by Karen White
I sighed. Another chore. I was glad that I could be useful, but I was quickly finding that the running of a nineteenth-century house and cotton plantation was a never-ending process. I struggled to find the time to read the astronomy books. In the three weeks since Zeke had given them to me, I had had the opportunity to open them once, and had promptly fallen asleep.
Not that it mattered. I couldn’t go home yet; I needed time to find Annie. I sometimes found myself wondering if I were deceiving myself, that I really didn’t believe she was here; that this whole experience was fabricated by my grief, a dream to give myself hope. But when I looked down at the peas in my hand or touched the rough wool of my skirt or heard Robbie’s cries, it seemed all too real. I had no choice but to continue to forge ahead, believing that Annie and I had traveled through time and were trying to find our way back home.
After relieving himself of his burden, Willie approached the porch. His face and hands were smeared with soot but he seemed oblivious to the fact as he reached for the door handle.
“No, sir! Don’ you be touchin’ nothin’! Go get yourself cleaned up first ’fore you go inside.” Willie rolled his eyes at Sukie and then stomped back down the porch.
“Oh, and, Willie,” I called after him. “When you’re done washing up, please find your sister, and the two of you go and practice your scales on the piano.”
“Yes’m,” he mumbled.
His shoulders slumped as he continued walking toward the springhouse, where the cool stream flowed around the property. His mother wanted them to learn music, and I was trying my best. Unfortunately, in the two weeks that I had been teaching them, Willie had shown a remarkable inability to get beyond even the rudiments of piano knowledge. He was very different from Sarah, who showed quite an aptitude for the instrument despite her young age.
I snapped more peas, my thumbs and forefingers slowly becoming stained green.
“Miz Eliza brought some dresses over for you yesterday.” Sukie’s head stayed bent over her task, from which bright popping sounds came from the breaking pea pods.
“Miss Eliza? Who’s that?”
“Miz Eliza Smith. She the lady was here with the doctor when you came back from Mr. Zeke’s. She lives with her mama and sisters at Mimosa Hall. Can’t say I care too much for her, but you have somethin’ respectable to wear now.”
I remembered the rather dour-faced young woman I had seen on the back porch with Julia. I could only imagine what stories the doctor had told her about me and why I needed clothes.
“She done need some music lessons herself. She play the organ at church—what a howling mess!”
I smiled. “She didn’t look the type to take kindly to my suggestions, Sukie.”
“I don’ think it matter much what you say to her. I don’ think she like you.”
I stopped shelling. “What? How would you know? She and I have never met.”
“True, but she sure is powerful sweet on Mr. Stuart.”
“Oh? And what does that have to do with me?”
For the first time, Sukie paused in her task and looked at me. “Jus’ look in the mirror, Miz Laura. An’ you and Mr. Stuart be about the same age. Make you a threat to her dream of walkin’ down the aisle with him.”
Blushing furiously, I kept my head bent toward my lap. “I couldn’t imagine why. Besides, I think she would be more threatened by Julia.”
Sukie surprised me with her sudden vehemence. “Don’ even think it. What was between Mr. Stuart and Miz Julia was over when she say ‘I do’ to Mr. William. She always been faithful to her husband and has suffered ’cause of him bein’ a Yankee. People talk ’bout who that sweet baby’s father is jus’ about kill her. She stay at Phoenix Hall for jus’ about a year—not even goin’ to church.” She shook her head.
I stared at her, dumbfounded. “You mean there’s some doubt?”
“No, ma’am. There no doubt. Just bad talk by mean people. Mr. William here last September. He kept quiet, on account of people ’round these parts not liking the color of his uniform. But when Miz Julia showed up in the family way, people started talking. Especially since Mr. Stuart was back home.”
Sukie fell silent as Willie approached us again, his face rubbed pink. He stomped past us and shouted Sarah’s name as the back door slammed. Feet clattered on the wooden stairs, and shortly thereafter the interminable piano scales began.
Sukie stood and brushed off her skirt. “I best go and see about making supper and gettin’ a fresh nappy for this little one.” She gave a wary glance at my lack of progress, picked up Robbie and his cradle, and went inside. Darkness was still a couple of hours away but the early-evening sounds had already started. The cicadas and crickets creaked duets, and at least one bullfrog bellowed from the nearby woods. I closed my eyes and leaned against the porch railing, inhaling deeply the rich aroma from the boxwoods that lined the side of the house. It reminded me so much of my own time that I was temporarily transported back. Approaching footsteps made me open my eyes. I was caught off guard by the sight of Stuart standing not two feet away from me, one booted foot resting on the bottom step.
“Well, if it isn’t my prison guard.” I hadn’t been off the property since my arrival, and I blamed Stuart. I was aching to go with Sukie when she ran errands so I could ask about Annie, but I needed more time to build Stuart’s trust before he would allow it.
He ignored my comment. “Mind if I join you?” He smelled of sweat, horse, and leather—a combination I found peculiarly enticing.
“Help yourself,” I said, indicating the bottomless basket of peas.
He reached over and grabbed a handful. “Our hospitality must be lacking if you are finding your stay here comparable to a prison sentence.”
I shook my head. “That’s not what I meant. Everyone, with one exception, has been more than hospitable. But I’m never going to find Annie if I’m not allowed to go look for her.”
His long fingers efficiently broke open the pods and emptied their contents into the basket. “I have been asking around town myself. No one recalls a little girl being found up on the mountain.” He paused for a moment. “Nor has anybody ever heard of a Laura Truitt.” He threw a handful of peas into the basket with more force than was necessary.
Our eyes met, and all was quiet except for the monotonous drone of the insects. Finally, I spoke. “You may choose not to believe me, but I have told you the truth. If you would just give me the benefit of the doubt—”
He finished, “Then my family and this entire town could suffer the consequences.”
“Fine. Believe what you want—but when you realize you’re wrong and it’s time for your apology, I’m going to make you grovel.”
He bit his lip, as if trying to hide a smile. “I will be looking forward to that, ma’am.”
I gave him an exaggerated sigh and continued the never-ending job of shelling peas. I knew I would never look at the color green the same way again.
We worked in silence, listening to the serenade of the dusk creatures. To break the quiet, I asked, “Why are you fighting for the South while your brother fights for the North?”
He narrowed his eyes, as if trying to determine the motivation behind my question, continuing to pop peas out of their pods. “Georgia is my home. Protecting her is in my blood—almost as much a part of me as my own family.” He straightened his wounded leg to stretch it. “I am also a firm believer in states’ rights. It irks me no end when the federal government interferes in state government.” He put his foot down hard on the step and looked at me. “My brother is fighting for the North only because I am not.”
“I see,” I said, though I didn’t. I had no idea sibling rivalry could be this intense. “What about slavery? Aren’t you fighting to uphold it?”
“No.” He paused briefly and glanced up at the sky, the stars just beginning to make their appearance. “I hat
e slavery. I wish Georgia had kept it unlawful to own slaves. But without slavery, our crops could not compete in the marketplace with slave-holding states. Unfortunately, I see no other way to survive on cash crops. That is why I studied architecture at Oglethorpe University. I figured I would leave this plantation for my brother to mismanage while I found a respectable living.” He paused in his work and grunted. “Life does not always turn out as one expects it to, does it?”
Our eyes met, the silence broken only by the cicadas. Quietly, I said, “No. It doesn’t.”
Willie plunged through the back door, carrying a chamber pot. Sukie called after him, “Make sure you put that downwind this time, Willie!”
I grinned as Willie trudged along toward the cotton field to dump his burden.
Stuart cleared his throat. “I am accompanying Julia to church this Sunday. You are welcome to join us.”
I turned my attention back to Stuart, trying to see through his offer. “Why do you want me to go? Are you afraid I’ll do some spying on the hens if you’re not here to watch me?”
He looked genuinely hurt. “Not at all. I thought you would like to mix with some of Roswell’s citizens. Maybe somebody will recognize you. Or know about Annie. That is what you want, right?”
I stared back at him, my gaze level. “Yes. Of course it is.”
He scooped peas out of a pod and reached for another. “Well, then. Have you never heard about looking a gift horse in the mouth?”
I gave him a derisive snort. “I don’t consider my personal freedom to be a gift from you. But, yes, I’d like to go. I take it that Julia hasn’t been out in public much lately.”
The muscles worked in his jaw as he clenched his teeth. “No. And it is making her look like she has something to hide. It is high time she showed her face again.”
“I agree. I’ll be happy to lend moral support.”
Scurrying out of the house, Sukie opened the door of the detached kitchen, which allowed the aromas of baking corn bread to waft over to us. My stomach growled in response.
“Hungry again?” Stuart asked as he stood and held a hand out to help me up.
Stacking the full basket inside the finally empty one, I responded unapologetically, “I’m always hungry. I seem to have the appetite of a horse.”
“You certainly do not look like you eat like a horse.”
I gave him a sidelong glance to see if he was giving me a compliment or not. He grinned, and I noticed how his gaze took in the stretching of the fabric of Julia’s dress across my chest.
“Maybe you should curb your appetite a bit until we can find you clothes that fit a bit better than . . .”
I didn’t give him a chance to finish as I gave him a little shove to make him stop. To my horror, he fell over my perfectly stacked baskets, losing his balance and taking my precious peas with him. I hesitated for a moment, wondering if I should rescue him or my peas first, when I heard him laughing.
“Laura, if you want to pick a fight, pick on someone who is not already wounded.”
He lay flat on his back, and I leaned over to help him up. He grasped my hands tightly and pulled to hoist himself, but instead toppled me over on top of him. He grunted as his arms went around me, effectively locking me in place, our noses almost touching.
His breath was warm on my face. “If you are not a Yankee, you should be.”
I struggled to get off of him, but he held me tighter. “What do you mean?”
A small grin touched his lips, so close to mine. “Because you are more lethal than a Yankee bullet.”
“Let go of me.”
He complied, but as I tried to move off him without touching him more than necessary, my right knee collided with his injured leg, making him groan in pain. I quickly rolled off and knelt beside him.
“I’d like to say I’m sorry, but you have to admit you deserved it. And if you’re so afraid I might injure you further, why don’t you return to the front lines? You’ll be safer there.”
His eyes were shadowed as he answered. “I am beginning to think that myself.” He sat up unassisted and then hauled himself up to a standing position.
He held his hand out to me. “Come on. It is time for dinner.”
Ignoring his hand, I stood by myself. “In a minute. I’ve got to clean up this mess first.”
Without a word, he righted the overturned basket and began picking up peas.
* * *
Following dinner, the children were put to bed and the three adults retired to the parlor. Julia brought her sewing basket, and her slender fingers pushed the silver needle with lightning speed. By the end of the evening she had completed a pair of pants for Willie.
I volunteered to mend some of Sarah’s stockings. After struggling to thread the needle in the dim candlelight and then ripping out most of my uneven stitches, Julia suggested I play the piano. I opened sheet music for the sad Confederate ballad “Lorena” and began to play, losing myself in the music while I concentrated on reading the unfamiliar notes.
A gentle sob came from behind me as the last note faded and I turned to look at Julia, whose head was still bent to her sewing. Stuart walked over to her and put a hand gently on her shoulder.
I quickly turned back to the piano. “How about something livelier?” I asked as I broke into a Scott Joplin medley. I was halfway through “Maple Leaf Rag” when Sukie entered to announce Dr. Watkins.
“What is that music?” he demanded. “It sounds like music from a New Orleans brothel.”
I lifted my hands from the keys. “And just how would you know what kind of music they play in a New Orleans brothel, sir?”
The doctor turned an interesting shade of red and glared at me.
Stuart intervened. “Now, Charles. Laura was only trying to lift our spirits—which she did marvelously. Sit down and tell us what brings you here this evening.”
Placated for the time being, the doctor turned to Julia, took an envelope out of his coat pocket, and handed it to her. “I was at the company store today and took the liberty of getting your mail.”
We all stared at Julia as she excused herself to open the envelope and read the enclosed letter. It took her a long while, and I realized she was reading it twice. She quickly dropped the letter on the table. Her mending slid onto the floor, but she didn’t pick it up. Her voice was higher pitched than usual when she spoke. “My mother is coming from Nashville for a visit.” Lines of worry creased her forehead. “I do not know how safe that would be for her.”
Stuart leaned forward in his chair. “She will be fine. As I recall, she is a formidable force to reckon with. I would not want to be the one to stand in her way, and I pity the person who does.” Stuart grinned, but something else showed in his face that made me wonder what his true feelings were regarding Julia’s mother. “When should we expect her?”
Julia glanced at the top of the letter and her eyes widened. “Oh, dear. This letter was written five weeks ago. She could be here any day now. There is so much to do.” She hastily folded up her sewing and shoved it back into the basket.
“Please excuse me,” she said as she stood. Anticipating my offer of help, she turned to me and added, “Laura, please stay here and play hostess for the gentlemen.” Not waiting for an answer, she left the room.
Turning toward the two men, I said, “I won’t be offended if you two want to retire to the library for something stiffer than coffee.”
“Thank you, Laura. I think we will. But please continue to play the piano. Dr. Watkins has yet to enjoy your playing.”
The doctor raised an eyebrow. “Only if she will choose something genteel this time. A lady should never consider anything else.”
Stuart sent me a warning look over the doctor’s head, and I kept my smile plastered in place. As soon as the sliding doors between the parlor and library were shut, I spun myself around o
n the piano bench and started banging out another Scott Joplin rag. I hoped that it was shaking the starch out of the doctor’s stiff white collar and annoying the hell out of him.
CHAPTER TEN
The Past—the dark unfathom’d retrospect!
The teeming gulf—the sleepers and the shadows!
The past! the infinite greatness of the past!
For what is the present after all but a growth
out of the past?
—WALT WHITMAN
The following Sunday, after donning one of Miss Eliza Smith’s highly serviceable but barely fashionable dresses, I was ready for church. The muslin dress was a sedate brown, with small green flowers striping the skirt and bodice. A prim white collar and white undersleeves completed the ensemble and made me feel almost Puritan. Sukie coerced me into wearing a corset, explaining that without one, I could cause considerable embarrassment to the Elliotts. My ribs creaked as she pulled the laces tight. After walking two steps without being able to expand my lungs, I readily understood the need of a fainting couch.
I donned the requisite bonnet and kid gloves, then walked downstairs and out of the house, beads of sweat already forming on my forehead.
Stuart stood clutching a wooden cane beside the four-wheeled buggy.
I did a double take, as I had never seen him use a cane. “Is your leg hurting today?”
He made a big production of fiddling with the horses’ harnesses. “No, the leg is fine. Doing much better, actually.”
“Then why do you have a cane? Any young ladies at church you’re trying to impress?”
He sent me a withering glance. “Yes, I guess it is for show, but it is not what you think.”
Trying to tread lightly on the subject, I asked, “I don’t mean to intrude, but is it to make the other citizens of Roswell feel sorry for you so that they won’t be so hateful to you and Julia?”
He stopped his fiddling and looked me square in the eye. “Since you seem to thrive on directness, I will be direct with you. There are some nasty rumors about who Robbie’s father is, and I am hoping that if they see how badly I was incapacitated by my wound, they would not think that . . . well . . . that I could have done such a thing.”
