my intrigue and desire for the young man. While his breathtaking appearance enchanted me, his looks were not what solely had held my attention. His touch, just the mere clasp of his fingers, had captivated me deeply. I imagined him grabbing me again, only this time, he drew me in for a kiss.
Different scenes began to flash through my mind: meeting him again on a deserted street with no one around to prevent us from speaking to one another, taking a walk through a meadow, or encountering him in the thick trees and engaging in conversations.
Stop it, Alexandra. Why do I keep thinking about him?
On a small table lay copies o
f the Southern Republican newspaper. Needing a distraction, I grabbed one and unfolded it, regretting my choice as soon as I read the headlines. Stories of a battle at Fort Sumter, and of lost or wounded men, flooded the front page. All the lives lost—brothers and husbands, who would never be returning to their loved ones. I set the paper down.
“Hello, Miss Monroe,” whispered a voice from behind a shelf.
A tall young man snuck around the corner with his crooked, broad smile, curly red hair, and his apron covered in flour. My partner in the crimes I’d committed. Peter was not handsome in any obvious way—he would never turn my head nor cause me to lose my thoughts. Nevertheless, his Irish accent was enchanting. I could have listened to him speak all day without ever growing tired of it.
“Hello Mr. O’Brien.”
“Miss Monroe, please call me Peter. Whenever yeh call me Mr. O’Brien it makes me feel old.”
“I shall remember next time, as long as you call me Alexandra,” I teased.
He glanced over his right shoulder and then his left, checking to see if anyone was near, and leaned in to whisper. “Did the cargo get delivered the other night?”
“Every ticket was delivered safely.”
“Any problems yeh need to convey?”
“Clive arrived ten minutes late after getting held up at the station, but they left quickly and no one followed them. The only problem I had was at the Cole plantation. When I arrived, the woman asked if I would also take a young girl and her newborn son.” Peter opened his mouth to protest, but I continued before he could utter a word. “I couldn’t leave her behind. She gave birth just a few days ago, and Mr. Cole had planned to hang her. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“He planned to hang her?”
“Yes, but I never learned why. Her name was Jessie. She couldn’t have been older than fourteen.”
The Woman on the Painted Horse Page 3