My One True Love

by Deborah Small

  “What?” Esther blurted. “We’re not leaving. This is—”

  “My home.” Margaret Sweeney pushed back her chair and stood. “I decide who stays and who goes. And I’ve decided you, and your offspring, are going.”

  “Barrister, say something,” Esther demanded.

  “I can’t—” Barrister gasped as Joe adjusted his stance.

  “Yes, you can,” Joe said. “You can say you’re sorry. Then I’ll help you to your feet and out to your rig.”

  “All right, all right,” Barrister cried when Joe tweaked his wrist again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Mrs. Sweeney for...”

  “Disrespecting and threatening her,” Joe growled.

  “I’m sorry,” Barrister shouted. “Sorry for disrespecting you. But I wouldn’t have thrown the—Ouch! All right. All right. I would have. I would have thrown it, and I’m sorry. It was wrong. I was wrong. I shouldn’t have threatened you.”

  Margaret Sweeney compressed her lips and met Joe’s gaze. He snapped his fingers open.

  The sudden release caused Barrister to collapse forward, though he managed to get his hands down before falling on his face. He immediately sprang up, turning in mid-air with the speed and agility of a cat.

  Four feminine gasps echoed through the room as Joe’s instinctive kick caught Barrister Griffiths in the gut and sent him crashing into the wall behind him. The knife in Barrister’s hand dropped to the rug with a dull thud. Joe snapped it up and stared at the slender, short blade in disbelief. Then he stared at Barrister, who sank to the floor, hands up in a defensive gesture as he gaped at Joe with something akin to paralytic terror. That’s when Joe noted the slit in Barrister’s shirt sleeve and, through it, a band of leather.

  A knife. Hidden in a scabbard up his sleeve.

  Joe lunged.

  “Mr. Banner. Mr. Banner!” Margaret Sweeney’s shout broke through the bloodlust clouding Joe’s mind.

  A small but strong arm linked with his before he could shove the knife in Barrister Griffith’s soft midsection while his other hand dug into Barrister’s throat.

  “Give me the knife, Mr. Banner. Give me the knife.”

  “No.” Joe glowered at Barrister. “He’s probably got a third one stuffed up his—”

  “Mr. Banner, I’m ordering you to give me that knife. Now.” Mrs. Sweeney’s tone was hard, unforgiving. “Give it to me, or you’re fired.”

  Joe slowly swivelled his head to look at her without loosening his hold on Barrister. “He tried to kill you,” he bit out between gritted teeth. “Again.”

  “I understand that.” Her face was bone white beneath her freckles. “But I won’t have you throw away your life for want to propitiate his soul. Maisie needs you. But you can’t be here for her if you’re forced to answer to a charge of murder.”

  “It’s not murder to put down a rabid dog.”

  Barrister flinched.

  “I appreciate the sentiment, Mr. Banner.” Mrs. Sweeney swallowed, and drew breath. “But I assure you, despite his rapacious behaviour, Mr. Griffiths is not a canine. He is a guest. In my home. And as long as he’s on Sugar Hill land, he’ll be treated as such. Now, if you will kindly give me the knife, I’d like to see my guests out.”

  It hurt, physically, to unhinge his knuckles and allow Mrs. Sweeney to take the knife. And it hurt mentally to acknowledge that she was right. It damn near disembowelled his pride to remain silent as he propelled Barrister Jr. into his jacket and down the hall to the front door behind Mrs. Sweeney, who, arms held slightly out at her sides, ushered a sullen Esther and unusually energetic twins along the corridor.

  Each girl moved with a sense of exhilaration Joe could not recall having seen before, not even when they were too young to fully comprehend, never mind project, ladylike deportment.

  Rufus preceded them all to the coach and stood by as the Griffithses’ groom hastened to open the door and the stone-faced driver faced stoically forward in his seat, reins in hand.

  Joe heaved Barrister inside and leaned in. “Set foot on Sugar Hill again”—he split a look between Esther and Barrister—“or bother or threaten Mrs. Sweeney in any way, and I’ll be happy to be fired.” He locked gazes with Barrister. “Get my meaning?”

  Barrister wriggled on the seat, inching his chin up as he sat straighter, and from his elevated—safer—position, glowered down his nose. “Are you threatening me, sir?” His tone dripped contempt.

  Joe offered him a thin smile and closed the coach door with exaggerated care.

  Chapter 10

  Complicated Correspondence

  JUNE 10, 1916

  My Darling Maggie,

  You are correct—I’m greatly relieved to know you arrived safely at your destination despite completely disregarding my recommendation you hire a lady’s maid prior to leaving or at least allow Jake to accompany you. You know he would have been delighted to escort you, as would I, had I the temerity to drag all the children in tow. But neither of us needed that on what I know was for you already a challenging journey.

  You’re also correct that I confirmed out loud that you are all you need. If I’ve learned anything during my trials the last few years, it’s that we’ve only ourselves to rely on, and we must trust our intuition. Faith in one’s self, my dear friend, must be brought to bear when all around us doubt. Which raises the issue of this Mr. Banner...

  A wolf? How very intriguing. I find myself fascinated at the prospect of meeting him, especially as I don’t recall George mentioning him. Then again, he was such a quiet man, much like my Jake: closed-mouth and exceedingly generous. And speaking of generous...

  Did you know my dear husband was planning to buy me a wringer washing machine? It arrived yesterday, though he said he ordered it months ago. I granted Mrs. Brown the honour of taking it on its inaugural run despite her fear of everything electric, and I must say, she surprised even herself. It took her a few tries to master the wringer part, but after the first sheet was through, she was sold, wondering why such a contraption hadn’t been around when she started in the scullery. I advised her that even if it had, Papa would never have bought one when a washtub and strong arms would do.

  Honestly, it’s a magnificent improvement over our twisting dripping sheets between us like we’re throttling a monstrous snake. I feel so blessed. A true man of modernity, my husband, unlike dear Papa, still clinging to tradition even as it’s being swept out from under him by the war.

  Elaina’s latest letter confirms his plan to wed her to Duke Blackburn is proceeding despite the war, with nuptials slated for November 12th. It’s a dreadful time of year to marry—not Christmas, not summer, and so wet and cold—but I suppose Papa is loath to wait much longer. Elaina will be twenty-one come March, and Papa won’t risk her using the power of her majority to up and marry someone else as I did. Or perhaps the duke’s health is failing, and time is of an essence. He is over eighty, after all, which is why I’m still struggling to accept that she is proceeding with this farce when I nearly lost my life escaping marriage to the blasted man. But that is exactly why she’s doing it—because I ran away and married someone else, shaming Papa and our family. She has always tried so desperately to be the good daughter. I only pray she knows what she’s doing, which I know you understand, having shared the same mixed emotions when your sister accepted his proposal.

  We’ve decided against attending the wedding. Travel is too dangerous with German U-boats hunting the oceans. I can’t justify putting my life or my family’s at risk for the selfish sake of seeing my sister and other family. I’ll send her my love with a small gift, though honestly, I’ve no notion what a suitable gift would be. She’ll soon be one of the wealthiest women in Britain, which is the only thing I can take comfort in. At least she won’t end up slogging away in a factory like she tells me so many other women are now. Some are even making bombs to help with the war effort, as so many men have been shipped to the continent to fight.

  According to her, many of the grander houses a
re falling to wrack and ruin around their lords’ and ladies’ ears, since there’s no one to work the land or even serve tea. It’s dreadful, and I know Mama and Papa are affected, though Mama shares nothing of her strife at Ansmall, instead asking about my family and how Elizabeth is getting along and sharing tales of my dear little brother’s antics.

  It’s odd sometimes, having a son and brother so close in age, as it leads to Mama and I sharing adventures in mothering like a pair of former school chums. Not so odd as having a wolf for an estate manager, however.

  I apologise if I sound facetious, but I can’t seem to rid my mind of the image. Thank goodness I’ll be there in the not-too-distant future and see for myself this self-possessed man. I wonder if he knows yet he’s met his match in you, because if ever there was a woman capable of bringing a wolf to heel, it’s you.

  All right, enough teasing. Not that it’s teasing when you mean it, and I do mean it—this Mr. Banner had better watch out. Cross you, and he’ll have to deal not only with you but with the entire Douglas clan. Because you must know that if you need us, we’ll be there, though I trust you won’t. You’re a strong woman, and I have every faith in you and your ability to manage what George bequeathed you.

  I look forward to learning more about your exploits, and I will keep you informed of mine—not that I’ve much to share other than that the children and I and everyone else already miss you.

  Katie is over my shoulder and asks me to send her love. Amelia, Elizabeth, Mother Eleanor, Mrs. Brown, and Rosa send their love too. They’re here with me in the front room, crocheting and knitting warmers and gloves to help outfit soldiers’ gift boxes.

  I still marvel that it was Elizabeth who came up with the idea. Of the three of us girls, I’d have thought Elaina to be the one to rally the troops, so to speak, in such an endeavour. But no, my baby sister took inspiration from Princess Mary’s Christmas gift box generosity and Jake’s ordeal and decided we’d adopt not one, but two, regiments: the one Jake served with, much to his chagrin as he wasn’t exactly a voluntary recruit, and Lt. Colonel Baxter’s Scots Guards.

  We’re all knitting and crocheting like mad to ensure all the boxes get filled and sent over before the end of October, to give Lt. Baxter time to tuck personal notes in each box before delivery. Such a dear man he is to have taken it upon himself not only to extend moral support and advice to each soldier, but also to personally seek them out and hand them their gift—or to ensure delivery to surviving family for those who don’t live to see Christmas. That is such a dreadful thought, and one which reinforces for me how truly lucky I was to find Jake alive.

  Did you know this Christmas will mark two years since I found him? Sometimes it amazes me what life throws at us and expects us to survive and overcome. I’m only glad that we do.

  Keep doing, my love. If I can, you can. Before you know it, we’ll be sitting around in our dotage, marvelling at all we overcame and the gifts we were blessed with while we did. Like our friendship, which I count as one of my greatest blessings.

  With that, I must sign off and finish my scarf before JJ and Grace awake from their nap. Be well, my darling. And never forget how strong you are or how much I love and believe in you.

  Always your advocate, forever your friend,

  Dianna

  JUNE 21, 1916

  My Dearest Dianna,

  I have so much to tell you that I hardly know where to start, so I’ll begin by assuring you that I am well, and you mustn’t worry about me. I have quite a protector in Mr. Banner, who, despite my earlier reservations, is proving himself not only an excellent and conscientious estate manager but a brave one, too. He saved my life. You see, on my second day here, George’s nephew and sister...

  JULY 2, 1916

  Maggie, darling,

  How dare you downplay an attempt on your life—by your late husband’s nephew of all people—and tell me I mustn’t worry. Did you contact the sheriff? Will he be held to account?

  I am so grateful to your Mr. Banner. I’ll sleep better knowing he’s there. Jake will be relieved, too, to know he’s a good man and a brave protector. Though I daren’t tell him about what this Mr. Griffiths attempted. I fear he’ll be on the first train to Georgia to exact a little Texas justice. You know he won’t tolerate a man who mistreats a woman or child. Papa’s nose will never be straight again! So please don’t make me tell my husband what happened, which I will do if you don’t promise me that you’re taking steps to protect yourself...

  JULY 2, 1916

  Dear Aunt Maggie,

  Thank you ever so much for your gift of tobacco for the gift boxes. You have no idea how delighted I was to receive them. I only wish I could thank you in person in September. Alas, I won’t be able to come. You know how Jake insisted I apply for college? Well, it seems I’ll be attending because...I’ve been accepted to Vassar! I leave next month, and Dianna says she’ll accompany me to New York and help me get settled and visit Mother Mary while there. Oh, it’s so exciting. So please accept these heartfelt XOXOXOXOs as my hugs and kisses for your generosity. I know the soldiers will thank you, too.

  Sincerely and with love,

  Elizabeth

  JULY 15, 1916

  Dianna, my dearest, you mustn’t fret. I’m fine. Truly. I’ve heard nothing from George’s nephew, or his sister, since that day. They seem to have taken Mr. Banner’s advice and opted not to bother me again. Everyone else here—here being the estate—has made me feel very welcome, especially Miss Maisie.

  There’s a tradition here of taking refreshments on the porch, which I’ve happily continued, though I had a time convincing my house staff and Miss Maisie’s governess to continue with me.

  It seems when George wasn’t here, they kept up the tradition and included Miss Maisie. Now there’s five of us on the porch following Maisie’s return from the neighbours’, where she spends her days while her father works. I must say, it is one of the better hours of my day. The only other hour or two I find tolerable are those I spend with Mr. Banner, who, despite any advanced formal education, is quite erudite.

  Not only is he highly adept at figures, he’s well-read and writes a clear hand. He even knows Latin, which is one language I abhorred having to learn and so failed to develop any real proficiency. He, however, is well-versed in it, and he speaks Greek (his mother hails from Cyprus). I can’t wait for you to meet him and everyone else here. Maybe once you do, and you can visualise them the way I visualise everyone there when I read your letters, I’ll feel like I belong here. As it is, I’m still groping blindly along, seeking a fingerhold, a reason to stay and put down roots as strong as those you plunged into Texas soil.

  How wonderful that Elizabeth is off to Vassar. I am so pleased for her. Glad, really, how times are changing for all young women. The opportunities that are opening to them. It makes me sad for young Maisie, who, I’m not sure if I mentioned, is blind...

  Chapter 11

  People Past

  SHE LAID ASIDE THE pen and reclined against the seat back to smooth her fingertips over her closed eyelids. Refocussing on the letter, she reached for her tea.

  It was cold, as were the contents in the pot. Tugging her timepiece from her pocket, she blinked at it in disbelief.

  Two hours had passed since she’d brought the freshly made pot to the archive, and she’d drunk not a drop after her initial sip upon opening Terrence Sweeney’s final journal spanning January 1, 1872, through his death that April. She’d read his final words of anger and lamentation over his body’s failings, and his awareness of his imminent death, with more satisfaction than she cared to admit, even to herself. It had spurred her to write Dianna. The act of putting her thoughts, fears, and hopes on the page was as cathartic for her everyday soul as her afternoons on the front porch with Maisie, and mornings in the study with Mr. Banner, were food for her heart and mind.

  “You’ve become quite a recluse, Margaret Anne,” she murmured as she pushed to her feet to stretch and yawn. “Hi
dden away in your study or secret chamber but for the one hour of every day you venture out for lemonade with your staff and a precocious nine-year-old who’re the closest things you have to friends here in Georgia.”

  The worst of it was, she didn’t mind it. Didn’t mind the enforced solitude, or finding in Maisie, Miss Alma, Coral, and Miss Lisette—Mr. Rufus had yet to do more than smile and nod—more than abundant social satisfaction following her regular stint in the archive, where she’d been every day but Sunday from one ’til four for the last six weeks, reading Terrence Sweeney’s journals and account ledgers.

  She’d hoped the process would improve her understanding of her role. Instead, all she’d taken from the experience—other than relief whenever she closed another leatherbound cover on the carefully annotated entries within—was dismay.

  How could such things have gone on, not only privately in this chamber of horrors, but publicly?

  Closing her eyes, she forced down a mouthful of the cold tea, welcoming the acidic cleanse of revulsion from her tongue.

  Only two things made the gruesome slog through Terrence’s rote recounting of whippings and torture worthwhile: the discovery of a few details about Mr. Rufus, and a record of Miss Alma’s birth, though it was only a short paragraph in the 1846 journal, dated April 8: A doe born to Hany this morning. Would have preferred a buck. Named her Alma.

  He’d noted other births at different times throughout the decades, and she’d noticed a pattern emerge—from Julius born in January and Alma in April through to Sally in September and Donald in December, he’d used the first letter of whatever month the slave child was born as the first letter of their name.