A Time for Everything (5 page)

Ezra shook a finger at him, but a
spark of amusement flickered in the old man’s eye. “You be civil,
Beauregard. I can still turn you over my knee if I have
to.”

Beau chuckled. Despite their
arguments, he was thankful Pa was still around. He couldn’t imagine
life without him.

Ezra smacked Beau’s good shoulder.
“I’ll take the filly out in a little while. Just don’t scare the
poor widow off.”

After Ezra left, the filly pranced
around her stall like she stood on burning coals. Beau shook his
head and rubbed Scout’s velvety nose. Gray hair grew around the old
horse’s muzzle, reminding Beau of his own silver-specked
sideburns.

“
I guess that makes two of
us,” he said.

Thirty-four. Not so old and not so
young. By no means beyond marrying age, but every time he even
courted the idea, his throat constricted and made breathing a
chore. It wasn’t that he wanted to be alone. It was just easier
that way. With no wife, he had less to lose.

Scout loved a good belly brushing, so
Beau flipped over a pail and sat. In the stillness of musty air and
horse breath, and with each gentle brush stroke, his thoughts
drifted to Claire and the last time they rode Scout together. God,
she had felt good against him in the saddle.

Just the day before in Nashville, he
and Harry had enlisted. With their departure looming over them like
some nightmarish bogeyman, Beau had wanted to treat Claire and
Jonny to a picnic. Just a normal day down at Barton Creek with
promises of ham and biscuits and a little trout fishing. Jonny had
ridden beside them on his pony, chatting happily about something —
Beau couldn’t remember what exactly — he had been too busy studying
the sweet innocence of his son’s face. He had those big bright eyes
and long lashes, framed by that coppery-blond hair. So much like
his mama.

Claire’s laughter had tinkled all
around them as they skipped rocks. She had masked her worry well
enough for Jonny, but Beau had seen it clearly in every long look
and lingering touch as they ate lunch on the bank. She contained
her emotions like the good Southern lady she was trained to be
until they were safe behind their bedroom door.

He had held her as she
cried.

“
Don’t go,
please.”

“
Somebody’s gotta look
after Harry. He’ll get himself killed.”

“
But what about you? Who
will look after you?”

“
I’ll be fine. The war
can’t last much longer. I’ll be home before you miss
me.”

“
I’m so afraid,
Beau.”

“
Then let me love you
tonight like only a husband can love his wife. Let’s forget there’s
a war. Let’s forget there’s anyone but us for a while.”

It was the last time they’d shared
their bed. He promised her he’d be back, and he kept his promise.
He just never thought it would be Claire instead of him. Had two
years really passed already?

Two mockingbirds interrupted the
silence with annoying squawks, sparring to win a mate outside the
window of the stall. Beau led Scout outside and headed toward the
paddock. He glanced at the chicken coop where their only rooster
mounted a hen. A strange tomcat slunk across the drive on the prowl
for female barn cats. Spring had sprung, and life was heeding
nature’s call.

Once the rooster had done
the deed, he flew to the top of the coop to resume his nonstop
crowing.
Awfully proud of yourself,
huh?
Beau let Scout loose in the paddock,
picked up a rock, and hurled it at the coop. It banged off the
roof, sending the rooster flying into a squawking, feather-shedding
fit.

“
Better.” He climbed the
hill toward the house and the new teacher. How he would manage to
pay the woman and keep the farm going, he had no idea. Sniffing the
air, he caught the scent of beef stew and cornbread — the one
saving grace of the day.

He topped the hill and stopped. There
she was, ten yards away, walking across the porch and into the
house with Isaac. He caught a glimpse of smooth white skin, brown
hair, a slim figure. Not a damn thing wrong with her as far as he
could tell. Young, pretty, and single — the perfect candidate for a
new wife.

“
Damn it, Pa.”

“
Welcome to the
Stanford house, Mrs. McAllister,” Isaac said,
sweeping his hat in front of them.

Portia’s footsteps sounded hollow on
the polished wood floor. Gazing up at the high ceiling framed with
white-painted trim, she felt like Jack venturing into the giant’s
lair. More furnishings filled the entry hall itself than she had in
her entire home. Yet there were bare spaces here and there,
indicated by dark rectangles on the floor and plastered walls.
Things sold for much-needed cash or chopped up for firewood,
perhaps. A portrait of a light-haired woman, a dark-haired man, and
a small boy hung on the wall to her left. She shivered, feeling
like an intruder trespassing on sacred ground.

A black woman stepped out of an
adjoining room. “I suppose you’re Mrs. McAllister.”

The coolness in her dark eyes matched
the tone of her voice and sent goose pimples across Portia’s skin.
“Yes, and you are…?”

The woman didn’t answer. She just
stood there, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron. Her head was
wrapped in a red kerchief, and she wore a necklace made with
colorful beads of varying shapes. A pale, diagonal scar ran from
her brow, skipped her eye, and came to an end on her cheek. She
swept a disapproving gaze over Portia and tucked her arms behind
her back.

“
Bessie,” Isaac said.
“This is my wife, Bessie.”

Below her faded calico housedress,
Bessie’s bare, brown feet stepped closer.

Portia offered the warmest smile she
could muster. “It’s… a pleasure to meet you.”

“
Mm-hmm.”

This woman obviously didn’t want her
here, and no wonder — how could a freed black woman welcome a
Confederate’s widow? Would it help to explain that she and Jake
never owned any slaves? She guessed not from the way Bessie
regarded her like an annoying piece of meat between her teeth that
needed to be removed.

“
Guess I’d better show you
around,” she said then turned on her heel and walked into the room
from which she had emerged.

Portia glanced at Isaac. He shook his
head like he wasn’t surprised with his wife’s attitude and gestured
for her to follow Bessie. So Portia hurried after her.

“
This here’s the parlor,”
Bessie narrated and headed through another door from that room.
Portia noted a few pieces of nice furniture that looked good for
lounging on a Sunday afternoon.

“
And this is the dining
room.” Bessie circumnavigated a long oak table that could seat at
least ten or twelve people. She stopped at a swinging door on the
other side of the table, pushed it open, and held it there.
“Kitchen’s in here. Watch your step.”

Portia gritted her teeth, walked past
Bessie, and stepped down into a spacious kitchen. Bricks lined the
floor and walls. She sucked in a breath, scanning the space in
amazement.

Bessie stepped down into the room and
let the door swing shut behind her. “This used to be separate from
the house, but Mrs. Stanford didn’t like that. So, Beau had it
expanded and attached to the main house. Had those big windows put
in, too.”

The whole room must have been as big
as Portia’s kitchen and front room combined. But it felt lighter
and airier than the previous rooms. Tall windows and an open back
door let in fresh air and the midday light. A big worktable topped
with a thick oak slab took center stage. And… was that a water pump
over the basin? She walked over to it and touched the cool metal
handle just to be sure it was real.

“
Ain’t you seen a water
pump before?” Bessie asked.

“
Yes,” Portia said,
circling around to take in the rest of the space. “Just not
inside.”

In the corner near the back door sat a
smaller dining table with a centerpiece of pink phlox. The petite
blooms and needle-shaped foliage draped over the sides of a small
jar and skimmed the table’s surface.

“
You came just in time for
supper. We’re having beef stew.” Bessie walked around to the other
side of the work table. A big pot sat on top of the stove. The
aroma of beef and potatoes mingled with that of cornbread and fried
chicken.

“
What can I do to help?”
Portia asked, rolling up her sleeves.

“
It’s all been done. I’m
sure you’ll want to wash up and change. We’ll put you to work soon
enough.”

She watched the older woman’s dark
hands as she covered a towel-lined basket of chicken and biscuits,
which must have been lunch. Why would Bessie be so cold to her? She
and Jake had never owned any slaves. She remembered many nights
when Jake had dragged himself in from the fields, covered in dirt,
sweat, and blisters.

“
A man’s not a man if he
can’t work for his own keep,”
he’d say
when she fussed over him.

Portia thought perhaps she should try
harder, engage in more casual chit-chat. “Do you use sweet marjoram
in your fried chicken?”

Bessie looked at her quizzically, eyes
narrowed into slits.

A blush crept over
Portia’s cheeks. “That’s
my
secret, anyway.”

“
My recipe’s fine like it
is.” She got bowls from a shelf beneath the work table then stood
up straight and nodded toward the door. “Here’s your
student.”

Portia turned to see Isaac there with
a young boy. He stared at her with sheepish eyes adorned with long
lashes. His hair was the color of an old penny mixed with streaks
of corn silk and so straight the ends flipped out over his ears and
brow.

Isaac patted the boy on the back and
gestured toward Portia. “Mrs. McAllister, this is Jonathan, Mr.
Stanford’s son. Jonathan, this here’s Portia McAllister. She’ll be
takin’ over your lessons.”

“
Hello, Jonathan.” She
stepped forward, bending slightly to meet him at eye-level. “I’m
glad to meet you.”

He tucked his hands behind his back
and took a sudden interest in his feet.

“
I know I’m a stranger,”
she said, reverting to her teacher’s attitude, “but it’s good
manners to greet your guests and look them in the eye when they
address you.”

“
My son is mute.” The
sudden, deep voice behind Jonathan startled Portia so much she
nearly jumped from her skin.

Almost afraid to look, she composed
herself and lifted her eyes to see a tall man looming over the boy.
His steely eyes locked on hers as he removed his hat. He had thick,
dark hair, bordering on black, like the Morgans that pulled the
carriage in which she had arrived. A stubbly beard shadowed his
jaw. She couldn’t tell by his frown whether he was simply stern or
just plumb angry, but she had the sudden urge to retreat under the
weight of his stare.

“
Your… son is
mute?”
She cringed inside — that imposing
man was her employer?
And why hadn’t the
letter mentioned the child was mute? None of this had turned out
the way she had imagined it.

“
Shake the lady’s hand,”
Mr. Stanford ordered.

Jonathan stretched a trembling hand
toward her. Portia shook it once gently, and attempted a reassuring
smile, though the boy never took his eyes off his boots.

“
Mrs. McAllister, this
here’s Mr. Stanford,” Isaac said. Though his softened voice and
demeanor suggested a reverence for her new employer, Portia
detected a warm familiarity, like a father might have for a
son.

“
Mr. Stanford.” Determined
to show some grit and civility in the face of this foreboding man,
she forced herself to look him in the eye. “I wasn’t aware of your
son’s condition. I hope you’ll forgive my ignorance, and I thank
you for this opportunity.”

He finally unfastened his glare and
turned his back on her. “I hope you will be comfortable here,” he
said briskly and walked away.

Despite her brave façade, Portia’s
hands trembled. Heat crawled up her neck, burning a path to her
cheeks. She looked to Isaac for reassurance.

He stepped closer and spoke softly.
“Never you mind Beau. He’s got a lot on his shoulders tryin’ to get
this farm back to what it used to be. He’s out early and back late.
You won’t be seeing much of him. Come on now. I’ll show ya to your
room.”

Portia followed Isaac and Jonathan
back through the dining room, into the entry hall, and up the
stairs. A few pictures of various sizes ascended the wall as she
climbed. Most were small cartes-de-visite of people who shared a
resemblance to the family. Several horses were featured in oil
paintings both with and without riders. One studio portrait in
particular made her pause. At the left stood a dark-haired man she
identified as Mr. Stanford. A blond woman in a silk dress sat on a
wingback chair, holding a baby on her lap. Nice as the picture was,
something else caught Portia’s attention — Mr. Stanford’s smile.
Besides his hair and stature, the man in the picture didn’t match
the one she met today. Even in the dull sepia tones of the
photograph, his smile lit up the scene.