To Whisper Her Name

by Tamera Alexander

  “Well, I’m glad you like the room.” Elizabeth patted her arm. “It’s always been a favorite of mine for the view alone.”

  “I love the porch too.” Olivia glanced up as they passed beneath it. “I sat out there last night with a blanket and rocked while I listened to the rain.”

  “Are you having trouble sleeping, my dear?”

  “Mmm, only a little. The rain worked like a tonic.”

  “That’s good.” Elizabeth smiled. “It does the same for me.”

  Worked like a tonic was stretching the truth, Olivia knew, because she’d lain awake each night, waiting for sleep to come. But she didn’t want to sound ungrateful. After all, she had a safe place to live and her needs provided for. She’d come to Belle Meade with the hope of finding a fresh start, a haven. And, in a sense, she’d gotten that.

  Just not in the way she’d expected.

  As they rounded the side of the house, she glimpsed the old Harding cabin and saw a Negro man coming out the door. “Does he live there now?” she asked, gesturing, noting that the man walked with a slight limp.

  Elizabeth looked back and smiled. “Oh, yes, that’s Uncle Bob. He’s been here at Belle Meade forever it seems. Long before I came. He’s the head hostler and — according to my husband — has a way with horses like no man he’s ever seen.”

  Olivia watched him from the corner of her eye. Something about the man inspired trust. Perhaps it was the way he carried himself, with humility yet pride, in the best sense of the word. Or maybe it was the manner in which he surveyed the estate with obvious appreciation, as if drinking in the views. But to have to work around horses all day …

  Olivia inwardly shuddered.

  “Now, back there” — Elizabeth motioned — “is the smokehouse, which smells so delicious after the hog killing each December. Though I’m certain the hogs would disagree.” She giggled. “Then there’s the blacksmith shop. Over here, back toward the front, is the dairy. Beyond it are the servants’ and workmen’s cabins. And of course the paddocks out front where the mares are trained — oh, perhaps we can go to the stables after our walk and see the foals! I love watching them play.”

  As wonderful as it was to see Elizabeth so exuberant, Olivia recalled the wounded mare that nearly took a bite of her face, and she quickly decided a visit to the stables wasn’t high on her list. So she nodded, then pointed. “What’s that over there?”

  Elizabeth looked. “That’s the greenhouse. I’d love to show it to you!”

  For the next half hour, Olivia drank in every imaginable color on nature’s palette, along with every heady scent. Elizabeth knew every flower and greening shrub by name, and nearly all of them, it seemed, were in bloom.

  “Most of these” — Elizabeth indicated a table laden with flowers and herbs — “came from Carnton, my childhood home. My mother, God rest her soul, planted her garden with the help of her friend, Rachel Jackson.”

  Olivia felt her brow furrow. “The Rachel Jackson?” she whispered. “The first lady?”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Rachel and my mother were friends. Rachel was kind enough to furnish my mother with slips and seedlings from her own garden at the Hermitage. So these plants are all very special to me.”

  “As well they should be.” Olivia had known that Elizabeth’s father, Randall McGavock, had once been mayor of Nashville. So it shouldn’t have surprised her to discover Elizabeth’s family had been closely acquainted with that of the late President Andrew Jackson. Still, it served as a reminder of the caliber of people who had opened their home to her.

  Yards of roses, clematis, coral honeysuckle, and fragrant jasmine covered the length of a white paling fence separating the back of the house from the garden. Elizabeth took snippets of flowering vines and rose blossoms and laid them in her basket. A gravel walkway that divided the long beds nesting both vegetables and flowers extended from the smokehouse all the way to what appeared to be a cave nestled in the side of the hill.

  “Our gardener, Mr. Hunsaker, lives there.”

  Olivia turned to see Elizabeth pointing to a quaint little house that seemed precisely what a gardener would call home.

  “The general brought Mr. Hunsaker all the way from Switzerland. He’s likely out in the orchard today.” They walked together, arm in arm, on around the house. “One day soon, I promise to show you the cashmere goats and the deer park, which are located just past the yards housing the beef and dairy cattle. Selene will insist you see the Shetland ponies as well. And perhaps we’ll catch sight of a buffalo while we’re out. Though we won’t dare venture a closer look as one of them nearly —” Elizabeth inhaled sharply. “Is that the carriage you were in on your way here?”

  Olivia trailed her gaze and saw the conveyance — or what was left of it — sitting abandoned beside one of the stables. “Yes, ma’am, it is,” she answered, finding it sobering to view the damage from this perspective — also finding it odd that seeing the carriage again would make her think of him.

  Mr. Ridley Adam Cooper.

  Where was he now and what was he doing? Remembering something he’d said — I may not get what I’ve come for — she felt a little sad to know whatever his purpose in traveling to Belle Meade had been, he’d left empty-handed.

  “Oh, Livvy.” Elizabeth shook her head. “The general told me the accident involved a broken wheel, but I never dreamed it was so serious. How frightening that must have been for you.” Elizabeth looked back at her. “And yet you haven’t said a word about it.”

  Without wanting to, Olivia recalled what it felt like to be falling toward that open door, the ground rushing up to meet her. She relayed the experience to Elizabeth, watching her eyes go wide. Olivia’s own eyes watered at the memory. “It was frightening.” She gave a breathy laugh. “I have no idea, Aunt Elizabeth, how I didn’t fall out.” Even now, she shuddered to think what might have happened to her if she had.

  “Oh, my dear.” Elizabeth covered Olivia’s hands with her own. “I have to believe that God somehow closed that door for you. And that he kept you safe for a reason.”

  Olivia nodded, though not fully convinced. Because why would God choose to close that door to keep her safe, yet allow her to live with a man who — for five long years — had treated her with such disregard and lack of feeling? None of which she’d shared in letters to Aunt Elizabeth. Though she’d sometimes wondered from Elizabeth’s responses if she’d managed to read between the lines.

  “Livvy.”

  Olivia refocused.

  Elizabeth’s eyes glistened. “Your mother was my dearest friend in all the world. And while I would never seek to take her place in your life, I do hope you’ll confide in me, if you need to. Because … I have a feeling that there’s much you need to share. And I’ll have you know I’m a very good listener.”

  The sincerity — and safety — in Elizabeth’s voice coaxed Olivia’s guard down and emotion tightened her throat. “I’m so grateful you invited me here,” she whispered, barely able to force out the words. “I had nowhere to go. No one … No one has spoken to me in town since … the incident. And all of our friends” — her voice caught — “or what few we had … blame me too. But Aunt Elizabeth, I didn’t know. I promise, I didn’t. I knew he wasn’t a good man, but I didn’t know the extent of what he was doing. If I had —”

  “If you had, Olivia, what would you have done? Turned your own husband in to the authorities? Who most likely, with this current government, would have simply slapped his wrists and sent him back home? To you? Just imagine what he might have done then, being the kind of man he was.” A shadow eclipsed Elizabeth’s features.

  Olivia knew she should say something. Right then. She’d wondered how to tell Elizabeth the truth about her and Charles’s relationship — or lack thereof — and how cruel he had been at times. Not only when delivering a well-placed slap across her cheek or gripping her arm so tightly it left a mark, but the emotional hitting he’d done. The marks on her cheek had faded, as had the bruise
s on her arms. But the things he’d said — as well as all the things he hadn’t — had left a far deeper wound. And now was the moment for her to tell Elizabeth. To say it out loud. And yet … the words wouldn’t come.

  “It’s not commonly spoken of, Livvy.” Elizabeth lowered her gaze. “At least not in our circle. But I know for a fact there are husbands — even among the higher stations in life — who often resort to … violence. It’s disgraceful.” She shook her head. “Both for the men and women. And it would pain me beyond words to think of that ever having happened to you.” Elizabeth took hold of her hands. “So don’t for one moment blame yourself for not turning him in to the authorities. Not for a minute! Promise me that. All right, my dear?”

  Seeing the urgency in Elizabeth’s expression, hearing the taint in her tone at the mere mention of the subject, Olivia could only nod. “I promise,” she whispered, swallowing back the truth, as she’d done a hundred times before, not wanting to say anything that would bring Elizabeth pain or further disgrace herself in this dear woman’s eyes.

  Elizabeth smiled and held out her arm. “Walk with me?”

  Olivia slipped her hand through. Gravel crunched beneath their boots as they strolled the garden path. Elizabeth continued to provide colorful and interesting commentary about Belle Meade, but Olivia could only half listen. Two questions kept weaving their way in and out of her train of thought. How was it she could feel such shame over something she hadn’t done herself, but that had been done to her? Never had she considered herself deserving of Charles’s outbursts of anger. Only unable to escape them. And the second question — one that haunted her almost as much as the first: would she ever be rid of this heaviness within? She prayed she would. It only seemed fair, considering. But based on personal experience, she’d learned that God didn’t always answer prayers in a way that seemed fair.

  “… and that, my sweet Livvy, is a brief tour of Belle Meade.”

  Olivia exhaled, returning fully to the moment. “I must admit, Aunt Elizabeth, I had no idea the extent of businesses the general was involved with here. I thought Belle Meade mainly consisted of the horse farm.”

  “That’s what we’re known for.” Elizabeth took a deep breath, seeming to relish being outdoors. “But my husband is quite an enterprising man, if I may boast on his behalf.”

  Olivia nodded, then paused. “What is that?” She pointed to a post sticking up from the ground, a glass jar mounted on one side.

  Elizabeth chuckled. “It’s a contraption the general designed years ago to measure rainfall. He says he grew tired of farm hands returning from the fields saying the ground was too wet to plow. So …” She touched the side of the glazier’s jar. “He had the servants construct this. And when it rains, he checks it and knows.”

  Olivia nodded. “Clever.”

  “That’s my husband.”

  They both laughed.

  “Oh, Livvy, look!”

  Olivia lifted her gaze. Two foals, one a reddish brown, the other black and white, chased each other around the paddock, kicking their spindly back legs as if trying them on for size. Beyond them in the meadow were two mares keeping watch, each identical in color to one of the foals. Their mothers, Olivia presumed. The foals raced round and round, stopping only briefly to prance and stomp and survey the meadow as if they were rulers in a kingdom.

  And despite her dislike of the animals, Olivia smiled. Until the black and white foal leaned over and nipped his friend on the neck. She exhaled. “He’s biting the reddish one!”

  Elizabeth laughed. “They’re only playing.” She leaned close. “And a horse that color isn’t called reddish, dear. It’s called chestnut.”

  “Chestnut,” Olivia repeated, tucking it away in her memory.

  “Oh my …”

  “What?” Olivia asked, watching the chestnut foal nip the other one back. Good for you …

  “Livvy —”

  Olivia turned in time to see Elizabeth’s eyes close and managed to grab hold of her just as she sank to the ground. Olivia went down with her. “Aunt Elizabeth! Are you all right?”

  “I can’t … breathe,” Elizabeth whispered, fingering her collar.

  Olivia unfastened the top two buttons of Elizabeth’s shirtwaist, not liking the paleness of her complexion. “We need to get you back to the house.” She tried to coax Elizabeth into standing but failed. She looked around for a servant. Not a one in sight.

  Elizabeth went limp in her arms.

  “Aunt Elizabeth?” Olivia patted her aunt’s cheeks. “Stay with me!”

  No response.

  Panicking, she screamed for help. But no one came. Her heart sank. She screamed again. “Somebody help me!”

  After what seemed like an eternity, a man came running from the stable. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know.” She fanned Elizabeth’s face, watching for any sign of her coming to. “We were just standing here, talking, and then …” Olivia looked up, and when she saw the man’s face, all the words in her head seemed to muddle at the back of her throat.

  But when she glimpsed the rider on the black stallion cresting the hill, remarkably, her speech returned. “Please!” she begged him. “Help me get Mrs. Harding inside the house! Quickly!”

  Chapter

  THIRTEEN

  As Ridley Cooper lifted Elizabeth into his arms, Olivia ran ahead, working to wrap her mind around seeing him again. And here. At Belle Meade. She’d thought him long gone. Never slowing, she lifted her skirts and raced up the front steps to open the door, then looked back to find Mr. Cooper close behind her — and the general’s stallion flying down the hill.

  Olivia pointed. “Upstairs, please. To her bedroom.” Calling for Susanna, she led Mr. Cooper up the winding cantilevered staircase, moving as quickly as she could, Mr. Cooper staying right on her heels. Winded, she turned left down a short hall. “This way. Through here.”

  Taking care, he maneuvered through the doorway and gently laid Elizabeth on the bed. Her head fell limp to one side. Olivia pushed the servants’ call button on the wall and poured fresh water from the pitcher into the basin, then doused a cloth. Wringing it out, she turned back only to find Mr. Cooper with his finger pressed to Elizabeth’s neck.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Checking her pulse.”

  “You’re a doctor?” She came alongside him, hearing both the disbelief in her own voice and his sharp exhale.

  “Not hardly, ma’am.” He glanced up, a shade of humor in his eyes. “But a man I knew during the war was. He taught me a few things while we were in” — he stopped and focused back on Elizabeth — “while we served together. Her pulse seems fine.” He leaned down. “So does her breathing.”

  Olivia laid the cloth across Elizabeth’s forehead and eased down onto the bed. “I don’t know what happened. She was fine one minute. Then the next, she said she couldn’t breathe.”

  “Best I can tell, ma’am, she just fainted. Could’ve been the heat, or maybe too much sun. Give her a minute. She’ll come around.”

  Hoping he was right, Olivia grabbed a magazine from the bedside table and fanned Elizabeth’s face for a moment, then leaned down. “Aunt Elizabeth,” she whispered, taking the cloth from her forehead and pressing the cool against her cheek. “If you can hear me, please wake up.”

  Not a twinge.

  Olivia’s heart dropped. This was her fault. Their “brief walk” had turned out to be much longer than she’d planned, and apparently Elizabeth’s health was far more fragile than she’d thought. What if the doctors were right?

  Even thinking that what General Harding had told her might be true threatened to peel back another precious layer of hope.

  Mr. Cooper shifted his weight beside her, and Olivia lifted her head.

  “Thank you, Mr. Cooper, for coming to our aid. I very much appreciate your help.”

  His smile stayed mostly hidden behind that unruly growth of beard, but an unmistakable kindness moved into his ey
es. “You’re most welcome, Mrs. Aberdeen.”

  Looking at him, so many thoughts came to mind. Seeing the way he looked at her now — fully in the eyes, like they knew each other well instead of being near strangers — revealed a lack in decorum and gentility in his breeding, a forwardness that did more than flirt with the boundaries of propriety. Her face grew overly warm.

  “Livvy?”

  Olivia turned back, feeling a trickle of relief at hearing the voice and at being released from his gaze. “Aunt Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes fluttered open. “What happened?”

  “Apparently you fainted.” Olivia took hold of her hand. “And it’s my fault. I’m sorry. I let you walk too far.”

  “Oh no, dear.” Elizabeth took a breath, shaking her head. “It’s no fault of yours. I’m sorry to be such a bother.”

  Steps sounded on the staircase — too light to be the general’s — and seconds later Susanna rounded the corner, tea service in hand. “Gracious!” She stopped short at the foot of the bed. “What’s goin’ on in here? I thought y’all was just ringin’ for tea, ma’am.”

  Olivia rose from the bedside. “Mrs. Harding and I went out for a walk, Susanna, and …” She briefly bowed her head. “I’m so sorry. I must have tired her out because she fainted dead away.”

  Susanna plunked the tea service down on a side table, and Olivia jumped, keenly aware of Ridley Cooper’s quiet attention. She’d only had brief interactions with Belle Meade’s head cook, but she had an inkling that, once riled, this little woman could be formidable.

  Hands on hips, Susanna shook her head, looking between Olivia and Elizabeth. “How many times am I gonna have to say this? No … more … faintin’, Missus Harding!”

  Mrs. Harding? Realizing Elizabeth was the target of Susanna’s wrath and not her, Olivia let out a breath. She glanced at Ridley Cooper, then looked between the two women. “Are you saying she’s done this before?”