by Mysti Parker
“That’s a wonderful idea,” Portia said, glancing at Ezra with a grateful smile.
Jonny frowned and picked his marbles up, dropping them one by one into the bag.
“Do what your grandpa tells you, son,” Beau said.
Harry sprang from the settee. “Here, let me help you up, darlin’.”
Portia took his outstretched hand and got to her feet. “Thank you, Mr. Franklin.”
“I told you, call me Harry.”
“Of course.” Pulling her hand from his, she added, “After you, Jonathan.”
She followed Jonny from the room, skirts in her hands, at a quick pace.
“I don’t know what else to do.” Harry sighed and dropped back onto the settee. “I’m really trying here.”
“Maybe a little too hard,” Beau mumbled.
“Oh? And how would you go about it, Mister Stanford?”
“She’s not here for your pleasure, Harry.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ezra stopped stuffing his pipe and pointed it at the two of them. “Listen here. I’ll not have you upsettin’ that poor girl. She’s been through hell and back and ain’t here to fetch either of your attentions.”
“You sure about that?” Beau asked.
Under bushy gray eyebrows, his father’s no-nonsense gaze was unrelenting. “It’s time you let go of that notion, Beauregard. Portia’s innocent, and I didn’t bring her here for you. Or are you just too full of yourself to not realize that?”
Shaking his head, Harry crossed his arms and looked away.
“Fine,” Beau conceded. “I just thought that…”
“Well, you thought wrong.”
“All right, I’ll apologize. Sincerely this time.” The old man could still lay down the law when he wanted to. Beau got up and made his way to the door. “I still don’t know how I’ll pay her.”
Ezra struck a match against his boot and applied the flame to the cherry-scented leaves. “You know,” he said between puffs, “I think she’s happy just having a place to stay for now. Give her some time, son. You too, Harry.”
Beau nodded and headed to the study.
Portia stood by the shelf that housed the school books. She had stacked some on the desk nearby, and she flipped through one of them. More hair had fallen from her bun like it just couldn’t bear to be confined any longer. Honey-brown locks draped down her back and over her shoulders. She seemed enraptured with whatever she was reading. Beau spied part of the title — Tennyson Poems — on the cover.
“I hope you’re finding everything you need,” he said.
Startled, Portia almost dropped the book, but managed to close it and place it with the others on the desk. “Oh, yes, except I’m not sure where the paper and pencils are.”
“Did you try the desk drawers?”
“Yes, but a few drawers are locked. Do you have the key?”
“No, but Bessie might. Just tell her what you need.”
“All right.” She peered at another shelf. “I don’t see any atlases or globes. Would they be somewhere else?”
He moved to stand beside her, wishing he had time and inclination to read so many books. Claire always had her nose in one and could quote Tennyson and Shakespeare in her sleep. Her mind was one of the reasons he’d fallen for her.
“Bessie would probably know that, too,” he said. “She handled all that after Claire died. But I don’t see why my son would need to know geography. He might never leave Tennessee.”
He realized he’d struck a nerve when she stiffened her jaw and stood straight as a fencepost. “I’m not sure how you feel about this, Mr. Stanford, but I believe an education is the most valuable gift you can give a child, apart from love. When a child is lacking in those things, it’s a tragedy.”
Beau wasn’t accustomed to backtalk from his employees, but from the way she jutted her little chin at him, he wasn’t sure whether to be irritated or amused. “Are you telling me my son is lacking in education and love?”
“Of course not. I just…”
“Because if you think you can tell that from having been here for barely a day, then you need to think twice. Besides, if I didn’t care about my son’s education, I wouldn’t have hired you, would I?”
She blushed and averted her eyes, placing a trembling hand on the stack of books. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound that way. Please forgive my forwardness.”
There I go again. He had to temper his attitude and meet her on neutral ground. He took another Tennyson volume — Claire’s favorite — from the shelf. Flipping to one of her many ribbon bookmarks, he found a familiar poem.
“Claire used to read this to me when we were courting,” he said and cleared his throat, hoping it wasn’t too late to call a truce.
He read the last stanza.
“If you are not the heiress born,
And I,” said he, “the lawful heir,
We two will wed to-morrow morn,
And you shall still be Lady Clare.”
Watching for her reaction, he relaxed a bit when Portia smiled brightly. Even her eyes took part in it. “A lady of good taste, I see. And I used to recite this one to Jake:
‘Millions of throats would bawl for civil rights,
No woman named: therefore I set my face
Against all men, and lived but for mine own.’”
She shook her head, and her smile drooped a little. “He’d laugh and call me a rebel.”
“For good reason, I bet.”
Her cheeks reddened again.
“Listen, I wanted to apologize for being… less than hospitable. I assumed things that I shouldn’t have, and I think it’s because I felt guilty.”
“Guilty? Why?”
Beau placed the book back on the shelf and raked a hand through his hair. “To be honest, I’m not sure how to pay you. I can barely afford to pay the folks I’ve got now, and with Jonny’s condition, your job will be even more of a challenge.”
“I see.”
“So, I’ll understand if you want to annul this position and call it even.”
Exhaling with a sigh, she said, “A mute child can still learn just fine. And with all due respect, Mr. Stanford, I’m not here for the money. You may compensate me when you are able. I’m simply satisfied to have something other than memories to occupy my hands and mind.”
“That’s what Pa told me. Should have listened.”
“If you have any doubt in my loyalty because of my husband’s affiliation…”
He held up his hand. “I think it’s best not to venture there again. Only time will determine your loyalties here.”
Portia ducked her head and nodded.
“Good, then. I expect you to make a scholar out of my boy in return for your room and board.”
“I don’t think that will be too difficult. Jonathan is a clever young man.”
“How can you tell?”
“Once a teacher, always a teacher, Mr. Stanford.”
Beau gestured around the study. “Then this place is all yours. If you need more supplies, you’re welcome to ask Isaac to take you into town.”
“Do you have a buggy I can drive?”
Beau raised an eyebrow. “Yes, however, I’d recommend you have an escort. Times are different now. We have to be careful.”
“All right, and thank you. If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll find Bessie and finish preparing for tomorrow’s lessons.”
“One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“You’ve noticed the scar on Bessie’s face?”
Portia shrunk back a little. “I did.”
He kept his expression calm. He didn’t want to intimidate her again, but he wanted her to see his side of things. “She had gone into town with me and Pa one morning. I was fifteen, sixteen at most. I’d been acting up, being disrespectful — you know how boys are. We had just come out of a store and she smacked my mouth. I deserved it, but one of the local overseers was there on his horse and w
itnessed it. He struck her across the face with some kind of whip that had metal hooks on the end. Cut her pretty bad. I dragged that man off his horse, knocked him to the ground and kept hitting. It took Bessie and Pa to pull me off him. Perhaps now you can understand my distaste for your husband’s former occupation.”
She nodded but wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I understand.” Her voice quivered as though she might cry at any moment. “If it makes any difference, you should know that Jake shared your sentiments. He also paid dearly for it. If you’ll excuse me…”
Beau stared after her as she hurried from the room. What did she mean, paid dearly for it? This woman was proving to be more perplexing than he imagined.
He pulled out the chair and sat at the desk. Propping himself on his elbow, he rested his chin in his hand. His eyes drifted to the fountain pen resting in its brass stand. He picked it up and traced a finger over the names engraved on it:
Beauregard and Claire Stanford, est. May 17, 1854
Claire had presented it to him when they first married and when she decorated the study. He never liked it much, though he never told her that. It didn’t hold ink very well and left black blobs every few words in his correspondence. But he missed the way Claire handled things with such grace and ease. Portia was lucky in a way. At least she could get away from the memories. Beau had no choice but to live under their unpredictable shadows, creeping up on him when he least expected it.
Chapter Seven
The gray cotton dress with the white lace collar hadn’t been worn since Portia had taught school before Abby came along. Aside from being slightly crumpled and loose-fitting on her thin frame, it was in good condition. Her cedar chest kept the moths away and it still smelled like her little home. Jake had called her an old school marm when she wore it, and although it did make her feel matronly, the dress had proven comfortable for a long day in a classroom. Now, of course, she had only one student — and a mute one at that. She hoped she could find a way to connect with him despite his silence.
Taking extra care to pin her hair tightly so it wouldn’t come loose, she swallowed her doubts and headed downstairs for breakfast. To her surprise, Beau was the only person at the table, and from the bits of egg and half-eaten biscuit on his plate, she could tell he had almost finished with his meal. He looked haggard with dark shadows under his eyes and more wrinkles on his brow than there should be for a new morning. He muttered an indecipherable greeting to her as she entered the dining room.
“Good morning, Mr. Stanford.”
She headed for the kitchen, intending to eat in there, but hesitated when he asked, “Sleep well?”
“Yes, and you?”
“I’ve had better nights.”
“Sorry to hear that.” She started for the kitchen again.
“Take a seat. Bessie’s already got breakfast on the table, as you can see.”
He gestured toward a platter containing a few strips of bacon, a nice pile of eggs, and perfectly browned biscuits. A couple jars of preserves and a pitcher of milk rounded out the spread.
“All right.” She wondered if he considered her tardy and was upset that she didn’t help Bessie in the kitchen. But she figured it was best not to stir the pot and risk further aggravation. She took her seat and added one piece of bacon, a spoonful of eggs, and a biscuit to her plate.
Several moments of strange silence passed, with Beau slowly working his way through another helping of eggs.
Portia wiped her mouth with her napkin and asked, “Where is everyone?”
“Harry’s gone to Lockport. I guess Pa and Jonny slept in. I’m usually the first one up. Guess you’re an early bird, too.”
“Always have been. Farm wife, you know.”
That last part incited a heavy feeling in her chest. She turned her attention to her breakfast and nibbled some bacon. At least he didn’t think she was late.
Beau cleared his throat. “Right.” He paused as though trying to figure out what to say next. “I’ve been wondering something… when we last spoke, you said your husband paid dearly for his sentiments. What did you mean?”
“Well… I suppose it all began with a lie.” She fumbled with her biscuit, breaking it into little pieces. “John Overton was the owner of Travellers Rest. He had slaves, yes, but he was good to everyone who worked for him. He was fond of Jake, too. When men started getting conscripted, Mr. Overton vouched for Jake and claimed him as a full-time overseer, so he could avoid being put into service. The head overseer was Mr. Barrett, but the slaves respected Jake more even though he was there only a few weeks out of the year. Some of them confided in him about Mr. Barrett and his ill treatment of them. Jake was very troubled by it. He knew what my daddy… he didn’t believe anyone deserved such abuse. By that time, though, Mr. Overton had fled behind Confederate lines. Jake decided to bring the matter to Mrs. Overton, but she made the mistake of confronting Mr. Barrett. In retaliation, he threatened to turn in Jake for avoiding conscription. Jake knew if he didn’t enlist willingly, he faced prison, fines we couldn’t afford, or worse. He joined up in February of sixty-four. Abby was just six months old. That was the last time we saw him alive.”
With a slight nod, he stared at his plate, slowly chewing a bite of biscuit. His worry-creased expression relaxed. He spoke but sounded gentler than before. “I apologize for assuming the worst of your husband.” Another tense pause hung between them and then, “Did you… get to see him… after?”
Her eyes widened as she met his gaze.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, “I shouldn’t have asked such a personal thing.”
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “No, it’s all right. I did see him. They brought him home in the back of a wagon. He still looked like himself, but…” Putting the memory into words brought tears to her eyes and a familiar ache to her chest. “…it was as though everything that had been my husband was gone, leaving only an empty shell, if that makes any sense.”
“It does make sense.” He sat silent for a moment as he rubbed his forehead. “I didn’t get to see Claire, just her grave. I don’t know if it would have been easier or not to have seen her, but I’ll always wonder.”
Portia had never expected to share such heavy things with her employer, but she found some comfort in it. She hadn’t spoken to anyone about Jake or Abby except Ellen, and as sympathetic as her friend had been, she couldn’t truly relate. Mr. Stanford, at the very least, understood the pain of losing a spouse — how lonely and topsy-turvy the world felt afterward. She wanted to respond with something that might comfort him in return, but Ezra and Jonathan came to the table before she had a chance.
“Mornin’.” Ezra’s joints sounded like popcorn as he eased into his seat. “The hips ain’t what they used to be. Why the long faces? Somethin’ happen?”
Beau glanced at Portia before turning his attention to Ezra. “No. Just tired.”
“Bad night again, huh? You know, a bit of laudanum could—”
“No.” He glared at the old man.
Jonathan absently helped himself to eggs, eyes flicking between his father and grandfather.
Beau turned to him. “Eat up. You’ve got lessons to get to.”
The boy nodded and plopped the eggs onto his plate, spilling some on the table.
“At least let Bessie fix you something,” Ezra pleaded. “You need sleep, son.”
“Excuse me, I’ve got work to do,” Beau said as he scooted his chair back and stood. He stuffed the last bite of biscuit in his mouth and strode out.
Ezra frowned. When the front door opened and slammed closed, he leaned toward Portia and spoke quietly. “He’s not been sleepin’ good, ever since he came home. If he’s as cranky as a bear, that’s why. Just don’t tell him I told you.”
Portia nodded and shivered, imagining the horrors Beau must have seen in the war. She thought about Jake like she had a thousand times before — of what he must have seen and felt before he died. But she couldn’t let her mind drift to t
hat helpless place again. She picked up her napkin, wiped her face, and cleared her throat. It got Jonathan’s attention; he looked up at her with a chipmunk cheek full of food.
“Jonathan, have you done your chores yet?”
He chewed and scrunched his eyes at her as though she had suggested something unseemly.
“You’ve already done them, then?”
Ezra leaned toward her again and whispered, “Jonny doesn’t do a lot of chores. Not since he went mute. Dr. Barton said to go easy on him, let him get lots of rest and maybe he’d relax enough to speak.”
“Oh, I see.” A protest sat on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back. She couldn’t afford to argue until she understood the situation better. “Then let’s get started a bit early. That way we can review what you know already and decide where to go from there.” Portia looked at her little pocket watch. “I’ll meet you in the study in fifteen minutes.”
Jonathan swallowed with a gulp and nodded.
Ezra put his hands on the table in a polite effort to stand and see her out, but Portia waved him back down to his seat.
“No need for that. I can handle my own chair. Enjoy your breakfast.”
“Mighty kind of you, ma’am. Enjoy your lessons.”
“I’m sure we will,” she answered and winked at Jonathan. “Both of us.”
~~~~
The large study occupied the front eastern corner of the house. Thanks to Bessie, Portia now had the key to the desk in her possession. The evening prior, she had rearranged things to her liking — pencils and paper in the top drawer for easy access. A ruler, drawing compass, and abacus lay ready and waiting in the second drawer. She placed a sheet of paper and pencil on the smaller desk that sat in front of the rear window. Scanning the room, she admired the two tall windows that let in ample light for their lessons. If they could be so lucky as to acquire some paints and drawing supplies, she’d be thrilled.
Portia touched the marble bust of Shakespeare perched atop a pedestal. Her fingers lingered on William’s cool forehead as she took in the little details of the room. Mementos, curtains, rugs, a brass fountain pen and other treasures filled the space — remnants of a wife and mother who’d put her love into this home. What a shame that the boy’s mother had passed away before she could see her dreams for her son fulfilled. She felt a strange connection to this woman she never had the chance to meet, and a sudden wave of doubt washed over her. What if she couldn’t give him the education his mother had wanted? She didn’t come from a wealthy background. No one in her family had any education beyond a few years of grammar school, and her own training hadn’t been extensive, certainly not from a well-regarded university like the late Mrs. Stanford wanted for her son.
