by Tara Johnson
Stuffing the letter into her desk drawer, she straightened, her thoughts spinning like carriage wheels as she shoved the walnut drawer shut with a decisive click. There was little she could do before their arranged meeting but still, trying to calm her scattered wits and taut nerves would prove difficult.
She walked down the hallway and noted the way her boots connected sharply with the polished floors, echoes trailing in her wake. The house seemed so desolate. Nathaniel’s death and Father’s subsequent illness had laid a bleak pall over the home like a damp blanket. No wonder Jennie sought adventure. Even the traces of sweet tobacco from Father’s pipe that had always lingered in a welcoming embrace had evaporated.
Grasping the knob, she pushed her father’s bedroom door open with a light squeak. Benjamin Montgomery looked pale and listless beneath the dark-green duvet, his color far too gray, his eyes far too glassy and bright.
“Father? How are you feeling today?”
With a light cough, he beckoned her in, ignoring her question. “Come closer.”
As she entered the room and moved to his side, a familiar, unwelcome voice intruded.
“Miss Montgomery.”
She gasped and whirled around to see Lyman Hill standing somberly in the dark corner, illuminated by the faint light filtering through the curtained windows.
“Mr. Hill.” She itched to ask him to leave but knew such a demand would be unseemly. He’d done nothing wrong, yet why hadn’t Mother mentioned he would be present?
Turning away from him, she focused on her father and perched uneasily on the corner of a chair next to his bed.
Ever the businessman, Father addressed her, his gravelly voice sharp. “I’m going to speak plainly.”
Keziah couldn’t suppress the curving of her lips. “You always have.”
“True enough.” He coughed again and winced but waved her off when she tried to reach for his glass of water. “No water. Not until I’m done. I’m not long for this world. Soon I’ll be joining . . . Nathaniel.” His eyes fogged with pain as he fumbled over her brother’s name. An aching sadness pierced her chest. She suspected her father was not just suffering from a physical heart ailment, but was grieving himself to death.
She longed to reach for his hand but feared the gesture would not be welcome. He was an unemotional man, prone to turn up his nose at sentimentality. Still, a person ought to feel their impending passage into glory would be a sorrowful parting for their family.
“You are well into marriageable age, and since Providence has seen fit to take me soon, I request you marry Mr. Hill immediately.”
Venomous dread coiled through her. “Father, please, I—”
He held up a silencing hand. “I cannot rest in peace until I know that you and your mother will be taken care of. Mr. Hill has graciously agreed to house your mother for as long as she has breath. My only fear has been leaving her in duress, without a strong man to care for her needs. Your marriage to Mr. Hill would allay my fears.”
What of her own feelings in the matter? She longed to scream, to make him see reason. With a sudden flash, she imagined life with Lyman Hill, his cold manner, stiff disdain . . . the thought nearly made her retch.
Mr. Hill stepped out from the shadows. “I know this comes as a bit of a shock. I’d hoped we would have more time for affections to grow, but your father is quite right. Practicality trumps emotional matters, especially during the uncertainty of war.”
Keziah’s mouth was dry as cotton. “There’s no rush, Father. Mayhap you’ll recover. I certainly have no intention of burying you anytime soon.” She forced a laugh but grimaced when it sounded more like a choked gasp.
Even in his frail condition, the stubborn set of his jaw told her she would not persuade him. “Would you begrudge your dying father his only wish?”
Heart sinking, she swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She had prayed that courting Lyman Hill would allow her family to see how ill-suited they were for each other, but to no avail. She was trapped.
“If you’re agreeable, my dear, we can set the wedding date for three weeks from today.”
The room spun as she slowly stood. She nodded even as her mind screamed for release. How could she possibly pledge her troth to love, honor, and obey a man she barely knew when Micah’s kiss still burned her lips and the memory of his touch haunted her each night?
The future loomed ahead of her, bleak and cold as a January night.
MARCH 3, 1862
Micah watched from the grove of trees behind the schoolhouse, thankful for the warmer temperatures of early spring, as Kizzie walked with a rapid step toward their arranged meeting spot.
How many years since he’d seen her walking to school on a day almost exactly like this one, her braids resting against her shoulders, lunch pail swinging from her fingertips, books hugged to her chest? He remembered thinking her so pretty as she strolled toward the schoolhouse.
And out of nowhere, Charlie had crept up behind her, knocked her books from her hands, and run away.
Micah had burned with anger as she’d stooped to gather her scattered primers, a dozen emotions flitting across her face. She looked so forlorn. So . . . alone.
If only she realized Charlie teased her because he could think of no other way to capture her attention. All the boys knew Charlie was smitten with her. But the troublemaker was none too bright about showing his affection.
Unable to watch Kizzie struggle anymore, Micah had rushed to her side, kneeling in the dirt, picking up the dust-smudged books. She kept her head bowed, no doubt to hide her flaming cheeks from his perusal.
She tried to juggle the stack of primers and rise, but he gently tugged them away. “Here. Let me carry them for you.”
Her bleak whisper pained him. “Why does he torture me so?”
He’d swallowed and shrugged. “Charlie just wants attention. How about I walk with you from now on?” At her stare, he felt a strange heat crawl up the back of his neck. “You know, as protection.”
A soft smile broke across her face. “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”
He didn’t understand the odd way his heart pounded or why he suddenly felt taller when she smiled.
Micah blinked. She was no longer a girl but a woman, yet his chest thundered now just as it had that day so long ago. Her strawberry-blonde curls were tucked loosely into a fashionable snood. Soft blossoms of pink dusted her cheeks. But why was she wearing a black bombazine mourning dress?
She hadn’t seen him yet, hidden as he was, and he enjoyed the rare pleasure of drinking in his fill of her. She slowed, sauntering past the mournful cemetery to the east of the schoolhouse, her face downcast. Something was troubling her deeply.
Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he emerged from his hidden spot among the trees and strode in a lazy fashion toward the cemetery, trying to look nonchalant should anybody see them upon passing. At his hushed footfalls in the greening grass, she turned, her eyes lighting with happiness just before a dark veil shuttered them.
He stopped several feet away. “Miss Montgomery.”
Offering a smile that seemed forced, she nodded but avoided his gaze. “Dr. Greyson.”
“Would you be so kind as to walk with an old school chum and relieve my boredom?”
“Of course.” Her voice was soft as ever yet her manner seemed distant as she fell into step beside him. When they’d walked to the far side of the cemetery, away from any listening ears that might be frequenting the uneven road, he could contain his curiosity no longer.
“What has happened? Why the mourning?”
She stopped but looked straight ahead, intent on a mossy tombstone with fading letters.
“Nathaniel is dead, shot down during the battle of Fort Henry.”
He groaned, wishing he could take her in his arms, loathing the fact that he must keep his distance. “I’m so sorry. Nathaniel was one of the finest men I’ve ever known. Never met a stranger.” He sighed. “I can’t imagine the world withou
t him.”
She shook her head slightly, dropping her eyes to the grass. “We knew the risk he took, but—” she faltered, her profile somehow expressing her stark grief—“Mother and Father have not fared well with the news. Father collapsed upon receiving word and has not regained his strength. Our family physician says his heart is barely functioning.”
Micah winced, knowing words would be inadequate comfort in the face of such loss. “I’m sorry.”
She sighed and finally lifted her eyes to meet his, resignation flickering in their depths. “I know.”
“And yet in the midst of your own sorrow, you’re attempting to aid a passenger to freedom.”
With a dry twist of a smile, she looked back over the quiet cemetery. “She requested my help. How could I do anything less? Of course, it all depends on your wisdom. Without you, I fear I’d be lost.” As if realizing how her words might be construed, she lowered her gaze to her feet and blushed prettily.
He lowered his voice. “There is little I can do to alleviate your family’s suffering, but thankfully I can do something about the latter. If you’re agreeable, here’s the plan. . . .”
CHAPTER 19
KEZIAH SAT INSIDE the family carriage, willing the moths to cease their fluttering torrent in her belly. Hiriam flicked the reins, urged the mares to keep pace as they pranced past the square to the Wards’ lofty home.
As she gripped the worn handles of the large bag in her lap with one hand, she pressed the fingers of the other to its lumpy insides and reassured herself the needed gown had not been left behind.
She was more likely to lose her courage than misplace the gown.
She peered anxiously for Micah as the carriage approached the street corner they had agreed upon two days prior. Sure enough, he stood ready in his black suit, far too handsome for his own good. His dark hair shone in the sunlight, and an easy smile lit his face as he recognized their hack.
This was the moment.
“Hiriam?” She raised her voice to be heard over the rumble and clatter of wheels. “Stop for a moment, please. I see an acquaintance up ahead I wish to greet.”
With a nod, Hiriam pulled back on the reins, stopping the glossy mares. Upon seeing her, Micah feigned surprise and lifted his hand in greeting. “Miss Montgomery? What a pleasure to see you today.”
“And you, Dr. Greyson. Do you fare well?”
“Well compared to our suffering soldiers. After months of treating their wounds, I have no right to complain about any personal discomforts.”
Was Hiriam listening, or had he tuned out their silly formalities? Talking in such a manner to Micah felt as phony as pretending tea was cream. “Well, I don’t wish to take up any of your time. I know as a physician you stay extremely busy.”
He smiled, his white teeth flashing and blue eyes twinkling in the tanned lines of his face. Her knees suddenly felt weak. Thank Providence she was sitting, so they could not betray her.
“I’m never too busy to say hello to a schoolmate. I’m on a matter of business, heading to the Ward home. I need to inform several of the families on the square about an illness affecting many Negroes throughout Savannah. The Ward family is next on my list of contacts.”
She could plainly see the humor longing to peek through his gentlemanly demeanor. “How fortunate! I am heading there myself. I have a matter of business to discuss with Mrs. Ward. I would be happy for you to accompany me. No sense walking when our destination is the same. Hiriam?” He turned his head to the side to catch her request. “Would you be agreeable to conveying the good doctor to the Ward home as well?”
Hiriam tipped his hat to Micah, giving him a moment to lift himself into the open-air carriage. The bench seat beneath her tilted and bounced as Micah settled his weight beside her. Once Hiriam’s back was to them once more, Micah’s subtle wink caused her cheeks to warm. The carriage rolled gently along the road, and with his strong presence, she felt her nerves calm . . . that was, until his knee jostled hers.
Then the fluttering moths in her stomach nearly took flight.
They traveled in silence for long minutes. With every block the horses clopped past, her unease grew. She had not yet informed him of her betrothal to Mr. Hill. He deserved to hear the news from her first.
Tell him.
“Dr. Greyson, there is something I must tell you.”
His brows rose. “Oh?”
Words abandoned her. Why was this so difficult? She’d opened her mouth to speak when the carriage slowed to a stop.
“Here we are.” Hiriam turned toward them, oblivious to her inner turmoil.
She offered a smile. “Thank you, Hiriam.”
Micah studied her. “You were preparing to share something with me?”
“I—that is, it can wait.” Coward.
As Micah descended and offered his hand to assist her, a sob lodged in her chest. Nathaniel was dead. She was engaged to Lyman Hill, and Micah was all but lost to her. As a little girl, she had sketched her dreams in journals, imprinting them upon her mind and building them into castles of hope. How different her life had turned out to be.
There was little she could do for her own future, but perhaps there was something yet to be done for Polly’s. She must focus on the task at hand.
All other dreams had been cut to ribbons.
Micah perched on the stiff, horsehair sofa in the stuffy green parlor of the Ward house, praying he didn’t look as uncomfortable as he felt.
Mrs. Ward had welcomed them warmly, inquiring about Mr. Montgomery’s health. When both Micah and Kizzie relayed how they’d come to arrive together, the matron said two visitors were better than one.
The hospitality of the robust woman sipping her tea across the parlor was meant to set him at ease, but the woman who sat primly on the opposite end of the sofa from him caused him some disquiet. The yawning expanse between them on the couch was nothing in comparison to the odd distance she maintained. Ever since meeting at the cemetery, Kizzie had seemed . . . different. Aloof and skittish as a newborn colt.
At first, it appeared she was merely committed to her role as an old schoolmate running into him on the street. But even when Hiriam had turned his back to them, sending the carriage into its lurching sway, her demeanor had not changed. He’d continually felt her eyes on him, but when he braved a look, she reddened and averted her gaze.
Had his foolish kiss ruined their friendship completely? He hated this stiff tension pulsing between them. Yet she’d come to him for help in spiriting Polly away. That counted for something, didn’t it?
The wayward thoughts cluttered his mind and he shook them off. He had a job to do. Woolgathering over his failures with Kizzie would not help matters.
“I agree, dear. The price of yard goods is utterly ridiculous in my opinion.” Mrs. Ward’s strident tone speared his attention as Kizzie leaned forward, gently cradling her delicate saucer and flower-patterned teacup.
“Actually, that is why I’m here. I pray you won’t think me too forward, but your kind gift after the passing of Nathaniel was much appreciated. I know this isn’t much, but our house slave Elizabeth has an abundance of dresses—more than she could ever need. And your servant Polly looks to be about the same size required to fit Elizabeth’s gowns. I noticed her cuffs were just a bit frayed when she dropped off your lovely gift and wondered if you’d be opposed to letting me give her several of Elizabeth’s dresses, times being what they are.”
Mrs. Ward’s round face softened. “Very thoughtful of you and your dear mother. I confess, with yard goods so costly now, I’ve fretted over how we are to afford clothes for the staff in light of the coming social season.”
Micah suppressed a frown. Social season? In the middle of a war? Didn’t the societal elite understand the gravity of the battles raging around them? Images of bloodied stumps and disease-ridden men flooded his mind. What good were dance cards when men lay sprawled over barren, pockmarked fields, their bloated, bloody bodies piled three feet deep?
Kizzie nodded. “Of course. I brought several of them with me. Would you like her to try one on now?”
Placing her empty cup back on the silver tray with a clink, Mrs. Ward dabbed her lips daintily with a crisp linen napkin. “Indeed. That would be the best course of action. Polly?”
Mrs. Ward had barely raised her voice, keeping it cultured, as proper women tended to do, yet the meek maid appeared at the doorway all the same. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Go upstairs and try on these gowns. The Montgomery family said you’re welcome to them.”
Micah noted the hint of a smile around her mouth but she hid her pleasure well, instead dropping her gaze to the floor with a meek bob of her head. “Yes’m.”
Kizzie stood, grabbing the bulging carpetbag. “I’ll make sure they fit.”
Mrs. Ward waved a dismissive hand. “If you wish, but don’t let her keep you. She moves as slowly as molasses.”
Kizzie ignored the barb and followed Polly from the room, leaving Micah alone with Mrs. Ward. Smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her skirt, the buxom woman straightened and arranged her hands primly on her lap. “Now, Dr. Greyson, you said you have some medical information to relay to me.”
With a final sip of the watery tea, he set the cup on the tea service. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you for the refreshment.” He cleared his throat, launching into his pretense. “I’m attempting to alert everyone in my circle of acquaintance to the danger spreading among the Negro population.”
Her brown eyes reflected concern. “Oh? Do tell.”
He paused and twiddled his thumbs, wondering how long he should stall. Surely Kizzie would need only a few minutes to lay out the escape plan to Polly before she tried on the gowns.
“There seems to be a peculiar ailment making its way through the area, and Negroes appear to be especially vulnerable to this malady.”
