Lizzie finished the book and laid it aside.
“You are progressing so quickly, I’m going to have to find something more challenging,” Emily praised. “Perhaps one of my early history or science texts.” She had no doubt Lizzie possessed the intelligence to grasp the concepts.
“Do you have any books about…Africa?”
“No, but I’m fairly certain Jack has some. He was quite enthusiastic about Taylor and Stanley and the other English explorers making inroads into the continent a few years ago. Is that where your interests lie?”
“Yes, miss. Very much so.”
“Then I will do my best.”
“Thank you, miss.” Lizzie rubbed subconsciously at her swollen belly as if caressing the baby it held.
“Is that why you want to know about your past?” Emily asked softly. “So you can pass it on?”
Lizzie’s hand stopped. “No, miss. I try not to let myself think about de chil’ too much.”
“Whyever not? Is it still so loathsome to you?”
The maid shook her head. “Not anymore. Dat be de problem.”
She wasn’t making any sense. “But Lizzie, it’s your baby no matter who else had a hand in its creation. It’s most natural to develop an affection for it.”
“But affection be downright terrifyin’ in a world of separations.”
“Is that what you’re concerned about?” Emily laughed lightly. “You can set that fear aside. I would never let my father sell your child.” But even as she said it, she knew Lizzie’s sphere of protection extended about as far as her opportunities for education—they were both dependent on Emily, the bottom rung on the ladder of authority. Hadn’t her father already taken Ketch away from his child?
She watched Lizzie’s hand resume its kneading motion, that proof of a love she dreaded, and solemnly vowed to never let anything come between her maid and that baby.
***
Emily accompanied Dr. Malone and Abigail to the measles room several more times before the disease ran its course. She didn’t see Solomon Beatty again. He made a full recovery and returned to the general population that was moved to Castle Pinkney, the old island fortress, a few days later. But she did meet several more soldiers—thirty-one in all—including a seventeen-year-old boy with hardly a whisker on his cheek, a grizzle-haired man of forty-seven, and every flavor in between. All men from New York and Michigan. She sketched a full dozen of them.
Her artwork produced an unlooked-for result. The day after she met Solomon Beatty, a Confederate guard called on Dr. Malone and requested the name of the artist who had accompanied him to the prison. At four o’clock that afternoon, Lizzie showed the unexpected guest into the parlor where he made his shy request to Emily and her mother over tea and scones.
“Miss Preston,” he said, holding his cup and saucer awkwardly in thick, calloused hands, “I saw some of the pictures you drew yesterday. They were very nice.”
“Thank you, Mr. Harrison.”
He cleared his throat. “I, uh, was just thinkin’. My mama never had no money to spend on fripperies such as a likeness of us kids. I reckon with the shootin’ startin’ and me on my way to Virginia soon, she’d be right appreciative of a picture she could hold on to.”
He set down the teacup and wiped his hands on his uniform trousers. “I have a little money saved up from my pay. Do you reckon…I mean, would you be so kind as to draw my image for my mama?”
Emily was touched by the young man’s grave earnestness. She felt pity for his mother, suffering the same uncertainty they’d lived with ever since Dr. Malone brought word of Manassas. “It would be my honor. Would a dollar be an agreeable fee?” She chose what she guessed might be an affordable sum and was rewarded by a barely noticeable relaxing of the man’s shoulders.
“Quite agreeable, miss. Thank you.”
Emily set aside her cup and jumped out of her seat. “I’ll just scoot upstairs and fetch my things. Excuse me.”
He rose respectfully. “Oh no, miss. Please, finish your tea.” But she was already gone. He shrank down into his seat and cast a remorseful glance at Marie. “I apologize, ma’am. I didn’t mean to run her off her grub.”
“Pay it no mind,” Marie said with a graceful flip of her wrist. “Emily’s artwork is her bread.”
Emily returned with paper and charcoal. “Would you mind transferring to this seat by the window, Mr. Harrison? The sunlight will give a much more attractive contrast between light and shadow.”
“Emily, dear, let Mr. Harrison finish his refreshments,” Marie gently chastised her daughter.
“Oh!” She paused. “Of course.” Tea was already several paces behind in her memory.
“It’s quite all right.” The man shifted to the chair she indicated. “I’d prefer to get started.”
Marie nodded cordially. “Very well.”
Emily was all business. “A little to the left, Mr. Harrison. Very good. Sit up straight. That’s perfect.” Her charcoal stick skimmed across the page, contouring his cheekbones, firming the strong line of his jaw. She worked quickly, the only sounds being the clink of china and a soft scratching against paper, like the tiny rustle of mice in the hayloft.
She finished before her mother emptied a second cup of tea and held up the portrait for approval.
Mr. Harrison couldn’t prevent a sharp intake of air. “Why, that’s mighty fine, Miss Preston. Mighty fine indeed. I could be lookin’ in a shop window at my own reflection.”
She was pleased with the result, having captured the young man’s solemnity and a touch of trepidation in the slant of his eye. The expression was both melancholy and wistful.
“Oh, Emily,” Marie exclaimed approvingly. “Any mother would cherish such an image.”
Mr. Harrison reached into his pocket for a handful of coins and accepted the drawing reverently. “Thank you kindly, miss. This sure is appreciated.”
He must have shown the picture to his comrades, because owning one for themselves developed into quite a fad within the prison guard regiment. A steady trickle of enlisted men and officers, including a few commissioned gentlemen, showed up at the Prestons’ door requesting a portrait for a wife, a sweetheart, a child, a mother. Emily charged what she thought they could afford. Some had no qualms about paying ridiculous sums, and within two weeks she had amassed over seventy-five dollars.
Dr. Malone threw back his head and laughed long and loud when Emily shared how she had spent so many afternoons. Encouraged, and knowing she would need help cashing a bank note addressed to Thomas Wilson, she continued with the story of her correspondence class. This prompted a more thoughtful response from the doctor.
“So you worked out this scheme behind your father’s back?” he asked. “And now you’d like me to help you collect your money?”
It sounded awful when he phrased it like that. Her eyes dropped to her shoes. “Yes, sir.”
Abigail leaped to her friend’s rescue. “Of course you’ll help her, won’t you Father? You know how stubborn Mr. Preston can be.” She grabbed Emily’s hand. “What if Emily promises never to do it again?”
Emily met the man’s eyes. “I do promise never to involve you again, Dr. Malone. And I’ll no longer resort to deception. But I can’t promise I won’t defy my father on this.”
He regarded her evenly before giving a short, decisive nod. “I’ll help you collect the money you’ve earned,” he agreed. “But I’ll leave the rest for you and William to sort out.”
She gave him a grateful smile.
On the trip home from their final prison visit, he accompanied her to the Bank of Charleston and exchanged the endorsed note while she traded a milk bottle full of pocket change for paper bills.
She never guessed how quickly she would put it to use.
***
The first week of October delivered brilliant days of green and gold and blue. With the lessening of pestilence, seasonal residents began turning their faces inland. Emily and Abigail were invited to attend
one last picnic on Sullivan Island where a pig had been roasted right on the beach. The surf rolled in off the Atlantic onto a flat plain of sand, and the air was so startlingly clear that Emily thought she might see all the way to England.
A score of off duty soldiers from nearby Fort Moultrie were in attendance. Young women congregated about them in groups, looking like schools of tropical fish in their brightly colored muslins while their chaperones reclined beneath an awning staked into the moist sand. Aunt Margaret made her own shade under a brilliant yellow hat fashioned to look like an oversized sunflower.
“Tell me again why your mother couldn’t accompany us,” Abigail whispered when she first caught sight of the atrocity.
“She’s overseeing the packing. We return to Ella Wood on Monday, you know.”
“I know.” Abigail groaned. “I don’t want to see you leave. I’ll have to face Peggy Sue Barton and her cronies on my own again.” Asa Gideon, unfortunately, had returned to the wealthy girl’s side, but it had brought about an immediate end to hostilities.
“You don’t want to lose your ally?” Emily smirked.
“I used that word, didn’t I?” Abigail crinkled her nose in apology.
“Maybe you can come stay with me for a few weeks during the holidays.”
Abigail brightened. “I’d love that!”
“I’ll show you Chantilly. And Lune! Good heavens, he must be huge by now. I hope he remembers me.”
“If you fuss over him as much as you’ve talked about him this summer, you’re bound to win back his affections.”
“I know, but it’s been nearly three months.”
“He’ll remember you,” Abigail assured her. “Is Thad coming today?”
“He had some things to attend to, but he said he’d drop by.” Emily scanned the crowd and saw no sign of him.
The picnic was served under the canopy. Tables groaned under huge platters of baked potatoes, garden vegetables, fruit, baskets of warm bread, corn on the cob, pies, and confections. The girls kept to themselves, carrying their plates to folding chairs at the far end of the gathering. As they ate, Emily kept an eager lookout for Thad, and her eye eventually met that of Darius Johnson. She remembered the serious young man from Judge Falmouth’s birthday party. Immediately, she thought of Ketch.
She waved. Darius nodded and sauntered over to join them.
“Hello, Miss Preston,” he said, sinking to the sand beside her. “You’re looking well.”
“As are you, Mr. Johnson. This is my friend and ally, Abigail Malone.”
Abigail snickered, but Darius simply inclined his head. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Malone. Is Dr. Malone your father?”
Darius and Abigail, it turned out, knew several of the same people. As they chatted, Emily forked a bite of pork into her mouth and let her thoughts linger on Ketch. She hadn’t given him a thought in weeks. With moving day fast approaching, Lizzie was probably fretting over how he would take the news of the baby. But after her maid’s haunting talk of separation, Emily’s thoughts soon transferred to Ketch’s son. This, she realized, might be a chance to rectify that situation.
“Mr. Johnson,” she interrupted, her eyes focused far out over the water, “do you still own the child?”
“What child would that be, Miss Preston?”
“The child of the man called Ketch, the one your father sold to mine last year.”
“I believe so,” he answered, taking a bite of bread. “In fact, I’m sure of it. I saw him running through the stable yard last week. Why do you ask?”
“Would you be interested in selling him?”
Darius lowered his plate to his lap. “I don’t think so. My pa doesn’t like to sell the little ones because their value goes up so quickly. The boy will be worth five times as much just a few years from now.”
Emily realized some dramatics from her undisciplined youth might be required to obtain her objective, but she had confidence in the kindness of Darius Johnson. She hadn’t forgotten the way he had listened to her ramble about the artwork hanging on the walls of Melville Place just to distract her from thoughts of war.
She lifted her eyes, letting them fill with wistful petulance. It was a look she had used on her father a thousand times when she was younger. “My father told me he’d get me a boy I could train up from a young age. To take with me when I marry, you see. But Papa’s been so busy in Columbia, he forgot all about his promise. And me with all winter to begin instruction.”
She turned on her smile, ramping up the horsepower. “But just now I had the most encouraging thought. You have a child that would meet my needs exactly.” She touched his arm. “Why, I’ve seen his father. A strong, strapping man. A hard worker. A bit stubborn, but if I purchased the boy young, I could train that out of him.”
Never in her life had Emily fluttered her eyelashes, but she did so now. “You don’t think you could arrange such a sale for me?” Her lips bunched together in a pouty little bowtie. “Please?”
From the corner of her vision, she saw Abigail working to hold in her laughter. She’d never told Abigail of her reservations over slavery, but her friend knew immediately that her story was fabricated.
Darius’s food was forgotten. He pondered her with those deep, sober eyes. “Well, I don’t know, Miss Preston. My father’s pretty adamant about such things.”
“But surely he trusts your judgment,” she pressed. “A fine, sensible man like yourself. He’d be a fool not to let you make decisions of your own.”
After another few minutes of deep thought, Darius nodded. “I might be able to arrange it.”
“I can pay you,” she promised. “I have seventy-six dollars in my drawer right now. It’s all yours.”
He frowned. “The child’s worth at least a hundred.”
She let her eyes shine with unshed tears, but her thoughts were doing cartwheels. “I’m not sure how I could get the rest of the money before we leave for Ella Wood,” she mourned. “Oh, how I do wish I had charged more for those sketches.”
“Sketches, miss?” he asked.
She sniffed and peeked up into his eyes. “I’ve been drawing portraits for the young men going off to battle. Pictures they could send home for their mamas to treasure in case they, you know…die.” She whispered the word. “Had I known I would need the money, I would have required higher fees. I would have been downright heartless. But many of them were so poor, you see, and I had such pity on them.”
She sighed, heartbroken. “How ever am I going to get the money now, leaving in two days and with my daddy off in Columbia all the time?”
Darius cleared his throat. “Well now, Miss Preston. Perhaps we could arrange something.”
“Why don’t you let her draw your likeness, Mr. Johnson?” Abigail put in. “Seventy-six dollars and a portrait. You’d be money ahead. She doesn’t just draw faces. She captures the soul.”
Good old Abigail. Emily wanted to grin, but she held her wistful, pleading expression.
Darius nodded. “I think I can agree to those terms.”
Emily erupted with joy. “Oh, Mr. Johnson,” she gushed, taking one of his hands in both her own. “How can I ever thank you? I’m certain I owe my future happiness to your generosity.” She saw Abigail fighting down hysterics and inched farther away, distracting Darius with another dazzling smile. “You may sit for your portrait this evening or after church tomorrow. We leave Monday, you see. And of course you can deliver the child to Ella Wood at your convenience.”
“Deliver?”
Her eyes went wide and innocent. “Of course deliver. How else could I get the child? I certainly can’t drive myself to retrieve him, now can I? And with my father in Columbia and all,” she threw in again for good measure.
“No, I suppose not.” He nodded. “I’ll deliver the boy within the week.”
The smile came out again. “You are an absolute doll, Mr. Johnson.” And she kissed him right on the cheek.
His face darkened to crimson and he sud
denly recalled the plate of food in his lap. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Preston, I believe I’ll help myself to some more pork before it’s all gone.”
Abigail collapsed in a fit of giggles when he was gone. “What was that all about?” she panted.
“Oh, just the child of one of the field hands we purchased. He’s been pining for the boy. I figure we’ll get more work out of him if he’s happy.” She chuckled, recalling her performance. “I feel absolutely ridiculous.” But she still had her fifty dollars from the bank note.
Abigail burst into another peal of laughter. “You were so funny. Oh, hello, Mr. Black.”
Emily turned to find Thad gazing down at her with sharp, unfriendly eyes. His severity made her uncomfortable. “Who was that?” he demanded.
“Who?”
“The man you just kissed.”
“Oh, him.” Her laugh needed to be forced this time. “That’s Darius Johnson, a family friend.”
Thad looked over to where Darius was filling his plate with a heaping mound of pork. “He can’t be that close of a friend. I’ve never seen him or heard him spoken of in all the time I’ve known your family.”
Abigail stood up. “I think I’ll get some more pork, too.”
Emily’s temper flared. “Then apparently you haven’t known my family very long. Certainly not as long as the Johnsons have.”
Thad’s eye flicked back to the young man, diamond blue irises sparking with intensity. “The two of you seemed downright cozy.”
Perhaps she had allowed her relationship with Thad get out of control. She liked him tremendously. She drew life and fire from his touch. But his jealously assumed a commitment that she had never made. “I am not your possession,” she challenged. “I can kiss any man I choose without asking your permission first.”
Thad’s face darkened. “Are you in the habit of kissing strange men?”
“I kissed you, didn’t I?”
The fire in his eyes burned all the way through her, but she met his challenge with one of her own. She would not let Thad intimidate her. She was not bound to him.
Ella Wood (Ella Wood, 1) Page 26