A Rebel Heart

by Beth White

  He tipped his hat. “In that case, I shall wish you a successful shopping venture and take my leave.”

  He headed for the boardinghouse, where it took him less than half an hour to clear his room and settle the bill with his landlady. Since Schuyler, Aurora, and Mrs. McGowan had already relocated to Daughtry House, it seemed prudent that he should do the same. He wanted to keep a protective eye on the women; plus, if his plans came to fruition, his investigation was about to come to a boil there. Leaving his bag in the carriage boot, he tucked his journal into his coat pocket—highly conscious of the absence of Selah’s handkerchief—and walked toward the telegraph and post office.

  Encountering Selah this morning in the newly cleaned and refurbished breakfast room had proven to be a lesson in exquisite torture. Her appearance was neat and practical as always—the wavy dark hair contained in its usual severe coronet, a plaid fichu that matched her blue skirt pinned about her shoulders—but her brown eyes looked bruised, as though she hadn’t slept well. When he questioned her, her response had been brief to the point of brusqueness.

  He had wanted to draw her aside, to cajole her into talking, to make her laugh. He knew how to do that.

  But for now he hadn’t the right to take advantage of her obvious attraction to him. Not until his responsibilities with Pinkerton were laid to rest. So he’d settled for cutting a full-blown magnolia blossom from the tree in the front yard and dropping it into her lap before he walked out the door. Her gasp of pleasure had made him smile all the way to the carriage house.

  For now his task was amassing every bit of information possible about the various suspects on his list. Inside the Tupelo telegraph office, Mr. Carpenter, the operator, greeted him as an old friend, informing him that a letter had come for him.

  Levi took Pinkerton’s neatly scribed envelope in hand and walked to the window to open it. The message comprised, as per Levi’s request, a detailing of the Beaumont family’s documented military background, filling in the gaps of what Levi had already ascertained from interviews with Schuyler and others acquainted with the family. Pinkerton’s sources revealed that the Beaumonts had resided in Mobile since the early 1800s, building their fortune and reputation in the shipping industry. They had heavily invested in the M&O railroad but kept a hand in maritime trading. When the threat of war broke out, they had supported Southern interests by lending rail services to the movement of troops and using their ships as blockade runners—eldest son Jamie functioning as a quasi-pirate for five years—without sinking sums directly into Confederate coffers. Thus, when bonds went belly-up at the end of the war, the Beaumonts maintained real assets rather than the disastrous paper ones, and managed to rebuild their fortunes relatively painlessly.

  All of that demonstrated a bold familial sense of adventure undergirded by cold, cunning self-preservation.

  Or, depending on how one looked at it, a boatload of sheer good luck.

  As for Schuyler’s wartime service, there was little information. At the onset of the war, he had been too young for enlistment and, as North and South continued to thrash about in unresolved furor, had evidently never formally signed on. This led Levi to wonder if Schuyler’s service might have been of a clandestine nature—for which side was anyone’s guess. After all, his sister had fled the city as a known Union spy.

  Levi mentally riffled through sources who might dig up further information for him. Time was of the essence. After a few minutes’ thought, he sat down at the desk near the window and composed a coded telegram in answer to Pinkerton’s letter. One name he’d unearthed himself, in that second conversation with Whitmore at the Mercantile, was Confederate General Maney—someone with wartime ties to Selah’s father. Levi hadn’t gotten around to researching further connections to postwar events in Tennessee or Mississippi. If Maney could be tied to railroad interests, then Levi might have something useful to work with. He added Maney’s name to his request for information from his boss.

  He addressed his next telegram to Mr. J. A. Spencer of Oxford. Halfway through a third, he snapped his fingers, wadded the form then and tossed it into the wastebasket under the desk. Whistling through his teeth, he approached the telegraph desk and handed over the two finished messages along with enough money to cover the requisite fees. “I’d be obliged if you’d send these to the persons addressed, Mr. Carpenter. I’ll stop by on my way out of town to check for any replies.”

  Carpenter took the telegrams, studied them for a moment, then sat down at his key and began tapping.

  Satisfied that he’d set several balls in motion, Levi sauntered out of the office. He glanced in the post office window as he passed. Carpenter had disappeared from behind the counter, but the back of his jacket was just visible, bent over the desk Levi had used to write his messages. Looked like he was fishing in the wastebasket.

  Levi grinned.

  I don’t have time for this, Selah thought. She stared at the portrait in the dining room—her mother, herself, and her two little sisters—a frozen moment in times that were good.

  Good for her, at least. It was a time when she’d been unaware of tension between her parents, unaware of the brewing storm of national debate. It had been painted during the summer right before she and Joelle left for boarding school.

  Innocence.

  She walked up to the painting, reached over the buffet to touch the canvas, followed the swirl of brushstrokes down her mother’s favorite yellow gown. She could remember the sight of that gorgeous silk, the color of sunshine, draped across a boudoir chair the first time Mama put it on. Selah hadn’t been able to resist picking it up to pinch it between her fingers while Horatia laced up Mama’s corset so tight she could barely breathe. Even after three children, Papa could span Mama’s waist with his two hands, fingers touching.

  There was a fall of lace like lemon meringue along the low neckline, veiling the décolletage and drawing attention to the locket above it.

  Suddenly Selah wondered what had happened to that locket. The time after Mama’s passing had been a blur of grief and upset, packing bags and moving, leaving everything unessential behind. She hadn’t thought to look for it upon her return after the war. Really, truly, she hadn’t time to do so now, but a surge of nostalgia and curiosity drew her up the stairs to the attic. Passing through here with Levi, the day they’d found the bees, she’d been distracted by his presence, too much so to think about what was in the attic. And then so busy with the excitement of venturing into business.

  Now it seemed crucial to find that locket.

  Everything on the second floor was orderly, clean, awaiting new bed linens that had been ordered from Memphis. Peeking into each room, she walked around to the attic stairs, circling up from the second floor. The attic had been cleaned too—Horatia’s work, no doubt. The floor was swept free of dust, just a few motes twirling in the light pouring down from the cupola above. Four sturdy cedar chests had been pushed under the eaves, leaving the central area open. A couple of rusty lanterns, a rocker with a horsehair seat, and two or three other pieces of discarded furniture took up the odd corner.

  Where should she start? The two smaller chests against the back of the house proved to be unlocked when she tried the lids. Inside one she found baby clothes, diapers, tiny blankets, ruffled bonnets—free of moth holes, no doubt due to the strong cedar scent that wafted upward from the lid. All the things a young mother would treasure and save. Oh, Charmion would enjoy these so much, and Selah couldn’t wait to give them to her. Smiling, she closed that trunk and opened the one next to it. No surprise, another stage of children’s clothing, including small shoes and a few toys—a top, a corn husk dolly, and a set of jacks lay at the top.

  Selah tucked the doll into her apron pocket and moved to the third trunk. It was locked, and she had no idea where the key might have gotten to, so she shrugged and pulled at the lid of the last one. It opened easily, and there lay the yellow dress, as if Mama had put it away only reluctantly. Once Papa left for the war, th
ere had been no parties grand enough for such a garment. She laid her hand on it, felt the coolness of the silk, rubbed the fabric between her fingers as she had done as a child. It still had that lovely slip-slidey texture that made her want to brush it against her face or go waltzing—or both.

  She stood up and shook the dress out—it had been rolled up with tissue paper inside it—then held it up to herself at the shoulders. Wrinkled a bit, of course, but it still fell in drapey folds around her feet. No mirror up here, but when she held the dress’s waistline against her own, she thought it might fit with just a little adjustment. She was on the lanky side like Papa, unfortunately, without Mama’s petite curves, but at least her waist was small.

  Letting the dress shoosh to the floor, she dropped to her knees again to see what had been beneath it. Mama’s rosewood jewelry box lay under a pile of crinolines, a couple of nightgowns, and a gray woolen day dress. Holding her breath, she lifted out the box and thumbed open the latch.

  There it was. The locket needed a good polish, but its gold was lustrous in quality, the fragile chain piled in a careful coil. Setting the box aside, she picked up the locket and laid it cool in her palm. She closed her eyes, her mother’s gentle presence palpable, not needing to open the locket to feel the sanctity of her parents’ love.

  Unbidden, she thought of the magnolia blossom that had dropped over her shoulder that morning. Temporary beauty indeed, but no less priceless.

  Suddenly, she wanted Levi to see her in a beautiful gown, dressed to please him. She wanted to waltz in his arms, to feel his heart beating beneath her palm.

  If Aurora insisted on having a ball, then Selah, as hostess, should have a nice dress.

  Bundling the yellow gown over her arm, the locket still in her hand, she closed the trunk and headed back downstairs. “Charmion!” she called as she reached the ground floor. “Charmion, where are you? I want to show you something!”

  Aurora had made it clear that Levi’s presence was neither needed nor wanted while the women completed their shopping. But since he had a little time to spare before he needed to pick up Wyatt, some contrary imp pushed him to cross the street to the Mercantile anyway. Whitmore and his opinionated wife would make interesting additions to the upcoming Daughtry House festivities. He should definitely issue an invitation.

  Inside the store, he located Aurora’s feathered hat and coppery curls bobbing past a row of fabric bolts propped against the far wall. Waving at Mr. Whitmore, Levi headed that direction. “Aurora!”

  She turned with a smile. “Levi! Are you done with your business? Would you like to come give me your opinion of this silk jacquard?”

  “I can think of few things I know less about than patterns and weaves. I would think Joelle—” He looked around. “What have you done with your sister?”

  “She said she had an errand to run while I narrowed down my choices. Come to think of it, she didn’t say where she was going.”

  That was odd—and intriguing. “I’ll see if I can locate her.” Levi went back outside and looked up and down the street. Though perhaps not as analytical as Selah, Joelle was a reader, well-informed, and he’d had several conversations with her about politics and history and books they’d both read. Tupelo didn’t have a library yet, but there was a bookstore next to the newspaper office. He headed that way.

  He wasn’t even aware that he had glanced in the newspaper office window until he’d stopped in his tracks and backed up. Joelle sat at the editor’s desk, gloved hands clutching her reticule. She was talking a blue streak, her milk-and-roses complexion flushed. Finally she stopped her tirade and glared, bosom heaving, at the man across from her.

  Jiminy. What in the world was going on?

  The editor scowled, then reluctantly reached into a cubby behind him to withdraw a small cash till. He took out a bill—Levi couldn’t decipher its denomination—and handed it to Joelle. She pinched her lips together, tucked the note into her bag, and rose. With a jerky nod, she turned and headed for the door.

  Adjusting his position to make it look as if he’d just come out of the bookstore, Levi strolled back the way he’d come.

  When Joelle all but plowed into him, he grabbed her arm to slow her down. “Joelle! What a surprise! Have you finished your shopping?”

  Those electric blue eyes flashed to his face as she snatched her arm away. “I’m—I haven’t—mercy, you startled me!” Wildly she looked over her shoulder. “I was just going to the bookstore. Aurora didn’t want to come, so . . . here I am. For a little time by myself.” Twisting the strap of her reticule, she edged toward the bookstore.

  “You seem agitated,” he said, moving to block her escape. “Has someone upset you?”

  “Of course not. I’m perfectly fine. I just want a book. So if you’ll excuse me . . .” She walked away.

  He fell into step with her. Nothing like behaving like an obtuse male for a lark. “I wanted to buy something for Selah, but couldn’t decide. Perhaps you could give me a suggestion.” He moved to open the door of the bookstore for her.

  She halted abruptly. “Mr. Riggins. Levi.” Her gaze was level, defiant. “Nobody knows I come to town periodically to meet with the newspaper editor. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to anyone. Especially Grandmama. Or Schuyler. Or anyone.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t betray a confidence,” he said, “not that there’s anything particularly scandalous about buying a newspaper.”

  “I’m not buying newspapers.”

  “You’re placing advertisements?” he said skeptically. “What for?”

  “I’m not placing advertisements.”

  “Then what are you—oh.” She was a writer. He should have seen it. “Does Selah know?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t think she’d disapprove.”

  “I can’t take any chances. I need the money, and it’s what I—it’s just what I do. I can’t help it.”

  She sounded as if she had just confessed to an opium addiction. He smiled. “What do you need money for? The hotel will be upside down for a year or two, most likely, but eventually you ladies should be set pretty well. And what about your grandmother—”

  “Grandmama isn’t as rich as she likes to pretend. Plus, she’s cheap as stinking mackerel.”

  That caught him so off-guard that he laughed out loud. “What?”

  “Henry IV,” she sighed. “Why are Yankees so illiterate?”

  “I’m not illiterate, and that is beyond obscure. Also, you didn’t say what the money is for.”

  “This is a very public place for such a conversation.”

  “Would you be more comfortable jawing over a tankard of beer at the Rattlesnake?”

  “I hate you, Levi Riggins.”

  He grinned at her. “One day when I’m your brother-in-law you’ll appreciate me.”

  “I knew it! I knew she wasn’t telling me something!”

  He leaned in. “She doesn’t exactly know it yet either. Come on, Joelle. Spill it.”

  “All right! Promise you won’t—”

  “Won’t tell anybody,” he finished with her. “I swear on my sainted granny, who is also cheap as stinking mackerel.”

  Joelle stared at him for a moment, then leaned back against the front of the bookstore, arms folded. “I want to buy books and materials for a real Negro school.”

  He let out a long whistle. “That’s . . . quite an ambitious goal. But I don’t see why you can’t tell anybody.”

  “Because I’m a woman. The Journal makes me write anonymously.”

  “But women are published all the time.”

  “Not the sort of thing I write. Political commentary mostly.” Joelle scowled at him. “So if you tell on me, I’ll tell Selah you were a spy during the war.”

  Levi went cold. Did she know that for sure, or had she made a wild guess? He made himself laugh. “Don’t worry, Joelle, you don’t have to resort to making things up. Your secret is safe with me and my granny. Now you’d bett
er get on back to Aurora before she suspects you’ve had a pint at the Rattlesnake after all. I’m going to get Wyatt, and we’ll meet you ladies at the buggy in half an hour.” He tipped his hat.

  As Joelle sniffed and walked away with her elegant nose in the air, Levi shook his head and continued toward Doc Kidd’s office. The things people did sometimes defied all logic.

  So he should not have been surprised when Kidd yanked the door open before Levi even had a chance to knock. “I’ve been waiting on you, you slimy spy,” the doctor said in a menacing tone.

  Levi stood there with his knuckles in the air, considering the idea of plowing them into Doc’s beaky nose. This made twice in a short while he’d been accused of spying. In the interest of deescalating tensions, however, he lowered his hand and raised his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

  “And well you should,” Doc growled. “How dare you pump that kid, trying to worm my research out of him?”

  Levi sighed. “He told you about our discussion, then.”

  “Yes, he told me you tricked him into confirming some crazy suspicion of yours that I’ve been building bombs in my medical office? Have you lost your tiny Yankee mind?”

  Levi was also getting tired of defending his education and intellectual capacity to these slow-talking Southerners. “Do you mind if we conduct this brawl indoors?”

  Kidd blinked, nodded at a woman passing on the sidewalk, and stepped back into the office. “Come in,” he said with obvious reluctance. “But I’m watching you.”

  Levi entered, noting Wyatt guarding the interior door—the one Doc had made sure to close when Levi visited the first time. “Wyatt,” he said with a nod. “How did your lesson go today?”

  Wyatt ducked his head. “Fine,” he mumbled. “Dissected a fetal pig today.”

  “Charming,” Levi said. “It seems somebody can’t keep his mouth shut, and it wasn’t me.”