Jem trudged closer, not able to muster a response. He couldn’t imagine making his way through a workday.
“You look like a hound dog.” Zeke pulled an exaggerated face.
“Tired,” Jem mumbled.
“Lucy’s that kind of tired, too.”
“What?”
Zeke threw him a sly look. “She’s mopin’ around the house like someone took her shoes and gave her lead feet. Can’t hardly get her to say a word to me. And you can’t convince me that it’s a coincidence.”
Jem sighed and plopped himself on the old bench. Hattie trotted out from the tomato plants and wound around his ankles. He stared at his feet, chin in his hands.
“Well, now I know you got it bad. Nobody can resist Miss Hattie’s charms unless he’s sick at heart.”
“I’m fine.” Jem shrugged. “When I came here, I wanted to serve this community, really help out the people who got overlooked. And I feel like all I’ve done is pour energy into my own problems.”
Zeke sat down next to him and tilted his hat back on his head. “I didn’t think nobody cared about these people until Dr. Stroud started his clinic. And now you’re here, too.” Zeke jerked his chin toward the back door. “You make a difference just showing up.”
“I wish it was that easy.” Jem stared out at the garden, thinking of how they had come so far and now were right back at the beginning. “As for Lucy, I’ve really made a mess of things.”
“Glad it’s your turn. I was worried Miss Lucy had done it again.”
“Again?”
“When Miss Olympia persuaded her that it would never work between the two of you.” Zeke shook his head. “She cried for weeks.”
Jem straightened up. “She told me she wanted to date other people. I was sure her aunt had something to do with it.”
“She never dated nobody.” Zeke looked out past the garden. “Lots of nice young men come callin’ and she was real polite, but never took to any of them. Not like you.”
Hattie jumped onto Jem’s lap and he rubbed her fur, his mind churning with this information. He’d always assumed she’d found someone else and had been trying to let him down easy by being vague.
“Jem, I don’t give much advice.” Zeke rubbed the white whiskers at the side of his jaw. “But you need to get this all straightened out. I don’t want to see Miss Lucy nursing a broken heart for another ten years.”
Jem’s eyes went wide. Had she loved him all this time? Had he spent the last decade being bitter and resentful for nothing?
“She’s not home. She’s up at the center, gettin’ ready for the reenactment tomorrow.” Zeke answered Jem’s unspoken question.
Jem stood up, and Hattie slid onto the ground with a mewling protest. “Sorry, girl.” He reached down. “Wasn’t thinking.” He grinned at Zeke. “I’m got some work to do. Tomorrow is a big day.”
A slow smile spread over Zeke’s face. His dark eyes shone with moisture. “It’s about time, son.”
Jem jogged up the path to the clinic entrance. His heart was pounding in his chest and he felt as if he couldn’t catch his breath. Something had gone wrong ten years ago, and maybe they’d been given a second chance to make it right.
He was going to tell Lucy exactly how he felt, and he was going to do it in a way she couldn’t possibly misunderstand.
Lucy tugged on the blue wool jacket and checked her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was tucked up into her hat, but she still looked like a woman. She smoothed down the front of the jacket and frowned. She wasn’t sure how flat-chested Hattie Winter was, but she must have been smaller than Lucy. With no makeup, the rough outfit and the hobnail boots, Lucy certainly felt less like a woman, but she was clearly a woman in a man’s uniform. She slipped the leather strap over her head and positioned it across her chest. Now it was even more obvious. She frowned at the mirror. Well, she was going to do her best, and if people laughed, then so be it.
For a moment, she looked into her own eyes. Ten years ago, she’d been weak and cowardly. One hundred and fifty years ago, Hattie Winter had walked into a war to find the man she loved. Lucy couldn’t change the past, but a small part of that broken heart felt satisfaction at playing Hattie today.
Her throat tightened at the thought of the battle reenactment. She’d been through dozens before, but this would be different. Jem would be here, somewhere, fighting on the Confederate side. At least she wouldn’t see him, if she was lucky. She’d be with the artillery unit on the rise, while he would probably be near Dr. Stroud somewhere.
She hadn’t seen him since the reception, but she’d heard from Paulette that Regan was now dating Danny, Jem’s old friend. She almost smiled, wondering again how it was even possible that a man such as Danny could stand being around such a flake, but maybe she was just what he needed. He would never be able to replace Kelsey, and it was easier to go in the opposite direction, falling in love with a girl who never stopped talking long enough to look at the clouds.
Lucy took a deep breath and headed out of the bathroom. The center was already full of tourists, and she kept her eyes straight ahead. Once a soldier was in uniform, you didn’t break character. If you ran into your own mother on the way to the battlefield, you didn’t stop to chat. She could hear the whispers and a few clicks of a camera, but she didn’t pause.
The sun was bright and hot, but thankfully the humidity wasn’t so bad. Lucy grabbed a rifle from the regiment pile and saluted her commander. Parker McNabb saluted smartly, then let his hand fall slowly to his side. “Miss Crawford, is that you?”
“No, sir. Leroy Carver, sir.”
Parker’s face smoothed back into a neutral expression, but he looked as if he wanted to laugh. “To your station, son.”
Another salute and she was on her way, down the path toward where the 1841 howitzers were lined up. She had no intention of standing anywhere near the cannons when the reenactors set them off, but that’s where she’d been assigned, and Hattie always did her duty. As soon as she came into sight, the group stopped their preparations and gawked.
She saluted. “Leroy Carver, Bouton’s Brigade of United States Colored Troops.”
A potbellied, middle-aged man stepped forward. “Lieutenant James Gillison.” He leaned near her and whispered, “Sorry, Miss Lucy, you ain’t foolin’ any of us. You’re too pretty to be a soldier.”
She frowned. “Maybe a little dirt?”
“Maybe so.” He nodded.
She bent down and wiped her fingers in the clay, then scrubbed them on her skin. Looking up, she asked, “Better?”
“Hmmm.” He turned to the group and barked a few orders. Lucy took that to mean that she was accepted into the group.
The sun rose in the sky and she could see groups gathering at either end of the battlefield. Tourists set up chairs and umbrellas, carrying little coolers of drinks and snacks.
“Five minutes,” called the lieutenant.
Lucy felt her stomach tighten. It wasn’t real, none of it was real, but she still felt as if she were heading straight into battle.
Faster than she could say, the first shots sounded and horses emerged onto the field, carrying riders who bellowed directions with their sabers drawn. Her regiment worked furiously to load and fire the cannon, never setting it off, but heaving the metal balls from place to place.
A soldier ran up and saluted. “Message for Miss Hattie Winter,” he shouted over the noise.
The men froze, looking from her to the messenger.
“There’s no Hattie Winter here,” she said, but a suspicion was growing in her mind, and as he started to turn away, she called out. “Stop! I can deliver it to her.”
He shrugged and handed over a folded piece of paper, sealed with a blob of bloodred wax. It was clearly something written by a reenactor, maybe even someone on the field that very minute.
Lucy ope
ned it, sucking in a sharp breath at the sight of the familiar handwriting, which not even a quill pen could disguise. She scanned the words. At first it didn’t make sense, nothing made any sense at all. Her knees went weak and she stumbled to the grass. The paper shook in her hand.
Dear Lucy,
Thoreau said that it’s only when we become completely lost or turned around that we begin to find ourselves. I can’t waste one more day hoping but not knowing whether you feel the same. There will never be a perfect moment to tell you how I feel and I can’t wonder any longer if you love me. I have to know.
There was never anyone but you, Lucy. Even when I was angry and bitter, my heart was faithful to you. I thought of you when I woke up in the morning and thought of you when I lay down to sleep. I tried to forget you and even convinced myself that moving back home to Tupelo wouldn’t be a problem. One look at your face told me that I was wrong.
I’ve tried to show you what I feel, and I thought, maybe, you understood me. When I danced with you in the clinic, I never wanted to let you go. When you brought your cornbread apology to the party, I wanted to tell you then. When we kissed at the reception, I thought we’d finally understood each other. My hands are shaking as I write this, but not knowing is a worse agony.
I am yours, heart and soul. I always have been, and always will be.
Jem
I’ll be near Dr. Stroud’s amputation tent (probably getting something removed). If you love me, come to me after the battle is over. I’ll look for you.
Her breath came in gasps and she read and reread the lines, unable to believe that his letter was real. She stumbled to her feet.
“Soldier, where are you going?”
She ignored the lieutenant’s call and began to run down the grass slope past the Union medical tent. In a minute, she’d overtaken her own troops, and soldiers in blue were on all sides, horses trotting at the edges of the group. She pushed on past them, threading her way between lines of men, dodging rifle barrels and sheathed swords. Her side began to ache but she didn’t slow down. The hobnail boots were several sizes too big and her feet slid around the insides, but she focused on the dots of gray in the distance and kept running.
“Hey, soldier! You’re headed into enemy territory,” a man called out as she ran past.
She waved a hand, noticing for the first time she still held Jem’s letter, smudges of red clay from her fingers marking the paper like blood.
The path cleared and the empty green field stretched out before her. She could hear gunfire and cannons in the distance. Suddenly, a line of soldiers in gray approached from the side, confusion on their faces.
“Deserter from the enemy camp,” someone shouted.
They converged on her and she fought her way through, using her elbows and knees. She connected with someone’s middle and heard the whoosh of air as it left his lungs. Then she was through, panting and exhausted. The battle raged on behind her, the sound of gunfire and the screams of wounded men fading into the distance.
Tourists were pointing and laughing; some grabbed their cameras while others flipped through the pamphlet, wondering which Civil War soldier had broken ranks and run to the other side in the middle of the battle. She slowed to a limping walk, scanning the area for Jem.
“Lucy,” she heard him call, and she turned to see him standing by the battlefield emergency tent. His gray Confederate uniform was stained in several places, and the rifle at his side was missing its bayonet. He took off his cap, and his expression was a bright flame of hope.
She walked toward him, her ankle throbbing with every step, her breath coming in gasps and her heart nearly pounding out of her rib cage.
“I feel like I just watched Night Train Lane go coast-to-coast for a touchdown,” he said, the corners of his mouth turning up.
“Very . . . funny.” She tried to laugh, but it came out a sigh. “Hattie . . .” She stopped, working hard to get her breath under control. “Hattie Winter loved a man so . . . so deeply that she went to war to find him.”
He nodded, gaze never wavering.
“I wanted to be like her. I wanted to be strong like that.” She looked down at the letter in her hand, and the smears of red clay reminded her that she was standing in front of him with dirt on her face. This wasn’t the way she had dreamed of this moment and she wished it could be different, but she wouldn’t walk away from him. She couldn’t walk away from him. She had waited too long to tell him the truth.
She looked him in the eye. “I made a mistake ten years ago, and if you’ll give me the chance, I want to show you that I’m different now. I’m not afraid anymore. Nobody can tell me how to be happy, or who I need.” She swallowed. “I need you.”
“Come here,” he said.
“Where?”
“Here.”
She limped toward him, ignoring the tourists just feet away. They were creeping forward to get a good picture. They must look like a perfect photo opportunity, a Confederate soldier and a Union artilleryman.
“Closer.”
She stepped closer. She could smell him, see his chest rising and falling, and hear his breathing. She couldn’t look above the collar of his rough cotton shirt, the soft skin of his throat. Once upon a time she’d known that skin as well as her own. She’d known how his chin felt under her lips, how his stubble looked in the sunlight, as if someone had thrown sand across his face. She knew how his breath felt, so warm against her neck, and there was that spot under his jaw she once loved. She finally dragged her gaze up, up to meet his eyes. He was looking at her as if he’d been waiting his whole life for her.
“I’m here,” she whispered.
“Thank God,” he said, and his eyes filled with tears. He reached out and wrapped her close, whispering into her ear, “You’re here. And you’ve had my heart all this time.”
Her lips found his and she barely noticed the clicking of cameras and laughter from the other reenactors. After a few minutes, Jem lifted his head and looked around. “Hmm. This will be a mighty confusing picture.”
She didn’t want to let him go, didn’t want him to ever stop kissing her, but Lucy couldn’t help laughing. “Rebel soldier, I don’t think my friends will approve of you.”
“Union deserter, I’m fairly sure my commander will demand you be taken to the prison camp.” He brushed a kiss across her temple. “The next time we decide to kiss in public, I have a request.”
She frowned. “You do?”
“Let’s just wear normal clothes.”
Laying her head on his chest, she let the laughter take her for a moment. “Jane Austen, Civil War, it’s all the same.”
He reached out and tugged off her cap. Her hair fell around her shoulders, dark curls startling against his white shirt. “Does this mean you want an Austen wedding, too?”
She looked up at him, surprise stealing the words from her mouth.
“Or we could have a Civil War theme, but that could get complicated,” he said. “Seeing as how you’re a deserter now and all.”
She reached up and tugged him down to her, pressing a kiss to his mouth, his jaw, his cheek. “I love you, Jem Chevy. And I always have.”
He pulled her close and murmured something she didn’t quite catch over the beating of her heart, but his words echoed what she knew to be true. Beyond color, beyond history, beyond hurts and meddling relatives and poverty and anger and bitterness . . . beyond all of those things was a grace so powerful it could turn an enemy into an ally, and two lonely people into a family. It was a grace so miraculous it could mend broken promises and hand out second chances.
Lucy looked up into Jem’s eyes and felt, for the first time in a long time, absolute happiness.
Check out the rest of the Jane Austen Takes the South Series in these exciting ebooks!
Pride, Prejudice and Cheese Grits
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; Emma, Mr. Knightley and Chili-Slaw Dogs
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Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed reading Persuasion, Captain Wentworth and Cracklin’ Cornbread as much as I enjoyed writing it! I fell in love with Jane Austen’s story all over again and grew to appreciate her talent in a whole new way. Jane is famous for her wit, but there’s not much humor in Persuasion. It’s a sad story, and the only action to break up the monotony of heartache is a child falling out of a tree, Anne falling off a log, and Louisa throwing herself off the Cobb. But with nary a Miss Bates in sight for comic relief, Miss Austen gave us a gripping tale of love lost and second chances.
On the outside, Lucy Crawford and Jem Chevy have nothing in common. They have vastly different family histories, are in different economic classes and are different races in one of the few places where race can still be an obstacle. But if you look closely, they both love history, poetry and literature, care about poverty and live their faith. If you look a little deeper, you can see these two are fighting the same battles in a world that would rather they sit down and hush up.
Jem and Lucy are quiet but they’re also tough, courageous people. Together, I don’t think anyone will be able to stop them!
I wish you courage, grace and the wisdom to know when to stand up for your beliefs . . . and a little bit of blackberry cobbler to sweeten the journey.
Sincerely,
Mary Jane Hathaway
Recipes
Cracklin’ Cornbread
Before we get started, let me say I know all about the great war over cornbread. Sweet or not? Bacon grease or butter? Hot skillet or cold? If you’ve got the perfect cornbread recipe, just guard that baby with your life and ignore this one. But if you love cornbread and are willing to try something new (or are up to tweaking this one to fit your mama’s recipe), then come on over!
Persuasion, Captain Wentworth and Cracklin' Cornbread Page 26
