A Time for Everything (20 page)

“
You thought wrong.
Besides, Jonny would feel more comfortable with you there. And
Lydia asked about you. She would like a woman closer to her age to
talk to at supper.”

“
I see.” She could feel
her breaths coming more rapidly, her face heating up. “I don’t
think I’d have much to add to the conversation.”

Beau turned to face her fully. “I’m
not asking.”

His tone was
unquestionably authoritative, but his eyes held a certain pleading,
a sense of need. No matter how much she wanted to scream,
“Forget it! I’d rather pull my hair out than try
to entertain that peacock of a woman
,” she
couldn’t deny him this request disguised as an order.

“
All right. I’ll join you
for supper, though…” She looked down at her dress and rubbed a hand
along the worn fabric. “I don’t have much in the way of dinner
dresses.”

“
I think you look fine
without all that fancy garb.” He stepped closer, stopping just
beyond arm’s reach. His eyes lingered on her face then dipped
lower, quickly rising again to meet her gaze as though he had to
force his attention to the proper place.

Her cheeks burned so hot she wanted to
dunk her head in the creek.

Beau focused on his boots, cleared his
throat and tightened his coat around himself. “Better get inside
before you catch a chill.”

He walked past the tree and out of her
sight. Instead of wrapping her shawl tighter, she took it off,
stepped to the creek, and dipped a corner of the crocheted material
in the chilly water. She dabbed the coolness on her face and
exhaled the breath she’d been holding. When he’d looked at her that
way, she couldn’t help picturing his hands — those rugged, gentle
fingers of his — pulling her close, touching her bare skin. And he
was concerned with her taking a chill?

She patted her cheeks with
the wet cloth again and silently repented.
Sorry Lord, if you’re listening, but taking a chill is the
last thing on my mind.

Beau waited in
the parlor with everyone else, dressed in his
Sunday best, which felt odd for a Tuesday night. Even Pa was in
fine feather in a clean, pressed shirt. He’d slicked down what was
left of his gray hair, and he’d trimmed his beard. He rarely
brought it up over the years, but Beau wondered why Pa never
remarried. The only thing he’d ever say was that he had married the
perfect woman once, so why bother trying again? He’d always been a
good man that any lady would have been lucky to have, but now with
Claire gone, Beau understood Pa’s decision. So why did Pa keep
insisting his son get remarried? Was it possible he regretted never
having done so himself, that the years of sleeping alone had been
harder than he ever let on?

He realized Portia was missing from
their little pre-dinner gathering. She must have been helping in
the kitchen. Maybe he’d been too harsh when he told her to join
them for supper. Like most women, she worried about the adequacy of
her clothing. Beau couldn’t care less about such things, so long as
folks took time to be clean and presentable, and she’d managed that
just fine. The last thing he wanted to do was to make her feel
awkward or embarrassed.

Lydia would be making her appearance
soon for supper. He couldn’t believe how much she resembled Claire.
Still, thoughts of marriage, even to his late-wife’s lookalike,
tensed his muscles until they hurt. He rotated his shoulder to
lessen the ache and poured a shot of whiskey.

Ezra pointed his pipe at him. “A
little early for that, ain’t it, Beauregard?”

“
Not at all.” Beau downed
the whiskey and let out a breath as it blazed a trail down his
throat.

“
She sure did turn out to
be a pretty young lady,” Ezra said, waggling his bushy eyebrows as
he took a puff of his pipe.

“
I’d say,” Harry agreed.
He sat by Oliver on the settee, dressed in his own finery, bowtie
included. He lit one of Oliver’s cigars and massaged his leg. The
morning’s work had taken a toll on both of their old
wounds.

Oliver draped an elbow over the back
of his seat and expelled a thick cloud of smoke. “I thought our
door knocker would be worn down to a nub, she had so many suitors
calling in Philly.” He looked pointedly at Beau. “I often had the
unpleasant duty of turning them away. She refused most of them, and
entertained a few others for only a brief moment. None of them fit
her expectations.”

Beau downed another shot.

Lydia finally made her entrance, to
the sound of Harry’s appreciative whistle, dressed to the nines in
a gown of green brocade. Pinned up high, her blond hair bounced
with a bouquet of perfectly formed curls. A string of pearls grazed
the edge of her cleavage and complemented her ivory skin. Matching
earrings swayed gently from her ears. Besides the curls, no trace
remained of the little girl he remembered in this stunning
woman.

“
My apologies for keeping
you waiting, Beau. Lucy had a terrible time finding my jewelry. The
box got lost among some of the other things.”

“
You’re forgiven.” He held
out his arm, and she slid hers into the crook of his elbow. “You
look lovely.”

“
Why, thank you. You look
quite handsome yourself.”

The way she smiled and tossed her
head, yet another reminder of Claire, made Beau’s heart skip a
beat. Lydia hugged his arm so tightly he could feel the warm pillow
of her breast. He snapped to his senses and led her into the dining
room.

After helping Lydia get seated, he
glanced around the room. Still no sign of Portia. Once Polly and
Amelie were settled, he took his seat and drummed his fingers on
his knees, trying to pay attention to something Lydia was saying
about art.

“…
said I rivaled
Delacroix. Now I don’t know about that, but I brought some with
me…”

Beau heard stirring from the kitchen.
Portia entered with Bessie and Lucy to serve the meal.

Moving stiffly, Portia avoided eye
contact while she sat a plate of sliced bread and butter on the
table’s center. She walked around to the sideboard and retrieved a
butter knife.

“
Excuse me,” she said and
reached between Oliver and Polly to place the knife on the
breadboard.

Beau didn’t know why she had been
worried about her choice of attire. She looked just fine in a crisp
clean white cotton dress with green vertical stripes. It fit her
nicely and accentuated her slender figure. She’d braided her hair
and coiled into a bun at the nape of her neck. No jewelry except
for her wedding ring and a tarnished silver necklace and locket.
Simple, yes, but pretty nonetheless.

She met his gaze. He smiled and gave a
little nod, hoping that would be enough to encourage her to
stay.

Oliver tucked his napkin neatly into
his collar. “I sure have missed Bessie’s cooking. Is that her fried
chicken I smell?”

“
Oh, you do go on, sir!”
Bessie said with a chuckle. “Eat up now. Plenty more where that
came from.”

Bessie returned to the kitchen, while
Lucy stood quietly by the sideboard in the corner closest to Oliver
and Polly. Portia came back around the table. As she crossed behind
his chair, Beau sighed into his water glass, sure she was heading
back into the kitchen. Instead, she took the empty space between
Harry and Jonny, who jumped up and helped her get
seated.

“
Thank you, Jonathan,” she
said, smiling at him. Portia focused on her napkin as she spread it
across her lap.

Jonny smiled and grabbed a piece of
bread. Harry whispered something to her, at which she blushed. Beau
set his glass down with a thump. She seemed to be warming up to
Harry. Perfectly natural, he reasoned with himself — single man,
widow woman — why not? But she’d only been there a couple weeks.
Harry shouldn’t pressure her into courtship so soon.

Lydia, to Beau’s right, smiled
sweetly. “I’m so glad you could join us, Mrs. McAllister. Your
dress is… charming. Stripes never go out of style. If I am correct,
that particular gown would be a forties design, would it
not?”

“
I believe so, since it
belonged to my late mother,” Portia answered, though her tone was
tense and uncertain.

“
My
mother will tell you I have quite the eye for fashion, and
have a collection of gowns from every decade of the century, and
even a few from the century prior.”

“
She does,” Polly said,
turning toward her daughter. She sat between Lydia and Oliver,
blinking her sad eyes as she nodded.

Aunt Amelie sat hunched in her chair
beside Ezra at the other end of the table and stared him down. “Did
you take my curtains?”

Eyes wide, Ezra leaned away from her
and shook his head. “No, ma’am. I can’t remember the last time I
touched a curtain.” Half-grinning, he shook his head and looked at
Beau.

“
Crazy old bat,” Oliver
muttered. “She’ll be back at her place soon, and those niggers of
hers can deal with her nonsense. I’ve listened to it for six
years.”

Beau cleared his throat, about to warn
Oliver to hold his tongue around a lady, senile or not. But Amelie
scratched at an invisible spot on her plate and didn’t seem to have
heard a thing. No sense raising a fuss if she didn’t take
offense.

“
Daddy, honestly,” Lydia
chided then leaned toward Beau. Her peppermint-scented breath
warmed his cheek. “She’s mostly deaf, poor thing. Not at all the
formidable lady she once was.” Earrings swinging beneath her
delicate ears, she quickly turned back to Portia. “Do you read
Godey’s Lady’s Book? I can’t keep myself from perusing them, though
some of the fashions are so outlandish.”

“
I have seen a few
issues,” Portia said while she absently touched one of her own
unpierced earlobes.

Oliver downed his water in three
gulps. “Not that again.” He held his glass up and shook it. Lucy
immediately came over with a water jug and gave him a refill.
Taking another sip, he smacked his lips as though testing the
water’s quality, and set the glass down. “She could wallpaper an
entire house with the pages from that silly magazine.”

Lydia dismissed her father’s comment
with a flick of her hand. “I’d be happy to let you borrow mine and
perhaps we could even purchase new materials and piece together a
new gown or two. I’m trying to better myself at sewing, since our
economy is dreadful.”

“
As if she needs to save
money,” Oliver said with a huff.

“
If I can spare the time,”
Portia said, flicking her gaze to Oliver while she shifted in her
seat. “Jonathan’s education is my priority.”

“
Well, of course! I
wouldn’t want to separate him from his schooling.”

“
Best leave the
discussions of economics and schooling to the men, my dear,” Oliver
said. “Besides, our dinner is getting cold. I’d hate to waste it.
Who wants to bless the meal?”

“
I will,” Ezra
said.

The meal was blessed, and everyone dug
in. The dinner party spoke only a few words until seconds came
around. Beau listened to the other men discuss politics and
economics. The women talked about local gossip and charitable
affairs. Portia, God love her, politely participated, but she
clearly had no interest in all the babble. He appreciated her
trying anyway. She attempted to engage Jonny in conversation now
and then, but he only nodded or shrugged in response.

Beau let the talk buzz
around the room while everyone enjoyed dessert. He answered
whenever necessary. In his head, he wrangled more practical
matters, like estimating how much money he might get from Crazy
Girl if he got her calmed down enough to sell. He wanted to give
Portia her dues before she felt like a slave. Oliver might
treat
his
help
like they were less than human, but that wasn’t how it worked here.
Before he could come up with a dollar figure, Oliver slapped the
table in the middle of one of his political tirades, reminding Beau
just how abrasive he could be.

“
By the grace of God, I
managed not to lose everything in Philly, and then I come back here
and get taxed to death. Soon they’ll be taxing the air we breathe,
mark my words!”

Harry adjusted his bowtie and laughed.
“The only way to pay for our mess is with taxes, unless you want to
jump out there with a hammer yourself.”

Lydia giggled, and Harry threw her a
wink before digging into a second helping of apple pie.

Clearly not amused, Oliver wagged a
finger at the ceiling like he reprimanded God himself. “I have been
inconvenienced, I tell you. We are lucky to not have had to pay to
reclaim our property. I only managed that because I left here
before the damn war started and declared my loyalty to the Yankees.
We had to in order to live among them. But now look, I’m out fifty
dollars a week to fix the damage done, when I had perfectly good
Negroes at my service before this travesty of justice.”

“
We lost people, too,”
Beau said, smirking. “You aren’t the only one…
suffering.”

Unperturbed by Beau’s sarcasm, Oliver
propped his elbows on the table and thrust his shrewd gaze at
everyone as he spoke. “Can you believe one of them had the nerve to
have a letter dictated and sent to me, demanding wages for time
served, and the balance for the injustice he was entitled to?
Regular satirist, that one. Or rather his Yankee translator. Son of
a…” Oliver sat back and pounded his fist on the table. Dishes
rattled. “I know for a fact that Negro couldn’t read when he ran
off. He was too lazy to do much but eat me out of house and home.
Why would he bother to learn to read or write?”