A Reluctant Belle

by Beth White

  With that plea ringing in his brain, he fetched up in front of the Emporium on one side of the street and the Rattlesnake Saloon on the other. Oliver Whitmore owned both. According to the conversation he’d had with General Forrest, Schuyler should start with Whitmore in his pursuit of Klan activity. No big surprise there. The merchant had made no secret of his disparagement of the Daughtry ladies’ nasty habit of promoting and encouraging Negro suffrage and employment.

  Thinking he’d more likely find loose tongues and volatile opinions inside the saloon than the mercantile, he dodged across the street.

  He found the Rattlesnake thriving in anticipation of the next day’s dry twenty-four hours. Every table was full, and a row of farmers lined up at the bar, elbows bent with the quaff of choice to hand. With a quick scan of the murky interior of the room, Schuyler located Whitmore himself, holding forth in a back corner, at a large round table surrounded by a motley variety of gentlemen. A few of them, including town barber JJ Fisher, Mr. Brown of the Gum Pond Hotel, and constable Alonzo Pickett, Schuyler recognized. As he approached the table and moved to a position that enabled him to see those with their backs to the door, he was surprised to find among the company his friend Hixon and Joelle’s betrothed, Gil Reese.

  Stiffening his resolve, he hailed Hixon with a loud “Halloo, old man! What are you doing here?”

  “I’d ask you the same thing, Beaumont,” Hixon said with a sloppy grin that proclaimed he’d already been sampling the Rattlesnake’s stock. “Pretty women back at the plantation, I’d not expect you to be anywhere else.”

  Schuyler glanced at Reese, whose stoic expression disguised whatever discomfort he felt in his surroundings. He seemed to be unaware of the full tankard of beer at his elbow.

  “Beaumont,” Reese said between his teeth, giving Schuyler a stiff nod.

  Schuyler carelessly returned the greeting and dragged over a free chair, which he turned around and straddled backward. “Hixon, I expect you to alert me in the future of meetings that could be of interest to my campaign.” He sent his friend a look intended to convey good-natured rebuke.

  Hixon blinked. “You’re serious about that? I thought you was just blowing smoke.”

  “Of course I’m serious. Time to make a bigger mark on the world.”

  “Well, but . . .” Hixon looked around at the older men at the table, shrugged, and retreated behind his tankard.

  “Son, you can’t just walk in on a private meeting,” the constable spoke up, “no matter if you’re acquainted with one or two of us.”

  Having anticipated some resistance, Schuyler cocked his head and grinned as if he’d just heard a great joke. “Mr. Pickett, you misunderstand. General Forrest is my guest at the hotel, and he assured me of my welcome with you gentlemen. In fact, he’d planned to accompany me and introduce me himself, but finds himself indisposed today by that little wound from the Crossroads.” He paused and rubbed his own right thigh, as if experiencing a twinge of sympathetic pain. “The general bade me extend his regards and asked me to assure you all of his continuing support for the cause.”

  A muttering of appreciation for the war hero went up around the table, and everyone relaxed.

  Everyone, that is, except Gil Reese, who gave Schuyler a hard stare. “Have you seen my betrothed today? Will she be at church tomorrow?”

  “Miss Daughtry has not made me privy to her daily schedule. But if you are concerned that she might be forgetting who you are, I suggest a bit of attention in the form of flowers and poetry, to assure her of your continued devotion.” Fully aware of Joelle’s expressed opinion of maudlin sentimentality (despite a well-hidden romantic streak), Schuyler told himself that he was utterly wicked. Frankly, sir, I do not care, his wicked self replied. Let the games begin.

  “Then she doesn’t know where you are?” Reese pressed him.

  “No. And she won’t, unless you tell her.” The hypocrite. The threat was clear. Beginning to understand his father’s growing antipathy to the excesses and blindness of the Confederate status quo, he turned to Whitmore, as the most likely leader of the group. “I’m sorry I missed the fun last Sunday. Perhaps you’ll fill me in on what progress has resulted from this more head-on attack on the problems we’re facing.”

  Whitmore cut his eyes at Reese. “Sunday? Everyone here was in a place of worship that day.”

  “Not me,” Hixon blurted. “I was asleep half the day, over at the Thompson in Oxford. At least until Jefcoat dragged me out of bed.” He blinked owlishly. “I think that was Sunday. The days run together a bit. Is today Friday? Or Saturday?”

  Ignoring both Hixon and Whitmore, Brown addressed Schuyler’s question. “I believe we have seen a natural recoil in certain parties. My bootblacks and maids at the hotel seem convinced that their vote is not worth the cost of lives and property. Whoever did it, the loss of the church has made everyone think twice.”

  Schuyler glanced at Reese, who seemed to be the one member not entirely on board with the group’s agenda. Expecting the preacher to protest, Schuyler braced himself to pronounce his own enthusiasm.

  But Reese gave a rather sullen nod, folded his arms, and remained silent. He might not agree wholeheartedly, but he was going along with whatever had been cooked up at this roundtable.

  “We’ve got to think long-term,” Whitmore declared. “Nobody really wants to exert more harshness than is absolutely necessary. But sometimes one must cut a plant off at the root in order for it to grow healthy branches. Am I right?” He looked around, clearly daring anyone to disagree.

  No one disagreed.

  Brown cleared his throat. “Speaking of long-term, I’m wondering about the next step. Turning up the heat, so to speak.”

  Whitmore cast Brown a warning look. “Not here. We’ll meet tonight in the usual place at midnight. Anybody squeamish stay home.”

  Schuyler knew he was about to get shut out. “Where—” He stopped when Hixon kicked him under the table. “Where will you gentlemen be next Friday evening?” he said smoothly. “Out at Daughtry House, we’ll be hosting a hoopla for General Forrest and his wife—and there’s an Italian singer here, took it into her head to slum it with us for a week or so. You might be interested in the spectacle. I don’t recommend the caterwauling myself, but your wives might find it entertaining!” He laughed. “I can promise there’ll be good food! Our Horatia knows what to do with a barbecue butt!”

  Enthusiastic acceptance greeted the invitation, and Schuyler allowed the conversation to turn to general anticipation of food, music, and beautiful foreign women. It seemed he had passed a preliminary hurdle, and presumably Hixon would fill him in on the location of tonight’s meeting.

  He didn’t look forward to it, and he’d have to be very, very careful not to be tripped up. But there was great satisfaction in having accomplished a step toward discovering his father’s killer.

  Joelle got up in time to dress for dinner. Her eyes felt bruised, her throat was sore from coughing, and there was a mark like a brand under her rib cage where Schuyler’s arm had clasped her. He hadn’t hurt her on purpose, but they’d crossed a line of no return. She stood in front of the mirror, trying to see what he saw. He’d said he couldn’t even look at her anymore. A woman of such loose morals that she would undress, leaving herself vulnerable to the gaze of any passing man who wanted to see.

  Shame nearly buried her. Oh, how she hoped he’d already left. She couldn’t bear to face him now.

  A scrounge through her wardrobe produced an out-of-date dress with a high neckline, long sleeves, and matching sash crisscrossing the bosom. Perfect. After putting on clean, dry undergarments, she managed to get herself laced into a corset, then realized the dress fastened in the back. She would have to beg for assistance.

  Poking her head out the bedroom door, she looked at ThomasAnne’s closed door across the hall. Her cousin had moved into Selah’s old room when Selah and Levi married, an arrangement that suited everyone better. ThomasAnne was the most private pers
on Joelle knew, even more introverted than Joelle herself—and that was going some.

  “ThomasAnne, are you still here?” she called in an embarrassed undertone. “I need some help.”

  The opposite door opened immediately, and ThomasAnne’s gentle, worn face appeared in the opening. “Of course, dearie. What’s the matter?”

  “My dress buttons in the back.” She turned to show her cousin the gaping opening of her dress.

  If ThomasAnne wondered at Joelle’s choice, she kept it to herself. “Well, that’s inconvenient,” she said with a rare flash of humor. “Let me see what I can do.” ThomasAnne crossed the hall, reached for the dress, and pulled it together, then paused. “Joelle, did you have an accident? What is this bruise?” Her fingertips gently brushed Joelle’s upper back, where the heel of Schuyler’s hand had bumped her in an attempt to push the water out of her lungs.

  Joelle hadn’t meant to cry, ever again. But she turned and folded into her older cousin’s arms. ThomasAnne was a tall woman, nearly as tall as Joelle, and thin as a rail, but her arms took on a motherly cushion that Joelle hadn’t even known she needed.

  “He didn’t mean to,” she wailed. “I didn’t mean to. It just happened. How am I going to be a preacher’s wife if I can’t—if I don’t—”

  ThomasAnne responded to this nonsense with nearly a full minute of silence before she released Joelle and took her by the upper arms. Giving her a little shake, she said sternly, “Stop it. Joelle. Deep breath now.” When Joelle obeyed with a loud hiccup and tried to wipe her face with her wrist, ThomasAnne grabbed her hand, pulled her into her own room, and shut the door. Pushing Joelle down to sit on the bed, she efficiently took a handkerchief from a drawer and handed it over. “Blow.”

  Joelle blew, then wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be silly. I knew there was something wrong when we didn’t see you all afternoon, and your opera singer here.” ThomasAnne stood over her, hands clasped in ladylike fashion at her waist. “Can you talk and breathe at the same time now?”

  Joelle thought of Schuyler asking if she could breathe and nearly burst into fresh tears. She heaved in air and slowly exhaled. “I think so.”

  “All right. Then start at the beginning and tell me what has you so upset.”

  “I’m so ashamed.”

  “Someday I’ll tell you about real shame. But for now, I’m listening without judgment.” ThomasAnne paused. “Look at me, Joelle.”

  Joelle looked up and saw genuine empathy in ThomasAnne’s faded blue eyes.

  “No judgment.” ThomasAnne pulled over Joelle’s desk chair and sat knee to knee. “And I won’t tell anybody.”

  Joelle knew that was truth. Relief washed over her. “Why am I so weird, ThomasAnne? I like people, but I don’t like them in large batches, and I have to get away to be by myself, which is what I did today.”

  “If that’s weird, then I’m beyond the pale. What else?”

  “I scrubbed the bathhouse.”

  ThomasAnne blinked. “Very well. One of the maids could have done that, but I suppose that’s not a hanging offense.”

  Joelle sighed. “Not until I took my dress off and went swimming.”

  “You took off . . . Do you want to explain that?”

  “It was just an impulsive decision. I’m not sure I can explain it. I felt like I wanted to baptize myself, and we all know the bathhouse has been a ruin for years—I suppose I thought the likelihood of anyone coming in on me would be next to zero.”

  There was a long, silent pause. “But someone did come in? Joelle, did someone hurt you?” ThomasAnne’s knuckles were white on the fists clenched in her lap.

  “No, not like you mean. Schuyler heard me scream when the cold water hit my feet, so he came running and jumped in after me. I—we—he startled me so, and I swallowed some water, so he squeezed me and thumped me on the back.” Joelle gulped. “That’s where the bruise came from.”

  That was all she could get out, but as she looked into her cousin’s face, she recognized understanding in the otherwise bland expression. As promised, no judgment—but wisdom of experience that beckoned confidence. Joelle had always thought ThomasAnne had had no life of her own, having been blown like a dandelion seed from one relative’s home to another.

  Joelle had always pitied her cousin. Now she wondered.

  “Honey, I know you love Schuyler,” ThomasAnne said.

  “What? No! It was just—” The breath truly knocked out of her, Joelle all but reeled where she sat. “Why would you say that?”

  ThomasAnne laughed. “Dr. Kidd and Wyatt are always going on about electrical charges, until one wants to ‘unplug’ them both. There’s that sort of pulsing energy when you and Schuyler are in a room together. It’s a wonder you haven’t set the house on fire in the last couple of days.”

  Joelle covered her face with both hands. “It’s me. I loathe him and I need his attention, and he makes me blurt out things I have no business saying, but it’s not his fault. Not entirely. Maybe I secretly wanted him to come to me in the bathhouse. Did I? ThomasAnne, I’m an engaged woman! How could I have encouraged him to . . . He said I knew it as well as he did, and he’s right! Thank God he pushed me away and made me get dressed and . . .”

  ThomasAnne gripped Joelle’s hands and pulled them down. “Mercy goodness, what a Greek tragedy. Calm down. If I’m understanding you correctly, Schuyler yanked you out of the pool and kept you from drowning. He kissed you briefly, had the good sense to let you go, and he walked you back to the house, where he said goodbye and left for town. The end.”

  “Um, that about sums it up.” Joelle stared at her cousin. “How did you know he walked me back to the house?”

  “Benjamin and I were coming back from Charmion’s and saw you coming around the house, looking like a cat and dog negotiating rug space in front of the fire. He went into the stable, so I assume he was taking a horse somewhere.”

  “Then he is gone.” Joelle’s shoulders slumped.

  “Yes, and he’d best stay gone until you have the courage to end this ridiculous engagement with Gil Reese.”

  “I can’t jilt Gil! He doesn’t deserve—”

  “He doesn’t deserve marriage with a woman who loves another man.”

  “I don’t love—”

  “Joelle. That is utter claptrap.”

  Shocked to the core, speechless, Joelle stared at ThomasAnne. “Oh no.”

  She was absolutely right.

  eighteen

  THE MEETING TOOK PLACE AT MIDNIGHT in an abandoned smokehouse out in the middle of nowhere, and Schuyler marveled at the complete absence of light. Clouds blanketed the sky, blocking moon and stars, and no one seemed to think it prudent to light a lamp. If Hixon hadn’t brought him here, both cloaked in dark clothing, faces blackened with soot, he might have wondered if he’d arrived by mistake at some devilish séance. As it was, he questioned the sanity of men so twisted by resentment, bitterness, and fear that they behaved more like vengeful little boys dressing up in costume than grown men with families and responsibilities to church and community.

  He recognized some of the voices from the meeting at the saloon this afternoon. Others sounded familiar, but he couldn’t have sworn to their identities. He wished he had Joelle’s unerring ear for tone and inflection. As it was, he stood next to Hixon in the dark building, praying no one would realize he hadn’t precisely been invited. Men had been silently gathering in the little brick building for close to an hour, by his best guess. He wondered when the meeting would start and what the agenda would entail. Hixon claimed not to know.

  “Then why are you going?” Schuyler had asked him as they rode their horses down a deserted country road, shortly before their arrival at the defunct Saltillo plantation.

  Hixon had snorted as if the question were ridiculous. “For the fun of it, of course. I rather like setting things on fire.”

  Schuyler barely repressed a shudder. The friend he’d always thought of as a harmle
ss drunk just might be a madman.

  Silence fell as a light flared in a lamp across the room, revealing a row of dark-costumed men. The top of each face was covered by a black mask, tied at the back of the head. A short, tubby man in the middle held the lamp, and Schuyler was sure he recognized the off-center toupee of Oliver Whitmore. He’d expected Forrest to be here, but Schuyler hadn’t yet identified the general’s distinctive tall frame and military carriage.

  “Gentlemen,” Whitmore intoned, “we are brothers here on a crusade for justice. Brothers whose individual and collective rights have been trampled to the point that we have been forced to fight back. As such, we must take every precaution to keep our identities secret and make sure that our activities proceed with the utmost loyalty and courage. It has come to the leadership’s attention that besides our distinguished guests from our sister state of Alabama, two local newcomers have joined us tonight. And so our first order of business is to vet them to the satisfaction of all.”

  The hair on the back of Schuyler’s neck stood on end. He was to be vetted? How did anyone even know he was here? He glanced at Hixon and found his friend slumped, chin tucked as if he were asleep. Apparently he had been sacrificed to Hixon’s demons.

  He doubted anyone would judge him if he acted upon the better part of valor and dove out the back door. But unbidden images flashed through his mind. Judge Teague presiding over a hostile courtroom and ending with a bullet through his head. Schoolteacher Lemuel Frye defending himself and his students’ right to learn. The community of Shake Rag rebuilding their church and their faith. Most graphic of all, his father’s body in a Tuscaloosa morgue.

  Running away was no real option.

  All right, then. God sees me. He knows my heart. I don’t know why he led me here, but surely he’ll be with me in the lion’s den. Or the furnace. Or whatever torture device this turns out to be.

  On that depressing thought, he stepped forward. “Good evening, gentlemen. I’m one of the newcomers.”