by Tara Johnson
Ma Linnie grunted and poured steaming chicory coffee into a tin cup, pressing it into Kizzie’s fingers. “Take this, dearie. It will warm your insides.”
She blinked rapidly but sipped the brew, wrinkling her nose against the taste.
Ma continued probing Micah as she scurried to stoke the fire in the woodstove. “Were you followed?”
“I don’t think so. It was mighty close, though. Too close.”
Straightening from her stooped position, Ma banged the stove door shut and rubbed the ash from the poker off her hands. “What was the girl doing at the church?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Kizzie stood from her chair with an exasperated sigh and placed the cup on the table. “Pardon me, but I’m present. I can answer your questions.” She raised her face to Micah’s. Her expression was guarded. “But first you must tell me what you were doing, Micah. What’s going on?”
Keziah lifted her chin as she watched Micah glance toward the robust woman. Something was most definitely wrong. Why was he acting in such a baffling way?
She pressed him further. “I thought you were working with the Relief Commission. I even wrote you a letter.” Guilt flashed across his face and she nearly recoiled, hurt and disbelief washing over her in waves. “Did you lie to me?”
He shook his head, a streak of crimson climbing up his neck. “No, Kizzie. I didn’t lie. I am with the Relief Commission.”
“Then why were you snooping around the church in the middle of the night?”
His countenance darkened as he set his jaw stubbornly. “I could ask you the same.”
She stalled. She would not betray the runaways she’d led into the basement. She set her own jaw and pressed her lips into a hard line.
Micah raised a dark brow. “I see.” His tone was clipped.
“Three in the wee sma’s is too early to be stewing.” The older woman plopped her plump hands on her ample hips and gave them both a motherly glare. “Something happened out there or you both wouldn’t be sitting here in my kitchen.”
Three in the morning? Keziah gasped and slid the hood of her cloak over her head. “Thank you for the coffee, ma’am, but I must take my leave.”
Micah stepped in front of her with a frown. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Home, of course.” She cinched the ties of her cloak, preparing to brush past him, but the hands he placed on her shoulders stopped her.
“By yourself? Are you daft?”
Why did everyone think her a dullard? Giving in to vexation, she snapped, “I think I can manage my way back.”
“I’ll accompany you.”
“That won’t be necessary, sir.”
“I’ll either walk by your side or follow from a distance, but I’ll not allow you to travel home unescorted.”
“Whatever suits you, Doctor.” She knew she sounded churlish but was helpless to keep the disdain from leaking into her voice.
Micah’s eyes narrowed, but he remained silent as he buttoned his wool coat. “Thank you for the protection, Ma.”
Ma Linnie barely suppressed a chuckle. “I’ve no doubt I’ll be seeing both of you again. And soon.”
Unable to sort out the cryptic remark, Keziah gave her a weak smile and slipped out into the harsh air, Micah on her heels. She was blessedly free of the stale atmosphere in the pub but carried a larger burden instead. How could she explain what she was doing?
Micah watched from the shadows as Kizzie slipped through the servants’ entrance, praying the house servants had not yet awakened. He blew warm breath into his cupped fingers. Dawn would soon turn the sky a streaked pink. Lifting a hasty prayer for her safety, he stepped farther into his hiding place among the trees lining the Montgomery home.
Judging by Kizzie’s expression when she realized the late hour back at the pub, her family was unaware of her clandestine activities. No surprise there. No man in his right mind would allow his beautiful daughter to traipse all over Savannah in the dead of night. So what was she up to?
She’d spoken not a word to him the entire way back. Nor he to her. Her icy silence was far more chilling than the night air. She thought the worst of him. Thought him to be a liar or, heaven forbid, a coward. How could he possibly explain his work without dragging her into the subterfuge with him? No, she was too precious to live in such danger. He’d rather she think him an ogre than place her in harm’s way.
Heart heavy, he turned away from the imposing house. Whatever Kizzie was involved in, she was playing a dangerous game. Of course, he was too. Still, he’d always sensed from a young age that the shy little foal held the heart of a wild Arabian horse inside, caged and desperate to be loosed. Perhaps the Arabian had found a way to run free.
But was it a taste for freedom that drove her to recklessness? Or perhaps something altogether different? She had been at the church, a primary point along the Railroad. A suspicion niggled. Was Kizzie a conductor?
As quickly as the idea formed, he shoved it away. No. She would never entangle herself in something so precarious. Likely she didn’t even know about it.
Regardless of the reason for her late-night wanderings, Kizzie needed a keeper. He steeled his rapidly softening heart.
No matter the situation, her keeper could not be him.
CHAPTER 9
“DARLING, YOU LOOK FRIGHTFULLY TIRED.”
Keziah pasted on a smile and looked across the dining table to meet her mother’s eyes. They were far too astute. Picking at the potatoes cooling on her plate, she forced her exhaustion away as best she could. “Nothing to worry about.”
More rest. She must get more sleep. But how could she when there were runaways hiding in their stable, waiting for someone to lead them from misery and chains? She must do something. She couldn’t ignore them. Not ever again.
But if she were to collapse en route . . .
And what of Micah? She had tossed and turned for hours wondering what he’d seen, if he suspected anything, and worse yet, if he planned to tell anyone of her clandestine activities. Dread stalked every waking moment.
“You’ve not been getting enough rest. That’s plain to see.”
She straightened, swallowing a bite of peas. “I didn’t sleep well enough last night. That’s all. Too much on my mind.”
Father frowned. “I pray you’re not wearying yourself with thoughts of your brother. Nathaniel is holding up well, judging by his letters.”
Mother’s gaze flitted between them. “Was that the reason for your unrest?”
Keziah pressed down her guilt. “Yes, ma’am.” The lie slipped out easily enough. An exaggeration about her concern for Nathaniel was far less destructive than admitting she’d been helping lead escaped slaves across town.
Father took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. “Dreadful. Where is the sugar? I cannot drink my coffee black.”
Mother shook her head, daintily lifting a forkful of potatoes to her lips. “The price of sugar is rising drastically. I thought it a frivolity we could do without.”
Yanking off his spectacles, Father glowered. “Cursed Yankees. It’s bad enough they want to destroy our lives, strip us of our freedom—and are snarling to snuff out our children. Must they take our sugar as well?”
Mother shot him a warning glance pregnant with some unspoken message Keziah was helpless to understand. Father cooled his tirade and visibly relaxed before turning toward Keziah with a soft smile. Her gaze flickered between her parents. What was going on?
Father leaned back, his chair squeaking. “Keziah, I have something to tell you.”
She placed her fork on her plate with a clink. His expression was congenial enough, but his eyes . . . something serious and unwanted lurked in their depths.
“Yes?”
“You are a lovely young woman, and you have known for quite a while that your mother and I long to see you in a good match, though we’ve faced certain obstacles.”
She sighed. “Father, please—”
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br /> He held up a silencing hand, and she stopped the protest.
“You are past the age when many of your peers married, and it’s high time you settle down and prepare for a family of your own. Particularly as it seems your condition has been . . . less prevalent in recent months. That is why I’ve decided you should court and eventually wed—illness or no.”
Her breath grew shallow. “I see.” She fought against unwelcome sensations within and tried to stay calm. “And where should I find such a suitor? All the men we know are away fighting.”
Father nodded but did not look concerned. Her panic heightened. “That is true, at least if one were looking for a suitor among young men. But a different opportunity has presented itself.” He smiled and her blood grew cold. “A gentleman of our acquaintance seeks your attentions. I believe you’re familiar with him. Mr. Lyman Hill.”
Her eyes slid shut. Yes, she knew of Lyman Hill. A stern-faced, middle-aged man with gray-streaked hair. A widower, if memory served her correctly. She remembered him watching her at a soiree, his dark stare intense, much like a hawk’s. She could still recall the shivers when his eyes locked with hers.
She did not care for Lyman Hill.
Her stomach churned and she feared she might cast up her accounts. “I do not wish to be courted by Mr. Hill.”
Father growled, banging his fist on the table. “Keziah Grace Montgomery, this is not up for discussion.”
She lowered her chin and bit her lip. His uncharacteristic use of her full name was all that was needed to capture her silence.
“Mr. Hill is quite smitten with you and has sought my permission to court you properly. I’ve granted him this request. He will come to sup with us this evening, and you will receive him graciously. He appears to be blissfully unaware of your illness, and I think it best he remain so as long as possible. I don’t need to remind you that a woman with your infirmity should feel nothing short of grateful for a chance like this.”
Feeling as if she were smothering, Keziah stood on wooden legs and moved to leave the dining room before she said something she would regret. She stumbled to her room with blurry vision, only allowing the tears to fall once she was safely ensconced inside.
Courted by Lyman Hill? Her world had narrowed further, into a more suffocating prison from which she feared there was no escape.
“It was a splendid dinner, Mrs. Montgomery. I haven’t eaten stuffed chicken so delectable in years, and now you offer my favorite cookies as well?” Mr. Hill’s oily chuckle reminded Keziah of something serpentine. “If you continue to spoil me so, I fear I may never leave.”
Keziah felt ill watching Lyman Hill grovel at her parents’ feet. He hadn’t stopped since he’d arrived at their door more than two hours ago. And now, with supper finished, the four of them sat in the parlor, sipping tea and nibbling on Elizabeth’s butter cookies.
Keziah perched stiffly on her chair, wishing she could end this silly charade. The rest of the evening still yawned ahead, promising an agonizing display of false flattery and inane chatter over topics of no consequence. She’d rather be reading or visiting the stable . . . or sleeping.
Mother beamed. “It was our pleasure, Mr. Hill. Would you care for some entertainment? Our Keziah plays a lovely tune on the pianoforte.” Mother sent her a knowing look, and she inwardly sighed, rising to move toward the instrument.
Mr. Hill lifted his slim hand. “Thank you, but no. I actually don’t care much for music.”
Mother blinked. “Oh, but of course.”
Keziah resumed her seat. He didn’t care for music? What sort of a man didn’t care for music?
Mr. Hill took another sip of tea. “It gives me frightful headaches. All the banging.” He shook his head. “No, I never could tolerate it. Singing either.”
She bit back a retort. Banging indeed!
Father chuckled. “I take it you’re not a fan of the opera, then?”
“Ach, a more torturous display was never invented. I say if our Confederate generals want to really let the Yankee prisoners of war suffer, they need only take them to Mozart’s Don Giovanni. The screeching from the soprano alone should suffice to torment their souls for all eternity.”
Mother’s trilling laughter grated over Keziah’s nerves. Rather than let his criticism go unchallenged, she picked up her teacup and forced herself to take a sip before staring directly into his gray eyes.
“You seem rather harsh in your criticism, sir. I found Don Giovanni to be a sweeping masterpiece. A bit lush, perhaps, but a transcendent work of art. Any man who could craft such beauty is nothing short of a genius.”
Mr. Hill quickly masked his evident displeasure. “I’m glad someone can appreciate such noise. Unfortunately, I cannot.”
Something itched between her shoulder blades. “What of church music? Hymns and sacred songs?”
He took another sip and sighed. “To be honest, I find the music itself dreadfully dull. I’d much rather just read the words and contemplate the meaning.”
Father cleared his throat. “I daresay others share the same opinion, judging by the number of men I’ve witnessed dozing in the back pew from time to time.”
The two men chuckled, but Keziah was not amused. A person who did not like music was a person who could not be trusted.
Mother stood. “Forgive me, Mr. Hill, but it appears Elizabeth has forgotten the cream, and I’d like to inquire if she also has some of her famous cinnamon squares to serve. I’ll return shortly.”
Father hastened to her side. “I’ll help you, my dear. You may have trouble managing all that if Elizabeth is occupied.”
Keziah stared into her cup of tea as they retreated. Father had never offered to help Mother carry food before. Their scheming to leave her alone with Lyman Hill was thinly disguised at best. How humiliating.
The clock on the fireplace mantel ticked slowly, the sound far too loud in the strained atmosphere. She should make conversation, be a stimulating hostess, but she had no desire. Each click from the timepiece felt like a minuscule pull on an ever-tightening noose.
“So, Miss Montgomery.” Mr. Hill cleared his throat, forcing her attention away from her cooling tea. “You have an usual name. Keziah. Wherever did you acquire it?”
She arched her brow. “Why, from my parents.”
A muscle ticked in his cheek. “Of course, but where did they discover such a name?”
Something about the way he worded the question made her think he found the name distasteful. As a child, she’d loathed the moniker, wishing her parents had named her something sweet and simple like Kate or Rose. But she would never concede such a thing to the likes of Lyman Hill.
“I was named after my paternal grandmother. Keziah is a biblical name.”
“Really? I don’t recall it.”
She offered a thin smile. “Job chapter 42, verse 14. It was the name he gave one of his daughters after he endured his trial and emerged victorious.”
“Interesting. Still, it’s rather odd. Didn’t you ever wish for a name more ordinary?”
She lifted her chin. “As I’ve grown older, I’ve begun to see the tremendous value in being able to stand apart from the crowd.”
His eyes narrowed. “I always took you for a shy soul, Miss Montgomery.”
“When I was younger, I was painfully shy. But I find I’m growing less so all the time.” She allowed her face to form a more sincere expression. “Never mistake quietness for weakness, nor meekness for timidity.”
He opened his mouth, but she was saved from his reply as Mother and Father swept back into the room, carrying a small pitcher of cream and a serving tray heaped with cinnamon squares.
“There we are. Elizabeth’s cinnamon squares will melt in your mouth.” Mother offered one to Mr. Hill, who took it with a gleaming light in his eyes. She settled back in her chair and smiled. “And how are we getting along?”
Keziah forced a civil response. “Just fine.”
“Splendid,” Father boomed. “T
ell me what you’ve heard concerning the war, Mr. Hill. I’ve been devouring the newspapers. It appears we have the Yankees on the run in Virginia.”
Mr. Hill bit into the pastry and nodded. “Of course. Was there any doubt? We have Providence on our side.”
She could stand that argument no longer. With a sigh, she placed her cup in its saucer. “But isn’t that the problem?”
Father frowned. “What do you mean?”
“We believe we have Providence on our side. The Union soldiers no doubt believe the same. We cannot both be right.”
“Keziah.” Mother’s whispered rebuke caused her to fall silent.
Mr. Hill lifted his brows. “Do you believe the Confederacy will lose, Miss Montgomery?”
She shook her head. “I’m not saying that.”
“Then what is your point?” Father cut in.
“I believe perhaps political fervor might be more optimistic than the reality of our resources. The Yankees have us outmanned and outgunned. Their artillery factories are far more numerous than ours. Not to mention the force of the Federal Navy—”
“Keziah, please,” her mother scolded. “You know you’re not to be reading those newspapers.”
“I just think perhaps people might be riding a wave of emotion at the moment and not seeing the bigger picture.”
Mr. Hill leaned forward. “Which is?”
“The war will surely last longer than a few more months. In April, everyone thought it would only last one month. But it’s November now.”
“Keziah, that’s quite enough,” Father snapped.
Mr. Hill ignored him, keeping his gaze fixed on her. “How long, do tell, will the war last then?”
She swallowed. “I pray I’m wrong, but I fear it could last for years.”
Mother gasped. “Surely not!”
Mr. Hill’s lips pinched into a tight, condescending smirk. “A woman’s grasp of politics and warfare. How charming.”
Father glowered. “Indeed.”
