A Time for Everything (26 page)

“
I have something for
you,” Lydia said, smiling and wiggling like an excited
puppy.

“
Oh?” Beau glanced at
Portia — who didn’t seem to have acknowledged this interruption —
and put on a smile for Lydia.

Lydia flipped the frame around and
waited expectantly. It was a church, or maybe a school, with a tall
steeple. White birches or fence posts surrounded it. What looked
like a cemetery — or were those stepping stones? — sat in the
foreground.

“
Well, what do you
think?”

He strummed his fingers on
his glass and put on an expression that he hoped said,
I’m
impressed
. “It’s… really nice. Did
you…?”

“
Yes.” More excited
wiggling. “I painted it while at Hampton’s. It’s the St. Peter’s
church in Philadelphia. A wonderfully historic old building. Where
can we hang it?”

“
Uh…” Beau scanned the
room. Plenty of bare spots to choose from, since they had sold so
much to make ends meet. “I guess anywhere’s fine.”

“
How about over the
mantle?” she suggested and waited for Beau’s nod of approval.
“Tipp, would you mind?”

Tipp answered with, “Yes, Miss
Clemons,” and came over. He took a footstool and set it in front of
the mantle. Luckily a nail still stuck out on the wall from
whatever had been hanging there before. Lydia handed him the
painting, and he started to step on the stool, but Oliver cleared
his throat loudly.

“
Take your boots off, boy.
You’ll ruin the upholstery.”

“
Yes, sir,” Tipp said in
an even tone and did as commanded, but a mixture of humiliation and
anger emanated from his eyes.

Still slaves as far as
Oliver’s concerned.

Once the picture deed was done, Tipp
strode from the room.

Oliver chewed on his cigar and looked
right at Portia. “You can never civilize a nigger.”

Portia snapped her book shut, got up,
and walked out without a word. Glaring at the hateful asshole, Beau
went after her into the foyer. But she had already made it halfway
up the stairs when Lydia grabbed his shirt sleeve.

“
Beau, wait.” She pulled
him around and away from the parlor’s door; her pretty face was
grief-stricken. “I apologize for Daddy. You know how he is — but
he’s got a good heart, really. If he’s upset Portia, I’ll talk to
him and get him to apologize.”

“
I won’t hold my breath.”
He glanced up the stairs; no Portia, just the click of a shutting
door.

A huge streak of lightning and clap of
thunder rattled the house. Lydia flinched; her shaking hands rested
on his chest. “Trust me. I know my daddy. He’ll listen to
me.”

“
I’ve had enough of your
daddy tonight.”

“
I know. I hate that he
soured the evening. Claire kept such a beautiful home here that I
simply wanted to help restore it to its former glory.”

“
It’ll take more than one
painting to do that.”

Her hands migrated from his chest to
his waist. Beau’s jaw clenched; damn it — why did her touch have to
feel so good?

“
Let me take care of it,
then. Let me buy what’s needed to refurnish this place.”

“
It’s my job to provide
for this home, not yours.” He narrowed his eyes and removed her
hands from his waist, keeping hold of her wrists so she couldn’t
touch him into submission. Either she was naïve to a man’s pride or
she had already assumed the role of his wife. Neither of those
options sat well with him, even though the latter choice would
ensure they’d never want for anything again.

“
I know, but I want to do
it. For you, and for my cousin’s memory.” She wriggled from the
trap of his hands like a clever escape artist. Gripping his
forearms, she pulled her body right up to his and guided his hands
around her waist.

“
Lydia…”

“
Please, Beau, let me do
this,” she whispered. Then her lips were on his, and he was caught
in her spell — the world spun out of control to the tune of her
tongue flicking against his.

His arms tightened around her. Her
breasts molded hot and soft against his chest. Her body trembled
with excitement under all the trappings of dress and corset.
Telling her no wasn’t possible now. But with eyes shut tight and
lips locked into the deepest kiss he’d had in a very long time, he
wasn’t picturing himself with Lydia.

Or Claire.

It was Portia he pictured, and he had
no power to stop it. The funny thing was, he didn’t want
to.

May 7, 1866

Dear Ellen,

The morning has brought us
a warm day and a cloudless sky. I’ve opened all the study windows,
and oh my! Sweet honeysuckle-scented breezes are refreshing the air
in this house. There is the occasional fly, but even their buzzing
is a welcome sign of spring in full bloom.

Sallie Mae is soaking up
knowledge like a little seedling. She finished one primer already.
She writes quite well, so I assigned her the task of writing verses
from Psalms. I think I’ll collect her work and make her something
special with it, because I don’t know how long I’ll have the
privilege of tutoring her. I must make every moment count. At the
rate she is learning, I expect her to be doing figures right along
with Jonathan by month’s end. They get along so well one might
think they were brother and sister but for their different skin
colors.

Mr. Clemons has moved back
into his own home to supervise renovations that are nearly
complete. Everyone’s spirits are lighter with him gone, and I don’t
care to ever lay eyes on him again, he’s such a hateful man. Amelie
is back in her home being cared for by devoted former slaves. I do
hope she fares well. I worry that her mind is too far gone for her
own good. I wish I could say that Miss Clemons and her mother had
gone as well, but they have remained here for now. I suspect they
view me as competition for Mr. Stanford’s affections. They are
wrong, and I want no part of such manufactured ideas.

I will remain forever
grateful for Mr. Stanford allowing me to teach Sallie Mae. He can
be quite reasonable and kind when he chooses to be, though Jonny is
still not speaking to him, nor is Mr. Stanford encouraging him. I
do believe he is genuinely regretful over that disgusting effigy we
stumbled upon. Two lawmen now patrol the property several times a
day, though I can sense Mr. Stanford’s unease about the situation.
He is already overburdened from work and lack of sleep.
In regards to sleep, I neglected to tell you that
I saw him

You must be thrilled to
have your mama there with the little one coming so soon. Did she
bring any of those Irish ginger ales? I’d so love to drink one
again. Please give her my love and write to me as soon as you can
when the baby comes…

Portia finished the letter and sealed
it. She smiled at Sallie Mae and Jonny. They were working
diligently on their assignments. Such a peaceful morning. She
settled back in the chair and let the warm breeze caress her
face.

Harry came bursting in like the place
was on fire. “Get ready! Let’s go!”

Portia sprang from her seat as a dozen
terrible scenarios swam through her mind. Pencils, paper, and who
knew what else went flying. “What’s wrong?”

Harry doubled over
laughing.

Hands on her hips, she narrowed her
eyes and admonished him. “I see nothing funny about scaring people
half to death, Mr. Franklin.”

“
It’s Harry,
remember?”

She answered with a glare she hoped
would wipe the mischief from his face.

It worked. His clownish smile fell
into a contrite frown. “I’m sorry. Anyway, it’s Market Day, so
close those books and let’s go!”

She opened her mouth to protest when
Jonny yelled, “Woohoo!” and took off with Sallie Mae right on his
heels. “I’ll buy you some candy,” he said as they ran out the
door.

“
Honestly!” Portia said,
gesturing after them. “I don’t see the need to cancel lessons just
for a jaunt in town.”

That boyish grin returned as Harry
sidled over to her in a checked shirt with rolled-up sleeves. He
slipped an arm around her shoulders; she did her best to not shrink
away.

“
Po, honey, you’ve been
working too hard. Let me take you out for a good time, show you
around town.”

“
You already did
that.”

“
Not on Market Day I
didn’t. Maybe you can even find you a little trinket or
something.”

“
I have no money for such
things.”

“
Well, I do.” He patted
his pocket, which jingled in return, and held out his arm. “Shall
we?”

Harry hadn’t officially asked for her
courtship, but he sure acted as though the two of them were headed
for the altar. She had to be honest with him and couldn’t put it
off anymore. Taking a deep breath, she decided it was now or
never.

“
Listen, Harry. I
appreciate how very kind and hospitable you’ve been to me, but… I’m
not ready for… an association beyond friendship. I hope you
understand.”

Harry’s jovial expression sank into
seriousness. His shoulders drooped as he put his hands in his
pockets and studied the rug at his feet. “That’s fine. I just
thought that…”

“
You’re a good man,” she
said and stepped closer, until he looked up at her again. Hurt
filled his eyes, along with… anger? She guessed she couldn’t blame
him. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged and blew a breath through
his tight lips. “Don’t be. I shouldn’t have assumed anything. We’ll
still be friends, right? And maybe, someday…”

“
Maybe,” she
answered.

“
Then let’s go to Market
Day as friends and nothing more.” He jingled the change in his
pockets again. “Will you at least let me buy you some treats when
we get there?”

“
I don’t know…”

“
Trust me, you’ll want to
try ’em.”

“
All right. I
am
a bit
hungry.”

~~~~

Market Day in
Lebanon surely was a grand event. Carriages lined
the sides of every street. Harry found an empty space on Spring
Street and parked the buggy. Beau, Jonny, Lydia, and Ezra rode in a
separate conveyance. Portia didn’t see them anywhere. She wished
Sallie Mae had been able to go, but her heart swelled a bit knowing
Jonny intended to buy her some candy.

But her mind didn’t linger on their
whereabouts. The festivities around them overwhelmed all her
senses.

People on foot wound between horses,
mules, and cattle of every color and breed, many of them up for
sale or trade. Music played from somewhere. Banjo, French harp, and
fiddle battled it out for the best melody, depending on which way
she turned her head. Merchant stands occupied every corner with
cries of, “Come one, come all!” and, “Get it while it’s hot!” And
the smells — oh, the smells! Portia’s mouth watered as Harry helped
her out of the carriage. Popcorn, caramels, fried goodies — their
aromas coated the air and tempted her nose, and she found herself
actually pulling Harry’s arm to get to the food faster.

He laughed. “Told ya you’d like Market
Day.”

They bought some treats and strolled
past fluffy white lambs kept in a temporary pen.

“
I have my calves up for
sale. Let’s hope they sell,” Harry said.

She stuffed her mouth with some kind
of fried cake sprinkled with sugar. “Mmm hmm.”

Harry limped to the next merchant
stand.

She swallowed down her cake and asked,
“Are you all right?”

He turned around, flashing his usual
boyish smile, but his cheeks had grown pale and sweat dampened his
forehead. She could tell he tried to hide his limp as he walked
back to her.

“
Try this.” He handed her
a dark bottle of something.

“
What is it?”

“
Sarsaparilla.”

“
I don’t
partake.”

“
It’s so gentle a baby
could drink it from a tit.”

Portia’s cheeks grew hot.

“
Sorry. Slip of the
tongue. I’m distracted by a certain pretty lady.”

She attempted a smile and took a sip.
Not bad — cool with a licorice taste, but guilt diluted her
enjoyment of it.

Harry scrubbed a shaky hand across his
forehead. “I’ve got to run an errand. Why don’t you do a little
shop-gazing on your own, and I’ll meet up with you
later.”

“
I can do that. Are you
sure you’re…?”

He had already taken off, limping
across the street and into the crowd. Not having any prior
experience with rejecting men, she couldn’t say whether she had
handled it well or not. He didn’t scream or shout or burst into
tears, so hopefully she hadn’t hurt him too much. She sipped her
drink and strolled down a sidewalk toward the general
store.

She stepped inside. Shoppers packed
the store, browsing the coffee, fabric, flour, and all manner of
merchandise. Weaving her way along the aisles, she eyed the goods
as she passed. With no spending money, she wasn’t tempted to buy
anything, so she lingered on nothing in particular.