A Time for Everything

by Mysti Parker

  Portia feigned indignation. “And what of our lessons, Mr. Stanford? We are discussing the riveting Magna Carta and its contribution to constitutional law.”

  Beau laughed. “When we need a good nap, we’ll be sure to return and be lulled into sleep.”

  She turned up her nose and harrumphed. But she couldn’t hide the joy on her face.

  From the front porch, she watched them leave. Jonny sat on one of the saddle horses, and Beau on Scout, fishing poles bouncing on their shoulders. Lydia came around the side of the house with a gardener just then, pointing at bushes and flower beds and talking a mile a minute. The poor gardener hastily scribbled on a notebook, trying to keep up with her orders.

  Before Beau and Jonny got too far, Beau turned back, rode up to the porch and removed his hat. His face — relaxed and happy — reminded Portia of the man she had seen in the photograph on her first day there.

  He put his hat to his chest, and with a quick bow of his head, he said, “Thank you, Po, for everything.”

  After Beau rode off, Lydia tore her ferocious glare from Portia and directed all her wrath on the gardener, yelling, “I don’t care if it’s not the right climate for delphiniums. You’re the plant expert. Figure out how to make them grow!”

  Portia hid her smile as she retreated inside. She lived on Beau’s words the rest of the day, but she felt sorry for that gardener.

  She couldn’t help worrying about her brother, though. Harry and Samuel had become quite the pair, working on the farm together, heading into town in the afternoons and playing cards in the evening. Portia wasn’t sure how she should feel about that, but at least Harry didn’t pursue her anymore, and Samuel seemed happy to have a friend.

  Friday after lunch, she sat with Sam on the front porch for a little while. Rain poured down from a juvenile cloud — one of many that provided scattered showers that day. They both rested their heads on the backs of the rockers, enjoying the momentary solitude and soft shushing of the rain.

  “Harry says you’re in love with Beau,” Sam said, shattering their peaceful silence.

  Portia stopped rocking, sat up straight, and looked around them. Luckily no one was visible, and hopefully no one was in earshot. “Don’t say such things, Sam, not out here in the open like this.”

  “I’ve seen you look at him. You used to get all googly eyed over Jake like that when we was youngins.”

  She gave another quick scan of their surroundings. No one else stirred. She sighed and slumped back into her rocking chair. Just above a whisper, she turned her head toward Sam and asked, “Is it that obvious?”

  “Is a frog’s ass watertight?”

  She chuckled. “Got me. But it doesn’t matter what I feel. He’s marrying Lydia Clemons.”

  “Then I oughta wring his neck for you.” He actually sounded angry, unusual for the Sam who never took things seriously.

  “While the sentiment’s flattering, that’s not necessary. Besides, he doesn’t have a choice in the matter.”

  “Why not? She got his balls held hostage or something?”

  She had to laugh at that one, but she realized she couldn’t tell Sam all the details. “It’s a long story. Have you found work yet?”

  “Ain’t much to be had around here, Po. I think we should consider going to Nashville. Should be easier to find a job there. I could put us up in a boarding house until we get enough saved up to find our own place. You could probably find a better teaching job, too, one that actually pays.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” Much as she hated to admit it, no matter how much she loved this house and no matter how much she loved Beau, Jonny, Ezra, Bessie, Isaac, and Sallie Mae, she didn’t belong there. Their lives were meant to flow along different courses.

  She reached across the space between her and her little brother and took his hand. He squeezed hers in return and gave her a reassuring smile. At least she had Sam.

  ~~~~

  At dinner that night, Beau had somehow managed to avoid Lydia’s company and joined them. Samuel and Harry were late to the table, stumbling in while laughing about something. They plopped in their chairs and started digging in.

  Portia stared in disbelief. “Samuel Joseph Sullivan! Are you drunk?”

  “Not nearly as much as I’d like to be.” He scratched his beard and snickered.

  Harry chomped down on some potatoes, cheek rounded out like a chipmunk, and grinned at Beau, who looked like he could strangle him then and there.

  Samuel tried to take Portia’s hand, and she snatched it away. “Look, sis, I ain’t had a drink in months. Harry and I are just havin’ a little fun.”

  “You could have been here working, like the rest of us.”

  He didn’t seem fazed by that and gulped down his water. “Guess who I met?”

  Portia sighed. “I give up. Who?”

  “Aw, you’re no fun. I met an Irishman, some fella who wants to teach colored children.”

  Drunk or not, everyone paused to listen.

  Samuel continued, “I told him my sister’s a teacher and that she’s teachin’ a little colored kid.”

  “Jonny, get upstairs.” Beau waited for the boy to leave the room and then slammed his fist on the table. “What kind of a fool are you? You can’t talk like that in public — think about your sister, for God’s sake!”

  Beau’s outburst both surprised and flattered Portia. He must have felt something for her if he was that worried about her safety.

  “I am thinkin’ about my sister.” Sam turned to Portia, looking decidedly sober. “The man says they’re lookin’ for teachers to work in their new colored school and he’s real interested in meetin’ you. He says they got a nice one bein’ built in Nashville. And they pay good, Po. Better than what you’re gettin’ here.”

  With that last jab, he stared right at Beau, who spoke quietly, but firmly. “I’ve given her all I can. I don’t see you doing any better, out getting drunk instead of working like a real man should.”

  Portia tried to calm her brother by putting a hand on his chest, but Samuel threw his napkin down on his plate and yelled, “A real man would have figured out a way to be with my sister instead of givin’ in to a spoiled little bitch!”

  Beau stood up so fast he knocked his chair to the floor. He left the room without a word. Ezra shook his head and followed him out.

  “How could you?” Portia said to her brother, not caring that Harry was still there, enjoying the show.

  “It’s the truth and you know it,” Sam said, pointing his finger at her face.

  “Truth or not, you have no business coming here just to dally around town all day, get drunk, and then disrespect the man who’s letting you stay here for free. You haven’t changed, Samuel. Not in the least.”

  She pushed away from the table and headed for the door.

  “Come on, sis, I didn’t mean it. I just want you to be happy, that’s all.”

  “Really? Well, you have a lousy way of showing it. Enjoy your dinner, both of you. I’m going to bed.”

  She reached the stairs and heard Harry calling out with feigned innocence, “Night, Po…”

  Though she hated herself for thinking it, part of her wished Samuel had never returned.

  Portia abandoned any hope of sleeping after lying there watching the moon rise and listening to the crickets sing. She got up, quietly opened her door, and padded barefoot down the hall. First, she checked on Jonny. He lay on his back, arm hanging off the bed, snoring softly. Smiling, she eased his door shut and tiptoed down the stairs.

  May had granted them some very agreeable weather, and the nights were splendid — comfortably cool with gentle breezes. Perfect for clearing the mind. And right now her mind dwelled on what Samuel told her about the Irishman. Nashville wasn’t more than a rock’s throw from there, but it might as well have been a world away.

  Silently as she could, she stepped onto the front porch and stopped short. The silhouette of a man sat at the top of the steps. It took her only a mo
ment to realize it was Beau.

  He turned and smiled. “Can’t sleep either, huh?”

  “No.”

  He patted the space beside him, and she sat, drawing her knees up to her chin and pulling her gown over her legs.

  “Samuel was right,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “About me.”

  She shook her head. “No, he wasn’t. You’re doing what you think is right.”

  “Am I? Or am I taking the selfish way out? If I marry her, I’ll get Lucy and Tipp freed and…” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll also get out of debt. I don’t know which one of those really matters most to me.”

  He locked eyes with her. A storm of grief darkened his face, like his honesty could make her hate him forever. Portia wanted so badly to wrap her arms around him, but she hugged her knees instead.

  “Then tell me something…” She was afraid to ask, but the question dangled between them like a loose thread. “…would you still have married her if Lucy and Tipp didn’t need help?”

  Taking a deep breath, he ran a hand through his hair. “No. I admit, when she first arrived, it was tempting — she looked so much like Claire, I couldn’t help… you know… looking at her.” He glanced at Portia with a shameful smile. “But it didn’t take long to see she resembled Claire in looks alone. They both came from money, but Claire was the kindest, most unselfish woman I had ever known. She fit into fine society, but she wasn’t bound to it, and she wasn’t ruined by it. No, Lydia’s nothing like Claire, and she’s nothing like you.”

  Portia swallowed hard and stared up at the moon. “I’ll be fine. I’ve survived this long, haven’t I? As long as Jonny’s happy, I’ll be fine.”

  “No one’s gonna take my son from me. Not over my dead body.”

  “That’s all I need to hear.”

  He was quiet for a while before he said, “You should take that job in Nashville. No one would be better suited for it, and… you’ll be safer there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Staring into the darkened distance, his eyes flashed and jaw clenched with anger. “I didn’t want to worry you, but Oliver threatened to hurt everyone I love if I don’t uphold my end of the contract.”

  “I’m not afraid of that snake.”

  He turned his head, locking his worried eyes on hers. “You should be. And I’m sorry I’m not man enough to do anything about it.” With a heavy sigh, he slumped onto his knees, head hanging low.

  His anguish squeezed her chest and brought tears to her eyes. She longed to touch him but didn’t know if it would make things better or worse, so she hugged her knees even tighter. “You are a good man, Beau Stanford. It’s Oliver and the war we have to blame for all this. We’re forced to make choices we never had to before. Sam and I will go to Nashville. We’ll find work and make a home there. You’ll marry Lydia and be happy again. She’ll give you more children, and Jonny will grow up to be a fine man. We will survive, Beau.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “I have to.”

  He reached over and picked up a lock of her hair, running his fingers gently along its length. “I wish…”

  Her heart raced — he was so close, just a breath away. “You wish what?”

  “That I could have kissed you just once.” He slowly let go of her hair and watched it fall over her shoulder.

  Her cheeks flamed, hidden only by the dimness of night. She knew kissing Beau Stanford was beyond a bad idea. It could only tear her heart into a million more pieces, but he was everything she admired in a man. Kind, honest… vulnerable. He had no reason to love her. She could bring nothing to their marriage. Yet there he was, confessing his love in the most tender, innocent way he could. For once in her life, she didn’t want to weigh and measure every decision in her path. She wanted to follow her heart.

  “If no one’s watching, then no one can care,” she whispered, letting go of her knees until her feet rested on the next step.

  Beau drew closer and lifted his hand to her chin, gently tilting it upward. Portia held her breath and closed her eyes as his lips gently met hers. She reached up and caressed his face, needing to feel his skin, his stubble, the strong jaw and square chin she’d come to love so much. The kiss was time-stopping and heartbreaking at the same time, like those she had once read about in fairy tales, like those she had once shared with Jake.

  He pulled away, but they held to one another, resting their foreheads together. It was a goodbye kiss, though neither of them had the heart to name it as such. Tears found their familiar paths down Portia’s cheeks, and Beau wiped them away with his thumbs.

  Finally, he let her go and stood. He held out his hand to help her up, when Harry came bursting out the door.

  “Oh God,” he cried. “It’s Sam. He’s… he’s not breathing.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  They ran after Harry and to his room beneath the stairs. Samuel lay prone on the floor beside the bed. Portia rushed to him and fell to her knees. His eyes were open, but vacant. Foamy liquid ran from his mouth. His lips were blue.

  “What happened to him?” Beau looked at Harry, who stood there shaking all over and biting down on his fist. He didn’t answer.

  “Sam, Sam, wake up!” Portia shook him. Leaning close to his face, she was still for a moment before moving her ear to his chest. She sat up again, shaking him harder, slapping his cheeks. “No, no, please wake up, please!”

  Beau dropped to his knees beside her and checked for a pulse on Sam’s neck. Nothing. He confirmed Portia’s fears with a shake of his head. She broke down with wracking sobs, and he gathered her in his arms.

  Wild-eyed Harry fisted his hair and frantically looked from Beau to Samuel. Then Beau spotted it — the green velvet box, lying open on Harry’s bed, and the syringe lying beside it. On Samuel’s arm was an innocent-looking red dot and a raised vein trailing from it.

  Holding Portia tight as she cried for her dead brother, he looked up at Harry and said, “Get out.”

  “Beau, I didn’t—”

  “I said get out!” Beau roared, scaring Portia into silence. “And don’t you ever show your face here again.”

  Harry grabbed the syringe, the box, and a bottle on the dresser and threw them in a bag along with some clothes. He gave Beau one last look over his shoulder — in his eyes a war raged between hatred, betrayal, and shame. Pa and Jonny stood in the doorway. They must have come to see what all the fuss was about. Harry shoved past them, almost knocking Pa over.

  The old man clutched the door frame to right himself and finally saw Samuel. “God help us.”

  ~~~~

  The clock struck half past midnight. Pa had taken Jonny to bed not long after it happened and had stayed with Portia until Beau could fetch the undertaker, who was down there now, preparing the body. Beau went to his bedroom and pulled one of Claire’s mourning dresses from his chest. He’d rather see Po in anything but this. The dress was well-made, of course, complete with matching veil, gloves, and feathered fan, but all the lace in the world couldn’t hide its purpose.

  Portia’s door was open, so he entered her room. She sat limply at her table. “You’re trembling.”

  He hung the mourning dress on the wardrobe. Then he came to her, knelt on one knee, and took her cold hands in his. He brought them to his mouth and blew warm air across her skin then rubbed vigorously.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “The undertaker is here. He brought a nice coffin and will have everything ready soon.”

  “But how can we…”

  “He owes me. Claire took care of his sick wife before she became ill herself.” He composed his breaking voice. “I brought you one of her mourning outfits.”

  She nodded and drew a shaky breath. Seeing her like this, so broken and sad, wounded him more than any bullet ever could.

  “I should have kicked Harry out a long time ago,” he said. “I knew he had a problem. I knew it would lead to
something like this. I thought it would be him, though, not…”

  “Shh, it’s not your fault.” She pulled her hands from his and wrapped her arms around his neck, holding to him in a cheek to cheek embrace.

  Beau held her gently, feeling her warm body trembling beneath her nightgown. He kissed her cheek, tasted her salty tears. She pulled her head back slightly, searching his eyes then pressed her lips to his. He froze for a moment then surrendered, pulling her tightly to him, kissing her as deeply as he could. She sighed and clung to him. He hoped with all his might that she took comfort from his touch. With his arms around her, he stood, bringing them both to their feet. Tangling his fingers in her hair, he cradled the nape of her neck in his palm and closed his eyes. God, he wanted her — all of her, and he needed her more every day. He needed her to be part of his life.

  But he couldn’t bring her brother back…

  Reluctantly withdrawing from their kiss, he kept her in his arms and held her against him. She laid her head against his chest. He rubbed her back, feeling the delicate curve of her spine, the hard angles of her shoulder blades. His eyes flitted around her room, and he knew he couldn’t keep holding her like that or they might do something they would both regret.

  Then his gaze landed on a picture. He’d never really been in Portia’s room long enough to notice anything specific. Those eyes… it must have been her late husband, but those eyes of his — stern, yet innocent — he knew those eyes. The memory had been locked away in his smoke-filled nightmares, hidden under grief.

  He had once looked into Jake McAllister’s eyes.

  He had watched him die.

  “Oh God, oh God…” Beau pushed himself away from Portia and stumbled out into the hall. He hit the opposite wall, gasping for breath.

  “Beau?” She followed him out and held his arms, trying to steady him. “What’s wrong?”

  She tried to look him in the eyes, but he couldn’t bear to see her questioning face. He couldn’t bear to tell her now… her brother’s body wasn’t even cold yet.