Persuasion, Captain Wentworth and Cracklin' Cornbread

by Mary Jane Hathaway

  “Lucy, it happened so fast, it must be God’s will.” Aunt Olympia sat forward beaming. “And Dr. Stroud says he knows you. Last Christmas he was here with his wife at Crawford House’s annual party, and you two stood by the punch bowl half the night, chatting about battlefield amputations.”

  Lucy remembered Dr. Stroud. Bushy white mustache, bow tie, seersucker suit. She’d figured he was retired and no longer practicing medicine because he seemed to spend all his time on Civil War collections and reenactments. He’d said that he was surprised the African-American community wasn’t more involved with Brice’s Crossroads, since half of the Union dead were part of Bouton’s Brigade of United States Colored Troops, and then he’d tried to recruit her for the next battle. She’d wavered under his charm. The idea of battling mosquitoes in five layers of Civil War dress made it easy to say no.

  She chewed the inside of her lip. If Aunt Olympia had named any other person in the area, she would never think of agreeing, but Dr. Stroud understood the history of a place like Crawford House. He wouldn’t be setting his coffee cup on the hundred-year-old white-oak fireplace mantel from Philadelphia, or hanging his coat from the cast-iron wall sconces.

  “How much will they pay? And what are the terms of the lease?”

  “See, I knew you would agree,” Aunt Olympia said. “It’s enough that you can pay off that home equity in a few years. They’ll be over in about fifteen minutes. I told him to give me a little time to get you comfy with the idea.”

  “I’m not agreeing to anything. Daddy’s not even here to make a decision.” Lucy stood up, glancing around the kitchen. Mrs. Hardy only came on Tuesdays and Thursdays now. There were dishes in the sink, crumbs on the counters and her daddy’s coffee mugs dotted the drainboard.

  As if following Lucy’s train of thought, Aunt Olympia wandered to the sink and stood in front of it, blocking the view of the mess. “Honey, I can convince Willy to do what’s right. I’m more worried about getting you on board. This is the best thing that could have happened. You won’t have to move, Willy can get out of debt and the house will be used for something other than gathering dust. Plus, I know Paulette is counting on having a big, fancy wedding as soon as she finds her man.”

  Lucy leaned around her aunt and held a dishrag under the faucet, saying nothing. She wasn’t agreeing to this so that Paulette could have the wedding of the year when she finally chose between all her boyfriends.

  “There is one small detail I should mention.” The tone of forced cheerfulness in her aunt’s voice made Lucy pause.

  She turned, wet rag in one hand. “What? Will they put a sign on the front of the house? Install bars on the windows?”

  “I’m not sure about any of that.” Aunt Olympia’s cheeks turned darker and the sight filled her with dread. Her aunt was never embarrassed. It was practically impossible to shame the woman. She firmly believed she was in the right at all times.

  When Lucy didn’t respond, her aunt hurried on, “They’re bringing in a new doctor. He’s part of the Rural Physicians Scholarship Program, and now that he’s graduated, he’s coming back to practice in a rural community so he can erase his school debt.”

  Lucy reached out for the back of the kitchen chair. She could hardly feel the smooth wooden top rail under her hand. Please, Lord. Not him. The kitchen had turned small, her aunt’s voice fading away. A flash of a crooked smile, blond hair tousled from the wind, a gentle voice, the warmth of large hands against her back.

  “Honestly, it’s not a big deal.” Aunt Olympia let out a sigh as if her niece were being difficult.

  “Who is it?” Even as she asked the question, Lucy knew the answer. Her aunt wouldn’t have saved this point for last if it wasn’t important.

  “Jeremiah Chevy.” Her aunt reached out to pat Lucy’s hand, changing her mind when she saw the wet rag clenched in one of Lucy’s fists. “You’ll be fine. It’s been a long time. Ten years almost. It was the right thing to do and you know it. First of all, that name. Did you really want to be Mrs. Chevy?”

  Lucy slid into a chair. Mrs. Chevy. She’d actually practiced that name on the inside cover of her school notebooks, over and over in her best handwriting. Mrs. Lucy Crawford Chevy.

  Her aunt waved a hand, as if the concept had let off a terrible smell. “Can you imagine? It was insanity, being attached at eighteen to a boy like that.”

  “Like what, Auntie?” Lucy could hear the trembling in her voice. She didn’t know if it was from shock or fury or both. “White? Poor? Or was it that Jem has a teen dropout for a mama?”

  “Well, sure, all of those things.” Aunt Olympia wasn’t embarrassed now. “It never would have worked. He didn’t even know if he could get into college. I don’t know how he got through medical school, and he must have mountains of debt. Probably in the hundreds of thousands.”

  Lucy stared at her aunt, wondering if the woman honestly believed medical-school debt was any worse than what her daddy had accrued with bad investments and lavish vacations.

  “He had nothing but his daddy’s name, which he couldn’t trade for beans. And if you thought your mama would have been happy with you marrying a white boy, you’re wrong.”

  Lucy felt her throat close up. Had her mama been a racist? She hadn’t said much at the time, not about his color. “Mama had green eyes. Someone somewhere didn’t care about color,” she whispered.

  “Oh, don’t start with that. You know better.” Her aunt’s face was stony. “There’s no chance those pretty eyes came from a mixed couple in love a hundred years ago. Somebody knew the story but didn’t want to pass it down, and that tells us enough right there.”

  Lucy dropped her chin to her chest. The news had sucked every logical thought from her head. Oh, the irony was laughable. She’d been persuaded to break it off with him because she was wealthy, Black and guaranteed a good job after being accepted to Harvard. Only one of those things was still true.

  The doorbell sounded dimly in the distance.

  “Oh, there they are,” her aunt said, jumping to her feet.

  Lucy’s stomach turned to ice. “They?”

  “Dr. Stroud and Jem. I can show them around if you want. I know you didn’t get a chance to put on anything nice.” Aunt Olympia paused, cocking her head. “And you haven’t been to the hairdresser’s in too long. You need one of those coconut-oil treatments under the hair dryer and maybe some extensions. You’re hardly fit to entertain guests. You just stay in the kitchen, hear?”

  She sat frozen to the spot as Aunt Olympia sashayed out of the doorway. She would have given anything in the world to rewind the last ten minutes and keep this from happening. She would have called them, told them it wouldn’t work, made some excuse, any excuse.

  Deep voices carried faintly to her and she wanted to clap her hands over her ears. She hadn’t heard anything from Jem in ten years. Not an e-mail, not a text. Completely understandable, really. Once they had been the best of friends, finishing each other’s sentences and talking for hours into the night. And love, there had always been love. She never let herself think of it, but now, in a flash, she remembered clearly the overwhelming need to be near him, to touch him. He was like air to her then, and she couldn’t live without him.

  And yet, she had. When her aunt had convinced her it would never work out, Lucy had stood on his rickety front porch and told him she had decided it was better if they saw other people. It was such a stupid thing to say, something she copied from a TV show about teenagers who swapped boyfriends like shoes. There were no other people to see, was no one else she wanted, then or after. The memory of the shock and hurt on Jem’s face haunted her dreams, stole her appetite and gnawed away at her peace of mind. By the time she reached her breaking point months later, he was gone. There was nothing for her to do but sleep in the proverbial bed she had made.

  The kitchen was silent except for the sound of her own breathing. T
ime seemed suspended, as if the world were waiting on her next move.

  Lucy ran a hand over her hair, feeling the slight frizz at her hairline, the dryness at the ends. She wasn’t wearing much makeup, had only a pair of simple pearl studs in her ears. She glanced down, taking in her battered running shoes, straight-leg jeans and last year’s marathon T-shirt, which had a tiny hole at the hem. When she’d known Jem, she’d put in about the same amount of time on her appearance as any wealthy teenage girl. But after he’d gone, there wasn’t any reason to get her nails done or a facial at her favorite spa. She’d thrown herself into her studies and done her best to keep her mind off her heartache. This was who she was now. Putting off this meeting until she made it to the hairdresser’s implied that something could be changed. She heaved herself to her feet. There was no choice except to walk in there like the grown woman she was and welcome them into her home. “Please give me strength,” she whispered. And it would be nice if she didn’t trip, stutter, or blush.

  It seemed to take hours to walk down the hallway, but finally she reached the end, emerging into the foyer. Her gaze landed on Dr. Stroud first, as he swept an arm out toward the seating in the entryway. He was saying something about the Civil War–era sewing bench and square nails.

  Lucy tried to focus on Dr. Stroud, but her attention was pulled, against her will, to Jem. He was half-turned away, looking out the large windows onto the rose garden. At first glance, it was surreal to see him standing there in her house, as if ten years hadn’t passed. But a closer look showed the years between. Wearing a charcoal-gray suit that fit him well, his hands were at his sides. He was taller than she remembered. Bulkier around the shoulders, more heft and muscle. As a teen he had always managed to get his feet tied up in chair legs or trip over wrinkles in the carpet or bump his head on a low doorframe. He had changed, but was still the same, so much the same that she could have recognized him from the back. The muscles under his jacket tensed, and she knew that he would turn and see her. The moment before their eyes met, Lucy felt as if she were dangling off the side of a cliff, holding on to one slim branch as it bent toward the ground. If he let on, in any way, with a smirk or a glint of laughter, what a humorous reversal of fortune this was, she didn’t think she would survive.

  He met her gaze steadily, emotionless. It was as if they didn’t know each other at all. His blond hair still stick-straight, brows two shades darker, the long nose he inherited from his mom’s side, the blue eyes from his dad’s Irish grandparents. She looked at him, not able to think of a word to say. She wanted to catalog his features, to spend hours noting every tiny difference from ten years ago, but he wasn’t hers and hadn’t been for a long time.

  “Oh, here you are. Miss Lucy Crawford, let me introduce my colleague, Dr. Jeremiah Chevy. He’s just completed his residency at Boston Children’s Hospital.” Dr. Stroud beckoned her forward, bushy mustache twitching with excitement. “He’s also quite a fan of our local history. You might have crossed paths, with being the curator over at Brice’s Crossroads.”

  “We’ve met before,” Jem said casually. “Nice to see you again.”

  She nodded. “And you.”

  He’d already looked away, gazing up at the high ceiling and the brass chandelier, probably noticing how shabby the ornate ceiling medallion looked, small bits of paint flaking off at the curves of the motif.

  “Excellent. Then we’re all introduced and we can talk about the future of the Free Clinic.” Dr. Stroud clapped his hands together. “Miss Lucy, will you lead the way?”

  She tried to look as if her pulse weren’t pounding in her ears. “My aunt said you’d like to look at the back of the house, near the former servants’ quarters?”

  “Let’s start there. If the rooms are big enough, we can make them examination rooms.” Dr. Stroud glanced around. “What a magnificent old place. Your family must be incredibly proud.”

  Proud. She cringed at the word. If they had been proud, her daddy would have made sure that their home was safe, instead of adding equity loan after equity loan on the old place. No bank in the state would forgive that kind of debt just because it was a Civil War–era home. They didn’t care that her great-granddaddy Whittaker had brought that pie safe all the way from Philadelphia or that her grandmama Honor had handpicked the wallpaper. Family history didn’t matter to a big bank, and if her daddy had been truly proud, then he would have been more careful.

  “Follow me back, then.” She turned and crossed the foyer, knowing she would do whatever it took to save her home, but wishing with all her heart that this day had never come.

  Now they were as strangers; nay worse than strangers, for they could never become acquainted.

  —ANNE ELLIOT

  Chapter Two

  He hadn’t expected Lucy to be home. Jem smoothed his tie and checked his shirt for stains, evidence of his lunch of catfish nachos. Not that it mattered. She wouldn’t notice. He was old news to her, and he could tell by the straight line of her mouth that there wouldn’t be any friendly chatter between them.

  She hadn’t smiled and he was thankful for that. He’d loved her smile. And her deep, rich laugh. He’d loved everything about her, once. Although she had always been shy, now she seemed withdrawn. He would have said it was impossible, but she was more beautiful now. Her cheeks had lost their adolescent roundness, and the heart shape of her face was more pronounced.

  She had glanced at him, dark eyes somber, and it was as if he were reliving every humiliating episode of their romance all at once. From the time he’d brought cracklin’ cornbread to her catered garden party, to the moment she stood on the little built-on porch of his mama’s mobile home and told him she was going to see other people. He shouldn’t have been shocked, not with everything else, but somehow he had believed that their love was enough. Maybe she had never loved him. That was always a possibility.

  He needed to focus on his future, not on the bad history here. The air in the old house felt sluggish in his lungs. He concentrated on breathing slow and deep. It took an enormous amount of hard work to get into the Rural Physicians program and he wasn’t going to jeopardize it by letting himself be pulled into old drama.

  The hallway was filled with the delicious scent of cooking. He took a few sniffs, trying to narrow the possibilities. Definitely Italian.

  Their little group filed into the back parlor. The view out the floor-to-ceiling windows was just as he remembered, and the green hills of the property glowed lushly in the sunshine. The hard­wood parquet flooring was scuffed and battered, wallpaper peeled at the corners of the room. He fought to stay in the ­present, but his mind flashed back to the first time he’d stepped into this room.

  Brought together by a mutual love of history and friends in common, Lucy sought him out at every gathering. He thought maybe, just maybe, she liked him, but he wasn’t sure until the day she offered to show him Crawford House. The Greek Revival architecture, with its massive white columns and sweeping front steps, was nothing compared to the inside. Family antiques dating back centuries were everywhere, on mantels and tables and hung on the walls. He’d been amazed at how much she’d known about it all, from the glazed stoneware to the quilts to the grain scoop in the kitchen flour cabinet.

  Now the furniture was sparse, as if someone had been clearing the space for some other project, or maybe the Crawfords had resorted to selling off antiques to keep up their lifestyle. If they had, the funds certainly weren’t being passed to Lucy. He shot a look at her, noting her simple clothing and jewelry. She never was much into fashion. Turning her head at that moment, she caught his eye and he looked away. He walked toward the windows, letting Dr. Stroud carry the conversation.

  “I’m not sure how many seats we could put in here. Our daily patient load runs anywhere from ten to forty.” Dr. Stroud frowned at the space.

  “One row of seats would be just fine, surely. The others can stand.” Olympia sh
rugged.

  Jem felt the muscles in his shoulders contract. This woman irked him, always had. She enjoyed running roughshod over every situation. He’d never liked her, even before she’d convinced Lucy to dump him. Now, even with all the years he’d spent fighting his bitterness, the woman still made his hackles rise. “We’ll need a small area for children to play. Just a corner, but that space will cut down on seating. And don’t forget the intake area,” he said.

  “Play area? It’s not Disneyland,” Olympia said.

  “Jem is right,” Dr. Stroud said. “When the kids are occupied, the wait is easier on everyone.” He paced the area, moving his lips, counting off steps.

  “You could set it up in this little room.” Lucy walked past Stroud, opening a narrow door to the right. It revealed a space cluttered with household materials, old paint cans and boxes of cleaning supplies. “Zeke used this for storage, but we won’t need it now.”

  The sadness in her voice rang an alarm and Jem spoke before thinking. “Zeke passed away?”

  “No,” she said without meeting his eyes. “I had to let him go.”

  There was no good way to respond to that news. Zeke had been part of Crawford House from before Lucy was born. The old man loved her like his own child, and Lucy loved him back.

  Dr. Stroud peeked over Lucy’s shoulder. “That could work, for sure. We’d have to remove the door. Paint the walls and put in some small shelves and kid-sized furniture. But before we make too many plans, we’d better check out those servants’ quarters and see if they can be turned into exam rooms.”

  “This way,” Olympia called out, her voice echoing around the small foyer. Dr. Stroud followed, and there was an awkward moment where Jem wasn’t sure if Lucy would stay. He knew exactly why she hesitated and his face went hot. Finally, she seemed to realize he was waiting for her, and she quickly followed the others.

  Walking down the back hallway was a painful sort of déjà vu. He’d had this tour before, many years ago. Lucy had led him to the servants’ quarters, little rooms along a narrow hallway at the back of the house. He’d mentioned his mama’s battered, old trunk and Lucy was looking to show him a similar one that was tucked into a corner somewhere. What he’d done then was so impulsive and foolish; he gritted his teeth just to think of it. Lucy had been midsentence, maybe even midword, when he’d backed her up against the wall and kissed her.