As he neared the Blue Ridge Hotel, the crowd became thicker, and the smells of food, horse droppings, and sweaty trainers were enough to overwhelm even the most desensitized nose. Ben couldn’t wait to get inside and catch a whiff of Mabel’s fresh kitchen. His meager campsite meals of trout, squirrel, and rabbit left him salivating for her beef stew, chicken and dumplings, and pork tenderloin.
The hotel was filled to the brim with customers, and there were no vacancies, based on the hand-painted sign hanging on the front door. Mabel had moved some of the flowerpots off the front porch to accommodate more tables and chairs for guests to dine and watch the ongoing activities. A young Cherokee girl named Tia, and Litty, an old Negro woman, helped serve plates from the kitchen and refill glasses of lemonade and iced tea. Ben saw platters of fried chicken, baskets overflowing with fresh biscuits, and peach pie served with whipped cream. Despite the heat, the porch covering provided enough shade to keep things cool. And every lady had a brightly decorated parasol or fan in her hand to keep the sun at bay and the skin lily white. Ben thought of Angelina. Her skin was smooth and sheer as a pearl with a hint of a golden hue—as lovely as a ripe peach. And he had never once seen her with a parasol or silly fan in her hand.
He led Midnight Storm behind the hotel to the coach house where the customers’ horses were kept by Litty’s husband, Arthur, the stable hand. Dismounting, he tied the stallion to the hitching post and entered through the kitchen door. “Why look at you!” Mabel exclaimed. She slammed the oven door closed and brushed a loose strand of gray hair from her face. A wooden spoon was in one hand and a dishtowel in the other, and her apron was covered in flour and peach juice.
“Good morning, Mrs. Andersen.”
“That it is. And I think it’s high time you started calling me Mabel, don’t you?”
“If you say so,” he said, smiling.
She looked him over and rested a hand on her hip, frowning. “As thin as a rail. Come on and sit down,” she said, pulling out a wooden chair from under the kitchen table. “Living off weeds and tree bark is what I hear. When’s the last time you had a good meal?”
Ben shrugged his shoulders and watched her slam around the kitchen, shaking a skillet filled with sizzling chicken, taking a pan of biscuits out of the oven and shoving a fresh-made pie inside, and then closing the door with a swift kick. A soup ladle was used to stir a pot of stew simmering on the stove and a dirty dish plopped into the sink basin with a splat. It was like he was listening to the music of a washboard quartet.
“Well, sit down.” Setting a plate of hot food on the table, she rummaged in a drawer for a knife and fork. “You could use a bath, I’ll tell you that.” She shook open a folded linen napkin and tucked it under his chin. He smiled and sat down, scooting the chair under the table to the distinctive sound of wooden legs scraping against the polished, wooden floor.
“Sure looks good.” He stared at the plate and salivated at the contents—fried chicken with diced potatoes and gravy, field peas with ham hocks, creamed corn, and hot biscuits. Closing his eyes, he quickly blessed the food and dug in.
“Race is tomorrow,” she said, stirring the stew. “You still fixing to ride, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You gonna ride looking like that?” She surveyed him from head to toe and made a face. “Hair a mess and filthy dirty?”
Ben examined the front of his shirt that used to be a crisp white but now looked a strange shade of gray. “I reckon I could get cleaned up a bit.”
“You reckon right. You finish up there and then you’re getting into the tub, and I don’t wanna hear any complaints. And you’re gonna scrub,” she said, wagging a finger in his face. “Your mama would do the same thing, God rest her soul. She was a good woman.”
Ben knew better than to fight Mabel when she was in one of her moods. Besides, it would be nice to soak in a hot bath and look presentable before the race. And Midnight Storm could use a good washing too, as well as a brush down. Might even braid his tail, he thought.
After completing his second plate of food, Mabel shooed him out of the kitchen and into her bedroom where a white cast iron tub waited for him, filled to the brim with hot, sudsy water. The room was painted a soft yellow and covered with assorted pressed flowers displayed in painted wooden frames. In the corner was a double-canopied bed adorned with a crocheted lace coverlet over a light blue blanket. Matching silk and crocheted pillows were strewn at the head of the bed, and the mahogany canopy was covered in the same crocheted lace. Blue and yellow striped silk curtains at the windows with white tasseled tiebacks completed the décor. “Now strip down and give me those clothes,” Mabel commanded. “I have a good mind to shove them straight down in the stove. ’Course it would probably smell up the whole house, and then what would the guests say?”
Ben didn’t say a word, but pulled off his boots and removed his socks and then nodded her way, signaling he needed privacy. As soon as she left the room, he piled his dirty clothes by the bedroom door and sunk down into the warm bathwater. It was soothing to his back and chest, and he soon felt the pain in his body ebb away. He washed as best he could with the little bar of lavender soap and closed his eyes, drifting off into a place where horses thundered through the woods and leapt over hedges and fences. And then somewhere in the distance, a mountain lion roared.
His eyes jolted open when Mabel swept back into the room, her skirt rustling as she draped a cotton towel, fresh linen shirt, and work trousers across the bed. “Time’s up. I’m busy and you need to get ready. I’ve got something I wanna show you.”
Before he could answer, she was out the door again. Ben grabbed the towel and dried off, rubbing his hair until it looked like a mangy dog that had gotten caught in a flood. He slipped into the trousers and linen shirt, sniffing the lavender and lemon scent that brought back memories of Angelina.
“Now, here’s the surprise,” Mabel said, peeking her head behind the bedroom door. “You ready?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ben said, buttoning up the trousers.
She swung the door open and breezed into the room holding a pair of shiny, black leather riding boots with silver buckles at the top. She held them up to Ben and smiled. “Whaddya think? I know they’re not Cherokee moccasins, but they’re mighty fine nonetheless.”
Ben stared in awe, admiring the craftsmanship and design. He ran his fingers along the smooth leather surface, feeling the sleek polish. He had never owned a pair so fine. “They’re beautiful.”
“I’ve got a little money put away, but what good does it do me if I don’t have someone to spend it on?” Her gaze softened as her hazel eyes filled with emotion. “There’s no one else on earth I’d rather spend it on than you.” She touched his cheek and gave it a gentle pat. “You’ve got your pride, I know, but you need someone to love on you a bit, take care of you. Don’t look at me like that, ’cause you know I’m right.” She smiled and a mischievous glint shone in her eyes. “Now, there’s something more. You have to have something to go with the boots.”
“Miss Mabel,” Ben protested, “I can’t accept this—”
“You can and you will.” She opened up the mahogany wardrobe, and there hanging in front was a beautiful, royal blue riding coat with black buttons at the waist and cuffs, looking like something Edward and his Charleston friends would wear—what Uncle Bear Claw called dinuwo or white man’s clothes. Ben stared at the coat, imagining what he would look like in such a magnificent article of clothing. He never wanted to give in to dressing like his father’s people, but he had to admit, somewhere in him was the desire to reclaim his white heritage. Even as a boy, when he tried to look and act like the other white boys, there was someone like Edward or Angelina’s father to remind him of his Cherokee blood.
“Had it made special over at Hadden’s. I’ve been saving it for months,” Mabel said, pulling the coat from the wardrobe. Behind it was a pair of brown canvas riding trousers and a crisp, white linen shirt. “Fit for a king
,” she said, draping the coat across her arm. “Wanna give it a try?” She slipped it off the hanger and held it open.
Ben’s eyes widened at the navy blue silk lining and the rich blue color of the serge wool. He slipped his arms through, adjusting it over his shoulders. Mabel turned him toward the dressing table mirror where they both looked at his reflection. “Perfect,” she said, brushing her hand over his back and tugging at the sleeves. “The handsomest man in all of Laurel Grove.” She kissed him on the cheek and hugged him close while admiring his reflection. “And the most blessed. You remember that, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am. I do thank you.” Ben’s heart softened at the sight of tears gathering in her eyes. She really was the closest thing he had to a mother, now that his family was gone. Buttoning the coat, he squared his shoulders and stood upright, wondering what it meant to be a blessed man. Did it mean more than what he had stashed in his pocketbook? Must be.
Running his fingers through his hair, he suddenly became aware of how jagged and shaggy he looked. He rubbed his hand over his beard and stared closely at his reflection. For the first time in his life, he saw his father’s face—chiseled features and dark skin, but with a layer of white running underneath. “Miss Mabel,” he said, knowing what he had to do. “You have a pair of barber shears anywhere?”
“Glory be!” she said, clapping her hands and grinning big and wide. “Why, yes, sir, I do!” With one quick move, she pulled a chair from her writing desk and placed it in front of the mirror, patting the seat with her palm. “Sit yourself down and we’ll get you cleaned up, but good!”
CHAPTER 34
Today was the day. The Carolina Challenge was finally here after months of anticipation, and Angelina’s stomach was in knots. She hadn’t been able to get a bite of breakfast past her nose, even though Ella cooked her favorite—blueberry hotcakes with scrambled eggs, honey cured bacon, and biscuits with sausage gravy, topped off with a rich cup of hot coffee. Jessie had gobbled her food up without any trouble at all and had even stolen a few bites from Angelina’s plate. She wondered where Jessie put it all, being so thin.
“Come on, Jessie!” Angelina stood by the front door of Fairington, checking her pocket watch. She and Jessie had to hurry if they wanted to get to town to see Ben before the race started. “We need to get going!” she called up the staircase.
“Hold your horses, miss!” Jessie slapped her Stetson on her head and rumbled down the stairs wearing a dusty rose-colored chambray shirt, beige canvas riding pants, and a thick black belt, topped off with a pair of black leather boots. Her long, black hair provided a stunning contrast to her attire.
“You’re wearing that?” Angelina asked, wrinkling her nose. “What about that new dress Ella made, the coral damask with those ribbons you liked?”
“I don’t wanna wear a dress!” Jessie sneered. “I’m wearing trousers. It’s more practical. Besides, you know how I feel about those sidesaddles.”
“It’s just for today,” Angelina said with a sigh, rolling her eyes. “And I thought you were going to do something about your hair.”
“My hair’s fine.”
Jessie stomped out the door, and Angelina followed behind, first checking her appearance in the gilded mirror which hung over the walnut chest by the front door. Like the other ladies in Laurel Grove, she treated the Challenge as a high fashion event and had the dressmaker design a new frock for the occasion—a sky blue silk trimmed in white silk piping with lace and ribbon accents at the bodice and accentuated with tiny pearls. The skirt was long and flowing with a bustle in the back, but not so full as to prevent her from sitting securely on a sidesaddle. She wore her hair swept up with tiny ringlets framing her face, crowned with her new matching blue hat with lace veil, pearls, and quail feather. And hanging around her neck, close to the skin and tucked out of sight, was Ben’s arrowhead, which she had tied to a long strip of leather—a secret, even from Ella.
Angelina pinched her cheeks a few times and bit her lips for color, satisfied with the way the fabric brought out the rich blue in her eyes. Her stomach leapt with a flutter of butterflies as she imagined what Ben’s reaction would be. Breezing through the front door, she hurried across the cobblestone drive to where Tom waited with Eagle’s Wing. “Tom, you and the boys have all the picnic supplies ready?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, handing her the reins. “Billy and I have the wagon all loaded up and are headed over to the site as soon as we see you off.”
“Well, all right, but don’t dillydally. I don’t wanna miss a single moment.”
He helped her into the sidesaddle, which felt foreign and strange, but it couldn’t be helped with the new silk dress. “You sure you don’t want the buggy?”
“No, Tom. We’ve already discussed this. Anyway, Eagle’s Wing doesn’t want to miss one bit of the race either, do you boy?” She stroked the gelding’s neck and smiled.
“Hate to see you get your dress all mussed up.”
She fluffed the silk skirt around the saddle, admiring how nice it looked. “Maybe next year I’ll wear trousers, like Jessie.” She indulged him with a sly look, knowing full well he didn’t believe her for a minute.
“Come on!” Jessie yelled. She trotted slowly down the drive toward the main road, riding Miss Majestic. “You gonna talk all day, or are you gonna ride?”
“I’ll see you, Tom,” Angelina said, waving at Ella who looked on from the front porch. “I’ll probably be famished later, so save me a chicken leg, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am, I will,” he said, slapping Eagle’s Wing on the back haunches.
She and Eagle’s Wing moved down the road at a slow canter, following Jessie into town. It was a glorious morning, just perfect for a steeplechase. The sky was bright blue and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. It had rained lightly the day before, so the grass and leaves were vibrant green and the jasmine and wildflowers in the field flourished more than ever with a mixture of reds, oranges, and yellows.
Normally, Angelina liked to stay in town and watch the race with the crowd, but this year, she was intent on watching along the race route. Many spectators liked to camp out along the three-mile run, and she and Jessie had chosen the little clump of oak trees near the Old McNair Cemetery where her mama and daddy and Mighty Wind were buried. Ella had packed them a fine picnic lunch, enough for Tom and all of the Fairington boys. Included were fried chicken, spicy ham biscuits, baked chicken sandwiches with Ella’s famous butter spread, apple pie, and a wheel of sharp cheddar cheese, all to be served with her mama’s floral china dishes, silverware, and embroidered linen napkins.
Angelina thought of Ella’s annual Challenge picnic and how everyone at Fairington looked forward to it, and yet, there was a sense of foreboding this year because of Ben. At first she thought it was something she was feeling on her own, but over time, she came to realize it affected Jessie and Ella and all the boys. She could sense it—an oppressive weight that hung over the entire farm, like a thick fog. Jessie and Ella didn’t laugh as much as they used to, and Tom seemed to snap at Billy and the other trainers for no reason. All of them were feeling the pressure of the outcome of the race.
The shade from the large oaks brought with it a cool breeze that twisted through the forest and ruffled the quail feather in her hat, reminding Angelina of Edward’s cold stare. Her stomach soured at the thought of seeing him again—he repulsed her more than ever. What if he did win after all? she thought. Sadness washed over her, tempting her to weep, but then, at that moment, a flock of birds fluttered across the sky, lifting her spirits to the clouds. They seemed to say, Ben is going to do fine today. And she knew they were right. Edward Millhouse didn’t have a chance.
Ben felt the crowd staring as he rode Midnight Storm down Main Street. Mabel had insisted he stay in the back room off the kitchen and get a good night’s sleep. He was grateful for the rest and refreshment, as well as his new riding clothes and short haircut. He had buffed the leather on the boots until they shon
e, while Mabel pressed his linen shirt and trousers until they were as stiff as a board. He even agreed to tuck a blue silk ascot into the neck of his white shirt, which offset the riding coat beautifully—but he refused to wear her husband’s old black velvet riding hat. He couldn’t ride without feeling the power of the wind blowing through what was left of his hair.
While Mabel was busy with Ben, Arthur, the stable hand, brushed Midnight Storm down to a sleek black and braided its mane and tail in a handsome design. Ben had to admit that the entire transformation was a blessing and brought on a newfound confidence. One look in the mirror confirmed he looked nothing short of southern royalty.
“Why, Mr. Eagle-Smith!” Miranda Sutherland exclaimed as she stood along Main Street with Rebecca Thompson. “Is that you?” She giggled in Rebecca’s ear and pointed his way.
“Yes, ma’am it is,” he said, nodding his head as the stallion sauntered down the cobblestone street to the race starting line.
“Well, you do look fine!”
“And you ladies look lovely.” He saluted them while moving Midnight Storm into a trot, ignoring the wagging fingers, whispers, and admiring glances from the spectators, especially the ladies. Even though he was uncomfortable with their attention, he was glad to make a good impression. He could guess what Isabella’s reaction would be at seeing his new appearance. But it was Angelina’s response that made him most curious.
As he and Midnight Storm made their way through the crowd, he caught a glimpse of a blonde-haired beauty in a blue dress, and his heart dropped. It was Angelina arriving with Jessie. He quickly dismounted and approached an old man with crystal blue eyes, silvery whiskers, and a sweat-stained Stetson who held a paper scroll in one hand and a stack of cards with hand-painted numbers in the other—obviously one of the race judges. “Ben Eagle-Smith,” Ben said, eyeing the list of names on the scroll. The old man gave him a cool look as he unrolled the scroll down to the Ss.
Where Love Runs Free (Tales from the Upcountry) Page 24
