A Reluctant Belle

by Beth White

  “Fire? What fire?”

  Charmion folded the dress, then laid it carefully down in the chair. “Sunday night somebody burned down the Shake Rag church. Everybody here’s out there rebuilding it so we can have services on Sunday.”

  “Somebody? Somebody who? Are you sure it wasn’t an accident?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t any accident. They made sure we knew that. As to who . . .” She shrugged. “Plenty white people around here don’t like us in possession of anything good or nice.”

  That was all too true. And there was no sense asking why. Considering the events he’d left behind in Tuscaloosa, motive could be in little doubt. But he resented her use of the word “us,” as if there were some impenetrable divide right here in this room. He considered her lovely, coffee-with-cream-colored face, its oddly pitying expression. “I hope you won’t put me in that camp, Charmion. No matter what happens in the next month or so.” Giving her a grave bow, he stepped back onto the porch and replaced his hat.

  He hoped it wouldn’t take any longer than a month to root out his father’s killer and bring him to justice.

  There was something different about him.

  Caught in the act of biting off a thread she had just knotted in Charmion’s baby quilt, Joelle jabbed the needle attached to it into her thumb. “Ow!” Sticking the injured digit in her mouth, she jumped to her feet, jarring the frame, and stared at Schuyler, who stood in the doorway of India and Shug’s two-room house.

  “Don’t bleed on the quilt!” Aurora fixed Schuyler with a look equally annoyed as the one she’d given Joelle. “And you. You’re blocking the light.”

  Removing his hat, Schuyler sauntered in and looked around. In fact, he looked at everything in the room except Joelle. She could have been a tall, red-haired gnat for all the attention he paid her. “Would have been nice if you folks had left a note on the door, to let people know where you are.”

  “Clearly you figured it out,” Joelle said around her thumb. “Because here you are, like a—a mosquito one can’t escape.”

  He looked at her then, and his lips tightened.

  Hit! She’d gotten a reaction.

  He shook his head. “Mosquito? Miss Wordsmith, I would have thought you could come up with something a little more creative than that.”

  “I’m just surprised to see you. We assumed you’d gone off on one of your drinking binges with Hifcoat and Jexon.”

  His cheeks tinged red. “Hixon and Jefcoat. And I haven’t seen either of them since the opera.”

  “I stand corrected.”

  “Would the two of you please sit down?” demanded Aurora. “The rest of us are getting a crick in our necks. Here, stop the bleeding.”

  Accepting Aurora’s proffered handkerchief, Joelle reluctantly resumed her seat. “Thank you.” She busied herself with binding her thumb, then jumped when Schuyler plucked the handkerchief away from her.

  “Here, let me,” he growled, kneeling beside her. “You can’t do that with one hand.”

  “I know that, I was just . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence because her hand was engulfed in both of his, and they were gentle and deft, and all her blood had rushed to places in her body she hadn’t known were there. It wasn’t fair that he should arrive here with no warning, after she’d made up her mind that she never wanted to see him again. Despite the fact that she dreamed about him nearly every night. In full color.

  He dropped her hand and rose, brushing at the knees of his breeches. “I smell food.” He sniffed. “Collards.”

  Selah jumped to her feet. “I’ll fix you some. We already ate. Did you stop by the church to see the work? It’s going to be so beautiful.”

  “Yes, I went and poked my head in. I’ll go help after I eat. Haven’t had anything all day.” He followed Selah to the table in the corner and watched her ladle greens into a bowl. “I don’t suppose there’s any ham and cornbread to go with that?”

  “Where have you been?” Joelle blurted, then wanted to bite out her tongue. She hadn’t meant to let him know how much he’d been missed.

  He glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows raised, collards dripping off his fork. “I went to visit your grandmother.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “She promised me snickerdoodles.”

  Aurora snorted a laugh. “Grandmama loves you a lot if she shared her snickerdoodles.”

  Schuyler looked smug. “Women like me.”

  “Some do,” Joelle muttered. “Apparently he bamboozled an opera star.”

  “What does that mean?” he asked.

  “Look at this.” She reached into her pocket and tossed the telegram at him.

  He set down his bowl—with great reluctance—and picked up the envelope, which had fallen to the floor. He read the telegram and whistled. “Tomorrow?”

  “It seems her performances for the next week had to be canceled because of an attack of laryngitis. She needs a place to rest and recuperate.”

  Schuyler turned the brief message over and back again. “How do you know that?”

  “There was an article in the paper this morning. I didn’t think anything about it until Wyatt brought this telegram from town a little while ago.” Joelle folded her arms. “This is your fault. Now what are we going to do? We aren’t ready for guests.”

  “My fault—”

  “She could have laryngitis just as easily at the Peabody, but noooo . . . She has to travel all the way to Tupelo, chasing the ‘beautiful pazzo boy who make you so angry.’” Joelle mimicked Delfina’s sultry Italian accent.

  “Holy cats, did she really say that?” Aurora burst into laughter. “I’ve got to meet this woman.”

  Blushing, Schuyler dropped the telegram as if it contained some communicable disease and took refuge in his collards.

  Joelle was in no mood to rescue him. “She’s the one who kept me from crying in a closet after this bully insulted me in front of the entire opera board.”

  “Because you tried to shark my best friend out of forty-five dollars,” Schuyler reminded her.

  Joelle came off her chair again. “Why, you—”

  “Children, children,” Selah said mildly. “Instead of casting blame all over the county, perhaps we’d better decide how we’re going to make the most of such a celebrated guest.”

  “Guests,” mumbled Schuyler through a mouthful of cornbread.

  All four women stared at him.

  “What. Do. You. Mean?” asked Selah.

  Schuyler swallowed and wiped crumbs off his vest. “General Forrest and his wife are coming too. Tomorrow,” he added, as if that would somehow make it better. “They were at your grandparents’ musicale Wednesday evening. Mrs. Forrest mentioned the hotel, so I, uh, invited them to come.”

  “Without checking with us?” Even Aurora, who generally gave Schuyler the benefit of the doubt, looked annoyed.

  “It seemed like a good idea. We pulled off a ball last month. Surely we can put up a couple of guests for a few days.” His expression was defensive. “We are a hotel, are we not?”

  “Which is not set to open for at least another month.” Selah’s brown eyes narrowed. “Schuyler, we’ve had funerals and burned-down churches and all sorts of delays.”

  “And if I’m counting correctly,” Joelle added, “this will be more than a ‘couple’ of people involved. Delfina and her manager. General Forrest and Mrs. Forrest, and probably their servants. We’ll need to entertain them. We’ll need to feed them.”

  “It’s too late now,” Schuyler said. “They’re on their way.”

  Before Joelle could throttle him, Aurora clapped her hands. “I have an idea.”

  Joelle could hear the capital I on that last word. “It had better be a good one.”

  “We’ll have a barn dance.” When her Idea was met with blank silence, Aurora raised her chin. “In a barn.”

  “You’re going to subject a world-renowned classical musician to a country hoedown?” Selah’s voice was soft but incredul
ous. “I don’t think so.”

  “I agree,” Joelle said. “That’s ridiculous. But it gives me a better idea. India—” She addressed their hostess, who had continued quietly stitching, listening and smiling as the conversation bounced about in increasing absurdity.

  India put down her needle with a smile. “Yes, Miss Jo?”

  “I have heard some incredible music in this community while we’ve been working on the church. Would y’all consider coming to sing and play for our guests one evening while they’re here?”

  fifteen

  ON SATURDAY MORNING SCHUYLER SAT at a table in the Gum Tree Hotel dining room, struggling to sip coffee as he watched Doc wolf down a giant plate of hotcakes and ham.

  He’d tried to keep his hands off Joelle, but then she had to poke her finger with a needle and look offended, as if it were his fault. So what was a man to do but prove his courage by throwing himself straight into the fire of those blue eyes?

  Only it turned out he was a coward after all. He did care. He’d muttered an excuse and left Shake Rag to repair to the closest saloon. Without Hixon and Jefcoat to distract him, forgetting the disappointment that twisted Joelle’s lips when he’d laughed at her suggestion only came at the bottom of his third tankard.

  And it wasn’t worth the hangover. Never again.

  “Have you seen this?” Doc threw the newspaper at him and shoveled in another bite of ham. “This T. M. Hanson, whoever he is, is courting trouble.”

  Schuyler straightened the Tupelo Journal and searched for the appropriate byline. Above it, the title ran “Push for Negro Education Law Intensifies in Every State.” He skimmed the article, found it tightly written, factually supported by quotes from high-profile sources, and sympathetic to the liberal viewpoint without inflammatory language. After reading it again, more carefully, he looked up at Doc. “I’ve read this writer’s work before, I think. You’ve lived here most of your life. Do you know Hanson?”

  Doc shook his head. “Not that I know of,” he said, pouring cane syrup on his pancakes. “I think he lives in another county.”

  “What do you think about it?”

  “Educating Negroes?” Doc shrugged. “We’re moving into a new decade, essentially a new era. I see no sense in fighting the inevitable. Besides, Hanson is right. We’re all better off with a more educated electorate.”

  Schuyler’s head hurt, and he didn’t feel like talking about Negroes and education, but Doc had brought this up. Perfect opportunity to establish himself as the sort of jackweed who couldn’t think past his own nose. “There are folks who’d like to stifle the new electorate’s influence.”

  Doc put down his fork. “Yes. Shortsighted fools. Do you know anyone like that?”

  “Maybe you can afford to offend whoever you want, Doc, but I’ve got money to raise. Expectations to meet.”

  “What are you talking about? You haven’t embroiled the Daughtry ladies in anything illegal, have you?”

  “What? No! I’m just saying a man has to be careful which crazy liberal causes he takes up.”

  “You’ve been drinking this morning already?”

  “Why do you say that?” Schuyler gulped his coffee, burned his mouth, and spit it back into the cup. “Ow!”

  “There’s something off about you, Beaumont. More than usual.” Doc’s pale blue eyes penetrated past Schuyler’s skull, seemingly into his very brain.

  Couldn’t a fellow have a private thought without some Puritan trying to yank him back onto the mental straight and narrow?

  “I have not been drinking anything but this coal oil that passes for coffee in here. I’m merely shoring up my nerve before I go to the station to collect Joelle’s opera star and deliver her to the hotel. You asked me what I thought of that article, and I answered you as diplomatically as possible.”

  Doc’s dry smile appeared. “I’m not known for diplomacy. You’re serious about this run for Congress?”

  “I am. I’ve been launching my career beyond the family boundaries, with moderate success. I’m hopeful the hotel will eventually prove profitable. In the meantime, I want to try my hand at the political arena. Connections, you know.” Schuyler paused. He must be careful. It would be tricky to get information out of Doc without raising his suspicions. You are an insouciant noodlehead, Beaumont. You’ve done this before. “In fact, you are one of the best connections I have hereabouts, Doc, and I know you’ve lived here most of your life. You’ve built a successful practice seemingly from nothing. Perhaps you could give me some advice on how to proceed. You know, who to court for favor.”

  Doc didn’t answer for a moment, simply stared at Schuyler while thoughtfully chewing ham. Finally he laid down his fork and knife, put his elbows on the table, and steepled his long, clever fingers under his chin. “I could tell you, but you won’t like it.”

  “I’m no baby to cry at hard words.”

  “No, but you’re used to indulging yourself, and you seem to be happy letting events happen to you. It’s not a matter of ‘courting favor,’ but of courting action.”

  Stung, Schuyler sat back. “Go on.”

  “Yes, all right. Second, you find what you’re good at and run for it full-out. This scatter-shot business of playing at four or five things won’t do. I took on young Wyatt, for example, because his thirst for scientific knowledge so impressed me.”

  He had just been negatively compared to a fifteen-year-old stripling. Well, all right then. He nodded.

  “Third, you keep going when no one is watching. Discipline yourself when things are boring and tedious. Medical breakthroughs only come along in the wake of failure after failure. I should imagine it’s the same with the rail business—or whatever you decide to take up.”

  Was he too easily discouraged? He didn’t want to think so. “Thank you, Doc. I appreciate your—”

  “I’m not done. You’re going to be successful, Beaumont. I believe you can do those things, even though the evidence has certainly been spare.” When Schuyler laughed, Doc held up a hand. “So I want to go ahead and say this, let you tuck it away in preparation. You can bring enormous ruin on your own head if you don’t mark this well. Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you.” Fully electrified, Schuyler leaned in. His brother had said some of these same things, though he’d admittedly barely listened. Somehow it was different coming from this physician, whom he admired and genuinely desired to emulate.

  “Good. So when you are successful, got your wagon rolling downhill, so to speak, you must stay in control. Temptation to abandon principle will hunt you down.” Doc glanced at the bar, where a row of soused men of various ages lined the counter, even at this early hour. “Drunkenness and loose women will pull you under, tie you up, and refuse to let go.”

  Schuyler had never been overly fond of strong drink, preferring to keep his wits about him. And he possessed a well-hidden selfish streak that kept him away from the sort of fleshly entertainment his cohorts found so alluring. Why would he desire a woman who had given herself indiscriminately to other men? But proclaiming himself a Methodist would do him no favors at this juncture.

  He grinned. “Oh happy demise! Have done with your preaching, Doc. I don’t see why a fellow can’t let his wagon roll down an occasional side trail in the pursuit of excellence. Life’s too short to refuse a little sip of eau-de-vie!”

  Doc’s expression was a peculiar mixture of contempt and disappointment. “It’s your funeral. But if you think Joelle is going to abandon her preacher for that sort of slipshod nonsense, you don’t know her very well.” He went back to his paper.

  Joelle? Who’d said anything about Joelle? Was he an open, curtainless window that everyone so easily read his feelings? He’d best dispatch that assumption instanter. He made a rude noise. “The preacher is in for a rude awakening with our beautiful bluestocking, and I wish him well.” He looked at his watch and got to his feet. “I find well-seasoned Italian opera stars more to my taste. It’s time to meet the Fabio’s train. You com
ing?”

  “My office opens at nine. I’ve patients to attend.” Without looking up, Doc gave Schuyler a dismissive wave. “I’ll be out later to check on Charmion’s baby.”

  “Is there something wrong? She looked well yesterday.”

  Doc glanced up, a surprising flush rising to his cheeks. “It’s her first, and I want to keep an eye on her.”

  “Huh. All right, then. I’ll see you later.” When there was no further comment from Kidd, Schuyler shrugged and left the dining room.

  A short stroll down the street took him to the station, where he’d left the carriage tied to a hitching post in a tree-lined lot reserved for that purpose. After checking on the two sorrels, he entered the station, thrumming with a crowd of citizens gathered to meet the midmorning train from Memphis via Holly Springs—one of the last two scheduled to arrive for the weekend.

  Cooling his heels in a sunny spot on the boardwalk near the tracks, he allowed his thoughts to rove to that serendipitous trip to Oxford in late February, when he’d fallen into company with Levi Riggins. Inescapable, the idea that some higher power had arranged that meeting. Levi—claiming to be a hotel agent as cover for his true assignment of investigating a spate of railroad robberies and murders for the Pinkerton agency—had reconnected Schuyler with the Daughtry sisters. In order to complete his vision of establishing a new rail link between Oxford and Tupelo, supported by a luxury hotel, Schuyler had been attempting for some time to purchase Ithaca plantation from the impoverished young women. For some reason, though he’d known the family for decades, his offer of cash for their moldering ancestral home had been met with every shade of resentful resistance.

  Levi had somehow managed to smooth the negotiation and turn Selah’s smoldering refusal toward compromise. Once he heard the tale of Levi and Selah’s dramatic and frankly romantic meeting in a train wreck rescue, Schuyler better understood her shift in stance. Practical and outspoken Selah would never be Schuyler’s cup of tea, but Levi had been besotted from the outset. And, it seemed, vice versa. They were a cloying pair of lovebirds, for sure.