by Beth White
If the expression on his face was anything to go by, he wanted to back her into a corner right now. And she couldn’t have guaranteed she wouldn’t go willingly. As a demonstration of his new maturity, however, he said evenly, “Then he apparently doesn’t care to know you. Not really. Cracking you open is like getting the sweets out of a pecan. It’s a lot of work, but the result is pretty tasty.” He rose, dusted the seat of his pants, and snapped his fingers for the dog. “Come on, Hilo, I think we can find you something to eat around here. I’m hungry too.”
He left her to wonder what in the world he meant.
ten
HE’D DONE IT TO HIMSELF, bringing marriage proposals out into the open. Joelle might be painfully inattentive, but she wasn’t stupid. She knew what he’d been getting at.
During the funeral, conducted by the open grave, she stood behind the family with her sister and other close friends. Even the physical act of lifting his father’s coffin—his brother, brother-in-law, and an uncle at the other three corners—and lowering it into the grave, couldn’t overcome his relief that she’d come all this way to be with him. Oh, she loved Camilla and had an affection for “Mr. Zeke,” but she’d traveled two hundred seventy-five miles for him.
And if she hadn’t pulled away last night, he might have kissed her, no matter how many family members cluttered the house. It wasn’t just because she had the face of a Rossetti saint and a husky chuckle that knotted his insides. It was the fact that she understood him in ways no one else ever had. That she stood up to him and challenged him, emotionally and spiritually. That she could outthink him with half her brain tied behind her back.
But she had pulled away. There was Distance with a capital D between them now, and it was just as well. He should never have said it.
With a mental shake, he picked up a handful of red clay from the pile near the grave and tossed it onto the coffin. He and the other men—Jamie, Gabriel, and Levi—picked up shovels to finish filling the grave, while Uncle Goldon escorted the women back to the house.
Pa was gone.
Schuyler had lain awake all night, thinking about what he was going to do to help Levi find the killer. The problem was, they didn’t know enough about the Tuscaloosa riot. Somebody had deliberately stirred it up. No surprises as to why. The Ku Klux Klan had been active in Alabama and Mississippi, heating up toward the elections in November. Liberals, heavily supported by freedmen, had won seats in the state legislatures, and Mississippi had even elected a black US senator. By all accounts, Hiram Revels was a good man, a patient and godly man, capable of navigating the tinder of political conflict with goodwill and common sense.
Instead of allaying the anger of displaced planters, Revels’s popularity seemed to further enrage conservatives who wanted to maintain white power. As far as Schuyler knew, his father had been alarmed by his party’s bigotry and radicalism. A man of his times, Ezekiel Beaumont had only gradually and reluctantly bent toward a moderate platform, never to the point of jumping parties. But Schuyler would have wagered his soul his pa never donned a hood and cape to terrorize innocent people.
Somebody had. That riot had been in the open, no costumed marauders visible, but an underground tremor of violence rumbled through the events of the day. Maybe the two Negro speakers had been the target, and his father had simply been collateral damage. He had to know. There had to be a way of finding out who had fired that gun and why.
According to the sheriff, there had been several armed white men in the crowd. At least three were the sheriff’s own men, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t taken advantage of the chaos to fire at the balcony.
Sweat rolling down his back, Schuyler jammed the shovel into the dirt pile, relishing the expenditure of angry energy. They just didn’t have enough information. The Klan had been fairly open in its activities of late, now that federal troops had been withdrawn and Southern states readmitted to the Union, but identities were kept within the organization. Schuyler had heard talk in billiards parlors and saloons, though he’d paid little attention. Toward the end of their last year of college, Hixon had tried to get him to don a hood and costume for a drunken lark, but Schuyler had refused on the grounds that he had finals to study for.
Now he was glad he hadn’t gotten mixed up in that ugly tangle. Doubtful that Hixon was an active member of the Klan; still, maybe Schuyler could ask him for his connection. Rumor had it that General Forrest was some kind of Grand Wizard. Seemed a little undignified for such a decorated military hero, but who knew?
“All right, men. That’s it.” Jamie rested his shovel against the earth and leaned on the handle.
Schuyler threw on one last shovelful, then stepped back beside his brother. He watched Gabriel smooth the dirt across the grave, as always meticulous with details, his black eyes somber, mouth grim. In spite of their political differences, Camilla’s husband had gotten along well with their blustery father. When he finished, the four of them stood there staring at the grave, avoiding each other’s eyes.
Finally Schuyler couldn’t take it anymore. “What are we going to do about this?” he burst out.
Jamie looked at him as if he were crazy. “What do you mean? You said Pinkerton is running the investigation. Isn’t that what he’s here for?” He angled his head toward Levi.
Schuyler gripped the handle of his shovel. “Levi is here to help. But I’m not going to sit on my hands either.”
Jamie laughed. “What are you going to do, dig for information?”
In his frustration, Schuyler might have launched himself at his hardheaded brother, but Levi put a hand on his shoulder.
“Someone’s got to,” Levi said. “If not literally, then figuratively. Yesterday I interviewed several black men who’d been in the crowd during the riot. We weren’t allowed to talk to the prisoners, but we’ve got to figure out a way to do that.”
“How do you know they’ll tell you the truth?” Jamie sounded tired—which he probably was. Schuyler had risen at dawn and found his brother drinking coffee on the back porch. “What were they arrested for?”
“Probably nothing more than standing there covered in dark skin,” Gabriel said.
Jamie flinched. “You know I didn’t mean anything like that.” Gabriel’s half–Creek Indian descent left him open to the occasional snide remark here in the cradle of the Confederacy.
“It’s implied by the question.” Gabriel’s tone was reasonable but relentless. “Go on, Riggins. What are you thinking?”
Levi held Schuyler’s gaze. “Sky and I talked about this on the trip down here, but the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced I missed something yesterday. I’ve got to go back to Tuscaloosa. Anyway, none of the freedmen in the crowd that morning were armed—it’s against the law for them to own guns. But an unidentified witness reported that shortly before the fire they’d seen Thomas and Perkins, the two black rally spokesmen, scuffling in the dark for a rifle in the hands of a third Negro going by the name of Harold Moore. Moore claims this white schoolteacher, Lemuel Frye, had attacked him. Nobody seems to know where Moore came from, let alone how he tangled with Frye.”
“Lemuel Frye runs a school for black children outside Tuscaloosa,” Schuyler explained for Jamie and Gabriel’s benefit. “He’s a liberal agitator, and the sheriff jailed him along with the Reverend and the militiaman.”
Gabriel tapped his lip, frowning. “None of that makes sense.”
Levi nodded. “One thing that’s obvious to me is there’s some broader organization behind this. Even if Mr. Beaumont wasn’t the target, those shots up into the balcony were not random. President Grant pulled federal troops out, but he’s got his justice department looking into violence down here.”
“The Klan isn’t the only group,” Schuyler said. “But they’re the biggest and most influential. They’d be the first culprit to look at.”
“Agreed.” Levi shook his head. “Problem is, they’re loosely organized, and though there are rumors of who the leaders are, i
dentifying them for sure is nearly impossible.”
“You need someone to infiltrate.” Gabriel grinned. “But don’t look at me—my spying days are over.”
“Mine too,” Levi said. “My accent would be a dead giveaway, and this culture—”
“I’ll do it.” Schuyler said.
The other three stared at him.
Jamie was scowling. “You’re out of your mind, little brother.”
“No, he’s perfect for it,” Levi said slowly. “Confederate war service, Ole Miss grad, wild reputation, spoiled rich kid with too much time on his hands.”
Schuyler tried not to wince as his character went under scrutiny, indictment, conviction. He had only himself to blame, even if the details were a bit blown out of proportion.
“You can’t just walk in and join the Ku Klux Klan,” Jamie insisted. “There are background investigations and initiation rituals.”
“I hate to remind you of this,” Schuyler said, “but no one is going to discover much political conviction on my part, in either direction. It should be fairly easy to convince them I’m interested in stepping into our father’s shoes, but without his nasty moral complications. I can be seen to curry political favor, solicit campaign funds, whatever I need to do to work my way in.”
Jamie seemed about to argue, but Gabriel held up a hand. “There’s another problem. Most Klan activity seems to originate in Mississippi. Running for the Alabama gubernatorial spot won’t help us much.”
“Then I’ll run in Mississippi’s state congressional race. I’ve already established residency there with the hotel and Oxford-to-Tupelo rail venture.”
Levi regarded him with respect, and Schuyler realized his and Joelle’s prayer had been answered. If things went sideways, he might be throwing away his reputation and possibly even his life. But he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he had been born for this moment.
Then Levi said, “But you know you can’t tell anyone what you’re doing. Not even Joelle.”
The women had taken over the front porch. Camilla, holding the sleeping baby, shared the swing with Selah, while Joelle and Bronwyn occupied the two rocking chairs. The three older children had been put down for a nap upstairs. Lazily plying a silk fan, Joelle pushed her toe against the floor to move the rocker. The story was, Mr. Zeke had imported the fan, along with a beautiful, gaudy kimono, from Japan for Camilla’s sixteenth birthday. That was before she’d gotten caught smuggling escaped slaves up the Alabama River in whiskey barrels, then run off to New Orleans to marry a half–Creek Indian Union spy.
Camilla never talked about her wartime exploits when she was at home. Selah said that was because Camilla didn’t want to embarrass her family by reviving the scandal. Joelle personally thought the Beaumonts should all be proud of a young woman who had repeatedly risked her life to help others. And she could certainly understand why Camilla would fall in love with exotic Dr. Laniere.
One day she might write Camilla’s story and become as famous as Mrs. Alcott or Mrs. Stowe. Right now, however, she must listen to the three married women discuss prosaic topics like colicky babies and removing urine odor from upholstery. Why couldn’t the conversation drift toward something more interesting like marital intimacy or—
“Joelle? Did you hear me?”
She blinked and focused on Camilla. “I’m sorry. What?”
Selah snorted. “I told you, there’s some story in her head all the time. She’s going to be standing at the altar with a blank look on her face while everyone waits for her to say ‘I will.’”
“No I won’t! Did you ask me something, Milla?”
“I just asked when you’re planning the wedding. Gabriel and I were married on the run from Mobile to New Orleans.” Camilla giggled. “Found a pastor as soon as we got to Union territory.”
Joelle dropped the fan. Now, this was interesting. “Why? Didn’t you want your family there?”
“We had no chaperone during the trip, and Gabriel was concerned for my reputation.” Camilla patted the baby’s bottom, a small smile on her heart-shaped face. “He is a very decisive man, and he doesn’t like to wait for anything.”
Joelle glanced at Selah. “Gil has been waiting for me for well over a year. He’s very . . . patient.”
Selah huffed. Joelle knew what her sister thought about Gil’s patience.
“Do you love him?” Bronwyn asked.
Joelle bit her lip. She did love Gil, in a Christian brother sort of way. She admired him too, as the leader of their congregation.
Before she could reply, Bronwyn shook her neatly coifed head. “Never mind, that was impertinent. Obviously you do, or you wouldn’t have agreed to marry him.”
Selah cleared her throat. “Look, there come the men. We should put the food on the table. I’m sure they’ll be hungry.”
In the general confusion of preparing and eating a post-funeral meal with three little people and a shaggy dog underfoot, Joelle managed to shrug off the sense of impending disaster that had hovered over her head all day. The three Beaumont siblings seemed to be taking the loss of their father remarkably well. Young mother Camilla, always an even-keeled sort of girl, clearly had too much to do, caring for her demanding little ones, to wallow in grief. Jamie took his feelings deep inside, to a private place not even his wife seemed able to penetrate. He ate with stoic duty, as if cleaning his plate gave him control over out-of-control circumstances.
Schuyler looked . . . odd, some pent-up engine propelling every movement. He pushed his food around his plate, then slipped it under the table for the dog. He tapped a maddening tattoo against the table with his spoon until Camilla took it away from him. He sloshed tea out of his glass, mopped it up, and went to the butlery for more. He said something in an undertone to Levi, who responded with a laugh, then fell into a morose silence that worried Joelle most of all.
Finally, he shoved his chair away from the table and announced, “I’m going for a walk.”
“I’ll go with you.” Ignoring the stares of the other four adults, Joelle laid her napkin on her plate. “I’ll clear the table when I get back,” she told Bronwyn and hurried after Schuyler.
He was already out the front door and halfway down the block, headed downtown. She caught up to him by running at a most undignified pace.
Without slowing down, he glanced at her, frowning. “They’re going to think . . . Never mind.”
“I don’t care what anybody thinks.”
“Yes, you do.” His lips tightened. “You’ve got to.”
“Schuyler, stop.” She grabbed his arm. “What’s the matter?”
He pulled away. “Go back to the house. I need some time to think.”
“It’s a free country. I can walk and think just as well as you can.”
He laughed, a rusty sound that broke her heart. “Leave it to you to turn a stroll down the street into an argument.”
“We are not strolling. We’re running an Olympic race.”
He turned and stepped in front of her so suddenly that she plowed into him full-on. His face was a study in frustration, fists clenched, and she put her hands on his chest to keep her balance. Or so she told herself.
“What do you want, Joelle?” he said. “What do you want from me? We can’t be confidants anymore. We can’t even be—argument mates anymore.”
“I know that. I do.” She looked up at him, longing to slide her hands up around his neck, restrained by the fact that they were on a public street. Thank the Lord for that. “But this is a hard time for you and your family. I just don’t think it’s good for you to bottle everything up and pretend it’s all right. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with me listening to your heart.”
He closed his eyes, as though she’d just hit him. “Jesus, have mercy.”
She knew that was a prayer, because Schuyler never swore in front of women. He was still and silent so long, she finally said, “Schuyler?”
With a long sigh, he opened his eyes and looked down at her. Wh
at she saw there for a split second buckled her knees, but it was gone so fast she couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just a flash of light flickering through the mossy oak limb draped over the road. Methodically he took her hands, squeezed them briefly, and dropped them as if picking lint off his suit. “Listen to me, Joelle. I’m going to say this as kindly and clearly as I can. Are you listening? Sometimes you go off into a daydream with your eyes wide open.”
“I’m listening.” Her heart thudded. What was she afraid of? This was just Schuyler.
“Good. This is hard, because we’ve been friends for a long time. I know you’re used to telling me exactly what you think, and demanding your way, and putting up with my nonsense. But we are adults now, and it’s got to stop. You chose another man, and I’ve got work to do, so I’m moving on with my life. Without you. We’re going to see a good bit of each other, since the hotel will bring me to Tupelo occasionally, but that will be business.”
You chose another man. You chose another man. The words banged about in her head like his spoon hitting the table earlier. Stop. Stop. Stop.
“Business,” she repeated stupidly.
“Yes.” He nodded, clearly relieved that she didn’t argue. “Just so you’ll know, I’ve decided to run for the Mississippi state legislature, which means I’ll be traveling over the next few months. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me in your prayers.”
Her lips felt numb, but she managed to say, “Of course I will.”
“Thank you. Now please, go back to the house and help the other girls clear the table. I’ve got a lot to think about right now. Trust me. I’m fine.” He turned and walked away from her with his athletic Schuyler-stride, turned a corner, and disappeared.
Well. She’d tried to help him, but pray for him? She wasn’t sure she could do that without falling apart. Best not to think about him at all.
Ten minutes later she walked into the kitchen without any concept how she’d gotten there.
Bronwyn, standing at the sink in an apron, dish towel in hand, turned to look at her. “Joelle? Are you all right? Is Schuyler—”
