by Tara Johnson
Heat tingled through Keziah’s body. She longed to recoil from the slice of her cousin’s words, but she had no place to retreat.
“Your episode may have chased him away completely. I suppose we shall see if he accepts your mother’s invitation to Christmas dinner.” Jennie turned to study her own reflection in the vanity mirror as she prattled on, oblivious to the deep barbs she’d flung with her flippant words. “You really should focus your attentions on domestic pursuits, darling. If something like that happened to me, I’d never desire to set foot in public again.”
Keziah’s breath thinned, her heart throbbing against the dark, cold weight pressing upon her. If only she had some place to hide.
She heard little of what else her cousin had to say. The daggered sentiments lodged deep in her mind as they continued to taunt her. Was she really such an embarrassment that her own cousin preferred not to be seen with her?
Once Jennie had exhausted her thoughtless words, she departed and Keziah fell back into the bed.
Useless.
A humiliation.
Her throat clogged and she pushed herself up from the bed, crossing the room to stare at her reflection in the vanity mirror. Her hair hung in limp waves over her shoulders. Her skin was far too pale. Dark rings framed her eyes. Jerking away, she looked out her window at the gray yard and barren trees.
This last attack had been fierce. Her legs had been uncooperative for hours upon awakening, an occurrence that had never happened before. What if she were someday left paralyzed? A new, more terrifying darkness enveloped her. What if she died? Suffocating as her body thrashed for breath? She fisted the lace curtains and squeezed her eyes shut.
Why had the possibility never occurred to her before?
She pressed her cheek against the cold window glass, lips trembling even as the first warm tear escaped.
Was this what her life would be? Trapped in her own body? Fearful of dying young? A sob scraped for release, her breath fogging the glass. She’d been treated like delicate china on display for half her life, and placed behind glass and tucked out of sight the other half, when the china was too chipped and broken for prying eyes. The only thing of worth she’d done was help the runaways. Even in that, she lived in fear her illness might compromise their flight.
Swiping at the tears running down her jaw, she firmed her lips. She had no control over the breadth of her days. That was in God’s hands alone. But if her life was to be short, she must make each day count. A sudden urgency pressed through her spirit. She would do all she could to help others find freedom . . . even as her own was siphoning away.
She sniffled, heartsore, until a cheery thought popped into her mind.
If Mr. Hill was so repulsed by her condition, perhaps he would forgo their courtship. A bubble of laughter pushed through the swirling sadness in her chest.
Happy day.
Christmas dawned cold and sunny. Keziah had prayed Mr. Hill’s repugnance with her ill spell would keep him at bay or discourage him altogether.
It was not to be.
He arrived precisely at noon, bearing a saccharine smile for her parents. Her hopes were dashed as Jennie’s brows rose into her hair.
They gathered in the festively trimmed dining room, the lace-covered table adorned with silver trays, sparkling crystal, and holly. Despite the lack of their normal Christmas delicacies, the intoxicating scent of cinnamon and oranges permeated the air, a lavish treat in the midst of war. But Keziah’s appetite refused to respond to the splendid aromas. She eyed Nathaniel’s empty chair, and a lump settled in her throat. For once, she was grateful for Jennie’s silly chatter. At least she kept the dinner conversation stimulating.
“So Mama refused to let me join in the party, claiming the occasion was only for adults.”
Father smiled and sipped his champagne. “I take it you acquiesced like an obedient child.” The twinkle in his eyes betrayed his true thoughts and Jennie giggled.
“You do not know me well at all, dear Uncle, if you think that. No, my thirteen-year-old heart was set on enjoying all the glory of the party. Just when the guests had settled down to dine in our home, I rode my horse, Lady, right into the house and declared, ‘If I’m old enough to master this marvelous beast, I do believe I’m quite old enough to attend a simple dinner party.’”
Laughter peppered the table. Keziah felt her own lips tugging upward, though she would never dream of doing anything so outlandish.
Mother dabbed the linen napkin against her mouth. “If I had been your mother, I would have swooned, young lady.”
Jennie washed down a delicate bite of ham. “She looked as if she might, but the amusement of the guests kept her from fainting completely. They seemed to think it a rather spectacular joke. Of course, I was allowed to dine after all. How could they turn away the evening’s entertainment?”
Mother sighed. “Speaking of entertainment, I wonder what our Nathaniel is doing on this Christmas Day.” She sniffled and pressed the napkin to her eyes, murmuring, “His first Christmas away from home.”
Father reached out and patted his wife’s hand. “Don’t fret, Elsie. We should be thankful for such a strong, courageous son. One willing to give his life, if need be, for our great Confederacy.”
Keziah’s stomach lurched and she placed her fork on the plate, what little appetite she’d had forgotten. Whether it was the thought of her brother in danger or knowing he was fighting for a cause whose ideals she was actively working against, she couldn’t say. Perhaps both.
Jennie waved a dismissive hand. “I’m sure Cousin Nathaniel is having a lovely time. No doubt the soldiers find some way to entertain themselves. Cards. Music. Writing letters home.”
Mr. Hill grunted, scooping up his creamed peas. “Unless they are engaged in battle.”
Jennie gasped. “Surely not on Christmas! Not even the Yankees are that coldhearted.”
He chewed and swallowed, his face stormy. “We are engaged in war. Not a garden party.”
Father shifted back in his chair. “Quite right.”
Her mother’s face twisted, and Keziah couldn’t refrain from offering comfort, however meager. “Why, just last week I received that long, delightful letter from Nathaniel. He told me that the week before they’d had a bit of recreation time and played an enthusiastic game of horseshoes. I’ve no doubt they are being rewarded with some kind of pleasure today if at all possible.” She judiciously chose to omit the part of his letter where he confessed a favorite pastime was carving dice out of chicken bones. The idea would catapult Mother into sobs.
Sniffing, Mother straightened. “I trust you’re right. At least we have the noble Stonewall Jackson at the helm. Our boys are in good hands with such a man. Far better than the Yankees, I daresay.”
Father waved his hand. “Praise Providence we have no devils like McClellan or that loathsome General Butler.”
Mother’s mouth pinched tight. “A more horrid man I’ve yet to hear of.”
Jennie leaned forward, dropping her voice low, though why, Keziah didn’t understand. “Have you heard the latest about vile General Butler?” When she was certain she had everyone’s rapt attention, she continued. “I was on the square just last week and saw one of our merchants selling chamber pots with dear Butler’s face emblazoned on the inside!”
Mother gasped. “Mercy, Jennie! Is there nothing sacred about dinner conversation? And Christmas dinner at that.”
Father chuckled. “Polite conversation or no, I had not heard that particular tidbit. Amusing, I must say.”
Ignoring Mother’s scolding, Jennie sent a pointed glance to Mr. Hill. “And what say you, Mr. Hill? Do you think General Butler has the gumption to take on our brave soldiers?”
Mr. Hill took a sip of his wine, his look dark. “Oh, he has the gumption for certain. But it will be for naught. The Union is caught up in a fool’s errand. Providence is on our side.” He smirked at Keziah.
She bit the inside of her cheek and stirred the peas
on her plate. How many times would Mr. Hill make the same blanket statement? Would a loving God align himself with slaveholders and tyranny?
Jennie settled back into her seat, eyes astute. “It would be horribly unpatriotic to our glorious Confederacy to disagree with you, sir. I concur. But what is the reason for your certainty?”
Keziah held her breath, trying not to grimace at Lyman Hill’s condescending smile from across the table.
“Common sense, Miss Oglethorpe. Aside from states’ rights, Lincoln and his demons have angered the Almighty by insisting the Negro is equal to his master.” He shook his head. “A preposterous claim.”
Images of little Solomon trembling in the dark confines of the stable stabbed at Keziah, followed by face after face of those she’d led on their way to freedom. Men, women, children, infants, not to mention sweet Hiriam and Elizabeth. She’d detected no difference between herself and those poor souls other than the cruel life they’d been forced to endure. She’d found none of them lacking in intelligence or heart. In fact, in some ways, they surpassed the wit of their taskmasters by virtue of breaking free.
Jennie’s titter clamped down on Keziah’s wayward thoughts. “But of course you’re correct.” She sipped her wine, her eyes meeting Mr. Hill’s over the rim of her goblet. “Who could possibly defeat us?”
Father wiped his mouth and boomed, “I’ve no doubt we will crush the Yankees into powder and will finally be blessedly free of these absurd conversations.” He pushed back his chair and nodded in Mother’s direction. “A fine Christmas dinner, Mrs. Montgomery.”
Mother blushed and accepted the praise, and Keziah found herself glancing toward Elizabeth, quietly gathering up dishes from the table. Mother had done nothing other than give orders. The house servant had done all the work.
As the others rose, Keziah lingered just long enough to catch Elizabeth’s eye. “You prepared a wonderful feast. Thank you.”
The servant lifted her face and smiled, her expression filled with surprise. “Thank you, miss. The good Lord gets the praise. Only him what got us our ham when so many other folks are scraping for enough to eat.”
“And you managed it marvelously.”
“Keziah? Are you coming?” Mother’s censure floated into the dining room.
With a final glance toward Elizabeth, she walked out of the room, but her heart felt pricked. She had glimpsed the loveliness inside Elizabeth’s heart. How many years had she crafted and served these elaborate meals and never received a simple thanks? It wasn’t right. It just wasn’t right.
As she entered the parlor, Jennie called out, “Come, Keziah dear. Play us a merry carol on the pianoforte.”
Mr. Hill held up a restraining hand. “Ah-ah. First I must have a conversation with Miss Montgomery, if I may. In private.”
Heart pounding and mouth dry, Keziah turned to Mother, desperate for any reason to decline. But Mother’s face lit up and she shooed them away. “Go to the library, then.”
Mr. Hill left the room without further ado. Keziah remained behind, searching for a way to escape this madness. “I don’t mind playing a carol now—”
Father eyed her sternly. “Pishposh. There’s plenty of time for merrymaking later. He doesn’t care for music anyway, if you remember. Go. You mustn’t keep him waiting.”
Resignation stifled her like a wet blanket as she complied. Surely no prisoner facing the gallows experienced so much dread.
He awaited her in the musty library, where Keziah shakily inhaled the lingering scent of Father’s cigars and old books. When the door clicked shut behind her, it felt like a blacksmith’s strike—a hammer delivering the final blow to iron shackles.
Lyman Hill offered a tight smile, the silver in his hair shimmering from the sunshine slicing through the window.
“How are you feeling this evening?”
Swallowing hard, she smoothed her sweaty palms down her skirt. “Some better. Thank you.”
He turned away from her and toyed with the cigar box perched on the edge of her father’s gleaming mahogany desk. “I confess, I was quite taken aback by your episode. Your parents had not divulged your, uh, condition to me before agreeing to our courtship.”
She remained silent, praying he would say he wanted out of the arrangement. Please, Lord . . .
“The entire episode was quite disturbing and more than a little embarrassing.”
The cold, familiar feeling crept through her again, even as her neck flushed hot. Lowering her head, she stared at the plush blue rug beneath her feet.
“Upon further reflection, I’ve concluded that some matters are out of personal control. I refuse to believe that your epileptic fit was willful.”
Of course it wasn’t willful. Resentment burned in her chest. Why did no one seem to understand?
“I thought your condition might be the end of our courtship, but I confess your charms considerably outweigh your faults.”
Teeth clenched, she choked out, “How kind.”
He opened his mouth to say more, but a harsh pounding vibrated through the air, followed by muffled shouts. Alarm flooded Keziah and she turned to flee the library, Mr. Hill on her heels. She burst into the parlor from the side door as a red-faced man with a wiry beard pushed through the main entrance, past a protesting Elizabeth. Mud clung to the man’s clothes, and he had a month’s worth of grime glued to his pants and coat.
Father stood quickly, his expression stern. “What is the meaning of this disturbance?”
The stranger’s eyes narrowed. “You harboring any fugitives on your property?”
Father’s neck mottled red as Mother gasped. “Most assuredly not! Who are you and what are you doing trespassing in my home? And on Christmas Day!”
With an exasperated huff, the filthy fellow yanked his worn hat from his head, revealing mussed brown hair. “Name’s Jonah Peterson. I’ve been tracking an escaped slave for the past week. A young man. Belonged to a feller about fifty miles south.” He tipped his head in respectful deference to Mother but never lost the harsh, calculating look, nor the hard press of his whiskered lips. “I’ve tracked this slave to your home. I believe he’s hiding out back.”
Keziah’s heart hammered wildly. A runaway was hiding out back? She’d forgotten to check the padlock on the stable door, caught up as she was in Christmas festivities. Mother had kept last evening packed full. She’d meant to ensure the lock was clicked into place, allowing no fugitives in on Christmas Eve, but time had escaped her. Her breath thinned.
What had she done?
Father waved a hand. “I know of no such thing.”
“You ain’t one of them turncoats, are you?” Peterson snarled. “A Union sympathizer?”
Jennie shoved forward, unable to quench her outrage. “Certainly not! Why, my auntie and uncle have a son at war this minute, fighting for the Confederacy!”
Father glared. “I have no love for the Union and am a staunch supporter of slavery. I own some myself. If a slave has snuck onto my property, I have no knowledge of it.”
Peterson smiled, his teeth resembling stained and chipped piano keys. Keziah shuddered.
“Then you would not oppose me if I asked to search the property?”
“Not the outbuildings, no. In fact, my driver and I shall accompany you.” Father turned and bellowed, “Hiriam! Come immediately!”
“Father!” Keziah ran to his side, desperate for any way to keep the odious bounty hunter from obtaining his prize. “You aren’t really going to let this horrid man search through our buildings, are you?” she whispered. “He may be nothing more than a thief! What if he tries to steal Hiriam or Elizabeth with the intention of turning a hefty sum at the auction block?”
He patted her hand. “Don’t fret. These are matters you know nothing of. Leave it to the menfolk.”
Did he think her a child? Before she could conjure any other plausible reason to detain them, Hiriam appeared, and he, Father, Mr. Hill, and Peterson left the room. At their departure, Mother and
Jennie launched into a tirade.
Unable to think of anything other than what was transpiring outside, Keziah rushed to grab her cloak, swinging it over her shoulders, and ran to the servants’ door at the back of the house. She watched the men’s purposeful strides as they entered the stable. Please, Lord, let the slave remain undetected. Please, please—
Shouts erupted from inside, and the bounty hunter crashed through the stable door, wrestling with a lean Negro man. They fought and writhed in the dry grass. Keziah covered her mouth with shaking fingers.
Peterson slammed the butt of his gun into the slave’s head, momentarily stunning him. Moaning, the fugitive rolled to his side and held his head. Peterson pushed to his feet and looked down at the man with a sneer before spitting on him. Beyond the scuffle, Father, Mr. Hill, and Hiriam looked on as if they were watching a game of croquet.
Keziah’s chest heaved with repressed sobs as she watched from the back door. This was all her fault.
Her heart froze when Peterson yanked the slave to his feet, preparing to clamp his wrists in irons he’d pulled from his coat. Instead, the slave lunged and snatched the gun from his belt. Peterson cursed but froze when the runaway pointed the pistol at his heart. But instead of dropping the paddy roller to the ground as Keziah expected, the slave slowly pointed the gun at his own temple, his tears falling in earnest.
Keziah gasped, understanding his dark intention. She murmured under her breath, “No . . .” and took a halting step forward, but the roar of the pistol shattered her.
Screaming, she pressed her fists to her mouth as the fugitive crumpled into the blood-spattered grass. She tasted tears as her heart ripped in two. Her legs shook so violently, she collapsed into the dirt.
Within moments, she heard the men approaching, even as the sound of her sobs echoed in her own ears. Father exclaimed in frustration, “I had no idea Keziah was out here. Her sensibilities are far too delicate for this kind of gruesome display.”
Mr. Hill’s clipped tone invaded. “I’m sure once the shock wears off, she’ll be fine. The real tragedy is how much this slave’s master has lost. What would you say he was worth? Seven, eight hundred, Benjamin?”
