To Win Her Favor

by Tamera Alexander

  He took so many now. And laudanum, on occasion. But at least he didn’t seem to be in as much pain. Better to sleep, she thought, than to suffer through those spells.

  Thirsty, she moved toward the stairs, tiptoeing past Cullen’s room. His door was open and she paused outside, his soft, rhythmic breaths soothing after she’d awakened in such a state.

  About the only time she saw him these days was at breakfast. He took lunch and dinner with the men in the field, and often returned after she’d retired for the night. It was hard to believe they’d been married almost a month.

  Although, it wasn’t really a marriage, she reminded herself, stuffing down the restlessness that so often accompanied that thought these days.

  Once downstairs, she hesitated for a second then moved to the window, edged back the curtains she routinely closed at night now, and scanned the darkened yard in front of the house, relieved to find it empty and still.

  No more allowing her imagination to run away with her.

  As though challenging that thought, a remnant of her dream tried to bully its way back in, but she resisted, clenching her eyes tight and centering her thoughts on what she always did when she needed to overcome a fear. She thought of racing Belle across the fields of Linden Downs, then on into town, the wind in her hair, the sun on her face, the singular sense of freedom and release only riding could bring.

  She didn’t bother lighting a lamp in the kitchen, but got a drink of water then refilled her glass. Turning to leave, she spotted a covered plate—the remaining apple turnovers Onnie had made for dessert the previous evening. She felt all of five years old again, sneaking sweets in the middle of the night.

  Noiselessly she pulled a chair from beneath the small corner table—the one she’d occupied as a girl when helping Onnie in the kitchen—and she sat, a flood of years sluicing through her.

  She remembered one night in particular, when Savannah had stayed at their house. Giggling in bed together into the wee hours of the morning was hungry work, and they’d sneaked down to the kitchen to find these little apple treasures waiting for them, along with two glasses, as though Onnie had anticipated their midnight caper.

  Dear Savannah . . .

  Maggie’s heart ached at what her friend was going through, and at the pain her own good fortune was causing her friend. Maggie couldn’t remember the last time two weeks had gone by without their speaking.

  She took a bite, promising to remedy that in the coming week.

  The flakiness of the pastry and sweetness of the apples seemed to encourage her memory, and she savored the moment, almost able to hear the echoes of laughter these walls had absorbed over the years. The conversations that had filled this kitchen. Nearly a hundred years’ worth. And not only conversations . . .

  She remembered well the ruckus her brothers created when brawling in the next room, the telling thud of their bodies hitting the floor, broadcasting the progression of the fight. All with Mother constantly bidding them to be quiet even as a sparkle lit her eye.

  Another memory surfaced, and Maggie’s smile faded.

  You shouldn’t wear your brother’s overalls, Margaret! Not even when fishing. Someone will think you’re a boy! Now walk upstairs right this minute, like a lady, and change into a dress. And try not to get dirty again.

  Maggie took a long drink, the water cool and wet against her throat even as the reverberation of her mother’s oft-issued warning chafed the pleasant childhood memories. Maybe if she’d been less like her brothers and more like a “lady,” as her mother desired, the two of them would have been closer.

  But it was observing her mother’s strong affinity for her brothers that had made her want to be more like them. Well, partly. That, and she’d always preferred to do whatever it was her brothers were doing instead of the pursuits of a “proper young lady” such as sewing, knitting, learning to play the piano, or perfecting her French.

  It wasn’t that she’d loathed those pastimes. They simply hadn’t kindled a passion the way her love of horses and riding had.

  Maggie sighed and took another drink, a familiar sense of loneliness creeping over her as it always did when she thought about her mother and their differences. If only—

  “Margaret?”

  She gulped, then spewed, choking on the water. Coughing, she turned to see Cullen standing in the doorway.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice sleepy-sounding.

  She reached for the cloth that had covered the plate and wiped her chin and neck, working to regain her breath. “I was all right.” She swallowed, running a quick hand through her hair, loose about her shoulders. “Before you scared the living daylights out of me.”

  He laughed, the sound reassuring in the darkness. He lit a lamp and held it up, frowning. “Who said you could have another tart? Onnie said those were for me.”

  “They’re turnovers, and she did not.” Maggie held back a chuckle, enjoying when he sparred with her. “Would you like some water?” She held up the pitcher.

  He nodded, and she rose to get him a glass, then froze, remembering she was wearing only a gown. And not her robe. She quickly sat back down and positioned the pitcher just so in front of her. Then crossed her arms. Seeing he’d had the presence of mind to put on his trousers and a partially buttoned shirt didn’t help.

  He set the oil lamp on the table and claimed the chair opposite her. “Is everythin’ all right?” he finally asked.

  “Yes, it’s fine. It’s just—” He’d seen her once before in her robe, but never in her gown. And even though she knew it wasn’t true, she still felt a little . . . naked.

  “It’s just . . . what?” He looked at her.

  She looked back, trying to think of what to say.

  Then his gaze dipped. Swiftly down, then back up again. And slowly, he smiled, the gesture taking its own sweet time as the corners of his mouth turned and the gleam gradually found its way to his eyes, deepening her embarrassment.

  He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I’m suddenly very thirsty.”

  He said it with such seriousness, she almost giggled. But she couldn’t. Because she truly didn’t know what to do. She’d never been with a man while wearing so little. Well, at least a man she wasn’t related to.

  “I’m so thirsty,” he whispered, drawing out the words and crossing his arms over his chest.

  She shook her head at him. “You’ll need to get your own glass, Cullen.”

  “But you’re closer.” He looked pointedly at the cabinet behind her, then back. “And it’s on your side.”

  She leveled a stare, meeting the challenge in his eyes. “You know very well why I cannot get you a glass.”

  “Actually, I don’t.” He leaned forward, the gleam in his eyes turning devilish. “But if you’d like to stand up and take a twirl, we can talk about it.”

  Trying not to, she smiled the tiniest little bit, and triumph marched in behind his eyes.

  “Did you know,” he said, rising, “that we’re comin’ along well on buildin’ the extra cabins?”

  Wondering if this was a ploy, she kept an eye on him. “No, I didn’t. I haven’t been down there.”

  He turned, glass in hand. “Not at all?”

  She shook her head.

  He took his seat again. “You should let me show you tomorrow. They’re similar to the other cabins but have two rooms instead of one, and a loft area above.”

  “I’ve never seen the inside of the other cabins.”

  He paused. “You’ve never been inside the cabins your grandfather built for his slaves?”

  Had she imagined the hint of reprimand in his tone there at the last? “No, we weren’t allowed to go down there. The closest I’ve ever gotten was when Savannah, Mary, and I hid in the woods to watch when couples jumped the broom together.” She paused, seeing his inquisitive look. “Do you know what that means?”

  “Why don’t you tell me.”

  She leaned forward. “It’s what Negroes do w
hen they’re married. When I was a little girl, Onnie told me that whoever landed on the ground first, be it the bride or the groom, would be the person who made the decisions in the marriage. Onnie said she tried not to jump too high so she could land first, but Cletus merely hopped over and beat her to it!”

  Cullen smiled, watching her.

  “But if Papa or Mother had ever caught us down there watching . . .” She shook her head.

  “Come with me tomorrow.” He bit into a turnover, his mouthful equaling at least two of hers. “I’ll introduce you to Ennis’s wife, Odessia. You’ll like her. And their children too.”

  Maggie didn’t respond at first, then realized she needed to, for his sake. Especially having seen him interacting with the workers over the past couple of weeks. “I don’t know if that would be best, Cullen.”

  He paused from chewing. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean . . . I realize you work with the men, so there’s a certain . . . ease that develops between you. But . . .” She tried to put it as gently, yet as honestly, as she could. “I think there can be too much familiarity between an owner and . . . the workers. Which then . . . complicates the relationship.”

  “Complicates it?” he asked, setting his turnover aside. “Complicates it how?”

  Definitely hearing censure in his tone this time, Maggie almost wished she hadn’t brought it up. But she’d seen her father watching Cullen from his bedroom window in the mornings before the workers headed out. Even though Papa hadn’t said anything to her, she’d read disapproval in his expression, yet she doubted he’d confronted Cullen about it. Papa continued to insist that Linden Downs was Cullen’s farm now and should be run according to his wishes. But that type of closeness with former slaves went against everything her parents had taught her.

  Her father had taken the stand since the war ended that freedmen should be offered the opportunity for schooling, and had even offered an old hunting cabin on their land for that purpose. But that undertaking hadn’t turned out well in the end.

  She wasn’t naive. She knew the world had changed. But it hadn’t changed that much. And perhaps with reason.

  “All I’m saying is that it might be better if you weren’t so . . . friendly with the workers. They have their role and you have yours, and keeping distance between the two would be beneficial.”

  “Beneficial for who?”

  “For everyone.”

  He nodded, but she could tell by his darkened expression he didn’t agree.

  “Do you think them beneath you, Margaret? Is that it?”

  “No. Not at all. I’m not one of those haters who believe in doing those awful things.” She thought of Willie and his family being forced to flee with the others. “That’s wrong. And those people should be stopped.”

  “We agree on that at least.” His tone held mocking.

  “Do you not believe there are any differences between us?”

  “Aye, ’course I do. Plenty of ’em. But none that make any of us any better or higher than the rest.”

  “I’m not saying I’m better or higher, Cullen.”

  “What are you sayin’ then?”

  “I’m saying that we all have different roles in life, different responsibilities. And that those should be respected and adhered to. For the good of everyone.”

  He stared at her for the longest time, then leaned forward and rested his sun-browned arms on the table. “Would you have curtsied to me the first day we met, if you’d known I was Irish?”

  Maggie blinked and looked away. “Such an audacious question to—”

  “Keep your eyes on mine, please, Margaret. And I’d like an answer.”

  Exhaling, she dragged her gaze back to his, and her breath quickened at the fierceness in his look. Not that she was afraid of him. He’d never given her any reason to fear him. No, it was the fierceness of his belief, so evident in his expression, that acted like a fist around her heart. And it took everything within her to match his stare.

  She swallowed. “What you’re asking, Cullen, it makes no—”

  “A simple yes or no will do nicely.”

  Her throat aching along with her chest, she pressed her lips together in an effort to quell the emotion roiling inside her. A shadow flickered behind his eyes as though he’d already heard her answer.

  “No,” she whispered as a tear escaped and slid down her cheek.

  An audible breath left him. “Thank you . . . for your honesty.”

  He rose, the chair scraping the floor overloud in the silence, and she wanted to say something so he wouldn’t leave. But to her surprise, he stayed.

  He moved around to her side of the table and held out his hand. She looked at it, then up at him, wondering if he was asking what she thought he was asking.

  “Take my hand,” he whispered.

  She thought she’d had trouble breathing a moment before, but it was nothing compared to this. Every muscle in her body went taut, and she tightened her arms that were already crossed over her chest, her fingers digging into her flesh. Deep down inside, she’d known the time would come when he would want to consummate the marriage, but—

  Hating herself for crying, she looked up at him and shook her head. “I’m . . . not ready.”

  A shadow crossed his face. His expression grew pensive. And for an instant she wondered what she would do if he demanded it. Her body went weak. Then just as swiftly, his expression cleared and the shadow lifted.

  “All I’m askin’ is for you to take my hand, Margaret. Nothin’ more.”

  She blinked, relief flowing through her like summer rains after a drought. Unclenching her arms, her muscles grateful for the relief, she slipped her hand into his, and he drew her up.

  They stood in the faint light, bodies close but not touching, save for their hands.

  “I’ll never force you, Margaret,” he whispered. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “And when we finally do, it’ll be because we’re both ready. Not just because I want you.”

  Knowing better than to trust her voice, Maggie simply nodded, achingly aware of the tender circles he traced on the underside of her wrist and of his mouth only inches from hers.

  “Now . . .” He reached for the lamp. “If you’re ready to go back upstairs.”

  Letting go of his hand and already missing its strength, Maggie led the way. Cullen held the lamp out to the side as they walked up the stairs, and the burnished glow haloed the path.

  He walked her to her bedroom and handed her the lamp. “Good night, Margaret.”

  “Good night,” she whispered, watching his shadowed form move down the hall. “And, Cullen . . .”

  He turned.

  She placed the oil lamp on the floor and crossed the empty space between them. “Thank you,” she said softly, rising on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “For . . . waiting.”

  He trailed his fingers down the length of her arm, sending a shiver through her, and she stilled, staring up at him. The way he looked at her did something to her on the inside. His lips parted and, as if in answer, hers did too.

  “Margaret . . .” He swallowed, the sound audible in the quiet. “This . . . is not helpin’ the waitin’.”

  She responded to the roughness in his voice and stepped back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  He took her in his arms and kissed her full on the mouth, his lips both tender and insistent. The solidness of his chest against hers sent a rush coursing through her while at the same time making her knees go weak. His hands moved over her back in a mesmerizing kind of dance, and when he parted her lips, Maggie realized she’d never truly been kissed before. Not like this.

  He drew back, and Maggie, her eyes still closed, felt the cool come between them. Her lips missed the warmth from his, and she blinked to see him staring down at her, his own eyes dark, his breath raspy like hers.

  Taking her by the arm, he walked her back down the hall to her bedroom. “Good night, Margaret.”

  Not waiti
ng for a response, he retraced his steps, and as his door was closing she whispered, “Good night.”

  Chapter

  SEVENTEEN

  You don’t have to do this, Margaret.” Cullen kept his voice soft. Mr. Linden was already asleep again in a chair in the central parlor. “Regardless of what we said last night.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “But I’ve thought about it, along with what you said last night, and . . . I think I should.”

  Cullen tried to read her expression as she tucked a light blanket about her father. But he couldn’t.

  She’d been so quiet this morning. Preoccupied, even tense seeming, both throughout breakfast and during her father’s customary Sunday morning reading of Scripture. Was her hesitance due to his kissing her last night? And her kissing him, as he remembered only too well. Or perhaps because of where they were going now?

  She didn’t look any more rested than he felt, and he wondered if she’d had difficulty going back to sleep last night too. Not that he’d minded the reason behind his sleeplessness. Remembering how she’d responded to him, the way she’d pulled him closer and encouraged his advances . . .

  It’s a wonder he’d gotten any sleep at all.

  Mr. Linden stirred. “Thank you, Maggie. You’re a good daughter.” His eyes opened further. “Cullen . . .”

  The older gentleman stretched out a hand, and Cullen gently held it. The man’s strength seemed to be waning by the day.

  “Where are you both off to on this bright Sunday morning?”

  “We’re going for a walk, Papa,” Margaret answered quickly, casting a glance at Cullen.

  “Well . . .” Mr. Linden nodded, looking toward the window where dust motes floated featherlike in the morning sun. “Soak up some of that sunshine for me.”

  “We’ll do that, sir.” Cullen leaned down. “Maybe you’d like to sit outside on the front porch later. Some of the men and I, we’ll be workin’ on the barn roof. We could use some supervisin’.”

  Mr. Linden laughed, but even that sounded weak. “I’ll look forward to it. After a little nap, of course.”