Beauty for Ashes

by Dorothy Love

  Joe laughed. “I bet you were the most famous captain in South Carolina.”

  “I don’t know about that. Captain Wilkinson of the Robert E. Lee ran the blockade more than twenty times, delivering cotton to Nassau. Everyone admired his bravery. And his luck.”

  “I bet he got paid a lot of money for that,” Caleb said. “I bet he made millions.”

  “Did you make millions too?” Joe popped a crust of bread into his mouth and looked up at Griff.

  Mary frowned at her son in a way that made Carrie’s stomach hurt. “People of quality never talk about money, Joe.”

  “That’s all right.” Griff smiled at Carrie and leaned back in his chair, completely at ease in the small, warm kitchen. “Not to contradict your mother, Joe—she has a right to bring you up however she sees fit—but I am not offended in the least. In fact, the subject of my fortune was the talk of the town for quite some time. Still is, among certain of my acquaintance.”

  “What about the smoke?” Caleb asked, and Carrie saw that he had been working out the details of Griff’s adventures in his head. “From the engines, I mean. How come the Union ships didn’t see it?”

  “That’s a good question, Caleb. I like a man with a head on his shoulders.”

  Carrie studied the older boy. He seemed intrigued, maybe even flattered, but not as easily won over as his younger brother. Caleb Stanhope sure was a hard nut to crack. If Griff, with his easy charm and adventurous past, couldn’t win Caleb over, no one could.

  “Anthracite coal,” Griff said. “It burns without making smoke. Soon as I could see the light on Fort Sumter, I’d cut the running lights, cover the binnacle and the fireroom hatch, and blow the steam off under water.”

  Joe grinned. “Like when you take a bath in the tub and you—”

  Caleb gaped at his brother and fell off his chair laughing.

  “Joseph Stanhope, that’s enough.” Mary blushed and swatted the boy’s leg.

  “I should go.” Griff stood. “I’ve kept you up far too long. Thank you for the hospitality of your home, Mrs. Bell.”

  Mary offered him a curt nod.

  “And thank you, Mrs. Daly, for the fine dinner. Every bite of it was outstanding.”

  Carrie fought a nearly unbearable urge to touch him. The more she learned about Griff Rutledge, the more she hungered to know. She smiled, acutely aware of his intense gaze. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  She walked him to the parlor, where he retrieved his hat and coat.

  “Will I see you for the race next Saturday?” he asked, his voice low.

  “I hope so. It depends on how Mary is feeling.”

  He nodded. “Wish me luck.”

  “You know I do.”

  A shout and a clatter from the kitchen shattered the quiet. She closed her eyes. Mary had been in a foul temper all day. The best thing to do was clean up quickly and put the boys to bed. Their noise and their constant needs seemed to worsen their mother’s mood. And when Mary wasn’t happy, no one in the house could breathe easy.

  “Go ahead,” Griff said. “Look after them. I can see myself out.”

  She watched him cross the yard and mount up.

  In the kitchen, Mary was banging pans into the soapy dishwater, a grimace contorting her thin face. Joe and Caleb had gone to fetch water and firewood.

  “You shouldn’t be on your feet, Mary. Doctor’s orders. I’ll take care of the dishes.”

  “I wasn’t sure you could tear yourself away from the charming Mr. Rutledge long enough to handle your responsibilities.” Mary wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and draped it over the pie safe. “My lands, the way you’ve thrown yourself at him is a disgrace.”

  “Thrown myself at him?”

  “You were mooning over him all during supper. And whispering with him in the hall just now. And he was nothing short of a criminal during the war.”

  “A criminal? The government paid men to do his job. It was just as important as taking up arms and shooting people.” Carrie tied an apron over her dress, rolled up her sleeves, and banged a few pans of her own. “If men like Griff hadn’t brought in weapons, General Lee’s army would have been in even worse shape.”

  Mary looked up from the plate she was scraping. “Don’t use that sainted man’s name in the same sentence with Griffin Rutledge’s. It’s sacrilege.” She stalked to her room and slammed the door shut behind her just as Joe walked in with an armload of firewood. Caleb, toting two buckets of water, was right behind him.

  “All the chores are done, Carrie,” Caleb reported. “I brought Miranda up from the pasture. Looks like we might have frost tonight.”

  Stunned by his unusually helpful attitude, Carrie smiled. Maybe she should try Griff’s training methods on the boy. “That was good thinking. I appreciate it.”

  He set the water on the table beside the door. “Me and Joe was wonderin’ if you’d take us to the race on Saturday. I sure would like to see Mr. Rutledge ride that horse.”

  Ah. That was the reason he’d suddenly turned so helpful. “I’m not sure we can go,” Carrie told him. “Who would look after your mother?”

  Caleb’s face darkened. “We can’t do anything fun ’cause she’s always sick. But yesterday when the preacher’s wife came, she got all dressed up and had her tea and acted like there was nothing wrong at all.”

  Carrie turned away and concentrated on wiping the plates. “Well, you know how your mother likes to do things the right way.”

  He leaned against the table, sloshing the water. “Come on, Carrie. Can’t we go, even for a little while?”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Carrie set Mary’s breakfast tray on the table by the bed and opened the curtains, letting in the pale autumn light. Red and gold leaves drifted from the trees lining the road. In the distance, geese winged over the fog-shrouded mountains.

  “What time is it?” Mary stirred and sat up, blinking.

  “Almost seven.”

  Mary yawned and picked up her cup. “I’m so tired all the time.”

  “That’s to be expected at this stage. Or so I’m told. Mariah said she had a lot more energy after the first few months.”

  “No. This is something else.” Mary sipped her tea and buttered a biscuit. “Sometimes I’m afraid there is something terribly wrong and the doctor is keeping the news from me.”

  Carrie felt an unexpected surge of compassion for her sister-in-law. It couldn’t be easy, being so sick and separated from the man she loved. “I’m sure Dr. Spencer wouldn’t do that. He’s always been the practical sort.” She indicated Mary’s plate. “He wants you to build up your strength for the delivery.”

  Mary ate a forkful of eggs and wrinkled her nose. “Too much salt.”

  “The boys want to go to the race tomorrow,” Carrie said. “But I’m not sure I should leave you here alone.”

  “Caleb has been nagging me about it ever since Mr. Rutledge came to supper. And Joe hangs on the man’s every word. He’s very proud of the tiny scar he got from trying to mount that horse. He tells me over and over how Mr. Rutledge carried him to the porch that day.”

  “They miss having Henry around.”

  “Me too.” Mary’s cup clattered onto her saucer. “Oh, if only I weren’t having this baby, we could all be in Chicago by now.”

  “But you wouldn’t trade this child merely for a chance to live in the city?”

  Mary dabbed her lips with her napkin and smiled a you-don’t-know-anything smile. “Henry told me a thousand times how much you wanted a family. But it isn’t as idyllic as you think. Of course I love your brother and my boys. But sometimes I envy your freedom.”

  Freedom? Carrie almost laughed. Wasn’t she tied night and day to this farm and this frail, flighty woman and her children, responsible for their every need? “I suppose it’s natural to imagine that other people have the better situation. But I’d gladly trade whatever freedom you think I have for a husband and children of my own. It’s all I’ve ever really wanted.”
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  “Because you’ve been taught to believe it’s what you should want. Personally, I think a woman’s life should be about much more than looking out for a man and a passel of children, though of course it’s very convenient for—”

  “Mama?” Joe burst into the room. “Can we go to the race? Did Carrie Daly ask you if we could go?”

  Mary sighed and closed her eyes. “We were just discussing it.”

  “Oh good. Wait till I tell Caleb.”

  Carrie put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Just a moment. Your mama hasn’t said yes yet. Why don’t you go feed the chickens. See if there are any eggs today.”

  He frowned. “Jumping junebugs. We’ve been talking about it all week. How long does it take to say yes?”

  Mary leaned over and squeezed his hand. “Go on, son.”

  When Joe ran outside, Mary said, “I think you should take them. They’ve had a lot of bad things happen, losing their real daddy when they were only babies and then Henry leaving so soon. They ought to have some good memories of their childhood.” She set her tray aside, rattling her cup. “And you’re dying to go anyway, to see the magnificent Mr. Rutledge.”

  “But we’ll be away all day. Will you be all right?” Carrie picked up Mary’s tray. “I could send word down to Two Creeks, see if Libby Dawson can stay with you.”

  “I don’t want a colored girl prowling around in my house.”

  “Libby is very reliable. She looked after Wyatt Caldwell’s Aunt Lillian lots of times, and the Dawsons were here for your wedding.”

  “Yes, cooking and serving food. That’s different.” Mary sat up, fluffed her pillow, and fell back against it. “What if I had to vomit . . . or worse? What if I needed help getting to the chamber pot?”

  In a flash of understanding, Carrie realized Mary Stanhope Bell was more terrified of looking weak, of being beholden, than she was of anything else. That anyone, even Libby Dawson, should see her as less than in total command was more than she could bear. No wonder this pregnancy was such a trial to her. No wonder she bristled so when Carrie didn’t follow her advice or her orders.

  “If you can be back before dark, I’m sure I’ll be all right.” Mary gestured to the newspaper that had arrived in last week’s mail. “If I feel up to it, I may catch up on my reading.” She smiled. “It might be rather nice, having a day to myself.”

  By the time Carrie rose the next morning, Caleb and Joe were already up and dressed. The wood box in the kitchen was full, as were the water buckets. On the table, three clean plates and three forks waited.

  Joe tugged on her arm. “Hurry up, Carrie Daly. Let’s eat some breakfast and get going. I don’t want to miss a minute of Race Day.”

  Carrie tied an apron over the dress she’d bought for Henry’s wedding. Griff had seen her in it before, of course, and it was too fancy even for today, but it suited her coppery hair and blue eyes, and she wanted to look her best for him. She sliced the bread she’d baked yesterday, set out jam and cheese, and poured milk for the boys. They downed their food like prisoners at a last meal, but her stomach was so knotted and jumpy she couldn’t swallow a single bite.

  She wanted Griff and Majestic to win the race. And she wanted him to stay—but that would take a bona fide miracle. Please, Lord. If it’s all the same with you, find a way to keep Griff Rutledge in Hickory Ridge.

  She made a tray for Mary, filled a water pitcher, straightened Mary’s coverlet, and emptied the foul-smelling chamber pot. Mary moaned and stirred, her broomstick-thin arms thrown across her face.

  When Carrie finished hitching Iris, and the boys were aboard, she went inside to wake her sister-in-law. “We’re leaving now. Is there anything you need?”

  Mary grunted and sat up. “Maybe my knitting?”

  Carrie handed her the small ball of yellow yarn and her needles. “We’ll be back before dark.”

  “Oh, and maybe another glass of milk. If it isn’t too much trouble.”

  Suppressing her irritation, Carrie fetched the milk and escaped before Mary could think of other things she needed. She handed Caleb the lunch basket she’d prepared for them, climbed onto the wagon, and picked up the reins. “Well, boys, we’re off.”

  “I can’t wait to get to town,” Caleb said. “I’m getting some candy at the mercantile with the dime Mr. Chastain gave me. I’ve been debatin’ all morning, and I still can’t decide between peppermint sticks or sarsaparilla.”

  “Caleb made me a darn good slingshot, Carrie Daly,” said Joe, producing it from his pocket. “Last night I run off a possum with it.”

  Taking a small, smooth stone from his pocket, he fitted it into the slingshot and drew it taut. The rock sailed across the road and thudded against the fence railing.

  Carrie grinned. “That’s a powerful weapon, all right. But you must be careful, Joe. Don’t aim it at anything you don’t intend to hit.”

  “No, ma’am, I won’t.” Joe held tightly to the side of the wagon as they left the farm behind and rounded a curve. “Carrie Daly, is your brother ever going to come back home?”

  “Of course he is—when your new sister or brother is born. Then I suppose you’ll all be moving to Chicago.”

  “I hate Chicago,” Caleb said.

  “How do you know? Have you ever been there?”

  “No, but I’ve seen pictures. All it is, is a buncha big ol’ buildings. There’s no grass or cows or trees.”

  “Their city parks are full of grass and trees,” Carrie told him. “And there’s a big lake for boating. And a train station that’s a hundred times bigger than the one in Hickory Ridge. I think it sounds pretty exciting.”

  As they passed the country church, the wagon jostled over a stretch of rutted road, nearly upending their lunch basket. Joe set it to rights.

  “I don’t care if they have a million trains,” Caleb said. “They’s no mountains or hollers or fishin’ creeks or nothin’. No sir, I’m stayin’ right here.”

  “But we don’t even have a school here,” Joe said. “I want a school. Mama says if we stay here we’ll always be poor as church mice. She says we’ll never become men of quality.”

  “Becoming a man of quality has everything to do with character and very little to do with where one lives,” Carrie said. “We have plenty of men of quality right here in Hickory Ridge. Dr. Spencer and Mr. Chastain are two of the finest men I know.”

  “And Mr. Rutledge,” Joe said.

  Carrie blushed. “Yes. Mr. Rutledge too.”

  At last they arrived in town. Wagons, horses, and rigs of all descriptions lined the main road. Crowds of people moved along the sidewalks, admiring the displays in the store windows. A knot of people crowded into Nate’s bookshop. Through the window, Carrie spotted Nate and Rosaleen talking to a customer. She caught Nate’s eye and waved. He smiled and nodded before going back to his customer, but she watched him a moment longer. Had his reservations about his new wife been resolved? She drew up next to a fancy rig and tethered Iris.

  “Can I go to the mercantile?” Caleb jumped off the wagon, landing with a thump.

  The owner of the rig parked next to her appeared, carrying a tripod and camera. He placed a set of glass plates into the rig and tipped his hat. “Morning, ma’am. That’s a pretty dress you’re wearing. How about a picture of you and your handsome boys? It’d make a nice souvenir.”

  He handed her a business card. “George Platt’s the name. Just off the train from Buffalo, New York. Portraits are my specialty.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t think—”

  “She ain’t our mama,” Joe said. “She’s ain’t no real kin at all.”

  Tears sprang to Carrie’s eyes. She thought of Henry, so far from home and most surely lonely for his new life and his new family, which had been sundered almost as soon as it began. She couldn’t really afford a portrait, but . . .

  “It’s only a dollar,” the photographer said. “And if you aren’t completely satisfied, your entire fee will be cheerfully refunded.” />
  Carrie felt her resolve weakening. So what if they had nothing to eat but bacon and beans for an extra week? The sacrifice would be worth it if the photograph served as a peace offering to Henry. A way back into his good graces. “Very well, Mr. Platt.”

  “Splendid.” Mr. Platt lined them up next to the wagon, the boys flanking Carrie. He prepared a slide, draped the cloth over the camera, and admonished them not to move. Caleb stood unsmiling and ramrod straight, but Joe looked up at Carrie just as the flash went off.

  The photographer handed her a stub of a pencil and a printed form. “Write down your name and address, and I’ll send your photograph as soon as it’s done.” He waved a hand to indicate the crowded street. “Might take awhile. I’ve been busy ever since I got here. Lots of folks in town today.”

  “We’re havin’ a horse race,” Joe told him. “Our friend Griff Rutledge is going to win.”

  “You don’t say.” Mr. Platt scanned the crowd, looking for his next customer.

  Carrie scribbled on the form and paid the man.

  “Thank you kindly,” he said, pocketing the form and his fee. “I hope you enjoy the race.”

  “Can I go to the mercantile now?” Caleb asked.

  Carrie smiled. That dime certainly was burning a hole in the boy’s pocket. “All right. Take Joe with you.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Caleb jerked a thumb at his brother. “Come on then. But don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Meet me outside the bank by noon,” Carrie said. “We want to get a good seat for the race.”

  The boys headed for the mercantile. Carrie took her time browsing the shop windows, listening to the conversations going on around her. Race Day had drawn a bigger crowd than she’d expected. Outside the dress shop, Mariah stood chatting with Molly Scott. Carrie waved. Mariah returned the wave briefly and resumed her conversation. Stung, Carrie crossed the street. She spotted Daniel and Deborah Patterson, a large picnic basket between them, making their way to the far end of the street, where Sheriff McCracken supervised a small army of young boys. Shovels flashing, they worked to deposit a thick layer of dirt over the brick street.