Chapter 5
Jeremiah finished dressing, picked up his Bible, and headed downstairs to break his fast. He was not surprised to find he was the first to rise. He’d had trouble sleeping, although he could not fault the feather mattress or cotton quilts his hosts had provided. No, it was the prickling of his conscience that had awakened him several times. Finding that the slaves were still preparing food, he decided to go outside and read from his Bible. Delving into the Word should help restore his peace of mind.
The morning was crisp and quite cool, not surprising since the end of the year was drawing close. He drank in the view of the river afforded by the wide porch, which faced in a westerly direction. Having met Judah in New Orleans, he’d had no idea his friend’s home would be so breathtaking. It made him think of his dream home, the one he’d described to his uncle in the weeks prior to his departure, the one he hoped to build for the sake of orphaned children.
The river wound around the base of the bluff on which Magnolia Plantation stood, its waters as brown as a cup of chicory coffee. He could see no sign of civilization to the north or to the south. The opposite bank of the river was lowland swamp. To his right stood a dense pine forest, its tree trunks nearly as wide as he was tall. To his left were the cotton fields, acre after acre of white-studded plants that looked ready for the harvest.
When he’d arrived the evening before, he had barely been able to make out the vast cropland Judah and his wife grew. Susannah had told them a halting story of the past months while her husband had been convalescing in New Orleans. He had left her with a competent overseer, never realizing he would be away from home for more than a year.
The overseer had taken a new job a few weeks earlier, leaving Susannah without a man to help her supervise and direct the harvest. Some of their neighbors had leant assistance, but the result was not the same. Many of the fields had not been tended as they should have been. She had held out hope that the return of her husband would turn things around, but without an excellent yield from their cotton fields, they might not be able to meet their obligations. Seed had been purchased on credit last spring; the slaves needed clothing, shelter, and food; and the territorial government had recently sent a notice of taxes due.
A sense of purpose lifted Jeremiah’s chin. He believed God had put him in this place for a specific reason. To help his friends regain their prosperity? Maybe. Yet he had promised his uncle that he would establish a trading office in Natchez. How could he possibly accomplish both?
It would be nice to have someone to talk to, someone with whom he could be completely honest, someone who would help him see which path he should take. A vision of a bedraggled beauty danced through his mind. The damsel in distress? He had the feeling she had been pampered and spoiled all of her life. Even though she had been tired and dirty, her demeanor had reminded him of the simpering, self-centered debutantes to be found throughout the upper echelons of New Orleans society—empty-minded adornments purchased by wealthy dandies to produce heirs and embellish their elegant homes. Although he had never had the time or desire to attend fancy balls or court rich heiresses, he knew better than to think he could ever bare his soul to such as the woman he had rescued last night.
Yet if he closed his eyes, he could smell the lemony fragrance of her perfume. He could almost feel her in his arms. Her face had been streaked with dirt and mud, but it had still been beautiful. A grin lit his features as he remembered how she had cast him in the role of a cheeky servant. Somehow, he had failed to correct her. No matter, he would probably never see her again.
Jeremiah spied a wooden bench at the edge of the pine forest and headed for it. Brushing it free of pine needles, he sat down. He closed his eyes for a moment and prayed for the wisdom to make good decisions in the days ahead. He thanked God for forgiveness and asked for the grace to forgive others. Pledging his love, utter and complete, to his Maker, Jeremiah felt a sense of peace settle over him, and he sat still, caught up in wonder.
He opened his eyes and realized his Bible had fallen open while he prayed. The book of the prophet Jeremiah, his namesake. His eyes went straight to an underlined verse in chapter 29: “For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end.” It was one of his favorite verses. The assurance that God sent His thoughts into Jeremiah’s heart brought him great comfort. All he needed to do was be willing to follow God’s lead. Everything else would follow in due course. He whispered his thanks to the Lord for the reminder. It settled his mind and gave him the strength to face whatever challenges might come his way. How could he have forgotten this truth?
A noise behind him indicated the other residents of the Hughes household were no longer abed. He turned to see Judah leaning against his crutches, standing in nearly the same spot Jeremiah had stood earlier. How would he adapt to the demands of running Magnolia Plantation? Would he and Susannah lose their home? Judah had told him it was an inheritance from a distant uncle. While Judah had never expected to be a planter, he had managed in the past. Now with only one good leg, would he be able to cope? Only time would tell.
Jeremiah pushed himself up from his bench and strode toward the porch. “You look very natural standing there.”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I think God is trying to tell me He intends something different for my life.” Judah turned a troubled expression toward him. “There’s so much to do. How can I—”
“That may be why I am here.”
“Thank you, friend, but I cannot impose on your good nature. Both of us know why you’re here.”
“Have I ever told you how much I have always wanted to be a farmer?”
Judah’s face registered his surprise. “You…a farmer? I don’t believe it.” He laughed and shook his head.
“I believe I’m offended.” Jeremiah raised his eyebrows. “Do you think me incapable?”
“No, no.” Judah lifted one of his crutches and pressed it against the banister that ringed his porch. “But I won’t let you sacrifice your uncle’s business for mine.”
“I have been thinking about that, and I may have a solution.”
“What do you mean?” Judah returned his crutch to the floor and leaned against it.
“I still have several things to work out before I present my idea to you. I only brought it up so you will not lose hope. In the meantime”—Jeremiah waggled his eyebrows—“I plan to roll up my sleeves and learn about your farming operation from the ground up.”
Judah groaned. “What a clown.”
“I know. I know.” Jeremiah walked to the front door and held it open for his friend. “A wonderful aroma is emanating from your dining room. Shall we investigate its source?”
Chapter 6
Alexandra rested her weight on her foot with care, breathing a sigh of relief that the pain from last night had faded considerably. “The salve you put on my ankle has worked, Jemma.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The sparkle in Jemma’s eyes bespoke her pleasure. “One of the grooms gave it to me.”
“A groom?” A mental picture of a horse with a pulled fetlock entered her mind.
“After you were carried inside last night.”
Heat bloomed in Alexandra’s cheeks as she recalled being held so close to a man’s chest that the thumping of his heart was all she could hear. Whatever was wrong with her? Was she daydreaming of a servant? Her mind must be addled by all the alarms and grief she had faced recently. She put a hand on her forehead but could not detect any fever. Perhaps she needed more rest.
Jemma flung open the velvet drapes that covered her bedroom window, and sunlight flooded the room.
The day was more advanced than Alexandra had realized. With a sigh, she put away the idea of returning to the refuge of her bed. Grand-mère was probably irritated already because she was not present at the breakfast table.
Jemma helped Alexandra exchange her sleeping gown for a day dress, which had been aired and pressed sometime
after their arrival last night. It was black, of course, as befitted a grieving daughter, but the bodice clung to her figure almost like a second skin. Looking in the mirror as Jemma arranged her hair, Alexandra decided the dark material of her skirt contrasted nicely with the white skin of her chest and arms. Of course she was not on the lookout for a suitor since her heart had so recently been broken, but it was always better to be prepared for any circumstance.
She sallied forth from her bedroom some time later and negotiated the central staircase with caution. The dining hall was toward the rear of the house, closer to the kitchen out back. She entered the room, not surprised to see that everyone was still seated at the table. Alexandra put on her widest smile and bent to kiss the wrinkled face of Althea Tanner, her grandmother. “How nice it is to be home.”
Grand-mère frowned as she turned her cheek up for Alexandra’s kiss, her faded brown eyes as hard as acorns. “I’m not certain when my home became a sanctuary for wayward females.”
Alexandra spotted her mother seated at the far end of the table, a further indication of Grand-mère’s displeasure. The empty plate next to Mama was a sure sign of where she was to sit, so Alexandra moved in that direction, limping ever so slightly in an attempt to remind the others that she was not well.
Uncle John, as tall and thin as ever, stood and held her chair out for her. “It is good to see you, niece.”
Her smile warmed. “Thank you, Uncle John.” She hugged him before sliding into her chair.
Her mother reached for her hand under the table and squeezed it tightly. It was a warning to mind her tongue.
Alexandra returned the squeeze as her gaze roamed over the assembled family members. Aunt Patricia, Mama’s older sister, was almost as tall and thin as her husband. Her smile, as kind and gentle as ever, reminded Alexandra that her aunt was the most charitable member of the Tanner family. Opposite Alexandra sat her cousin, Percival, Grand-mère’s nephew who had lived with her since the death of his parents many years ago.
“Now that you are here”—Grand-mère’s voice drew Alexandra’s attention—“I will tell you the same thing I have been saying to your mother. I will not tolerate an indefinite stay.” She pointed a gnarled finger at Alexandra. “You will find a husband. And I don’t mean you will wait on the front porch for some suitor to appear. I sent untold amounts of money to your parents to make certain you would turn into an accomplished young lady.”
“And we did as you instructed with your money.” Mama showed an uncharacteristic willingness to challenge her strong-willed parent. “If you had been as willing to support James’s aspirations, we would not be in this fix now.”
“Don’t you dare try to lay your husband’s misdeeds at my door, Beatrice. Although I don’t fault him for trying to take advantage of whatever situation arose, he should not have been caught. His actions severely limit your own daughter’s prospects.”
Having handily subdued her daughter, Grand-mère turned her attention to Alexandra once again. “You have been allowed to dillydally around for far too long. If you don’t marry soon, you will be considered an old maid. And then there is the matter of your father’s death. As soon as folks around here learn about the scandal surrounding my daughter’s husband, they will think twice about letting their sons court you. I refuse to let you squander your chances to have a household of your own.”
Alexandra’s mouth dropped open. She had always known she would have to marry one day. In fact, she was looking forward to having a household of her own. But to be ordered to marry right away? Preposterous. She closed her mouth with a snap. “I suppose you have a candidate in mind…”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
Alexandra should not have been surprised. Grand-mère had probably been planning this since she and Mama had first written of their troubles. She had always pushed Alexandra toward the accomplishments that would assure her granddaughter’s place in society, one of station and wealth. “Have I met this paragon?”
Grand-mère’s eyes narrowed at the irony in Alexandra’s tone. “Yes, he is Harvey and Marie Sheffield’s oldest son. A fine catch. All the girls in the area are chasing him. You will have to work hard if you are to snare him.”
Alexandra’s lips folded into a straight line. She didn’t like being told what to do. “You know the people here will want to know how Papa died. How do you suggest we suppress the truth?”
“I’ve thought of that, too.” Her grandmother sat back in her chair and lifted a hand. The slave who had been standing in one corner of the dining room moved forward at the signal and pulled back the heavy chair on which she sat. Grand-mère grabbed the slave’s arm and pulled herself upright, grabbing her cane for support. “We’ll tell everyone your father died fighting Indians. We’ll make sure they believe he was a hero.”
Alexandra pushed back her untouched breakfast. Her stomach was roiling. Lie to everyone? Yet what choice did she have? Her grandmother’s commands were not to be ignored. She controlled everyone in the family.
In that instant, Alexandra made up her mind. “Once we renew our acquaintance, Mr. Sheffield will not notice anyone else.”
Alexandra had the chance to prove her words faster than she had imagined. Grand-mère sent Uncle John and Aunt Patricia to the Sheffield home with a personal invitation to join them for dinner that evening to welcome Alexandra and her mother back home. Since the invitation was closer to a command, the Sheffields accepted and pledged they would bring their son along to renew his acquaintance with the ladies.
Alexandra had Jemma ready her fanciest dress, black of course, but its bodice was outlined with wispy black lace, and tiny gray rosettes were scattered across the slim skirt. It was a dress she would feel comfortable wearing to the fanciest ball in either Nashville or New Orleans. The only danger was appearing overdressed for a simple dinner, but she wanted to impress Mr. Sheffield from the start, and appearance was at least half the battle.
Jemma used an iron on her dark hair, coaxing it into a cascade of ringlets that outlined Alexandra’s face, highlighting her cheekbones and making her appear sophisticated. A touch of citrus perfume dabbed at her wrists completed the toilette. Alexandra slipped the ribbon of her black lace fan around her wrist and glanced in the mirror to judge the impact. She looked awfully somber.
“Just think how nice it will be to have your own household,” she lectured herself. “And how bad it will be if Grand-mère throws you out.” She took a deep breath and practiced a wide smile. Much better. Lowell Sheffield would be bowled over.
The guests were already assembled in the front parlor when Alexandra made her grand entrance. She paused for a moment at the wide doorway to the room.
“Well, come in here, girl.” Grand-mère waved her cane. “We’ve been waiting for your arrival for nigh on an hour.”
Not the best introduction, but Alexandra made certain her smile did not falter. “Please forgive me.” The men stood as she entered. Sweeping past everyone else, she bent over her grandmother and kissed the air next to the old woman’s cheek.
“Humph.” Her grandmother glared at her. “I suppose we’ll survive.” She turned to Mr. and Mrs. Sheffield. “This saucy thing is, of course, my granddaughter Alexandra.”
“You’ve become quite the beauty, bound to turn our local girls green with envy.” Harvey Sheffield was a barrel-chested man with a forehead that seemed inordinately high, likely an illusion caused by his receding hairline.
Marie Sheffield, as slender as her husband was wide, nodded from her seat on the sofa. “Yes, indeed. And the young men will buzz around her like bees in a flower garden.”
Alexandra curtsied with all the grace she could muster and tried not to stare at the light reflecting from Mr. Sheffield’s nearly bare pate. “You are too kind.”
“My parents speak nothing but the truth.” The man whom her grandmother had picked to become Alexandra’s husband moved toward her, one hand covering his heart while the other reached for her hand. “I can hardly
believe how stunning you’ve become since the last time I saw you.” He bowed in front of her and placed a warm kiss on her wrist.
Her heart fluttered at the audacious move and warmth spread upward, burning her cheeks and ears. She pulled her hand from his and spread the ribs of her fan, using it to cool her face. “You have also changed since we were children, Mr. Sheffield.”
Lowell Sheffield had filled out well in the intervening years. His naturally curly brown hair was pulled forward from the crown and framed his wide forehead in a most attractive manner. His shoulders, which she remembered as being rather narrow, had widened, and his chest was at least as deep as his father’s. All in all, he was a passably attractive specimen. Becoming his wife would not be as dreadful as she had feared.
“I hope you are as pleased with my transformation as I am with yours, Miss Lewis.”
His smile was handsome, too. Alexandra could understand why he was so popular with the single ladies. It had probably made him a bit overconfident. She used her fan to obscure the lower part of her face and studied him from head to toe. She took her time, as though she was uncertain of the answer she should give. After a moment, his smile wilted. Hers widened, but he could not see it because of the fan.
Alexandra bit her lip and lowered the fan. “Yes…of course you do.” She put enough emphasis on the words to imply the opposite. Then she turned and sat next to his mother, complimenting the lady on her hair and dress. She listened with one ear as Mrs. Sheffield described in tedious detail the process of obtaining a seamstress who could copy patterns properly.
Alexandra’s heart was beating like a kettledrum. Had her ploy worked? Only time would tell. She nodded at the appropriate places and eventually drew Mr. Sheffield, Lowell’s father, into the conversation. By the time dinner was announced, she had at least two fervent supporters.
Mississippi Brides Page 4
