“Any time you need to talk, I’m here.”
“Thank you, Reverend. I’m sorry I—”
“Any time, Rosaleen.” She heard a smile creep into his voice. “Please call me Jacob. I much prefer it.”
“Thank you. . .Jacob.”
Long after the sound of his footsteps had faded away, she shifted on her mattress, sleep eluding her. She’d tried to ignore her attraction to the handsome young minister, but with each passing day, his grasp on her heart grew tighter.
Didn’t he know she was irretrievably beyond the realm of salvation? Reverend Wilfred Maguire had called her “irredeemable—the wicked by-blow of a harlot.” Surely, he—the minister of a huge church in Natchez, Mississippi—knew the scriptures better than a poor, young backwoods preacher.
If God rejects me, then I shall reject God!
Rosaleen squeezed her eyes shut tight against the tears oozing through her lashes. For all she knew, nothing but oblivion awaited her beyond this life. So she must make the best of it—find what happiness she could while she lived.
She patted the place in the mattress where she’d made a small slit and pushed in the calico pouch holding her three-week earnings. The reassuring clink of coins rubbing against one another lent a measure of hope to her heart.
When she’d earned enough money, she must make her way to Maestro Levitsky in New York and her dream of becoming a concert pianist.
Besides, she had no way of knowing for sure if Bill McGurty had survived the accident or gone down with the steamboat. Perhaps he was looking for her on the Kentucky side of the river—or he could be in Madison this very minute. A shudder wriggled through her.
Anyway, the last place he’d expect to find me would be in the company of churchgoing people.
Calmed by the thought, she reached into the slit in the mattress. Feeling through the prickly straw, she wrapped her fingers around the sack that held her hope.
Four
“That man o’ mine sure outdid hisself with this mess of squirrels.” Patsey beamed at the two large crocks filled with butchered squirrel parts covered in brine.
From the first day Jacob brought her to Opal Buchanan’s boardinghouse, Rosaleen had found a true friend in Patsey Chapman. In fact, Mrs. Buchanan’s pretty hired girl with skin the color of rich cocoa had welcomed her with open arms. About her own age, with an unquenchable, bubbly personality, Patsey had helped Rosaleen reclaim the joy of being young.
“I’ve never eaten squirrel.” Rosaleen lobbed a spoonful of lard into the hot cast-iron skillet on the stove, unsure of how she felt about the supper entrée.
“Then you’re in for a real treat. I growed up on squirrel down where I come from. It’s gener’ly my favorite. But right now”—she laughed as she patted the mound beneath her calico apron—“I cain’t even abide the smell of meat.”
“You’re not from here?”
“No.” A dusty white cloud rose as Patsey dumped a handful of squirrel into another crockery bowl filled with flour and seasoning. Her bright, dark eyes grew round, and her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “My mammy an’ me ’scaped from Williamsburg, Kentucky, and come up here on the Railroad a couple years ago.”
Rosaleen realized she wasn’t talking about any sort of conveyance that moved on rails. She’d heard whispers of the Underground Railroad in the month she’d been in Madison and suspected the town was a stop on escaped slaves’ routes north to Canada. She’d learned that the Georgetown district where Patsey and Andrew lived, just two blocks east of the boardinghouse, was the free black section of town. There, men like the barber, George de Baptiste, and the blacksmith, Elijah Anderson, were leaders in the work of the Underground. She also suspected that Mrs. Buchanan actively helped in the humanitarian effort.
“When we got here to the Georgetown district, Andrew was one of ’em helpin’ to find us places to stay and food to eat.” Her teeth flashed like pearls amid the grin stretching her rosy brown cheeks. “He was the finest-lookin’ man I ever did see.”
Rosaleen grinned. “Then it was love at first sight?”
“Was for me.” Patsey smiled. “And I reckon I’d have pined the rest of my life for him if I hadn’t took sick with a fever, keepin’ me and Mammy from movin’ on to the next station. We stayed a month with Andrew and his folks till my fever passed.”
“And you and Andrew fell in love?”
Patsey nodded, her smile quirking into a grin. “Andrew wouldn’t admit it, but I think he was feared o’ lovin’ me, knowin’ I’d be movin’ on.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.” Her brow creased, and Rosaleen could see she was remembering the emotional struggle. “Mammy begged me to go on with her up north to Indianapolis. Said this was way too close to the line.”
Rosaleen knew that along this stretch of the Ohio, the river itself was the line between slave and free country. Many whites here were more than willing to turn blacks over to their slaveholders for the bounty.
“But when Andrew got up the nerve and asked me to stay and jump the broom with him, I couldn’t say no.” Patsey’s face lit and her eyes sparkled with love. “Never been sorry. He’s as purty inside as out,” she said grinning. Handing Rosaleen the crock of floured squirrel, she shot her a curious glance. “Did you love your man?”
Unprepared for the question, Rosaleen allowed a long moment of silence while she busied herself positioning the sizzling meat in the skillet with extra care. “No.” She felt a pang of guilt at the whispered word.
The question had been one she’d shied away from for a long time. She glanced at Patsey’s face, still glowing at the mere mention of Andrew.
Rosaleen thought of the man thirteen years her senior to whom she’d been wed for six short weeks. Although he had been a kind and gentle husband, thoughts of Donovan Archer had never quickened her heart. Since her father’s death, the short time she’d spent with Donovan had been the one brief splash of contentment in her life. But in her heart she knew she’d never felt true love for him.
“You’re young. You got plenty of time.” The kind, almost pitying tone of Patsey’s voice caused Rosaleen to blink away tears.
Nodding, Rosaleen felt a stab of envy.
Patsey’s voice took on a teasing lilt. “I done seen the way Rev’rend Hale looks at you. His eyes goin’ all moon-calf-like. Done seen the way you look at him, too.” She danced around the little kitchen in an exaggerated sashay, holding out the sides of her calico skirt with dusty hands. “Jis a few winks and nods, and you’d have him askin’ you to jump the broom.”
“Patsey Chapman!” Heat that had nothing to do with the frying pan rushed to Rosaleen’s face. Had she been so transparent about her feelings for Jacob? Could Patsey be right about Jacob? It didn’t matter. Unlike Patsey, she couldn’t stay. “I have no designs on Reverend Hale, and I’m sure he has no interest in me that way either.”
Patsey gave an indelicate snort and laughed. “Well, you have it your way, but I jis know what I done seen, that’s all.” Then, with a low moan, she waved her hand at the gamy meat and sage-laced steam rising from the skillet. Holding her stomach with one hand, she pressed the other against her mouth. “Lord, help me! I cain’t abide another minute of that smell,” she mumbled through her hand. “I best peel these taters outside.” Snatching a wooden bowl full of potatoes from the table, she retreated toward the kitchen door.
Gazing through the open door, Rosaleen watched the young woman settle herself on a stool beneath an oak tree to pare the potatoes. She told herself that Patsey’s notion sprang simply from her romantic imagination, yet there was a part of her that hoped it hadn’t.
❧
“Mmm, squirrel.” Jacob inhaled deeply when Rosaleen brought the platter heaped with the golden brown pieces of meat to the supper table. “I’ve been looking forward to this since Andrew told me what luck he’d had hunting.”
Rosaleen’s heart quickened beneath Jacob’s lingering gaze.
“Smells
like you’ve done a wonderful job with them,” Jacob commented to her.
“And how do you know Patsey didn’t cook these?” His bright blue eyes fixed on hers drained the strength from her arms, and she hurried to set down the platter.
“Because Andrew told me he was afraid he might not get any as the smell of meat makes Patsey ill now.”
“Then I suppose I’m the one to blame if they are not cooked well,” Rosaleen said with a grin. She was finding it increasingly difficult to disavow Patsey’s claim.
“Squirrel! I haven’t had squirrel since—Well, I can’t remember when I last had squirrel.” Rosaleen gave an inward groan when Tobias Stilwell dropped his lanky frame onto a dining room chair.
A look of dismay replaced the smile on Jacob’s face.
Since his appearance two weeks ago, the cookstove salesman had not ingratiated himself to anyone at the boardinghouse. His habits rivaled the worst Rosaleen had seen during her years aboard the steamboats. Except at mealtime, he perpetually kept a wad of chewing tobacco in his jaw. He’d continually spit the foul-smelling brown juice in the general direction of the nearest spittoon, seemingly unconcerned whether he hit the mark. Worse, the looks he raked over Rosaleen gave her cold chills and caused her to lock her attic room door at night.
Good-hearted Opal Buchanan couldn’t seem to bring herself to send the unsavory character on his way, even though his promised payment for room and board had yet to materialize.
“Rosaleen, do you remember how many squirrels you fried up?” Jacob’s tone sounded benign, but Rosaleen caught a mischievous glint in his eyes.
She’d learned in the past month that Jacob Hale had a penchant for practical jokes. She remembered how Opal had laughed, recounting that she’d once made the mistake of teasing him about always being the preacher and never taking a day off. Later that day, she’d discovered all her candles missing from their holders. After searching the house over, she’d found them under a bushel basket turned upside down on the back porch. Opal told her Jacob later confessed to the prank, saying he was attempting to make a point about a verse in the Gospel of Matthew. Rosaleen couldn’t remember the scripture Opal quoted, but it had something to do with not hiding a light under a bushel basket but putting it on a candlestick so it would light the house.
“No, I never actually counted the squirrels,” Rosaleen answered Jacob, unsure of his intention but keen to play along.
“Andrew said he killed six squirrels, but that sure looks like more. Hmmm,” he said thoughtfully. “By the way, have you seen that tortoiseshell cat that’s been bedeviling Mrs. Buchanan? I heard her tell Andrew she wanted him to get rid of that thing one way or another.”
“Now that you mention it, I haven’t seen it at all today.” Rosaleen fought to keep a straight face, realizing what Jacob was up to. She’d learned that the one thing Opal Buchanan and Tobias Stilwell had in common was their mutual disdain for the feline species.
“One, two, three—” His face wearing a deadly serious expression, Jacob poked a fork at the golden brown pieces of fried squirrel.
Tobias had become very still. Rosaleen ventured a glance in his direction and was forced to press a napkin to her mouth. The salesman’s eyes began growing large, and his pinched features took on a greenish pallor all the way up to his balding pate.
“Andrew must have counted wrong, because I’m counting legs and back pieces for seven animals,” Jacob concluded.
Tobias Stilwell practically leaped from his chair, causing it to fall backward with a thud. “I–I’m not really hungry. I—I just remembered I have an appointment in Cincinnati day after tomorrow.” His hand shook as he righted the chair and mumbled, “Please give Mrs. Buchanan my regrets and tell her I’ll be sending my payment.”
“What’s gotten into him?” Opal Buchanan carried a plateful of cornbread into the dining room just in time to see Tobias race out.
“Suddenly remembered an important engagement,” Jacob told her with a poker face as good as any Rosaleen had ever witnessed. He gave a deep, soulful sigh. “Alas, I’m afraid we will no longer be enjoying Mr. Stilwell’s stellar company.”
“Thank the Lord! I’ve been praying for this for two solid weeks.” Opal sank to a chair, relief blooming on her face.
“Prayer works, Opal. All it takes is a little faith.” Jacob’s eyes lit as a sudden thought seemed to ignite behind them. He turned an impish grin toward Rosaleen. “I just decided on my theme for Sunday’s sermon. ‘Faith without works is dead.’ ”
Rosaleen allowed her gaze to meet Jacob’s, dancing with fun. As they shared a secret grin, she acknowledged the truth screaming from her heart.
How am I going to leave now that I know Patsey is right?
Five
“Rosaleen.”
Jacob’s quiet voice caused Rosaleen’s heart to thump. She turned toward the parlor doorway, her feather duster poised in midair.
She’d been careful not to enter the parlor until she felt sure he’d gone to the church building site. If she were to squelch her blossoming feelings for the preacher, Rosaleen knew she must avoid him whenever possible.
“I was wondering if you might like to accompany me to my sister’s home for a visit this afternoon.”
A small burst of panic flared inside her. How could she trust her heart to behave during an entire afternoon in Jacob’s company? “I—I have chores to do. Opal expects—”
“Opal’s already told me it would be fine.” His blue eyes twinkled into hers. “She says you’ve been cooped up in this house for the last month and need to get out more. I agree.”
Rosaleen had to admit it would be nice to get away from the boardinghouse for a while. Her self-imposed confinement here had ceased to feel as much like protection as incarceration. But she needed to stay detached from Madison—from Jacob. She must find some excuse. Any excuse.
She glanced down at the patched calico dress Patsey had loaned her. “I have nothing decent to wear for a social call.”
“And that is precisely the reason you need to visit Becky. She told me she’s found a few of her dresses from last summer that are a little too snug since the birth of my niece, Lucy. She’s sure they will fit you perfectly.”
Rosaleen stiffened. She didn’t like being considered a charity case. Worse, she did not want to feel beholden to Jacob’s sister. “From what I remember, your sister looked very trim. I’d think with a small alteration. . .”
Jacob’s grin suggested he had no plans to cede the argument. “My guess is Becky’s glad for an excuse to buy new dresses.” His smile softened with his tone. He took her hand in his. Rosaleen’s heart began racing at his touch.
“Rosaleen, Becky wants to help you. We all want to help you. We believe that helping others is the same as helping our Lord. Jesus tells us in Matthew 25:40, ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’ ”
The kind look in his eyes eroded her resolve.
“Please, Rosaleen, allow Becky to help you. Allow us all to help you.”
Rosaleen swallowed hard and blinked back tears. Kindness, charity, and generosity were qualities she’d rarely encountered. She returned to dusting the cherry table that no longer needed it. “I still have nothing fit to wear.”
“Mrs. Buchanan was able to salvage that purple frock you were wearing when I found you.” His gaze held hers in a tender embrace and her heart stood still. “Whatever you wear, you will look fetching.”
A half hour later, Rosaleen stood in Opal Buchanan’s bedchamber, the yards of purple silk rustling as she shook out the dress. Though water stained and with a bodice cut far too low to be proper for day wear, it was the best she had.
After donning the dress, Rosaleen stood before the dresser mirror, her heart aflutter. Opal had managed to brush away all visible remnants of river mud. Rosaleen had to admit, aside from its inappropriate style and damaged condition, the dress did flatter her coloring.
Three times she twi
sted her auburn locks into a figure-eight bun without complete satisfaction. Grimacing her dismay, she covered her unruly hair with the gray silk bonnet Opal had loaned her.
It’s only Jacob. I see him every day.
The silent admonitions did little to calm Rosaleen’s palpitating heart. What she saw in the cherrywood-framed mirror only added to her unease. The image of a saloon girl mocked her from the glass.
Soiled dove.
Rosaleen’s face burned with grief and shame. Not because I wanted it. Never, never. . .
She choked back a sob and felt the tentative grasp she’d had on her nerve slip.
During her time with Bill McGurty, the looks she’d gotten from respectable people had stung. Their furtive glances had seemed a mixture of disgust and morbid curiosity. Aboard the steamboats, mothers had nervously shooed their children past her while gentlemen openly ogled her when their wives were not looking.
It had brought back all the cruel taunts and snide comments she’d endured from upper-class girls at Mrs. Griswold’s Academy after they learned of her illegitimacy. Those hurtful jeers blended with Wilfred and Irene Maguire’s disparaging description of her as “the filthy little spawn of a harlot.”
Rosaleen drew a deep breath and, with trembling hands, wrapped Opal’s black lace shawl around her shoulders left bare by the dress’s revealing bodice. Her heart pounding, she headed down the stairs.
“You look lovely.” At the bottom step, Jacob greeted her with a deep bow, a bell-crowned white beaver hat in his hand. He looked every inch a gentleman in his maroon claw-hammer coat over a buff waistcoat, satin neckerchief, and close-fitting black trousers. Yet the eager anticipation sparkling in his blue eyes lent an irresistible boyish charm to his features. Even the thin scar running parallel to his left cheekbone added to, rather than detracted from, his good looks.
As they strolled along the boardwalk edging Main-Cross Street, Rosaleen’s gaze took in the beauty of the little river town. Graceful oaks, sycamores, and maples lined the street, shading its broad expanse of smooth gravel.
Sweet Forever Page 3
