“What?”
“That ‘I’ll-just-say-whatever-I-think-she-wants-to-hear’ nonsense.” Something like hurt washed over her pale features, and suddenly Ruth saw the loneliness that mirrored her own heart.
Ruth crossed her arms. “And what you want me do? I is your slave. It’s what’s expected.”
Lydia stomped her foot like a child. “At least be real. I am tired of all these pretenses.”
“I don’t think you want real. Real can be ugly.”
Lydia straightened, and indifference painted her features into a smooth, though beautiful composure. Ruth felt a stab of regret.
“I can finish dressing myself. You may go help Lucy with the dusting. The windows also need washing, and the front hall rug will need to be beaten.” She turned away.
“Yes, ma’am,” Ruth whispered and left the room, wondering if she’d just turned her back on something important.
August 15, 1862
Lydia tapped her fingernails on the desk. Her flowing handwriting, practiced to the point of perfection, covered the pages of her diary. She’d written of the new peace that had settled in her chest since her night with Charles in the garden. She’d spoken of her growing love, and she had even made mention—in writing!—of last night’s passion. She’d be mortified if anyone ever found it.
A lady’s duty to her husband was just that. A duty. And yet, Lydia found something she could not understand awakening in her. It was not born out of fear of a man’s touch. Rather, the opposite. Her heart fluttered in his presence, and her blood warmed at his touch. She did not understand the yearning she felt for him to be near her, nothing separating them from being one in body and soul. It could not be a good thing. Would the preacher call it sin? Mother probably would.
And then there was Ruth. She’d thought they’d created a bond, something strange and yet real forged in the flames of shared pain. But perhaps she was being foolish. How could she expect anything different from their relationship?
If only she’d ever seen such honesty from any of her proper friends. But no. They were never open, never willing to show their true feelings. Lydia watched the flame dance on the tip of her candle. Something nagged at her. She was no different. She hid behind the cover of propriety. How could she expect real friendship from a woman she owned? Lydia shook her head. She should let it go. Be the lady they expected her to be. She stood and paced the floor. It was the right thing. The proper thing.
No.
Something more existed between her and Ruth. It would be up to her to take the first steps. Up to her to brave the disapproving looks she would surely receive. So be it.
She found Charles in his study with ledgers and books spread out in front of him. His hair fell across his forehead and tickled the top of his eyebrows. He looked up as she entered.
“Hello, darling. Forgive me for not being much company this evening.”
She smiled sweetly at him. “I do. I know there are many things that must occupy your mind. Is it something to do with the war?”
He sighed, leaning back in his leather chair. The clock on the wall began its hourly chime. Charles waited until all seven had sounded before speaking. “I’m afraid there is little that is not touched by this war. I’ve done my best to keep us as far removed from it as I can, but I fear I will not be able to forever.”
Fear slid into her heart. She’d never heard Charles speak with such weariness. Her chest constricted. She’d tried to ignore the war. How much longer would she be able to? She crossed the polished wood floors and rested her hand on her husband’s shoulder.
He reached up and patted it. “Do not fret over it. Ironwood is strong. We shall make it through this. Perhaps not unscathed, but I will do everything in my power to protect my home and its people.”
She leaned over and kissed the top of his head, not knowing if she had any words that could help him. He drew her down into his lap and buried his face in the crook of her neck. Lydia wrapped her arms tight around him and forced her fear aside. She did not know if she could bear it if he left. She’d only just found him.
He gave her a squeeze and gently lifted her. “I am afraid if I let you sit here much longer, I shall not finish what needs to be done.” His voice was husky and his pupils wide.
She brushed her hand over his jaw. Dare she? She leaned in and pressed her lips briefly against his. She drew back slightly, eyes still closed. “I should like for you to come to me when you finish.”
A low sound escaped his throat. “It might be very late.”
“You can take your rest in my room tonight.” She pulled away from him.
“I’ve asked before, but I shall again. It would please me for us to share a bedchamber as my parents did.”
She inclined her head. “I will think on it more and provide you an answer soon.”
His chest rose and fell with slow, deliberate breaths. “Then I shall see you later this evening when my work is done.” The side of his lips rose. “If I can concentrate on these numbers now.”
She pulled her lower lip between her teeth and dipped her chin. She had nearly passed through the door when she remembered her original reason for seeking him out.
“Oh, I nearly forgot. Charles, would it be acceptable for me to enter the maids’ quarters?”
He regarded her across the room. “For what purpose?”
She lifted her shoulders. “None, I suppose. I just wondered what it might be like to have female companionship outside of the normal dictation of duties.” Her heart thudded. Would he understand?
“When this war is over, I will have to see to it that you are allowed more visits with your peers.”
Of course. That would be expected. She dipped her chin and grasped the doorknob.
“But until then, I see no reason why you cannot speak with your maid in a less formal manner.” He smiled.
“I thank you, husband. You have an uncanny way of understanding me.”
“A man studies and seeks to understand that which he holds dearest.”
The heat rose in her face. She gave him her best smile and left him to his work.
Outside, the night offered a welcome breeze that belied the oppressive heat of a Mississippi summer. Lydia paused to admire the clear night and the stars sprinkled across the black canvas, painted by the hand of the original Artist. His creation never ceased to awe her. Peace settled on her, the soft scents of the garden and the contented sounds of the creatures of the dark settling the nervousness in her chest into quiet determination.
She walked to the kitchen down the short, cobbled sidewalk the help referred to as “the whistle walk”. Lydia gathered her skirts and teetered on the narrow staircase leading to the quarters above. The lingering heat from the kitchen seemed to pour through the outer wall. She put one hand on the red bricks to brace herself and gripped the railing with the other. It moved under her weight but held.
She’d have to remember to add that to her list.
At the top of the stairs, a soft light filtered between the planks of the door, carrying with it the sounds of conversation. Lydia lifted her hand to knock but hesitated. Perhaps things were the way they were for a reason. They may not want her in their private space, their only refuge from the demands of everyday life. Demands that she herself dealt out each morning from her precious list. She stood on the landing feeling a bit foolish.
Well, she would do what she had come to do. What could it hurt? She knocked firmly on the door.
It swung open an instant later, revealing Lucy with an amusing expression of shock.
“Good evening, Lucy.”
Lucy stared at Lydia with her mouth hanging open. Finding her composure, she snapped her jaw shut. “Do you need me, ma’am? I woulda come if you’da sent someone.” She glanced around behind Lydia. “Did you send someone and I just didn’t hear?”
Lydia suppressed her smile at Lucy’s complete lack of understanding of any reason her mistress could have for standing outside the door. Lucy meant w
ell. She was just too stiff.
“No, Lucy. I don’t need you for anything.”
She stared at her, clearly dumbfounded. Then she brightened. “Oh, then you must need Betsy. She just went to bed, but she probably ain’t undressed yet. Hold on, I’ll get her.”
“No, Lucy,” she said quickly. “That’s not why I’m here.” Lydia tugged at the folds in her skirt. “I came here to see Ruth.”
Disbelief tightened Lucy’s features. Her jaw worked.
“But I don’t want to bother you,” Lydia blurted. Wonderful. She was making a mess of this.
Lucy blinked repeatedly before finding her voice again. “Well, uh, she’s in her room in the back.”
She stared at Lydia and Lydia stared back, neither knowing what to do next.
“You can come on in if you want to.” Lucy opened the door, and Lydia walked into the small living space.
She’d never been in Negro private quarters before and found she was rather curious. The simple room boasted only a small, shabby couch and a rocking chair resting on a faded rug that had seen too many beatings. Lydia frowned. Ironwood could afford to give them something better. She would have to see to that.
“Do you want anythin’, ma’am? I can run down to the kitchen and fix you something.”
“No. I’m fine.”
Lucy looked as flustered as a mouse caught in a room full of cats. She didn’t know which way to turn. Lydia remained standing in the living room, unsure what she should do next.
“Oh. Ruth.” Lucy hurried across the small space and knocked on Ruth’s door. “Hey, you got a visitor.” She glanced back at Lydia, mischief in her features.
Odd. Lydia had never seen Lucy be playful. A small smile tugged at her mouth, her nervousness bubbling into a strange mix of humor and disbelief.
Lucy crossed her arms over her chest and waited.
Ruth opened the door and greeted Lydia with the same wide-eyed astonishment Lucy had. Ruth’s surprise quickly vanished, and she put her hand on her hip and pointed her finger. “Mista Harper know you’s up here in Negro quarters?”
Lucy looked horrified. Her hand flew to her mouth. She glanced at Lydia, perhaps wondering if she were going to dole out some kind of punishment for such disrespectful speech. Instead, Lydia felt a small measure of pride. At least now false pretenses had fallen away.
Lydia laughed. “Yes, actually. He does.”
Lucy gaped at her, and Lydia felt certain if her skin weren’t so dark it would be a shade of angry red. “Mr. Harper knows you comin’ up here at night?”
“Of course.”
Ruth just shook her head and then walked over and gave Lydia a hug. Surprised only for an instant, Lydia gave her friend a squeeze and looked at Lucy over Ruth’s shoulder.
Lucy’s hand flew to her brow. “Lord Almighty, what on earth is goin’ on here?”
“Oh, calm yourself, Lucy.” She stepped back, straightening her posture. “I told you. I just came by to see Ruth.”
Lucy put her hands on her hips, her death grip on propriety lost. “What for? You done seen her all day over at the house.”
“I came to visit.”
Lucy looked dumbfounded again.
Ruth just shook her head. “You know people’s going to talk. It probably ain’t a good idea for you to do such things. They already seen me riding in the buggy with you and wearing your clothes. What are they gonna to think if they see you coming up here?”
She was right, of course, but Lydia grew weary of it. War tore the country apart. Soon it would descend on Ironwood. If they lost all, what good would their system do them then? “Does it matter what they think?”
Both women stared at her. Lucy frowned. “Seems to me what other folk think is what makes the world turn ’round.”
So, her little quest had not only shown Lydia the real Ruth but apparently the real woman beneath the perfectly shined armor of Lucy as well. Lydia crossed her arms, mimicking the maid’s favored position of displeasure. “I don’t care what they think. But if you are uncomfortable with me here, then I will go back to the house.” She turned for the door.
Ruth caught her arm. “You mights not worry over it, but everyone else will. I don’t wanna see you get hurt.”
Lydia smiled. “Ruth, you are always looking out for everybody else. Don’t worry about me. Charles knows where I am. He also knows you and I are friends. He may not understand it, but he allows it. Perhaps things have to be the way they’ve always been if we are away from Ironwood, but here, things can be different.”
“I hope you is right. It’s a nice dream, anyway.”
Lucy sighed dramatically. “I’m goin’ to bed.” She stomped across to the other side of the room, slamming the door behind her.
Ruth clasped and unclasped her hands, the thing Lydia had begun to notice she did when she was thinking something but couldn’t say it.
“What is it?”
Ruth pressed her lips together.
“If you really don’t want me here, Ruth, I can go.”
“No, that ain’t it. I knows what you is trying to do. And you wantin’ to be friends with me despite everything, well….” Her eyes glistened with tears.
Something within her had changed. Lydia could feel it welling up from the place that had once been nothing more than a pit that swallowed any joy she’d found. No more. This night, things would change. Tonight she would allow someone past her walls.
“Ruth, don’t you know you are the best friend I have ever had? I’m not willing to give that up just because everyone else says it’s wrong. They are wrong. Not us.”
Ruth wiped her eyes and pulled Lydia’s arm. “Come on. There’s something I wanna to show you.”
Ruth tried to ignore the apprehension clawing at her insides. Miss Lydia had made a huge step, coming here. She’d thrown aside her place in the world to walk into Ruth’s. Of the two of them, Miss Lydia had more to lose by taking to Ruth than Ruth had by returning her attempts. What would the white folk think of it? But, since the only white folk at Ironwood were Mr. Harper and his wife, Ruth released her hold on her fear and swung open the door to her room.
Miss Lydia followed Ruth inside, her wide hoops swishing against the narrow doorframe. She paused, looking very out of place. Ruth had always thought her room a large space of luxury, but it suddenly felt shabby and unfit for the lady standing in it.
Miss Lydia studied Ruth’s furnishings with curiosity and a slight look of disgust. Ruth waited patiently for her to discover the reason she’d brought her in here. Ruth lifted the lamp high.
Miss Lydia gasped. “What is this?”
Ruth swallowed the caution begging notice. “My story.”
“You can write?”
“And read, some. I know we ain’t supposed to know how. But my grandma worked in the big house. She was really smart, and she picked it up durin’ the white kids’ lessons. She taught me. It came so easy. She even found an old story book one of the kids had thrown out and snuck it to me.”
“You wrote your story on the walls?”
Ruth dropped her eyes. She’d made a mistake. When would she ever learn? No misbegotten friendship changed the differences between them. How could this white lady ever understand? “I’m sorry. I just had to get it out.”
“Yet another thing we share,” Miss Lydia whispered, but Ruth was already talking.
“I’ll clean it off. I wasn’t thinking. I guess I thought no one would see it. I’m the only one that comes back here. I….”
She stopped. Miss Lydia looked amused and patted her hand. “Ruth, I don’t care that you wrote on the wall. I care that you shouldn’t have had to. I can get you paper and ink to write with.”
Ruth let out a slow breath. “I’d like that very much. I ain’t sure why I got to write. It’s just something in me. I got to get it out. There is peace in getting the story outside of me.” It sounded crazy. She couldn’t expect for anyone to understand the strange thing that happened. How somehow writing thos
e words was better than dreaming them.
Miss Lydia bobbed her curls as if they were talking about something as mundane as which dress she wanted for the day. “That’s because in your heart you are a writer. So am I.”
Ruth stilled. At what point would she stop being surprised at what this woman said? She sank down on the bed. “No. I ain’t. Maybe you could be if you really wanted to. But not me. It just ain’t meant to be.”
Lydia sat down stiffly next to her. Her gaze traveled across Ruth’s crude scratching. “What all is here?”
Ruth shrugged. “It starts the day of the fire. I just wrote down all the things that happened to me.”
They sat in silence for a while longer. Finally, Lydia said, “I have a book. My daddy gave it to me right before my wedding. I wrote about the day I saw you on the street.”
The crickets outside swelled in their intensity. Somewhere from the shadows, a lost member of their tribe called to them. Ruth felt a sudden sympathy for the creature.
“Seems kinda strange, us both doing it. Why you think that is?” Ruth asked.
“I guess because we need to tell the story. Even if no one sees it.”
Ruth shook her head. “No, I feel like there’s something more. I even feel like it’s something I is supposed to do. There’s a reason for it.”
“It’s strange to hear you speak that way. I thought the very same thing myself.”
Ruth smiled. “Then maybe we oughta start trying to figure what that reason is.”
“It seems there is little choice. Charles says we should look for the good that comes from the ashes of the bad. Ruth, I believe God had a plan all along.” Lydia patted her arm and rose from the bed. “It’s getting late. I should probably go.”
Ruth followed her to the door, opening it to the deepening night. “Thank you.”
Miss Lydia turned on the landing, the moonlight washing over her face. “For what?”
“For what you is trying to do. For seeing me as more than just property.”
Miss Lydia drew a long breath. “Thank you for seeing me for who I really am.”
Ruth smiled. “Good night, ma’am.”
The Whistle Walk: A Civil War Novel (Ironwood Plantation Family Saga Book 1) Page 16
