To Wager Her Heart

by Tamera Alexander

  She breathed in the humid morning air, so eager for fall and cooler weather she could almost taste it. She smoothed a hand over her borrowed shirtwaist and skirt, grateful again for Mary’s generosity. What would she have done throughout this transition without her friend? She glanced beside her at Ella.

  Both the old and the new.

  “I’ll try to find you at lunch,” Ella whispered as they neared the classroom barracks. “But I might be a little late. The other singers and I give half of our noon hour every day to study under Mr. White, and all our spare time too!” She glanced at the barracks ahead. “That’s your building!”

  She gave Alexandra a good-bye squeeze on her arm and continued on, nodding hellos to students as they passed.

  Alexandra greeted them as well, hoping she appeared more confident than she felt. So many students. And some surprisingly young. But Mr. White had said Fisk admitted younger scholars. Thankfully, at twenty-five, she would be older than all of them.

  She noticed the students watching her, and their dark eyes and eager expressions radiated an excitement she’d rarely seen in the children she’d tutored. Many of the students had apparently brought along their parents to see them off, and the hallway leading to her classroom was full of people.

  The long narrow classroom on the left side of the building was hers, Mrs. Chastain told her yesterday, and the closed door loomed ahead.

  Lord, help me to give these young scholars my best. And please . . . remove every false assumption from my heart.

  “Excuse me, please,” she whispered, turning sideways to better slip past the groups huddled waiting in the narrow corridor.

  As she maneuvered her way through, she had the same sensation she’d experienced last night at dinner. She felt so very . . . white. And not a part of the same world as these people around her. Even her borrowed clothes—more than adequate, but not what she and Mary usually wore when visiting about town—were far nicer than the missionary barrel hand-me-downs that clothed her students and their siblings and parents.

  “Please, excuse me,” she said again, and noticed a girl around thirteen or fourteen reaching out to touch the lacy edge of her sleeve. Alexandra smiled at her, and the girl’s dark brown eyes warmed with affection.

  “You the new teacher?” the girl asked.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I’m in your class. I’m Lettie. This here’s Brister, my little brother. He ain’t much for talkin’.”

  Alexandra glanced up at the girl’s “little” brother. “It’s good to meet you, Lettie. And you as well, Brister.” Though the young man said nothing, Alexandra loved the way his eyes sparkled when he looked at his older sister. “I’ll see you both inside, all right?”

  Nodding, Lettie scrunched her shoulders and grinned.

  Her nerves lessening bit by bit, Alexandra hoped there were seats enough for all the students. She’d heard of schools where the pupils sat on the floor. Perhaps they could take turns, if it came to that.

  She reached the door to her classroom and pushed it open, only to see Mr. George White standing at the front of a classroom full to overflowing. Her face went hot.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. White. I-I must have confused my classroom assignment. Please excuse me.” She hurried to close the door.

  “Miss Jamison!” he called, rushing over. “You’re in the right place, ma’am. This is your classroom.”

  Alexandra looked at him, then at all the students and their parents staring back. And grandparents, judging by their ages. “But”—she lowered her voice—“all those people in the hallway. In your letter, you indicated there would be thirty-five!”

  His smile held a note of regret. “I know. We always have more students show up for an introductory class than we can grant admittance. Sometimes far more. But they’re accustomed to the process and to the lack of teachers. Most of the students in this room have tried to attend a session like this before. Hence, many of them were waiting outside since the wee hours of the morning.”

  Alexandra looked into their faces and felt such a weight of responsibility. Then she glanced toward the open doorway and thought of Lettie and her brother outside in the hall. It hurt to think of their being turned away. But maybe there would be room once the family members left.

  Mr. White led her to the podium at the front of the room and offered a kind introduction. Alexandra placed her loose stack of lesson papers atop the table, wishing she had her teaching satchel from home. It lent a far more professional appearance.

  As soon as the thought came, she realized how inappropriate it was. Because this wasn’t about her. It was about something so much larger.

  “And though Miss Jamison is new to Fisk University, she comes very highly recommended. She’s taught many students in her lifetime, and I know that in the next six weeks, for those of you who are admitted, if you’ll study hard, which I know you will, you’ll benefit from her knowledge. Which is of utmost importance. Because remember, anyone devoted to his books is on the road to freedom, while anyone ignorant of books,” Mr. White continued, many within the room saying the words along with him, “is on his way back to slavery.”

  Hearty amens rose from the gathering.

  “So I know that all of you will leave Miss Jamison’s classroom with the ability to read and write, and to work your sums. And most importantly, with a thorough knowledge and understanding of Christian citizenship. And with the ability to read your very own Bible . . . all by yourself!”

  Several of the parents actually started applauding until soon everyone joined in, and the spontaneous gesture overflowed into the hallway.

  Mr. White leaned closer, but even then Alexandra could scarcely hear him over the clapping. “God has brought you here, Miss Jamison, to do a very good work. And we’re most grateful to have you among our staff.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She smiled and moved to the podium, then quickly stepped back toward him. “How long do the parents usually stay?” she whispered. “And is there anything specific I need to say to them in regard to their students?”

  Mr. White’s expression went slightly blank before gentleness overtook his sharp features once again. “My dear Miss Jamison . . . Everyone in this classroom and in the hallway, both young and old, is a student who has come hungry to learn, with a precious soul eager to be fed.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Rutledge, but as it happens, those specific court files aren’t available for public viewing at the present time.”

  Sy glanced past the secretary to the office she’d reemerged from a moment earlier. “I find that difficult to believe, ma’am. Because when I first arrived, you told me all public court files were open to the public. And . . . I’m the public.”

  Despite his even tone, he heard the impatience in his own voice. But after the name of the judge Mr. Maury had given him led to a dead end, and after wasting the majority of his day digging through layers of bureaucracy, being sent from one end of Nashville to the other, he’d had his fill of civil “servants” and dead ends. Especially when the dead ends felt intentional.

  Seemed no one on the legal side of things was eager to talk about the accident at Dutchman’s Curve—until he happened upon a young female clerk who’d been on the job for all of three days. She’d been more than willing to search the Davidson County court rosters and give him the information he needed, and far more.

  Including the name of the judge who’d presided over the civil trial following the accident—the judge who’d ruled that the fault of the accident on Dutchman’s Curve was his father’s.

  The secretary firmed her lips. “Mr. Rutledge . . .” Condescension thickened her tone as she reached for a pencil and pad of paper. “Why don’t you write down your specific questions, and I’ll make certain Judge Warren receives them. He’s an extremely busy man, as you may imagine, but he’ll review your inquiries at his earliest convenience and will respond accordingly. Be sure to include your address so he can post his letter to you in a timely—”

/>   Sy nudged the pencil and pad back in her direction. “As I already told you”—he glanced at the nameplate on her desk—“Mrs. Meeks, I’m here to speak with Judge Warren in person. Not leave him a note.”

  Her nostrils flared. “And as I have attempted to explain to you, sir, His Honor is in extreme demand. In fact, he’s due in court in the next few moments. So I’m afraid he will not be able to—”

  The office door behind her opened and out walked a man, cloth napkin stuffed inside his open collar, sandwich in hand. “Mrs. Meeks, once I finish this, I’m going to leave early and—”

  Sy locked eyes with the man who, he assumed, was the Honorable Judge Warren, and would’ve sworn the older man was about to choke on his last bite.

  “Judge Warren,” the secretary said hurriedly, “I was explaining to this . . . gentleman, Mr. Rutledge, for the second time that the files he’s requested to see are not available for public review at the present time.”

  Sy didn’t have to guess whose inflection she was parroting.

  “I’ve told him you’re very busy, Judge,” she continued, “and are due in court any time now, as you told me.”

  The judge threw her a scathing glare, then turned it on him.

  “Mr. Rutledge, this is an office of the law. Hence, we abide by rules. Rules that apply to everyone. Because if they do not apply to everyone, then they apply to no one. Your persistence in forcing this issue shows a gross lack of respect for the law and for those who have dedicated their lives to upholding it. It is the very bedrock upon which our great nation is founded!”

  Sy looked at him, wondering if he was done. “If the files of a public trial aren’t open to the public, Your Honor, then who does have the authority to look at them?”

  Still breathing heavily, the judge leveled a stare. “In this instance, members of the Tennessee Bar Association, the Interstate Commerce Commission, and the United States Federal Railroad Administration.” He smiled insincerely. “Are you by chance a member of any of those associations, Mr. Rutledge?”

  Sy held his gaze. “No, sir. I am not.”

  Judge Warren nodded, his look one of regret. “I thought not.” He tossed his napkin and sandwich on the secretary’s desk. “Mrs. Meeks! My robe, please.”

  The woman raced to the coat rack in the corner as though her life depended on it, then returned with equal haste.

  Sy watched them for several seconds, then glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s half past four, Judge Warren. My understanding is that the courts officially close at three o’clock on Tuesday afternoons. So exactly where are you holding court . . . sir?”

  The man’s face flushed crimson. Mrs. Meeks’s went a little pale.

  “A judge’s responsibilities do not cease, sir, simply because he is not presiding over a trial. Now I will take my leave in order to fulfill my obligation to the people of this fine city.” He strode to the door and held it open. “And may I suggest, Mr. Rutledge, that you take your leave as well.”

  Sy crossed to the door, tipped his hat, and walked to the hallway. He descended the ornate limestone staircase to the vast marble lobby. As he passed a statue of a barefoot maiden seated on a marble base, he slowed. In one hand she held a set of scales, in the other, a mighty sword that rested atop a large volume on her lap.

  Lady Justice.

  He’d seen statues similar to this before, only the other maidens had always worn a blindfold. How timely that he should see this particular statue now.

  He left the court building, whistled to Duke, who waited in a piece of shade to the side. Together they walked in the direction of Fisk University, Sy heartened by what—and who—awaited him that evening, even as what he’d discovered here rankled him. But he’d confirmed his suspicion.

  Now to discover exactly what it was that was being hidden. And why.

  Chapter

  FIFTEEN

  Famished, Alexandra finished every bit of her soup. It tasted oddly similar to what had been served for dinner the night before. Then she savored every bite of her thinly sliced bread, as everyone else around her was also doing.

  She paused and scanned the faces of the other teachers, then looked across the room over the long rows of makeshift tables filling the barracks that served as the dining hall. So many students. So many “precious souls,” as Mr. White had expressed that morning.

  Her first day at Fisk University had passed in a blur of activity and questions and frustrations, but most of all—excitement. And though she knew without a doubt that she was where she needed to be, she couldn’t account for the persistent lump that kept wanting to lodge at the base of her throat.

  How could she feel so joyful in one sense, and yet so inadequate and heavyhearted in another? A pang of homesickness hit her.

  Not for her house here in town or, sadly, not even for her parents. Though she did wish she could speak to her mother after that painful parting. But after seeing her in town, Alexandra wasn’t certain her mother would welcome that conversation.

  No, she was homesick for David and all the plans they’d had. Plans he had inspired her to dream in the first place. She wouldn’t be here now if not for him.

  She stifled a yawn, eager to get back to the barracks and do her reading and preparation before tomorrow’s class. And not even the thought of her lumpy, itchy mattress could dampen her desire for sleep.

  “A full day, Miss Jamison?”

  Alexandra looked down the table to see Miss Frieda Norton watching her. Frieda was a twenty-six-year veteran American Missionary Association teacher she’d met briefly at lunch.

  The woman was in her early fifties, Alexandra guessed. From New York City. A serious sort of woman, same as every other teacher she’d met so far. And also not in very good health, Alexandra gauged, based on the crackling sound of her cough.

  Alexandra nodded. “A full day, but a very good one.”

  “Have you checked the chore sheet yet? To see what your responsibilities are for the week?”

  Alexandra hesitated. A chore sheet? “No, I haven’t. But I will.”

  “Never mind. I make the assignments. You’re responsible for cleaning and sweeping your classroom, as well as the lobby area of your barracks. You also need to help with breakfast duty on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday mornings.”

  Alexandra felt a weight settle inside her but nodded, not wanting to get off on the wrong foot with anyone. “I’ll be sure to get it all done.” Although where she’d find the time to do “chores,” along with everything she needed to do, she didn’t know.

  “Very good, Miss Jamison.” Miss Norton nodded smartly. “We always give new teachers a week or two to settle in before giving them their full load.”

  A bell clanged, and Alexandra turned to see Mrs. Chastain standing by the back door signaling that dinner was over and study time awaited.

  Of the over two thousand students who attended Fisk, only about a hundred actually lived on campus. And those scholars boarding at Fisk—in “the Home,” as she’d heard the separate men’s and women’s barracks called—were students from outside Nashville. Mr. White said they could have filled those boarding slots ten times over. There simply wasn’t room for all of the students who wanted to live here.

  Alexandra rose and was making her way toward the exit when she noticed Mrs. Chastain motioning to her.

  “Turn around,” the woman mouthed.

  Alexandra did and saw Mr. White waving to her. What could he be wanting at this—

  Then she saw who was with him.

  Sy.

  Oh . . . She’d completely forgotten about meeting with him tonight. Yet she couldn’t refuse. She must pay the piper, after all. She forced a bright countenance and nodded to him.

  “Who is that, Miss Jamison?”

  Alexandra turned to see Mrs. Chastain looking in Sy’s direction, her expression one of curiosity and womanly admiration. Did Sylas Rutledge have that effect on women of every age?

  “He’s . . . a student of mine. I�
�m tutoring him.”

  “You’re tutoring that gentleman? In precisely what subjects, may I ask?”

  Alexandra caught the jesting in Mrs. Chastain’s tone and shook her head. “In etiquette, Mrs. Chastain. Specifically, protocol for how a gentleman is to conduct himself in business dealings.”

  The older woman nodded. “Impressive.”

  “Not at all. I’m simply sharing with him what little knowledge I have on the subject from having helped my father for several years.”

  “Actually . . . your knowledge wasn’t what I was referring to, Miss Jamison.” A glint slid into the woman’s eyes.

  “Mrs. Chastain!” Alexandra whispered.

  “I’m married, Miss Jamison.” Mrs. Chastain leaned closer. “But I’ve still got the eyes the good Lord gave me.”

  Alexandra smiled—until she looked back at Sy and realized she had at least an hour, if not more, of teaching yet ahead of her. And knowing him even as little as she did, she guessed he would prove to be her most challenging pupil of all.

  She’d forgotten all about their meeting tonight. Sy could tell from the surprise in her expression, which she tried in vain to mask. And here he’d looked forward to being with her again almost since the moment she’d agreed to meet with him. Realizing that bothered him more than he cared to admit, even to himself.

  “So, Mr. Rutledge,” said Mr. White. “Are you familiar with Fisk University?”

  “No, sir, I’m not. Or at least I wasn’t until recently.”

  “Are you in support of the freedmen, sir?”

  “Yes, sir, I am. I’m for every man—and woman—doing everything they can to better themselves. I wouldn’t want anybody telling me what I could or couldn’t do.”

  The man nodded in earnest. “Precisely. Well stated, sir.” White glanced toward Alexandra, who’d paused to talk to a young woman. “And exactly what is your relationship with Miss Jamison?”

  Sy looked at Mr. White, a little startled.