by Pam Hillman
“What happened to your mother?” Connor moved closer.
She sucked in a sharp breath, her gaze boring into his. “What? No lectures about God?”
“No.” Connor stared out at the cotton field. Just enough moonlight shone that he could see the clumps of plants marching away into the distance in perfect unison. Small, but growing bigger every day. Like her faith would have to do. “You’re not ready to hear it. But I am ready to hear about your mother.”
“My mother.” Isabella sighed, then turned, the two of them facing the fields, side by side. “My mother came to New Orleans with her father, Don Esteban Salgado Valadez. She met my father, and they fell in love. My grandfather wouldn’t give his permission for her to marry an American colonist with no title and little prospects for a future, so she ran away, married him anyway, and came to Breeze Hill. Her mother, my grandmother, grew ill when I was two years old. She begged my mother to return to Spain for a visit. She went and never returned.
“Some—including my father—believe the ship went down at sea. Others say my grandfather had the marriage annulled and married her off to some Spanish crony of his.”
“And you? What do you believe?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe.”
“I think it matters to you.” Connor leaned against a post and studied her shadowed face. “And it matters to me.”
She gave him the ghost of a smile. A faint breeze blew a strand of hair across her cheek, and she brushed it away. “For a long time, I believed she was alive and would return. I waited, but she never did.”
“And now you’ve given up hope?”
“What else was there to do?” Isabella shrugged, feeling like a lonely little girl again, longing for her mother.
“You’re right, lass. There was nothin’ else t’ do.” He reached out, smoothed her hair back, a faint smile playing on his lips. “But I have a feeling she loved you and Jonathan. How could she not?”
Warmth whooshed over Isabella, followed by a tingling chill. Not from cold, but from the sweet allure of Connor’s presence, his concern and compassion for the little girl she’d once been.
His thumb brushed softly along her cheek and lingered at the edge of her mouth. Isabella’s heart thundered in her chest, and time stopped. Was she breathing? She needed to breathe.
She needed to run.
His eyes flickered upward, caught her gaze, and he blinked. She felt the subtle shift as he pulled back, putting some distance between them.
“You should go check on your da. He’s probably worried sick by now.”
Isabella nodded, then fled the arbor, knees shaking.
Somehow she managed to make it to the first-floor gallery, hurried past Leah’s rooms and on to her father’s rooms. She stopped at her father’s sitting room door, took a deep breath, and looked back toward the grape arbor. Connor was gone. Disappointed, she lifted the latch and entered the room.
“Papa?”
Her father lifted his head, his expression full of anguish, then opened his arms. She rushed across the sitting room and flung herself at him, clutching his gnarled hands between hers.
“I’m so sorry you heard what I said to Connor. I never meant to cause you distress.” Tears shimmered in his blue eyes.
“Do you really believe what you said?” She searched his face, looking for assurance that all would be well. Her heart skittered with fear. She couldn’t bear it if someone tried to kill her father. Leah. And the babe.
“I have to consider it for Leah and the babe’s sake.”
“What will we do?”
“I don’t know. But I’ve taken Connor into my confidence.”
“Why Connor? Why not Mr. Wainwright or Mr. Hartford, even?”
“Having just arrived in Natchez, Connor couldn’t have been party to any nefarious doings the last six months.”
And more than once he’d come to her rescue, hers and now Leah’s.
“That’s why you told Connor? Because you don’t trust anyone else? Not even Mews?”
“Mews is prone to talk when he’s had a bit too much ale. I had to tell someone, someone who could look after you and Leah should something happen to me.”
“Nothing’s going to happen.” Isabella knelt at his side, his hands clasped in hers.
“Maybe I should send you and Leah away.”
“No, Papa. Send Leah somewhere safe if you must, but I won’t leave you.”
“I won’t make any decisions tonight. Maybe things will look better in the light of day.”
Isabella rested her head on his knee, content to feel his gnarled hand stroking her hair. Things always looked better in the morning. Maybe not perfect, but better.
She’d woken up every morning for the last six months to the reality that her brother was dead and was never coming back. And years ago, she’d stopped hoping and dreaming that her mother would return. She sighed and rubbed her cheek against her father’s knee.
“Papa?”
“Yes?”
“Why did Mama go away?”
His hand stilled against her hair. “We’ve discussed this before.”
“No, we haven’t.” She lifted her head. “You’ve told me that she went to visit her mother in Spain, but—but I’ve heard rumors.”
“Who?” A ferocious scowl screwed up her father’s misshapen face.
“It doesn’t matter who said it or where I heard it. I’m old enough to know the truth.”
Her father let out a long sigh, as if the very breath of life were being forced from him. He sat so still, Isabella thought he was going to refuse her request once again. Finally he gave her a little half smile that reminded her of the way he’d looked before the fire.
“You’re right.” He reached out and touched her face. “Have I ever told you how much you look like your mother?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “Constantly.”
“I fell in love with her the first time I saw her. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.” Her father tapped his chest, right over his heart. “Not only was she beautiful on the outside, her heart was beautiful.
“When your grandfather realized that she felt the same way about me, he forbade her to see me, but nothing could keep us apart. Less than a month after we met, we ran away and got married.”
“A Catholic wedding?”
“No. That was the one thing that pained your mother greatly. I was young and not as committed to my faith as I should have been, so I was willing to convert, but without her father’s blessing, no Catholic priest would perform the ceremony. We were married in the Protestant faith by an itinerant preacher by the name of Fisk.
“We lived peaceably enough for a while, and I avoided New Orleans. Your grandfather was busy with his duties there and on infrequent trips to Natchez and mostly left us alone. When your grandmother became ill and your grandfather was called back to Spain, he asked your mother to come to Natchez and see him off. It was during harvest, and I didn’t feel I had time to go. Your mother went, leaving Jonathan and you here with your nurse. I thought he’d had a change of heart, but that wasn’t the case.”
“She left us here?”
“It was to be a short time. A week, maybe two. That was all. She would never have left you otherwise.” Her father’s crippled hands curled into fists. “She didn’t come back, and Don Esteban didn’t even have the decency to send word that he had taken her.”
Isabella frowned. “What do you mean? Taken her?”
“When she didn’t return at the appointed time, I journeyed to Natchez, but it was too late. He just took her, forced her on board.” He scowled. “Busybodies who like to stir the pot insist that she left willingly, but it’s not true.”
“How do you know?”
He glared at her. “She would never have abandoned you and your brother. Never.”
Isabella searched his gaze. How could he be so sure? “Papa, why didn’t you go after her?” She held her breath, waiting.
“I tried. I
begged, cajoled, and threatened every ship’s captain in port. But a terrible storm was brewing and no one would leave the harbor. And then word came from your grandmother that the ship your mother was on had sunk and all on board were lost.”
“Did you believe her?”
“I didn’t have much choice, did I?”
Chapter 13
NOLAN JERKED to his feet and slapped his hands against the polished sheen of his mahogany desk, imported from France. Fifty candles illuminated the room, reaching out and banishing the darkness. But the glow didn’t brighten his foul mood tonight.
He glared at Pierre.
“You did what?”
“We set out to burn the sawmill just like you said, but someone was there. He shot at us, and when we were trying to get away, we almost ran down two women.”
Pierre sat on the edge of Nolan’s desk, toying with the clasp on a cigar box. Irritation swamped Nolan, and he narrowed his gaze. Pierre loved to goad him, and experience had taught Nolan that if he ordered the Frenchman to move, he’d smirk, looking like he’d gotten the upper hand by prodding him. But Nolan wasn’t in the mood for playing games. “Get off my desk.”
Just as Nolan expected, Pierre grinned, but he moved, slumping down into an overstuffed chair. He took out his knife and started cleaning his nails, deliberately goading Nolan with his uncouth habits.
“Looked like Mademoiselle Bartholomew and a blonde. A bit plump for my taste.” Pierre snapped his fingers as if he’d just thought of something. “There is a sister-in-law, no? And if the rumors are true, she is enceinte.”
Nolan scowled. How did Pierre know these things? Nolan had only found out less than a fortnight ago. But then Pierre ran in circles that Nolan avoided. Servants and sharecroppers frequented taverns like Harper’s Inn and talked freely about their masters. It wasn’t surprising that Pierre knew of the babe. “Were the women harmed?”
“Non.” Pierre shrugged, inspecting his nails. He cast a sly glance at Nolan, his dark eyes gleaming. “But if they were, or even if she lost the child because of such an unfortunate accident, it would be to your benefit, no?”
Nolan ignored the Frenchman’s question. Not only had Pierre failed to destroy the sawmill, he’d tipped their hand to Bartholomew and almost killed Isabella and Leah in the process. “Tell me, Pierre. Would you have felt any remorse had you killed the women, even by accident?”
“It would have been a pity but would have neatly solved your problem.” He leaned forward and opened the cigar box. He took out a Havana, struck a match, and pulled on the cigar.
Nolan slapped the lid shut on his cigar case. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The young widow. The one with child.” Pierre leaned forward, abandoning all pretense of the devil-may-care French thief and highwayman. “You’d like to see her gone, wouldn’t you?”
“No.” The denial sounded weak even to his own ears. “No. There will be no more killing.”
“As you wish, monsieur. But we both know that a male child born to the Bartholomew woman will destroy what you’ve worked for.”
“And what do you propose we do, Monsieur Le Bonne?”
“We eliminate the problem, non?” Pierre leaned back, puffed his cigar. As the smoke curled, distorting his features, he smiled.
Nolan opened his mouth to forbid Pierre from harming Leah Bartholomew and her unborn child but snapped it shut instead.
What Pierre did was his own business.
Sunday morning, Isabella carried a small tray and joined Leah on the gallery outside her rooms. Leah, pale and sickly looking, a lap quilt draped over her in spite of the heat, barely acknowledged her presence.
After the accident last week, she’d withdrawn, venturing no further from her rooms than this porch. She’d even declined invitations to the dining room, choosing to take her meals in the safety of her sitting room.
Sighing inwardly, Isabella motioned to the tray. “I brought some refreshment.” Without giving Leah an opportunity to refuse, she poured two cups of tea and handed one to her sister-in-law.
Leah held the tea up to the light, a faint smile softening her features. “Remember the lemons Jonathan brought from Natchez to celebrate our marriage?”
“I remember. I think he thought we’d be so enamored of the lemons that we wouldn’t even notice he’d brought home a bride.”
“It was the next trip that he—” Leah broke off, tears filling her eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t talk about Jonathan’s death.”
“Leah, holding in your grief isn’t good for you or the baby. You should talk about Jonathan if you wish. Share your happy memories, your hopes and dreams. Jonathan would want you to be happy, to move forward with your life.”
“But that’s just it, Isabella.” Leah bit her lip, her gaze straying to the burned-out shell where she’d spent such a short time as a young bride. “My life is like the west wing. Charred and empty. Everything we had together was destroyed in that fire.”
Pain radiated from Leah’s blue eyes, and Isabella reached out and clasped her hand. “Not everything, dearest. You’re carrying Jonathan’s babe. Everything else was just possessions, trinkets with fond memories, but this—this child is a part of him. Just focus on that and the rest doesn’t matter.”
Leah’s hand gripped hers, her gaze searching Isabella’s. “I’m frightened.”
“There’s no need to be afraid. Martha and Susan will be here with you every step of the way. And Mrs. Horne has birthed almost a dozen children of her own. You’ll be perfectly safe with them.”
“No, I’m not afraid for myself.” Leah pulled away, her hand gently cradling her rounded stomach, comforting her unborn child. “I’m terrified that something will happen to the baby.” Her eyes filled with fresh tears, and she whispered, “This child is all I have left of Jonathan.”
A chill ran down Isabella’s spine. Not only did her father fear for the child’s life, but now Leah did as well. Were they all just a little bit crazy, or did they really have reason to fear?
And how did she answer her sister-in-law? How did she assure her that there was nothing to fear, when the same fear clawed at her own thoughts?
A measure of relief rolled over her as Lizzy ran across the courtyard and bounded up the steps. Lizzy’s eyes shone with excitement. “Miss Isabella, we’re going to have church this morning. Wanna come?”
“Church?”
“Yeah. I mean, yes, ma’am. Under the grape arbor. Mr. Horne’s gonna preach and Papa’s gonna play his fiddle.” She grinned. “Then afterward, we’re goin’ fishing.”
Isabella glanced at her sister-in-law, hoping to draw Leah off the porch. “Leah, would you like to go? It’s a short walk to the grape arbor.”
“No thank you. I think I’ll stay here.”
“Well, maybe you’d like to go fishing with us later?” Lizzy leaned over the railing, pigtails swinging. “Me and Toby found some grubs this morning.”
If possible, Leah paled even more. “No, no thank you.”
“Thank you for the invitation, Lizzy.” Isabella looked pointedly at the girl. “Run along, now. Miss Leah and I can hear the singing and preaching just fine from here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Isabella fanned herself and pushed her rocker into motion, watching as everyone gathered around the grape arbor.
The Horne family walked from their cabin, the older children helping with the younger ones. Mr. Horne, his tall, thin frame impressive in a worn black coat, escorted his wife to a straight-backed chair. The children sat obediently at her feet.
Out of the corner of her eye, Isabella spotted Connor as he rounded the bend on the wagon road that led from the sawmill. No coat, but he’d donned a green jerkin over a fresh cotton shirt, and she couldn’t help but think about how the green would complement his eyes. He joined the others, leaning against a tree as Mews tuned his fiddle.
The next hour was filled with singing, followed by a rousing sermon by Zachariah Horne. Isabella
wouldn’t have believed the quiet, mousy Mr. Horne capable of such enthusiasm if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes.
The longer he preached, the more animated he became. He paced the length of the grape arbor, turning only to retrace his steps and repeat the process time and again.
“And then Mistress Job told her husband to curse God and die. What height of folly! That the woman would taunt the very God of heaven in such a manner.”
Mr. Horne paused, the sudden silence just as unnerving as his shouting. He pivoted, his intense gaze landing on each and every one of his listeners. Isabella felt that his gaze even stretched so far as to include her on the gallery.
“But as she goes, so go we.” His voice rose once again. “What man or woman among us hasn’t questioned God in our hour of sorrow? Mistress Job had just lost all her children. Her husband’s cattle, sheep, goats, camels—all gone. Methinks Mistress Job was in the pit of despair. But—” one bony finger stabbed skyward—“Job said, ‘Thou speakest as one of the foolish women speaketh. What? shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we not receive evil?’”
Isabella fanned faster as the man’s unorthodox preaching pierced her heart. She’d never seen a man of God become as passionate over his topic.
Before his injuries, her father had read Scripture and led them in a prayer every Sunday, and upon occasion they’d attended church when in Natchez, but Mr. Horne’s boisterous preaching was unlike anything she’d ever heard.
She was relieved when he finally wound down and motioned for his wife. Mrs. Horne stood and, joined by her three oldest daughters, started singing.
The haunting melody of a familiar hymn rang out over the clearing, the woman’s and her daughters’ voices blending in perfect harmony.
By the time they reached the end of the first refrain, Mr. Mews had joined in with his fiddle, the gentle glide of his bow across the strings buoying the words and lifting them heavenward, where they lingered on the breeze.
Jesus, my all in all Thou art,
My rest in toil, my ease in pain;
The medicine of my broken heart,
