“Good idea,” Nolan said. “A little distraction from mission impossible can’t hurt—as long as you go along. Remember, someone is always with Meri.”
Nolan set a spirited pace home, which Jillian matched.
“You start on getting a couple of rooms ready,” he said, “while I go to the grocery store for fixings for a fancy dinner. And breakfast. Surely they can manage sharing the hall bath, don’t you think?”
“I suppose,” Jillian said, “but you have things backward. You do the rooms and I’ll shop.”
“But I’m cooking.”
“But you never shop. You don’t know how to shop. I know it’s a disparate skill set to cook but not shop, but do we really have to have this particular conversation on this particular day? There’s no telling what you’ll come home with. I don’t mind eating your inventive concoctions, but I’m not sure Meri would appreciate your experimenting on her parents.”
“Okay, Silly Jilly, you’ve made your point.”
“So come up with actual recipes and make me an actual list while I try to come up with actual matching clean linens.”
“There’s a reason you’re in charge of things like this.”
“For sure.”
“I’ve been thinking about some new sushi combinations I’d like to try.”
“Dad.”
“Nepali cuisine?”
“Try again.”
“You’re saying stick to something I know I can do well.”
“Bingo.”
“Italian or Irish it is.”
“Something nice but not outrageous. Right down the center lane, please.”
“How about Italian sausage with an orecchiette pasta in a garlic wine sauce with spinach and grape tomatoes swimming in lemon butter and a baked crust of parmesan cheese.”
“Something like that, yes. I’ll set a fancy table with all Mom’s best stuff.”
“We’ll have to buy a cheesecake. No time to make one.”
“I’ll swing by Ben’s and see what he has.”
“Then get the bread while you’re there. And fixings for salad—an interesting one.”
“A list, Dad.”
“Right.” Nolan pushed his key into the back door and set to his assigned task while Jillian scampered up the stairs to the linen closet. Her footsteps told him she was leaving clean sheets in the two bedrooms that spanned the front of the house. His master suite and office were on one side, and Jillian’s room and bath were on the other.
Ten minutes later, she flew out the back door with a list, and Nolan set the oven to preheat and arranged his pots and mixing bowls in the kitchen before going upstairs to do the beds.
Forty minutes after that, Jillian was back with groceries, baked goods, and cheesecake. Nolan set to work in the kitchen while she spiffed up the hall bath and started on the dining room table.
Twenty minutes after that, Nolan’s phone sounded an alert, a text from Nia.
GETTING CLOSE? BACK FROM THEIR WALK. THE BROTHER IS A PIECE OF WORK. MERI IS ANTSY.
Nolan punched a button to answer.
NEED 30 MINUTES. THEN SEND THEM OVER.
Either Nia or Meri couldn’t wait that long. Twenty-two minutes later, the doorbell rang. The dining room table looked fabulous. Jillian was upstairs putting herself together. Nolan checked his shirt to be sure he hadn’t spattered it with sauce, raked a hand through his hair without benefit of a mirror, and answered the front door.
He intended his smile to be real even if the Davieses had plastered theirs on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Memphis, October 6, 1878
The boat’s in, and they’ve started unloading.” Sister Hughetta’s voice showed no hint of her weeks of illness even at barely seven in the morning.
“I have the wagon nearly hitched.” Eliza drew the back of her hand across her forehead and resisted the urge to wipe the perspiration on her skirt. The temperature was not yet beastly, but the effort of uniting two horses and the largest wagon she could barter for the day still taxed her skills.
“You should have asked for help.” Sister Hughetta reached in and grasped the hitch with both hands. Between the two of them, they made sure it was secure. The wagon would be far heavier on the return journey. “I keep telling you that I can go down to the dock.”
“I know.” Eliza brushed dust off her skirt. “I wish we could both go. I wish we could take two wagons. But …”
“It’s not fair.” Sister Hughetta’s voice cracked. “Sister Frances was already sick. She got well. She took care of so many children. Wasn’t it enough that she saw so many of them carted away in coffins—in wagons just like this one? Did she have to have the fever after all?”
Eliza squeezed the nun’s hand, silent. Sister Frances’s death two days ago had stunned them all. She had never truly regained her strength after her first illness. None of this was fair. Eliza had given up expecting an epidemic to conform to any predictability beyond spreading wildly, much less that it should strike only those who in some manner deserved it.
No one deserved it.
“I can manage at the dock,” Eliza said. “You are much more knowledgeable and experienced with the patients. If one of us is to stay behind and manage what the morning will bring when the notes start coming in and the nurses report, it should be you.”
“Do not bring back any more double-lined gloves donated by well-meaning souls in Minnesota,” Sister Hughetta said.
“I shall do my best to refuse unsorted barrels rolled in my direction.” Eliza reached into the wagon bed and lifted an iron rod with a flattened end.
Sister Hughetta gasped. “You plan to open them?”
“If I must.”
“Can you manage it?”
“I have hired the Heard boys. Fifteen and sixteen years old.”
“During the war they would have been considered men of age to fight.”
Eliza nodded. “They’ve done well looking after the horses. I am certain they can pry open a sealed barrel and lift only the goods I select into the wagon.”
“They are good boys,” Sister Hughetta said. “Church every Sunday all their lives, even after their mother died in the last epidemic.”
“Thanks be to God their father recovered in this one.” Eliza moved toward the wagon bench. “I must go.”
“But you haven’t had breakfast.”
“No time.” Eliza hiked up her skirt and climbed to the bench to take up the reins. There was little traffic in the streets of Memphis these days. It wouldn’t matter that she had never before guided a wagon of this size.
Gerald and Buntyn Heard were waiting for her outside the narrow house where they lived with their father.
“Would you like me to drive, Miz Eliza?” Gerald said.
For a fraction of a second Eliza considered surrendering the reins. It would be a relief not to be physically responsible, in this moment, for the ragged clatter and sway of the wagon.
“Nonsense,” she said. “Just climb in and let’s get going.”
Buntyn jumped into the empty bed. Perhaps still unpersuaded of Eliza’s abilities, Gerald sat beside her on the bench.
“Do you know the way?” Gerald asked.
“Yes, of course.” Not precisely, but close enough. The river was only in one direction, after all. Not many ships were in the harbor these days, and the John M. Chambers from St. Louis would be flying a yellow flag as dismal warning of its mission. It would be the only one where anyone was lined up to collect supplies.
Eliza’s fruitless search for Hank and Robert had taught her something of the streets between her more familiar neighborhood, which she saw little of now, and the docks. Now her eyes roamed for Callie. How was it that she knew nothing more about where Callie lived than Hank and Robert? Callie hadn’t been one of the family’s slaves before the war, but she’d been the first to hire on for paid domestic service afterward, when Eliza’s parents finally reconciled their past with what the future demanded of them and offered a
wage. Callie served faithfully ever since, thirteen years, with a half day off each week and her turn for a brief leave in the summer, which was more generous than most households offered.
Yet Eliza didn’t know where to look for Callie now. It simply hadn’t been information suitable to know. At least that is what her mother would say. One did not cross that line, not after the war, not with servants who chose to live out. Whatever regard you might develop for them, or they for you, they did not owe you explanations.
That was before this despicable epidemic. Eliza yanked on the reins, making the most slovenly left turn since the day she first handled a team.
“Miz Eliza?” Gerald gripped the bench.
“Pa says don’t ask questions,” Buntyn said from behind them.
“It’s all right,” Eliza said. “I’m looking for someone and thought we might be in the right neighborhood.”
“What about the ship?” Gerald said.
“They’ll be unloading for hours.”
“Isn’t this where the colored folks live?”
Buntyn punched his brother’s shoulder.
Eliza set her jaw and swallowed. “I’m looking for my housekeeper.”
“Is she sick?”
“That is what I would like to ascertain.” Is she alive?
“Don’t you know where she lives?”
Buntyn punched his brother again. “Pa would not like this.”
“You are right,” Eliza said. “I only asked his permission to take you with me to the dock.”
“I didn’t mean like that, Miz Eliza,” Buntyn said. “I meant Gerald’s questions. It’s not polite. Pa’s always telling him that. He lowers his voice and says, ‘Geraldous.’”
Now it was Gerald’s turn to punch. “Don’t call me that.”
“It’s your right Christian name.”
Eliza eyed Gerald, who for the moment contained his stream of questions, and reined the rig to a stop and set the brake. “You stay with the wagon. I’ll be right back.” For good measure, in case the horses decided to resist the brake, she handed Gerald the reins.
She dismounted and stared at the house she’d parked in front of, feeling as though all the sermons she’d ever heard about listening to the promptings of the Holy Spirit were gurgling inside her. Is that what had led her here, to this place in this moment? Is that what had made her choose this street, and this house?
One might never be certain, but one must act nevertheless.
Eliza knocked on the door and made her inquiry. The woman in the threshold only narrowed her eyes and shook her head, not recognizing Callie’s name or the description Eliza offered. When the door closed softly and courteously though, Eliza could not shake the sensation that had brought her—or might have. She surveyed the neighborhood, praying for direction with each inhalation and exhalation.
Callie. Lord, where is Callie? Show me who knows.
She waved to the Heard boys and chose another house.
“Not far from here,” was the response this time.
Eliza’s heart leaped.
A few blocks down. One turn, and then another. A small house set back behind another.
After profuse thanks, Eliza hastened back to the rig and took back the reins.
“Miz Eliza?”
“Yes, Gerald?”
“Aren’t we going too fast?”
“Not fast enough.” Eliza slowed the speed not at all.
A few blocks down. One turn, and then another. She found the house that matched the description exactly and raced toward the door.
“Miz Eliza?”
“No, Gerald,” she said without looking over her shoulder, “you can’t come. Wait in the wagon.”
She could not know what was on the other side of the door when she knocked firmly.
No answer.
Another knock.
No answer. But the stench from within was undeniable.
Eliza raised a sleeve to cover her nose and turned the knob. The door gave and opened to empty, shrouded darkness.
She checked the small room at the back of the house. Empty, the beds stripped. If Callie and her family had ever been there, they had not survived. As Eliza hurried back to outside air, she chose to believe it was the wrong house, that the young woman who gave the directions had the wrong family in mind—anything but that Callie was gone. Her sister. Her sister’s husband. The girls. The little boy who was the darling of them all. Callie. Eliza hadn’t met the rest of the family, but she’d seen the smiles at the corners of Callie’s lips and the shine in her eyes when she spoke of them.
They can’t be gone.
She would inquire at the Board of Health. Surely they were keeping a list of the names of the dead—at least the ones they could identify.
“Let’s go, boys.” Eliza climbed back into the wagon. “We have work to do.”
“Miz Eliza?”
“Yes, Gerald.” She could not help her sigh.
“What happened in there?”
“It was the wrong house after all.”
“Are you sure?”
Buntyn jabbed.
“I’m just trying to help. You look upset.”
“Thank you, Gerald,” Eliza said. “You will have plenty of opportunity to help in just a few minutes. We’re almost to the dock.”
As they approached the John M. Chambers, Eliza had only to look for the glut of wagons in order to determine where to try to tie up her rig. She took both boys with her to a makeshift check-in area, where she stood in line to establish her credentials with the Citizens Relief Committee. The committee might have intended a more organized method of distributing goods, perhaps over a period of days rather than hours, but every organization involved in relief efforts seemed represented on the dock and ready to leave with at least some goods. More could come later if necessary, but it was common knowledge that the ship’s captain intended to unload quickly and get out of port with minimal exposure to the diseased city. A man in a worn gray suit with matching worn gray eyes pointed to two dozen barrels already off-loaded and turned a sheet of paper toward Eliza to sign.
The Heard boys moved toward the barrels. Eliza grabbed Buntyn’s arm, and they stopped.
“What do these barrels contain?” Eliza asked the man, with no intention of blindly signing for items she could not use.
“Relief goods.”
“Might you be more specific?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Are the barrels not marked?”
The man cocked his head. “I was not responsible for the state of the ship’s goods at the point of departure.”
Eliza said, “I have a list of what we need most.” Mattresses, pillows, grits, potatoes, soap, blankets, sheeting, clothing, sugar, coffee, bacon, canned beef.
“We have what we have,” the man said. “We’ve hardly had time to see what it is ourselves before the deluge began.”
“There must be a ship’s manifest. Some sort of inventory.”
“We are very busy. Surely anything will be helpful.”
“No matter. We’ll find what we need,” Eliza said. “Gerald, we are going to need the tools from the back of the wagon to open these barrels.”
“Is that allowed, Miz Eliza?”
“I am allowing it,” Eliza said. She turned to the man at the desk. “I will be sure to inform you what we leave with so you can update your own records accordingly.”
“That is not our system.”
“Today it is my system. Gerald, go.”
Gerald dashed off toward the wagon, and Eliza and Buntyn circled the barrels. For most of her life, her experience with barrels was limited to watching them go by in the back of a wagon on the way to a mercantile or grocer’s. She never thought much about what was in them. When she shopped, the goods were already sorted and on the shelves. Eliza shoved one of the barrels for a sense of its weight and what the boys would be up against in transporting them to the wagon—should she decide to accept the contents. It was unforgivin
g. But the boys were strong, and the barrels would roll.
What was taking Geraldous so long? Eliza glanced up.
A willowy dark form in a blue calico dress slid into a slit in the crowd.
Callie.
“Wait right here,” she said to Buntyn. “When your brother is back, do not move. Do you understand?”
Buntyn nodded. He was the one she could trust to follow instructions without questions.
Eliza raised her hem enough to free her steps and chased the blue calico, diving into the throng of goods seekers and dodging dockworkers and rising mountains of crates and barrels.
“Callie!” she called. But the woman did not turn.
Her quest demanded Eliza abandon usual measures of courtesy as she pushed through without apologies to the people whose shoulders she knocked or toes she pinched under her steps.
Finally she had the woman’s elbow in her grasp. “Callie.”
The figure turned. The face was not Callie’s. The form and dress were so similar, even the hair and hat, but the features were nothing like Callie’s.
“My deepest apologies,” Eliza muttered. “I was mistaken.”
She allowed herself to close her eyes in disappointment for the four seconds it took to inhale deeply, exhale sharply, and reset her mind to the purpose of this outing.
The boys. The barrels. The goods for St. Mary’s.
She spotted a crate of mattresses and insisted that they must have some. Pillows were in heavy demand, and she did not get many. She did indeed open the unmarked barrels and choose what she believed would be helpful. Two were full of potatoes, and she directed the boys to roll them directly to the wagon. In the end she accepted four barrels of unsorted clothing, knowing some of it would be frivolous or useless to the climate. But she returned to St. Mary’s with most of the items on her list and a few she had not expected.
But no Callie.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
It worked.
At least, sort of. Every minute was awkward, in Jillian’s opinion, but her father was unflappable. The fine china and candlelight conjured an elegant atmosphere where voices did not rise and manners were observed. If Saturday’s dinner conversation strayed into territory deemed in the off-limits “sleep on it agreement” zone, Nolan deftly raised another topic.
The Inn at Hidden Run Page 20
