“You look radiant this evening, ma’am.” He tried to keep his gaze from dipping down to her modestly displayed—yet still lovely—décolletage. And managed it. Almost.
“Thank you, Mr. Rutledge. And—I beg your pardon—but would you please excuse me? I see someone with whom I need to speak.”
“Be my guest, Miss Jamison. We’ll have plenty of time to catch up over dinner.” He raised his glass while lowering his voice. “To proper Southern decorum, ma’am.”
Her smile never dimmed as she walked away, but her blue eyes told the truth of the matter.
He thought of the folded piece of stationery in his pocket. The letter he’d found beneath the rocker on the front porch of the cabin after she’d left. He’d opened it, only to read the first sentence, realize what it was, and swiftly fold it back again. So she was going to teach at Fisk. An interesting and most surprising choice for such a woman.
He looked around, unaccustomed to feeling out of place, but definitely feeling it here.
He had to assume that by now everyone here knew that Harrison Kennedy was his stepfather. Which more than likely meant that no one would say anything about it. To his face, anyway. His main concern was whether Harding knew, and whether that knowledge would influence the man’s decision on the railroad project.
Along with a trip to the barber that morning, he’d purchased a new coat, shirt, and trousers. But the wrong style, apparently, based on what all the other men were wearing. But since when did a man’s clothes prove what kind of man he was or what kind of railroad he could build?
To his relief, the before-dinner portion of the evening proved brief, which meant the amount of chitchat he had to endure was kept to a minimum. But it did give him an opportunity to scrutinize the competition. And the man heading that pack, according to Uncle Bob, was Harold Gould—who was currently escorting Alexandra Jamison to her seat at the table.
Sy followed and watched as Gould’s hand lingered on the small of Miss Jamison’s back. The urge to rip a man’s arm off didn’t come to him all that frequently, but it did now. With a vengeance.
Gould assisted her into her chair, then glanced around the table, apparently looking for the place card with his own name on it.
“Mr. Gould.” Sy pointed. “You’re seated on the other side of the table. Across from me and Miss Jamison.”
Gould glared at him, which considerably eased his urge from a moment before. Sy waited for the ladies, and then his host, to sit, then took his own seat.
He spied the collection of forks and spoons and knives laid out on either side of his plate along with several glasses, and while he wasn’t completely unaccustomed to fine dining, he knew he’d have to watch the others to get the lay of the land.
General Harding tapped his glass with a spoon, and all heads turned.
“A formal welcome to Belle Meade to all of our guests,” their host announced. “My family and I are grateful to have you in our midst. And now, before dinner is served, would you please bow with me?”
General Harding began praying, and Sy bowed his head, feeling more like a boy of eight than a man of thirty-one. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat at table with someone who paused to say grace. Including when he ate by himself.
It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in God. He did. Very much. A man couldn’t hang off the side of a mountain by a rope and not somehow get a glimpse of the Almighty, and in that same frightening, exhilarating moment, experience a hankering for a better understanding of him. But once you reached the summit and hiked back down, and the mountain faded into the background, a certain measure of that hankering—or maybe it was the urgency of it—did too, it seemed. Not a fact he was proud of.
Sy tried to focus on Harding’s prayer, but Miss Jamison’s presence beside him made that difficult. Unlike his eyes, hers were closed, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Not a trace of dirt, dust, or aftereffects of Mrs. Taylor’s Fancy Cordial anywhere in sight.
Remembering her as she’d been that afternoon made him smile. Stubborn woman, though. Ending their arrangement as she had. And yet, he enjoyed a challenge.
The prayer ended, and he echoed a belated amen along with the other men.
Conversation ensued around the table, and Miss Jamison practically turned sideways in her chair to engage a Mr. Fike from Boston—one of the five bidders—on her right. But Sy didn’t mind. He could be a patient man, when it suited him.
Servants appeared through a doorway toting trays of food. He hoped Harding believed in serving hearty meals at this type of gathering, and not that womanish kind of food he’d seen served in some fancy restaurants in Denver.
Having put small talk off as long as he could, Sy finally turned to his left, to the foot of the table, uncertain what topic he and this particular woman could have in common. “It’s Mrs. Jackson, isn’t it? General Harding’s eldest daughter?”
The woman nodded, a tiny smile coming to her face. “Yes, Mr. Rutledge, it is. And you’re the gentleman from Colorado.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Does it show?”
She laughed softly. “I actually adore Colorado, sir. I traveled there not long ago. For a time of respite.”
“Really? Where’d you visit?”
“The town of Colorado Springs. It’s some distance south of Denver. Do you know it?”
“Certainly do. I’ve been to Colorado Springs many times, ma’am. You ever walk through a place they call Red Rock Corral?”
Her eyes brightened. “Why, yes. I have. You’ve been there?”
He nodded. “It’s a good place to walk and think.”
“Indeed it is, sir. They say it’s a fitting place for the gods to assemble.”
“It’s a good place for lying beneath the stars too.”
“They somehow seem bigger out there. Don’t they, Mr. Rutledge?”
“Climb Pike’s Peak, and they’ll seem even bigger.”
She set down her glass. “You’ve climbed that mountain?”
“I have. Twice. And crawled it in some places too. There were moments when I thought that mountain was bent on killing me.” He laughed.
She laughed along with him, and glanced down the table at her husband, General “Billy” Hicks Jackson. Sy acknowledged the man with a brief nod, then saw a special kind of affection pass between the couple.
He’d heard that General Harding was grooming his son-in-law to take his place on the plantation someday. And Mary Harding was betrothed to General Jackson’s brother. They were certainly keeping it in the family.
An older black woman appeared by his side, and Sy nodded his thanks as she set a plate before him. The thick cut of juicy steak nearly hung over the rim, and his mouth watered in response. Belle Meade beef, no doubt. From what he’d seen so far, Belle Meade was as self-sufficient an operation as they came. With its own dairy, blacksmith, quarry, greenhouse, and acres of crops and herds of livestock, General Harding’s estate was impressive.
Still, Sy was homesick for Colorado.
A young woman came around serving buttery whipped potatoes piled high in a china dish, followed by another with green beans—cooked in bacon, smelled like. Sy waited for Mrs. Jackson to begin eating, then followed suit. The steak was tender, and the blade of his knife all but sank right through it.
He listened to the conversations circulating around the table, more than content to take in what bits and pieces of information were helpful, while savoring the meal.
Not once did Miss Jamison turn his way, so apparently intent was she on the descriptions of Boston with which Mr. Fike was regaling her. Regaling a bit too enthusiastically, Sy thought, and with ever increasing volume.
“Mr. Rutledge,” Mrs. Jackson said after a moment passed. “Speaking of Red Rock Corral . . . Do you remember seeing a particular rock balanced on its tip, right on the end of a ledge? Where it looks like only God himself could have put it there?”
“I do, ma’am. That’s a sight that tends to stay with a person.”
<
br /> “It is, isn’t it. My maid and I have picnicked in the shadow of that rock many times. And I’ve marveled at how it stays perched so precariously near the edge.”
“Well, that was mighty brave of you, Mrs. Jackson. Taking your lunch right by it, as you say. I recently heard that rock just slid right off. Took twenty men to get it back up there again.”
She stared, shock gripping her expression—until Sy smiled a little. And then she laughed.
“Oh, Mr. Rutledge! You entirely had me believing you!”
“Yes, he’s very good at getting people to believe him, Mrs. Jackson,” Harold Gould said from across the table. “So you best mind what you take as truth from Sylas Rutledge.”
Gould smiled as he said it, as though he were making jest, and Sy responded in kind. But he caught the tip of the blade in Gould’s tone. Tempted to respond, he held back.
“Tell me, Miss Jamison,” Gould continued, looking across the table, “has your family been in Nashville long?”
“Yes, sir, we have. For quite a long time, actually.”
“Miss Jamison is being modest.” General Harding wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “The Jamisons are one of Nashville’s founding families. And also one of our finest.” He raised his wine glass, and everyone else followed suit. “To Nashville’s founding families and to the continued prosperity of this fine city for which they sacrificed so much.”
“Hear, hear!” Boston’s Mr. Fike said more loudly than anyone else. “Fine toast, General. Fine toast!” The man drained his wine glass and snapped his fingers for the servant behind him to refill it.
Sy carved another bite of steak, sneaking a look at Harding, who sat at the head of the table. Sy couldn’t be certain, but he’d bet that Boston had just been dropped from the running. Because that’s what this dinner was about, at least in part. It was a test. Or maybe more like a culling.
He wished again that he’d been able to get more personal information from Miss Jamison that afternoon. Details that would help him navigate his way around General Harding. But she’d shot down that possibility pretty quickly.
Seeing her momentarily freed from Mr. Fike’s charms, Sy spoke softly to his right. “From a founding family, Miss Jamison. Quite impressive.”
She took a sip from her stemmed water glass. “Not at all, sir. I don’t believe a person’s lineage should mandate a special recommendation. That should be determined by the person himself.”
“So you’re saying there’s hope for me yet.”
She offered a smile. “I’m not certain I’d go that far, Mr. Rutledge.”
He grinned as she turned her attention elsewhere. At least she was talking to him.
“Tell me, Mr. Maury . . .” General Harding addressed the bidder from Pennsylvania.
Though Sy didn’t look up, he honed in on their exchange.
“You expressed a desire, sir, to provide transport for my thoroughbreds on your railway. I’ve got an upcoming yearling sale in Philadelphia. But I’m curious . . . Precisely what type of railcar would you provide for my fine blood horses?”
“Well, General Harding—” Mr. Maury, a hefty beef of a man, cleared his throat. “We have newly constructed cattle cars that I believe would do the job quite nicely, sir. We could get as many as eight horses in each car. Very efficient.”
“Cattle cars?” General Harding echoed, eyes narrowing. “For my prize-winning thoroughbreds?”
Sy smiled to himself and deposited his fork and knife on the edge of his plate. There went Philadelphia. Two bidders down, two to go. He almost felt sorry for Mr. Maury as the man attempted to claw his way out of the hole he had dug for himself.
“Excuse me, Mr. Rutledge. But is you finished, sir?”
Sy looked up to see a young black man. “Yes, I am. Thank you.”
As soon as the man took his plate, he heard a soft clearing of a throat to his right and looked over.
“Problem, Miss Jamison?”
“When one finishes one’s meal”—she kept her voice low—“one’s fork and knife should be laid parallel on the plate, pointing toward the eleven o’clock position. Not placed haphazardly on the rim. The placement signals to the server that you’re finished and that he or she may remove your plate . . . so you don’t keep the rest of the table waiting. Consider that lesson complimentary, Mr. Rutledge.”
Only then did Sy realize that all other the plates had been cleared away. When he looked back, Miss Jamison had focused her attention across the table, acting as though she was captivated by a conversation about train couplers and air brakes.
He downed the last of his wine, suddenly feeling far less like the successful railroad owner from Colorado and more like the son who’d been abandoned along with his mother in a shantytown outside Boulder. A young woman stepped forward to refill his glass, but he shook his head.
Hearing Miss Jamison’s laughter and resenting her for it—as he did her decision not to help him—he looked over at her and remembered the letter in his pocket he needed to return.
He leaned toward her. “You’re quite the teacher, Miss Jamison. I’m curious, though. Do you plan on using that same tone with your students at Fisk?”
Chapter
ELEVEN
Alexandra went cold inside. How did he know about Fisk? Regardless, she read a challenge in Sylas Rutledge’s discerning blue eyes and knew her last comment had pushed him too far. But his manner had seemed so smug.
“Please,” she whispered. She glanced down the table at Mary, whose heightened expression hinted that perhaps she’d heard him too. “I beg you, Mr. Rutledge, don’t say anything else about—”
“Did I hear someone say Fisk?” Mr. Walker, the gentleman bidder from Indiana seated on the other side of the table, looked in her direction. “As in Fisk University? The school for freedmen?”
Alexandra threw Sylas Rutledge a pleading look. A keenness now sharpened his features that told her he hadn’t anticipated such a response to his question.
“I’ve heard a great deal about the Fisk school,” Mr. Walker continued, his gaze moving around the table as all other conversation fell away. “From what I’ve been told, it’s quite impressive how well the students are learning. I find it most heartening, considering the Negroes’ plight and how they were—”
“Mr. Walker!”
General Harding’s tone shed its cordiality, and Alexandra winced at the cost this unassuming guest from Indiana was about to pay. And she felt more than a little responsible.
“I do not believe, sir,” the general continued, “that the topic of that school is a proper subject for dinner conversation. Especially considering that women are still in our company.”
Mr. Walker stared, his expression revealing both surprise and wariness. “But surely, General Harding, with the war being long over and the outcome so profoundly in favor of—”
The general’s gaze hardened. “I said this is not a suitable topic for the dinner hour, sir.”
Mr. Walker blinked, looking as though he’d been struck in the face. “My deepest apologies, General Harding. I didn’t realize that such a topic was so . . .”
As his voice trailed off, Alexandra prayed—heart in her throat—that the man would let the moment die its terrible, awkward death. And that Sylas Rutledge wouldn’t say anything further.
The twitter of birds drifted in through the open windows, contrasting with the sudden, jarring silence until, finally, Selene leaned forward in her chair, her smile overly bright. “I believe it’s time for dessert, Father.”
“Quite right, daughter.” General Harding nodded.
Selene rang the silver bell at her place setting, and servants entered the dining room carrying trays. Even before Alexandra saw what was on the plates, she smelled the mouth-watering blend of homey spices and guessed which dessert Susanna had made for the occasion.
“Your favorite, Miss Jamison,” Susanna said softly when setting Alexandra’s plate before her, a smile in her voice.
/> “Yes, it is.” Alexandra eyed the generous slice of warm carrot cake slathered in creamy frosting, then looked back up at Belle Meade’s head housekeeper and cook. “Thank you, Susanna. It’s so kind of you to remember.”
Now if only she had an appetite to enjoy the confection.
Mr. Gould, the gentleman from New York who had escorted her to dinner, smiled at her from across the table. He seemed like a nice enough man. Intelligent, well spoken. And most definitely a better fit for doing business with General Harding.
Once dessert and coffee were served, conversation gradually resumed around the table. All except for poor Mr. Walker, who sat silent, the truth of his outcome in the bidding process etched in the bewildered lines of his face. And no matter how Alexandra tried to focus on the exchanges around her, she couldn’t. Not with Sylas Rutledge in the room.
As though reading her mind, he leaned close and spoke in a whisper. “To be clear, Miss Jamison, I had no idea what response my question would—”
“So, Mr. Rutledge,” she interrupted, aware of Selene watching them, “tell me about your business in Colorado, sir. Mrs. Jackson here has often told me that Colorado is exceptionally beautiful country.” She indicated Selene Jackson with a glance.
Sylas Rutledge stared at her, and his eyes narrowed the slightest bit. “Yes, ma’am. Very beautiful country.”
Alexandra did her best to look impressed. “How exciting it must be to live there. Precisely what do you do in Colorado, Mr. Rutledge?”
A languid smile tipped his mouth, telling her he knew she was redirecting the conversation.
“Thank you, Miss Jamison, for taking such an interest. I started my first railway out there. It was only a small railway, mind you. From one town to the next.” With a glance, he included Selene in the conversation. “But over time the railway proved successful. Then after a while, I started running cattle. For the miners.”
“Oh, you’re a cattleman.” Selene gestured toward the head of the table. “Father will appreciate knowing that.”
To Wager Her Heart Page 12
