To Wager Her Heart

by Tamera Alexander

  Far too soon he pulled away and looked down at her, his face still close, the thickness of the smoke dissipating. Desire warmed his eyes and she felt it all the way to her toes. And then some.

  Smiling, he grabbed her hand, and she ran with him back down the platform. He snatched up the briefcase as they passed, and she reached down and gave Duke a quick pat on the head.

  Sy lifted her onto the step of the passenger car just as the train gave a little lurch, then he climbed up beside her, opened the door, and ushered her inside.

  “My addresses are in the briefcase. Both here in Nashville and in Charlotte at the new project. As is some money to wire me if you need anything, Alexandra. Anything,” he said again, and pressed a quick hard kiss to her forehead. “Be watching for me along the way.” He closed the door to the railcar behind him and stepped off the moving train onto the platform with enviable ease.

  Holding on to a seat back, she spotted the porter ahead and reached into her skirt pocket, making certain she still had her ticket. Her hand brushed something cool and hard, and she pulled the object from her pocket. And smiled.

  The flask? How on earth had he managed to—

  The train surged forward, and in the space of a blink her world narrowed. She slipped the bottle back into her pocket and scanned the passenger car full of people. She heard the churn of the locomotive, felt the rumble of steel wheels on rails—and her body went weak.

  “Alexandra!”

  She forced herself to focus and spotted Ella, Jennie, Mr. White, and the others sitting toward the back. Clutching the briefcase, she somehow made it to the empty seat beside Ella and sank down, the hard wooden bench unforgiving.

  Ella leaned close. “I see Mr. Rutledge gave you a parting gift.”

  Alexandra fingered the buttery brown leather. “Yes, but he told me I couldn’t open it until I was on board.”

  Ella’s mouth slowly tipped. “I wasn’t referring to the briefcase.”

  Two hours into the four-hour train trip, Alexandra had read Sy’s note nine times. She’d already memorized certain parts. The briefcase, while lovely, is to aid you not only in your classes but also as you earn your degree. Which I know you will do posthaste, Professor Jamison.

  If it was possible, she still felt the tingle of his lips on hers. She didn’t know if part of his plan in kissing her at that precise moment was to sweep every shred of fear from her body, but that’s what he’d done. Until the train had picked up speed.

  But between Ella close beside her and forcing herself to picture again riding on that locomotive with Sy, his arm securely around her waist, the fields bathed in sunlight and the wind on her face, she’d somehow made it through the tense moments following their initial departure.

  But the flask . . .

  How he’d gotten that into her pocket she didn’t know. She pulled it out and unscrewed the lid. Then looked closer. He’d filled it with something, but she wasn’t sure—

  She sniffed. He didn’t.

  She tasted. He did! Mrs. Taylor’s Fancy Cordial.

  Glancing around and seeing everyone either dozing, reading, or otherwise occupied, she took a quick swig. Then another, wishing she’d known about the cordial an hour ago. It had taken her twenty minutes into the trip to loosen her hold on the bench seat. This would’ve helped considerably. But having already learned her lesson in this regard, she screwed the lid back on and put the bottle away.

  Ella was asleep beside her, as were Jennie and Maggie on the bench opposite them. And even though it took concentration, Alexandra closed her eyes too and leaned her head back, under no illusion that she would sleep. She reviewed a mental list of to-dos instead.

  Upon arriving in Cincinnati, the troupe needed to disembark swiftly, check in to the hotel, then locate the Congregational Church for their first concert that evening. The minister she’d exchanged letters with had said the community was enthusiastic about the Fisk singers coming, so they were all hopeful for a large crowd.

  Mr. White had laid out the route for the tour, which wisely, in her estimation, somewhat followed the course of the Underground Railroad, the network of secret routes by which slaves had escaped to freedom. He’d placed her in charge of managing hotel reservations and train travel, visiting and corresponding with editors at local newspapers, writing press releases for each concert, looking after the health of the singers—Ella especially—and generally making certain the troupe had everything they needed before a concert. No small task. But she was thrilled to be part of it.

  Sy had been right. Even now, having only embarked on this journey, she knew she would have deeply regretted it one day had her choice been not to come. She opened her eyes and looked out the window at the passing countryside, every passing moment taking her farther away from him.

  But he’d made it to the station that morning. She’d been so excited, so flustered she hadn’t thought to ask him about his trip. About the parishioner and whether his visit had turned up anything of consequence. And if the challenges with the railroad had been resolved.

  “Are you faring well?” Ella whispered beside her.

  Alexandra looked over to find her friend awake, and nodded. “Thank you. Without you and Mr. Rutledge, though, I don’t know that I could’ve gotten aboard.”

  Ella patted her arm. “You would have. None us knows what we’re fully capable of doing until God leads us to a place where we realize our strength is nothing compared to his. He says to take a step, yet you look out and see nothing but thin air in your path. Yet, he calls you on. And only when you finally trust him and take that step into nothingness do you discover you’re standing on solid ground.”

  Alexandra smiled. “What if your knees are still knocking when you take that step?”

  Ella laughed softly. “Then you’re in good company with many a saint who’s gone before.”

  Alexandra nodded, then let her gaze roam the cabin to the other members of the troupe. Her attention came to rest on Thomas, who was poring over a copy of Nashville’s Colored Tennessean, his expression intense.

  Ella leaned close. “Thomas’s mother was sold away from him when he was two years old. He’s been looking for her ever since the war ended.”

  Alexandra looked over at her.

  “In every issue,” Ella continued, as though sensing her unspoken question, “people place ads asking the whereabouts of long-lost kin, in the hope that perhaps someone will recognize a name and that somehow families separated years ago might find each other.”

  Alexandra looked back at Thomas, the handsome young man with the golden tenor voice—a voice his mother had never heard. And the prick of truth deepened her understanding yet again of the world in which she lived.

  When the train finally pulled into the Cincinnati station unscathed, they disembarked, and Alexandra paused briefly on the platform and offered silent thanks, along with a prayer for Thomas and his mother.

  Mr. White gathered the troupe and they continued down the platform. At first she noticed people looking their way, then gradually people stopped to stare. She glanced beside her at the others, yet they seemed not to notice. But by the time they reached the street, she didn’t know how the other members of the troupe could miss it.

  Everyone was turning to look.

  “Pay them no mind, Miss Jamison,” Greene Evans said softly and indicated for her to proceed him down the stairs to the street.

  “Black cloud rising!” someone called out.

  Alexandra looked up, not understanding. Then she heard the cackle of laughter and sneers off to the side and turned. A group of young men on the street were eying them, grinning. One of them hopped up and down and scratched his belly, making noises. And when she realized what he was doing, an anger shot up within her so hot and fierce she felt the heat of it behind her eyes.

  “As Mr. Evans said, Miss Jamison,” Thomas Rutling whispered, his voice even, controlled, “pay them no mind, ma’am.”

  With no small effort she looked away and conti
nued down the street. Mr. White led them in the direction of the hotel, head held high, stride confident. She attempted the same, until a few blocks later, a sign in a store window caught her attention, and the anger simmering inside her stirred again.

  Though she read the sign only once as she passed, the words seared themselves into her memory, and her chest tightened with the injustice and ignorance behind them. Nigger read and run! the sign had read. Then scrawled in writing below it, And if you can’t read, run anyway.

  “Do you see all the people?” Maggie whispered, peering out at the auditorium. The Congregational Church was filled, and Mr. White was beyond pleased. His plan, he’d explained, was to offer the concerts for free, then he would make an appeal at the end after the audience had been moved by the masterful blend of voices.

  Travel from Nashville had made for a long day, but everyone was running on excitement, Alexandra included. Thirty minutes before the concert was to begin, she checked with each of the singers to make sure they had what they needed, then took her seat in the audience. She swiftly realized that no matter how many times she had the opportunity to hear these singers, she would never grow tired of listening to them.

  Through the first four songs—“Down by the River,” “Beautiful Dreamer,” “Grace,” and “I’ve Been Redeemed”—Alexandra sneaked looks across the auditorium and saw expressions ranging from awe-filled appreciation to what she could only term as utter shock. But nearly an hour and a half later, with Jennie Jackson’s rendering of the “Old Folks at Home” as a finale, there wasn’t a dry eye that she could see.

  Following a standing ovation, Mr. White took the stage and gave an emotional plea about Fisk University that even stirred Alexandra’s heart, and she already knew about the school’s dire circumstances. The collection was taken and monies presented to Mr. White.

  Later, in the lobby, she greeted guests and answered questions about Fisk University and their mission.

  “Never in all my days did I imagine Negroes could be so well behaved!” a voice said behind her.

  “Yes! That school must spend an inordinate amount of time on discipline.”

  Alexandra turned and spotted the two women conversing behind her. She smiled as she approached. “I’m Miss Alexandra Jamison, a teacher at Fisk University. Do you have any questions for me about the school? Or the exemplary students whom I have the honor of teaching? I’d be most happy to instruct you.”

  With chins slightly lifted, the women shook their heads and walked on. Feeling mildly victorious, Alexandra felt a touch on her arm.

  “Mr. White.”

  “Miss Jamison,” he said softly. “Your . . . forthright response to those women was well meant, I’m sure. But I believe it would be best to remember that actions speak far louder than words. And that a kind answer truly does turn away wrath.”

  All sense of victory swept aside, Alexandra nodded. “I’m sorry, Mr. White.”

  “No need to apologize. I have done precisely the same thing, Miss Jamison. Though perhaps not with quite such . . . sweet Southern meanness.”

  Alexandra might have felt even worse if not for the twinkle in his eyes.

  After staying to visit with concert attendees, they returned to the hotel fatigued but also thrilled at such a successful first night. Until Mr. White paused briefly in the hotel lobby to count the contribution, and Alexandra read the disappointment in his face.

  “Fifty dollars,” he said quietly, looking from singer to singer. “That entire auditorium was filled. Every person listening to that blessed gift of music from you heavenly inspired singers, and this is representative of their gratitude?” He sighed. “This sum is barely sufficient to defray our expenses for the concert—travel, hotel, meals, publicity. How are we supposed to send money back to Fisk from this?”

  They all went to their rooms somber rather than celebratory, and as Alexandra readied for bed, she could tell that even Ella had been affected by the news. She wanted to encourage her, and herself too.

  “It will be better tomorrow night, I’m sure. The minister said they’re expecting a large crowd as well.”

  “Whatever the Lord wills,” Ella whispered, slipping beneath the covers of her bed and giving a sigh. “A real bed. Heavenly.”

  Alexandra saw signs of fatigue in the shadows beneath Ella’s eyes, and she feared this trip would take a further toll on her friend’s already weakened constitution. She vowed, as Mr. White had requested, to keep close watch over her health.

  Alexandra climbed onto the single bed beside Ella’s and pulled a file and a textbook from her lovely leather briefcase.

  “You’re staying up?” Ella asked.

  “For a little while. I want to check the details for tomorrow’s concert in Chillicothe. And Maggie loaned me a book.” She held it up.

  “The Art of Civilizations,” Ella read out. “Some light reading at the end of a relaxing day.”

  Alexandra smiled, then thought again of something she’d wanted to ask her friend. “About the paper Thomas was reading today . . . Do you have anyone you’re searching for?”

  “I’m fortunate in that I was able to stay with my mother. And my father worked on a nearby plantation, so I was able to see him from time to time. He eventually bought his own freedom, then saved up enough to purchase Mama and me as well. Mrs. Phereby Sheppard, who owned us, always promised Mama that she’d allow my father to buy us when the time came. But once he had the money, Miss Phereby refused. Mama overheard her talking to her husband that night saying that Miss Phereby had simply pretended to agree to sell Mama to my father so as not to prolong Mama’s grief at their pending separation. Miss Phereby told Major Sheppard that Mama was hers. That Mama had been hers and would die hers. And that my father could get himself another wife.”

  Alexandra stared. “I’m so sorry,” were the only words she could manage.

  Ella held her gaze. “You already know enough about my mama to know she wasn’t going to stand for that. She told Miss Phereby that her daughter would never be a slave, and that if Miss Phereby would allow my father to buy me, then Mama would remain her faithful servant. But that if Miss Phereby refused”—a look came into Ella’s eyes both fiery and sad—“Mama told her she’d kill us both. And Miss Phereby knew that was no idle threat. Because we all knew about the mother from a neighboring plantation who had been sold and was to be separated from her three small daughters. The mother gathered them together, slit their throats, and laid them out side by side. Then killed herself as well. It happened more than you might think,” Ella finished softly.

  Alexandra tried to imagine herself and her own mother in that situation. Further, she felt a deeper appreciation for their relationship, however imperfect and flawed. “Your mother must be an incredible woman, Ella.”

  “She is that.” Ella smiled. “But she comes from a strong line of women. My maternal great-grandmother, Rosa, was the free, full-blooded daughter of a Cherokee chief.”

  Alexandra felt her eyes go wide, and Ella laughed. They stayed awake talking until after midnight, then Ella yawned and pulled her pillow closer to her face.

  “One more question,” Alexandra said, “then we’ll go to sleep. I’m hesitant to ask Mr. White again because I’ve already inquired twice. But you being his assistant, do you happen to know whether or not my introductory teacher examinations were graded before we left? I’m not asking you to tell me the marks I earned, mind you. I’m simply wondering if they’ve been scored.”

  “He hasn’t said anything about them to me. But I do know an inordinate amount of students are preparing to graduate in December, so perhaps the teachers charged with scoring the exams simply fell behind. But I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m certain you passed everything with ease or Mr. White would have said something.”

  Alexandra smiled. “While I do not share your confidence, Miss Sheppard, I do so appreciate it.”

  Tired, Alexandra managed to stay up a little longer to check the details for tomorrow, then she pulled
pen and paper from her briefcase and wrote Sy a short note. She addressed the envelope and set it by her reticule to be mailed, then turned down the lamp.

  With the exception of the disappointing receipts from the night’s concert, the day had gone as smoothly as she could have imagined. Which boded well for the coming days.

  She reached to turn down the lamp and looked across to the other bed where Ella lay sleeping. How very little a person knew about someone simply from looking at her. Yet how much people decided about others at a single glance. Herself included. Ella’s great-grandmother had been full-blooded Cherokee. and Ella’s paternal grandfather, as she’d shared earlier, had been a white planter.

  Perhaps it was all the studying about civilizations and histories of the world Alexandra had done of late, but it occurred to her that the blood flowing through Ella Sheppard’s veins perfectly captured the history—and heartache—of this nation.

  “You, my dear friend, are Esther,” Alexandra whispered, extinguishing the lamp on the bedside table. “Born for such a time as this.”

  The next morning she and Ella awakened early and joined the troupe downstairs for breakfast, only to find Mr. White waiting for them in the dining room. His features were even more somber than they’d been the night before.

  “My dear friends,” he announced, “the city of Chicago is burning.”

  Chapter

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  From what I read in the newspaper this morning, Uncle Bob, three hundred people have been killed.” Sy watched the yearlings being loaded onto the wagons. “Over one hundred thousand homes were destroyed.”

  “That’s hard to get your mind around, ain’t it? Whole town just goin’ up like that. They know what started the fire?”

  “Not yet.” Sy couldn’t imagine the grief hanging over that city right now. So much destruction in so short a time. He hoped the tragedy hadn’t hampered the Fisk singers’ tour in any way. So much was riding on the success of those concerts and Mr. White’s vision for them.