“You a good dog, ain’t ya there, boy. Ain’t got nothin’ for ya to eat, though, so don’t go sniffin’ around too personal like.”
Sy glanced up and down the tracks, wondering where the man had come from. The woods, most likely. A drifter, to be sure. The presence of a train always seemed to draw that type. The lonesomeness of it, maybe. Or the thirst of a wanderlust spirit searching for peace.
Sy shook his head, remembering what Alexandra had said earlier about his being a romantic. He’d never thought of himself in that light before.
Thinking of her stirred the heaviness inside him, a sense of regret he couldn’t seem to shake. She’d been on the train that day. Had she seen his father as she boarded? And her fiancé. What kind of man had he been? Worthy of her affections, no doubt, judging by the way she spoke of him.
He would see her again tomorrow night. But Dutchman’s Curve was hardly a subject to be broached easily.
“Lose someone out here, did ya?” the man asked, peering up through rheumy eyes. “Most folks who come out here stand like that, lookin’ ’cross the cornfield . . . That’s their story. ’Tis yours too, son?”
Sy took a minute to answer, then nodded. “Lost my father here.”
The man’s brow furrowed even more. “The Great Cornfield Meet.”
“Beg pardon?”
“That’s what folks ’round here took to callin’ it. That mornin’ when them two trains met like thunder. Right about where you’re standin’.” The man pointed.
“You were here that day?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Saw it all. Still do when I close my eyes too long. The sounds, they all come back. The voices too.”
“The voices?” Again Sy looked at him with uncertainty.
“Can’t seem to quiet ’em most nights. The cryin’, awfulest sound you ever heard. Worst thing was them little ones laid out in the dirt, not makin’ a peep no more. Their Sunday-best clothes all bloody and soaked.”
Sy winced, the man’s descriptions prodding his imagination in directions he preferred it not go.
“But it was them angels,” the man whispered, his watery eyes narrowing. “Hundreds of ’em, just walkin’ about. That was the real sight. Fiercesome lookin’ things too. I’s right scared at first, I’m not afeared to say. ’Til I figured out what they was and settled in to watch.”
Sy nodded slowly, certain now of what he’d only guessed before. “So you watched angels that day, did you, sir?”
The man nodded. “Most every one of them bodies laid out that day had one standin’ over ’em. Even the colored folk!”
Sy smiled at how the man’s eyes widened in disbelief. Then he suddenly turned and looked back over his shoulder as though he heard someone calling him.
Sy felt a bit of a prickle on the back of his neck.
When the man turned back, his gaze fixed on Sy. “I hope ya find your peace, son.” Sadness filtered across his face. “Though I’m thinkin’ ya ain’t gonna find it here. But you’ll find it soon enough.”
A slow smile pushed aside the sadness and revealed even fewer teeth in his mouth than Sy had imagined at first glance.
“Yes, sir.” The old man winked. “You’ll find it . . . if you look hard enough. And in the right place!” He reached down and rubbed Duke’s head again, then turned to go.
Resisting the urge at first, Sy finally gave into it and reached into his shirt pocket. “Hey, old-timer!”
The man paused.
Sy pressed some coins into his palm. “Get yourself something good to eat in town. But no liquor, you hear me?” He bent down a little to make sure the man saw his eyes. “You need to promise me.”
That toothy grin again as he accepted the money. “I ain’t had me a drink in two years, son.”
Sy nodded, not believing it for a second. But he knew from watching too many of the miners what a troublesome road that was to travel. The man headed for the woods some distance away, and Sy snapped his fingers at Duke. The dog fell in step beside him, and they walked the short distance together to the bridge.
When Sy neared the curve in the tracks, he turned back in case the man had done the same, and he readied a wave.
But the field was empty. The man was gone.
“Thank you again, Mrs. Chastain.” Alexandra wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. She’d had her fill of the summer heat, same as Sy. “I so appreciate your help.”
“It’s no trouble at all, Miss Jamison.” Mr. White’s administrative secretary gestured toward the barracks where Alexandra would live. “I’m sorry to have to leave you, but I need to prepare for a meeting this afternoon. And please don’t fret for one more minute about tomorrow. You’re far more prepared than you think you are. Remember, most of your students have never even set foot in a classroom. You’ll do splendidly, I’m certain. Mr. White and President Spence believe the same.”
“Thank you.” Alexandra drew strength from the kind words as she climbed the stairs to the teachers’ barracks, her bundle from the mercantile in one hand, cloth sack in the other. And tucked beneath her arm a thin folder containing Fisk University’s rules that she was to “thoroughly digest” before her first class tomorrow morning at eight o’clock.
Hungry and tired, she set down the sack and opened the door to the barracks. An odor similar to that which had welcomed her the first day she’d visited Fisk greeted her when she stepped inside. She guessed one grew accustomed to it.
A shadowed hallway stretched before her, doors appointed on either side, some open, some closed. Mrs. Chastain had said her fellow teachers would be in class this time of day, but Alexandra didn’t mind. She hoped for time to freshen up before meeting her colleagues.
Mary had wondered whether the teacher who’d offered to share her sleeping quarters was of the Samuel Winford Sheppards of Memphis. Alexandra figured she would find out soon enough. How nice it would be if it turned out she already knew a little about the woman generously sharing her room.
One foot in front of the other, she told herself, until she reached the last room on the right, per Mrs. Chastain’s instructions. Alexandra pushed open the partially closed door and spotted a young Negro woman—a slender little rail of a thing—sweeping the floor beneath the wooden skeleton of an old hospital cot on the far wall. A soldier’s blanket provided the rug for the room, a remnant bequeathed from a former tenant of the camp, no doubt. Such Spartan-like austerity described every corner of this school.
Not wishing to startle the woman, Alexandra gently cleared her throat. The young woman turned, and her face lit up.
“You must be Miss Jamison!” She set aside the broom and dusted off her hands.
“Yes, I am.” Alexandra set down the bundle of bedding. The sacks of feathers had proven far heavier than she’d imagined feathers to be, after lugging them all the way across town. “Thank you for cleaning beneath my cot. I appreciate that.”
“I’m happy to do it. And it needed it!” She smiled. “I think it’s wonderful that you’ve decided to teach here.”
Alexandra attempted a confident smile and thought again of the Fisk students she’d heard at the concert and how well-spoken they were. Same as this woman. “I hope I’m able to do some good.”
“Oh, there’s no doubt about that, I’m sure.”
Alexandra pointed to the twined bundle on the floor. “I’ve brought all my bedding. You should find everything you need in here to make up the cot. But”—she winced playfully—“I’m afraid I’m arriving with my mattress not yet sewn. I don’t suppose you’re any more handy with a needle and thread than I am, are you?”
The young woman held her gaze, then gradually, unmistakably, the friendliness in her countenance drained away. “You’re asking me to sew the tick for your bedding?”
Alexandra offered a conciliatory smile, suddenly feeling as though she’d asked something she shouldn’t have. “Well, if it’s not too much of an imposition. I assumed you might—”
“You assumed that since you saw m
e sweeping beneath your cot, that I must be the chambermaid.”
Alexandra blinked, looking into eyes that were a striking gray color. And a stormy gray, at that. She felt the unnerving prickle of comprehension moving through her, and she swallowed.
“You’re . . . Miss Ella Sheppard,” she managed, the weight of her mistake bearing down hard. “A teacher here and . . . Mr. White’s assistant.”
“Yes, Miss Jamison, I am. And I’m sorry to be the one to inform you, but there are no chambermaids here at Fisk University. If you pee in a pot, you empty it. Same for anything else you choose to do in it. This isn’t the Clarendon Hotel.”
“No! No, of course not. I’m so sorry, Miss Sheppard. I simply walked in and saw you . . .” Alexandra fought to find the words to rectify her mistake, but there weren’t any. Because no matter what she thought of to say or how she might explain her request away, she knew it was useless. The young woman had every right to be upset.
The sting of embarrassment rose to her eyes, and Alexandra fought the urge to turn and run. Yet something held her there, as surely as if her boots were nailed to the plank wood floor.
“Please, Miss Sheppard.” Alexandra steadied her voice. “I made a very wrong and . . . ignorant assumption. And I offer you my sincere apology.”
Alexandra waited, breath held, heart pounding. But Miss Sheppard didn’t move, didn’t bat an eye. If not for the voices drifting in through an open window somewhere, Alexandra might have thought that time had frozen. Then . . .
Miss Sheppard smiled. Only the tiniest bit. Scarcely even enough to qualify as a smile. But Alexandra clung to its possibility.
“It was the broom, wasn’t it, Miss Jamison?” Miss Sheppard whispered, leaning in, giving Alexandra a look she didn’t completely follow.
Yet she was terrified to say anything else for fear of offending the young woman further.
“It was the broom I was holding,” Miss Sheppard repeated, a sparkle showing in her lovely gray eyes. “Not the color of my skin that caused you to think I was the chambermaid. Isn’t that right?”
Watching the way the young woman’s lips slowly tipped up at the corners, Alexandra suddenly recognized the olive branch the woman was extending to her, and she grabbed it for all she was worth, even as the gentle grace the woman offered her shined a light on hidden places in her own heart that still desperately needed grace applied.
“Yes,” Alexandra whispered, her voice strained, her teary eyes revealing the real truth. “It was the broom, Miss Sheppard. It was the broom.” She took a deep breath. “And . . . thank you, most sincerely, for sweeping beneath my cot.”
Later that evening, back in the bedroom, Alexandra grabbed the needle and thread and set to finishing her mattress. Miss Sheppard had escorted her to dinner and introduced her to the other teachers. All of them much older, as Mr. White had said. And all from the North.
She thought again of the assumption she’d made about Miss Sheppard that afternoon and felt queasy. And already the bland and watered-down vegetable soup—at least that’s what Ella Sheppard said she thought it was—wasn’t settling too well. According to teachers and students alike, this was the typical aftereffect of most of their meals at Fisk.
Even so, Alexandra still felt a pinch of hunger.
She set down her sewing and retrieved the cloth sack, recalling the soda crackers she’d purchased at the mercantile that morning. Or rather, that she’d attempted to purchase at the mercantile.
Sylas had actually done the purchasing.
Her hand closed around the crackers and she pulled them out. Only it wasn’t a package of crackers that emerged. Cheese? She hadn’t added a block of cheese to her basket. She peered inside the sack and frowned, then pulled out another package. Mrs. Waverly’s Ladyfingers? Her mouth watered. She loved these delicate little cookies.
She lifted the sack and carefully emptied the contents onto the desk, the only other piece of furniture in the room besides a small wardrobe washstand and the two cots. And what she discovered both delighted and distressed her.
In addition to the cheese and ladyfingers, there were packages of sugared pecans, hard candy, dried apples, and—a laugh escaped before she could catch it.
A lady’s flask.
Alexandra shook her head, fingering the beautiful oval sterling flask embossed on the front with a pair of butterflies amidst flower-filled cornucopia and floral swags. And on the reverse side, two more butterflies and a small space reserved for monogramming, she assumed. No more than four and a half inches, the decorative bottle would fit easily inside a woman’s reticule. And might actually produce quite a nice-sized goose egg when thrown at a man’s head.
She sighed, then twisted open the lid and sniffed, just in case. But thankfully, no Mrs. Taylor’s Fancy Cordial. The flask was empty. And would remain that way until she returned it to Sylas Rutledge tomorrow night. But the ladyfingers and the cheese . . .
She opened both packages and relished the treats, alternating between savory and sweet as she returned to her task at hand.
Awhile later, she spread the unstuffed mattress out to survey her progress. One long seam remained to be sewn, besides the opening at the top. She finished stitching the side, then began stuffing the mattress with feathers. And none too soon, because she was exhausted.
The door opened, and Miss Sheppard entered.
To Alexandra’s delight, the young woman accepted her offer to share the cheese and cookies, then immediately set to helping with the feathers. After a matter of minutes, the two sacks were depleted—and yet the mattress was still almost flat.
Miss Sheppard stepped back. “That is the saddest-looking mattress I’ve ever seen in my life, Miss Jamison.”
Alexandra firmed her lips. “It is sad looking, isn’t it?”
They both started laughing.
“You’re not going to get a wink of sleep on that flat old thing.”
“I know!” Alexandra attempted to make a sad face, which only got them even more tickled.
“Come on!” Miss Sheppard motioned to the door. “Let’s go pilfering.”
“Pilfering? For what?”
She smiled. “You’ll see.”
Alexandra looked at the clock on the desk. “But it’s almost nine,” she whispered. “We’re supposed to be quiet and in our rooms. To be examples to the students. I read every word of the rules, per Mr. White’s orders.”
Miss Sheppard raised a perfectly arched brow. “I’m sorry, but there is simply no way I’m letting you sleep on that flapjack of a bed. You have an introductory class to teach tomorrow, Miss Jamison. You need some rest. Now grab your mattress and come on.”
Miss Sheppard quietly opened the bedroom door, but Alexandra still hesitated.
Hand on hip, Miss Sheppard shot her a look. “I never knew white women could be so skittish and scared.”
With a grin, Alexandra grabbed the mattress tick and practically pushed past her new friend and out the door.
Chapter
FOURTEEN
Her stomach a flurry of nerves, Alexandra shook the jitters from her hands, finished arranging her hair the best she could, and returned to buttoning her shirtwaist. Thirty minutes until she taught her first class.
Ella looked over at her from where she sat on her cot giving Tuesday’s lessons one last review. “Surely a woman who can sneak into the Fisk president’s stable and borrow a couple of bales of hay isn’t nervous over teaching a class of new students . . . Is she?”
Alexandra giggled. “How can you look so sweet and innocent, Ella Sheppard? When you have such mischief in you!”
Ella laughed and gathered her papers from the cot. “And how can you run so fast holding a stuffed mattress up over your head? I could scarcely keep up with my end!”
“Terror is a tremendous motivator.”
They both started laughing again.
“But truly, Ella. Thank you.” Alexandra nodded toward her relatively comfortable if a tad prickly mattress. “I would
n’t have gotten a wink of sleep last night without your help.”
Ella curtsied. “My pleasure, ma’am.” Then she grew more serious. “And thank you for sharing with me last night. Have you told Mr. White yet . . . about your parents, I mean, and what happened when your father found out you’d decided to teach here? Because Mr. White will want to know, so he can be praying.”
Alexandra shook her head. “Not yet, but I will.”
Ella gathered her satchel and waited by the door, singing a hymn softly beneath her breath. Alexandra had heard her doing the same thing last night as they were getting ready for bed.
“You have a beautiful voice, Ella.”
A heartfelt smile lit the young woman’s face. “Thank you. I love to sing!”
“I would imagine so. With talent like that, though, why are you not singing with the group of singers from Fisk?”
“Oh, I do sing with them.”
“But I don’t remember seeing you last week in the concert at the Masonic Hall.”
“Actually . . . I wasn’t feeling well that night, so I didn’t take part.” As they walked down the hallway, Ella’s demeanor turned more solemn. “You’ll learn this soon enough, Alexandra. I get sick quite often. It’s not the kind of sick where I shouldn’t be around people,” she added quickly. “I simply don’t have a very strong constitution.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Alexandra couldn’t say she was surprised, though. After all, Ella was so thin. And if last night’s meal was any indication of the customary fare, it didn’t boast a very nutritious regimen for the students and faculty.
She and Ella had finished up the cheese and ladyfingers for breakfast that morning, and Ella said it was the best breakfast she’d had since coming to Fisk. Alexandra was grateful to Sy for those added treats and planned on giving him as thorough a lesson on negotiations with Southern gentlemen as she could.
Together she and Ella walked the short distance from the teachers’ barracks—formerly the Union officers’ quarters, she’d learned last night—to the barracks housing the classrooms.
To Wager Her Heart Page 15
