The Candle Star
Divided Decade Collection
by
Michelle Isenhoff
Copyright 2011
by Mchelle Isenhoff
Edited by Amy Nemecek
Cover image by D. Robert Pease
of www.walkingstickbooks.com.
All rights reserved.
Candle Star Press
MichelleIsenhoff.com
For Emily
Table of Contents
About the Divided Decade Collection
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8
9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14
15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20
bonus short: The Flight of Ezra Jones
Historical Note
Get the Divided Decade Collection Free
About the Author
Emblazon
Titles by Michelle Isenhoff
Detroit, 1858
Chapter 1
Emily Preston threatened to hate every moment of her holiday, but sometimes curiosity overcomes even the best of bad intentions. She had to relax her indifference, just for a moment. Palms pressed flat against the cool pane of glass, her blue eyes drank in the sea of buildings whizzing past.
Detroit surprised her. She was certain she’d find a shambling frontier town, but the city was studded with hundreds of tall, flat-topped buildings that looked as if they’d been nailed into the ground by a giant hammer and abandoned at different heights. Wide avenues rolled with respectable folk carried along in every possible kind of horse-drawn conveyance, their clatter muffled by the window. And as the train circled the city, Emily counted no fewer than twelve church spires.
Of course the town wasn’t as gracious as Charleston, back home in Carolina, with its stately old homes and picturesque harbor, but a yearling colt could hardly be compared with the noble lines of a full-grown stallion. Detroit had its own charm, a rough and vital energy that Emily could have found invigorating.
If she hadn’t been banished here.
“Miss Emily, it’s not proper, you squashin’ yo’ nose agains’ dat glass.”
Emily turned to the old black man with a haughty shrug. “It really doesn’t matter how I behave, Zeke. I don’t know anyone in this entire state.”
“Yo’ uncle be waitin’ fo’ you at de station, miss. You makes a good firs’ impression.”
“My uncle,” she snorted. “He’s lived here so long he’s probably as dull as the rest of these Yankees.” She raised her voice, stretching out each syllable like a string of maple syrup. “We’re practically on the frontier. Michigan’s only been in the Union for sixteen years. Why, I’m nearly as old as the state.”
She tossed her curls, pleased with the dark glances she was generating.
The old man gave her a stern look. “You’s fo’teen yeahs ol’, miss, not sixteen, and you minds yo’ mannahs.”
“Oh, Ezekiel,” she pouted, “if my uncle dislikes me, maybe he’ll send me home.”
She’d never been away from Ella Wood before, and leaving the beautiful plantation had perforated her heart with a thousand holes, like the side of the smokehouse her brother had riddled with buckshot. Her joy had gushed out all at once, and her confidence, so thick at home, was slowly seeping out and dripping off her toes with every step north.
She missed Ella Wood. She missed the lazy fields dotted with Thoroughbreds swishing their tails and grazing hock-deep in clover. She missed the shady smell of the forest that sprawled so thickly across the hills one nearly stepped on the game sheltered in its tangles. She missed the spectrum of the sunset above the rice fields, turning them russet, then purple, then black. She missed the liquid sound of music flowing from the slave cabins after dusk.
But that was all a million miles behind her now, lost in a moment of high spirits—a tantrum, her mother called it—that convinced her parents she needed a change of scenery and a firmer hand. So she’d been packed up and sent to her mother’s brother in Detroit.
They didn’t tell her the North was practically a different country, one that dispensed frowns of disapproval for traveling with an old slave. Nor did they mention the discomforts of railroad travel, the tasteless food, the terrible service. She’d just been tossed over the Mason-Dixon Line like a rabbit pitched into a kennel of hounds.
The track rounded a final bend and ended beside a busy waterfront littered with crates and barrels and coarse-looking dockhands. A score of ships lined the river, scratching heaven’s floorboards with their bobbing masts, waiting to take aboard the raw timber that rose up in towers beside the tracks.
Emily watched a dog dodge beneath a team of drays that stood ready to haul away the cargo being unloaded from a slumbering steamship. Beyond lay the murky green of the Detroit River, then the emerald plain of Canada.
The train shuddered and died, wheezing out a last breath of steam. Moments later, passengers poured from its belly, covering the platform like a brightly knitted afghan before ducking into the depot with its cinnamon-colored bricks.
“You keeps out o’ trouble till I fines our luggage, Miss Emily,” Zeke admonished as he joined the throng.
Emily remained seated until the crush in the aisle disappeared. Through the window, she watched the whirl of people mixing and merging and sorting themselves out. Loved ones called to each other and embraced, and in the most crowded moment she felt a powerful sting of loneliness. But she adjusted her hat, securing both the headpiece and her courage, and stepped off the train.
The yard reeked of grease, coal smoke, horse manure and fish, but she eagerly stretched her legs. From some distance on the river, the whistle of a steamship warbled in the breeze. All around her, the city throbbed with its own importance. Conversations flitted about like barn swallows, and a busy clop-clop testified to daily commerce taking place beyond the depot. Overhead, the sky shone as blue as the eyes of the china doll on her bed at home, and the cheery autumn sun poured down gold at her feet in welcome.
A hatless man approached dressed in a cheap, brown suit. It was unbuttoned and flapped in the breeze he created as he strode toward her. His necktie was skewed, and his forehead spilled over with a riot of dark curls that he brushed at absently and ineffectually. “Emily Preston,” he hailed.
She eyed him distastefully. Had her uncle sent this buffoon to meet her?
“Yes, I am Miss Preston,” she answered curtly.
Amusement hinted in the crinkle of his eyes. “Oh, it wasn’t a question. You’re the only Southern belle on the platform. And a Milford through and through, I’ll add.”
Irritating Yank. She pulled herself up to her full height and gave him a scathing look. “Manners die out north of Richmond, I’ve noticed.”
The man bent in a sweeping bow. “Miss Preston,” he said, smiling openly now, “I’m pleased to meet you. I am your uncle, Isaac Milford.”
She gaped at him. “You can’t be!”
He threw back his head and laughed. “I assure you, I can. Were you expecting someone else?”
She bristled. “I was expecting someone more like my mother.”
“Ah,” he replied with a lift of his eyebrows. “Someone refined and gentle and polite. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but my sister and I inherited very few of the same qualities. You’ll have to settle for blunt, tactless and stubborn. Thoroughly insufferable, I’m afraid.”
Perfect. At least he fit nicely into the theme of her trip.
Ezekiel approached just then carrying her carpetbag and his own small valise. Two sturdy railroad workers trailed behind him bearing her iron-bound steamer trunk between them.
Isaac thumped the black man heartily on the back. “Zeke, it’s good to see you. How long has it been, fifteen years?”
The old slave grinn
ed, revealing his few remaining teeth. “Long about dat, I ‘spects. Marse Isaac, you sho’ looks fine all growed up.”
Isaac chuckled. “Perhaps, considering the loose-kneed, gangly kid you remember. Well, come along, you two. My rig is parked out front.”
The “rig” was a large, open carriage. Harnessed before it stood two hacks of indeterminate breeding, one gray, one sorrel. The workers hefted the trunk onto the vehicle’s rear-facing seat, and Emily and Zeke settled across from it.
Isaac climbed onto the driver’s bench. “All set?”
Taking her shrug as an affirmative, he flicked the reins over the backs of the mismatched team. Emily vowed disinterest, but when the huge mills and dockside warehouses merged into rows of storefronts aproned in brightly colored awnings, her traitorous curiosity got the best of her again.
They jogged around a corner and found themselves in the middle of an outdoor marketplace. The road broadened to twice its normal width, and in its center stood two long, low, open-air structures filled with vendors and their wares. In one glance, Emily took in a load of golden squash, a wagon displaying needlework and home-canned produce, a crate of squawking hens, and three barrels of apples, each of a different color.
“This is Central Market,” Isaac informed them. “Michigan Avenue runs straight out to the countryside. Makes it convenient for the farmers to haul their goods to town.”
Next, they turned onto a wide avenue hedged with storefronts. Some of the buildings rose up five or six stories, with giant letters between each row of windows spelling out their business. Others boasted only two or three floors, with living quarters on the uppermost and gabled peaks above. All stood with shoulders crammed together so tightly a hand couldn’t have passed between them.
“We’re almost home,” Isaac called out, rounding one last corner.
Moments later they pulled up in front of an old brick house skirted with a gray porch and set back from the road. A row of brilliant mums grew before it like lace edging on the bottom hem of a dress. In the exact center of the building’s face sat a red door, with two windows on either side and matching windows above. The gravel drive curved into the backyard, and the front lawn boasted a sign with “River Street Inn” painted in letters as curly as the locks on her uncle’s forehead.
Emily read the sign a second time. A hotel? Her uncle lived in a hotel? How had her parents forgotten to mention this tiny detail?
Isaac must have read her confusion. He explained with some pride, “This used to be a private residence, but I remodeled it into an inn. It earns me a decent living.” He offered Emily a hand down. “I hope you will consider it your home during your stay. It’s no Russell House, but there are those who’ve said it’s comfortable.”
Emily scanned the building with keen disapproval, like a judge about to sentence a felon. “I suppose it would do if one was used to primitive accommodations.”
Her uncle seemed to struggle with a twitch that pulled up one corner of his mouth. “I’m glad you’re here, Emily. I’ve been looking forward to this opportunity to get to know my only niece.”
And that’s when her plan formed. The idea had nudged her on the train, but only now did she see the possibilities. She would make him regret that he had ever met her. She’d make herself so obnoxious and hateful that he wouldn’t be able to endure her—and he would send her home!
Chapter 2
“I’m really very tired,” Emily said curtly. “I’d like to be shown to my room.”
“Of course.” Isaac opened the front door. In a glance, she took in a spacious lobby with several chairs scattered across a floral carpet. A wide fireplace climbed the wall between two windows on her left, and to the right sprawled a large desk where hotel business was conducted. An office was visible behind it through the open top of a Dutch door.
Just past the desk, her uncle led her through a second door that opened into a short hallway with four rooms set opposite each other. “These are my private quarters. This is another door to my office; my bedroom is beyond. You’ll be across from me, with Zeke next to you. The rooms aren’t large, but no guests will disturb you.
“I’ll bring your trunk in as soon as I can round up some help,” he offered, ushering her into the bedroom. “Settle in and rest. Dinner is served at five o’clock. Tonight we’ll take it with the guests.”
He closed the door firmly, and Emily was left alone.
She stood in the center of the room and spun in a slow circle. It was about as accommodating as a woodshed—nothing like her luxurious bedroom at Ella Wood. Just a wardrobe, a desk, a table with bowl and pitcher, a chipped chamber pot, and a bed draped with a quilt as dingy and faded as death. The only color in the whole room came from an ugly rag rug pitched onto the floor.
A knock interrupted her survey. “Miss Emily, I has yo’ bag.”
“Bring it in please, Zeke.”
He entered as gently as a lamb and placed it on the bed. “Does you need anything else, miss? This ol’ back sho’ could use some rest aftah dat rattlin’ train ride.”
“I’m fine, Zeke. Go lie down.”
He nodded, easing the door closed behind him.
Emily sat and pulled the bag onto her lap. Rummaging inside, she drew out a book of poetry her mother had given her at the train station. With a grimace, she shoved the volume to the bottom of the bag, exchanging it for a penny novel smuggled to her by her best friend, Sophia. This she slid beneath her pillow. Reaching in again, she located a small watercolor of Ella Wood painted in springtime bloom. It was her best work yet, and she displayed it on the desk to remind her of home. Finally she pulled out her paints and a tablet of thick paper and stored them in a desk drawer.
With nothing left to occupy her, Emily flopped back against the shroud of a quilt and watched the light reflect off the water in the pitcher and frolic on the ceiling. But like a ghost that wouldn’t stay dead, her indomitable curiosity rose up inside her. She wrestled with it only a moment before slipping from the room.
Zeke’s snoring filled the hall with a soft rhythm, like gentle waves sighing against the sand of Charleston Neck. With a furtive glance, Emily tried the knob of her uncle’s bedroom door. It opened silently, revealing a room identical to her own. With a snort of disdain, she closed it and moved on to his office, hoping for something—anything—amusing, but the knob wouldn’t budge. She’d try again later.
She entered the vacant lobby. An open stairway spilled from the second story, partitioning off a dining area in the back set with eight round tables. Emily was drawn to a pair of French doors that brightened the room and overlooked a sizable garden at the rear of the hotel. Her stomach rumbled as she walked into the aroma of baking bread.
“No, I ain’t seen her yet, an’ I’s in no hurry to.”
Emily froze. The muffled words drifted from behind the wall, accompanied by the clanking of dishes.
“Oh, Julia, you have everyone from the South stuffed in the same sack.” This woman sounded younger, and her voice rolled with a foreign accent.
“I knows what I knows,” Julia stubbornly maintained.
“Well, I’m impatient to meet her. I have seven nieces and nephews of my own, and I enjoy them so much. I’m eager to adopt Isaac’s as well.”
They were talking about her, Emily realized. She pressed her ear to the kitchen door.
“I hope you’s right, Shannon,” but the voice didn’t sound like it held out any hope at all.
A clatter of pans met Emily’s ear, and then, “We’re almost out of stove wood. Should I call Malachi?”
“He out fishin’ wid dat Willis boy. Mr. Isaac gib him de afternoon off.”
“Then I’ll tell him when he gets back. Do you have a bowl? I think these potatoes are done.”
Emily lost interest in the conversation. In fact, nothing in her new prison seemed to draw her interest except, perhaps, the lure of the still-unexplored second story. But a quick peek through the keyholes upstairs revealed eight more rooms remarkable
only in their plainness.
That was it? This was where she had to live until her parents chose to bring her home? With a clown of an uncle, some woman who already hated her, and another who wanted to make her a pet?
She leaned weakly against the last doorframe in the corridor. She’d best start working on that escape plan right away!
She was distracted by delicate strains of piano music sifting up through the floorboards and settling on her like fine powder. With a start, she recognized the sonata as one of her mother’s favorites. How strange to hear it played so far from home. And how welcome! Could she dare hope that her uncle had hired dinner music?
Emily crept down the stairway and peered over the banister. She had not noticed it as she passed through the lobby, but there, pushed up against the stairway wall, stood a small upright piano. And to her utter astonishment, it was her uncle who sat before the instrument coaxing out music as sweet as brown sugar! She listened, spellbound.
Isaac moved smoothly into one of Bach’s minuets and then to a pair of hymns. Emily sank to the steps and closed her eyes, the familiar melodies conjuring up pictures of home. When her uncle changed to the haunting strains of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata,” she could picture her mother seated before her beloved baby grand, hands skimming the keys, body rocking with the intensity of her playing.
Emily’s heart wrenched with a twist of homesickness. When the music slowed and faded away, she sat immobile, saturated in memories that threatened to leak out and roll down her cheeks.
A round of applause erupted below. “What a beautiful performance, Mr. Milford! I didn’t know thee played.”
Isaac spun on the seat. “Mrs. Bronner! I didn’t hear you come in.” He addressed an elderly woman perched on the divan behind him.
“Of course thee didn’t. I wouldn’t interrupt such fine talent.”
Isaac gave her a quizzical look. “I thought Quakers considered music vanity.”
The Candle Star Page 1
