A Time for Everything

by Mysti Parker

“We could sell that fancy horse Lydia brought you.”

  “No one in Tennessee would give us what she’s worth. We’ve talked to Deputy Bandy. He’s lent me a couple men to patrol the place. Only trouble is, I’ve got to compensate them for their trouble. The little bit I had saved for Portia’s pay now has to go to them. So no, Harry — you’re not selling my stock, and you won’t pilfer through the house this time either. This one’s on you.”

  Eyes wild and scared as a deer in a hunter’s sights, Harry nodded. “I’ll put my calves up for sale on Market Day. They’ll bring enough.”

  “And until then?”

  “I’ll sell the flintlock.”

  Muddled as Harry’s mind was, Beau never thought he’d let go of the only thing he had left of his father. The house he’d grown up in had sold for lumber long ago, the land long since parceled out. He’d kept very few mementos of his dead parents, and most of those he’d already sold for one reason or another. But that pistol he’d kept shut away in a special case he’d handcrafted himself. It was the sole resident of a shelf above the head of Harry’s bed. He never spoke of his folks, but Harry’s memories were tied up in that Revolutionary War artifact passed down through generations of Franklin men.

  Beau looked at the dummy in the cart and spat on the ground. “You should keep it.”

  “What do you expect me to do, then? I ain’t got anything else.” Harry sounded sober and helpless, his voice sharp with desperation. “I’ve never had anything much to my name, so what’s one gun?”

  Underneath the self-pity, Harry’s shame came through loud and clear. Most folks would have thrown him out a long time ago. But blood or not, they were brothers. Beau didn’t abandon him on the battlefield, and his conscience wouldn’t let him abandon him now. He’d provide a roof over his head, but he had to make Harry face his own problems and deal with them.

  “Fine, do it tomorrow. Now, get your ass in the house and sleep it off.”

  Harry scowled— probably feeling more sorry he’d been caught than for what he did — and walked to the house. Quietly, he climbed up the steps and went inside. The note skittered across the drive in the midnight breeze. Beau caught it with his boot, dug his heel into it and tried to smash it from existence. But the proverbial threats were already planted in his mind.

  To Mr. Franklin: The rich rules over the poor, and the borrower is the slave of the lender. Slaves who won’t repay their debts are no good to their masters. You have one week.

  He got in the driver’s seat of the cart and hauled the thing into the fallow field he couldn’t afford to sow and set it on fire. Flames danced, eating through the fabric and crackling the hay stuffing. Smoke curled ever upward, polluting a perfect night sky sprinkled with silver stars.

  Hands in his pockets, he stared blindly at the inferno. His conscience slumped under the Atlas-sized burden of protecting his family. He wouldn’t sleep again tonight.

  ~~~~

  Church service the next morning was more circus than sermon with the Clemons family back in town. In a way, Portia was glad to have the gossipmongers off her back and swarming around Lydia instead. Yet a twinge of envy gnawed at her, especially with Beau standing at Lydia’s side, graciously accepting the town’s approval. Everyone expected the two would soon be engaged.

  It shouldn’t have bothered her in the least, but… the crowd and chatter were too suffocating. The weather wasn’t great — with chilly air and drizzling rain — but anywhere was better than inside. And though Beau had assured them over breakfast that everyone would be safe, the prior day’s incident still plagued her senses. Portia made her exit around the crowd and waited outside near the carriage. Someone touched her shoulder from behind, and she jumped.

  “Sorry to startle you,” Harry said. “You all right?”

  “I’m fine. Just a little crowded in there.”

  “With the richest family in Lebanon back in town, it’s no wonder. You’re really pretty today.”

  “Thank you.” Why did Harry’s compliments always make her want to wrinkle her nose? He’d been nothing but kind to her, handsome to boot. Any other woman in her position would have probably welcomed the attention.

  “Say, why don’t we take a walk around the square while we’re waiting for the excitement to die down?” He offered his arm and winked.

  Portia glanced toward the church, still crowded with spectators dying to get a glimpse of Lebanon’s most-talked-about couple. “Sure, why not?”

  Harry led her across the square, down a sidewalk by the general store, and around the corner down a narrow alley. They ended up at a little bridge over Barton Creek where it ran through town. Portia looked over the rail, catching flashes of minnows as they schooled together in the shallows. She sucked in a breath when Harry touched her cheek.

  He gently lifted her chin and turned her head toward him. “Beau’s lucky. He managed to snag two wealthy, beautiful women.”

  She arched one eyebrow. If he had meant to brighten her spirits, he sure picked a strange choice of words. Averting her eyes from Harry’s heartfelt expression, she turned her head, but he guided her back until she faced him again.

  “But I’m luckier,” he said, cupping her cheek and moving in until they were just a breath apart. “I found you.”

  Just as his lips brushed hers, she heard someone running toward them.

  Portia pulled back, putting a hand on Harry’s chest to ensure some distance. “We have to go.”

  Before he could say anything, Jonny came into sight. He threw up a hand in greeting, and relief flooded through her veins, competing with her confusing guilt for hurting Harry again. She wished she knew how she felt about him so she wouldn’t be the cause of such pain in his eyes. But she didn’t.

  They reached the front of the church as the crowd dispersed. Beau helped Lydia into the Clemons’s fine coach. He looked up just as Portia and Harry were about to pass by him on the way to the less-fine buggy. He caught her in his steady gaze as he watched their progression. Goose pimples pricked across her skin, followed by a strange ache in her chest.

  Tamp it down; don’t raise eyebrows. She forced herself to look straight ahead and let Harry help her into the buggy, where Jonny and Ezra had already claimed the front seat. She took one last look over her shoulder to see Beau climbing in beside Lydia. Gritting her teeth, she let Harry hold her hand while Ezra flicked the reins. She would not allow her heart to go where it had no business going.

  ~~~~

  Back at the house, after lunch, everyone gathered in the parlor. Harry sat beside Portia on the settee, chatting with Ezra and Oliver, who acted like an almost-civil gentleman, except for the occasional obnoxious quip. Harry kept his arm draped across the top of the seat; his fingers brushed her shoulder now and then, but Portia resisted the urge to flee. She couldn’t bear his hurt puppy-dog expression again today. His attempts at courtship were not mean-spirited, but all this flirtation and mixed emotion had taken her to a new and awkward territory. She would have to figure out what to say to him before she confronted him one way or another.

  Amelie nodded off by the fire, emanating gentle snores from her drooped head. Polly sat in the window seat and worked on an embroidery sampler, glancing at Lydia and Beau. The couple sat in the corner, laughing about some story from the past.

  Harry’s wandering hand found a piece of her fallen hair and wound it around his finger. Ezra’s bushy eyebrows lifted, and he cleared his throat.

  Portia sat up enough to untangle herself and addressed Polly. “Mrs. Clemons, do you miss Philadelphia?”

  Polly looked up with her hound dog eyes and sighed. “I always had something to occupy my time there. Socials and opera, that sort of thing. And our son Charles and his wife had our first grandchild and are expecting another.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “Charles runs the business there now. I suppose it will take some time to reacquaint ourselves to the slower pace here.” She turned her sad eyes to her daughter. “Lydia has
always wished to return, and we want to see her happy and settled.”

  To be uprooted for the sake of a daughter’s wishes seemed like an unnecessary sacrifice. Yet, from her short time as a mother, Portia understood how one’s world could revolve around a child. She regarded the couple in question.

  Lydia reached across the little table and took Beau’s hands in hers. “The sun is coming out — it looks like a fine afternoon for a ride. What do you say?”

  Beau glanced out the window. “I suppose, but there’ll be mud.”

  Lydia waved her hand at him. “That’s what my plain riding habits are for. Lucy!” At the servant’s appearance, she added, “Can you fetch my gray riding habit? And the black boots? Not the high heeled ones, though. I’d rather not get stuck in the mud, though I’m sure Beau would rescue me.”

  With that last bit, she winked at him. Portia squirmed in her seat as Lydia turned her way.

  “Do you ride, Mrs. McAllister?”

  “Not much, but I’ve been getting some fine lessons.” She smiled down at Jonny, where he played with his marbles on the rug. He didn’t look at her, but the corners of his mouth turned up for a brief moment.

  “Pity. I have two plain riding habits, and you are welcome to borrow one.” She touched the edge of her dress right above her ample cleavage and added, “Though it would have to be taken in, especially in the chest. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go change.”

  “I’ll be waiting.” Beau said.

  The nerve of that… Anger burned her cheeks, while she slumped to hide her lacking assets.

  He turned to Portia. “You all right?”

  She forced herself to regain her straight posture. “I’m fine, why do you ask?”

  Something flashed in his eyes that made her feel less ashamed, maybe even pretty, before he hid it with a neutral smile. “How are the lessons going?”

  “Fine, except for the gelding I’ve been riding.”

  Beau sat forward, brow creased in concern. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Forgive my bluntness, but riding that horse is like pouring cold molasses from a jar.”

  “Really?” Beau chuckled but looked relieved. “He’s the gentlest one we have. But I think I know why he’s being so hesitant.”

  Warmth climbed her neck and gathered in her cheeks, but she sat on the edge of her seat, ready for the challenge. “Why is that?”

  “My son can hardly keep his eyes open at supper. The poor horse is afraid you’ll work him to death.”

  Amelie snorted herself awake. “Who’s Beth?”

  Beau’s hearty laughter filled the room, while Ezra cackled and slapped his knee. Portia found herself laughing along, too. Everyone else looked at them like they were crazy, except for Oliver, who sneered at them through his cigar smoke.

  Clearing her throat, she said primly, “I promise to be gentle.”

  Beau’s warm smile thawed the awkward atmosphere, and she wanted to bask in it a little longer. But this sort of familiarity could raise a few eyebrows if they weren’t careful. As if he realized this too, Beau resumed his straight-faced expression when Lydia came back downstairs and fetched him moments later.

  The mood turned awkward again as soon as they left, and she didn’t want to be subjected to Oliver’s scrutiny, so Portia excused herself and headed upstairs to her room. Through the window, she watched Beau and Lydia, walking arm in arm toward the stable. Spoiled and materialistic she might be, but what man wouldn’t want her? Not only was she beautiful, but the money she would bring to their union must be especially tempting to a man struggling to make ends meet.

  Portia pulled herself from the view and opened the top dresser drawer. She picked up Jake’s tintype. When they were married, money wasn’t a concern, though they’d never had much of it. They grew and made most of what they needed. All that changed when the first shot at Sumter was fired. With everything in short supply, taken at will to feed both invading armies, money became the only sure ticket to survival.

  With nothing to her name, Portia realized how undesirable she must be, especially for a man like Beau. Her mouth twitched as she stared down at Jake’s pretend stern face. She never had cause to compare herself to anyone before. Jake had been her one and only, and she had been his. They were going to grow old together and watch their grandchildren scamper across the yard from the comfort of their front porch rocking chairs. That dream now lay scattered in her memories like the dust of a summer draught.

  She hugged Jake’s picture to her chest and whispered, “I miss you.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Monday morning flew by as Portia and Jonny studied the metaphors behind Shakespeare’s plays. She hadn’t planned on going into such in-depth topics, but Jonny kept proving to be the brightest student she had ever encountered. The challenge of challenging him made her eager to wake up and start each school day. It felt beyond good to look forward to a new day for a change.

  Of course, now that he had let down his guard, he proved to be a typical boy who’d rather go fishing or riding than sit in a classroom. After some moaning and groaning on Jonny’s part, he perked up when they turned to Hamlet.

  “What metaphors do you hear in this one?” Portia asked before quoting what might be Hamlet’s most famous lines.

  “To be, or not to be; that is the question:

  Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer

  The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

  Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

  And, by opposing, end them.”

  Chin in hand, he pondered this awhile and then answered tentatively, his voice halting as he composed the right words. “I think the metaphor is war or fighting… Hamlet’s upset with all the troubles in his life — that’s the sea… The slings and arrows are him being hurt by all of it… and he can’t decide whether he ought to just live with it or fight back.”

  “Very good. Can you come up with your own metaphors in a short paragraph?”

  He shrugged, turning wistful eyes to the sunny day outside the window. With a long sigh, he picked up his pencil and chewed on the tip of his tongue as he wrote. After a few stops, starts, and scratching out discarded words in place of better ones, he slid the paper toward Portia.

  She read it silently. Pa saw how the chains of slavery held people like animals. Their sadness speared his heart and hurt him real bad. He hoped the chains would be loosened without fighting, but he saw it wasn’t meant to be. So he picked up his gun and fought against injustice.

  Portia’s lip quivered as she laid the paper back on the desk. For years, she’d been amazed by the insight of children, but this was almost more than her heart could bear. Despite Beau’s distant behavior, Jonny’s admiration and respect for his father was undeniable. His understanding of why his father went to war, even if Beau’s real intentions weren’t so pure, made her question everything. Why did Jake fight for the Confederates when he didn’t like how slaves were treated? Why would Beau consider marriage to a former slave owner? What point in her own life did she stop thinking like a child — seeing the good in people, seeing a clear division between right and wrong? She had to dab her eyes to keep the tears from falling.

  Jonny touched her hand. “Po? Did I write something bad?”

  “No, sweet boy. You wrote something beautiful.”

  A rustle near the door drew her attention. Sallie Mae disappeared behind the doorframe as soon as Portia spotted her.

  “Sallie Mae,” Portia said as gently as possible, “would you like to come in?”

  Her little head appeared in the doorway again, eyes wide and uncertain. She nodded.

  “Come in. Have a seat.”

  She did as requested and perched on the window seat. Her bare brown feet dangled a few inches from the ground. She hugged a cloth doll under her chin and smiled, revealing a gap where two front teeth had been.

  “How old are you, Sallie Mae?”

  “Eight.”

  “We were just doing a
little reading and writing. Would you like to join in?”

  Sallie Mae sighed down at her doll. “I can’t read much, ma’am.”

  “I see. You’re welcome to sit and listen in, if you’d like.”

  “I’d like that, if I ain’t in the way too much.” She lifted her head, and Portia immediately recognized the look in her bright, eager eyes. Here sat a child who craved knowledge, one who would, if given the chance, take what she learned and do great things with it.

  Portia laughed and gestured around the study. “You won’t be in the way in this big old room.” Sallie Mae giggled at that, and Portia added, “Would you like to learn to read?”

  The little girl nodded emphatically, and of course, the challenge posed so cruelly by Oliver Clemons came to the forefront of Portia’s mind. More importantly, though, she would be teaching a child to read, opening up a whole new world for her.

  Lucy stepped in the room, keeping her voice quiet but harsh. “Sallie Mae! What you doin’ in here, child? Get back in the kitchen!”

  “Yes, mama.” She scooted off the window seat and ran out behind her mother.

  “I’m terrible sorry, ma’am,” Lucy said, sounding exasperated. “She won’t bother you no more.”

  Portia stood and came closer to Lucy, noticing a purplish welt under the young woman’s eye. Best not to mention it now. She pretended not to notice and kept her voice light and joyful. “She’s no bother at all. Actually, I was wondering how you would feel about letting her sit in on Jonathan’s lessons for an hour or so each day?”

  Lucy shook her head. “No, ma’am, I couldn’t have you teachin’ her like that, not interruptin’ Mr. Stanford’s son and all.”

  “She wants to learn to read, and I’d love the opportunity to teach her. But I won’t proceed unless I have yours and Mr. Stanford’s permission.”

  Crossing her arms, Lucy bit her lip and sighed. “She knows her letters, ma’am, and can read a little. But Tipp and me, we can’t read much more than she can. I’d love her to do better than that, but I don’t want nobody gettin’ upset about it.”