by Tara Johnson
She harrumphed. “He had more on his mind than your health, darling. In any event, I’m relieved he moved on.”
“Yes, he’s gone.” She was suddenly assaulted with the remembrance of his strong hands struggling to hold her in the night’s cold darkness. The scent of bay rum that always clung to his clothes. His secrets that kept her awake long after the rest of the house was rocked in slumber. Micah was gone yet more present with her than anyone else.
She lifted her eyes to see her cousin staring at her in a disconcerting way, her gaze radiating a shrewdness that left Keziah feeling undone.
NOVEMBER 16, 1861
“Oh, look at that one, Keziah dear.”
Keziah moved to Jennie’s side to study the lavish confection in the millinery shop. “That hat is lovely indeed. But how would it aid as a costume?”
Jennie giggled behind her hand. “Why, pair it with a cream-colored eye mask, maybe something covered in seed pearls. With those gorgeous feathers adorning the top, I could be a regal swan.”
At times like this, her cousin’s laughter was infectious, and Keziah couldn’t resist giggling along. “You would make a lovely swan.”
Jennie flashed her straight white teeth. “I would, wouldn’t I? Perhaps I should consider it.”
Keziah reached out to touch one of the delicate, silky feathers. “It is quite a hat, but the price . . .” She sighed. “Goods are becoming dear, aren’t they?”
“I shan’t be deterred by something as vulgar as cost,” Jennie pouted. “Father would want me pampered in his absence. He sent me plenty of coinage to do with as I please.”
Keziah dropped her fingers from the exquisite hat. Had her cousin not noticed the soaring food prices? Sugar, bacon, coffee, flour . . . all of it draining bank accounts throughout the city. If sugar and coffee could be considered a frivolity, how much more so a silly frippery like a hat?
Before she could respond, she sensed a presence behind her. Turning, she saw a gangly youth of no more than fifteen, his straw-colored hair sticking out wildly from under his cap. He held a small crate in his hands.
“Yes? May I help you?”
His freckled cheeks reddened ever so slightly. “Pardon my intrusion, Miss Montgomery, but I work for the smithy, and upon seeing you on the boardwalk, he remembered he’d completed an order for your father.” He raised the crate in his hands. “Mr. Brothers sent me over here straightaway. Thought it might save your groom a trip back.”
“That’s very thoughtful.” Keziah’s heart quickened as she reached out for the parcel, which was surprisingly light. It took all her willpower to keep from prying it open immediately. “Fortuitous that he spotted us. I’m sure Father will be pleased.”
The youth tipped his hat, donning a winsome smile as he slipped back through the door.
“How odd that a delivery would be made in such a fashion.” Jennie’s suspicious tone caused Keziah’s hackles to rise, but she schooled her features.
“Oh, not at all. Not for Savannah, at least. You’ll see it’s still a very friendly town, and Father is well-known. At any rate, at least it will spare Hiriam from inquiring about the order later. Come.” She nodded toward the ostentatious hat, praying the distraction would work. “We have a hat to buy.”
The ploy was successful, and Jennie’s face lit up. She chattered happily about her new finery all the way home, but Keziah could contemplate nothing but the mysterious contents calling to her from inside the crate.
NOVEMBER 23, 1861
Keziah exhaled heavily from her perch within the darkened grove, as she peered to see if the thick clouds were moving to cover the shimmering silver light bathing the path to the blacksmith shop.
Please, Lord, it has been weeks since my last efforts to transport. Be with me. Be with them. Lead them safely to their Canaan land. And keep my body from failing me.
Jennie’s arrival had greatly cramped her ability to move about at will. Her nightly excursions to the stable to check for new arrivals had aroused Jennie’s curiosity, though she seemed to believe that the jaunts were Keziah’s way to relax each evening before retiring—a story made plausible by her claim that she loved to brush down her mare, Magnolia. Still, Keziah felt as if she were being watched all hours of the day and night.
Even after destroying the blacksmith’s cryptic note, she felt ill at ease. The comforting message she had committed to memory was lost on her tightly wound nerves.
Thank you for your patience as I recovered from the croup. I am managing to fulfill all orders in a prompt manner and would welcome any business your family might request from me.
It had been a full week after receiving his note before any more passengers had arrived, and she’d feared her work as conductor had been compromised. But not this night. When she’d searched the wagon housed on the far side of the dark stable, three exhausted men met her.
The moonbeams were suddenly snuffed out in inky blackness as the clouds passed overhead. Keziah’s muscles tightened in response, her whisper terse. “Now. Come.”
Silently, the three men followed her every step as they crept with haste to the secret entrance at the back of the shop. As she felt along the wall, her cold fingers found the notch easily and she pushed the door open just far enough to allow them to slip through. Wordlessly, the last one turned to her, the darkness almost completely obscuring her view of his face. Still, she saw the nod of gratitude he gave her before disappearing inside.
Easing the door closed, she crept back into the cover of trees and attempted to calm herself. This night’s work was nearly complete . . . as long as her curious cousin remained asleep in the room directly across from Keziah’s own.
Micah felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach.
When a trusted agent sought him out earlier in the day at Ma Linnie’s pub, saying little more than, “It appears a wind’s coming up from the South today,” he knew passengers were arriving, likely at Brothers’s shop. How could he have prepared himself for seeing not a male, but a female conducting a group of fugitives?
And not just any female. Kizzie.
The hood of her cloak had slipped ever so slightly as she passed him, unaware he was watching her from the thick bramble. His heart had dropped to his feet upon viewing her profile.
His worst suspicions about why she’d been outside the church were correct after all.
A sudden rush of cold washed over him. This was all his fault. He was the one who had taken her to the abolitionist meeting. He was the one who had opened her eyes. Though he didn’t regret his part in showing her the truth, he had inadvertently unlocked a door that would bring her harm. She had no idea what she had undertaken. She was playing at life and death as though they were nothing more than a game of chess.
Running his fingers through his hair, he wanted to scream with the frustration of it. All these months he’d kept away, fearing any association with him would put her at the mercy of those who wanted to destroy him. How could he have known she’d beckon retribution right to her own door?
And retribution it would be, with certainty, if anyone were to discover her clandestine activities. He must find a way to talk with her. Reason with her.
There was little time to spare. Indeed, she might have already dug too deep.
CHAPTER 12
DECEMBER 14, 1861
Keziah’s vision blurred as the colorful silks and laces spun past her, a throng of whirling dancers and thick air.
She tried to keep her gaze focused on Mr. Hill’s black lapel, but she felt dangerously close to being overwhelmed just the same. She must not let it happen again.
“Are you quite all right, my dear?”
Feigning interest in her austere beau was just another facade she must maintain. The entire evening had pressed her nearly beyond her ability to cope.
When they had arrived at the costume benefit earlier in the evening, Keziah was immediately enchanted with the great hall’s boughs of Christmas greenery trimmed with jaunty red ribbons. T
he multitude of glowing candles and the lively orchestra music had chased away her exhaustion . . . for a few moments, anyway.
With a polite smile, she looked into her escort’s stern face. “Yes. Just a bit winded.” She fought the urge to sigh. The black mask Mr. Hill had donned for the masquerade, despite covering the upper half of his face, could not hide his perpetually dour expression.
His eyes narrowed, studying her as one would examine a scientific specimen of plant or animal. “You seem fatigued.”
Apparently her own delicate mask could not entirely hide her expression either.
Ire bloomed hot in her chest and she steadied herself, determined to endure. “I don’t feel tired in the least.” The lie tasted bitter, for she was tired. Dreadfully so. Two consecutive midnight deliveries of passengers had left her dangerously sleep-deprived. Of course, she could never tell him what she’d been doing. Could never tell a living soul.
The thought left her feeling even more limp than before.
Mustering her grit, she threw herself more heartily into the dance’s spirited steps. As long as she had no epileptic falls, all would be well. It had to be. Too many people were depending on her.
Unable to squelch a sauciness born of irritation, she asked, “Do you find my appearance lacking, then?”
Lyman Hill’s mustached lips formed an odd smile. “Hardly that. You outshine every other lady in attendance.” He shot her a reproving look. “Though coyness is not necessary to evoke a compliment from me.”
The man’s condescension was unbearable. When the dance ended, she found relief in knowing he could not dance with her again this evening, not without causing tongues to wag. They were not yet betrothed.
Instead she took a moment to catch her breath and study the festive room, smoothing her shimmering pale-blue dress and adjusting the mask covering her forehead, nose, and cheeks. Only her lips and chin peeked out from under the disguise, a costume in which she felt a certain amount of pride. The gown’s glittering fabric held traces of silver, and the thought made her smile inwardly.
Every person in attendance wore a mask of some sort, all featuring a wide array of colors and fabrics. Some, like Jennie, wore disguises reminiscent of noble animals. Judging by the inordinate amount of attention her cousin was receiving from admirers, her swan costume was a success.
Keziah’s own design was a bit more obscure.
The sight of somber-faced women in the corner of the room collecting donations for the soldiers brought Keziah a measure of melancholy. These women all wore widows’ weeds, the black fabric telling the same story.
She’d seen far too many black gowns this night.
Though the women in mourning were not allowed to dance or partake in the merriment, they could enjoy the music and participate by collecting donations. A noble endeavor and one that took much courage, considering their losses must be fresh.
A low voice near her ear caused her heart to skip. “May I have this dance?”
She turned to see a man studying her intently, his face obscured by the white mask he wore. His chestnut hair was wavy and his mouth unsmiling. He cut a dashing figure in his black coat, with broad shoulders and trim waist. He held out his gloved hand, and she assented demurely before slipping her own gloved fingers into his. Something about his bearing, the way he moved, reminded her of someone. . . .
Holding her loosely as propriety demanded, he swept her into the crush of dancers. She kept her eyes trained on his lapel, just as she’d done with Mr. Hill. Her nerves always held her tongue captive when she danced with strangers. The easiest course was to avoid eye contact and pray the dance would soon pass without incident.
“May I be so bold as to brave a guess at what your costume represents?”
This man was brash, to be sure. Uncertain how to refuse him, she nodded. “You may.”
“You are quite breathtaking in pale blue and silver. Might you be an ocean wave?”
His gentle teasing pried a smile from her lips. “No, but your guess is admirable.”
A dark brow arched above his white mask. “A blue lagoon then?”
She shook her head. “You flatter me, but no.”
He laughed low, and her skin tingled. There was something so familiar . . .
“A falling star?”
Giving him a smile, she acquiesced. “You are close. The North Star.”
His masked face melted into somber reflection. “Ah, of course. The North Star. A beacon. The path to freedom, some might say.”
She gasped and felt her feet stumble ever so slightly. The man’s hand tightened on her waist. He knew.
Heart hammering, she lifted her gaze to meet his. From behind the man’s disguise, sky-blue eyes collided with hers and her knees nearly buckled.
Micah.
Micah tightened his grip on Kizzie’s waist. The revelation startled her, just as he knew it would. They had not spoken since that night he’d discovered her outside the church. No doubt she thought him an apparition—materializing on obscure occasions only to vanish once more.
The soft skin of her jaw had paled beneath the silver eye mask she wore, and she drew shallow breaths. Her pained whisper tugged at him. “Micah?”
“You play a dangerous game.”
Her cinnamon eyes darkened. “I play no games, sir.”
“I disagree.” Looking for an escape among the swirling couples, he maneuvered her lightly to the side. “Come. Follow me. I’ll dance you out of the circle. We need to talk.”
Micah artfully wove her through the spinning costumes and the cloying scent of thick perfume, breathing a sigh of relief as they approached the outer circle. He released her waist and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, then escorted her through the open doors leading to the gardens outside. Cold air stung his exposed jaw, but he refused to slow a single step.
At least the bite of December would ensure they could speak without listening ears.
Silver moonglow dappled through naked tree branches overhead, leaving patterns of light and dark spots along the ground. He intended to lead Kizzie farther into the darkness, but she suddenly stopped short, pulling her arm free of his hold.
“This is quite far enough. Whatever is wrong with you?”
“I saw you. That’s what is bothering me.”
She furrowed her brow. “Saw me? Saw me where?”
He came so close, he could feel the warmth of her body. She stepped back and grunted softly when she bumped against the rough bark of a tree. Dropping his voice to an urgent whisper, he answered, “At the blacksmith shop.”
He heard her sharp intake of breath and removed his mask, watching the moonlight glitter across her face. Lifting his hand, he cupped her jaw in his fingers and drew her downcast eyes to meet his. “If I’m wrong, tell me.”
She trembled under his touch, and his fears solidified. “You’re not wrong.”
“Kizzie,” he groaned, stroking her jaw, “what you’re doing is so dangerous.”
She drew back from his touch, her eyes flashing. “And what exactly are you accusing me of?”
Micah gave her an incredulous look. “I saw you, you know . . . North Star.”
She winced, and he couldn’t keep a small smile from escaping. “Only those of us involved in—” he searched for a proper word—“transportation would know the double meaning behind your costume.”
Her eyes widened and she yanked off her mask. “You? Is that why you were outside the church that night?”
“Yes. I saw you and was afraid you might find passengers I had just delivered to the church.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “Little did I know you were conducting your own cargo.”
She shook her head. “But that night you told me you truly had joined the Relief Commission.”
“I did. I—” He rubbed the back of his neck, dropped his voice another notch. “It’s not safe to talk here. But I’ll explain it all to you. Someday. I only sought you out to beg you to reconsider your participation. Think of what might
happen if you fail.”
Her beautiful face sharpened, steeling into a stubborn look of determination. A look he knew all too well.
“I assure you, I’m quite capable of my duties.”
He leaned in, placing his palms against the roughened bark of the tree, effectively trapping her between his arms without the luxury of touching her soft skin. “Why, Kizzie? Are you attempting to prove something to yourself?”
“Of course not.”
“Your parents are not correct about your medical condition, you know. You are fully capable of doing whatever you set your mind to accomplish. There’s no need to risk your life nor face dangerous escapades to prove it.”
“How dare you!” Her harsh whisper struck him as hard as a slap. “You presume to think I’m helping the cause out of some kind of selfish need to prove my own worth?” She shook her head, and he felt the full force of her anger. “I do not need to justify myself to you or anyone else.”
“And have you considered what might happen if you were to have a falling spell while transporting? The danger you might put innocent men and women in?”
“Stop!” She rubbed her temple with trembling fingers.
“Please, Kizzie, I’m only concerned. You could be killed. Or worse.” He swallowed, the thought of losing her filling him with something dark. His chest tightened.
Her face contained a sadness that made his heart ache. “Do you really think so little of me, Micah? Do you believe I would willingly risk the lives of passengers to puff up my own pride?” Her chin trembled. “I thought you knew me better than that. God has protected us on all counts, both myself and the fugitives. I trust he will continue.”
This wasn’t going at all as he’d hoped. “It’s not that. I’m just—”
Her tone hardened once more. “You have an awful lot of pluck, you know. Lying and running away, ignoring my letters, choosing instead to let me think you dead or wounded.” Her gloved finger jabbed him in the middle of his chest, and he dropped his arms, fearing she might strike him across the face. “All the while snooping and working for the very same ideals you condemn me for.”
