“I see.” Her mother’s voice brimmed with mirth.
Her father uncrossed his ankles and stood. “I owe you my thanks, sir. I appreciate your saving my daughter.”
“It was nothing.” Nathan took the hand her father offered. “I only regret upsetting her.” He turned those deep blue eyes to Abigail. This morning they reminded her of a favorite velvet dress she’d worn when she was younger. “Please accept my apologies, Miss LeGrand.”
What? He was apologizing to her? Abigail closed her mouth with an audible snap when she realized it was hanging open. The accusations she had flung at him last night came back to her with sterling clarity. “I’m afraid I acted much worse than you, sir.”
A choked sound to her right was likely her mama trying to hide her laughter. Abigail’s embarrassment deepened.
Nathan bowed to her. “Let’s put the whole incident behind us.”
“Well said, Brother Pierce.” Her father was beaming at the man.
Abigail wanted to stomp her foot. Papa, too? Was her whole family turning against her? It seemed Nathan had won both their hearts. But losing her temper would do nothing to advance her case, so she pinned a smile on her face and nodded agreement.
She would show him. She would be so kind to Brother Pierce it would be like heaping coals of shame on his head. Then he would show his true colors and maybe her parents would realize he wasn’t the perfect man they imagined him to be.
Bridgeport Road, the stagecoach route between Vicksburg and Jackson, was a narrow lane with a surfeit of potholes and ruts. Abigail clasped her hands on her lap and tried to keep from touching the passengers on either side of her. She should have known this was a bad idea when she first caught sight of the driver.
His face was dark from a combination of sun and dirt. Even though it was quite warm, he wore a faded knit cap on his grizzled hair. His clothing was rumpled and faded, and his manner was gruff. He did not help her or her mother climb into his coach.
She glanced toward Nathan out of the corner of her eye. He was lucky enough to be sitting next to the window and seemed enthralled by the countryside they were passing through. His shoulders blocked most of her view, although she could see the tops of large pine trees and an occasional horseman.
“Mississippi is so different from Tennessee. No mountains. No waterfalls. Only an endless sea of trees.” Nathan turned his serious blue gaze on her.
Would she be overstepping his boundaries by asking about his home? He was so secretive about his past. Yet his comment seemed like an invitation.
Before Abigail could formulate a question that would not seem like it was prying into his past, her mother spoke up from her position on the opposite seat. “I lived for a while in Nashville, but I understand it is nothing like Chattanooga.”
“When I was a young boy, many of those living in the area were Cherokee. Ross’s Landing, across the river from us, was the first outpost and was built by John Ross, the chief of the Cherokee.”
Papa frowned at his words. “I thought you lived in Chattanooga.”
“Yes, sir, but we didn’t call it that until a few years ago. In fact, my store is actually located in Daisy. It’s right close to Chattanooga. If Chattanooga keeps on growing like it has in the past few years, it’ll probably swallow Daisy whole.”
No one said anything for a few minutes. The stagecoach hit a rut and lurched. Abigail held herself as well as she could manage. Nathan swayed with the motion of the conveyance and their shoulders rubbed together for a few moments. The contact set off a covey of birds in her stomach. She jerked away from him, bumping into the poor woman on her left.
Nathan glanced toward her, then away. He cleared his throat and spoke to her parents. “I don’t know exactly what to expect when we get to Jackson.”
“I don’t either, Papa. Will it be like when we go to Gatlin’s Camp Ground later this month?”
“No.” Papa shook his head. “This is going to be a meeting of the church leaders, the men who will decide the appropriate path for our denomination over the next year.”
Her mother hid a yawn behind her hand. “We probably won’t even be part of the meeting, Abigail. We’ll be expected to help everything go smoothly, from the meals to the care of the children.”
That was not fair. She’d much rather attend the meeting than be stuck washing dishes and changing diapers.
Conversation dwindled as the interior of the coach warmed under the June sun. Mama dozed, her head on Papa’s shoulder. He had pulled out a small book and was reading it with great concentration. Abigail was able to watch the scenery since Nathan had shifted his position. Dense forests eventually gave way to sparsely populated areas. She saw a man working to fell a tree next to a log cabin. A garden farther down the road was being worked by a woman in a straw bonnet, her children at her side.
Then the houses grew closer together, signaling that they were nearing town. She could hear dogs barking as they chased the stagecoach. The vehicle came to a stop at a busy corner. Abigail could barely contain her excitement.
Her mother sat up and blinked rapidly. “Have we arrived?”
“Yes, dear.” Papa smiled gently down at her.
Abigail could not help the warm feeling in her chest. It was so wonderful to see the love her parents still held for each other. She knew it was founded on their mutual love for God and Christ, faith that kept them strong in the face of adversity and kept them stable during times of prosperity. She wondered if she would ever feel the same for any man.
Nathan swung open the door and jumped down. Then he turned and offered his hand to Abigail. She hesitated a moment before putting her hand in his. What if the same combustible reaction occurred? Not wanting to take the chance, she gathered her skirts and stood up, bending over slightly because of the low ceiling. She was very aware of the gazes of the other passengers as she began her descent.
Abigail almost made it to the ground when one of the dogs came running up, barking loudly. Startled, she lost her balance with one foot on the mounting block. She dropped her skirts and windmilled her arms to keep herself from falling. Her heart stuttered as she realized she would not be able to stop her headlong plunge. A muscular arm snaked around her waist before she hit the ground. Abigail was once again pulled up to Nathan’s chest, but today she was facing him. Her nose rubbed against one of the buttons on his coat, and she breathed in the fresh, manly scent of him.
“Are you okay?” His voice was deep, with a gruff edge. As though he’d been frightened, too.
Her father exited the coach quickly. “Are you all right, Abigail?”
No was the answer she wanted to give to both of them. Her pride was in tatters, and her heart was beating so quickly she thought it might burst through her bodice. She pushed against Nathan’s hard chest, relieved to find she could stand on her own two feet. “Yes, thank you both for your concern.”
The stagecoach had stopped in front of an inn, but she had no idea if it was the place they were staying or not. It was big—five-stories high—and busy. The grounds around them looked more like a market than anything else. Pigs rooted in one corner while chickens scooted between the booted feet of the stablemen.
Abigail felt somewhat overwhelmed by the noise, smells, and activity surging around her. Perhaps she should not have been in such a rush to leave the protection of Nathan’s arms. An arresting thought struck her. Was God showing her that independence had its drawbacks?
Chapter 12
It’s about time for you to wake up, daughter.” Mama’s voice interrupted her dream.
Abigail groaned and rolled over, trying to pull the quilt up over her eyes. “Please don’t tell me it’s already morning.”
“Yes.” Mama whipped the quilt away. She must have already pulled back the draperies from the room’s east-facing window because sunlight flooded the room. “If we don’t hurry, your papa will be finished with his breakfast before we get downstairs.”
Another groan slipped from Abigail’s lip
s as she sat up. “I feel like someone whipped me during the night.”
Mama put a cool hand on her forehead. “Are you sick?”
Yellow fever was a constant fear, especially in the spring and summer months. “No, ma’am. I’m only sore from all the bouncing of that stagecoach.”
She could see the relief in her mother’s expression and determined not to complain further about her minor aches and pains. They would fade anyway, once she was up and about. Taking her wrapper from the foot of the bed, she cleaned her face and hands with water from the inn’s pitcher while her mother pulled out Abigail’s plainest dress of drab brown homespun. “Are we going to be cleaning today?”
Mama nodded as she shook out the skirts. “And cooking.” She glanced down at her own gray homespun. “At least that is what your papa says.”
Abigail almost protested. She would much rather join the gentlemen in their meetings. But she knew it was impossible. Her parents were lenient with her at home, but here they would wish for her to be circumspect.
As soon as Abigail was dressed and her hair had been pulled into a neat bun at the base of her neck, the two women went downstairs to the dining room. Nathan and Papa were drinking coffee and talking quietly as they entered.
Nathan saw them first and came to his feet. “Good morning, ladies. I trust you slept well.”
Her father also stood and beckoned them to the table as they exchanged greetings. As soon as they were seated, a servant brought several bowls of food—eggs, sausage, biscuits, and grits—to be passed among the diners.
She noticed an odd expression on Nathan’s face as he accepted the bowl of grits from her father. “Have you never eaten grits before?”
Nathan shook his head. “What are they?”
“They’re grits. Do you mean to tell me you don’t have any grit trees in Tennessee?” She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at the look on his face.
“No, I don’t think so.” His voice was hesitant. “What do they look like?”
“In the springtime, when they flower, the trees are covered with lots of grits. People put out baskets and wait for all the grits to fall into them. Of course, sometimes their children climb into the trees and shake the limbs to get the grits to fall off faster. You probably saw some of them on your way to Mississippi.”
The look on his face was priceless. Nathan had no idea whether to believe her or not. He glanced toward her parents, who were studiously avoiding his gaze. Abigail put a hand to her mouth to hold in the laughter, but a giggle escaped. That was enough to set off her parents’ laughter.
She put her hand down, and her laughter joined theirs. At first she wasn’t sure if the pastor was going to take offense at being the target of her teasing. Then his lips turned up, and soon he was laughing with them. It was exactly what was needed to ease the tension between all of them.
Mama finally took pity on the pastor and explained that grits were nothing more than ground corn. He piled some on his plate and added butter at her urging.
The talk turned general, and Abigail delved into a newspaper article that caught her attention. She nibbled at a biscuit and shook her head over the story about a slave uprising in Alabama.
“What has brought such a dark frown to you on this lovely morning?” The question came from Nathan.
She shrugged her shoulders and folded the paper. “I don’t know why our fellow Southerners cling so firmly to slavery.”
Her father nodded. “That’s an issue that is bound to come up this weekend. Our church leaders need to speak out more openly in favor of abolition. It would help so many to see the truth.”
As her mother expressed her approval of Papa’s statement, Abigail glanced at Nathan. Would he speak his own beliefs or keep them to himself? A part of her wished he would express his ideas in front of her parents for two reasons: They would no longer think him such a perfect paragon of virtue and intelligence, and they would immediately begin to try to show him the error of his thinking.
But he remained silent, listening as her papa talked about the importance of treating every person with Christian kindness and how easy it was to make a living even without using slave labor. She had heard his speech many times in the past but hoped some of his points would sink into Nathan’s mind and begin to work a change.
“I know how it is to believe slavery is not evil.” Her mother’s words got her attention. This was something she’d not heard before. “My parents owned slaves even before I was born, so I thought nothing of the matter.” She reached out for her husband’s hand. “But once I met you, I learned the error of my ways. I began to see Jemma and the others as people with talents as important as mine.”
Papa shook his head. “It was your faith that led you to the truth.”
“Perhaps so, but I seem to remember a fiery young man who was determined to rebel against everyone to prove his beliefs.”
Their love was so touching to see. Abigail glanced toward Nathan and wondered what was going through his mind. Was he embarrassed by her parents’ obvious affection for each other? Defensiveness filled her. If he dared to even hint at disdain, she would give him a tongue-lashing he’d not soon forget.
Nathan looked away from her parents and met her gaze. For a moment it was as if she could see past the bright blue of his eyes and into his very soul. The longing she saw there made her want to reach out to him. She wanted to hold him close and reassure him that God loved him no matter what. But as quickly as it had appeared, the pain vanished, replaced by his usual calm expression. Had she only imagined the emotion in his gaze, or had it been real?
Abigail’s unkind thoughts melted away, replaced by sympathy. What kind of life had this man experienced before coming to Mississippi? Was the profound grief she thought she had seen a few seconds earlier the reason he didn’t want to talk about the past? And more importantly, what kind of future did he anticipate for himself?
“Abigail, would you melt some butter in that pan on the stove?” Mrs. Gail Ross, the wife of Bishop Bill Ross, handed her some freshly churned butter before turning back to supervise two young girls who were layering peaches into a cast-iron dutch oven. “That’s right, Gabrielle, add some sugar now, and we’ll see about rolling out a crust.”
The kitchen was a hive of activity as the women worked to feed the church elders who would soon be through with their meeting. Wonderful aromas of fried chicken, stew, and collard greens filled the warm room.
Abigail dropped the butter into the hot pan and stirred it with a spoon. “What am I making?”
Her mother walked over and stirred a pot of collard greens that had been picked earlier that morning. “Creamed corn.” Mama’s answer made Abigail’s mouth water.
She had already helped to make several skillets of cornbread from locally milled grain, and she had peeled enough potatoes to feed an entire army. At first it had been fun to compete with the other young women to see who could produce the longest and thinnest peel, but after the first hour, even that did not distract anyone from the tedium of their task. Once they had peeled every potato, they took them outside and placed them in a huge cauldron of water boiling over an open fire.
Mrs. Ross brought a bowl of brown sugar to the stove and leaned over Abigail’s shoulder. “What a good job you’re doing. Now take this and stir it in slowly.” She walked to the door and called out to the children sitting on the back porch. “Are y’all done shelling that corn yet? We’re going to need it right soon.”
Abigail was amazed at the energy that kept Mrs. Ross moving from station to station. She was a small woman—about an inch shorter than Abigail—but what she lacked in height, she made up for in enthusiasm and zeal.
As soon as they had arrived a couple of hours earlier, Abigail and her mother had been given aprons and separated from the menfolk. Mrs. Ross and Mama had discussed the menu for a midafternoon feast before parceling out tasks to all the people in the kitchen. It was a good thing Bishop and Mrs. Ross had four children or not
everything would have been ready in time.
“Here’s the corn.” Mrs. Ross brought a large bowl of bright yellow kernels to Abigail and set them down on the counter at her left elbow. “You’ll have to keep stirring until the corn is done. Gertrude, go get the cream for Miss LeGrand’s corn.” Then she was off again, checking one dish or another, waving flies away, and marshaling the younger children to wash dishes while the others continued cooking.
Eventually everything was ready, from the first course—leek soup—to the dessert—deep-dish peach cobbler. The dining-room table had been set, and all they needed was for the men to appear.
Abigail blew out a tired sigh as she pulled off her apron. “I don’t think I ever appreciated how much work it takes to feed a large group of people.” She plopped down in an empty chair. One of the twin girls—she wasn’t sure if it was Gabrielle or Gertrude—handed her a cup of water from the well outside. Its cool moisture was a relief to her parched throat.
“Yes, we so seldom have more than a few people come by for dinner.” Her mother sat down beside her at the kitchen table. Abigail tried to hand her the half-empty cup in her hand, but the other twin appeared with a fresh cup. “Thank you, Gabrielle.”
Now, how did Mama tell them apart? She glanced at the two girls who wore their aprons like badges of honor. From the braids of their red-blond hair to the tips of their brown leather shoes, they looked identical to her eyes.
“I appreciate all the hard work you ladies did this morning.” Mrs. Ross darted back inside after overseeing the dishwashers on the back porch. “It’s a delight to have so many willing workers.” She smiled at the twins and held out her arms for a hug. “And I cannot wait until we see your father’s face when he tries a bite of that peach cobbler.”
They giggled as they kissed their mother’s cheeks, one on either side. One more hug, and she sent them upstairs to their bedrooms to clean up before the meal, leaving the three older women alone for a minute.
“I wonder why the meeting is taking so long.” Mrs. Ross glanced around the kitchen. “They are generally finished by two o’clock.”
Mississippi Brides Page 25
