by Mysti Parker
Clearing her throat, she wiped her mouth and sat up straight, determined to look as professional as she could, considering her ravenous appetite. “I earned my teacher’s certificate right after I finished school myself, and I taught in Brentwood up until my daughter’s birth, so about six years.”
Mr. Stanford tapped his fingers on the table and fixed her in his steady gaze. “Pa never mentioned that you had a child. Where is she? Back home with your family?”
She remembered then that she had mentioned being a widow, but had not written about Abby in her acceptance letter. The pain had been too fresh then to put it to paper.
“I lost her,” Portia said, trying hard as she could to steady her voice. “Typhoid, about eight months ago.”
Biting her lip, she focused on the spoon marks on the ceramic of her empty bowl. Before now, she had never had to say it out loud. Everyone in Brentwood knew when someone died. It was newsworthy fodder for conversation. She couldn’t even walk the streets without the pitiful glances, the murmurings, and empty condolences.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mr. Stanford said. The gentle tone of his voice surprised her. The other men followed suit. “According to your letter, your husband worked as assistant overseer at Travellers Rest. Is that right?”
And so the interrogation begins. “Yes. He assisted the overseer occasionally during planting and harvest.”
“I imagine he was handy with a whip.”
“Beau...” Ezra’s harsh whisper made Portia flinch.
Mr. Stanford ignored him. “How did he treat the slaves he supervised, Mrs. McAllister?”
“Jake didn’t believe in such abuse. In fact, he—”
“And how would you know how he performed his work? Were you there with him?”
“Beauregard, that’s enough!” Ezra said.
Mr. Stanford held a silencing hand toward him and kept her fixed in his cold glare. “It’s my right to know my employee’s background. Were you with your husband while he worked?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know he didn’t apply a whip to the back of John Overton’s slaves?”
“Because I knew my husband, sir!” Her voice had risen to a near shout, so she took a deep breath and tempered her words. “Jake did not employ a whip, and if he did, it doesn’t matter now. He’d dead.”
“Where did he fall?”
She studied his face for a moment, wondering if he was asking only so he could gloat about a Rebel’s death. “Jake died in Nashville.”
“My condolences, then.” Mr. Stanford wiped his mouth.
Could it be that Mr. Stanford, or perhaps Mr. Franklin, had shot the bullet that had ended Jake’s life? The accusations festered on her tongue, but she didn’t want to keep feeding this confrontation.
“I lost my wife while I was gone,” he said. “I guess we’ve all got to move on now, with no judgments.”
“Yes, sir,” she agreed. “I think that’s wise.”
She risked a glance at him; his wary gray eyes were trained on her like he expected her to bolt or rise further to her late husband’s defense. She would do neither.
“I have to admit, Mrs. McAllister, you’re younger than we, or at least I expected. It seems odd for a young lady such as yourself to leave her home and family behind so readily.”
“Beau, I think you’ve said enough.” Ezra’s voice carried a distinct warning edge, the same one her daddy had used while winding a belt around his fist. Portia shivered.
Mr. Stanford shot his father a look that silenced him. She clenched the napkin covering her lap and tried to make sense of this exchange before she said something wrong. Considering this house’s Union allegiance, she could understand some animosity. But what would her age have to do with anything? How could he find her in fault for some assumed dishonesty? Though she longed to retreat upstairs to the comfort of silence, she knew he wouldn’t release her from the shackles of his cold eyes until she answered him.
She quickly decided her best defense was the truth. “My family is gone, sir, except for my late husband’s brother and his wife. But they are expecting a third child soon and can’t afford another mouth to feed. I can teach your son and handle whatever tasks you require of me.”
“No parents, siblings, or cousins?”
The accusing tone of his questioning didn’t sit well with her, and she wasn’t prepared to be the subject of an impromptu trial. Didn’t he want a teacher for his son? Didn’t he read her letter and then hire her? She bore Mr. Stanford’s steely glare and met it with her own unflinching gaze.
“No,” she said, “no cousins nearby, and none that I care to associate with. My older brother Rudy died when he was twelve. Fell on an axe. My younger brother Samuel ran off to Louisiana right before I married, and I’ve not heard from him since. My parents burned to death in their home shortly after I married. So no, sir, I have no relatives who can take me in and none I want to burden with the task. I’m here so I can work for my own keep and move on.”
“I see. Pardon my bluntness, but it appears you’ve already moved on.” He glanced pointedly at her brown woolen dress, which despite its modest style, didn’t keep her from feeling naked under his judgment.
Her guts churned, threatening to toss up everything she’d just eaten. She found her voice somewhere in the pounding rhythm of her heart. “Sir, if you’re referring to my lack of mourning clothes, it is both a financial and a personal decision on my part with no bearing on how well I can perform my duties.”
“That has yet to be seen, now doesn’t it?”
Ezra slapped the table, his pudgy cheeks reddening over his white whiskers. “Beauregard! You do not speak to a lady like that. I raised you better.”
Mr. Stanford smirked, looking from Portia to Ezra. “Yes, and you raised me to have a good bit of sense, too. Did you think I wouldn’t figure it out?”
Figure what out? Portia shared the same confusion written on Harry, Ezra, and Jonathan’s faces.
“Son, I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you owe the lady an apology,” Ezra said.
Brow slanting at a skeptical angle, Mr. Stanford recaptured her with his glare. “My apologies, Mrs. McAllister. Assuming you’re a God-fearing woman, you can join us for church service in the morning. We leave at eight-thirty.”
It sounded more like a command than an invitation, but she simply nodded. Isaac had mentioned that he’d half-lost his mind after he returned from the war. Maybe he hadn’t recovered all of it yet.
Jonathan cleared his throat.
Mr. Stanford didn’t look at his son but gestured to the door. “Go to bed,” he snapped.
She freed her gaze as the boy jumped from his seat. “Jonathan, I hope you are looking forward to our studies as much as I am. We’ll start Monday at eight o’clock sharp.”
He nodded and darted out in a flash.
The night’s tensions and persistent exhaustion left Portia drained. The prospect of being alone in her new room was more appealing with every breath. “I’m afraid I need to retire as well, gentlemen. Please excuse me.”
Harry and Ezra stood as she got to her feet. Mr. Stanford only followed her with his eyes. Though Harry tried, he couldn’t reach her chair before she scooted it back and escaped the confines of the dining room.
Skirt fisted in both hands, she had made it to the second step when Harry’s voice caught her off guard. “Portia, a moment if you would?”
She wanted to pretend she didn’t hear him, but knew it would be rude, so she stopped and looked over her shoulder at him.
“I’d like to apologize for Beau’s behavior.” Stepping closer, he set one hand on the banister and planted the other on his hip. In a quieter voice, he added, “He’s been a different man since we came home. Can’t please him no matter what we do, but I for one am pleased you’ve joined us. I’d be happy to introduce you to the other ladies at church tomorrow and perhaps escort you around the town when you have a free afternoon?”
“Th
at’s very kind of you, Mr. Franklin.”
“Harry.”
“Yes, Harry. I’ll take your offer into consideration. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Of course.” Harry stepped back and swiped a lock of sandy brown hair from his brow. “Good night, Portia.”
She gave him a nod and continued upstairs, certain she’d become the object of unwanted attention. It was also clearly obvious that she had made an unfavorable impression on her employer, though she couldn’t fathom how. He couldn’t possibly blame her for not knowing about his son’s muteness, since no one mentioned it before today. Nor could her husband’s occupation have come as a surprise. All her credentials were sent along with her letter of application — her teaching certificate and the letter of recommendation from a former instructor. Surely he had examined them. Trying to find some clue to his cold reception, she replayed the dinner conversation in her mind until she reached the landing.
Then again, both Isaac and Harry had referenced his state of mind. Perhaps his behavior did stem from that.
Across the hall to her left, Jonathan’s coppery head peeked out at her. She offered him a smile and said, “Goodnight, Jonathan.” But he closed the door and, as she expected, didn’t answer.
Once in her room, Portia readied herself for bed. She’d made a mistake coming there. All she wanted was some satisfying work to occupy her grief-weary mind, not an employer who couldn’t stand her presence or a student who feared being in the same room with her.
Remaining at home, heartbreaking as it was, at least she belonged among all those familiar things, even the painful memories. Here, she was a foreigner in a foreign land with no guide to show her how to interact with the natives. Navigating these new waters was much more terrifying than she had imagined it would be, but she wasn’t ready to turn tail and run just yet. She had to give it a chance, to know she’d fought the good fight before she surrendered to failure.
She changed into her nightclothes, carried a lamp to the night stand, and settled onto the mattress. Light illuminated her family Bible there on the table’s edge. The curved-up corners of the leather cover beckoned to be handled once more. Swallowing hard, she reached for it, but… every time she’d tried to read it over these last months, words that once provided food for her very soul had become empty and useless.
Still it was the one familiar thing in this land of uncertainty. She picked it up, laid the big volume on her lap, and turned right to Ecclesiastes. A few more flips of the delicate pages led to a passage she could recite in her sleep. She read aloud, softly, as her fingers traced the words.
“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.”
Just as she figured, the words didn’t bring solace or any grand purposes of a higher plan. They simply stated the obvious, though she appreciated the poetic arrangement. Closing the Bible with a quiet sigh, she returned it to the nightstand. She extinguished the lamp and settled on her side, pulling the quilt snugly up to her chin. Outside, wind whistled through the trees, while shadows of their branches danced on the moonlit lace curtains. For just a moment before closing her eyes, she imagined Jake’s arm around her and snuggled into his imaginary embrace.
Chapter Six
Sunday morning brought clear blue skies and a crisp breeze. A slight chill lingered in the house. Breakfast was a quiet affair, with only Beau, Jonny, and Ezra at the dining room table. Beau was used to Harry skipping breakfast, especially on Sundays, but he wondered about Portia until he found her eating in the kitchen while Bessie made coffee.
Maybe he had her figured all wrong, but Ezra, on the other hand… the old man had been trying to find him a wife for a good year. Perhaps in Portia he’d found a young lady desperate for a husband and a fortune and hoped she’d stick. Pity for her if that was the case — she would get neither, especially the latter.
When church time came around, Beau settled into the driver’s seat of the carriage, while Ezra climbed in to sit beside him. Jonny hopped in the back seat. Beau pulled out his pocket watch and stared at the house. Harry and Portia should have been out by now. They were helping Bessie gather food for an after-church picnic. How long could that take?
“Impatient, are we?” Ezra asked.
“No.”
The old man looked back at Jonny. “Do you like Mrs. McAllister?”
Jonny shrugged.
“What about you, Beauregard?” Ezra puffed his pipe and remained as straight-faced as a politician.
He’d have to play the diplomatic part on this one for now. “I haven’t known her long enough to decide one way or another.”
“She’s gonna do just fine,” Ezra said through a puff of smoke. “And you better mind your manners from now on when she’s around.”
Beau pulled at his shirt collar. “I’ll mind my manners when I’m certain your conscience is clear.”
“Never been clearer, son. You know, the war’s over. You gotta stop distrustin’ everyone and everything. That little lady in there has taken a big risk comin’ here to live with strangers. The least we can do is show her some common courtesy. Say, why don’t you and Jonny go fishin’ this afternoon?”
“I’m tired.” He wasn’t really lying, but it was more than lack of sleep. He’d never forget all those things he said to Jonny, how he’d screamed like a madman and drove his son to muteness. He couldn’t bear to sit on the creek bank, staring at the child he had created with Claire, with the silence between them screaming the ugly truth. Jonny hated him, and probably always would.
Ezra blew a sigh that ruffled his mustache. “We’re all tired, son.”
Harry walked out carrying a basket in one hand and a blanket in the other. He laughed, and Portia responded with a shy smile. She wore a yellow dress with a flowered print. A white bonnet haloed her head, and she held a Bible in her ungloved hands.
Ezra leaned closer to Beau and whispered, “Looks like Harry’s making her feel welcome.”
“Good,” Beau answered. He raised his voice toward the latecomers. “I’m glad you could finally join us, Mrs. McAllister.”
She looked him in the eye and gave a curt nod. “Thank you, Mr. Stanford.”
Beau’s eyes widened a bit. He had expected her to be more unsettled after last night, especially if she was a co-conspirator in Pa’s matchmaking plan. He had certainly done his best to ruffle her feathers. Either she was a good actress or maybe he really was a heartless bastard.
“It’s not getting any earlier. Let’s go,” he snapped.
“Keep your pants on, Beau,” Harry said as he placed the picnic supplies in the carriage. He helped Portia to her seat beside Jonny, and his hand lingered on hers a little longer than necessary before he climbed in next to her. Beau rolled his eyes. Did Harry realize he was flirting with his mail-order bride?
Harry answered him with a wink. No woman was safe from his flirtations. Of course, in this situation, Beau couldn’t have cared less. He faced forward again and snapped the reins.
~~~~
They pulled up to the church a few minutes later. Carriages lined the street, emptying their burdens of Lebanon’s townsfolk. Women and children filed into the bright white Presbyterian church with the newly rebuilt steeple. Of all the town’s structures, this one came first on the list of repairs after the war.
Men
congregated in groups of twos and threes on the sidewalk, chatting before the church bells sent them to their seats. Like every Sunday since Beau’s return, most of them cast bitter glances his way and turned their backs toward him. They’d never forgive him for joining the Federals. But he couldn’t have lived with himself had he not. If he and his family had to forever endure the town’s disdain, then so be it, though resurrecting his business would be even more difficult without their support.
Harry jumped out and helped Portia down. He offered his arm, and she took it lightly before they strolled inside the church together. Beau watched them until they disappeared into the darkness beyond the doorway.
Ezra climbed out with Jonny at his heels and turned back to Beau. “Still glad Harry’s making her feel welcome?”
“Couldn’t be happier.”
Beau flicked the reins and drove the carriage behind the church to park. At least he had answered honestly. If Harry and Portia took up together, he’d be happy for them. Harry had been single for long enough and needed a decent woman to straighten him out, not to mention a relationship between the two would prove she wasn’t conspiring with Ezra.
When Beau stepped through the church doors, Mrs. Murphy was warming up the organ with the dulcet chords of “Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty.” Portia and Harry were already standing in place at the traditional Stanford bench — right side, third row from the front. Jonny and Ezra filed in beside them. The place was packed — a sea of black for those still in mourning, with a little color thrown in by those who were more fortunate.
Some visitors occupied the old widows’ bench on the second row. The little hunchbacks squeezed in by Ezra, mumbling and grumbling about being ousted from their favorite roost and having to sit beside those “Yankees.” The only space left for Beau was on the aisle end beside Portia. He considered turning back to endure the service while standing beside the door, but Ezra spotted him and waved for him to come sit.
He could either squeeze in beside this young woman he wasn’t quite sure about or risk a slew of stares from the rubbernecked congregation all morning. He chose the former, and with hat in hand, stepped in beside Portia. She glanced up at him. He acknowledged her with a quick nod before she averted her eyes. Her cheeks were rosy, and she gripped her Bible with trembling hands. Maybe he really had ruffled her feathers. Why did he suddenly feel so guilty about it?
