Mr. White returned some time later with sandwiches. “I implored several ministers to give us aid,” he told them as they ate. “But without exception, all of them said they would need to seek the direction of their congregation before accepting us into their midst.”
Huddled close to Alexandra, Ella coughed, a deep rattle in her chest. Alexandra put an arm around her, and Ella smiled her steady smile. Benjamin softly began to pray, and Alexandra followed along in her heart, her petition rising from a place of desperation she’d never prayed from before. Had never needed to.
A month into their travels and already the troupe had performed over thirty-six times. And had little to show for it.
She reached into her skirt pocket and briefly fingered the empty flask, the bottle cold to the touch. She’d almost tried to sell it to a street vendor today, knowing it would bring at least a little money. And every coin counted. But Ella had encouraged her to wait.
Around midnight, a man in a dark overcoat burst through the door of the station and strode toward them. Alexandra tensed, and felt Ella do the same beside her.
Mr. White rose, his thin frame looking even more so in recent days, and Isaac, Greene, Thomas, and Benjamin rose to stand shoulder-to-shoulder alongside him.
“Mr. George White?” the man called out.
“Yes. I am George White.”
“I’ve been sent to gather you and your singers, sir. I’m to bring you to the church building where we’ll offer you shelter for the night.”
Tears rose in Alexandra’s eyes, and she saw them mirrored in the other young women too.
“God is faithful, Alexandra,” Ella whispered. “He is faithful.”
The train pulled into the station at Portsmouth, the southernmost city on their tour to date. Alexandra, satchel in hand, disembarked with the rest of the troupe. She paused briefly on the platform—as she still did every time—and acknowledged with gratitude their safe arrival to yet another step of their journey.
Accustomed to the routine now, she and the others followed Mr. White, his tall frame making it impossible to lose him in a crowd, and with other travelers stopping to stare. She glanced across the tracks and spotted the words Northeast Line on the side of a train and felt a wave of longing. And almost felt like she was home.
She’d received two letters from Sy in the last week, both mailed from Charlotte. He’d said he would do his best to stop through one of these cities to see her on his way back to Nashville, and at every stop she found herself scanning the crowds for him.
They waited outside the ticket office for Mr. White. He returned a short time later with a glimmer in his eyes that drew Alexandra’s curiosity. Ella just shrugged and smiled, her cough considerably better and the light returning to her eyes.
“Follow me, friends!”
They walked almost the full length of the platform, passing the third- and second-class cars before Mr. White finally stopped—in front of a Pullman Palace car. Northeast Line on the side. And Alexandra could only smile.
Sylas Rutledge.
Mr. White handed their tickets to the porter, who greeted them each as they boarded. She turned to check and found people not only staring, but gawking.
Ella leaned back and whispered before she boarded, “I don’t think they’ve ever seen colored people riding in such a fancy car before.”
Alexandra laughed and gave her a little shove.
Bold patterns in burgundy and gold covered the upholstered bench seats, and the rich scent of well-oiled leather and beeswax only added to the beauty. Black walnut finishes gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, and accents of crystal and silver graced the gas lamps affixed to the walls and ceilings. George Pullman never did anything halfway.
And neither, apparently, did Sylas Rutledge.
The luxurious car was stocked with drinks and refreshments, head pillows and lap blankets. The train whistle blasted, and minutes later the Northeast Line pulled away from the station with no sign of Sy.
And yet Alexandra felt him right next to her.
For the first half of the two-hour trip, she and Greene discussed a book he’d loaned to her about agriculture and husbandry. His knowledge was extensive, as was his generosity in sharing it.
“If you’ll excuse me now, Miss Jamison, I’m going to get some shut-eye while I can.” He leaned closer. “Isaac snores up a storm!”
She laughed, read for a while longer, then before she knew it her thoughts began to wander and her eyelids grew heavy. She closed the book, then closed her eyes. Then just as swiftly opened them again, realizing what she’d been about to do.
She sat up straighter, but the plushness of the seat and the warmth of the lap blanket plotted with the gentle rocking rhythm of the Pullman to lull her to sleep. And succeeded.
Awhile later, from far away she heard her name being called, and snuggled deeper into the warm cocoon of the blanket. But when a firm hand gripped her shoulder, she came wide-awake to see Ella standing over her.
“We’re here.” Ella smiled. “I never thought I would congratulate someone for falling asleep on a train. But . . . I’m so proud of you.”
“Oh, listen to this one!” Jennie held the newspaper aloft as the troupe settled in to the Pullman Palace car the next day. The railcar was at their disposal, Sy had written, as long as they were traveling on his railroad. “And it’s a national paper! The reporter writes, ‘The assembly was as rapt as any concert audience has ever been, emotion flowing down their cheeks and even into the whiskers of old men.’”
The group responded with skitters of laughter and approval.
She held up a hand, continuing. “The singing was really fine, and that it was much enjoyed by the audience was evidenced by the hearty rounds of applause that greeted the close of each performance!’ Oh wait!” Jennie looked up from the newspaper. “He mentions us traveling in a Pullman Palace car! And on the Northeast Line”—she looked over at Alexandra—“owned by the handsome Mr. Sylas Rutledge from the Colorado Territory, but lately of Nashville, Tennessee.”
“It doesn’t say handsome!” Alexandra leaned over to see the paper, but Jennie grabbed it away.
“No, it doesn’t.” Jennie smiled. “But I do.”
All the women laughed. The men just shook their heads.
The train pulled into the station right on time, and true to what Mr. White had been told, the church auditorium holding the concert that night was filled to overflowing.
Later, when they returned to the hotel, Mr. White’s countenance was more pleased than Alexandra could remember.
“Dear singers,” he said as they met after hours in the dining room, “our contribution tonight was . . . one hundred and three dollars.”
Whoops and hollers rose in response.
“And,” he added quickly, “they’ve invited us to stay and give another four concerts, believing they will all be thus attended and supported.”
Alexandra couldn’t wait to get upstairs and write to Sy. She finished the letter just as Ella returned to the room from the special practice Mr. White had called.
They both readied for bed and talked late into the night, and Alexandra thanked God again for allowing her to be a part of this. And for Sy, who had given her a much-needed nudge.
“Alexandra?” came a soft whisper.
Alexandra stirred and opened her eyes, having slept hard. She pushed the hair back from her face and looked up to see Ella sitting on the bedside.
“I’m sorry to wake you, but Mr. White was just here.”
Still foggy, Alexandra saw pale light through the window. “Is everything all right?”
Ella took her hand. “I’m sorry, Alexandra. Your mother has called you home.”
Chapter
THIRTY-TWO
Dog tired, Sy unlocked the door to his hotel room, grateful the labor issues with the Charleston railroad crew were improving. Not as quickly as he wanted, but at least they were moving in the right direction.
He stepped into the room
and something crinkled beneath his boot. He lit the lamp on the desk, then spotted the envelope that had been slipped beneath his door. He picked it up, read the return address, and couldn’t sit down fast enough.
Philip Paul Bliss.
Sy stared at the name, his throat constricting. It wasn’t possible. And yet here it was. In his hand.
Nearly three weeks had passed since the Ashtabula accident, and not a day went by that he didn’t think of Philip and his wife, Lucy. And their precious boys, now without their parents.
He fingered the envelope, the hand-stamped date “November 9” tempting his thoughts toward possibilities he knew were not possible, before reason swiftly took charge and settled on the only explanation that made sense. Bliss had either mailed this before he died, or someone had mailed it afterward on his behalf.
Sy slid his finger beneath the sealed flap, his conversations with the man coming back in a wash of memory. The shared laughter, the easy manner in which Bliss had talked about his life and dreams, the way he’d had a knack of getting to the very heart of something without ever once seeming boorish or rude. The way Philip Bliss had lived his life with such intention. Never wasting a moment. Or an opportunity. He’d lived a life that was now living beyond his own.
The kind of life, Sy realized, he himself wanted to live.
He pulled the pages from the envelope and unfolded them, the top page a piece of stationery from Gospel Hymns and Sacred Songs Publisher. Sy’s gaze dropped to the handwritten script.
Dear Mr. Rutledge,
It was Mr. Philip Bliss’s request that we send you a copy of the sheet music of his most recent hymn upon its publication. Per his wishes, you will find the sheet music enclosed.
It is with deepest sadness that we relay the tragic news of Mr. Bliss’s unexpected passing on the twenty-second of October in a train accident in which . . .
Eyes burning, Sy scanned the remainder of the note, then turned the page. He blinked to clear his vision as the sheet music came into focus. His gaze went to the title: “Almost Persuaded.” And his chest tightened as he read the words his friend had written, even as he recalled looking up and seeing Bliss standing there that first afternoon on the train.
Almost persuaded, now to believe;
Almost persuaded, Christ to receive;
Seems now some soul to say,
Go, Spirit, go Thy way,
Some more convenient day
On Thee I’ll call.
Almost persuaded, come, come today;
Almost persuaded, turn not away;
Jesus invites you here,
Angels are ling’ring near,
Prayers rise from hearts so dear;
O wand’rer, come!
Almost persuaded, harvest is past!
Almost persuaded, doom comes at last!
Almost cannot avail;
Almost is but to fail!
Sad, sad, that bitter wail—
Almost, but lost!
Sy turned the pages over in his hand, hoping for a note from Philip, wishing for one more conversation with him.
With a deep breath, he read the words of the hymn a second time, then slid the pages back into the envelope. Such sobering lyrics. He thought back to what Philip had asked him on the train that day. “Are you a God-fearing man, Mr. Rutledge?”
A sad smile touched his mouth. Not a question a man got asked every day. But a question a man should ask of himself. And often.
“Yes,” he whispered to the shadows and silence in the hotel room. “I am, Philip.”
Sy deliberately lifted his eyes heavenward. “But I also want to be a man of God. Better than I have been in the past.” He clenched his jaw tight. “Thank you, friend, for showing me more of what that means.”
Alexandra stared out the window of the train, cornfield after cornfield bulleting past, each minute taking her closer home. But would she get there in time? Lord, please let me see him again. One last time.
She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving things between them as they were. Surely her father, so close to stepping into eternity, would accept her now. Would want to mend their differences.
She pulled in a breath, part of her heart still back with Ella and the others. Yet the greater part of it—she paused, realizing that wasn’t the right word—the whole of her heart rested in another person. He carried it with him everywhere he went, and yet she wondered if he knew that.
The train whistle blew, announcing the coming stop.
Mr. White said he’d booked her the fastest possible route back to Nashville: two stops, but she didn’t have to change trains. As the train pulled into the Knoxville station, she looked down at the empty flask cradled in the palm of her hand. Then looking up, she peered through the window, and her gaze went immediately to a black duster and dark leather boots.
And meeting Sy’s gaze, she felt almost home.
Alexandra paused outside her parents’ bedroom door and reached for Sy’s hand.
“Are you certain you want me to go in with you?”
She nodded. “I don’t know how he’s going to respond.”
He brought her hand to his lips. “You already know what you want to say. And I know you’ll say it with all the love you have for him. So however he responds is up to him.” He brushed the curl at her temple.
She looked up at him one last time, then knocked on the door before gently opening it. Her mother rose from her seat by the bed and met them halfway across the room.
“Oh, my dear . . .” She pulled Alexandra to her, and Alexandra held her tight, relishing the feel of her mother’s arms. “You made it. I’m so glad.”
“How is he?”
Her mother’s features clouded. “Your father slipped into a deeper sleep yesterday, and hasn’t awakened since. But,” she added quickly, “Dr. Phillips said that he’s seen patients move in and out of this kind of sleep for days. So it’s possible that he’ll awaken, Alexandra.” Her voice softened. “And that you’ll have the time you need.”
Alexandra nodded, then pulled back slightly. “Mother, may I introduce Mr. Sylas Rutledge. A . . . dear friend of mine. And, Sy, I’d like to present my mother, Mrs. Barrett Broderick Jamison.” Alexandra made certain to use the formal title her mother had always preferred.
“Mr. Rutledge.” Her mother nodded briefly, then touched his arm. “Thank you, sir, for accompanying my daughter home.”
“It’s an honor to meet you, Mrs. Jamison, and it was my pleasure.”
Alexandra looked toward the bed. The changes in her father were marked. Far thinner, his complexion gray and sickly. Her heart twisted. “Has he been in pain?”
Her mother shook her head. “Dr. Phillips has made certain of that. He’s also told me that it could be anytime now. That’s it’s really up to your father. Hence, he advised me to send for you.” Her mother hugged her again. “And I’m so grateful you came. I sent telegrams to your brothers too. They responded that they would try to get home if they could. But I don’t think they’ll be coming.”
Alexandra nodded, not surprised. Then motioned toward the bed. “May I?”
Her mother nodded. “But he’s very weak.”
Alexandra sat on the edge of the chair and leaned close. “Father?” she whispered. “Can you hear me?” She took hold of his hand.
But he didn’t respond. She tried again, to no avail.
Her mother laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t you and Mr. Rutledge go down to the kitchen and get something to eat. I’m sure you’re tired and hungry. I’ll sit with your father for a while.”
“I don’t mind sitting with him, Mother.”
“I don’t either, my dear. And I’m cherishing every remaining day.”
Chapter
THIRTY-THREE
Alexandra.” Her mother’s voice was soft as she entered the bedroom. “You’ve not left his side for nearly a week. My dear, I fear that the longer he sleeps, the greater the likelihood he’ll not awaken again.”
&nb
sp; “But I have to try.” Alexandra squeezed her father’s hand, willing him to open his eyes. “After all, you told me he hadn’t said anything about changing his mind about me.”
“Your father is a very proud man, Alexandra. He well could have altered his opinion and still have kept it to himself, you know that.” Her mother kissed the crown of her head. “He loves you very much. You must remember that. Just as I reminded him of your love, so often. Now . . . your Mr. Rutledge is waiting downstairs.”
Alexandra looked up to see her mother smile, which prompted her own. She stood and leaned down, and looked long into her father’s face.
“I love you, Papa,” she whispered, using the endearing term she hadn’t used in years.
She found Sy standing in her father’s study, and she thought of the first time she saw him, in that very room. How different a man he was from what she’d imagined at first impression.
Glancing beyond her to the open doorway, he smiled, tipped her chin up, and kissed her softly on the mouth, and Alexandra answered. She moved closer, needing to feel his strength, wanting to feel his arms around her. And he didn’t disappoint. After a moment she drew back, a little breathless.
He smiled. “Want to get some lunch in town?”
She nodded. “I need to stop by the post office. I have a letter to mail for Ella.”
“Have you heard from her recently?”
“I received a letter just yesterday. She had good news too.” Alexandra retrieved the letter from atop the desk and began reading. “‘Success is now at hand, my dear Alexandra. And due, at least in part, to a change in our program’s usual repertoire. A change Mr. White suggested and that I, along with the other singers, did not favor at first. But at his insistent encouragement—’”
Sy laughed. “‘Insistent encouragement’ is a nice way of putting it.”
Alexandra smiled, then continued to read. “‘—we have begun singing some of the slave songs that are most dear to our heritage. And what is so surprising, Alexandra, is that white people want to hear them! Sometimes they ask us to sing a certain song again. Our concerts are so well attended now that many are doomed to stand and many more leave for want of room. In some cities excursion trains are going to run to the places where we sing. The people seem to be perfectly frantic about the Jubilee Singers.’”
To Wager Her Heart Page 31
