by Tara Johnson
The two men shifted the conversation to business, effectively blocking her from further input. Judging by the sharp looks from Mother, and Father’s occasional scowl in her direction, she knew she had disappointed them once more. But it would be a worthwhile disappointment if it prevented Mr. Hill from visiting her again.
CHAPTER 10
“PLEASE DROP ME OFF HERE, Hiriam. Mother wanted me to peruse the newest hats to see if one might be suitable for the upcoming Christmas bazaar.”
“Yes, missy.”
Keziah clutched her reticule in trembling fingers and stared at the millinery shop as Hiriam gently pulled the carriage to a stop. The horses nickered softly as they slowed, tossing their heads with haughty disdain as Hiriam set the brake and turned to offer her a hand down. As her boots touched the cobblestone walk, she turned to him with a smile.
“There’s no need to wait. I may be here for quite some time. You know how exacting Mother can be when it comes to our apparel.”
Hiriam scratched his thick, graying curls. “I did promise to take some papers to your father’s office. He sent a messenger boy asking me to retrieve them, and he’s mighty particular about his accounts . . .”
She bit back a cry of relief and nodded instead. “That should be fine. If I finish early, I’ll stroll down to the dry goods store and wait for you there.”
He tipped his hat and clucked his tongue, urging the pawing mares back into motion. She watched his departure before pressing a hand to her quaking stomach. She hated deceiving sweet Hiriam but could see no way around it.
Skirting the millinery shop, she walked as fast as she dared to Mr. Brothers’s blacksmith shop. She pushed through the door, grateful for the blast of heat emanating from the glowing furnace. The November air was uncharacteristically cool for midday. Mr. Brothers, busy pounding a hammer against a horseshoe glowing red with trapped heat, did not so much as spare her a glance as his massive fingers clutched his tools. Two older men stood in the corner, tugging their bushy beards and chatting about axles and wheels, topics of no interest to her. A younger man stood in front of an array of iron goods—fire tongs, ax blades, and spades—lost in thought as he decided on his purchase. All the men ignored her entrance, a situation not much different from Lyman Hill’s conversation with her father the evening before. After she’d spilled her sentiments about the war, he’d ignored her the rest of the evening, save the leering glance he’d given her when her parents were occupied with other matters. Shudders that had little to do with the heat of the blacksmith’s shop slipped down her back.
She approached the long table that served as Mr. Brothers’s transaction space, opened her reticule, and pulled out the money she’d folded up before leaving. Guilt twisted. Her only recourse had been to pluck it from the allowance Elizabeth had been given to take to market that morning. But she would replace it. Even if she need sell a bauble or piece of jewelry, she would.
Pinching the paper money with white fingers, she prayed the message she’d secured inside would not fall out.
She cleared her throat, playacting a bravado she didn’t feel. “Pardon, sir, but are you the proprietor of this establishment?”
Brothers raised his head from his work and narrowed his eyes before dropping the hammer onto his worktable with a dull clunk. “Aye. May I help you?”
She stood straighter. “Yes. My father has sent me with our payment for the work you recently performed.”
Without missing a beat, Brothers nodded and snatched the bill from her hand, stuffing it into the pocket of his thick apron. “’Twas a pleasure. I trust your horse is no longer limping then?”
“She’s in fine form now. Thank you.”
“Tell your father to find me if the shoe troubles you anymore.” He dismissed her abruptly and returned to his work, giving her a view of his broad back as he pounded the glowing iron once more.
She hesitated, anxious not to blurt out something foolish. She’d struggled far too long penning the simple message folded within the currency.
Should I continue to procure your business as my smithy?
She’d neither addressed him by name nor left a mark as to her own identity in case the slip of paper fell into calculating hands. Surely Mr. Brothers would understand the cryptic message, but she must find some way to receive his answer. Considering the disaster that could have occurred night before last when she’d been locked out, she desperately needed to know if she should continue to lead fugitives to his shop.
Searching for a way to get immediate information from him, she swallowed and called out, “Oh, I nearly forgot. Father wanted to know when his other order might be ready.”
Without turning, the giant blacksmith called over his shoulder. “Three days’ time, I’d imagine.”
Nearly laughing with relief, she schooled her features into casual disinterest. He understood the reason for her visit.
“Very well. Someone from the family will return in three days.”
Her legs trembled as she stepped back out into the swirling cool, but she couldn’t suppress the rush of victory. She’d sent her first secret message without mishap. Now to wait three days for Brothers’s answer.
For surely more runaways would arrive soon, and her part in their freedom hinged on the blacksmith’s willingness to trust her.
Micah lifted the sleeping infant and studied his color in the dim light of the church’s musty basement. The single window had been boarded shut after he’d discovered Keziah snooping near it not two nights before. If she was somehow involved in all of this . . .
He forced the nagging thought away, just as he’d done a thousand times since he pulled her into the shelter of Ma Linnie’s pub. She was no longer his concern. But these poor slaves were.
Easing back the dingy flannel blanket covering the small body, he roved his fingers over the infant’s stomach, feeling for any protrusions or abdominal swelling. His touch roused the little fellow from his slumber, and the baby’s nose wrinkled in irritation as he pinched his eyes even tighter, puckering his tiny mouth into a pout. Micah tucked the blanket back around him and returned him to his mother’s waiting arms with a smile.
“Is my boy healthy?”
Micah gently reassured the weary mother. “He looks perfectly healthy. You’ve done a good job with him. My only concern now is you.” The woman looked down at the baby in her arms, her face lined with a sadness he’d seen far too often among the runaways. “You must find some way to eat more. Your son depends on your nourishment.”
She nodded but frowned. “Mighty hard to find sust’nance when you’re running from paddy rollers and bloodhounds.”
The bleakness of her situation hit him again, and he felt helpless to offer anything useful. “You’re correct, of course. Once you’re in Canada, things will be better.” He forced a bright smile. “We just need to keep you both healthy until then. Someone will be bringing you some buttermilk and food soon. Eat every bite.” He reached into his black bag and pulled out a vial, placing it in her gaunt hand. “Here. Liquid vitamins. Take a drop or two each day. It will help.”
“Thank you, sir. May the Almighty bless you for this kindness.”
Patting her hand, he stood in the cramped space and ducked under a beam to study the woman’s husband, who lay on the lumpy cot. He pulled the steady glow of the oil lamp closer and knelt. “I hear you got caught in a trap a while back.”
“Yessir.” The brawny fellow’s face gleamed in the warm light. “Animal trap clamped around my leg while we was creeping through the swamps.”
“Hm. I see. May I take a look?”
With a nod, the man drew back the blanket covering his thick form. Micah tried not to show alarm at the festering cut bulging from the man’s calf.
“Does it pain you much?”
“Yes, sir.”
Pulling some clean cloths, salve, and a small bottle of whiskey from his bag, Micah set them aside for later use and went to work cleaning the cut with tepid water from a basin. �
�Yet you traveled with this nasty cut for how many miles?”
Cold sweat beaded the man’s forehead as the water touched the fevered skin of his leg. “Forty miles, best I can figure.”
Micah dribbled more clean water over the wound. Forty miles on foot through swamps and woods while injured this badly? “You’re very strong, I’d say.”
The man winced when the first application of whiskey met the infection. Hissing through his teeth, he shook his head. “No, sir, I’m not the strong one. That’d be my wife. Traveling all this way with our son nothing more than a wee thing.” The fellow captured his wife’s gaze, and a smile broke through his pained expression. “That woman’s my hero.”
Micah dropped his eyes, feeling as if he were intruding on a private moment, and instead focused his attention on applying salve to the cut marring the fugitive’s flesh.
No doubt desperate for distraction, the man spoke into the quiet, his upper lip dotted with perspiration. “What about you, Doc? You got a woman?”
Micah unrolled the clean white bandages and began wrapping them carefully around the infected leg. “No. Can’t say as I do.”
“Kind fellow like you ain’t got a girl to call your own?” He grunted. “A shame, that.”
Micah raised a brow. “Now how could I possibly find time to court a lady while I’m bandaging legs and easing fevers?”
The man grunted deep in his throat as Micah tied off the bandage. “If there’s one thing being a slave has taught me, it’s that life is short. Too short to do nothing but work. Love and freedom—those the only things that matter. The only things that will last.”
Unbidden, Kizzie’s beautiful smile flashed before his eyes, and his heart twisted with sharp longing. Why did she continue to haunt him so? He had done better engrossed in his studies in Philadelphia, only thinking of her every few days instead of this continual stream of yearning. Seeing her once again as he had upon his return to Savannah had ignited embers that he’d managed to keep from burning him in the past.
No longer. He was consumed by her already.
Yet he was not fit for her. Truly, he was not fit for any woman, not involved as he was in the cause.
And just when he thought he’d said his final good-bye, their lives collided once more.
But what still gnawed him was the reason Kizzie was sneaking around the church that night. Surely there was a reasonable explanation.
Until he knew the answer, peace would elude him.
CHAPTER 11
“THERE’S MY DARLING COUSIN!”
Keziah’s smile faltered as Jennie smothered her in a bone-crushing embrace. Jennie finally released her and stepped back, her green eyes sparkling.
Keziah had come home from her errands with Hiriam and was surprised to see her vivacious cousin just arriving, her hack bulging with trunks crammed full of clothes, hats, and who knew what else.
“Keziah dear, you grow lovelier with every passing year.”
Jennie’s mirth was palpable, and now that she was able to draw a breath, Keziah resumed her smile. “As do you. I pray you had an easy trip. Did you run into any trouble leaving Port Royal?”
As she smoothed her fiery-red curls with a dainty hand, Jennie’s lips curved into a mischievous smirk. “Nothing that a bit of honeyed talking couldn’t fix. Those Yankee vermin have a hard time saying no to friendly Southern ladies. And of course, I had Aunt Ollie travel with me as far as Levy.”
“Oh? Did she not want to venture this far?”
“Aunt Ollie?” Jennie trilled a laugh. “Heavens, no. The poor dear is afraid of her own shadow. I was required to give her smelling salts upon the top of every hour for some silly thing or the other. No, her daughter lives in Levy and Aunt Ollie is most happily settled there now for the duration of the war. Doubtless I would be too if my home boasted as much brandy as her daughter’s husband seems to enjoy.”
Keziah coughed, trying to smother the laughter that threatened to bubble out. If Mother heard Jennie’s outrageous talk, she’d have been scandalized.
Cousin Jennie twirled in her navy traveling suit and tossed her wrap to Elizabeth with a dismissive air. “See to my things. And mind how you care for my gowns. I can’t abide wrinkles.”
Elizabeth dropped her eyes and mumbled an obedient reply as Jennie turned to Hiriam, who was struggling to carry one of her many enormous trunks through the foyer.
“Be careful with that! That trunk is worth more than you’ve ever dreamed of.”
Hiriam nodded. “Yes, Miss Jennie. My apologies.”
Unable to refrain, Keziah touched Hiriam gently on the arm. “Are you certain you can manage? I’m sure one of the neighbors’ servants wouldn’t mind assisting if we asked.”
Jennie intruded with a sharp reprimand. “Don’t coddle him, Cousin. He should know how to manage a trunk, for pity’s sake.”
Burning with embarrassment for Hiriam, Keziah straightened as the old groom heaved the cumbersome load toward the staircase. She turned to Jennie with a frown. “Hiriam is an old man. Toting such a load might prove too much for him.”
Jennie waved her hand. “My, my. Have you gone soft on me, dear? Mark my word,” she scolded with her finger extended, “you don’t want to let your Negroes think they are in charge. They must remember their place.” Her brows lowered into a heavy scowl. “We learned that quickly enough when the Yankees came. We thought Sarah, George, and Cook were so faithful, but the minute they saw Union blue, they left us.” She sniffed in derision. “Can you imagine such ingratitude?”
Keziah was taken aback. It had been some time since she’d seen Jennie, and she did not remember her being so high-handed with the servants, nor her tongue so sharp. Had she always been so? Perhaps Keziah had never noticed before.
Mother’s cultured voice broke up Keziah’s tumbling thoughts as she glided into the room. “Oh, Jennie, how beautiful you look.”
“Auntie!”
The two women squeezed hands and exchanged kisses on the cheek. Slipping her arm through Jennie’s, Mother led her into the parlor. “Come now, you must be exhausted from your trip. Your uncle will be home soon and we’ll enjoy a nice supper. So I take it you were unsuccessful convincing your father to visit as well?”
Jennie lowered herself onto a parlor chair with a melodramatic sigh, fluffing her skirt around her as if she were a Russian princess at court. “Alas, I was. Father is unrelenting. He says he will not leave the house while Yankees prowl about our town.”
Mother clasped her niece’s hand. “Of course. I daresay I would feel the same.”
Jennie feigned wiping away a stray tear. “I pray you will never suffer as we have.”
Keziah took her own chair and stifled a smile. For all her theatrics, Jennie looked hale and hearty, hardly the victim of famine or ill treatment.
Mother, oblivious to her niece’s dramatic rendering, patted her hand. “There, there. You are in Savannah now, and we promise to help you forget your troubles.”
Jennie brightened, straightening in her seat. “Do tell. What festivities are occurring in fair Savannah? Soirees? Balls?”
“Oh, my dear, no. Nothing so grand as that.” Mother sobered her tone. “War dampens such events, you know. The expense alone is far too much with rising prices, and many feel parties are too frivolous while our men are away fighting for our protection.”
Jennie’s exuberant face drooped. “This foul war. Is there no fun to be had anywhere?”
Keziah managed to keep her lips pressed together. Jennie acted as if the world existed merely for her amusement. Wasn’t she aware that men and women were facing death each day for one taste of the freedom she so blindly took for granted? But then Keziah herself hadn’t been aware of that until quite recently. Had she been as self-absorbed as Jennie? Self-loathing coated her tongue.
“But I forgot!” Mother faced Keziah with a hopeful smile. “There is an event just before Christmas. We received the invitation yesterday.” She turned back to Jennie. “A holiday benefit
for our brave soldiers, held at the great hall in Liberty Square. All proceeds will provide blankets, shoes, and other necessities for our defenders.”
“A benefit?” Jennie wilted. “A social gathering, I admit, but not much fun.”
Mother leaned forward, pleased with herself. “Ah, but there is to be dancing. It’s a costume benefit, at that.”
Clapping her hands together, Jennie bounced like an eager child. “Oh, how splendid!” She fixed her gaze on Keziah, eyes shining. “Do say you’re going, Keziah dear. We’ll have such a grand time. And we can design our costumes together!”
Keziah opened her mouth to speak, but Mother interrupted. “Certainly Keziah will be attending. Her beau has already requested permission to escort her.”
Unable to stop the displeasure that coursed through her, Keziah frowned. “Mr. Hill made no such request of me.”
Mother waved a hand. “There was no need for him to ask you. He already spoke with your father. Don’t look so glum. You’ll have a splendid time.”
Jennie’s shrill giggle grated on her. “Cousin Keziah has a beau? Do tell.”
A blush filled Keziah’s face as she plucked at the knee of her rose-colored skirt. “I’ve only met him formally once.”
Mother frowned in her direction and turned to Jennie. “Such a handsome man, and he’s quite taken with our Keziah.” She shook her head. “He’s a relief from that horrid doctor who was poking about.”
Jennie leaned in, no doubt sensing a titillating morsel. “What’s this about a doctor?” Her teasing grin rankled, though Keziah resisted the urge to explore why.
Mother chattered rapidly. “Nothing to worry about. He seemed unusually interested in your cousin, and your uncle Benjamin insisted he leave.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “His father was an abolitionist, you know.”
“How odd that he would show such interest in Keziah, then.” Jennie pursed her lips.
Heat seared the back of Keziah’s neck, but she forced herself to stay calm. “The doctor was an old schoolmate of mine, Mother. Nothing more.”
