by Mysti Parker
“Guess I’d better show you around,” she said then turned on her heel and walked into the room from which she had emerged.
Portia glanced at Isaac. He shook his head like he wasn’t surprised with his wife’s attitude and gestured for her to follow Bessie. So Portia hurried after her.
“This here’s the parlor,” Bessie narrated and headed through another door from that room. Portia noted a few pieces of nice furniture that looked good for lounging on a Sunday afternoon.
“And this is the dining room.” Bessie circumnavigated a long oak table that could seat at least ten or twelve people. She stopped at a swinging door on the other side of the table, pushed it open, and held it there. “Kitchen’s in here. Watch your step.”
Portia gritted her teeth, walked past Bessie, and stepped down into a spacious kitchen. Bricks lined the floor and walls. She sucked in a breath, scanning the space in amazement.
Bessie stepped down into the room and let the door swing shut behind her. “This used to be separate from the house, but Mrs. Stanford didn’t like that. So, Beau had it expanded and attached to the main house. Had those big windows put in, too.”
The whole room must have been as big as Portia’s kitchen and front room combined. But it felt lighter and airier than the previous rooms. Tall windows and an open back door let in fresh air and the midday light. A big worktable topped with a thick oak slab took center stage. And… was that a water pump over the basin? She walked over to it and touched the cool metal handle just to be sure it was real.
“Ain’t you seen a water pump before?” Bessie asked.
“Yes,” Portia said, circling around to take in the rest of the space. “Just not inside.”
In the corner near the back door sat a smaller dining table with a centerpiece of pink phlox. The petite blooms and needle-shaped foliage draped over the sides of a small jar and skimmed the table’s surface.
“You came just in time for supper. We’re having beef stew.” Bessie walked around to the other side of the work table. A big pot sat on top of the stove. The aroma of beef and potatoes mingled with that of cornbread and fried chicken.
“What can I do to help?” Portia asked, rolling up her sleeves.
“It’s all been done. I’m sure you’ll want to wash up and change. We’ll put you to work soon enough.”
She watched the older woman’s dark hands as she covered a towel-lined basket of chicken and biscuits, which must have been lunch. Why would Bessie be so cold to her? She and Jake had never owned any slaves. She remembered many nights when Jake had dragged himself in from the fields, covered in dirt, sweat, and blisters.
“A man’s not a man if he can’t work for his own keep,” he’d say when she fussed over him.
Portia thought perhaps she should try harder, engage in more casual chit-chat. “Do you use sweet marjoram in your fried chicken?”
Bessie looked at her quizzically, eyes narrowed into slits.
A blush crept over Portia’s cheeks. “That’s my secret, anyway.”
“My recipe’s fine like it is.” She got bowls from a shelf beneath the work table then stood up straight and nodded toward the door. “Here’s your student.”
Portia turned to see Isaac there with a young boy. He stared at her with sheepish eyes adorned with long lashes. His hair was the color of an old penny mixed with streaks of corn silk and so straight the ends flipped out over his ears and brow.
Isaac patted the boy on the back and gestured toward Portia. “Mrs. McAllister, this is Jonathan, Mr. Stanford’s son. Jonathan, this here’s Portia McAllister. She’ll be takin’ over your lessons.”
“Hello, Jonathan.” She stepped forward, bending slightly to meet him at eye-level. “I’m glad to meet you.”
He tucked his hands behind his back and took a sudden interest in his feet.
“I know I’m a stranger,” she said, reverting to her teacher’s attitude, “but it’s good manners to greet your guests and look them in the eye when they address you.”
“My son is mute.” The sudden, deep voice behind Jonathan startled Portia so much she nearly jumped from her skin.
Almost afraid to look, she composed herself and lifted her eyes to see a tall man looming over the boy. His steely eyes locked on hers as he removed his hat. He had thick, dark hair, bordering on black, like the Morgans that pulled the carriage in which she had arrived. A stubbly beard shadowed his jaw. She couldn’t tell by his frown whether he was simply stern or just plumb angry, but she had the sudden urge to retreat under the weight of his stare.
“Your… son is mute?” She cringed inside — that imposing man was her employer? And why hadn’t the letter mentioned the child was mute? None of this had turned out the way she had imagined it.
“Shake the lady’s hand,” Mr. Stanford ordered.
Jonathan stretched a trembling hand toward her. Portia shook it once gently, and attempted a reassuring smile, though the boy never took his eyes off his boots.
“Mrs. McAllister, this here’s Mr. Stanford,” Isaac said. Though his softened voice and demeanor suggested a reverence for her new employer, Portia detected a warm familiarity, like a father might have for a son.
“Mr. Stanford.” Determined to show some grit and civility in the face of this foreboding man, she forced herself to look him in the eye. “I wasn’t aware of your son’s condition. I hope you’ll forgive my ignorance, and I thank you for this opportunity.”
He finally unfastened his glare and turned his back on her. “I hope you will be comfortable here,” he said briskly and walked away.
Despite her brave façade, Portia’s hands trembled. Heat crawled up her neck, burning a path to her cheeks. She looked to Isaac for reassurance.
He stepped closer and spoke softly. “Never you mind Beau. He’s got a lot on his shoulders tryin’ to get this farm back to what it used to be. He’s out early and back late. You won’t be seeing much of him. Come on now. I’ll show ya to your room.”
Portia followed Isaac and Jonathan back through the dining room, into the entry hall, and up the stairs. A few pictures of various sizes ascended the wall as she climbed. Most were small cartes-de-visite of people who shared a resemblance to the family. Several horses were featured in oil paintings both with and without riders. One studio portrait in particular made her pause. At the left stood a dark-haired man she identified as Mr. Stanford. A blond woman in a silk dress sat on a wingback chair, holding a baby on her lap. Nice as the picture was, something else caught Portia’s attention — Mr. Stanford’s smile. Besides his hair and stature, the man in the picture didn’t match the one she met today. Even in the dull sepia tones of the photograph, his smile lit up the scene.
Quickly glancing over her shoulder as though she had intruded on an intimate secret, she scanned the empty foyer. Mr. Stanford was nowhere to be seen. Good. She hoped to at least get settled in and rested before she came across him again. He wouldn’t want to keep a skittish teacher on the payroll.
When they reached the landing, Jonathan sped off to a room just ahead and disappeared behind the door. Considering its placement, she figured it must be the room from which he had watched her arrival. A wide hall stretched along the length of the house. Like downstairs, a dark rectangle shaded the floorboards of the landing as though a large rug had once been there.
Isaac headed right, so she followed. A few narrow rugs had apparently survived the great purging and padded the floor under her feet.
Stopping at the first room to the right, Isaac opened the door and carried her bag inside. “Here’s your room, Mrs. McAllister. I’ll bring your chest up shortly.”
“Thank you.” She lingered in the hallway, uncertain what to say next.
He lit a lamp for her and left it on the dresser. Then he came back out, hands tucked in his pockets. In a hushed tone, he said, “I wanna apologize for Bessie. She’s not one to warm to new folk easy, especially since Mrs. Stanford passed. She took it real hard. Claire was like a daughter to her… and
me. I hope you understand. She’s a good woman, and she’ll come around.”
Portia nodded, hoping Isaac’s prediction would be right. “What about Jonathan? Has he always been mute? Is he deaf as well?”
Isaac shook his head. “Oh, no. He hears just fine. He used to talk a blue streak until Beau came home after Claire died and half lost his mind. Said some awful things to Jonny and all of us. Didn’t mean none of it. He was just grievin’, you see. But Jonny went quiet after that.”
Portia touched her locket. “That’s… terrible. Poor Jonathan.”
“I bet you’ll get him talkin’ again. It’ll just take some time. I’ll leave ya to get cleaned up for supper. If ya need anything, give a holler.” He headed down the stairs.
Portia entered the room. A dark cherry four-poster took up most of the right side and a matching dresser stood on the opposite wall to her left. Lace curtains on the tall window billowed in the breeze and let in the afternoon sun, which danced on the floor in pretty patterns of golden light. Under the window sat a small rectangular table adorned with a diamond-shaped crocheted doily. Like the table in the kitchen, a small jar of flowers made a pretty springtime centerpiece — snowdrops this time with delicate white blooms — some unopened like white teardrops and others like silky fingers reaching for something below.
Portia pulled back the curtain and peered onto the front lawn below. There was still enough daylight to see Mr. Stanford standing under a giant oak next to an older gentleman. He pointed at the older man and then the house and appeared none too happy. Was he angry about her apparent lack of knowledge? She had half a mind to open the window and yell, “How was I supposed to know your son is mute when no one told me until today?”
And what kind of father was he, saying hurtful things that drove his son to silence? Surely he didn’t blame Jonathan for Mrs. Stanford’s death.
Mr. Stanford flicked his gaze upward, hooking her with those sharp eyes. She gasped and dropped the curtain, giving the wall a reserved, but frustrated kick from her boot. This timidity wouldn’t do at all, not with her living and working there all day, every day, for the unforeseeable future. Back before she lost everyone she loved, she would have prayed for courage in a situation like this. But she and God weren’t on speaking terms.
Not yet, anyway.
Chapter Five
Portia took a deep breath and expelled it in a long, dreary sigh. She had to do something productive and stop letting her nerves get the best of her. The carry bag sat on the bed atop a star-patterned quilt. She opened it and removed Frank’s Smith & Wesson loaded belt pistol, stowing it in the bottom drawer of the dresser under extra sheets and coverlets.
Then she removed Jake’s tintype from the bag and placed it on top of the dresser where a large lace doily covered the center. Jake’s stern face stared back at her. He had it taken in Nashville right after he could no longer deny the call to conscription. The newly issued Confederate jacket fit him well, though it was secondhand, the butternut dye faded to dull beige. He stood from the seat, hugging her and Abby tight before the blinding camera flash had left their eyes.
“This war can’t last much longer, Po. There aren’t enough men left to put up a decent fight.” His laughter was as light as ever, his hazel eyes dancing with mirth. His smile was as warm as the hopeful sun on that February morning two years ago. Yet beneath his brave exterior, she felt the fear quivering in his rigid muscles and shuddered in his embrace.
If she’d known that was the last time she’d see him alive, she would have grabbed his starched lapels and dragged him back home.
Nothing but naïve farm boys, all of them, but unlike the days following Sumter, these conscripts no longer believed they could turn the tide of war with misplaced ideals and bravado. By that time, everyone had grown weary of constant hunger and the ever-growing lists of dead men. These soldiers shared a common, and less patriotic, goal — to evade death and come back home. Muted cheers and quartets with their tired renditions of “Dixie” faded into Portia’s memory.
On second thought… she stored the picture in the top drawer. She couldn’t become a slave to the memories again. It gave her enough comfort to know his picture was there, safe and sound.
She took off her coat and gloves and draped them over the chair. The aroma of supper from downstairs smelled heavenly, so the rest of the unpacking could wait. A ceramic pitcher filled with fresh water and a matching basin stood next to the dresser. She washed her face and hands and rearranged her hair. A few stubborn strands refused to stay put, so she tucked them behind her ears. She started toward the door but hesitated. Her brown woolen dress was appropriate for travel, but surely not for dinner in such a fine dining room.
Quickly, she searched through the few things she brought in the trunk. Spying her Sunday dress of pale yellow muslin, she took it out but decided against changing. If she kept Mr. Stanford waiting, it could make a bad impression. From their earlier meeting, she didn’t want to incur any more of his wrath, especially before she even began teaching his son.
She hung her Sunday dress in a small wardrobe by the dresser and, before she could change her mind again, headed downstairs.
Just short of the dining room door, muffled voices drifted into the foyer. Portia squeezed her eyes shut and felt short of breath, but she hadn’t come all this way to cower alone in a guest room. Jake always said she was as sharp as a copperhead’s tooth, so she took faith in her late husband’s assessment and hoped she could hold her own.
The men were already seated at the table, but they stood when she entered. Uncertain where to sit, she lingered in the doorway until the older gentleman she had seen from the window stepped around the table and offered his hand. She accepted it gratefully.
“Mrs. McAllister, I’m Ezra Stanford. I think you met my son, Beau,” he said and gestured toward Mr. Stanford, who nodded but didn’t make eye contact. “And you’ve met Harry Franklin already. He and Beau run the horse business. They’ve been friends since they were knee-high to a grasshopper.”
“Lovely to see you again.” Harry bowed with a flourish like a stage actor might do.
“Thank you, sir. It’s good to meet you all,” she said.
Jonathan stood silently by his chair across the table, regarding her with those sheepish eyes. She smiled at him, but he dropped his gaze to the floor.
Ezra chuckled. “Oh, now, none of this sir stuff, and Mr. This and That. I’m just Ezra, but you can call him Beauregard.”
With that, he pointed his fork at his son.
“All right now, Pa.” Mr. Stanford stood at the head of the table and looked none too pleased. In the flickering light of the chandelier over the table, she noticed his prominent nose and cheekbones and a dimple in the dead center of his chin.
Harry scooted out a chair next to his and gestured to Portia, so she took the cue and sat. He smiled at her like a barn cat who had caught the first mouse of spring, and she couldn’t help but feel uneasy. He could have been looking for someone to court or merely enjoyed a good flirtation, but either way, Portia wasn’t ready for or interested in any such dalliance.
“Beau hates his proper name,” Ezra continued as he lowered himself to his chair. “I had to name him since his mama died right after his birth, and I always liked the name Beauregard. He was one of my favorite horses.”
He chuckled again, while Harry laughed and slapped the table. Mr. Stanford, or Beauregard, glanced at his father and cracked the slightest hint of a smile as he shook his head. Portia felt more at ease after Ezra’s warm welcome and was thankful to not be underdressed, after all. The younger men were wearing shirts and pants stained with a hard day’s work on a farm, while Ezra wore a pair of canvas overalls splattered with white paint. A thick gray beard framed his round face and matched the ring of gray hair growing around his head and above his ears.
“Hope you’ll excuse my paintin’ clothes,” Ezra said as though he’d read her mind. “Fences don’t paint themselves, and I was too hungry t
o change.”
Bessie brought in the food and dished out bowls of what must have been beef stew, considering the tantalizing aroma, followed by steaming hot cornbread. Portia’s fingers twitched, longing to dig in, but she lowered her head as Ezra said grace. The stew itself was more soup than substance, but still delicious nonetheless. They ate in silence for a while until Portia realized she’d emptied her entire bowl before anyone else had even eaten half.
“You want mine?” Harry asked, scooting his bowl close to hers.
“Oh, no thank you.”
“At least have more cornbread.” He took a piece from the towel-covered iron skillet and put it on her plate.
Even though everyone’s eyes were on her, she couldn’t let that steaming piece of heaven get cold.
“Thank you,” she said then took a bite, closing her eyes partway as she enjoyed the satisfying pleasures of the warm, lard-laden bread.
“How long has it been since you had a decent meal?” Harry asked quietly.
Swallowing another bite, she blushed and ducked her head, putting the rest of the piece back on the plate. She must look like some starving waif to these men.
“No, you eat up,” Harry said, leaning closer. “You won’t go hungry here. I promise.”
She lifted her eyes enough to see Mr. Stanford looking at her over his glass of water, but she couldn’t read his expression well enough to know if he pitied her or thought she belonged in a pig sty.
Bessie came around again with seconds and refilled Portia’s bowl.
“Maybe I ought to just set the pot in front of this girl,” she said and returned to the kitchen.
Ezra leaned back in his seat and rubbed his round belly. “Keep eatin’ like that, young lady, and you’ll look like me!”
Portia tried to smile as she picked up her spoon. Across the table, Jonathan had hardly eaten a bite. He slumped in his chair, pushing a potato around in his bowl.
“So, Mrs. McAllister, or can I call you Portia?” Harry asked, and Portia nodded her acceptance. “How long have you taught school?”
