A Time for Everything (11 page)

“
Bad night again, huh? You
know, a bit of laudanum could—”

“
No.” He glared at the old
man.

Jonathan absently helped himself to
eggs, eyes flicking between his father and grandfather.

Beau turned to him. “Eat up. You’ve
got lessons to get to.”

The boy nodded and plopped the eggs
onto his plate, spilling some on the table.

“
At least let Bessie fix
you something,” Ezra pleaded. “You need sleep, son.”

“
Excuse me, I’ve got work
to do,” Beau said as he scooted his chair back and stood. He
stuffed the last bite of biscuit in his mouth and strode
out.

Ezra frowned. When the front door
opened and slammed closed, he leaned toward Portia and spoke
quietly. “He’s not been sleepin’ good, ever since he came home. If
he’s as cranky as a bear, that’s why. Just don’t tell him I told
you.”

Portia nodded and shivered, imagining
the horrors Beau must have seen in the war. She thought about Jake
like she had a thousand times before — of what he must have seen
and felt before he died. But she couldn’t let her mind drift to
that helpless place again. She picked up her napkin, wiped her
face, and cleared her throat. It got Jonathan’s attention; he
looked up at her with a chipmunk cheek full of food.

“
Jonathan, have you done
your chores yet?”

He chewed and scrunched his eyes at
her as though she had suggested something unseemly.

“
You’ve already done them,
then?”

Ezra leaned toward her again and
whispered, “Jonny doesn’t do a lot of chores. Not since he went
mute. Dr. Barton said to go easy on him, let him get lots of rest
and maybe he’d relax enough to speak.”

“
Oh, I see.” A protest sat
on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back. She couldn’t afford
to argue until she understood the situation better. “Then let’s get
started a bit early. That way we can review what you know already
and decide where to go from there.” Portia looked at her little
pocket watch. “I’ll meet you in the study in fifteen
minutes.”

Jonathan swallowed with a gulp and
nodded.

Ezra put his hands on the table in a
polite effort to stand and see her out, but Portia waved him back
down to his seat.

“
No need for that. I can
handle my own chair. Enjoy your breakfast.”

“
Mighty kind of you,
ma’am. Enjoy your lessons.”

“
I’m sure we will,” she
answered and winked at Jonathan. “Both of us.”

~~~~

The large study
occupied the front eastern corner of the house.
Thanks to Bessie, Portia now had the key to the desk in her
possession. The evening prior, she had rearranged things to her
liking — pencils and paper in the top drawer for easy access. A
ruler, drawing compass, and abacus lay ready and waiting in the
second drawer. She placed a sheet of paper and pencil on the
smaller desk that sat in front of the rear window. Scanning the
room, she admired the two tall windows that let in ample light for
their lessons. If they could be so lucky as to acquire some paints
and drawing supplies, she’d be thrilled.

Portia touched the marble bust of
Shakespeare perched atop a pedestal. Her fingers lingered on
William’s cool forehead as she took in the little details of the
room. Mementos, curtains, rugs, a brass fountain pen and other
treasures filled the space — remnants of a wife and mother who’d
put her love into this home. What a shame that the boy’s mother had
passed away before she could see her dreams for her son fulfilled.
She felt a strange connection to this woman she never had the
chance to meet, and a sudden wave of doubt washed over her. What if
she couldn’t give him the education his mother had wanted? She
didn’t come from a wealthy background. No one in her family had any
education beyond a few years of grammar school, and her own
training hadn’t been extensive, certainly not from a well-regarded
university like the late Mrs. Stanford wanted for her
son.

Before she could decide whether or not
she was up to the task, she noticed Jonathan standing in the
doorway, head down, and feet shuffling.

“
Good morning,” she said.
“Ready?”

He shrugged and kept studying his
shoes.

“
What’s your favorite
subject?”

Another shrug. Obviously gaining the
boy’s trust wasn’t going to be easy, not to mention encouraging him
to speak. She decided, however, to treat him as if he wasn’t mute
at all. If she could lighten the mood perhaps…

“
From the looks of it, I’d
say your favorite subject is feet.”

He snapped to attention at that,
looking at her with his head tilted to one side like a curious pup.
A tiny smile flitted across his lips before he looked away
again.

At least she’d chipped the armor.
“Have a seat please.”

Jonathan quickly obeyed, sitting at
the small desk. He tapped his fingers to a marching drum rhythm.
Portia rubbed her chin. Where to start? The best way to combat a
child’s illogical fear was to repeatedly expose them to it until
the feeling subsided. Clearly, Jonathan was frightened of speaking,
perhaps because he expected disapproval. Maybe she could remedy
that.

“
Jonathan, I want you to
recite something your mother taught you. Anything at
all.”

The boy’s face paled beneath his
freckles. Fear flashed in his eyes. His poor little fingers froze
mid-tap.

Portia turned away from him, hands
clasped behind her back, pretending to study the titles on the
nearest bookshelf. “Anything at all,” she added lightly. “No matter
how elementary.”

Jonathan fumbled with a pencil,
rolling it back and forth.

Portia took the lead with her favorite
Longfellow poem. “Tell me not in mournful numbers, life is but an
empty dream…”

She paused, waiting.

His deep intake of breath was followed
by the sound of a pencil scratching across paper. She turned back
toward him with a smile. He focused on his pencil, this time
tapping it on the desk like a drum stick. Portia walked over,
leaned in, and read what he had written.

You’re not my
mother.

As though Jonathan had
punched her right in the mouth, she recoiled and turned around to
face the large desk. Closing her eyes, she breathed deep to keep
unwanted tears from spilling. She’d expected him to feel this way
from the moment she accepted the position. But why did it hurt so
badly? Perhaps her pain still festered too close to the surface for
her to overcome his rebellion.
Not my
mother
— not anyone’s mother — not
anymore.

Her jaw trembled, and with
both hands flattened onto the surface of the desk, she decided to
cancel their studies for today. No, she couldn’t, she
wouldn’t.
Being a
teacher meant accepting every student’s faults as well as their
strengths. It was her job to help him grow and learn, no matter
what.

After one shaky breath, she spoke over
her shoulder. “I know I’m not your mother. But she wanted you to be
educated, so that’s why I’m here. Do you want to go against her
wishes, or will you honor her memory instead by cooperating with
me?”

No answer.

Figuring this whole exchange was
probably a waste of time, she tried starting over. “Tell me not in
mournful numbers, life is but an empty dream…”

A few painfully slow seconds passed.
Then his pencil scratched across the paper again. She feared what
she would find, but forced herself to turn around. Easing over to
his desk, she leaned in and read.

For the soul is dead that
slumbers, and things are not what they seem.

With a quiet sigh of relief, Portia
continued, “Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its
goal…”

Once again applying pencil
to paper, he wrote,
Dust thou art, to dust
returnest, was not spoken of the soul.

He’d finally become responsive, even
if he wouldn’t actually speak. She would have to be content with
that for now. “Impressive. You are familiar with Longfellow. Let us
see what else you know.”

Throughout the morning, Portia quizzed
him on arithmetic, science, and history. Apart from struggling a
bit with fractions and division, Jonathan proved to be very bright,
though their interaction never progressed beyond her verbal
questions and his written answers. His mother had taught him well,
and Portia hoped Jonathan would open up eventually and show his
true personality.

They’d just begun some composition
when Bessie stuck her head in the room and announced lunch.
Jonathan sprang from the seat and scurried for the door.

Portia spoke up.
“Jonathan?”

Bessie grabbed his shirt collar before
he could disappear into the hall. “Listen to her, young man. Don’t
make me fetch a switch.”

He turned reluctantly and looked up at
Bessie, who stood there with two hands on her hips, waiting, until
he finally turned his face toward Portia.

“
Be back here promptly at
one o’clock, please,” she said.

He nodded and disappeared behind
Bessie. His running footsteps thudded across the hall to the
kitchen.

Bessie shook her head and crossed her
arms. “How are the studies goin’?”

“
He’s a very bright boy,”
Portia said, deciding not to mention his first written reply. “I…
wish he felt comfortable enough to speak to me.”

“
I ain’t seen nobody but
the Lord work miracles, and I don’t expect you will, either.” She
turned and started across the hall. “Lunch is gettin’
cold.”

Portia shivered. The real miracle
would be gaining Bessie’s trust, but how?

~~~~

April 17, 1866

Dear Ellen,

I hope this letter finds
you all well. It is chilly this evening. Rain is pecking on the
windows, obscuring our view of the world beyond. Mr. Stanford is
still distrustful of me, I suppose because I am a “Rebel’s” wife.
We have conversed briefly, and though he may never accept me
entirely, we have in common the heartache of losing a spouse.
Perhaps that will be enough to nurture his trust in my abilities. I
worry that he is not sleeping enough or spending time with his son.
Both would do him good.

Jonathan reports to his
studies on time, and he does everything I require of him, yet he
will not speak no matter how I try to persuade him. I fear if I
press him further, what little amicability we have for one another
will be destroyed.

What I fail to understand,
however, is why he is not expected to do chores. The boy’s
grandfather says the doctor advised rest in hopes of encouraging
him to speak again. I cannot see what good that will do him. Boys
his age should be gathering eggs, slopping hogs, cleaning the
stables, or weeding the gardens. Perhaps he is truly traumatized
from his mother’s loss and father’s distant demeanor, but I think
he is capable of much more responsibility.

Tell me how everyone is
faring. I imagine the baby will not be much longer in
coming…

~~~~

Portia awoke to
the dim light of sunrise. Sun peeked through the
clouds, promising a lovely spring day. She extended her arms and
legs in one big, satisfying stretch. Something wriggled against her
foot. With a startled yelp, she sprang from the bed and threw back
the quilt. A garter snake, about two feet in length, wound itself
into a frightened coil.

Hand on her chest and heart thudding
against her palm, she closed her eyes and took several deep
breaths. Her eyes snapped open when she heard a shuffling sound
outside her door, followed by running footsteps heading for the
stairs.

“
Jonathan.”

While not surprising, it still hurt
that he would do such a thing. He resented her arrival, as Bessie
did, and she doubted that would ever change. The next time she went
into town, perhaps she could inquire about another
position.

Her heart sank as she looked around
for something in which to store her unwanted bedmate. She found a
double-lidded knitting basket in the bottom of the wardrobe and
emptied the yarn from it. Using one of the knitting needles, she
gingerly lifted the snake from the bed to the basket. Once the
little reptile was safely inside, she snapped the lid shut,
retrieved two books from her bedside table, and placed them on each
side of the lid. She and her brothers caught snakes when they were
little; she knew what escape artists they could be.

Quickly as she could, she washed,
dressed, and put up her hair. Downstairs, the dining room was
vacant, though crumb-covered plates and an empty platter occupied
the table. Portia carried the basket into the kitchen, where Bessie
and Jonathan were eating their breakfast at the small table. The
boy’s eyes grew bigger the closer she came.

She walked right up to him, holding
the basket at an angle. Soon as she lifted the lid, the little
serpent’s head popped out, and he welcomed them all with a flick of
his tiny forked tongue.