Engraved on the Heart

by Tara Johnson

  Do we? Amos flitted through her mind once more, just as he had a thousand times since last week when Micah had opened her eyes to the harsh truth.

  Laying aside the paper, Father plucked the spectacles from his nose and steepled his thick fingers. “I wholeheartedly agree with Stephens’s report in the paper several weeks back. He said the fundamental flaw in the old government was that it built its foundation on an error—the equality of the races. The Union declares that what God has clearly made unequal are equal. The old government was built on a lie, and so it fell.”

  Mother daintily dabbed her mouth with the linen napkin. “Precisely. Doesn’t the Good Book say, ‘Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? and what communion hath light with darkness?’”

  Keziah interjected, “But wasn’t the apostle speaking of marriage between the children of God and heathens? Not the races.”

  Father frowned. “The Negro is not our equal. The verse applies either way.”

  Biting back a retort, Keziah pushed away her plate, her appetite suddenly spoiled. Elizabeth continued to serve meekly, her head bowed. What did the house servant think of such talk? Keziah tried to catch her eye but to no avail.

  Sickened by her parents’ callousness, she started to rise but stopped when a loud rapping reverberated on the front door. Elizabeth scurried out only to return a moment later, her face apologetic.

  “A gentleman is here to see you, Master Montgomery. A Dr. Micah Greyson.”

  Keziah’s heart gave a thump, a reaction that surprised her.

  Father dropped his napkin on the table with a frown. “It’s a bit early for visitors, but I’ll see the man.”

  Elizabeth meekly trailed him out of the dining room as Mother sipped her morning coffee.

  Why was Micah here? She hadn’t expected to see him again, not since the night they’d said their tentative good-byes.

  Tamping down the flicker of anticipation quivering in her chest, she reached for the discarded newspaper only to be stopped by Mother’s biting tone.

  “You shouldn’t be reading the paper, darling. Remember what Dr. Kelsie told you. You shouldn’t exert yourself in any way, whether that be physical work or mental fatigue.”

  Her excitement wilted as she struggled not to retort. So she couldn’t even be trusted to read the paper? She was a prisoner, trapped in her own home. In her own body.

  “Besides, war discussion and political intrigue are not a fit use of time for a lady of good breeding. Wouldn’t you say?”

  Before Keziah could formulate a reply, masculine shouting sounded from the parlor. She jumped to her feet, her gaze colliding with the rounded eyes of her mother as she lifted her pale-blue skirt and hurried as fast as a lady dared toward the parlor door. The shouts grew in volume as she approached, her mother following her every step.

  Throwing caution aside, Keziah cracked open the door to hear her father bellow, “How dare you lecture me on how to treat my daughter!”

  Blood draining from her face, she peeked inside to see her graying, stocky father squaring off against a scowling Micah. Heaving a huff of frustration, Micah continued, both men oblivious to their audience.

  “Sir, please believe me, this would help your daughter! Medical science has made great strides in finding new, better solutions for epilepsy and—”

  “We already have a family physician, thank you.”

  Thunder built on Micah’s handsome face. “A physician who told her not to use her mind or lift a finger. It’s poppycock! Keziah is exceptionally bright. Treating her like glass is unfair. There are treatments that would help and yet allow her to live a fulfilling life.”

  Father’s whiskered jowls turned a startling shade of red. “‘Keziah’? How dare you speak my daughter’s name in such a familiar manner!”

  Stepping into the fray, Keziah placed a calming hand on her father’s arm, afraid he might strike Micah in his rage. “Father, please, Dr. Greyson is only trying to help—”

  He swung toward her with a glare that made her tremble. “Why do you defend this charlatan? And why does he refer to you in such a forward way? Have you been courting him without my knowledge?”

  Appalled at the sharp-tongued accusations, she shook her head. “Nothing improper has happened between us. Dr. Greyson was the physician who attended to me the night of my collapse at the Ballingers’ home. He and I were at school together.”

  Micah stepped forward, his tone conciliatory. “Miss Montgomery is quite correct. My only purpose in coming here was to offer other alternatives to treat her health.”

  Father narrowed his eyes to slits, turning slowly back to Micah, a knowing spark lighting his face. “Wait . . . Micah Greyson. I remember you. Was your father Samuel Greyson?”

  Micah regarded him warily, seeming to brace himself, though Keziah was helpless to know why.

  Father smiled, though it resembled more of a sneer. “Oh yes, I know all about you and your kind. Your father was a disgrace.”

  Keziah gasped as Mother lurched toward Father with a whispered plea to stop. He ignored her, his glare taking on an odd malice.

  “Samuel Greyson was nothing more than a troublemaker, telling anybody who would listen to his drivel about the merits of John Brown.” He scowled. “At least your father died before he could watch his beloved hero die the fool after Harper’s Ferry.”

  Keziah rushed to Micah’s side. “Father, stop! Dr. Greyson is my friend!”

  Father’s glare flashed fire, daring Micah to deny the poisonous claims.

  She looked to Micah. A muscle ticked in his cheek. His jaw appeared to be carved out of marble. Though he spoke calmly, his voice was edged in steel. “My apologies for interrupting your morning, sir. I’ll not be back.”

  Father nodded stiffly, his mouth a hard line. “Please. We don’t welcome Yankee lovers here.”

  Mother attempted to shush him as Keziah’s face burned.

  Micah’s gaze softened, landing on her. “Peony root and mugwort, Kizzie. Try peony root and mugwort.”

  Before she could reply, he strode out of the parlor, through the foyer, and out the door, slamming it with a forcible bang.

  Shaken, she slowly turned to her father, his behavior leaving her too mortified for words. Not that it mattered. His ire was still up as he railed at poor Elizabeth.

  “If you ever see that Yankee lover’s son lurking around this house again, you get Hiriam and have him toss the man into the street.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Keziah’s ears buzzed so loudly, she could do nothing more than stand dumbly in the middle of the parlor. Mother scolded Father, begging him to calm down, as Elizabeth hustled out of the room. The activity barely registered as Keziah watched the closed front door.

  Micah was gone. For good.

  CHAPTER 5

  JULY 24, 1861

  Keziah’s breath caught, snagging against her bodice as the cheers and whistles piercing the early morning air drifted through her open bedroom window, the sticky air little deterrent to the morning’s commotion.

  Father’s early trip to the office had left them all with a reprieve from their normal breakfast downstairs. She didn’t mind. When such mornings occurred, Elizabeth would sneak her a copy of the newspaper along with her breakfast tray, leaving her to read at her desk to her heart’s content.

  She scanned the thick, black headline of the Daily Morning News.

  VICTORY AT MANASSAS: UNION SCATTERS IN THE FACE OF CONFEDERATE RESOLVE

  Gripping the edges of the oily paper, she read swiftly.

  The Confederates chased the yellow-backed Yankees, crushing them in a decisive blow. The Union retreated. . . .

  What would this news do to abolitionist fervor? Would it dampen their spirits? More importantly, what would such a sound defeat mean to men like Amos, those desperate for a taste of freedom?

  She shook aside the thought and dropped the paper back on the tray, rattling the flower
-trimmed china plate. She couldn’t eat. She wouldn’t be able to taste it.

  Unbidden, her tumultuous thoughts returned to Micah. Where was he? She hadn’t seen him since the disastrous meeting with her father several months back. Had he maintained his resolve not to enlist? What if he had joined up after all and been injured or even killed at Manassas? Nausea curdled her stomach. She stood and leaned against her bedpost, wishing she were still in her nightclothes and not the constrictions of her whalebone corset.

  The dull thump of timpani pounded through the floor, unsettling her heart. She should be concerned for the safety of her neighbors who had valiantly marched to defend their Georgia soil. Old classmates and cousins, acquaintances and friends. Yet it was Micah’s face that swam in her vision.

  The pounding of drums grew louder, more insistent. With a start, she realized someone was knocking on the front door with sharp raps. Had there been news of casualties already? Lifting her gown, she descended the stairs as quickly as she dared just in time to see Elizabeth open the door. When her brother’s smiling face greeted her, she nearly squealed in delight.

  “Nathaniel!”

  He stepped over the threshold, grabbed her hands, and brushed his lips across her cheek. “You look as beautiful as ever.”

  Squeezing his hands, she looked into his face. The softness of youth had given way to more mature angles; the blond whiskers faintly lining his jaw testified to his arrival at manhood. That, and the glow of pride in his brown eyes.

  “Thank you. And you—” she smiled—“have grown into a man.”

  He chuckled and released her. “Not completely grown. I imagine we could still manage to get into a bit of mischief if we put our minds to it.”

  “Remember the time you brought a toad into the house and it jumped out of your shirt pocket during dinner? When it landed in the soup tureen, Mother shrieked so loudly I feared she would faint.”

  His laughter rolled over her like an embrace. “Or the time you took all my toy soldiers because I scalped your doll?”

  She propped her hands on her hips. “That was cruel and you know it. I had to tell Father what you’d done. Smoking his pipe?”

  Nathaniel winced at the memory. “I couldn’t sit down for a week.” His grimace melted into a grin. “And now look at you. Forcing me to return home before the term ends just to keep the suitors away.”

  Her joy suddenly dropped to the bottom of her stomach as something cold swept through her.

  “What is it, Nathaniel? Why did you come home? Aren’t you in the middle of your summer studies?”

  His eyes searched hers with a seriousness that frightened her. “I’ve come home to enlist.”

  Micah eyed the fresh mound of dirt with an aching heart. The oppressive heat clung to his body like paste, plastering his shirt to his back. This cemetery was far too quiet, one of Savannah’s smaller, less frequented resting places, blessedly secluded from the hustle of clopping hooves, noisy peddlers, and buzzing businessmen.

  Quiet. Still. Not even a breeze stirred to cool his heated face.

  A fly buzzed near his ear and he swatted it away. Poor Oliver. So vibrant and full of life. Cut down in the bloom of youth. Such waste.

  Releasing a warm breath, Micah dropped the cluster of daisies onto the fresh-churned mound of dirt. Despite their differing views on slavery, Oliver King had been a true friend, loyal and jovial, even during grammar school. He’d faced his destiny with courage.

  Unlike Micah, at least according to Savannah’s standards.

  Something unwelcome tightened in his chest as he recalled the box that had been delivered to his door mere weeks after war had been declared. He’d opened the brown-paper parcel only to find it filled with ladies’ unmentionables—frilly crinolines with a scrawled message attached. Wear these or volunteer.

  That very day he’d traveled to New York. Within the week, he had enlisted as a physician for the Relief Commission, as had several of his colleagues from Philadelphia. His convictions would not let him fight for the South, but his heart couldn’t bear the thought of picking up arms against his Southern friends either. He was stuck, unwelcome in both worlds . . . especially among those who remembered his father’s contentious leanings.

  A soft voice intruded. “I wondered if you’d heard.”

  He sucked in a breath as the scent of lilacs drifted toward him. Kizzie. He could never think of her as Keziah for long.

  Her cinnamon eyes tugged at him, pulling him in before her focus shifted to study the flower-strewn grave. Sunlight pierced her glossy hair, turning the strawberry-blonde tresses into fiery gold. Every curve of her lips, her chin, was perfection.

  He looked away, content to stand side by side with her in the silence. Funny how stifling the quiet had seemed until she arrived. Now he didn’t mind it so much.

  After a long moment, she sighed. “Poor Oliver. Gone so swiftly. His first battle of the war.”

  “Some thought it would be over by now.” He kept his eyes trained on the marker that would keep vigil over Oliver’s resting place until the headstone was cut. How many more graves would fill the small cemetery over the next months? “I’ll miss him.”

  He felt rather than saw her nod of agreement. “I have such fond memories of him.” A sudden giggle escaped and he turned to see a smile flit across her face. “Remember what he did to Lucy Kent when she tattled on him for hiding Jimmy’s lunch pail?”

  He chuckled. “Dipped the tips of her braids in the inkwell while she worked. Lucy was furious.”

  Kizzie’s presence soothed a frayed place inside as sweet memories washed over him. “Do you remember the time he bet Paul North his best aggie that he could eat more green apples than Paul could?”

  Throwing back her head, she laughed again. “I’d forgotten. Oliver was as green as a pickle. I don’t think he ate anything for a week afterward.”

  “And he lost his aggie to boot.”

  Their mirth drifted away as a somber silence invaded. Kizzie’s voice shifted, her tone melancholy. “Oliver’s poor mother. I don’t know if she’ll ever recover.”

  “Not doing well, I take it?”

  “No. She was so consumed with grief, she was almost unable to attend the burial. She managed but collapsed on the way home. Word is she hasn’t risen from her bed since.”

  He felt sick. “I wish I would have known. I would have returned immediately.”

  “I know.” She glanced at him and her curious stare snagged his attention. “Have you been in Philadelphia?”

  Had she been wondering about him? His heart thudded faster before he remembered how deeply her father detested him. It seemed that most in Savannah did.

  Forcing his eyes from hers, he blinked against the sun’s bright glare. “No. I was in New York.” He tried to form the words clearly, but his throat constricted. What if she hated him as much as everyone else appeared to?

  Her sweet face paled. “D-did you enlist?”

  Her fear was palpable, and he longed to soothe her worry. Instead, he forced himself to remain still. “No. I joined the Relief Commission as a physician.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’ll be providing medical care to Union troops. My particular job will involve going into Confederate prisoner of war camps and caring for the Union soldiers kept inside. That is, when I’m so allowed. It takes much negotiating.”

  “I see.” The heaviness in her voice spoke volumes. Some might view his voluntary service as an act of Christian compassion. Some would consider it treason to the Confederacy. But he had spent five years in the North, and Philadelphia had begun to feel as much like home as Savannah ever had.

  Longing to escape the stifling heat and chase away the morose mood that had suddenly settled, he managed a smile. “Say, the school is only just around the bend. Let’s take a stroll, shall we? Revisit old memories?”

  The clouds lifted from her face, and he was rewarded with her sunny smile. Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, he led her
through the iron gate toward their old haunt.

  Sunlight dappled through thick clusters of trees, bringing blessed relief from the glare, leaving shadows of dancing lace across the grassy path. Bees buzzed in their hives overhead, their hums drowning out the soft crunch of pebbles and twigs beneath booted footfalls.

  “Have you heard from your brother lately?”

  Keziah bit her lip. “Nathaniel arrived yesterday.”

  “Oh? I assumed he would be staying at the College of Charleston for the summer.”

  Her profile spoke of a deep, aching sadness. “He was, but no longer. He came home to enlist. He leaves in a fortnight.”

  Would there be one soul unaffected by the war? Not likely, unless it was over as quickly as the Confederacy claimed it would be.

  “I’m sorry. I know you’re proud of him for his bravery, but the worry does not lessen.”

  “I will be anxious for him, and in truth, I’m just as worried about Mother. She thought it might be coming, but his decision seems to have lowered her spirits just the same. But me—” she paused, tugging him to a gentle stop beside her—“how do I reconcile praying for my brother who is fighting for a cause I no longer believe in?”

  Micah’s heart pricked at the honest admission, as well as the turmoil swirling in her words. “You do not support the Confederacy?”

  She shook her head and dropped her voice to a whisper. “How can I after hearing Amos’s story and seeing his scars? I feel as if I’ve had blinders removed from my eyes.”

  Her sentiments so closely echoed his own that he fell silent for a long moment.

  “I know. Your heart is divided.”

  Sighing, she resumed their stroll and he noted the trickle of sweat darkening her curls, held aloft in their snood. “Exactly. I dare not speak my mind. Nor can I lift a finger to help without feeling like I’m betraying my own brother, not to mention friends like poor Oliver.”