The Heart of Home

by Stephenia H. McGee

  “Not all of us fought simply to keep men in chains, sir.” The words were low, though said with enough ice that even Opal shivered. Mr. Stuart kept his gaze on the Yank as the baffled man cocked his head. “Some thought the government shouldn’t nullify state’s rights.” He narrowed his eyes. “And we fought to protect our homes from invading forces that burned and pillaged.”

  Mr. Weir stared at him a moment, and then cleared his throat. “Yes, well, armies do squabble over territories. It is my understanding such atrocities can be attributed to both sides. It is the way of war…or so I am told.” He waved a dismissive hand again, oblivious to the way color darkened the skin above Mr. Stuart’s beard.

  “But as I said, the war was really only fought over the South wanting to keep slaves, and the abolitionists rallying against it. I hold no grudges.” He shrugged and took a sip of his tea.

  Opal looked to Mr. Stuart, who clenched the teacup so tightly that she feared he may break it. He kept his gaze locked on Mr. Weir.

  “It may surprise you,” Mr. Stuart said, “But there were those of my household who never did understand how physical attributes made any one man less than another.”

  Opal pressed her fingers to her lips as Mr. Weir stared at Mr. Stuart in open confusion. Mr. Weir shifted in his seat uncomfortably and glanced at Opal, but her eyes were drawn to the conviction sparking fire in the most expressive eyes she had ever seen.

  “You make a point that I have often wondered myself, Mr. Stuart,” she said, keeping her lips moving even as Mr. Weir began to sputter. “For I cannot believe God would value one people over another for the mere sake of coloring.”

  They stared at one another for a couple of moments, more coming from Mr. Stuart’s eyes than his lips. Finally, though, they curved upward, and she found the smile to say nearly as much as his eyes.

  Mr. Weir laughed. “Well, if that don’t beat all. And here my father warned me that I would have to encounter a bunch of angry Rebs in a swarm over losing their Negroes.”

  The sound of the door saved them all from what Opal was sure would have turned into an animated response from Mr. Stuart. She lurched to her feet. “Gentlemen, I believe my mother has returned.”

  Mr. Weir eyed Mr. Stuart as they both rose, but quickly turned his attention on Mama as she glided into the room. Mama took in the scene quickly, her eyes lingering a moment on Mr. Stuart’s tight features.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Weir. I apologize for my delay, but it took longer at the postmaster than I anticipated.”

  “No inconvenience at all, madam. I have been taking the opportunity to get to know Miss Martin better.”

  Opal watched Mama closely as her gaze darted between the two of them. Why should Mr. Weir want to get to know her? Did Mama think that if she liked the man, then she would be less opposed to selling Riverbend?

  Mr. Stuart spoke through clenched teeth. “If you ladies will excuse me, I aim to finish splitting some logs for the stove.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Stuart,” Mama said, moving aside for him to pass. “Your help here has been greatly appreciated.”

  He uttered a reply Opal couldn’t hear and then disappeared. Mama came and sat next to Opal on the settee, her gaze sliding over the now cold teakettle.

  “Oh,” Opal said, reaching for the pot. “Let me go warm the kettle for you so you and Mr. Weir can continue your business.”

  Mama laid a hand on her arm. “Oh, don’t trouble yourself, dear.” She glanced at Mr. Weir and then flashed a smile that seemed too tense to be genuine. “But I did get some cookies Mr. Farnsworth’s wife was selling at the general store. They smelled simply divine.” She stood, and Mr. Weir rose with her. “Why don’t the two of you talk for a few moments while I fetch them?”

  Without waiting for a reply, Mama scurried out of the room like a nervous mouse clad in widows rags. Opal blinked a moment in surprise, then clenched her hands, realizing she had just been purposely left alone with a questionable stranger.

  Chapter Eight

  Tristan swung the axe again, hoping his emotions would flow out of his hands and splinter with the crack of the wood. How had he let himself become this tangle of useless frustrations? Sweat slipped down the nape of his neck and soured the fine shirt he had no business wearing. He lifted the blade over his head and sent it down with all the force of his anger, the snap of the log sending tremors up his arms.

  First it had been worrying about Miss Martin’s well-being with the inevitable loss of her home, then it had been memories of Millie, and then that infuriating codfish aristocrat with his condescension. The axe hit again, and more of his fury went out with the next log. Why had he gotten so mad in the first place? Mr. Weir held the same opinion that many men, north and south of the divide, held. If he were honest, at the start of the war he’d been just as bent on keeping slaves as the rest of them. He’d joined the army to defend his lands from invasion, but he truly believed the government had no right to tell them what they could and could not do on their own land. That had included owning people.

  But all of that had changed a year ago. Everything had changed a year ago. He tossed the split log aside and reached for another from the stack. What had happened with Millie and Pat had brought long-buried childhood convictions to light. Thoughts he had tried to bury and ignore.

  As a boy, he never could understand how skin made one man better than the other, he’d just been glad he’d been born the right color. His life had been one of comforts and privilege, and theirs had been one of toil and restraint. But anyone who questioned the system received firm reprimand, so he’d learned to bury those concerns as he grew into a man.

  Movement drew his attention and he caught sight of Mrs. Martin hurrying down the rear steps. Tristan paused with the axe over his head and let it come to a rest on his shoulder.

  “Mr. Weir is finished with his visit already?”

  Mrs. Martin paused and eyed him. “No. He is sitting with Opal.”

  Tristan took a step forward, his eyes darting to the closed door on the back of the house. “Alone?”

  Mrs. Martin bristled and lifted her nose to look down it, but he held a height advantage over her, and she still had to raise her eyes. “Yes, but they are not entirely without a chaperone. The parlor door is open, and I am home.” She flapped a bony hand at him. “It has not been so long that I have forgotten proper etiquette, Mr. Stuart.”

  The muscles in his jaw worked, and he hefted the axe once more. What business was it of his who these women entertained? He positioned another log on the splitting stump.

  “How much longer do you intend to stay?”

  He glanced up at her, unable to read the meaning behind her words. “Are you ready for me to go? I do not wish to be a burden.”

  “No, your help has been most welcome. You may stay on, so long as you split the wood and do the manly chores we have long been without someone to tend.”

  He nodded, but she still stared at him. He waited.

  “But I am afraid we will be moving soon, and when that time comes, I suspect you will not wish to stay on and work for Mr. Weir.”

  Tristan snorted. “No, I won’t be doing that.”

  She fiddled with her dress. “What will you be doing, then?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  Mrs. Martin turned back toward the kitchen. “Well, when you go, be sure to take that mongrel with you.”

  “Shadow?”

  She paused and lifted her eyebrows. “So you’ve named it?”

  “Seemed better than calling him dog.”

  She chuckled, and Tristan found it more robust than he’d expected. “Yes, well, you shall take good care of him, and I shall be glad to be rid of him being constantly underfoot.”

  Tristan twirled the axe. “Odd how he would just hang around, what with no one feeding him or anything.”

  Her eyes widened like a child who had just been caught stealing candy. Then she narrowed her gaze. “Well, I couldn’t very well leave a pitiful creatur
e to die on my porch, now could I?”

  A smile tugged his lips. “I am sure Shadow will forever be grateful for your charity, ma’am.”

  She mumbled something and hurried on to the kitchen, only to emerge a few moments later with a small package. Without a word, she untied the string, fetched a delicate confection from inside and held it out to him.

  He took it without hesitation, the scents of sweetness already tickling his nose. “Thank you.”

  “Yes, well, best you keep up your strength. I need you to fix the hinge on the mule’s stall before you put him in for the night.”

  Tristan watched her disappear inside, and then sat to savor the treat.

  Opal rubbed a loose thread between her fingers, trying to find a topic of conversation that might refocus Mr. Weir’s steady gaze. What could she say that would please Mama? Did she think Opal could butter him up in hopes of him offering a higher price?

  “You are quite lovely. Appealing in a simple sort of way.”

  Opal looked up. He seemed to mean it as a compliment. “Did you know that my father commissioned a French craftsmen from New Orleans to carve the moldings?”

  He blinked. “Your mother mentioned it.”

  “And the table in the dining room, it would stay with the house. It is a fine piece of craftsmanship.”

  The corners of his mouth pulled down. “I’m sure. But enough about the house. Tell me something about you. What do you enjoy?”

  Ignoring the squirm in her stomach, Opal glanced at the door. What took Mama so long? “Oh, well, I like to read.”

  He made a startled noise, drawing her gaze back to his smooth face. “Oh, well. I meant something…more appropriate. Something useful.”

  She cocked her head. “Useful? Well, I have managed the daily tasks at the house, and have become more proficient in cooking, though I confess I am still not all that adept with a needle. But you asked for things I enjoy. I enjoy the opera, though I’ve no more occasions to go, and reading.”

  Mr. Weir’s eyes lit. “The opera. We shall take in a show, then.”

  “Pardon?” Where did this man think he would be able to see an opera in Mississippi? And for that matter, his assumption that she would accompany him was audacious.

  “Do you enjoy the theater as well? I am sure we will be able to take in several during the summers.”

  Opal considered her words. “Mr. Weir, I am afraid I do not understand.”

  He leaned forward. “Your mother did not mention my proposal?”

  “Pro…proposal?” She nearly choked on the word.

  He smiled. “Ah, well, forgive me. I suppose that does take some of the heart out of the business. I have offered to take you on as my wife. I’ll expect you to maintain the household, and I will restore you to your previous standard of living.”

  She gaped at him, no words finding purchase upon her lips. He began a tumult of words that she couldn’t grasp, her mind still reeling. He didn’t seem to notice, and by the time Mama stepped into the room, he’d rambled an entire monologue.

  “Mrs. Martin,” Mr. Weir said, coming to his feet at her entrance. “Your daughter and I were just discussing plans for the future.”

  Mama looked at Opal, then she shook her head. “Mr. Weir, I believe you have taken my daughter by surprise. I said we could discuss courtship after we come to a settlement about the house.”

  Heat seared its way up from Opal’s stomach and burned the back of her throat. She rose. “If you two will excuse me, I’m afraid I am not feeling well.”

  Mr. Weir sputtered something, but Mama’s words stayed him. “Certainly, dear. Take a few moments to get some fresh air while I finish the visit with our guest.”

  Mama’s tone held apology, but Opal’s head spun too quickly for her to try to return Mama’s gaze. She grasped the parlor doorframe for support. The rear door offered a beacon of hope and she scrambled to it, glad to escape the confines of the house. The sky had darkened, giving the early afternoon the look of evening. Even still, it felt brighter than the suffocating panic in the parlor. A cool breeze brushed her cheeks as she closed the door behind her.

  The dog greeted her with the thump of its tail. She moved to shoo him away, but then thought better of it. This creature had never offered anything more than a happy canine expression and a friendly nature. With a sigh, she bent and patted him on the head.

  “And what are we to do with you when we leave?”

  “Mrs. Martin says he is to go with me.”

  Opal startled at Mr. Stuart’s voice, but hid it. “That is well and good.” She gave the dog another pat and then straightened, unsure what to do with herself under his heavy gaze.

  Mr. Stuart scratched the back of his neck. “Things go all right in there?”

  His shirt clung to his chest, the damp fabric finding every hardened muscle. Opal averted her gaze. How different he looked than the smooth Mr. Weir. “He and Mama are discussing things, though I wish they would just hurry up and settle on a price. He wants to buy, she wants to sell. Let us have done.”

  He took a step closer, the axe he carried slung over his broad shoulder. His deep brown gaze assessed her, asking questions his lips didn’t need to form.

  “I…I suppose I will be moving to Massachusetts to live with Mama’s cousin.” She successfully kept a hitch from her voice, unable to mention the other option Mama seemed to be considering. “It will be much nicer than living here, hoping we can survive the winter.”

  “I suppose.” He continued to stare at her.

  “And where will you go, Mr. Stuart?” she asked, scrambling for something more to say. Something that would keep him in her presence a moment longer, if for nothing more than the foolishness of her hopeless heart.

  “Tristan.” He held her gaze, as though waiting for her to acknowledge the invitation before he would answer her question.

  “Where will you go, Tristan?”

  Something sparked in his eyes, but she didn’t dare contemplate its meaning. “I don’t know. West, maybe.”

  She’d heard of people heading toward the Western coast, trying to set up new lives for themselves away from the war. “A good plan.”

  He lifted the axe from his shoulder and let it come to a rest at his side. “What’s the banker going to do with Riverbend?”

  She barked a bitter laugh. “For some reason he has this notion that I would stay on as his wife and run his household, and perhaps manage the plantation, though I cannot fathom where he concocted such an idea. As for farming, well, I don’t see him having much of a hand with that, so who is to say what will become of this place?”

  Tristan’s eyes darkened. “You are not considering his marriage offer, are you?”

  She spread her hands. “I suppose any normal lady would be glad to see her former lifestyle of plenty restored and would be glad to wed an attractive young man with substantial wealth. Many young ladies spend their society years clamoring for such a match.”

  He dropped the axe took the steps, coming to stand only an arm’s length in front of her.

  “But…perhaps I am not… a normal lady.” The words came out breathy as she tilted her head back to look at him.

  Slowly, he reached out a hand and took hold of a lock of her hair, rubbing it between his fingers. “I daresay that is truth, Miss Martin.”

  “Opal.”

  Tristan stepped closer. “Opal.” He dropped the hair and traced a finger along her jaw. “Not a normal lady at all. Far better, I say. With more compassion, grace, and kindness than that scoundrel deserves.”

  She blinked up at him as he leaned closer, her breath snagging in her chest. The world seemed to slow, each pump of her heart sending heat through her veins. He cupped her cheek in his hand, then his lids lowered as he rested his forehead against hers.

  “And Lord forgive me, far better than this broken soul could ever hope for.” His whispered words brushed against her lips just before he lowered his mouth to hers.

  In a sweep of emotio
n she pressed her lips back into his, feeling the tingle of his whiskers against her face. For one intoxicating moment he held there, and then stepped away, hanging his head.

  “Forgive me. I should have never taken such a liberty.” The haunted look in his eyes returned, and he turned away.

  Overhead, the crack of thunder split the sky, causing her to jump. She placed her fingers to her lips as though that would hold the sensation of his kiss in place. Then she watched as he stalked out into the gathering storm.

  It started as a trickle, just a dusting of moisture that pulled some of the heat from his skin, but in the few moments it took Tristan to get across the rear lawn, the rain gathered and now fell with devilish intensity. He shook his head, shortened locks sending a spray of droplets to join their fellows.

  He shouldn’t be standing here in the rain like a fool, but neither could he return to the house. What had possessed him to take Miss Martin into his embrace? To sully lips that he would guess had never known a man’s touch before? The lasting sensation of her sent another wave of heat through his center, further knocking him off balance. Something in that fleeting moment of sweet pleasure had unmoored him and sent him into unrelenting waves of uncertainty.

  Tristan pressed the heel of his hand into his eye. Why did he have to open a door somewhere in his depths he could never close again? The familiar ache, the crushing sorrow that had been his daily companion pressed down upon him again, reminding him that he had been foolish to think the reprieve he’d found here could last. He’d been delusional to think he could stay here and not taint anyone. To taste of purity and not ruin it. His gaze fell upon the river, its murky waters gulping up the rain and churning with as much intensity as the fire in his chest.