A Time for Everything

by Mysti Parker

  “In looks, anyway. She’s different though.”

  “How so?”

  “Just… different.”

  “That’s to be expected, considering she is a different woman.”

  He nodded. “At least they all seemed pleased with lunch. Probably not as much as they’re used to eating, but you and Bessie did good with what we have.”

  “Thank you.”

  Still looking over the water, Beau took on his even-toned employer’s voice. “I’d like you to join us in the dining room for supper from now on.”

  “I thought perhaps you’d rather have the uninterrupted time with your guests.”

  “You thought wrong. Besides, Jonny would feel more comfortable with you there. And Lydia asked about you. She would like a woman closer to her age to talk to at supper.”

  “I see.” She could feel her breaths coming more rapidly, her face heating up. “I don’t think I’d have much to add to the conversation.”

  Beau turned to face her fully. “I’m not asking.”

  His tone was unquestionably authoritative, but his eyes held a certain pleading, a sense of need. No matter how much she wanted to scream, “Forget it! I’d rather pull my hair out than try to entertain that peacock of a woman,” she couldn’t deny him this request disguised as an order.

  “All right. I’ll join you for supper, though…” She looked down at her dress and rubbed a hand along the worn fabric. “I don’t have much in the way of dinner dresses.”

  “I think you look fine without all that fancy garb.” He stepped closer, stopping just beyond arm’s reach. His eyes lingered on her face then dipped lower, quickly rising again to meet her gaze as though he had to force his attention to the proper place.

  Her cheeks burned so hot she wanted to dunk her head in the creek.

  Beau focused on his boots, cleared his throat and tightened his coat around himself. “Better get inside before you catch a chill.”

  He walked past the tree and out of her sight. Instead of wrapping her shawl tighter, she took it off, stepped to the creek, and dipped a corner of the crocheted material in the chilly water. She dabbed the coolness on her face and exhaled the breath she’d been holding. When he’d looked at her that way, she couldn’t help picturing his hands — those rugged, gentle fingers of his — pulling her close, touching her bare skin. And he was concerned with her taking a chill?

  She patted her cheeks with the wet cloth again and silently repented. Sorry Lord, if you’re listening, but taking a chill is the last thing on my mind.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Beau waited in the parlor with everyone else, dressed in his Sunday best, which felt odd for a Tuesday night. Even Pa was in fine feather in a clean, pressed shirt. He’d slicked down what was left of his gray hair, and he’d trimmed his beard. He rarely brought it up over the years, but Beau wondered why Pa never remarried. The only thing he’d ever say was that he had married the perfect woman once, so why bother trying again? He’d always been a good man that any lady would have been lucky to have, but now with Claire gone, Beau understood Pa’s decision. So why did Pa keep insisting his son get remarried? Was it possible he regretted never having done so himself, that the years of sleeping alone had been harder than he ever let on?

  He realized Portia was missing from their little pre-dinner gathering. She must have been helping in the kitchen. Maybe he’d been too harsh when he told her to join them for supper. Like most women, she worried about the adequacy of her clothing. Beau couldn’t care less about such things, so long as folks took time to be clean and presentable, and she’d managed that just fine. The last thing he wanted to do was to make her feel awkward or embarrassed.

  Lydia would be making her appearance soon for supper. He couldn’t believe how much she resembled Claire. Still, thoughts of marriage, even to his late-wife’s lookalike, tensed his muscles until they hurt. He rotated his shoulder to lessen the ache and poured a shot of whiskey.

  Ezra pointed his pipe at him. “A little early for that, ain’t it, Beauregard?”

  “Not at all.” Beau downed the whiskey and let out a breath as it blazed a trail down his throat.

  “She sure did turn out to be a pretty young lady,” Ezra said, waggling his bushy eyebrows as he took a puff of his pipe.

  “I’d say,” Harry agreed. He sat by Oliver on the settee, dressed in his own finery, bowtie included. He lit one of Oliver’s cigars and massaged his leg. The morning’s work had taken a toll on both of their old wounds.

  Oliver draped an elbow over the back of his seat and expelled a thick cloud of smoke. “I thought our door knocker would be worn down to a nub, she had so many suitors calling in Philly.” He looked pointedly at Beau. “I often had the unpleasant duty of turning them away. She refused most of them, and entertained a few others for only a brief moment. None of them fit her expectations.”

  Beau downed another shot.

  Lydia finally made her entrance, to the sound of Harry’s appreciative whistle, dressed to the nines in a gown of green brocade. Pinned up high, her blond hair bounced with a bouquet of perfectly formed curls. A string of pearls grazed the edge of her cleavage and complemented her ivory skin. Matching earrings swayed gently from her ears. Besides the curls, no trace remained of the little girl he remembered in this stunning woman.

  “My apologies for keeping you waiting, Beau. Lucy had a terrible time finding my jewelry. The box got lost among some of the other things.”

  “You’re forgiven.” He held out his arm, and she slid hers into the crook of his elbow. “You look lovely.”

  “Why, thank you. You look quite handsome yourself.”

  The way she smiled and tossed her head, yet another reminder of Claire, made Beau’s heart skip a beat. Lydia hugged his arm so tightly he could feel the warm pillow of her breast. He snapped to his senses and led her into the dining room.

  After helping Lydia get seated, he glanced around the room. Still no sign of Portia. Once Polly and Amelie were settled, he took his seat and drummed his fingers on his knees, trying to pay attention to something Lydia was saying about art.

  “…said I rivaled Delacroix. Now I don’t know about that, but I brought some with me…”

  Beau heard stirring from the kitchen. Portia entered with Bessie and Lucy to serve the meal.

  Moving stiffly, Portia avoided eye contact while she sat a plate of sliced bread and butter on the table’s center. She walked around to the sideboard and retrieved a butter knife.

  “Excuse me,” she said and reached between Oliver and Polly to place the knife on the breadboard.

  Beau didn’t know why she had been worried about her choice of attire. She looked just fine in a crisp clean white cotton dress with green vertical stripes. It fit her nicely and accentuated her slender figure. She’d braided her hair and coiled into a bun at the nape of her neck. No jewelry except for her wedding ring and a tarnished silver necklace and locket. Simple, yes, but pretty nonetheless.

  She met his gaze. He smiled and gave a little nod, hoping that would be enough to encourage her to stay.

  Oliver tucked his napkin neatly into his collar. “I sure have missed Bessie’s cooking. Is that her fried chicken I smell?”

  “Oh, you do go on, sir!” Bessie said with a chuckle. “Eat up now. Plenty more where that came from.”

  Bessie returned to the kitchen, while Lucy stood quietly by the sideboard in the corner closest to Oliver and Polly. Portia came back around the table. As she crossed behind his chair, Beau sighed into his water glass, sure she was heading back into the kitchen. Instead, she took the empty space between Harry and Jonny, who jumped up and helped her get seated.

  “Thank you, Jonathan,” she said, smiling at him. Portia focused on her napkin as she spread it across her lap.

  Jonny smiled and grabbed a piece of bread. Harry whispered something to her, at which she blushed. Beau set his glass down with a thump. She seemed to be warming up to Harry. Perfectly natural, he reasoned with himself �
� single man, widow woman — why not? But she’d only been there a couple weeks. Harry shouldn’t pressure her into courtship so soon.

  Lydia, to Beau’s right, smiled sweetly. “I’m so glad you could join us, Mrs. McAllister. Your dress is… charming. Stripes never go out of style. If I am correct, that particular gown would be a forties design, would it not?”

  “I believe so, since it belonged to my late mother,” Portia answered, though her tone was tense and uncertain.

  “My mother will tell you I have quite the eye for fashion, and have a collection of gowns from every decade of the century, and even a few from the century prior.”

  “She does,” Polly said, turning toward her daughter. She sat between Lydia and Oliver, blinking her sad eyes as she nodded.

  Aunt Amelie sat hunched in her chair beside Ezra at the other end of the table and stared him down. “Did you take my curtains?”

  Eyes wide, Ezra leaned away from her and shook his head. “No, ma’am. I can’t remember the last time I touched a curtain.” Half-grinning, he shook his head and looked at Beau.

  “Crazy old bat,” Oliver muttered. “She’ll be back at her place soon, and those niggers of hers can deal with her nonsense. I’ve listened to it for six years.”

  Beau cleared his throat, about to warn Oliver to hold his tongue around a lady, senile or not. But Amelie scratched at an invisible spot on her plate and didn’t seem to have heard a thing. No sense raising a fuss if she didn’t take offense.

  “Daddy, honestly,” Lydia chided then leaned toward Beau. Her peppermint-scented breath warmed his cheek. “She’s mostly deaf, poor thing. Not at all the formidable lady she once was.” Earrings swinging beneath her delicate ears, she quickly turned back to Portia. “Do you read Godey’s Lady’s Book? I can’t keep myself from perusing them, though some of the fashions are so outlandish.”

  “I have seen a few issues,” Portia said while she absently touched one of her own unpierced earlobes.

  Oliver downed his water in three gulps. “Not that again.” He held his glass up and shook it. Lucy immediately came over with a water jug and gave him a refill. Taking another sip, he smacked his lips as though testing the water’s quality, and set the glass down. “She could wallpaper an entire house with the pages from that silly magazine.”

  Lydia dismissed her father’s comment with a flick of her hand. “I’d be happy to let you borrow mine and perhaps we could even purchase new materials and piece together a new gown or two. I’m trying to better myself at sewing, since our economy is dreadful.”

  “As if she needs to save money,” Oliver said with a huff.

  “If I can spare the time,” Portia said, flicking her gaze to Oliver while she shifted in her seat. “Jonathan’s education is my priority.”

  “Well, of course! I wouldn’t want to separate him from his schooling.”

  “Best leave the discussions of economics and schooling to the men, my dear,” Oliver said. “Besides, our dinner is getting cold. I’d hate to waste it. Who wants to bless the meal?”

  “I will,” Ezra said.

  The meal was blessed, and everyone dug in. The dinner party spoke only a few words until seconds came around. Beau listened to the other men discuss politics and economics. The women talked about local gossip and charitable affairs. Portia, God love her, politely participated, but she clearly had no interest in all the babble. He appreciated her trying anyway. She attempted to engage Jonny in conversation now and then, but he only nodded or shrugged in response.

  Beau let the talk buzz around the room while everyone enjoyed dessert. He answered whenever necessary. In his head, he wrangled more practical matters, like estimating how much money he might get from Crazy Girl if he got her calmed down enough to sell. He wanted to give Portia her dues before she felt like a slave. Oliver might treat his help like they were less than human, but that wasn’t how it worked here. Before he could come up with a dollar figure, Oliver slapped the table in the middle of one of his political tirades, reminding Beau just how abrasive he could be.

  “By the grace of God, I managed not to lose everything in Philly, and then I come back here and get taxed to death. Soon they’ll be taxing the air we breathe, mark my words!”

  Harry adjusted his bowtie and laughed. “The only way to pay for our mess is with taxes, unless you want to jump out there with a hammer yourself.”

  Lydia giggled, and Harry threw her a wink before digging into a second helping of apple pie.

  Clearly not amused, Oliver wagged a finger at the ceiling like he reprimanded God himself. “I have been inconvenienced, I tell you. We are lucky to not have had to pay to reclaim our property. I only managed that because I left here before the damn war started and declared my loyalty to the Yankees. We had to in order to live among them. But now look, I’m out fifty dollars a week to fix the damage done, when I had perfectly good Negroes at my service before this travesty of justice.”

  “We lost people, too,” Beau said, smirking. “You aren’t the only one… suffering.”

  Unperturbed by Beau’s sarcasm, Oliver propped his elbows on the table and thrust his shrewd gaze at everyone as he spoke. “Can you believe one of them had the nerve to have a letter dictated and sent to me, demanding wages for time served, and the balance for the injustice he was entitled to? Regular satirist, that one. Or rather his Yankee translator. Son of a…” Oliver sat back and pounded his fist on the table. Dishes rattled. “I know for a fact that Negro couldn’t read when he ran off. He was too lazy to do much but eat me out of house and home. Why would he bother to learn to read or write?”

  He has some nerve, spewing that filth here at my table. Beau yanked his napkin from his collar and threw it onto his plate. “Maybe he knew a lot more than you think he did.”

  “Damn Yankees couldn’t leave well enough alone. They’re hell bent on making this a colored nation, and you can see what’s come of it.” Oliver pointed his fork at Portia. “That poor woman’s husband would still be here, and so would my niece if it weren’t for them.”

  Beau glanced at Portia, who clenched her locket and stared down at her uneaten food. Under the table, he gripped his knees so hard it hurt. Had the ladies not been present, he would have said exactly what he thought of Oliver Clemons.

  “Daddy, please,” Lydia protested with a pretty pout. “Let’s not ruin the evening for everyone with such depressing talk. Think about our friends back in Philadelphia who were nothing but hospitable to us.”

  “I’m speaking truth, young lady. We had to consort with them to survive.” He glared at Beau. “We didn’t throw our lots in willingly like some people here.”

  Beau looked away, and it took every ounce of willpower he had to hold his tongue. Harry wasn’t so censored and muttered, “Bullshit,” under his breath.

  Ezra shook his head at Harry and smiled at Oliver, but he had that fire in his eyes that used to put the fear of God into Beau before a good whipping. He struck the tabletop with the butt of his pie fork, drawing everyone’s attention. No one even so much as twitched, as they waited for Ezra Stanford to have his say.

  He let his gaze meander from one captive audience member to the next. “I wouldn’t complain so much if I was you. I mean, look at that jacket of yours. That’d pay for ten hired men’s wages for a month, and look at me — my suspenders are so threadbare, I’m about to lose my drawers.” He pulled out his suspenders and snapped them against his belly, prompting a giggle from Lydia, but no one else made a sound. Ezra’s voice took on the authoritative tone he’d handed down to his son. “I think we’re all capable of being civil at the dinner table, aren’t we?”

  Oliver slowly wiped the corners of his sneering lips, tucked his napkin back into his shirt, and picked up his fork. Beau breathed a little easier when he turned his glare from Ezra back to his dinner plate.

  One by one, the rest of them finished dessert. He’d lost his appetite by then, but Beau was grateful for Ezra’s attempt to lighten the mood. Without him there
, things would have likely gotten out of hand.

  With a wary glance at her father, Lydia tried to divert Portia’s attention back to their end of the table. “Mother and I want to start an organization here to help widows and orphans. We did something similar in Philadelphia, but this is our home town, you see, so we feel even more obliged.”

  Aunt Amelie cupped her ear toward Lydia and yelled, “Who died?”

  Lydia sighed and closed her eyes briefly before continuing, “Would you be interested in helping us sew garments or knit socks? Anything at all would be of great service.”

  “Indeed,” Polly said, smiling indulgently at her daughter.

  “I’ll do what I can,” Portia answered. “But like I said earlier, my teaching must take precedence.”

  “Teaching is such an admirable profession, if you have the patience for it. But I’m sure you’re much more agreeable than the governesses I had. Hampton’s finishing school did much more for me than those strict old disciplinarians.”

  “A fine education is a blessing and privilege.”

  “I agree, and new schools are opening everywhere, even for the colored children. The Freedmen’s Bureau is seeing to that.”

  Oliver belted out a sarcastic laugh. “Don’t get me started on the Freedmen’s Bureau. Giving land and literacy to Negroes who don’t even know what to do with it.”

  Bessie entered from the kitchen. She wore a deep frown but cleared the plates along with Lucy, who showed no emotion whatsoever. God only knew why she and Tipp stayed on with Oliver. He probably had them under contract, with the threat of impossible fines, imprisonment, or worse if they broke it. He’d heard talk of such shady activities before, but had hoped they were rumors.

  Beau opened his mouth to suggest the women retreat to the parlor so they wouldn’t hear the foul language he was about to throw at his late wife’s uncle. But then he saw Portia’s face. Oh, dear Lord.

  Cheeks fiery red, she sat ramrod straight in her chair and glared right at the old fool. “If any child wants to learn to read, it is his or her right and should be encouraged.”