by Beth White
“I served in Grierson’s unit, under Smith and Sturgis. And yes, sir, we tore up about ten miles of M&O rail after we thumped you Rebs at Old Town Creek.”
“Which happened one day after we’d tricked y’all into the bottleneck retreat at the Tishomingo Bridge. If I hadn’t been wounded out of commission that day, you’d never have come back at Old Town Creek.”
“Well, we’ll never know that, will we, sir?” Levi’s tone was respectful, quiet. But Schuyler heard the flint underneath. Levi was angry.
Forrest stopped and peered into Levi’s face. “You look familiar. Did I run into you personally somewhere?”
Alarmed, Schuyler gave Levi a warning look from behind the general’s back.
“I doubt that,” Levi said evenly. He suddenly grinned. “You wouldn’t have recognized me anyway, I was so covered in mud during those three days of the engagement. Horses could hardly keep their feet under them.”
Forrest laughed. “That’s true. But they gave it a valiant try. I remember your boys and your animals being skinny, undernourished, tired from long marches away from provisions. Amazing you fared as well as you did, especially in unfamiliar territory with poor sources of intelligence.”
“Sheer Yankee grit,” Levi said, acknowledging the generosity of the compliment. “And good equipment.”
“You still got one of those Yankee rifles that they load on Sunday and shoot all week?”
“Traded it in for a Winchester when I mustered out,” Levi said. He looked around at Jefcoat, Hixon, and Wyatt, listening with avid interest to the veterans’ conversation. “But enough war talk. It’s over and done, and we’re back to being fellow Americans, not enemies. Schuyler, I’m going to let you take over the tour from here. Selah asked me to stop at the blacksmith’s to see about a set of knives she had Nathan working on.” Giving Wyatt a friendly thump on the shoulder, Levi swung off toward the blacksmith shop, set a hundred yards or so up on a hill, not far from the Vincents’ cabin.
Schuyler was happy to gain the general’s attention, but he could hardly address what he really wanted to discuss with Forrest in the presence of others. “How would you like to inspect our cotton fields, General Forrest? We’re bringing them back on a different model than before the war.”
As he could have predicted, Wyatt and Schuyler’s two comrades quickly turned down this entertainment, but Forrest jumped at the chance to compare agricultural notes. The two parties went separate ways, the younger set to continue on toward the kennel, Schuyler and the general taking off in a meandering path toward the fields located just past a stand of trees to the west.
Before long they reached a slight rise, where the tilled fields, outlined by a creek on one side and a dirt road on the other, became visible as far as the eye could see. The general paused, legs planted wide, to take a deep, satisfied breath.
Schuyler found himself, to his own surprise, breathing an awkward prayer for guidance. There seemed something deeply problematic about asking the Almighty for help in dissemination. His whole life had been a direct blast toward fame and fortune—whatever that might turn out to look like. This detour into rooting out criminals, by virtue of pretending to be one, rather made his skin crawl.
Don’t think about it so hard. This is the right thing to do.
“Beautiful piece of property,” Forrest said. “Daughtry was proud of it. So proud that I’m afraid it destroyed his mind when he lost it. You’ve done a good job of bringing it back. How are you managing the labor? Sharecropping? Gang contracts?”
“I’m afraid you’d have to ask Selah about that,” Schuyler said. “She’s the manager. Though I believe she’s turned over a good deal of the day-to-day land management to Mose Lawrence.”
Forrest squinted at him. “Lawrence? The colored gardener?”
Schuyler wanted to say that Mose was much more than a gardener, but he nodded. “Unfortunately, I retained slightly less than half interest in the business, and she outvotes me.”
“That’s what’s wrong with allowing women to own property. No idea how to keep control of an investment. First thing you know, freed slaves will overrun the agricultural economy, and we’ll have chaos all over the South. No concept of profit and loss, planning for the future, care for the land. It’s like asking a newborn baby to feed and clothe itself!” The general’s tone wasn’t so much angry as puzzled, disgusted. “They send Northern ‘missionaries’ down here to overeducate people who’d be better off working the crops, politicians who don’t understand our culture to dictate our government . . . Someone’s going to have to step in and put a stop to it.”
Schuyler was very glad the headstrong Selah was safely in the house, nearly a mile away, or the general might have returned to dinner with a bloody nose. He hid his smile. “I know what you mean, sir. But I don’t know that there’s anything we can do about it. Now that the Negroes have been enfranchised, the horse is rather out of the barn.”
Forrest’s hawk-eyed stare focused on Schuyler’s face. “No disrespect to the dead, but your father said something similar—indicated that he was willing to work with liberal extremists to find common ground.” He spat on the ground. “That for common ground. Some of us have taken a stand to push back. Make them come our way for a change.”
Schuyler nodded. “I’d heard there’s work to that effect going on in Alabama, Georgia, and Tennessee. I’m hoping to see it here too.”
“Why do you think I came down here, son? Reports of your presence at that trial over in Tuscaloosa came back to me. You’re obviously interested in slowing down this creeping liberal shadow trying to overtake us. You’re educated, well connected, personable. I think you’ve got real leadership potential.”
It was really horrifying, Schuyler thought, how close he had come to being drawn into the quagmire of evil he was looking in the face. Six months ago he might actually have been flattered by the general’s assessment.
As it was, his stomach churned. He made himself smile and say, “I thought you’d never ask, sir. Tell me where and when, and I’ll be there.”
It was a big plantation, and finding a place to be alone shouldn’t have been that hard. But Joelle had finally been forced to resort to scrubbing the bathhouse to get her thoughts in order. Now she stood looking at the gleaming tiles, smelled the eau de Javel on her hands—the miracle solution for which Mr. Whitmore had truthfully claimed the ability to bleach any surface clean of mold or stains—and considered jumping in the pool to bathe.
That would be decadent, wouldn’t it? Taking a swim alone, before anyone else had a chance to enjoy the luxury. But she deserved it—after all, she’d done the work without any help.
She went to the doorway and peered across the road. No one knew where she was, because when she’d left Charmion’s house two hours ago, she’d told Doc and ThomasAnne (who had arrived to check on the baby’s progress) that she was going to the pagoda. Which she had done, but she’d kept getting distracted by the jays quarreling in the magnolia trees, and who could compose combative political questions outdoors on such a beautiful day? And then she’d wandered into the icehouse, which proved to be both creepy and confined, a combination she simply could not bear. Like Goldilocks seeking just the right chair, just the right bed, she’d gone around to the front porch, where she spotted the bathhouse through the front gate.
Eureka. Mindless tasks provided the perfect fallow field for deep thought.
And now the bathhouse was pristine. She had questions for Schuyler all lined up in her head, and there was no reason not to swim for a few minutes before subjecting herself to the torture of entertaining a houseful of strangers. She walked back over to the pool burbling through a pipe from the spring-fed creek in the woods behind the bathhouse. Almost she could see her thirteen-year-old self reading her book there, innocently unaware of the creature that was about to descend upon her unsuspecting head.
She was going to eliminate that memory, right here, right now—replace it with a sort of baptismal ceremony
of independence. No more Schuyler, metaphorically jumping upon her without warning, inhabiting her mind and heart and refusing to leave. Of course, she still had to interview him for the story, but that was purely business. Literary commerce. Reporter and subject.
Catching her thoughts verging upon unhealthy obsession, she gave herself a mental shake. “You deserve a nice solitary bath,” she told herself aloud.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t thought to bring a bathing costume with her. In fact, she had no bathing costume. Probably Aurora did—Aurora owned every possible article of clothing invented since Eve started sewing with fig leaves—but it was too late to borrow, and besides, baby sister wasn’t as big as a minute. Anyway, as she had already noted, no one would know if she simply took off her dress and swam in her chemise and drawers.
Before she could change her mind, she unhooked the waistband of her skirt and let it drop to the clean tile floor, then began to unbutton the sleeves of her blouse. Once free of the simple outer garments she habitually wore for housework—she’d never been fond of the rolls and pads fashionable for shaping the hips into fantastic shapes below the waist, in fact dispensed with them whenever she thought she could get away with it—she bent to take off her shoes and stockings. Feeling giddy with anticipation, she sat down on the edge of the pool and dunked her feet in.
She shrieked in shock at the icy temperature. She’d forgotten how cold creek water could be in the springtime. But she also remembered that the body had a way of adjusting, so she took a deep breath and jumped in. Submerged, she forced herself to stay under, shivering, until she could no longer hold her breath. At last she broke the surface, gasping, shuddering with cold, but delightfully refreshed and laughing with pleasure.
And found herself scooped into a pair of strong, muscular arms and held close to a broad chest.
“Joelle! Are you all right?” Schuyler stood up with her, fully clothed and sopping wet.
Dumbfounded, she looked up at his drenched face. “Have you gone stark raving mad? What are you doing?”
“I heard you scream. I thought you were drowning!” His eyes raked her from her dripping hair to her bare toes. “You seem to be all right.”
“Of course I’m all right! I was just startled by the cold. Put me down! And stop looking at me!”
“You might have a little gratitude,” he growled. “Here I’ve ruined my clothes—”
“Put me down!” She struggled against his arms, he lost his balance, and they both went under. Kicking and thrashing, she started to panic, until Schuyler shoved her up into fresh air once more. She swallowed water, choked and coughed. Schuyler grabbed her and turned her back to his chest. One arm hooked around her waist, he squeezed, gently pounding her between the shoulder blades with the heel of the other hand. “Let”—she coughed violently—“go—of me!”
The most awful part of this whole debacle was the terrifying surge of joy she felt in his sudden presence. She wanted him to hold her, she wanted to turn and fling her arms around his neck, but this was indecent. She’d had no business removing her clothes, and he certainly had no business pulling her closer.
Which he did.
Whereupon she lost control of her limbs and went utterly slack with his forearm under her ribs, floating in the water as she caught her breath. Her head went back against his shoulder, her face turned under his chin, he dipped his head, and his lips came for hers.
“Joelle,” he muttered, his lips catching hers. A second later he drew back. “Salt.”
“What?” She sniffed.
“You taste like salt. You’re crying.”
“Of course I’m crying. I’ve just lost every bit of dignity I ever possessed.”
“But you’re breathing.”
“Yes. Barely.”
“All right then. Can you stand up?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to let you go and turn my back. Get out and put your clothes back on. Then we’re going to talk.”
“You said no more—”
“I’m an idiot. Don’t listen to me. Well, listen to me now. Just—” He heaved an exasperated breath. “We have to talk, Joelle. But with your clothes on.” His arm slid away.
Bereft, she cast a quick look over her shoulder and found him launching himself out of the far side of the pool. True to his word, he stood with his back to her, dripping like a statue of Poseidon in a fountain. Hurriedly she dressed, hands shaking, fingers fumbling at closures. Looking down at herself, she realized she was only marginally more modest than she’d been a few minutes ago, since she didn’t have a towel, and her wet undergarments soaked through her blouse. Her hair hung in sopping red waves about her shoulders.
She folded her arms across her chest. “I’m dressed,” she mumbled. “You can turn around.”
He did so, and to his credit, his eyes remained on her face. “I’m sorry to have scared you like that,” he said humbly. “I really thought you were in trouble.”
“I know.”
“You’re still shaking.” He looked miserable. “Didn’t you know creek water in May is like ice?”
“Yes, but I was enjoying it. I’d been cleaning, and I was hot and dirty, and I wanted a bath.” She paused, suddenly suspicious. “How did you know I was here? Were you following me?”
“No! But I happened to be walking around the side of the house, and I saw you come to the door of the bathhouse and look out. I just wondered what you were up to.”
“I’m not up to anything! I was going about my business, working like a—like a servant, which I am, trying to make this place habitable for our guests. I thought Delfina might like to go swimming later in the week, so I came over to clean it and have some thinking time. Then, like I said, I got all sweaty and needed a bath, and—What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
His mouth was grim, and there was a sort of smoky look to his eyes, an expression she could not interpret. Slowly he lifted his hand to rake water off one cheek. After an interminable minute, he exhaled, jerked his gaze away. “Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five—”
“Schuyler! What on earth is wrong with you?”
“Don’t move!” he said, putting out a hand. “Stay over on that side of the pool and we’ll be fine. In fact, sit down right where you are. We’ll get this little conversation over with, I’ll be on my way, and you can think to your heart’s content.”
Tired of arguing, tired of explaining herself, she shrugged and dropped to sit on the tile floor. Arms encircling her knees, which were drawn up under her skirt, she stared at Schuyler resentfully. All her carefully worded interview questions had flown to bits. Let him do the talking for once.
“This is not working,” he finally said, taking a seat on the bench against the wall behind him. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them. “I thought I could come here and play host to our guests and ignore you. But it seems I can’t. So I’m leaving. Today. After I change my clothes.” He paused, as if waiting for her to add something. When she pinched her lips together and shrugged again, he sat up. “And don’t tell me you don’t care, because you obviously do! You know what almost happened as well as I do. I’m not a child anymore, Joelle. It’s not fair for you to be sitting there looking like a mermaid out of a fairy tale, when I can’t—when you—” He shoved both hands through his hair, looking at her with his eyes burning. “And while I’m at it, don’t you ever go walking around by yourself anymore, especially if you’re going to be taking off your clothes to go swimming. Bring one of the other girls or a servant, or somebody to watch out for you. What if it hadn’t been me that came along? What if somebody—” He lurched to his feet. “I’d kill any man who touched you, Joelle, so don’t put me to the test. Do you understand me?”
Her mouth fell open. He was so angry, so clearly frustrated, and she had no idea what she’d done to make him that way. He’d actually kissed her, that wasn’t her imagination, but now he looked like a lit torpedo. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what
was going on behind those steel-blue eyes. So she nodded. “Where are you going?” she whispered.
“I’m not sure. Come on. I’ll walk you back to the house.”
She got up without his help and followed him out the door. They crossed the road together, a pace or two apart, went through the main gate, and up the drive path. After walking her around the side of the main house to the manager’s cottage, he gave her a stiff nod, then marched toward the stable, boots squishing with every step.
Joelle picked up her damp skirts and tiptoed inside to her bedroom. She got out of her clothes—just let them fall into a soggy pile on the floor—put on a dressing gown, and lay down on her bed, where she cried herself to sleep.
seventeen
SCHUYLER WALKED DOWN MAIN STREET TUPELO, barely aware of the Saturday evening shutdown going on around him.
Tupelo or Oxford. He had a choice of where to begin this odyssey. Lots of connections in his college town. A comfortable place to hole up at the Thompson House. No Joelle within sixty miles.
He kicked a rock into the street. Yes, there was that—probably the most compelling reason to leave Tupelo on the next train. The sight of her coming up out of that pool, water sluicing over her shoulders and pasting her garments to her body, turning her hair into rivers of molten gold, would remain forever branded in his mind.
Dear God, how many ways can a man be tortured by his own stupidity? I vow, I’m trying to become the man you want me to be. I realize I brought that on myself. I walked across the road when I should have gotten on a horse and ridden myself into submission. But once she screamed, what else was I to do? I couldn’t let her drown!
And around it went again. Until he came to the bottom line, which was: I want the best for her. I’m willing to let her go, Lord, if that’s what you want. Just please wipe my mind clear of anything that will take me in unholy directions.
