Jake tried to remain impassive, but he felt his face deceive him. He managed to suppress a full smile while imagining two women her size.
Catherine chuckled and said, “Yes, there are two of us.” She winked. “But my sister is very short. She measures only five-and-a-half feet.”
Now, it was Jake’s turn to chuckle. “That is still tall compared to some women.” His thoughts drifted back to a petite woman with velvety, green eyes. He shook his head to release the vision and cleared his throat before speaking.
“Miss Atkins, I do not book passage. My ships are cargo only. I’m sorry, but you will need to arrange passage elsewhere.”
She looked Jake in the eye and challenged him. “You have arranged passage for a Welsh lady and also for her children.”
“Indeed,” he said, impressed not only with her directness, but also with her resourcefulness. “What do you and your sister plan to do in America? And at which port do you intend to disembark?”
Giving him a demure smile, Catherine said, “We plan to marry. My sister and I will search for our future husbands in America, so as you can see, the port does not matter.” Her mouth widened into a grin before she added in a syrupy voice, “Your reputation precedes you.”
Jake arched an eyebrow.
“The fact is we require safe passage,” she said. “We do not wish to spend our entire voyage fending off would-be violators. We desire a pleasant journey.” The features of her face softened as she continued. “Mr. Wong has graciously provided accommodations for us during our stay here while we waited for your ship to dock. And he has given you high recommendations.” She squared her wide shoulders and tightened her jaw before she spoke again. “Please consider my request. I shall see you in the morning for your response.” With that, she bowed to both men and left the room, closing the screens behind her.
Jake eyed the proprietor. “What have you done to me now, Wong?”
Wong presented Jake with a face of pure innocence, but the mischievous glint in the Chinaman’s bright eyes gave him away.
Chapter Twenty
River Bend Plantation, Texas
Stephen Owens heard rhythmic pounding from his kitchen and recognized Lizzie’s beat. Moving closer, he heard the slave’s resonant voice singing a slow ballad. How he loved her voice. More than that, he loved that woman’s beaten biscuits. About the size of a two-year-old child’s fist and crunchy on the outside, they were fluffy on the inside. How he enjoyed taking a tiny bite of one of those biscuits and putting fresh-churned butter and molasses on the rest of it. Talk about melting in your mouth. Uhm, uhm. He could almost taste them now.
The beating and singing stopped and a quick, intense beating began. He stopped to listen further and heard a beautiful voice that floated on the summer breeze. It laughed for a moment and sang again. Full of spirit, it reminded him of his younger days when romance was in bloom in his life—a time when he had loved and thought he was loved.
Brushing the memory aside, he lengthened his stride toward the kitchen. It wasn’t far from the main house or the spring house where they kept the butter and cows’ milk cold, but he was coming from the carriage house. Not a great distance, but he felt as if he were running a marathon because he had to see who was singing so lovely and beating so fast. His heart beat in time with the iron rod upon the bread dough. When he reached the south door to the kitchen, he gasped for breath.
A startled Lizzie met him at the door. “Masta,” she cried. “What come over you? You is a-puffin’ and red as my fresh-boiled beets in that pot over dere.”
“I’m all right, Lizzie. It’s just awful hot today.” He sat his large frame on the threshold of the kitchen’s door. Stretching his long legs out in front of him, he lowered his eyelids so Lizzie couldn’t tell he was lying. He had a poker player’s face and could lie to a man’s face, on occasion, if he had to. He believed most people couldn’t lie while they looked you in the eye, so he had made it a practice to never make a deal with a man who couldn’t look him squarely in the eye.
However, that never worked with Lizzie. He failed to keep anything from her. She always challenged him when he tried to lie to her, and she was the only person he couldn’t face with a lie. Someone placed a wet cloth on his forehead, the coolness of it making him sigh with relief. When the cloth was replaced with another one, Stephen felt a hand on his face. The soft and delicate touch caused excitement to tingle through his veins, so he opened his eyes.
“What are you doing here?” A white woman in his kitchen! The shock of seeing the young widow in his kitchen provided a perfect mask for his unanticipated feelings.
“Why, Mr. Owens, I’ve come to work for you,” Belle said.
“Doing what? I have slaves who serve me. I do not need a white servant.”
“I have need of work to support myself and my babe,” she said, a proud tilt to her defiant chin. “Your overseer told me I could help with cooking and cleaning.”
Stephen knew what she had been through and couldn’t deny living quarters to his friend’s widow. Glancing around the kitchen, he saw her babe. The tiny fellow slept in a drawer.
“You will come to the house with me, for I will not have a white woman working as a slave,” he said with firm conviction. “Lizzie, you send Toby to move Mrs. Strong’s belongings and her child to the big house.” He paused before adding, “No, on second thought, you can’t move fast enough. Holler at Birdie and have her run to get Toby.”
“But, sir.” Belle stamped her foot on the newly- swept floor. “I agreed to work, and I refuse to be a beggar. I will not move to the big house, because I’m going to stay here and finish my biscuits.”
Stephen stared at her. No one defied him on his own property, let alone a small woman. How dare she?
Belle picked up the iron rod again and started pounding the dough with a vengeance. Refusing to look at Stephen, she focused her anger on the biscuit dough.
“Lawsy, Missy, you goin’ ta beat that dough ta death.” Lizzie removed the rod from Belle’s tight fist.
“Lizzie, you do as I say and you do it now,” Stephen said. “Mrs. Strong, you will move into the big house, and you will not be a servant. If you so desire to beat biscuits, you may do so at your convenience and strictly for your own pleasure. I will not have a white woman working as a slave on my property.”
Stepping outside the north door of the kitchen, Lizzie hollered at Birdie to come. When Lizzie stepped back in, she whispered to Belle, “Masta don’t raise his voice much, but he always gets his way. He don’t like nobody standin’ in his way, neither.”
Ignoring the plantation owner, Belle formed little balls of the dough, placing them in iron skillets, greased with bacon drippings.
Stephen turned his back to her and stormed toward the big house.
Chapter Twenty-One
Her temper unleashed and her energies spent, Belle trudged to the plantation house where its handsome steps invited her in. As she placed her foot on the first step, the eight white columns gleaming in the late-afternoon light seemed to envelope her and stand guard over her. Surprised, she had a good feeling about the elegant home. Perhaps, she could be happy for a while at River Bend, a place where she could rest and rebuild her strength and stamina. When she reached for the heavy doorknocker, its brass finish glinting fiery gold from the sun’s rays, the massive door opened.
An old man peered from around the door, saying nothing but exposing perfectly-shaped, white teeth in a grin that almost spread from one ear to another. Shining like pearls in his wrinkled, black face, his teeth looked too new for the rest of him.
Belle returned his smile and walked through the doorway. He bowed and closed the door behind her before padding away in soft slippers.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” a voice boomed above her.
“Why, thank you, Mr. Owens,” she said, hearing no anger in his voice. “But I hardly classify this as humble.” Her gaze took in the grandeur of the house and its exquisite furnishings.
“Come.” He offered his arm. “Let’s go into the library, my favorite room in the house.”
She took his arm and allowed him to escort her into a large room with a massive fireplace, walls lined with bookcases and leather-bound volumes. A cool breeze drifted through a bank of south windows and an over-sized chair, covered in burgundy leather as soft as a babe’s bare bottom, welcomed her.
“Have a little sherry with me, if you will, before dinner,” Stephen was saying.
The old, black gent was at her elbow with a tray of sherry. The cut-crystal decanter reflected the sunlight streaming into the room, and the mahogany-colored liquid in the glasses looked inviting. She wondered how the servant had known what his master wanted and exactly when to bring it. And this man is so everlastingly quiet about it, too. Belle took one of the glasses and thanked the servant.
Stephen was served the other glass and kept the decanter. The servant disappeared as he had come, with speed and no sound.
“That’s Old Bailey,” Stephen said. “You’ll get used to the aging gentleman. He’s been in my family for years, and he does his job well.” Stephen raised his glass. “But now, to your health and to your future.”
“Thank you, Mr. Owens.” Belle accepted his toast.
“Please call me Stephen,” he said. “I can’t share my home with you, Mrs. Strong, and have you be so formal. Besides, that name makes me feel a trifle old.”
“Stephen,” Belle muttered, trying out the name on her lips. “That’s a nice name. I like it, only you won’t be Stephen to me unless I am Belle to you.”
“So be it. I would be honored, Mrs. Strong, to address you as Belle.”
Smiling, she sipped her sherry and felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She couldn’t be ill at ease with Stephen for long. Johnathan was in the capable hands of Lizzie, and Belle was in good company where she sensed safety. Able to relax somewhat, the young widow felt as warm and tingly outside as the sherry made her feel inside. She studied Stephen as he came to refill her glass.
He seemed older than when she had first met him, with lines creasing his forehead and small furrows near his eyes that had not been there before. Having heard that Michael Strong was his closest friend and how much Stephen had suffered after Michael’s death, Belle felt a special kinship with this man. A peaceful silence enclosed Stephen and Belle as she sipped her sherry and he drank his, each lost in thought until a soft tone broke the silence, bringing them back to reality.
“Dinner’s ready,” Stephen announced, rising gracefully from his leather chair that matched hers. He offered Belle his arm and escorted her to an impressive dining room as any southern gentleman would have done.
Surrounded by elegance, Belle struggled to retain a ladylike composure. She had never seen a dining table of such great length nor one covered with an excessive array of food. After the new experience of being served by a competent staff of slaves, she felt out of place.
Stephen’s chuckle interrupted her introspective. “These are the lightest biscuits I’ve ever eaten.” His eyes sparkled as he taunted her. “Maybe you should get angry every day.”
Feeling color rise to her cheeks, she said, “Lizzie wouldn’t allow that.” Belle bit into a beaten biscuit. “They are mighty light, aren’t they?” They both laughed, and she spread the rest of the tasty morsel with fresh-churned butter and smothered it with wild blackberry jam.
The sound of horses’ hooves terminated their light banter.
“Please stay seated,” Stephen told Belle. “And continue your dinner.” He nodded toward his staff, and they seemed to understand his implied orders. “Excuse me while I address this intrusion.” He rose and left the dining room.
A large group of mounted horsemen faced the front entrance of River Bend. From their manner of dress and the way the men wore their guns, they looked like a motley group of drifters and gunslingers.
One of the horsemen rode forward when Stephen stepped out on the porch. “Sorry to interrupt you, Owens. I own the property west of you and my name’s Henderson, Miles Henderson.”
“What’s going on, Henderson?”
“We heard the widow might be here.”
“I only know of one widow in the area,” Stephen said. “Mrs. Strong is a guest here. How does that concern you?”
Henderson dismounted and walked to the bottom of the porch steps, carrying his bedroll. “We had a little skirmish with a couple Injuns, and we found a handful of stuff we think belongs to Widow Strong.”
“Very well.” Stephen hurried down the steps.
Miles Henderson inventoried aloud as he removed items from his bedroll and handed them to Stephen. “This here’s her pappy’s Bible. I checked the names until I found a record of a marriage to Michael Strong. I knew it had to be hers. And this here book looks like a diary of some kind. I didn’t read it, other than her name on the inside cover.” He stopped to clear his throat. “And this here looks like part of a bedcover. It’s got red hearts and flowers on it, so I figured it might belong to her, too. This is all we found of it, and it smells like that ugly Injun used it for a horse blanket.”
Stephen thanked the men. As they rode out, he handed the quilt top to Old Bailey with orders to send it to the laundress. Carrying the Bible into the house, Stephen slipped the widow’s journal inside the breast pocket of his dinner coat before rejoining her in the dining room.
Chapter Twenty-Two
While unpacking her belongings the next morning, Belle savored each piece and for good reason. These few items are all I own. Her fingertips followed the pattern of tiny stitches on the lily quilt she and her mother had quilted together. She relished the images, forever branded in her memory, of more pleasant times. Spreading the colorful quilt on a four-poster bed, she hoped it might make the borrowed bedroom look more like home.
Removing the wedding quilt with its bright red hearts caused the familiar moistness in Belle’s eyes again. She folded the colorful quilt and placed it on the back of her grandmother’s rocking chair and smoothed out the wrinkles.
How sweet of the Campbells to bring my things to River Bend. These are the only quilts left from my dowry. I’m fortunate to have any.
Her other quilts decorated the hotel and these two, had they not been at the Campbell’s for drafting patterns, would have succumbed to destruction at the dugout along with her other possessions.
Thankful she and Johnathan were away from home when its sparse contents were stolen and mutilated, she knew angels protected her. She had reclaimed her only surviving trunk, now empty after the hotel purchased three more quilts this spring. For sentimental reasons as well as rational ones, she had not sold the bride’s quilt or the lily quilt. Johnathan and she would need these to keep them warm until she could make new ones.
Once Johnathan was old enough to travel well, Belle had worked at Margaret’s, quilting for the Campbell clan. Busy Margaret had her hands full caring for her large family. If Margaret had any time for handwork, she was plagued by a multitude of clothing repairs that neither she, nor the older girls, seemed able to conquer.
Spending nearly every day at their small home, Belle had enjoyed the company of the pleasant group while she quilted and taught the younger girls how to sew. She had moved the rocking chair there for convenience with Johnathan and to sit in while quilting with a round hoop.
So now, I have sweet Johnathan, two quilts, a hoop, only one precious needle,
an empty trunk, and grandmother’s rocking chair. As of last night, I am so thankful to have Father’s Bible again. She paused to remember the people she loved now permanently missing from her life. After a few moments, she considered how many things she no longer possessed but decided not to dwell on them. I’m blessed with an abundance of fond memories.
To close the trunk, she grasped its lid and spied a small packet tucked neatly into one of its corners. Puzzled, she pulled out a packet of fabric, similar to others she had received. The bright and cheery cloth of those was gone, and she had nothing to remind her of the many happy hours she had spent, cutting and appliqueing those intriguing textiles.
This one almost shouts, Pick me. Pick me. Brilliant shades of blue and red calico and linsey-woolsey of bright turquoise and deep magenta spilled from the packet as if an exotic bird fluttered its wings.
“Where did you come from?” The packet, like those before it, bore her name but no address. Some packets had appeared on her doorstep at the dugout while others had been delivered to the hotel by someone they said looked like a mountain man. No one called him by name, and he would give no information as to where the packets came from. He said it was his duty to deliver them, and from there, it didn’t matter who took them to Mrs. Strong or if she picked them up when she came to town for supplies.
Belle studied the packet before opening it. “Belle Strong. That’s all this says. It’s written in very good penmanship but unrecognizable as to the hand that penned it.” It must be someone who knew her and knew of her love for quilting. He, or she, must also know how desperate she was for fabric on the frontier.
“It has to be a woman. No man would take the time to search out such an assortment, nor would he know what types of fabrics to use for quilting.” She searched her memory for any woman who would know where she was living and might send them, but no name surfaced.
River Bend Page 12
