by Tara Johnson
Her breath froze. Staring at him, she felt robbed of speech when his eyes aligned with hers. For a moment, she witnessed a spark of something in his expression. Something stark. Pain? Yearning? In a flash it was gone, replaced with a cold shutter that seemed utterly incompatible with the man she knew him to be.
“You know, then?”
She watched a muscle twitch in his jaw. “I know.” His voice was clipped. “Let me be the first to congratulate you and Mr. Hill on your upcoming nuptials.”
“Let me explain.”
“No need. I’m sure your father had his reasons.” He looked away and muttered, “Don’t forget. Early afternoon. Tomorrow.”
And then he was gone, stepping quickly into the crowd that obscured him from her view.
Cold water could not have doused her spirits more than his brisk, formal demeanor. Her breath was shaky as she turned away from the market and set her face toward home.
He was angry and rightfully so. She should have told him. Unless he was upset for an altogether different reason. Perhaps he cared for her more deeply than she’d thought possible.
Forcing back burning tears, she walked as quickly as she dared toward home. It made no difference. Father had laid Mother’s well-being and his dying wishes at her feet, daring her to refuse him. Her own feelings and dreams did not figure into the equation.
And they never had.
Micah arrived at his childhood home, his mood dark. He knew he’d hurt Kizzie with his curt, clipped words, but he saw no way around it. He must sever any sweetness or affection now. She was betrothed to Lyman Hill and would be his wife in less than a fortnight.
His wife.
Bitterness coated his tongue as he trudged up the steps of the two-story brick home. Mother kept it so well-maintained and welcoming. Ivy climbed along the trellis framing the gate. Happy spring flowers lined the stone walkway. Though in a more modest part of Savannah than the Montgomery property, he’d always been proud of his family’s home.
He’d neglected his mother since returning to Savannah most recently, but she rarely complained, greeting him with open arms whenever he dropped in. He must see her before he transported Polly around the military lines to the next safe stop north. If something went amiss, he’d regret not saying he loved her one last time.
He knocked and waited, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. She deserved better. A son who looked after her, not one traveling all over the country, leaving her to fend for herself in her widowhood.
The door swung open to reveal Hattie’s familiar face. He’d known the elderly servant since he was a boy, only this time, her mouth drooped down instead of the wide smile he was accustomed to.
“Master Micah, praise the Lord! I been praying we would find a way to get ahold of you. Lo and behold, here you are on this very doorstep.” She pressed her veined hands to her lips. A sob escaped. “Thank you, Lord.”
He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Hattie, what’s wrong?”
“It’s your mother. She collapsed yesterday. Ain’t risen from her bed. Only sleeping. The doctor . . . he don’t know what to think. I’ve been so worried, and with me not knowing how to find you . . .”
He tugged the distraught servant close and let her cry on his shoulder, his own heart sinking like lead.
“May I see her?”
Hattie stepped away and wiped her eyes. “Of course. Come.”
He followed her through the foyer, past the parlor, and up the stairs to Mother’s bedroom. After all these years, his father’s presence still loomed large. Close, yet absent. Missed. Always missed.
Hattie pushed the door open with a soft creak and went to the far side of the bed, giving him room to approach his mother as she lay so still in the too-large mound of blankets and pillows. Her dark hair, with its threads of silver, flowed loose over her shoulders. Her skin was as pale as the white nightdress she wore. Were it not for the gentle rise and fall of her chest, he would have thought her departed.
Throat clamping shut, he moved to her side and grasped her slender, limp hand. “Mother, it’s me. Micah. I’ve come to see you.”
No movement. No flutter of the eyelids. Only breath. In. Out.
He blinked back the moisture collecting in his eyes. “Hattie, were you with her when she collapsed?”
“No, sir. I was downstairs, preparing the midday meal. I had just come in here to tell her it was ready only to find her lying on the floor.” She sniffed, her chin quivering. “Poor lamb.”
He slid open one of her eyelids, then the other, watching for her pupils to contract. “What did the physician say?”
“He thinks it could be anything from apoplexy to bleeding in the brain.” She clucked her tongue and smoothed the blankets around Mother’s shoulders. “I maybe wonder if it had something to do with that journal she was holding.”
He turned to her with a start. “What journal?”
Hattie’s eyes widened and she retrieved a small leather book from the bedside table. “When I found her, the bottom bureau drawer was pulled out and this was clutched in her hand. I don’t know what it says, but . . .”
She held it out and he grasped it, his hands clammy. Unease crawled through him. “Thank you, Hattie.”
She nodded. “I’ll leave you alone with her for a few minutes. If you need anything, just call.”
He barely noticed her soft steps or the rustle of her skirt as she slipped from the room. Without delay, he opened the journal and drew a quick breath. Father’s bold penmanship greeted him. Had she been reading it when she succumbed to some horrid malady?
He ought not intrude on Father’s privacy. His most personal thoughts were etched on the pages. Still, a strange foreboding pressed in on him, like a hot iron burning its mark.
Scanning the contents, he felt the disquiet in his soul rise into a tumult. The book fell from his fingers. He lifted his eyes to watch Mother’s lifeless form on the bed. Numb. Empty. Was that what discovering the truth about her husband—and her son—had done to her? Struck her with such vehement force she was rendered incapable of function?
With a moan, he dropped his head in his hands. Why hadn’t Father told her before? Why write her a note, praying she might find it upon his demise, leaving Micah to watch the flotsam and wreckage the truth left behind?
And if a mother’s love was not strong enough to embrace him and his shattered existence, what hope was there for him?
CHAPTER 21
FROM HER CROUCHED POSITION in the confines of the enclosed carriage, Keziah’s pulse thrummed heavily in her ears. This was it. The start of Polly’s journey to freedom, provided all went as it should.
The floor of the carriage bounced beneath her, pounding her poor knees until she feared they were bruised. The vehicle hit a rather sharp dip, and she winced when the back of her head banged against the underside of the carriage seat. Her breaths came in shallow pants from behind the thick curtain covering her hiding place beneath the seat.
She heard Hiriam’s low “Whoa” just before the carriage tilted to a gentle stop. In moments, a woman’s light footsteps approached the carriage. The door opened and the conveyance dipped, settling the woman’s weight inside.
The door creaked shut. Hiriam shifted in the driver’s seat, making the carriage sway, before the soft snap of the reins set them back in motion.
Peeking from between the cracks of the curtain, Keziah looked up to see Polly’s face pinched in distress, her lips bloodless.
Keziah couldn’t repress a gentle groan as she pushed aside the cover and unfolded herself from the cramped space. Polly’s eyes widened but as promised, she uttered not a word. Keziah winced at the pain shooting down her limbs, but she laid aside her discomfort as she slipped into her seat and offered a smile.
She mouthed, “Are you ready?”
Polly nodded, though the furrow between her brows only deepened as she twisted her fingers so tightly they resembled wet sheets pulled from a washtub. Her apprehension
was palpable.
With a calming hand over the woman’s cold fingers, Keziah looked into her eyes and willed her all the courage she could muster. Polly stilled.
Despite the danger of speaking, Keziah lowered her head while clasping Polly’s trembling fingers and murmured a prayer. “Father, I ask you to guide Polly to safety, health, and peace. Be the light to her path. Give safety to those who will be aiding her. Amen.”
The clip-clop of horse hooves slowed as the carriage pulled to a stop. Time to switch places. Giving the slave one last smile, Keziah took a deep breath and eased the carriage door open, her face down, nestled in the shade of her wide-brimmed bonnet. With a hasty step, she scurried to the back entrance of her home and managed to slip into her room undetected.
She shed the replica of Polly’s bonnet and pressed a hand to her quivering stomach. Soon she would need to compose a note to Mrs. Ward, inquiring of Polly’s whereabouts. The first step of the plan was complete. The greatest danger still awaited.
Please, Lord, keep Polly, Hiriam, and Micah safe.
Mother paced in front of the lacy-curtained windows, her brows knit. Keziah took another sip of her lavender-infused tea, praying the dwindling luxury would calm her tattered nerves.
Upon receiving the concerned message from Keziah, Mrs. Ward had flown into a frenzy, demanding Hiriam, as well as her own staff, scour the town for the wayward slave.
The search had turned up nothing, and twilight was quickly approaching.
Mother pressed fingers to her temple and rubbed her head. “And she said nothing to you, dear?”
Shaking her head, Keziah replaced the cup in its saucer and set it aside. “No, nothing. She told me she would go to Landry’s to purchase the thread needed to alter my wedding gown. With Elizabeth seeing to both Father’s needs and all the other household tasks, Polly seemed more than willing to lend her assistance.” She blinked, trying her best to look stunned. “I never imagined she wouldn’t return.”
Across the parlor, her cousin sipped the tea. “You had no idea the slave would run away?”
Keziah frowned. “How do we know she’s run away? What if she’s fallen ill or has been mistreated or taken by someone?”
Jennie harrumphed. “Don’t be naive, Keziah dear. In my opinion, these slaves are all alike. The Yankees have put any number of ideas in their heads about equality.” Arching a brow, she muttered, “You best watch your own slaves or they’ll be running too.”
Mother waved a hand. “Elizabeth and Hiriam would never dream of doing such.”
“I hear Mrs. Ward thought the same of Polly.”
Mother eased down into the upholstered chair of pink-and-cream brocade. “True. Poor Nannette.” Sniffing, she pressed a dainty handkerchief to her nose. “The distraught woman is beside herself with grief.”
Keziah picked up her tea once more, if for nothing else but to give her hands something to do. She doubted Mrs. Ward was mourning Polly’s disappearance so much as bemoaning the loss of her worker. And Mr. Ward . . . Keziah shuddered to think of the man’s vile treatment of the slave.
With a deep sigh, Mother stood, her black bombazine swishing lightly. “I will not tell your father of this development. It would only distress him. Say nothing to him about this travesty, Keziah. Besides, we have enough to concern him, with your wedding a week away.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mother took the tray filled with his dinner from Elizabeth’s waiting hands. “I’ll carry this to Mr. Montgomery, Elizabeth. He’ll suspect something is amiss if I dally any longer.”
Mere moments after Mother swept from the room and up the stairs, the solemn ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway was interrupted by her faint cry of alarm, followed by the shattering of dishes.
Keziah discarded her refreshment and lifted the hem of her skirt as she fled the parlor and rushed into her parents’ bedchamber. Broken dishes and spilled soup lay strewn across the floor. Mother was doubled over, weeping into her hands.
Breath snagging, Keziah flicked her gaze to Father. His vacant expression told her all she needed to know.
Benjamin Montgomery was dead.
MARCH 9, 1862
“‘For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality. So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory.’”
Reverend Moseley’s voice buzzed in Keziah’s ears, but she scarcely took in what he said from the grassy knoll of the cemetery. Within the wrought-iron fence surrounding the burial ground, mourners clogged the old site, standing precariously between worn headstones jutting from the ground and fresh mounds of dirt spaced throughout the area. Pink wisteria tangled through the limbs of large willows overhead, its sweet scent carrying through the spring air.
The faces blurred. Keziah saw little, save the image of Father’s ashen face staring at her blankly just after he’d passed. Mother’s sniffle into her tatted lace jerked Keziah back to the present.
“‘O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.’”
Thumping his Bible shut, Reverend Moseley nodded toward the crowd of mourners, his pinched face dour. “May God Almighty bless the memory of Benjamin Charles Montgomery.”
At Mother’s whimper, Keziah slid an arm around her waist and gave a gentle squeeze. Poor Mother. The stoic, proper lady had been through much in only a matter of weeks. First the loss of her son and now her husband.
Lyman Hill’s low grunt to her left caught her off guard. She had forgotten he stood at her side. In truth, she didn’t even want him there. His stiff countenance and stern expression were a stark reminder of the future that awaited her.
As the black-clad mourners moved to Mother to offer their sympathies, Mr. Hill took her elbow, steering her away from the crowd.
Looking up into his steely eyes, she murmured, “Yes?”
He released his grip and shoved his hands behind his back. “I’m sorry again for your loss, my dear. Your father was a wise, discerning man.”
She dropped her gaze to the ground, emotions swirling like a whirling dervish. Her relationship with Father had been complicated. She was in awe of the authority he wielded and his sharp business mind but had always cowered under his domineering ways. She knew he had cared for her in his own way, yet she had never felt his affection. That fact, perhaps, was what she was truly mourning with his abrupt passing.
Instead of voicing her turbulent thoughts, she whispered, “Thank you.”
“I trust you’ve reiterated to Mrs. Montgomery that I will be caring for her needs upon our union.”
The odd question rankled, combined with the impropriety of his businesslike approach at such a moment. Frowning, she searched the hard lines of his face. “I’m sure she knows. After all, our nuptials were Father’s dying wish.” Uttering the words out loud left a sour taste in her mouth.
“I pray this unfortunate turn of events does not delay our marriage.”
She blinked. In the shock of Father’s passing, she’d failed to consider the changes it might bring. He’s concerned about mourning rituals.
Feeling as if she’d been granted a stay of execution, she fought the rush of relief that bubbled inside her chest. For once, society’s ironclad rules of decorum would grant her a measure of freedom.
With feigned innocence, she offered a tight smile. “The marriage shall take place as Father wished. Although, of course, we must delay it until after the mourning period has passed.”
A flicker of annoyance sparked in his eyes. “I would rather not. The country is at war. Half the nation is in mourning and will be for quite some time.”
“All the more reason to wait. To marry before a full year has passed would be disrespectful to Father’s memory. We had onl
y laid aside the mourning time for Nathaniel because of Father’s desire to see us married, but with his passing, the need to rush is gone. I’m sure Mother would agree we mustn’t marry in haste and bring dishonor to him.”
Frown lines deepened around his mouth, and his displeasure was palpable. Instead of cowering, she straightened and pressed her lips together. A reprieve, however temporary, had been granted, and she would not relinquish it.
Just as he opened his mouth to respond, Jennie’s quiet call allowed her to turn away from his dark glare.
“Keziah, Auntie Elsie is longing to sit and gather her bearings. She is requesting you act on her behalf to greet those who want to pay their respects and offer condolences.”
Another reprieve. “Of course. Thank you for seeing to her needs.”
She watched her normally vivacious cousin move with subdued quiet as she lent Mother a steadying arm. The sight of Mother’s black-draped form bent over with grief pricked Keziah’s heart.
If she refused to marry Lyman Hill, what would become of Mother? She would be as lost as a piece of flotsam on an ocean current. Elsie Montgomery had never lived without a man’s guidance. For all of Father’s blustery ways, Keziah had never realized how deeply Mother relied on his decisive nature. He was her security, and now she had no mooring. The past two days had been especially trying. The smallest decisions had sent Mother into hysterics.
The noose of responsibility tightened around Keziah’s throat. No matter the reprieve provided by mourning, she would eventually have to face her duty.
Heavyhearted, she trudged her way through the cemetery to where a handful of men and women waited to offer their sympathies. Despite his aggressive personality, Benjamin Montgomery had been considered an astute businessman and a pillar of the community.
After thanking an older couple for their kind words, she glanced up and startled to see Micah standing not ten feet away, his blue eyes staring oceans into hers.
He studied her so intently, she began to feel a telltale flush staining her cheeks. What was he thinking? He’d seemed so different upon their last encounter. Unbidden, the memory of his kisses, his touch, surged through her, choking out her breath. Heat bloomed up the back of her neck as she dropped her gaze from his stare.
