by Betty Bolte
"You really should go enjoy yourself, however briefly," Frank said. Curiosity lingered as to what Emily almost revealed before the captain arrived. "The town feels as if it sits on pins, holding its breath. We're all waiting to find out whether all parties will sign the peace treaty."
"In the meantime, I agree that we should grasp any opportunity for a bit of merriment," Captain Sullivan said. "We'd be honored, my dear. A quiet bit of fun may lighten the mood."
"Wonderful. I'll inform my parents." Samantha smiled at Frank and angled her head as she peered at him. "Will you join us for our small gathering this evening? You can complete the table for us."
Emily regarded Samantha with one brow arched, a question in her eyes.
If Emily attended, he'd happily forgo an evening of agonizing over setting broadside type for some quiet fun, as the captain so quaintly phrased it. More time spent with the fair maiden enticed him to relinquish his more pressing matters. Tomorrow left an abundance of time to work on the bloody type. "Thank you, Miss Samantha. I am honored by the invitation."
After everyone said their farewells, Frank closed the door and leaned his head against it in thought. Perhaps the time was right, after all, to put his plan into action.
* * *
Later that afternoon Emily paused in her work. She placed her gloved hands on her thighs as she knelt in the dirt. The little garden appeared sad and abandoned with all the fruits and vegetables harvested and put up for the winter's consumption. Several sides of venison and wild hog, mysteriously acquired by Frank, hung in the small smokehouse beyond, slowly curing over wood fires. While she appreciated his contribution to their larder, she wondered what other reasons he may have for procuring such a gift. The earthy scents filling her nose conflicted with the unease clinging to her heart.
She rose to her feet, then paced toward the kitchen. She paused halfway across the yard, scanning the area stretching toward her from the rear of the main house, the brick cooking kitchen standing to the left, the stables to the right. The three-story brick house looked even more imposing from the back. She pulled off her gardening gloves and slipped them into her apron pocket as she surveyed the enclosed yard. An abundant herb garden wrapped around the brick kitchen and flowed into a small area behind it, the faint aromas of rosemary and mint mingling with the ever-present salt air. Solomon's bass humming accompanied a steady scrape and swish as he mucked out the stalls. A few birds twittered in the trees, hidden from view.
The scene appeared normal, yet her heart raced. As happened occasionally, she knew a momentous event loomed on the horizon, but did not know exactly what it might be.
She climbed the few steps to the kitchen door and pushed it open. The women's voices singing inside stopped as she entered.
"Miss Emily, what you doing here?" Jasmine wiped her hands on a soiled white towel before laying it on the thick wooden table in front of her. Her tan dress, sporting a small, neatly sewn patch of blue, hung to her ankles, where scarred black shoes peeked out from under her skirts. Emily sucked in a long breath. Elizabeth had discarded those earlier in the year because the soles had become too thin. Swallowing the threat of tears, Emily made a mental note to locate a better dress for her helper. Father would not want her appearing in the dining room wearing a rag. Elizabeth had taken care of the servants' clothing and welfare. Another role Emily had adopted in addition to mother to her nephew. Sadness weighed on her soul at the thought and she twisted the little gold band on her finger.
Bowls containing pecans and red apples, raw chicken cut up and ready for the stew, turnips and potatoes waiting to be prepared, covered the table in front of Jasmine.
"Somethin' the matter?"
Jasmine's sweet tenor interrupted Emily's perusal of the room.
"I'm not sure." Emily prayed for her heart to return to a normal rhythm.
She continued her quick survey of the room. Jasmine's daughter, Mary, attended the fire in the hearth that kept the kettle of stew simmering. A reddish-brown bean pot nestled in the ashes, its lid bumping up and down, allowing steam to escape. The heavenly aroma of bread baking made her mouth water. Tommy, his light tan baby dress bunched about his legs, sat in one corner inspecting a small potato, intent on exploring its dimples and curves.
Mary had transferred to town from Aunt Lucille's plantation, where the work was too difficult for her after birthing her own baby, a wee child who died after being attacked by a wild dog. Such a tragic end to an innocent life. With so many dangers threatening young children, many women did not name their offspring until their first birthday. Especially in the frontier wilds where life was harsher. Elizabeth, on the other hand, insisted on her son, Thomas Joshua Thomson, being named after her husband and father. Using Jedediah's middle name and her father's first name seemed fitting. Had she somehow foreseen her imminent death after delivering her little one into the world? A chill crawled across Emily's back as her attention returned to the women before her.
"How is Tommy this afternoon?" Emily picked an apple from the bowl and felt it while keeping her gaze on Mary. She was comely enough to have attracted men in the past, of all races. Her dead baby girl's light brown curls had revealed much of her previous situation.
"That one runs me ragged." Mary waved a wooden spoon toward the little fellow in the corner, a few drops of stew following its arc. "Always into something. Tommy started crawling this morning, and none too slowly neither. He'll be quite a handful once he's walkin'."
Mary had settled in well, much to Emily's relief, given the circumstances and her recent loss. Living in town afforded a very different situation from that of living on a plantation with its own self-sufficient community. She likely enjoyed the fact that no slave master would take advantage of her lowly position to bed her again, too.
Emily replaced the apple in the wooden bowl. "That will increase your task of keeping him safe, will it not?"
"Yes, miss." Jasmine laughed. "We'll need eyes in the back of our heads to know what he's into then."
"Sure as the sun sets." Shivering suddenly, Emily looked around the room, searching for the source of her consternation.
Through the open windows the trill of a distant bird competed with the sounds of bubbling from the pots, Mary's renewed humming, and Tommy's babble. Emily's heart fluttered and raced, her breathing constricted as the feeling of impending danger built inside her.
She and Elizabeth had learned to heed their instincts. This feeling presaged change. The first time this disturbing sense of danger happened, they had anticipated the horrific fire that destroyed half of the buildings in town, including the fledgling museum. Then again they knew when a hurricane would decimate the flax crop, making it impossible for them to make the material for the simplest clothing. This feeling presaged a danger. Whether large or small, something bad hovered in the air. Her hands chilled. She could not discern what hid over the horizon or how deadly it might be. Best to carry on with the business at hand. Try to remain calm.
"We'll be having dinner with friends this evening," Emily finally said.
"Yes, miss," Jasmine said. "Your father told us earlier."
Though the floor was scarred by boot heels and scorched by hot pots and pans, the boards appeared swept clean. Likewise the table in the center of the small space glowed from scrubbing. The kitchen exhibited a remarkable state of cleanliness given the circumstances. Emily fervently wished for the day when they no longer relied upon slaves. Mayhap she'd free her personal slaves in due course. She had no power to change what her uncle and father did with the slaves, but she eased their situation in every way possible. "Jasmine, perhaps you'd like one of Elizabeth's old gowns?"
"Yes, miss." Jasmine's deep brown eyes concealed her emotions.
"And Mary seems to be fitting right in." Emily looked at the robust young woman who watched her in return. Elizabeth would have known exactly how to help the girl feel at home, relax, enjoy being part of this extended family. Why did she always feel so inadequate to the situation? "
I don't know what I'd do without you to feed and care for Tommy, Mary. Thank you for that."
Mary simply nodded and smiled shyly at her.
Everyone in town knew the Sullivans took good care of their slaves. Some accused them of spoiling them, treating them too much like family to the point they didn't know their place. To her mind, this was the best way to make sure their slaves had no reason to resort to revolt and murder. She prayed someday people would be treated the same. After all, wasn't that what this blasted war was about? Independence and equality? Yet the slaves were essential to complete the never-ending work on the southern plantations and in towns. Sometimes Jasmine hired out to help elsewhere as well and earned a bit of her own spending money as a result. Normally, though, she kept busy helping Emily with the countless household chores.
The thud of Tommy's potato hitting the pine floor attracted Emily's attention. It rolled across the uneven surface, heading for the center of the room. Tommy cried out in protest of its defection, reaching out his tiny hands for it. Emily chuckled at his defiant expression as he rocked forward onto his hands and knees and wobbled after it.
"Mary's a good girl, miss." Jasmine smoothed her hands down the smeared apron protecting her dress as she glanced at the bowls on the table. "She'll do, with a bit more learning."
"I'm sure you'll teach her everything she needs to know," Emily said. "I've always trusted you to run the kitchen without much guidance."
"I try, miss." Jasmine beamed. "She can be a handful sometimes."
Laughing, Emily glanced at Mary. The young woman couldn't be more than fifteen years old but carried herself as though older and more experienced. "She has seen much in her short life. She could probably teach you a few things as well."
"Yes'm." Mary's teeth gleamed as she relented and admitted a smile to grace her lips.
Lord above, she was beautiful when she smiled. Her eyes lit up, and her ebony skin glowed. No wonder the men hounded her.
"Don't be thinking you can better me," Jasmine said, winking. "I've years on your scrawny hide." She moved to the table and picked up the large knife to continue preparing carrots, celery and potatoes for the stew.
"Men don't like their women plump." Mary folded a freshly laundered napkin and placed it on the stack of others on the table shoved against the far wall. "Too much of a good thing causes its own problems, you be knowing."
"You saying I'm fat, child?" Jasmine waggled her knife. "Wait 'til Miss Emily is out of here, and we'll see about that."
Mary shot a look at Emily, a hesitant grin lurking. "Miss Emily has what my man, bless his soul, used to call the perfect figure. She be honey to the flies."
"Captain Frank be one of them flies, if my eyes ain't deceiving me." Jasmine watched Emily, eyes dancing. She resumed slicing the carrot. "No problem from his side about sleeping in the next room from you, no how."
"I'll thank you to not spread unfounded rumors." Emily's face warmed. "My father invited him to stay with us."
"Mayhap he be in on it, too, then." Jasmine chuckled.
The crash of porcelain followed by Tommy's scream sent them whirling toward the fireplace. The child's mouth was wide open as he cried out his pain.
"No!" Emily started across the room, heart in her throat. How badly was he burned? She searched her memory for scraps of Samantha's conversations related to treating burns.
Jasmine reached the small boy first, his hand red from gripping the bean pot's handle. The little potato lay amid the broken pot and its steaming contents.
Mary grabbed the bucket of cold water from the table as she raced to Jasmine, who now held Tommy in her arms. Plopping his hand in the water, Mary murmured to the boy as she wiped the tracks of tears from his pudgy cheeks. Her low voice and the soothing water calmed his frantic wails. Fortunately, he was not badly burned. He'd have a sore hand for a time, but nothing more.
Surely her premonition heralded Tommy's accident and now she could relax. She let out a long breath, rolling her shoulders to ease their tension. Waited for her instincts to calm.
Unfortunately, the sense of dread remained.
Chapter 5
Later that evening Emily reluctantly accepted Frank's arm on the walk to the McAlesters' for dinner. Her father had urged them to go ahead, and he would join them after he took care of a business matter. Now her only choice meant walking with the one person she did not want to be alone with.
"You look lovely, as always." Frank performed a half bow. His free hand lay briefly on top of her fingers where they curled around his elbow.
She strolled beside him, not bothering to acknowledge the compliment. Or the wayward caress of his hand. He represented everything she needed to avoid in order to pursue her true desires. Encouraging his attentions did not factor into her plans.
What she truly wanted in life remained out of reach for her due to social propriety.
Mentally she counted her heart's desires refused her. She shouldn't open a shop. She shouldn't write for the broadside. She shouldn't be a spinster. She shouldn't dislike children. But hadn't the birthing of children been the cause of losing both her mother and sister? Although she'd tried to speak with her father, his business activities consumed his time, leaving her bereft of a moment when she could approach him with her intentions. Her thoughts swirled like cream whirlpools in her morning coffee while Frank chatted on, filling the silence.
Minutes later she roused from her musings as they mounted the steps to the McAlesters' brick home. She loved the adorable quaint cottage nestled among its array of plants and trees Mrs. McAlester chose for their medicinal uses. However, Samantha's reputation far surpassed her mother's as a healer. Indeed, Samantha knew more about delivering babies and healing illness or bandaging wounds than either of the two Dr. Cunninghams, young or old. Emily tried to smile when Samantha opened the door, but apparently failed.
"Are you alright? I'm so glad you made it safely, what with Frank's requisite escort." Samantha ushered them briskly inside and gathered their cloaks as they removed them. "Mother and Father are in the sitting room."
"Have they been away?" Emily followed Samantha down the hall and into the sitting room. "I've not seen them around town."
"Mother and I have spent some time over the last few days tending folks in the Neck." Samantha paused in the door. "The slaves out that way had a time lately with the change of the seasons and the cold snap that gave them the grip something bad."
"Samantha, darling, surely this is not appropriate before-dinner conversation." Cynthia McAlester regarded them from her place beside the fire. "Come in, all of you. Would you like some sherry? Aaron, darling, pour our guests a drink, will you?"
Mr. McAlester, dressed like the distinguished gentleman he was, tilted his head in acknowledgment of the request. He crossed from where he sipped his brandy by the mantel to the decanters arrayed on a sideboard.
"Emily, dear," Mrs. McAlester continued, "where is your father?"
Accepting the crystal glass of amber wine from Mr. McAlester, Emily sat down in the chair across from Samantha's mother. "He had business that could not wait until morning. He will be along shortly."
"Such a serious businessman." Mrs. McAlester shook her head on a sigh. "It's a shame he pays more attention to business than family."
"He's a loving father." The woman's tone raised her ire. Good manners prevented her from saying more regarding the implication of the woman's statement.
Frank stood beside Emily's chair, swirling his brandy gently in the glass he held in long fingers. His presence so close to her, his sleeve brushing hers with each movement of the glass, increased the tension within as though he tuned a violin. Her nerves hummed with awareness. The tang of the brandy combined with his manly scent. She searched for an excuse to put distance between them without making the movement obvious.
"His poor wife thought so, may she rest in peace," Mrs. McAlester said. "Or she wouldn't have given him six children, now would she?"
"Six?" Emily shi
fted away from the masculine heat invading her senses to clear her head. "You must be mistaken."
"Four boys and twin girls makes six," Mrs. McAlester replied. "Oh, that's right, my dear. You wouldn't remember the fourth boy. The poor thing died as an infant."
"I didn't know." She had another brother? Frank's fingers lightly gripped her elbow, silently offering her support, even as his touch combined with the revelation spun her senses.
"Many children die as infants." Frank lightly shrugged. "It happens, and life goes on."
"I suppose." Emily stood to shake the feeling of unreality surrounding her. So cavalierly stated, the loss of a life. She faced Samantha's mother even as she longed to leave. Fleeing solved nothing. "It is difficult to prevent illness and accidents."
Mrs. McAlester tossed her head and examined Emily. The mantel clock ticked four times before she spoke. "One would think his death would dissuade her from having more children."
"What do you mean?" Emily gripped her glass, finally relaxing her fingers so it wouldn't shatter.
"My dear, she hazarded having you and Elizabeth within a year of the little infant's burial."
Emily glanced at Frank, and he frowned at something he saw in her face. Taking several swift strides, he stood in front of her, searching her eyes. "I believe we should change the topic before my lady faints."
"I'll not faint," Emily declared in a whisper. She cleared her throat and struggled to clear her head from the cotton that seemed to be filling it. "This is all so surprising, 'tis all. But I'm fine. Honest."
"Are you sure you'll not collapse on me?" Frank took hold of one arm.
He'd like that, to rescue her, but she did not need his support. "Yes, so please release me." She indicated his hand cupping her elbow. Please, stop touching me.
His grip sent currents of desire through her, igniting her senses and making her heart thump within her chest. Reminding her of the heat of his lips upon her hand for one chaste yet sensuous kiss years before. Some secret, hidden part of her longed to experience the seductive heat again, but she squashed the desire. She must convince him to leave her alone. Her battered emotions needed respite.
