Engraved on the Heart

by Tara Johnson

  The three women stood staring at the nearly empty larder. Keziah winced, trying not to let worry consume her. “Hiriam tells me the root cellar still has a few potatoes and onions, though they’re small. And there’s still a bit of salt pork in the smokehouse.”

  Elizabeth nodded firmly. “True enough. And we still have some canned fruits and vegetables tucked away in the pantry. As long as the Yankees don’t invade, we’ve got our cow for milk and butter.”

  Mother heaved a thick sigh. “We’ve been blessed more than most, that’s for certain. Still, we must endeavor to make our supplies last as long as possible. Smaller portions for all of us.”

  “Yes’m. I hear tell that President Davis is thinking of instituting fast days.”

  Mother frowned. “I hadn’t heard of such a thing.”

  Keziah interjected. “I just read that in the newspaper this morning. He and his cabinet are considering setting aside days devoted to prayer and abstaining from food.”

  Mother’s mouth pinched in an uncharacteristic way. The woman had never said anything against Jefferson Davis, never offering anything less than glowing praise for the Confederacy’s president. But Keziah knew she was thinking that instituting fast days had less to do with prayer and more to do with helping his disgruntled countrymen stay distracted from their gnawing stomachs and empty coffers.

  Mother rubbed her temple with delicate fingers. “Be that as it may, we must all endeavor to do our part. Smaller portions and simpler meals.”

  A heavy knock sounded on the front door. “I’ll get it, Elizabeth, since you two are planning meals.” Keziah was grateful for the distraction. Her mind never seemed to stop whirring, and she knew it would not desist until she heard word from the blacksmith.

  She grasped the cool knob and pulled the door open to reveal a battle-worn soldier staring at her, his bearded face unreadable.

  His gray coat was frayed around the collar and wrists. Several buttons were missing. Glancing down, she sucked in a breath when she saw an empty trouser leg had been pinned and tucked behind his knee. The soldier leaned on a worn crutch.

  “Yes? May I help you, sir?”

  His blonde brows rose. “Keziah?”

  That voice. The inflection that had always lurked, though the tinge of humor was absent . . .

  She stared into his shuttered eyes and knew. Clasping her throat with shaking fingers, she whispered, “Dear me . . .”

  The soldier breathed heavily. “It’s me. Nathaniel. I’m alive.”

  Behind her, a shout of shock rang in her ears. She whirled in time to see Mother crumpling to the ground in a pouf of black bombazine.

  Her brother was home.

  Keziah sat in the parlor, unwilling to look away from her battle-hardened brother, fearing that doing so would make him vanish as the spirit she’d thought him to be. Mother fared no better, constantly reaching for his hands or stroking his cheek as if afraid the body of warm flesh and blood would scatter like dandelion fluff.

  But he was here, nonetheless. Hearty and healthy. Well, nearly so.

  She took in his lean frame, wondering if his whittled shape was due to decreased rations or recovering from the removal of his leg. Perhaps both.

  But it was his mind that concerned her the most.

  Her lighthearted brother had morphed into a moody, brooding man. Glimmers of his old self would push to the surface until a loud noise of some sort would frighten him; then he would retreat into a seething shadow once more.

  He seemed more relaxed here in the parlor, however. Keziah noted all three of them spoke softly, though no one seemed to know exactly why.

  “Son, how did such a mix-up occur? Once we heard from your captain—”

  Nathaniel patted Mother’s hand. “I know, and I’m sorry you suffered needlessly. Apparently, when they were sweeping the battlefield for the dead and injured, the ambulance runner who found us mixed us up. My fellow soldier Charlie was reported to have taken a blow to the leg requiring amputation, and I was reported dead.”

  Mother’s voice thickened. “I’ve never been more grateful for a mistake. But this friend of yours—Charlie. Was he . . . ?”

  Nathaniel stared hard out the window, his face blanching. “Dead.”

  A heavy tension blanketed the small room. Keziah squirmed in her chair, afraid of saying or doing anything that would cause him more pain.

  The boyish looks from when he’d left home had been replaced by hard lines and grooves of unspoken misery. She had no idea how to relieve his burden or even if she could. How could one who had suffered so greatly ever regain his innocence once it was lost?

  The front door flew open with a bang and Nathaniel shot up from his chair with a cry, his eyes wild.

  Mother stood swiftly, murmuring comfort. “Shh, darling, it’s all right.”

  Laughter bounced through the air and Keziah winced, knowing Jennie had come home from her Vigilance Committee meeting, and judging by her animated chatter, she had brought a visitor with her.

  Her flamboyant cousin stopped suddenly when she set foot in the parlor, Lyman Hill just behind her. “Oh! Pardon me, Auntie. I’d no idea we had company.”

  Mother’s smile wobbled. “This isn’t company, Jennie dear. Your cousin Nathaniel is alive.”

  Jennie gasped and moved to embrace him. Keziah glanced toward Mr. Hill. His face was sullen as if he was displeased by the news.

  Her heart thumped. If Nathaniel was home to carry the burden of caring for Mother’s needs, he would inherit the lion’s share of Father’s holdings, finances, and business.

  And if that were the case, her arranged marriage with Lyman Hill would no longer be necessary.

  CHAPTER 25

  APRIL 8, 1862

  The clatter of wagon wheels just beyond the prison walls snagged Micah’s attention. Rising on sore, aching muscles, he grimaced and scooted the chair underneath the window. He climbed slowly, balanced on the battered piece of wood, and peered out. A large man pulled the wagon’s brake lever and jumped from his perch behind the matching sorrels.

  Something about the giant’s stride was familiar, but at this distance, Micah could not place him. Yanking a crate from the back of the wagon, the stranger strolled inside the prison and disappeared from view.

  Micah let his head drop against the moist wall as he slowly slid down onto the unforgiving floor. How many days had he been in this tomb? Two weeks? More? Hour after hour slowly ticked by, each one as dreary and hopeless as the last. He’d heard nothing from his captors since being thrown into the stinking cell. Well, nothing other than the tidbit that a judge had been wired to come for his trial, but the arrival date was uncertain.

  Some days he relished the reprieve from judgment. But on others, it was torturous. If God called him to give his life for the cause of freedom, he would give it gladly. But there was little comfort when the process was a drawn-out, agonizing affair.

  And when he’d looked up to see Keziah’s beautiful face outside his cell, he feared God was doing nothing more than taunting him, forcing him to yearn for things out of his grasp.

  He scratched his itchy scalp and grimaced. The only thing more abundant in this dreary jail than hopelessness was lice, no doubt contracted from the foul cot sagging against the wall.

  He still marveled that after he’d shed his secret, Keziah had not seemed distressed. Only thoughtful.

  He was ashamed he’d thought she would react any other way. Then again, he’d not seen her since his confession, either. Perhaps she’d taken his warning to heart. In any case, he was doomed, but there was no reason for her to throw away happiness too. One of them needed to live if for no other reason than conducting the broken to freedom. She would carry on where he had failed.

  And to think Ma Linnie had once told him he was like Moses, fighting to lead captives out of slavery. What a poor leader he’d turned out to be.

  From down the corridor, a low voice echoed, bouncing off the mildewed walls. Heavy footfalls scraped closer. His
senses snapped to life. Crossing to the door, he squinted, trying to focus on the massive figure ambling toward him. The stranger stopped at his cell, the guard a few steps behind. Micah’s breath caught.

  The blacksmith?

  Brothers shook his dark head slightly as if warning Micah not to speak. He reached inside the crate, and his beefy hand pulled out a small loaf of bread and thrust it through the bars. “Looks like you could use a bite. Am I right?”

  Micah nodded dumbly, unable to piece together Brothers’s presence. It had been several days since the guards had given the prisoners any food, and his mind felt muddled.

  “This should help. Cheerfully donated by the Sisters of Mercy to the poor souls and bodies of the Chatham County Jail.” Brothers leaned in and gave him a penetrating stare, his voice hushed. “Perhaps this bit of bread will provide what you’ve been needing.”

  Before Micah could thank him, the blacksmith moved away, handing out more loaves of bread to those prisoners in an adjacent corridor.

  Scooting away from the bars, Micah knelt and, with shaking hands, tore apart the yeasty softness of the bread. His stomach cramped in response and he tried to chew slowly, despite the impulse to cram the sustenance into his mouth. Plucking off another piece, he paused when he realized some sort of stiff paper was nestled inside.

  He gingerly tugged at the paper, and his heart flipped when the bread baked around it fell away. Scooping the morsels onto his lap, he carefully unfolded the missive. The inky script was smudged but readable.

  Genesis 40–41. Sometimes a soul must die to live.

  Micah read and reread the message, attempting to wrap his foggy mind around its meaning. He knew that passage of Genesis. Chapters 40 and 41 dealt with the unfairness of Joseph’s imprisonment and how he was elevated out of the prison and into the service of Pharaoh.

  But the second half of the note was a puzzle. Sometimes a soul must die to live. Was this message baked into all the prisoners’ bread? Since it was the smithy who had hand-delivered it, he doubted it. Surely it wasn’t a jab at the possibility of hanging.

  He rubbed his jaw, noting the scruff of facial hair was growing longer, softer. He felt as if he were circling around something incredibly important yet failing to grasp it.

  Sometimes a soul must die to live. . . .

  Keziah winced as Lyman Hill’s normally cultured voice rose in fury, disturbing the peace of Father’s library.

  “Absolutely not! I refuse to bless such a foolish endeavor.”

  She spread her hands wide. “But this would be a charity mission! Surely you see what a comfort it would be to those hurting souls within.”

  “Out of the question.” He clenched his teeth, and she felt his ire like hot coals. “The very idea! Traipsing through the jail, offering precious food and reading materials to traitors and criminals . . . No wife of mine would dare do something so scandalous.”

  Stung by his callousness, she grew still, flooded with a measure of peace she’d not felt in many months. “But I am not your wife.”

  His dark eyes gleamed. “You will be soon enough. No. I forbid you to waste precious resources on delinquents and trash.”

  The thought of Micah’s handsome face, bruised and battered from cruel fists, flashed in her mind, bolstering her with a courage that unhinged her often-shy tongue. “I have no intention of cowering before a man, any man, when God has clearly directed me to move with compassion and Christlike love.”

  Sucking in a hot breath, Mr. Hill narrowed his eyes and hissed, “What did you say to me?”

  She straightened her shoulders. “In other words, I hereby dissolve our engagement. Now if you would be so kind as to leave.”

  Flabbergasted, the older man grabbed her by the upper arms and squeezed. “I forbid this! Have you no regard for your father or his dying wish?”

  She tried to pull away, but his fingers dug into the soft flesh of her arms. “My father’s wish was that Mother be well cared and provided for. Nathaniel is home now and will take over his holdings. You are released from this commitment.”

  He barked a dry laugh. “Nathaniel, indeed. Are you blind? Your brother is suffering from soldier’s heart. Do you really think he can manage your father’s business? Why, he’ll drain your coffers faster than you can blink when he can no longer withstand the lure of alcohol and morphine.”

  “Leave me.”

  With a growl, Mr. Hill released her and paced like a caged animal as she rubbed her throbbing arms. “You would be so cold as to break my heart?”

  She gave a thin smile. “Come now, is it my heart that you long for or my father’s money?”

  Neck mottling red, Mr. Hill came close and she took a hasty step back, bumping into the sharp edge of the desk.

  “No one discards me like a worn garment, Miss Montgomery. I have plans for that money and I won’t let a silly snippet of a girl keep me from it.”

  Before she could utter a reply, he stomped out of the library. A muffled oomph sounded from the hall. Outside the door, she could see Jennie smoothing her rumpled skirts, a copy of Godey’s clutched to her chest as she stared at Mr. Hill.

  Yanking his coat sleeves down with precise movements, he clipped, “Pardon me, Miss Oglethorpe. I did not see you approaching. I fear I am not myself at the moment.”

  Jennie darted a glance at Keziah, still inside the library, then shifted to stare at Lyman Hill once more. “Quite all right. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Yes.” He seethed. “You can talk some sense into your cousin.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and left. Keziah released the breath she wasn’t aware she’d been holding.

  Jennie entered the library, all amazement. “Whatever has happened?”

  “I ended our engagement.”

  The copy of Godey’s went limp in Jennie’s hands. “Surely you jest.”

  “I assure you I do not.”

  She dropped the magazine on the desk and frowned. “Why would you do such a foolhardy thing?”

  Keziah lifted her chin. “I do not love him.”

  Rolling her eyes, Jennie huffed. “Don’t be so simplistic. Marriage has little to do with love. Unless . . .” Her gaze sharpened. She studied Keziah with an intensity that made her long to squirm. “Unless one is in love with someone else.”

  Keziah looked away. Jennie’s fingers clamped around her wrist, and Keziah lifted her eyes slowly to her cousin’s.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” Jennie’s lips were stiff.

  “Who?”

  Jennie released her wrist, her expression hardening. “That doctor. The abolitionist sitting in the Chatham County Jail.”

  The air grew thin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Her green eyes glittered like shards of glass. “Auntie mentioned how chummy the two of you were. And I saw how you reacted upon hearing the news of his arrest. Is it not enough to have one beau while I have none? Instead you have two.” Jennie stepped close and hissed, “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “You know nothing.” Keziah made to step past, but Jennie barred her path.

  “Family or no, anyone who dallies with an abolitionist is a traitor to the Confederacy. I would hate to see you mixed up with a turncoat.”

  Stomach tightening, Keziah fought for calm and met her cousin’s stare directly. “I am not your enemy. You have nothing to fear from me.”

  After a long moment, Jennie’s stiff posture relaxed. “That’s good. Things like this are so vexing on the system, aren’t they? I worry about you, dear Cousin. With your poor health, I would hate to see misdirected affections cause your condition to worsen. Why, some think the best place to treat the falling sickness is in an asylum.” A single eyebrow rose high. “I would loathe to see you institutionalized in such a place.” Cold warning dripped from her tone, even as a guileless expression blanketed her features.

  “A more unjust fate I cannot imagine, especially for someone guilty of doing nothing more than living the life she was bo
rn to live.” With that, Keziah fled to her room, shut the door behind her, and turned the lock with a resounding click. Pressing a hand to her churning stomach, she exhaled slowly. Jennie had no proof. Only suspicion.

  Despite the terror that should be plaguing her, she found little room for anything but relief. Lyman Hill no longer had his claws in her.

  I’m free of him. Free, free, free.

  As she glanced out the darkened window, she caught the outline of her own reflection but imagined Micah’s smile instead.

  You would be proud of me, Micah. So proud.

  Mother stared at her, clearly flabbergasted.

  Keziah sighed. “Surely you know I have no affection for Mr. Hill.”

  Mother pursed her lips, toying with the black pendant winking against her coal-colored bodice. “Nor should you! Love comes with time. You and your generation—” she shook her head—“have become infatuated with emotional fiddle-faddle. To break off your engagement, well, it is something I never thought you capable of.”

  “I never should have agreed to such a scheme from the beginning.”

  Mother wrung her hands. “It was your father’s dying wish!”

  “To ensure your comfort, Mother. Now that Nathaniel is alive and well, the conditions have changed.”

  Dropping into a stiff-backed tapestry chair, she beseeched Keziah. “You should not have been so hasty to dismiss Mr. Hill. In a time of war, the lack of ready men to marry is disconcerting. And he was willing to overlook your faults.”

  The remark stung. Keziah spoke slowly. “Indeed, I have many, it seems.”

  “Don’t be saucy. You know what I mean. I’m referring to your—your—”

  “Falling sickness?” She studied Mother’s flushed cheeks. “Why can’t you bring yourself to say it out loud?”

  Mother averted her eyes and turned to stare out the lace-curtained windows, studiously avoiding the question. Keziah bit back tears. She shouldn’t be surprised. Her illness had always embarrassed her family. She had always embarrassed them.

  Unwilling to speak further, she stood and swept of out the solemn room. Her heart smarted. She had no control over her condition. Yet why did her family’s shame hurt so?