by Tara Johnson
In three strides, he stood before her, fingering the brim of his hat as if uncertain what to say. He swallowed and spoke, his voice tender. “Kizzie, I’m so sorry to hear of your father’s passing.”
An undefined emotion stung the backs of her eyes, and she could do little more than nod and murmur, “Thank you.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
A thousand things skipped through her mind, but she gave none of them voice. “I—no. Thank you, though.”
He scanned the cemetery as a gentle breeze ruffled the long, feathery limbs of the willows overhead before he searched her face once more. “I wanted you to know that the medical aid you requested for your friend was met with success.”
Relief unfurled through her. “Praise Providence.” One bright burst of joy against a canvas of gloom. She studied the planes of his face, the handsome features, eyes bright as the summer sky . . . even the dark stubble covering his jaw. She longed to etch the lines and hues of his face into her memory.
He dropped his gaze to the ground, mouth moving, searching for words. “I wasn’t sure if you’d heard, what with your own sorrow, but my mother passed yesterday.”
Gasping, she lifted her hand to her lips, heart aching for him. Unable to resist, she placed her fingers upon his sleeve. “I had not heard. I’m so terribly sorry. I liked your mother very much. Such a kind woman.”
He looked up then, skimming her face, a soft smile playing around his lips. “She liked you as well. I believe when we were younger, she called you ‘that sweet little Montgomery beauty.’”
“I take it her death was sudden?”
He hesitated a moment. “Yes, mostly. She grew ill just before I left, and although I hired a nurse to care for her during my absence, she passed away not long after.”
“I wish there were something I could do.”
Warmth spilled through her as he placed his hand over hers. “Kizzie, I—” he dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper—“I’m leaving Savannah. For good.”
Micah? Her dear friend and confidant, abandoning the town? Their work? Her?
He stiffened. “New opportunities await, just as they do for you. You’ll be married soon, after all.”
She longed to protest. Yet what could she possibly say? She was trapped, a pawn in the hands of Lyman Hill and her father’s legacy.
“Micah, I—” Her tongue stalled, a thick sadness expelling the air from her chest. “Thank you . . . for everything.”
He made as if to say something else, but after a long moment he pressed his lips shut and gave a small smile instead. His low whisper teased her senses. “You are a treasure, Kizzie Montgomery. Never let anyone tell you differently.”
Before she could breathe, he grasped her fingers between his and lifted her hand to his lips. Her pulse skittered as his warm breath caressed her skin. Pressing a gentle kiss to her hand, he released her. “God go with you.”
Her heart hammered as she watched him walk swiftly away, his form growing smaller moment by moment. She longed to call his name again, to see his roguish smile, to study the humor and intelligence that often danced in his expression.
Instead she stayed silent, knowing that prolonging their farewell would only prolong the pain. He was lost to her.
Sensing the weight of eyes upon her, Keziah turned to see Jennie studying her with barely veiled suspicion. The cold emotion reached across the space between them, wrapping its tentacles around her heart. Though she pulled her gaze away from her cousin’s, she couldn’t shake a quiver of unrest more intrusive than a heavy cloak settling over her shoulders.
Even after she returned home, the odd sensation refused to leave her be.
MARCH 22, 1862
Micah scanned the bold script of the telegram as he walked from the telegraph office, his thoughts jumbled.
The Relief Commission had found him a new assignment—traveling alongside the Union army to treat their wounded and ill. If he thought military prison was bad, it would no doubt seem pristine compared to treating those maimed and dying in the heat of battle. He had only a few days to settle his mother’s affairs, and then he would leave to report to headquarters in Washington, DC, with no plans to return to Savannah.
Shoving the telegram into his pocket, he frowned and skirted the crowded street. Though the task would be difficult, he would welcome the change. Perhaps the hectic schedule of war, the exhaustion, would blot out the maddening memories of Kizzie—the taste of her lips, her gentle laughter, her strength and compassion.
He growled under his breath, then exhaled sharply. Perhaps the gruesome horrors of war would make him stop wondering how she fared. Perhaps he could stop tormenting himself with thoughts of her pledging her life to Lyman Hill. Perhaps he could forget the memories they’d shared. The dreams and comfort that tied them together.
Perhaps. But he feared even the nightmares sure to follow him would not erase Kizzie from his mind. Or his heart.
What of Ma Linnie or the fugitives he treated? What would become of them when he left?
Pushing away the bleak thought, he slowed and sniffed. The distinct scent of briny salt water wafted around him, tainting the air. He frowned as he glanced around the bustling thoroughfare. The scents of the bay usually could not be found this far inside the city. The wind was not up. Odd.
He crossed the square, continuing on his way, and moved with steady steps toward Mother’s home. The closer he came, the more the crowds thinned. The perfume of daffodils hung heavy in the spring air . . . until the sharp odor of dead fish assaulted him again.
As he rounded the corner, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He stopped abruptly. Something was wrong. The thick croak of an Irish brogue sounded from behind him.
“That’s him.”
Spinning, Micah came face-to-face with a straggly fisherman staring him down with a jaundiced eye. From the shadows of a hotel, three more burly men crept out of their hiding places, each of them approaching with venomous intent.
Micah’s heart thudded as he turned slowly, meeting each one of their hostile glares with a steely one of his own. “Gentlemen, may I assist you?”
One of the largest men, with graying-blond hair and a slight paunch, narrowed his eyes. “Dr. Greyson?”
“I am he.”
“You’re under arrest for aiding a fugitive slave.”
Before he could utter a word, a meaty fist slammed into his mouth. The metallic taste of blood coated his teeth as his head snapped to the side. The world spun.
Hissing through the throbbing ache, he sucked in a deep breath and tried to straighten. But pain exploded in the back of his skull just before the light was snuffed out.
CHAPTER 22
ELIZABETH SIGHED as she stirred the bubbling black water with a wooden paddle, churning up billows of steam from the large cauldron outside. A fire blazed underneath the wash pot as Hiriam approached with an armful of wood weighting his stooped shoulders.
“Can’t believe there’s not a merchant dyer what can do this,” she groused.
Keziah shook out another of Mother’s day dresses, preparing them for the sharp thrust of Elizabeth’s dye paddle. The servant was being forced to dye all of Mother’s dresses for her period of deep mourning, as well as the rest of the clothes in the house.
Keziah tried to keep her voice chipper. “At least Mother’s will be done soon. There are only two more of her dresses to dye. And you know how busy the merchant dyers are. Half the country is steeped in mourning.”
Pushing back a damp tendril of hair, the house servant frowned. “Humph! That’s why we need more dyers in Savannah . . . to save the rest of us folks from the foul stench.”
Keziah couldn’t disagree on that point. The pungent steam rising from the bubbling pot of inky fabrics was not pleasant—almost offensive in the sticky oppression of humidity. Their only consolation was that with the shortage of available merchant dyers, most of Savannah smelled of dye pots. Their neighbors likely never noticed. Still
, her eyes and nose stung from the sickly stench.
Hiriam dropped the remaining wood at Elizabeth’s feet with a clunk. “You need some more, or will this finish the job?”
Not even sparing him a glance, Elizabeth wiped the beads of moisture from her forehead with the back of her hand and stirred the dye water again. “This should finish it. I don’t plan on dillydallying with this job. Uh-uh. I’m ready for those last two dresses, Miss Keziah.”
Dropping the remaining garments into the steaming tub, Keziah dabbed the sweat collecting above her lip. “At least we’ve been spared the task of dyeing Mother’s fans, gloves, and handkerchiefs black as well. Dooley’s had plenty of mourning accessories ready-made. Even a plenteous amount of black-banded writing stationery.”
“As they should. With the war raging, no end in sight, the two things every family seems to need is food and mourning clothes.” Elizabeth shook her head, the lines around her mouth drooping. “More’s the pity. Death is everywhere, seems like.”
A wave of sadness crashed over Keziah again, and she could do nothing more than nod. Nathaniel, Father, Micah’s mother, friends, cousins, schoolmates, neighbors . . . every family she knew had been dramatically stung by the war’s bloody reach.
“Miss Montgomery, I request a moment of your time.”
Lyman Hill’s hard, commanding voice caused her to whirl in fright. Pressing a hand to her bodice, she released a shaking breath with a light laugh. “You startled me. I wasn’t aware you’d come to call.”
His perpetual glare only deepened. Dread curdled within her.
“I’m currently in the middle of helping Elizabeth prepare Mother’s clothes for mourning. Can our discussion take place here?”
A muscle twitched near his eye. “It cannot.”
Her stomach clenched.
Elizabeth muttered under her breath, “Best go on, Miss Keziah. I can finish.”
Keziah swallowed at the servant’s look of fear and wiped her hands on her apron before unknotting it and casting it off with trembling fingers. Before she could say anything further, Mr. Hill turned on his heel and marched toward the house.
She followed his terse steps, her mind racing. Had he discovered her work with the fugitives? She mentally retraced every nuance of her last excursion, desperate to know how he’d uncovered her deepest secret. Surely he must know. There could be no other explanation for his ire.
As she trailed after him into Father’s library, she smoothed her palms down the folds of her black balzarine skirt, unsure what to do or say. What words could she possibly utter in her own defense? She took in Mr. Hill’s cold glare from across the musty room and decided to remain silent. Let him say what he would.
The silver hair at his temples caught the light streaming through the window and winked. If only his disposition were as comely.
“You have not been honest with me, Miss Montgomery.”
Her heart squeezed but she held her peace, her heartbeat thready.
“Here we are, betrothed to one another, and I discover you are not who I believed you to be.”
Warmth crawled up her collar, braising her cheeks until they felt aflame. He came close and she instinctively took a halting step back.
“How long has this been going on? How long have you harbored feelings for him?”
Uncertainty buzzed through her mind, and she could do little more than blink. What was he rambling about? “Pardon?”
His gray eyes narrowed. “I saw you. All the mourners for your departed father witnessed the scandal as well.”
He didn’t suspect her of aiding runaways? Her thoughts felt foggy and dull. “I have no idea of what you speak.”
Straightening, he assessed her with a suspicious eye. “Surely you know. The shame you thrust upon me seemed obvious to everyone else.”
She was becoming weary of his obscure accusations. “I’m sorry, but I have no inkling what has perturbed you so.”
“Really?” He tilted his head to the side, studied her as if she were a pesky puppy. “It never once struck you as inappropriate when that man kissed your hand at the cemetery?”
Awareness dawned. Mr. Hill truly had no knowledge of her abolition work. He’d seen Micah’s tender good-bye in the cemetery and had assumed the worst. She breathed a sigh of relief as her galloping pulse slowed.
“You mean M—Dr. Greyson? I remember a gentlemanly kiss on the hand but nothing more.”
He barked a dry laugh, face darkening. “There was more than sympathy in his touch, I’d wager.”
“No, that isn’t true.”
Mr. Hill gave her a condescending look and dropped his voice low. “I witnessed the expression on his face when he touched your hand. I saw the unspoken language in his body when he released you. He’s in love with you.”
She nearly staggered backward, her heart a tumbling riot. Micah was in love with her?
“My only question is whether you return his affections.”
Her breath thinned. “This accusation, it—it comes as quite a shock. Dr. Greyson has been a dear friend since my youth.” She shook her head. “You must be mistaken. Why, he even told me he was preparing to leave Savannah permanently.”
He scowled. “And go where?”
She lifted her hands. “I have no idea.”
“So you and this ‘old friend’ of yours—” he spoke through gritted teeth—“have no romantic overtures toward each other?”
Memories of Micah’s hungry kiss filled her mind, but she forced out a lie. “None.” With a start, she realized it indeed was a lie. Her feelings for Micah ran deep, far deeper than she’d dare admit.
But to delve into such vain wishes would only make reality harder to bear. Sweet dreams of a life with him would merely serve to make her future seem more bitter and empty than it already promised to be. Besides, he’d never confessed his love for her. The kiss was nothing more than a mistake—Micah had said as much. Mr. Hill must be confused.
At her answer, Mr. Hill’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “I admit relief. It’s just as well anyway. I asked your cousin about the fellow. She said he comes from a traitorous family. His father was a close companion of John Brown’s. Abolitionist trash.”
The urge to defend Micah flashed hot and strong, but Keziah clamped her lips shut. She would only worsen matters. And why was Mr. Hill plying Jennie for information? The sickly feeling of dread crept over her once more.
“Nevertheless—” he clasped his hands behind his back, looking like the captain of a seafaring vessel instead of a stubborn man of means—“I want your assurances that you harbor no feelings toward this fellow, and I expect you to behave with better decorum from here forward. Otherwise I shall be forced to reconsider my generous offer of marriage.”
His patronizing tone rankled, and she longed to bite back with a caustic remark. What would that feel like, to finally stand up and speak her mind? Would it be a rush of blessed relief or a regrettable moment of shame?
The old fear clawed at her throat. Keep silent. Mother is counting on you. You can’t fail her.
The bonds of duty choked her, their grip tighter and more suffocating than before.
Hating every word slipping past her lips, she murmured, “I shall endeavor not to shame you. Forgive me.”
Micah’s head throbbed as rough hands shoved him into the small jail cell, throwing his battered body against the unforgiving wall. Groaning, he managed to see through puffy eyes as his sneering attackers slammed the bars of his cell door shut with their dirt-encrusted fingers.
A large man with jagged yellow teeth and greasy hair grinned, leering at Micah. “Rest up, Doc. Traitors like you need to be at their best when they face trial. Not that it’ll matter too much when you’re swinging from the end of a rope.”
With a slew of profanities, the odious man laughed and walked away, his gravelly mirth fading, leaving Micah alone in the cold cell.
He scanned his surroundings, fighting to stay upright against the searing misery in his rib
s and the dull pounding in his skull. The cell couldn’t have been more than ten by twelve feet. A single window high on the wall let in precious little light, covered as it was by thick bars and streaks of grime. The room boasted a lumpy iron cot and a broken chair that sagged next to a splintered table in the corner. A chamber pot was shoved under the cot.
Injured in body and spirit, Micah sank into the putrid mattress and dropped his head in his hands. He winced as his fingers roved through his hair, brushing against swollen knots of misery and crusted blobs of blood dotting his scalp. Sucking in a deep breath, he cringed when the pain in his side slashed like fire. Broken ribs most likely.
The ruffians, with the sheriff’s snide approval, had beaten and kicked him to a pulp. At some point, Micah had passed out, waking only when they half dragged him into the jail carriage, their murderous insults stabbing his clouded senses back to life.
He must be inside the jail on Wright Square. Pain blurred his thoughts, but one thing he knew: just beyond the jail was the infamous hanging square.
His hopes for escaping the dreaded fate evaporated, his heart crushing with fear for those he worked with and loved. Had his failings compromised them?
Father, please keep all those you’ve entrusted to me safe. Especially protect Kizzie and Ma Linnie. Don’t let them suffer because of me. Please . . .
APRIL 4, 1862
Keziah stared at the clock over the fireplace in her parents’ bedchamber, its spindly hands frozen in time.
Upon Father’s death, Elizabeth, ever superstitious, had stopped the clock to ensure the family would not be cursed with bad luck. Weeks had passed, and yet the clock remained fixed in place.
Picking up the ornate piece of machinery, she turned the hands to the correct time and began the tedious process of winding it into motion again. The gentle clicks and whirring grated her nerves.