Daughters of the Heart

by Caryl McAdoo

  As the muggy Louisiana summer turned into a steamy fall, Braxton slowed his letter writing and gift giving considerably. But last night, the first semi-cool evening in all of October, his father reminded him over a nice gumbo of being tardy, that the next missive was overdue. Why did he have to keep such an eye on him?

  “Yes, Father, I’m working on one.”

  “What about another gift? Get her something expensive, a locket perhaps.”

  He shrugged then glanced at Sofia, hating the sadness in her eyes, but what could he do? She knew the conditions of her purchase and what his father expected of him. He’d also told her over and again that the Texas gal meant nothing to him.

  And explained every detail of the deal he’d agreed to in order to buy her, so she couldn’t complain, except she did.

  “Get her something special to make up for not writing.” The old man extracted his wallet from his breast pocket and handed over several bills.

  Braxton scooped them up without counting, a small consideration.

  Soon his father turned his attention to his week-old New York news, and nodded toward Braxton’s room. He got no joy from deceiving Gwendolyn, but didn’t see a way around another letter. Poor girl wasn’t even born when her father bested his.

  If the truth turned out more like the version Claude heard—God rest his sorry hide—that the first fight had been a draw up to the point when General Jackson stopped the bout.

  But loudmouth Buckmeyer claimed he’d won based on the rules they fought under. He’d knocked the great Bull Glover down in the last round, so that made him the winner.

  Nevermind, he toed the line and answered the bell for the next round.

  Again, according to Raines, who actually witnessed their latest encounter, if Levi Baylor hadn’t pulled Buckmeyer off, he would have killed dear old Dad. Wouldn’t have been such a bad thing.

  For sure, Braxton would never have gone to Texas and wouldn’t be penning nauseating love letters to a girl he had not one whit of interest in wedding.

  Sofia swept into his bedroom, her full skirt swaying with each step. “Here.” She handed over a tumbler half full of single malt Scotch.

  The one bright spot of living in his old room, his father’s hooch…and a lesser advantage, the old man’s cook—almost as good as Henry’s. Why couldn’t he have been born a Buckmeyer instead of a Glover?

  He took the offering, sipped a taste, then returned to his almost blank piece of paper.

  “Missy Gwen pretty?”

  “Not tonight, baby. I need to get this written which I cannot do with you on my mind. But yes, she’s a very pretty young woman, just like I’ve told you a thousand times. You, my love, are a thousand times more beautiful.”

  She kissed his neck and whispered into his ear. “She’ll hate me.”

  “No, she won’t. She’ll love you, just like I do.”

  “No, she’ll hate me every time you look my way.” She leaned back and batted her lashes. “And see your son running around, calling me Mam.”

  He jumped to his feet. “Oh, Sofia. A baby? Are you sure?”

  She smiled. “Maybe, maybe not. You want me to…” She grimaced.

  “No, my love. Never. Don’t even think about that.” He wrapped his arms around her and smiled. “A baby.” He held her tight and swayed, singing softly in her ear.

  Henry eyed the package sitting atop the stack of mail his friend placed on his desk. The three weeks without a letter from Hightower afforded a measure of false hope, but the scoundrel was at it again. He smiled at Jean Paul. “No papers? My New York Tribune is overdue.”

  “No, sir; I asked.”

  “Thanks. Anything new or interesting afoot?”

  “Mister Briggs has taken sick. Ran into Jake, in town fetching medicine.”

  “He say how bad?”

  “A cold that turned into a hacking cough. Doc’s been out twice already.”

  Henry hated to hear it. “Let’s remember to pray for him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That first cotton draft come in. I took it on to the bank.”

  “Good.” He eyed the neatly wrapped box. “If you see Gwen…”

  Jean Paul backed up a step. “Yes, sir, she and the other ladies are out back boiling laundry.”

  Of course, he knew that. “Leave her be, but see if May can join me.”

  His young friend smiled. “Yes, sir.” Then the ex-slave disappeared.

  Slowly, Henry unwrapped the package then extracted the jewelry box and letter. He ought to burn them both, but sooner or later, the toady would show up and asked about it, and stool him off. He flipped the box open. A gold locket. He pried the lid up, the man’s tiny image stared back at him.

  If only he could change things, go back to that day so many years ago and swallow his pride. Agree the fight had been a draw. But he’d so enjoyed needling Bull. Would they have charged him with murder if Levi had left him alone?

  Mercy, the man was trying to kill him. And now, he had sicced Hightower on Gwen. He studied on the locket. Not extravagant, but not cheap either. What had a picture that small cost him?

  “That for me?”

  “I wish. Hightower sent it.”

  “Oh.” May slipped into the wingback, holding her tummy. “Let me see the letter.”

  He handed it over then watched her read it. How was it possible that she had gotten even more beautiful?

  She held it up to the window. “Nothing nefarious, that I can tell.” She nodded toward the gift box. “Any notes in there?”

  He shrugged then handed that over, too.

  “I was hoping he’d had a falling out with Bull.”

  She nodded then placed them both back on the desk and sighed. “I was, too.”

  “Still think we should not tell her what we know?”

  She snickered then shook her head. “Ever wonder why it was Eve and not Adam who took the first bite?”

  “Word says she was deceived, but he knew what he was doing. That what you’re talking about?”

  “It says that? Where?”

  “One of Paul’s epistles, but what does that have to do with telling her?”

  “I’d like to know exactly where that is, but it just makes my point all the more. Forbidden fruit, especially of the male variety, is hard to resist, but if our letter to Mary Rachel puts the bug in Clay’s ear that he best write….”

  He mulled over his wife’s word. Made sense, but so did killing the young man next time he showed his lying face. Only took one no vote to hang a jury. “You’re right. If we tell her she can’t write him or receive his letters, the fop will only seem more attractive.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Oh, speaking of Clay, Jean Paul said old man Briggs is bad sick, a cold turned into a hacking cough.”

  Gwen loved the locket, and of course, she forgave him for not writing for three weeks running. The third time through reading her new letter, she realized its hidden message. For good measure, she waited until the house quieted.

  Even got under the covers herself, but instead of hunting sleep, she encouraged her mind’s eye to envision her walking the aisle toward Braxton.

  What a glorious day that would be! Mister and Mis’ess Hightower. Shame Claude passed from that horrible fever, or he would be the best man. Levi Baylor or Wallace Rusk could stand in for him, if Braxton didn’t want anyone else.

  Would Mary Rachel come back for the wedding and serve as her matron of honor? If not, she’d ask Rebecca.

  The first snore drifted upstairs. Gwen slipped out of bed, lit both lamps on her desk, then opened the locket. She hated prying his picture out, but if she’d gotten it right, that’s where his real message would be hidden.

  Her fingers trembled as she lifted the photograph with her pen knife, exactly like she figured, a tiny piece of paper.

  She got out her poetry book and matched the numbers on the miniscule slip to the pages of poems. Soon she had the first li
ne of his message.

  Come to New Orleans, my love. Your journey be blessed from above.

  Yes! She wanted nothing more! But how? Her father would never agree, not before the wedding. Would God approve?

  She went to work on the second line.

  I fear I’ve caught the fever, dear. How can I pass without you near?

  Oh no! Was he going to die? She had to go to him. He needed her! She ran to the door then stopped. What was she thinking? Her pigheaded father would never allow it. Not alone. What was she going to do?

  Chapter Eighteen

  That night, Gwendolyn paced and prayed and begged the Lord to soften her father’s heart. Just because he waited four years to talk to her mother, didn’t mean she could wait any longer for Braxton.

  She had to go to him. Take care of him. What if he died?

  The rooster crowing up the sun woke her. For a few heartbeats, she marveled at being fully dressed on top of the bed covers.

  But then like a dagger plunged into her chest, realization struck. She jumped up and ran downstairs. Positive of what had to be done.

  Her father sat in the kitchen sipping coffee and chatting with her stepmother and Chester while Miss Jewel stirred what smelled and looked like thickening gravy at the stove. So normal the scene, except it wasn’t.

  Nothing might ever be normal again—not for her. At eighteen, she was certainly old enough to decide for herself.

  Mary Rachel had done so a whole year younger.

  “Daddy, I need my money. I’m going to New Orleans.”

  He turned in his chair and faced her, his eyes harder than steel. “Why, pray tell, do you want to do that?”

  “Braxton’s sick. I couldn’t stand it if he died there alone, and I wasn’t with him.”

  May jumped to her feet and moved in front of her father. “Mister Hightower didn’t say one word about being ill. What makes you think that he is? What do you imagine is wrong with him?”

  “His thinks it’s the fever. If you’ve been reading my letters, too, then you know he’s been helping the Sisters take care of the orphans and widows. There’s so many poor children lost their parents to the fever. Husbands who died.”

  Her father stood and joined May. “Sweetheart, the man who came here, the man who has been writing you letters, doesn’t exist. We don’t know for sure who he is, but there’s no Braxton Hightower in all of New Orleans.”

  “What are you saying? Are you crazy?” His words made not one iota of sense. Of course Braxton existed. His smile flashed across her mind’s eye. “Why are saying that? You know he was here, you showed him around yourself. What do you mean he doesn’t exist?”

  “There is no Braxton Hightower, Gwendolyn.”

  She held out the locket he’d just sent. “How can you say that? Braxton just sent me this, and now he’s sick. He wants me to come, and I fully intend to, Daddy. Please give me my money, so I can go.”

  “There’s no way that I’ll allow you to travel to New Orleans alone. I’ll not give you a dime.” Her father shook his head. “Sweetheart, I’m convinced Bull Glover is behind this. Your Uncle Chester here is the first one figured it out. Jean Paul asked around when he took that first load of cotton to New Orleans.”

  It couldn’t be true! Bull Glover, her eye!

  Miss Jewel moved the skillet and wiped her hands on her apron, turning toward her. “That’s right, baby girl. Chester saw that letter to C. Raines.”

  “I am not a baby! And so what? Claude was Braxton’s friend. They were in business together! What’s that got to do with anything?” Gwen saw the hurt in the cook’s eyes. She’d never spoken to her in that tone.

  “Gwendolyn Belle!” Her father stepped forward.

  Chester stood and went to Jewel.

  “What?” She couldn’t hold back the tears.

  “You owe Miss Jewel an apology.”

  She sniffed and blinked back the tears. “Yes, Mammy, uh Miss Jewel, I’m sorry, it’s them not you, please forgive me.”

  “Of course, sweet Gwen.”

  She returned the old dear’s smile, then with a fire she’d never really let out burning through her, she faced her father. How dare him?

  “You’re being paranoid! Bull Glover? You’re just making that up. Everything isn’t about you, all high and mighty Henry Buckmeyer!”

  She looked from him to May then Chester. She hated them all! Sneaking behind her back.

  “Why, Daddy? Why do you hate me? Braxton is sick, and I need my money. It is mine, isn’t it?”

  “Baby, are you not hearing me? The man who came here is not Braxton Hightower. He’s a liar. I’m not sure exactly what game he’s playing, but please listen to me. It’s all a ruse.”

  It couldn’t be. He had to be wrong. “I’ll ask Levi and Rose for a loan.”

  Her father huffed. “They aren’t going to give you any money either. Not to chase after some con man. He lied to you, Gwen. He accepted our hospitality and lied to all of us.”

  Tears overflowed. She backed up a step. “Fine. If you’re not going to help me, then I’ll find someone who will.” She turned.

  “Wait, sweetheart. We’ll go with you. We’ll take you to New Orleans.”

  Mama May’s words stopped her cold. She turned and stared at her father. “Is that true? Will you?”

  He nodded. “Give us time to pack.”

  The tears stopped. She exhaled then wiped her cheeks. “Thank you, Daddy.”

  “Thank your mother.”

  “Yes, sir.” She went and hugged May’s neck. “Thank you, Mama.”

  With stage tickets in hand, Henry nodded toward the Donoho’s main dining room. “Get us a table. I want to check the mail.”

  Gwen fell in next to May, then stopped and turned around. She extracted an envelope from her clutch. “Daddy, will you post this for me?”

  He took it, noted the address named Clay Briggs in care of Mary Rachel Risen. It pleased him Jethro called his firstborn by both her names. And Risen—though not Buckmeyer—sounded fine.

  Didn’t hate it like he thought he would.

  Glancing over at his not-so-baby second born, he gave her a weak smile. Though never high on young Briggs, the boy towered over Hightower.

  Or whoever he was.

  Surely no joy in it, she returned his less than enthusiastic grin with what had to be an even weaker one. Of all things, he did not want to go to New Orleans. Not this day nor any other. But if his months’ worth of Tribunes had come in, they’d definitely make the miles go faster.

  Two blocks over and one up, he found himself in the newer sawed-board federal building.

  “My New York papers here?”

  The clerk nodded. “Yes, sir, came overnight.”

  “Good, anything else?”

  The man grimaced. “Mister Henry, sir…well…” He looked away.

  “What is it?”

  He pulled a fat oversized envelope from under his counter. “I should have checked her, sir.”

  “What is it, man? Spit it out.”

  He extended the packet. “Found this in old man Broomfield’s mail slot.”

  “Mercy, man, he’s been dead six weeks or more.”

  “I know. It weren’t until last night that I came across it. I’m sure sorry. Henry Broomfield, Henry Buckmeyer.” He shook his head. “I should’ve checked the girl’s work. It’ll never happen again, sir.”

  He took the offering bearing his name penned in Mary Rachel’s unmistakable flowing script. “No harm. News from a far land is always welcome.”

  “Thank you, sir. I was powerful concerned when I figured out the mistake and realized how long it’d been sitting there.”

  He waved the man off, tucked the envelope inside his bundle of Tribunes, then strolled back to the Donoho. He joined May and Gwen, and like the waiter had been waiting on him, the man began serving.

  Of course, she’d ordered him a steak. Halfway through, he set his fork down. “You ask them to pack us a basket? Something to go
with what Miss Jewel sent?”

  “Yes, sir. Just as we discussed. Did you think I’d forget?” May grinned, but her eyes and tone told him more than her words.

  Why did he ever doubt the woman’s abilities or attention to detail? Mercy, she wrote prized novels. Even Nathanial Hawthorne had begrudgingly elevated her work to a cut above the scribbling mob.

  His off-handed comment had irritated Henry, but May counted it grand praise coming from such a renowned writer.

  Once under way, Gwen allowed herself to relax a bit and snuggled into the far corner furthest from her daddy. Hardly able to believe it—that she was on her way—she closed her eyes. “Wake me when we get to Nacogdoches, please. I don’t want to miss the sights.”

  “We’re going to Jefferson.”

  She sat up. “But why? Isn’t that a full day longer?”

  “It’s November. Rain doesn’t bother steamers. You ever had to push a stage out of the mud?”

  “Oh, Daddy, don’t be silly.” He could be so irritating. She leaned back.

  At least he was taking her. She never considered that scenario. He could have called her bluff, let her walk out. She opened one eye, staring at him reading his paper, but then it hadn’t been him.

  Mama May was the one who stepped up and offered for them to take her. Catching her eye, Gwendolyn mouthed a ‘thank you so much.’

  A ‘you’re welcome’ came right back with her daddy none the wiser.

  “Oh. I forgot. This came a while back, and got put in Henry Broomfield’s slot by mistake.”

  “Didn’t he die?”

  “Indeed. Exactly why no one realized it before now.” He pulled a fat full-sized envelope from his folded newspapers beside him and held it up.

  Mama May grabbed it first. “Oh, glory! It’s from Mary Rachel.”

  Gwen scooted around the center isle and snuggled in tight next to her stepmother. Meticulously slow, she carefully tore the envelope’s side open then dumped the contents in her lap.

  Three loose pages fluttered out in Mary Rachel’s hand—Gwen would recognize it anywhere—and two regular-sized envelopes, one addressed to her, the other for Cecelia.