Josephine grimaced.
Did they realize what he did? They must.
Josephine hugged him tighter.
Henry let her, enclosing her with an arm.
Jeremiah’s gaze fell to the ground. “What are you going to do now?”
“I’ll just have to work extra hard and earn more money to get another horse.” The words felt wrong.
“Does that mean you won’t leave?” Josephine's green eyes met his.
Henry took in a deep breath and let it out. “No. I have to go.”
Jeremiah shook his head and crossed his arms in front of his chest, kicking at a rock in the path.
They didn’t understand. How could he expect them to? All they knew was that their big brother would go away some day. He couldn’t seem to explain that he couldn’t breathe here. Not anymore. Not after the war. After what happened to Otis.
“Don’t be sad,” Josephine touched his shoulder.
Henry shook his head. “I’m not. Just thinking.”
Josephine's eyes were sad as she looked up at him.
“Guess who I met today?” Henry picked up his step toward the house.
Josephine and Jeremiah walked alongside him.
“Who?” Jeremiah’s interest was piqued.
But it was not Jeremiah who would find this tidbit intriguing.
“The plantation master’s daughter.”
“Really?” Josephine all but squealed. “A real southern belle?”
Henry nodded.
“Was she beautiful?”
“She was. Hair the color of the smoothest chocolate, eyes of cinnamon.”
“Someone’s hungry.” Jeremiah rolled his eyes.
“And her dress? Was it grand?” Josephine held her folded hands by her cheek.
“Much too fussy. Your dresses are far more practical. And I would rather be with you any day of the week.”
Josephine gave him her biggest smile. “You only say that because you’re my brother. You have to.”
“I say that because it’s true.” Henry reached for the latch and pushed the door open.
They were welcomed with the pleasing aroma of Ma’s homemade vegetable stew. It was one of Henry's favorites. And one of Ma’s. Made the food go farther.
But Ma and Pa had a farm they could live off. And no one could complain about that.
Chapter Two
Problems
“SEE THE DOG run.”
“Good,” Claire cheered. Isaac had finally read his first sentence, and she couldn’t be happier. All their hard work was proving worthwhile. “Now, you try it, Millie.”
“See the dog run.” The little girl beamed at Claire. She hadn’t so much as glanced at the book.
Claire gave her a sweet smile. “Let’s try the next sentence.” She pointed to the words below the sentence Isaac had read.
Millie stared at the page, moved the book closer to her face, but could not produce anything.
Scooting closer to her, Claire leaned over. “Let’s sound it out together.”
Millie nodded.
“Th—” Claire started.
The small girl pushed her tongue against her teeth to replicate the sound.
“The ka-ka-ka—”
Millie continued following Claire's lead.
“…cat r-r-r-r-a-a-a—”
The door to the tiny house flung open. Millie and Isaac’s mother was on her feet in a moment. Was she preparing to protect her children? What manner of instinct was that? Claire was unable to tear her eyes away.
In moments, the small space was invaded by two men carrying Mr. Amos. One man was black, another sharecropper perhaps. The other was none other than Mr. Henry Garrett.
Claire had nowhere to hide. How to escape discovery? She was trapped.
Mrs. Amos cleared the dining table and the two men set Mr. Amos on it.
Only then did Claire take notice of his leg. It bled horribly. She pulled the children to her, pressing their faces into her skirt, and turned her head.
What had happened to him?
Mrs. Amos took charge immediately. “A blade?” She leaned over her husband’s leg, already a cloth in her hand.
“His axe got away from him,” Henry said. “I think it’s bad.”
Mrs. Amos nodded.
Henry and the other man took a step back. Only then did Henry look in her direction. His eyes caught hers and held.
Did he wonder what she was doing here? Could he put the pieces together? Of course he would. But would he tell her father?
His jaw set, his mouth a thin line, he did not look pleased.
She dropped her head. There was no way she could continue to face him.
“Miz Crawford, could you take the children outside?” Mrs. Amos’ eyes were on her.
She nodded. Keeping her hands on the shoulders of the children, she maneuvered them around the opposite side of the table from Henry and out the door.
Once they were out and in the open, she breathed deeply. Had she been holding her breath?
Millie and Isaac clung to her skirt, but soon loosened their hold.
“May we play?” Isaac looked up at her.
Claire gazed into his pleading eyes. What did she expect? They didn’t understand. Perhaps they did and simply wanted to distract themselves. Either way, it was a good idea. So, she nodded.
They took off.
She found a slab of wood nearby that served as a makeshift bench and all but collapsed on it. What was she going to do? Her father’s angry face flashed in front of her mind’s eye. He would not like what she had been up to these past couple of weeks—the fact that she had been spending time with this family would be bad enough. But teaching the children…it would surely enrage him.
The door creaked.
Claire jerked her head around as Henry emerged. She turned away, but that didn’t stop him from stepping toward her. His presence hung over her.
“Are you all right?” His voice seemed so caring, so tender.
She shifted to look at him once more. When she caught his eyes, they were as sympathetic as his voice had been.
“I am.” She let out a deep breath. “A bit shaken, but I am well.”
He nodded, watching the children, running in the field. “I hope he keeps the leg.”
Claire nodded. What would happen to the little family if Mr. Amos lost his leg and wasn’t able to farm?
What if he had bled out in the field? How fortunate that Henry and the other sharecropper had helped him.
“Thank you.” Claire's voice was weak. Even she heard that it was so.
His eyes were on her. “For what?”
“For helping him. For bringing him home.”
Henry nodded. “I’m just glad I was nearby.” His eyes drifted to the ground.
Claire hated that her thoughts turned to her own problem in that moment. Would Henry speak with her father? What did he think of her teaching the children? Probably what any man would—that it was ridiculous, even vile.
Closing her eyes, Claire had to ask. She couldn’t not ask. “Please don’t tell my father.”
His eyes were on her then, she felt them boring into her. Dare she meet them?
After several moments of silence, she did.
His brown eyes were deep. They warmed her and put her on edge at the same time. A fluttering filled her stomach.
He opened his mouth.
The door opened and the sharecropper stepped out.
Henry shifted his focus to the man. “Is it bad?”
The man nodded. “But Mrs. Amos has cleaned it and stitched him up. We can only hope for the best now.”
“He needs medicine,” Claire interjected.
Henry and the sharecropper stared at her. And Henry's eyes were sad.
Of course, Mr. Amos couldn’t afford a doctor. How could Claire be so thoughtless? None of these men could afford that kind of care.
But her father could.
“Perhaps I could tell my father—”
>
Henry held up a hand. “Mrs. Amos has done what she can. We have to wait.”
Was Henry worried about her? About her father finding out about her close association with the sharecropper family? Did he truly care?
Her father could be a hard man. But surely he would see what was right, that Mr. Amos needed that help.
Still, as she faced Henry, she decided to trust his judgement.
****
The field stretched long in front of Henry. What must it be like to own so much land? To be the master of such a domain? One day, he promised himself, one day.
He continued to put distance between himself and the Amos’ small parcel of land. It was only right he should stop in on Elijah Amos, but nothing good had come from it.
The man was not doing well—delirious with fever. Sure sign of infection. A sad tale for certain.
This made him think on Claire. Should he go to her father? Would the man have mercy and provide the care Claire was sure he would? Would the older man discover that Henry knew about her teaching the Amos children and not spoken out? That would not bode well.
Yet, he could not bring himself to tell the man, to call down her father’s ire. He did not wish for her to be the brunt of anyone’s anger. Least of all someone who could hurt her.
Henry had not had many interactions with the older man, but the plantation master’s reputation was well known. It was said he held his slaves in place with an iron fist and ready whip. Would he rein his daughter in the same way?
When Henry had gone to the man to set up his own tenancy, the older man had been…difficult. Something lay just beneath the surface. Something hard.
Claire was not like other women of her class. That myth had been dispelled the moment he walked into that shack of a house the Amos family called home. But it had been crumbling even before that moment.
He should have suspected as much from her. Had he not seen her cross his field from the direction of the Amos’ land every day carrying the same load of books and slates as the first day they met? How had he not put it together?
Her kindness and selflessness in her interactions with him had been enough to crack his hard assumptions about her. Now, they had been shattered altogether.
Crossing the stream between his field and Elijah’s, he walked up the hill and toward his crops.
As he neared his cornfield, the scent of light perfume reached his nostrils before anything else. Looking up, he spotted Claire amongst the stalks, arms crossed in front of her chest, pacing.
He took several more long strides, closing in on her. Stopping just short of where she stood, he announced his presence. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
She jumped, but maintained her balance. When she laid eyes on him, she frowned and her brows furrowed.
“I didn’t mean to upset you. Did you need something?”
“I am worried about Mr. Amos. Have you heard anything?”
Why could he not avoid this? He didn’t want her to know. “I just came from there.” Wanting to look away, but finding it impossible, he stood transfixed by her hazel gaze.
Claire stepped toward him, eyes wide. “And?”
Henry wished he had better news for her. She appeared so hopeful. “It’s not good.”
Her face fell.
He longed to reach out and comfort her in some way, but he thought it best he keep his hands to himself. “There is fever, probably infection.”
Claire covered her face with a hand.
It became more than he could bear, watching her in distress. He stepped forward, closer to her side.
She lowered her hand.
Henry halted.
“He needs a doctor.”
Henry grimaced. She spoke the impossible. If only they all had such luxury.
“And I’m going to make sure he gets one.” She spun, skirt flaring, and walked in the direction of the mansion.
Henry reached out and grabbed for her arm.
She stopped, turning her head toward him.
“Don’t. If your father finds out you’ve been…” His sentence trailed off.
Claire shifted her body to angle in his direction. “But I have to. I have to risk it. I can’t do nothing and wonder. I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”
“But I don’t want…” He had almost said too much.
“What?”
He searched her eyes.
“You don’t want what?”
Henry sighed. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”
A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “He’s my father. He will help me.”
Though he was doubtful, Henry nodded. Something in him ached to hold her, but he resisted.
She offered him a small smile. “But I thank you, sir. You are a real gentleman.”
He laughed at that. No one had ever called him that before.
An awkward silence fell between them.
Claire spoke. “I’d best go. Mr. Amos needs that doctor.”
Henry nodded. “Be careful.”
“I always am.” And she gave him a grin as she turned in the opposite direction once more.
****
The great door downstairs slammed closed. Father was home.
Claire stepped from her room and moved soundlessly down the hallway toward the stairs.
Pa’s voice thundered throughout the open space of the entryway, bouncing off the high ceilings and ringing in Claire's ears.
She closed her eyes. Why, God? Why today of all days? But it was like this most days. More often than not. Why was Pa so often in these moods? The war had changed him. Or had he always been this way? Had the war simply removed the slaves that buffered his anger?
Shrinking back, she inched toward the safety of her room. This was not the time.
But did Mr. Amos have time for her hesitancy? For her to be fearful of her own father? She paused her retreat, looking at the floor. No, he did not.
Gazing in the direction of the stairs, she caught bits and pieces of her father’s angry words. Perhaps she could calm his ire. He was her father, after all. And he wasn’t upset with her. What had angered him today, she could not be sure. It was always something—money, crops, the lack of help. Perhaps the lack of control. But not her. No, she was his little daffodil.
Swallowing hard, she pushed down her trepidations and strolled toward the grand staircase.
Her father’s voice began to fade. Was he moving into another area of the house?
She descended the stairs. One of their hired hands, Abraham, stood in the foyer, head hung. So this is who had intercepted her father’s wrath today. Tomorrow, who knew?
Her skirts rustled against the banister.
Abraham looked up. A smile graced his lips. He always had a warm spot for Claire. His daughter and Claire had grown up together. They had been the best of friends despite Claire's father’s insistence that they not spend so much time with each other. But it could not be helped. Not when Abraham’s wife was Claire's nursemaid while Claire's own mother was otherwise occupied.
All of Claire's earliest memories were of her mammy. She had a difficult time recalling her own mother’s face during those years. Except when she had made the mistake of picking those flowers for her. That she remembered quite clearly.
“What can I do for ya, Miz Claire?” Abraham’s deep voice broke into Claire's sad reverie.
She met his eyes. “Nothing, thank you. I need to speak with my father.”
Abraham’s eyes widened. “Your Pa’s in a mighty foul mood, Miz Claire.” The man glanced in the direction of the family parlor. “Maybe you should come back—”
Claire put a hand on his arm. “It can’t wait.”
Eyes sad and turned toward the floor, he held a hand in the direction of the parlor.
Moving past him, Claire did what she could to gather her strength. Why did she need to? This was her father. He loved her. Right?
As she neared the parlor, her father’s voice still sounded through th
e space, though it had quieted somewhat. Who was he speaking with?
The door to the parlor was ajar. Though her father’s voice no longer pressed with volume, it still had edge to it. But the words were somewhat muffled by the door. If she wanted to, she could lean closer the slight opening and listen. Dare she?
There was a pause.
Should she make her presence known now? She drew in a ragged breath. Her heart beat wildly.
Closing her eyes, she raised a hand and tapped the door three times.
Silence.
She knocked again. “Pa?” Her voice wavered.
“Come.” Pa’s voice was firm.
Claire pushed the door open and stepped into the family parlor. Her father stood at the great window across the room. The light behind him silhouetted his figure, making it difficult for her to discern the nuances of his face. But she saw the scowl on her mother’s face quite well.
Ma sat on a settee near Pa, but had angled her body in the direction of the door.
Claire wished she could melt into the floor. She had prepared herself to face Pa, but speaking in front of Ma was another thing entirely.
An awkward silence fell over the room.
Claire's parents continued to stare at her.
Pa cocked his head. “Did you need something?”
Why couldn’t she read at least something in his features?
She nodded, shot a glance at Ma, and then latched her gaze to Pa. That was best. Perhaps that way she could make it through. “I have…been told…that is, I heard…what I mean to say is…there is a sharecropper on the plantation that has been injured. And now he is very sick with fever.”
Pa didn’t move.
Ma shifted only slightly, raising an eyebrow and then looking toward Pa.
Claire's hands began to burn. She looked down. Had she been wringing them so tightly? Forcing her fingers to intertwine, she set them at hip level.
“And what do you think I should do about this?” Pa’s voice was calm. A good sign.
Claire tried to keep her excitement down. There was hope. “He needs a doctor. And medicine.” She sighed. “But he does not have money for either.”
Pa nodded.
Sensing Ma’s eyes boring into her, Claire felt sweat trickling between her shoulder blades. But she refused to look in her mother’s direction again.
“And just how did you come by this knowledge? This awareness of Mr. Amos’ injury?”
Leaving Waverly: Novella Page 2
