Engraved on the Heart

by Tara Johnson

  Her accusations stung. Locking his hand around her wrist, he glowered in the waning moonlight. “Pardon me, my dear Miss Keziah, but there is a difference between us. I’m a man. You’re a young woman. I can defend myself against attackers. Can you physically ward off angry paddy rollers or suspicious men or snarling dogs?”

  Her eyes glittered like dark ice as she spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ve done fine thus far.”

  He pressed on, desperate to make her understand the fire she was dabbling with. “Do you think the authorities—or even your own neighbors—will show any mercy if you’re arrested? You’ll be a traitor to the Confederacy. Imprisoned. Possibly even hanged.” His breath hitched at the thought of losing her.

  “And why would my fate matter to you so much, Micah?” Something raw lay beneath her words.

  Everything in him screamed to declare his feelings, and the burning confession nearly burst from his lips. Quenching the flames, he heaved a sigh and released her, his taut muscles relaxing a measure. “We’re friends. I care.”

  “I see.” Her whisper sounded pained. Tight.

  How to make her understand? “You are a lovely woman and deserve the best life has to offer. A husband. Children. Happiness.” He shook his head, regret and longing flooding him. “You’ll experience none of those joys if you continue on this path.”

  She laughed distantly. “Your worry may be in vain. If Father has his way, continuing to aid the cause may become nearly impossible for me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ignoring the question, she pulled her mask into place and stepped close, her breath warm against his face. “Thank you for your concern, but this is something I have to do. Something I feel called by God to do . . . for whatever length of time he gives me.” She looked into his face. Could she see the turmoil ripping him to shreds? “Perhaps our paths will cross again.”

  His heart thudded erratically. “Perhaps. If God ordains.”

  She nodded and offered a small smile. A truce of sorts. “If God ordains.”

  And then she was gone.

  Keziah shivered, her skin tingling as she walked back into the warmth and chaos of the great hall. She pasted on a smile when Jennie caught her eye from across the room, but her mind fogged with thoughts of Micah, her heart constricting until it felt like a block of lead.

  He’d judged her and found her lacking. Tears clogged her throat, but she would not give in to them.

  Who was he to accuse her? It was his invitation to the abolitionist meeting that had prodded her to think beyond herself and the life she’d always known. He’d ignited a compassion, a yearning to do something, anything, to help. And now he condemned her for it?

  She mentally shook herself as she glided through the mass of costumes. Perhaps condemned was too strong a word. Micah hadn’t seemed so much condemning as . . . concerned.

  The thought had no more than formed when Jennie found her, her delicate gown appearing to float amid its adornments of plumage and lace.

  “Where have you been? I’ve been desperate for you!”

  Keziah forced a light laugh. “Desperate for me? Why the theatrics?”

  Jennie giggled behind her feathered fan and leaned in. “I was held hostage by the most fascinating gentleman. He claims to be a blockade runner. One of the few men in attendance who is young, healthy, and hale.”

  “Then why seek to part from his company?”

  Jennie’s lips pushed out into a pout. “I couldn’t bear his mustache. Most hideous apparition. It curled up on the ends in such a way, it made him look like he was smiling while talking about morose topics like war and death.” Jennie straightened and shook her russet head. “No, I simply couldn’t abide it.”

  “Life with you is never dull.”

  “Indeed.” Jennie nodded toward an approaching man. “Here comes your escort. And he does not look pleased.”

  Keziah turned just as Mr. Hill stopped before her, his face devoid of the mask he’d worn upon arriving. His scowl darkened the air between them.

  “Miss Montgomery, I would be remiss in my duties if I did not ask where you’ve been this past half hour.”

  She blinked, taken aback by the ire lacing his hard tone. “I’ve been here, sir. I strolled outside for a bit of fresh air and was most recently conversing with my cousin.”

  Grasping Keziah by the arm, he pulled her away from a gaping Jennie and ushered her into the closest corner, eyes flashing as he muttered through clenched teeth. “Don’t ever humiliate me like that again.”

  Yanking her arm free, she longed to give in to the urge to slam her slippered foot into his knee. “Pardon?”

  He straightened and gave his vest a quick yank. “I am your escort. Your beau. You cannot ignore me all evening and prance about as if I were nothing more to you than a trite inconvenience.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “We are not betrothed, sir. You know as well as I that for me to dance with a man, any man, more than once would be scandalous.”

  His lips curved into an insolent smile. “Ah, I see. Desperate for my proposal of marriage, are you?”

  Outrage licked her insides. “I am desperate for no such thing.”

  The infuriating man’s look of anger turned to coy understanding. “Obviously a lady of distinction could claim no such desire without appearing overly forward. Not to fret, my dear. It will happen soon.”

  Sickened at the thought, she rubbed her temple. “Please, I’m not feeling well. I must leave.”

  “Of course. I admit to being bored with this whole benefit anyway. Seems a childish way to raise funds for our soldiers. Playing dress-up like a bunch of children.”

  The headache blooming in her skull pulsed with increasing pain. “I shall fetch my cousin, then.”

  Turning from him, she breathed a sigh of relief even as her headache increased. She pulled Jennie from her throng of admirers, leaned in, and whispered, “Forgive me, but we must leave.”

  Jennie’s eyes rounded in surprise. “Are you feeling quite well? You’re as pale as a ghost.”

  “Truthfully, I’m not well. I’ve been tired of late, and now my head feels as if it might burst.”

  Shooing away the older men gathered behind her, Jennie slipped her arm through Keziah’s and strolled through the great hall. “You’re not about to have one of your episodes, are you?”

  Keziah felt heat warm her face, along with the cold, dark shame that slithered through her every time her condition was mentioned. “You know about those?”

  “Yes. That is, Auntie Elsie told me a little. Come. We shall take you home and put you to bed. I’ll have Mr. Hill summon the carriage.”

  Unable to do anything more than nod, Keziah followed Jennie into the December night’s air. She prayed the harsh temperature would chase away her headache.

  Just as the carriage arrived and she prepared to step inside, a too-familiar tingle shot up her spine. She groped for Jennie’s hand.

  “Jennie, I—”

  A cry of panic slipped from her lips as the world crashed into darkness.

  CHAPTER 13

  “HAVE YOU HEARD THE LATEST?”

  Within the confines of the Cold Oyster Pub later that night, Micah rested his elbows on the battered, sticky table of Ma Linnie’s simple kitchen. The smell of fried onions and potatoes saturated the stale air. Beyond the kitchen doors, men smoked fat cigars and spoke of war as they discarded pasteboards in spirited games of poker and twenty-one.

  Ma dropped the daily paper before his eyes with a ruffled thud. “Blockade at Tybee has tightened up. Prices on foodstuffs are only going to rise.” She huffed and wiped her hands on her stained apron. “Salt is up to a dollar and twenty-five cents a sack, and bacon is thirty cents a pound. Now you tell me, how on earth am I supposed to feed hungry men day after day with those prices?”

  Micah leaned back in his chair. “Do they honestly think a group of untrained men can stand up against the Federal Navy?”

  Ma pursed her lips, causin
g the spectacles perched on her button nose to tilt. “Some of our commanders think the war will come to a head on land here in Savannah.” She looked over the top of the crooked spectacles. “But mark my words: as sure as my hair is gray, the Yankees are going to cut the Confederate Navy into ribbons.”

  Micah stared off into the distance, his thoughts on Kizzie, just as they had been since she’d left him at the benefit two hours before.

  Ma plucked off her spectacles and speared him with a sharp glance. “Who put a bee in your bonnet? Ain’t said more than two words since you came in here an hour ago, dressed in your fancy duds and acting like someone shot your dog.”

  Giving her a sour look, he grunted.

  “Does this have anything to do with the pretty miss you brought in here a couple weeks back?”

  Micah nearly growled when Ma’s smug smile stretched from one side of her face to the other.

  “Let’s drop it.”

  Ma leaned her considerable girth forward. “So what’s her story? You never did tell me why you brought her in here. Does she know what you do?”

  He kneaded the skin above his eyes. “Only in part. I didn’t say much that night because we had paddy rollers on our tail, and I wasn’t sure what she was doing.”

  “And?”

  “She’s a conductor.”

  Ma sat back in her chair, her voice soft. “I’ll be. She’s one of us. Plucky little thing.”

  He slammed his fist down, causing the oil lamp resting in the middle of the table to rattle with an unnerving clatter. “She doesn’t know what she’s gotten herself into. You and I, we know the danger and have taken measures to ensure we have a fighting shot. But Kizzie—” Unease gnawed his middle. “She’s inexperienced. I’ve got half a mind to write William Still and request that the Railroad sever their connection with her, to find a different route. I don’t know how to make such a message clear, though. At least not without putting her at risk.”

  Ma slapped her plump fingers against the table. “You would really try to manipulate that sweet girl in such a way?”

  “How else can I protect her?” Micah dropped his head into his hands.

  Ma suddenly cackled, causing him to lift his head with a glare.

  “I fail to see the amusement.”

  “You love her.”

  “I care for her. Yes.”

  “No.” Ma shook her head, her jowls swaying as her eyes twinkled. “It’s more than that. Admit it.”

  He wanted to deny it but was weary of doing so. Ma would see through his feeble protests anyway. Resting his head in his hands again, he murmured, “Yes, I love her.”

  Ma squeezed his arm and leaned close. “Bless you, you stubborn dolt. Love doesn’t manipulate. And it doesn’t control. Love gives, even if it costs the giver everything.”

  “But if something happens to her—”

  “It’s her decision. You can’t take that away from her. Not if you really love her. Free will, and all that. Would you deny her a passion Providence laid on her heart because you’re afraid of losing her?”

  He had no ready reply. No argument. Ma was correct. Still . . .

  He scraped his fingers against his scalp. “Is it so wrong to want to shield her from pain?”

  Ma stood and toddled over to the stove, grabbing the coffeepot. “There can be no growth without pain, Doc. You should know that better than anyone. Even nature tells us that.”

  He huffed. “Sometimes treatment of a wound involves pain before healing occurs. That’s true enough. But how much better not to have the wound in the first place.”

  Ma slipped back to the table, a gray curl springing free from under her dingy mobcap. “Ain’t what I’m speaking of. Have you ever slit open a butterfly’s cocoon?”

  Odd change of topic. “Can’t say that I have.”

  She poured him a cup and plunked it down in front of him before filling her own mug with black brew. The steam fogged her spectacles, once more balanced at the end of her nose. “Nor should you. Did you know that if you try to help a butterfly out of its cocoon, if you slit its house open, the butterfly will die?”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  She took a sip of the coffee and grimaced. “I must say, I’m not much particular about my coffee, but this chicory is a poor substitute.” Giving him a long look, she abandoned her cup on the weathered table. “Part of what enables that butterfly to soar is the struggle it takes to break free.”

  The analogy struck him hard. Was that what he was doing with Kizzie? Trying to slit open her cocoon?

  “So what should I do then, Ma? Stop fretting? Stop caring?” He shook his head. “I can’t do that.”

  “It ain’t that easy, is it? No. You do what the Good Book says. Perfect love casts out fear. If you fully understand how much the Almighty loves that little lady, how he has a plan for her life, whether you like the plan or not, you trust him with it. That perfect love of God will grab fear by the throat and toss it out the door.”

  “Yield her up to God.” Peace settled through his soul at the thought. “I think I can do that.”

  She chuckled. “God knows what’s best anyhow. Not you. And if you don’t want to lose her, you ought to try encouraging her, not bossing her ’bout what she should or shouldn’t be doing.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Isn’t that what you’re doing to me right now?”

  Ma watched him, a smile playing about her mouth. “Someday when the two of you young’uns are married, you’ll look back on this moment and say old Ma was right.”

  Barking a dry laugh, Micah scrubbed his fingers down his face, trying to rub away the exhaustion. “Married? What kind of life could I possibly offer her? I’m not in one spot long enough to leave a mark. Always scurrying between here and wherever the Relief Commission or the Railroad tells me to go. And you know my own history.” He sighed. “She would never want me if she knew.”

  “Seems to me you don’t give her much credit. And it’s true enough that you’re busy now, but the war won’t last forever. With the good Lord’s aid, slavery will be abolished altogether. Then there won’t be a need for sneaking and running all over kingdom come.”

  Weariness caused his shoulders to slump as he voiced the fear lurking in the back of his mind. “But what if we don’t win?”

  She frowned, her voice heavy. “We must. We win or die trying.”

  We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed; always bearing about in the body the dying of the Lord Jesus, that the life also of Jesus might be made manifest in our body.

  Keziah shifted her weight against the pillows cushioning her back. Since suffering the seizure at the costume benefit two nights before, she’d done little more than sleep, rest, and read her Bible. For some reason, she had settled on 2 Corinthians chapter 4, and the apostle’s words continued to roll around in her mind. There was truth contained inside, something indefinable she tried to grasp, but it eluded her still.

  She needed to muster her courage. For every day that passed with the stable light extinguished and the back door padlocked shut was another day helpless men, women, and children groped through the cold alone.

  A sharp rap sounded on her bedroom door, and she closed the worn book with a sigh. Laying it aside, she smoothed her dressing gown. “Come in.”

  Her cousin peeped around the edge of the open door. “How are you feeling, Keziah dear? If you despise the thought of company, I shall leave.”

  “Don’t be silly. I welcome your visit.” She patted the edge of the bed. “Truthfully, I need to rise and join the family. I plan to be at supper tonight.”

  “You may want to reconsider that notion. At least until Auntie Elsie is in a more affable frame of mind.” Jennie wrinkled her nose and perched on the soft bed.

  Groaning, Keziah eased back against the pillows. “Is Mother upset with me for having another spell?”

  Jennie shook her hea
d, red curls bouncing despite the pins holding up her locks. “No, your condition is not the source of her ire. With Christmas coming next week, she’s fretting about the high food prices. The blockade has her in a tizzy.” Jennie giggled. “Though no more so than Uncle Benjamin.”

  Keziah offered a lopsided smile. “I can imagine. And Father was so sure the blockade would be dissolved within three days’ time.”

  Rising once more, Jennie picked up a brush from the bedside table and studied the delicately carved handle. “Little chance of that. At least, not before Christmas. What did you dine on for Christmas dinner last year?”

  “Mother’s standard holiday fare: duck soup, French chicken pie, veal olives, fried artichokes, pineapple pudding . . .”

  Jennie groaned and dropped the brush onto the bed, clutching her stomach instead. “Stop or I shall faint from want! I haven’t had such delicacies in ages.”

  Keziah tossed a pillow at her melodramatic cousin. “Hardly that long. Still, I imagine we should be thankful to have anything to eat at all. The poor are in much more dire straits.”

  “Pshaw! I have no desire to think of the downtrodden. Not so close to Christmas.” She crossed her arms. “I’m much more upset that I have no beau to invite to our Christmas meal.”

  Pushing the covers back, Keziah scooted to the side of the bed. “Do you ever think of anything other than men?”

  Jennie smiled coyly. “Naturally! I think of clothing and jewelry too.”

  With a laugh, Keziah stood on wobbly legs. The last episode had knocked the stuffing right out of her. Still, after two days of rest, she felt stronger. She looked up when she sensed her cousin’s gaze boring into her.

  “Do you think it’s wise to be up yet?”

  Keziah blinked. “Of course. I can’t stay in bed forever.”

  “Perhaps you should.”

  The caustic murmur made her stomach sink. “What do you mean?”

  Jennie sighed, though her curt tone offered no sympathy. “I have never witnessed the falling sickness before. I must say, it was quite alarming. And you should have seen Mr. Hill. He was mortified.”