A Time for Everything (7 page)

And so the interrogation
begins.
“Yes. He assisted the overseer
occasionally during planting and harvest.”

“
I imagine he was handy
with a whip.”

“
Beau...” Ezra’s harsh
whisper made Portia flinch.

Mr. Stanford ignored him.
“How
did
he treat
the slaves he supervised, Mrs. McAllister?”

“
Jake didn’t believe in
such abuse. In fact, he—”

“
And how would you know
how he performed his work? Were you there with him?”

“
Beauregard, that’s
enough!” Ezra said.

Mr. Stanford held a silencing hand
toward him and kept her fixed in his cold glare. “It’s my right to
know my employee’s background. Were you with your husband while he
worked?”

“
No.”

“
Then how do you know he
didn’t apply a whip to the back of John Overton’s
slaves?”

“
Because I knew my
husband, sir!” Her voice had risen to a near shout, so she took a
deep breath and tempered her words. “Jake did not employ a whip,
and if he did, it doesn’t matter now. He’d dead.”

“
Where did he
fall?”

She studied his face for a moment,
wondering if he was asking only so he could gloat about a Rebel’s
death. “Jake died in Nashville.”

“
My condolences, then.”
Mr. Stanford wiped his mouth.

Could it be that Mr. Stanford, or
perhaps Mr. Franklin, had shot the bullet that had ended Jake’s
life? The accusations festered on her tongue, but she didn’t want
to keep feeding this confrontation.

“
I lost my wife while I
was gone,” he said. “I guess we’ve all got to move on now, with no
judgments.”

“
Yes, sir,” she agreed. “I
think that’s wise.”

She risked a glance at him; his wary
gray eyes were trained on her like he expected her to bolt or rise
further to her late husband’s defense. She would do
neither.

“
I have to admit, Mrs.
McAllister, you’re younger than we, or at least
I
expected. It seems odd for a young
lady such as yourself to leave her home and family behind so
readily.”

“
Beau, I think you’ve said
enough.” Ezra’s voice carried a distinct warning edge, the same one
her daddy had used while winding a belt around his fist. Portia
shivered.

Mr. Stanford shot his father a look
that silenced him. She clenched the napkin covering her lap and
tried to make sense of this exchange before she said something
wrong. Considering this house’s Union allegiance, she could
understand some animosity. But what would her age have to do with
anything? How could he find her in fault for some assumed
dishonesty? Though she longed to retreat upstairs to the comfort of
silence, she knew he wouldn’t release her from the shackles of his
cold eyes until she answered him.

She quickly decided her best defense
was the truth. “My family is gone, sir, except for my late
husband’s brother and his wife. But they are expecting a third
child soon and can’t afford another mouth to feed. I can teach your
son and handle whatever tasks you require of me.”

“
No parents, siblings, or
cousins?”

The accusing tone of his
questioning didn’t sit well with her, and
she
wasn’t prepared to be the
subject of an impromptu trial. Didn’t he want a teacher for his
son? Didn’t he read her letter and then hire her? She bore Mr.
Stanford’s steely glare and met it with her own unflinching
gaze.

“
No,” she said, “no
cousins nearby, and none that I care to associate with. My older
brother Rudy died when he was twelve. Fell on an axe. My younger
brother Samuel ran off to Louisiana right before I married, and
I’ve not heard from him since. My parents burned to death in their
home shortly after I married. So no, sir, I have no relatives who
can take me in and none I want to burden with the task. I’m here so
I can work for my own keep and move on.”

“
I see. Pardon my
bluntness, but it appears you’ve already moved on.” He glanced
pointedly at her brown woolen dress, which despite its modest
style, didn’t keep her from feeling naked under his
judgment.

Her guts churned, threatening to toss
up everything she’d just eaten. She found her voice somewhere in
the pounding rhythm of her heart. “Sir, if you’re referring to my
lack of mourning clothes, it is both a financial and a personal
decision on my part with no bearing on how well I can perform my
duties.”

“
That has yet to be seen,
now doesn’t it?”

Ezra slapped the table, his pudgy
cheeks reddening over his white whiskers. “Beauregard! You do not
speak to a lady like that. I raised you better.”

Mr. Stanford smirked, looking from
Portia to Ezra. “Yes, and you raised me to have a good bit of
sense, too. Did you think I wouldn’t figure it out?”

Figure what out?
Portia shared the same confusion written on
Harry, Ezra, and Jonathan’s faces.

“
Son, I don’t know what’s
gotten into you, but you owe the lady an apology,” Ezra
said.

Brow slanting at a skeptical angle,
Mr. Stanford recaptured her with his glare. “My apologies, Mrs.
McAllister. Assuming you’re a God-fearing woman, you can join us
for church service in the morning. We leave at
eight-thirty.”

It sounded more like a command than an
invitation, but she simply nodded. Isaac had mentioned that he’d
half-lost his mind after he returned from the war. Maybe he hadn’t
recovered all of it yet.

Jonathan cleared his
throat.

Mr. Stanford didn’t look at his son
but gestured to the door. “Go to bed,” he snapped.

She freed her gaze as the boy jumped
from his seat. “Jonathan, I hope you are looking forward to our
studies as much as I am. We’ll start Monday at eight o’clock
sharp.”

He nodded and darted out in a
flash.

The night’s tensions and persistent
exhaustion left Portia drained. The prospect of being alone in her
new room was more appealing with every breath. “I’m afraid I need
to retire as well, gentlemen. Please excuse me.”

Harry and Ezra stood as she got to her
feet. Mr. Stanford only followed her with his eyes. Though Harry
tried, he couldn’t reach her chair before she scooted it back and
escaped the confines of the dining room.

Skirt fisted in both hands, she had
made it to the second step when Harry’s voice caught her off guard.
“Portia, a moment if you would?”

She wanted to pretend she didn’t hear
him, but knew it would be rude, so she stopped and looked over her
shoulder at him.

“
I’d like to apologize for
Beau’s behavior.” Stepping closer, he set one hand on the banister
and planted the other on his hip. In a quieter voice, he added,
“He’s been a different man since we came home. Can’t please him no
matter what we do, but I for one am pleased you’ve joined us. I’d
be happy to introduce you to the other ladies at church tomorrow
and perhaps escort you around the town when you have a free
afternoon?”

“
That’s very kind of you,
Mr. Franklin.”

“
Harry.”

“
Yes, Harry. I’ll take
your offer into consideration. Now, if you’ll excuse
me.”

“
Of course.” Harry stepped
back and swiped a lock of sandy brown hair from his brow. “Good
night, Portia.”

She gave him a nod and continued
upstairs, certain she’d become the object of unwanted attention. It
was also clearly obvious that she had made an unfavorable
impression on her employer, though she couldn’t fathom how. He
couldn’t possibly blame her for not knowing about his son’s
muteness, since no one mentioned it before today. Nor could her
husband’s occupation have come as a surprise. All her credentials
were sent along with her letter of application — her teaching
certificate and the letter of recommendation from a former
instructor. Surely he had examined them. Trying to find some clue
to his cold reception, she replayed the dinner conversation in her
mind until she reached the landing.

Then again, both Isaac and
Harry had referenced his state of mind. Perhaps his behavior
did
stem from
that.

Across the hall to her left,
Jonathan’s coppery head peeked out at her. She offered him a smile
and said, “Goodnight, Jonathan.” But he closed the door and, as she
expected, didn’t answer.

Once in her room, Portia readied
herself for bed. She’d made a mistake coming there. All she wanted
was some satisfying work to occupy her grief-weary mind, not an
employer who couldn’t stand her presence or a student who feared
being in the same room with her.

Remaining at home,
heartbreaking as it was, at least she
belonged
among all those familiar
things, even the painful memories. Here, she was a foreigner in a
foreign land with no guide to show her how to interact with the
natives. Navigating these new waters was much more terrifying than
she had imagined it would be, but she wasn’t ready to turn tail and
run just yet. She had to give it a chance, to know she’d fought the
good fight before she surrendered to failure.

She changed into her nightclothes,
carried a lamp to the night stand, and settled onto the mattress.
Light illuminated her family Bible there on the table’s edge. The
curved-up corners of the leather cover beckoned to be handled once
more. Swallowing hard, she reached for it, but… every time she’d
tried to read it over these last months, words that once provided
food for her very soul had become empty and useless.

Still it was the one familiar thing in
this land of uncertainty. She picked it up, laid the big volume on
her lap, and turned right to Ecclesiastes. A few more flips of the
delicate pages led to a passage she could recite in her sleep. She
read aloud, softly, as her fingers traced the words.

“
To every thing there is a
season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

A time to be born, and a
time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is
planted;

A time to kill, and a time
to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time
to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

A time to cast away
stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace,
and a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to get, and a time
to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

A time to rend, and a time
to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

A time to love, and a time
to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.”

Just as she figured, the words didn’t
bring solace or any grand purposes of a higher plan. They simply
stated the obvious, though she appreciated the poetic arrangement.
Closing the Bible with a quiet sigh, she returned it to the
nightstand. She extinguished the lamp and settled on her side,
pulling the quilt snugly up to her chin. Outside, wind whistled
through the trees, while shadows of their branches danced on the
moonlit lace curtains. For just a moment before closing her eyes,
she imagined Jake’s arm around her and snuggled into his imaginary
embrace.

Sunday morning
brought
clear blue skies and a crisp
breeze. A slight chill lingered in the house. Breakfast was a quiet
affair, with only Beau, Jonny, and Ezra at the dining room table.
Beau was used to Harry skipping breakfast, especially on Sundays,
but he wondered about Portia until he found her eating in the
kitchen while Bessie made coffee.

Maybe he had her figured all wrong,
but Ezra, on the other hand… the old man had been trying to find
him a wife for a good year. Perhaps in Portia he’d found a young
lady desperate for a husband and a fortune and hoped she’d stick.
Pity for her if that was the case — she would get neither,
especially the latter.

When church time came around, Beau
settled into the driver’s seat of the carriage, while Ezra climbed
in to sit beside him. Jonny hopped in the back seat. Beau pulled
out his pocket watch and stared at the house. Harry and Portia
should have been out by now. They were helping Bessie gather food
for an after-church picnic. How long could that take?

“
Impatient, are we?” Ezra
asked.

“
No.”

The old man looked back at Jonny. “Do
you like Mrs. McAllister?”

Jonny shrugged.

“
What about you,
Beauregard?” Ezra puffed his pipe and remained as straight-faced as
a politician.

He’d have to play the diplomatic part
on this one for now. “I haven’t known her long enough to decide one
way or another.”

“
She’s gonna do just
fine,” Ezra said through a puff of smoke. “And you better mind your
manners from now on when she’s around.”

Beau pulled at his shirt collar. “I’ll
mind my manners when I’m certain your conscience is
clear.”

“
Never been clearer, son.
You know, the war’s over. You gotta stop distrustin’ everyone and
everything. That little lady in there has taken a big risk comin’
here to live with strangers. The least we can do is show her some
common courtesy. Say, why don’t you and Jonny go fishin’ this
afternoon?”