by Mysti Parker
With Jonny seated beside her, she lifted the reins. “Ready?”
Jonny nodded excitedly. Poor boy was thrilled just to have some companionship. She hadn’t heard any mention of friends and wondered if he had anyone his own age to play with. If not, she would have to remedy that. Children needed playmates. How she would broach the subject with his overprotective but distant father, she had no idea.
She was about to snap the reins when Harry came running up the drive, arms waving in the air. “Whoa! Hold up!”
“What’s wrong?” she asked as he reached the wagon.
He panted to catch his breath as he answered, “What’s wrong… is that you didn’t… ask me to come along.”
Had Mr. Stanford asked Harry to come along? He did recommend she be escorted into town. Or maybe Harry had other intentions. She groaned quietly.
“Did you need something in town?” she asked, hoping to dissuade him with her independent spirit. “I can pick it up for you.”
“My dear lady, I’d be remiss to pass up an opportunity to escort you.” His smile nearly blinded her, and she tried not to cringe at the wink that followed. “Scoot over and leave the driving to me.”
Apparently, her independent spirit could not sway Harry Franklin from intruding on her plans. Tempted to snap the reins and drive off, leaving him in a cloud of dust, she remembered what her mama always said. “No matter how poor one is, it doesn’t excuse bad manners.”
Reluctantly, she scooted closer to Jonny and handed the reins to Harry as he jumped in. She looked to Jonny for support on her right. He shrugged. No help there. She kept quiet between the grown man and the young one, while Harry pointed out this and that along the way. He kept leaning too close when he spoke and kept brushing her arm with his. The unwanted contact distracted her too much to pay any mind to the tour.
They arrived in town as Harry said something about him and Beau not being able to borrow more money. How could she respond to that? Before she had a chance to say anything, two rough-looking men near a hitching post started laughing. She noticed Jonny’s eyes growing wide at their conversation.
“You gotta be kiddin’ me.”
“Naw, sir. That feller in Lockport said they had a nigger strung up last night. Reckon they barbequed him, too.”
Portia’s thoughts immediately turned to Bessie and Isaac. If things had come to that in Lockport, just a few miles away, it could easily be the same here.
“Ain’t no niggers gonna be safe out after dark. Shoulda known they had it comin’.” He scratched at his bushy red beard and turned his head toward them. With a nod of recognition, he threw his hand up in greeting. “Mornin’, Harry. Is this the girl you been talkin’ about?”
Harry’s jaw tightened, but he smiled back, eyes shifting from the man to Portia. “Randal, this is Portia McAllister. Portia, Randal Stevens.”
“Pretty little thang, ain’t she?” Randal said to his companion as his gaze wandered over her.
She shivered in disgust, but patted Jonny’s back to reassure him. The poor boy stared at his boots and gripped his knees with white-knuckled fingers.
“Well now, we’ve got lots of errands to run, and I’m sure you do, too. Good day,” Harry said.
Randal lifted his hat in farewell, revealing his greasy, mostly bald head. The two men mounted their horses and rode off in different directions.
“It’s all right,” she whispered to Jonny. “They’re gone now.”
He nodded and hopped out. Portia picked up the egg basket, and Harry helped her from the cart. He kept her hand in his a little too tightly, rubbing her knuckles with his thumb.
“Don’t worry about all that,” he said. “I think they came home from the war with shrapnel in their heads.”
He tried to laugh it off, but Randal’s gritty voice still polluted the pleasant spring air. “…Is this the girl you been talkin’ about?”
Anger carried a hot blush up her cheeks. She jerked her hand from his. “From the sounds of it, you’re well acquainted with them, Mr. Franklin.”
“No, not since we were boys. They joined up with the Rebels and ain’t been right since. Besides, news carries fast, and everyone knows about you. They just want to get a rise out of you.”
Sincerity poured from his sparkling blue eyes. She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, but there was still the matter of what those horrid men were discussing.
She looked to see where Jonny went — he stood several feet away, gazing at some tin soldiers in a store window. Keeping her voice down, she turned her attention back to Harry. “What about Bessie and Isaac?”
“Probably just a rumor. They’ll be fine. But you ought to let me escort you to town at all times… just in case.”
He took advantage of her close proximity and slid an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. Though other women might welcome such a gesture, guilt clawed at her conscience and burned her cheeks, as though Jake could come around the corner at any time and catch them in the act.
Hugging her basket of eggs, she stepped away from him, shrugging one shoulder to release his hold. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some shopping to do.”
His frown didn’t go unnoticed.
~~~~
April 20, 1866
Dear Ellen,
These two weeks have flown by, but they have brought a few blessings. Jonny is talking to me more every day, and to Bessie some, though he will still not speak to his father or anyone else. We were able to trade a few eggs for heavy drawing paper, charcoal pencils, and a used leather portfolio. I’m looking forward to sketching again, though I am most assuredly not looking forward to riding. I promised Jonny, however, so I must keep my word. It will help him to spend time with someone.
Mr. Stanford possesses a gift for training horses. I watched him perform this act, and it was like watching a different man. His cold nature had departed, and I saw the warm, unburdened man he must have been before the war. I only wish he would spend time with his son. I’m not certain as to why they have grown apart, but I want to help them reunite if I can. Doing that may prove more difficult than turning water to wine. Mr. Stanford and I haven’t spoken since I stumbled upon his open chest and army jacket. At the very least, I am encouraged that Bessie seems to have warmed to me. Knowing I’m not viewed as an enemy will make my time here more pleasant.
However, even as I write this, I shudder to think of the hatred she and Isaac could come up against. Mr. Franklin and I were in town earlier today and we heard of a dreadful lynching in a nearby town. I fear for their safety, though he assured me it was likely a rumor. Mr. Franklin seems rather fond of me, but I cannot fathom entertaining such thoughts. I know what you’re thinking, Ellen, but I’m not ready for a courtship with anyone yet.
I’ve just finished a book Bessie gave me about a freed slave named Frederick Douglass. He was born into slavery, barely knew his mother, and suspected his owner had fathered him. This poor man was so abused, he was thankful to be sent to a “negro-breaker” because there he would at least be fed. Poor and abused as Sam and I were, we were never hungry for very long, and we had the choice to leave.
What hurt me most is that Mr. Douglass was denied the right to an education. He took it upon himself to learn to read and write, and even those endeavors were risky. If I ever get the chance to teach a black child, I will do so in a heartbeat…
Chapter Eleven
Portia lay in her bed the next morning, half-awake, watching the sun’s pink light brighten her window. It was Saturday, so there were no lessons, and Bessie had told her to sleep in if she wished. She felt a tad guilty leaving Bessie to prepare breakfast, but the bed felt particularly comfortable this morning. Sighing in contentment, she pulled the quilt up to her chin and let the downy softness of the pillow and mattress caress her back to sleep. Just a few more minutes. Surely no one would mind…
A soft rap sounded on her door. Portia groaned and sat up. Bessie must have needed her help sooner than later.
“Just a minute,” she called. After a short yawn and stretch, she got up and cracked opened the door. “I’m sorry, I’ll get dressed and… Jonny?”
He stood there, smiling and bouncing up and down on his toes. After glancing over his shoulder, probably to make sure no one else could hear, he whispered, “We’re going riding today, remember? That is, if you still want to.”
Lowering his head, he bit his lip and shuffled his feet. Though she had halfway hoped he would forget about their deal, she couldn’t say no to him now. Not when he looked so excited and eager. She liked this side of Jonny and wanted to encourage him to stay that way for a while, even if he wasn’t taking full advantage of his voice.
“Of course I still want to.”
His face brightened like the sun that had just popped over the horizon. “Can we go after breakfast?”
“I’ll have to see if Bessie needs some help with chores first. Then we can.”
“Oh,” he said, and his face clouded over a bit. “That’ll be fine. I can get the horses ready while you’re doing that.”
“You should wait for me to go with you.”
“Grandpa’s going out with me.”
“You… spoke to him?” She tried not to sound too eager, but couldn’t help the upbeat lilt in her tone.
Digging the toe of his boot into the floorboards, he whispered, “I wrote him a note.”
“I see.” Her voice deflated a bit. “And have you gotten your father’s permission?” The last thing she needed was another confrontation with Mr. Stanford. She still hadn’t spoken directly to him since the army jacket incident and had taken all her meals either in the kitchen or study. He hadn’t questioned her absence, either. An invisible wall of tension existed between them that neither dared to cross.
“Yes, ma’am,” Jonny said, nodding assuredly. “Grandpa asked him. See you outside.”
~~~~
Portia swallowed her last bite of biscuit and gooseberry jam then wiped her mouth with her napkin. She rose from the kitchen table and carried her dishes to the basin, where Bessie was busy scrubbing.
“Are you sure you don’t need help this morning?” she asked again.
Bessie chuckled. “You’ll do more good out there with Jonny than in here with me. You really that scared of ridin’?”
“No…” She pulled at the cuffs on her sleeves. “Yes, a little.”
“He ain’t lyin’ when he says those saddle horses are gentle. You’ll be fine. But we did get word that the Clemonses will be here this coming Tuesday, so I’ll need your help this afternoon and tomorrow.”
“All right, we can cancel lessons and I’ll help with whatever you need.”
“It’s been a long time,” Bessie said, wringing her hands, “since we’ve had company around here.” At Portia’s smile, she added quickly, “Except for you, of course.”
“Of course,” Portia said with a chuckle. “But why all the worry?”
“They’ve been city folks for a long time. Rich, too. I don’t know if what we got will be good enough.”
“If you’re talking about our cooking, think about it this way. They might be looking forward to some good Southern food after all that fancy Northern fare.”
Bessie’s face brightened, and she abandoned the hand-wringing. “I never thought about it that way. Maybe you’re right. I’ll get a list ready of things we need to do. Now you go on out and have a nice ride with Jonny.”
~~~~
Gentle proved to be an understatement for the saddle horse Portia rode. The animal plodded along at a snail’s pace, while Jonny had to keep slowing Jack, his pony, to let them catch up. Soft kicks to the horse’s sides and flicking the reins helped for about five seconds. The gelding wasn’t much taller than Jack — maybe fourteen hands if she were to make a generous guess. At least if she fell off, she wouldn’t hurt much more than her pride. Not at this speed.
Jonny led them past one of the plowed fields and along a well-worn trail through the woods. Flowing water mixed with birdsong played a soothing melody as the trail descended. They stopped at a sparkling creek that wove its way along mossy green rocks. Upstream, the water crashed into the foamy white mist of a miniature waterfall. Portia breathed in the fresh forest air, closing her eyes to savor the moment.
“That’s Barton Creek,” Jonny said. “We used to picnic down here all the time. Upstream a ways, there’s good fishing.”
He fell quiet and his face looked somber while he scratched Jack’s mane.
“What’s wrong?” Portia asked.
“I was just wondering… do you miss your husband and little girl?”
Her chest tightened at the mention of Jake and Abby, but Jonny needed someone to talk to now that he’d found his voice, so she had to open up to him. “Yes, every single day. I think of them from the moment I wake to the moment I go to bed.”
Jonny’s shoulders rose and fell with a heavy breath.
She could guess who was on his mind, so she ventured the question. “What was your mama like?”
“She was real pretty and kind to everyone.” He slid off his saddle, dug into his pocket, and pulled out a sugar cube. It must have been risky for him to swipe, since sugar was in such short supply. Jack gobbled it up greedily, while Jonny rubbed his ears. “She helped look after some of the sick kids and older folks in town when Pa went off to war. Then she got sick, too.”
Trying not to be overcome with emotion, Portia blinked back tears and slid out of the saddle, none too gracefully. At least she landed on her feet, though her legs felt like mush. “You must miss her a lot.”
He nodded, resting his forehead on Jack’s nose. “Pa never talks about her, but Grandpa does. I cry sometimes. Does that make me a baby?”
“No, not at all. Crying is as natural as laughing. It makes us feel better.”
Though tempted to give him a hug, she decided it might make him feel more ashamed. She had to keep building their connection instead of tearing it down. Sunlight danced on the creek and sparked an idea. She walked to the water’s edge, bent down, and picked up a smooth, flat stone. Standing again, she held it just right, flung her arm outward, and let it loose. The rock skipped merrily across the water, coming to rest on the opposite bank.
“Wow!” Jonny said, running up to stand beside her. “You know how to skip rocks?”
She laughed. “I grew up with two brothers. I didn’t have much of a choice. By the way, now that we know each other a little better, you may call me Po if you wish — that was the nickname my brothers gave me and it stuck.”
“You know something?” Jonny squatted down and inspected a few rocks before he settled on one.
“What?”
“I like you, Po,” he said matter-of-factly, and flung his rock out over the water. It skipped along and landed right on hers. “How about a contest — best two out of three wins?”
Feeling lighter than she had in months, she put her hands on her hips and said, “I thought you’d never ask.”
~~~~
Portia read the to-do list over lunch. Guest rooms would have to be prepared, since the Clemons family would be staying in the Stanford home for an undetermined time until their own home was renovated. They’d have to re-stuff some pillows, and Portia wrote next to that, Add a few sprigs of lavender. Dusting, sweeping, and window cleaning could be done that afternoon. Tablecloths and napkins needed pressing, meals needed planning. Someone would have to shop for dry goods, candles, and other necessities.
Sleeves rolled up and apron on, Portia was ready for battle. She tackled the dusting and sweeping. Bessie cleaned the guest room windows, took all the rugs out back and slung them over the clothesline for a good beating. Every surface shone from their efforts by the time they were done. During supper, Portia sat with Bessie in the kitchen and started planning meals. Excited voices carried from the next room, with several mentions of Lydia Clemons.
“She must be quite a sight,” Portia said.
“You’d think the Lord himsel
f was arriving on the back of a donkey colt,” Bessie said, rolling her eyes and laughing. “Everybody thinks she’s going to be the next Mrs. Stanford. I hate to tell ’em this, but Beau ain’t gonna take to that idea.”
Portia felt strange about eavesdropping, but she couldn’t keep herself from listening in on the conversation in the dining room. Besides Jonny, the only one not talking about the incoming guests was Mr. Stanford. Every now and then, she’d hear him give a one word answer or some general statement, but he certainly didn’t sound as enthusiastic as the other men.
Maybe Bessie was right and he didn’t have any intentions of marrying Miss Clemons. She realized that her employer’s decision about marriage would naturally affect her situation. If he chose to remarry, his new wife would likely want to take Jonny’s education into her own hands. But if he didn’t marry Miss Clemons, Portia would still have a job and be able to stay with Jonny for a while longer.
For a moment, she pictured Beau Stanford in the paddock, training his new filly. She remembered the peaceful light in his eyes and the way his strong hands moved so expertly along with the horse. Warmth crept up her neck, so she quickly stood, went to the basin, and started washing dishes before Bessie could see her blush.
~~~~
Mr. Stanford wasn’t in the dining room for breakfast on Sunday morning.
Portia brought in coffee from the kitchen. As casually as she could, she asked Ezra about him.
The old man took a sip of the steaming brew and wiped his mustache with the back of his hand. “He had a bad night.”
