A Woman so Bold (10 page)

“I’m glad the two of you came to call.” Will took a pipe out of his pocket and began to pack it with tobacco.

“So am I. I’m interested to see what you’ve done with the place. It certainly speaks to the fruits of your labor, but you have your work cut out for you yet, I’d say.”

“There’s a magic to it though, isn’t there?”

He placed the pipe between his teeth and lit a match by striking it against the sole of his boot.

“There is indeed. A grandeur.”

“I can’t think what to call it now it’s my own. Do you know the original name?”

“Macready Place is what I’ve heard all my life. It’s what my mother called it, but I never liked it. It needs something with substance.”

“What would you call it?”

I bit my bottom lip, searching the grounds for inspiration, then leaned against the trunk of the oak, smiling. “Oakhurst, of course. How simple!”

“Now
that
is a name,” said Will, puffing his pipe. “I’m indebted to you.”

He smiled at me, his eyes strikingly blue in the midday light, and as he looked at me, my hand strayed unwittingly to the scar on my mouth. I dropped it again just as quickly, but he had noticed. His gaze grew more serious, and he put his thumb out and traced the line.

“What happened, here?” he asked. “I’ve often wondered.”

I swallowed, my fingers hovering lightly over the rough bark of the oak against my back, and he kept my gaze for some moments, letting his thumb remain. I could feel his fingers resting lightly against my cheek and was struck with the urge to press my lips into his palm, but I dropped my eyes instead and turned my face so that his hand fell back to his side.

“I was taken up for insolence,” I said.

He did not respond, and when I ventured to look at him again, his brow had furrowed.

“You’re thinking I ought to have said I tripped and fell,” I said defiantly.

He shook his head. “No, I was thinking that only cowards and fools hit women and children.”

I pushed off from the tree trunk and picked absently at my skirt. “Now I’ve spoiled our walk.”

“Not at all. You mentioned your mother.”

“Yes?”

“It’s just that you rarely do.”

I shrugged. “She died when I was seven. I’ve spent most of my life without her.”

“But you miss her. I see it in your eyes sometimes, a sadness.”

“Everything was better before she went,” I admitted, “but that’s the way of things, I suppose.”

He offered me his arm. I smiled at him and accepted, but we were more sober on the return journey. However, I was soaring inwardly at the memory of his touch, and not even the thought of past harm, or loss, could bring me back to earth.

That night I consulted my mother’s journal again.

December 1865

I don’t think I shall have much trouble out of Mr. Andrews after all. His rib is healed, so he is learning to walk on his bad leg, and it has properly cowed him. We spoke at length today. He tells me he is from Florida, a place in the uppermost northern part of the state called Willowbend. It sounds poetic, like something from Tennyson, especially how he describes it. “It’s nothin,” he told me, “but swampland, scrub pines, live oaks, and the age ole Suwannee river, brown and wide, windin’ like a ribbon. In winter, there’s a sky at night blacker ‘n your hair, and thick with stars as flies in molasses.”

I said it sounded like a wild kind of paradise, and Mr. Scruggs said, “Thet’s cuz you ain’t been to Nerth Carolinny. My deddy used ter say, tek yer a big ole swamp, set it down in the middle ‘a Hell, an fill it with catamounts an skeeters—thet’s Flerida. Ain’t no kinda paradise I’d wanna see.”

I thought Mr. Andrews would take offense, but he only laughed. “That is about right. Been away so long, I reckon I romanticize it. The Carolinas though, you’re right about ‘em, by God. I’ll never forget bein’ up in them hills at sunrise, smellin that sweet grass and seein’ the mist lyin’ in all those blue-green hollows. Why, I thought I’d been shot and gone to heaven in my sleep.”

“Ain’t nothin like mist in a holler of a early mornin’,” agreed Mr. Scruggs, winking at me. I fled before I could figure out what he meant.

After Lily and I called on him at home, William was a fixture in our home at Sunday dinner. As a bachelor, he always enjoyed a home-cooked meal, especially if it included my fried chicken and biscuits or Indian succotash. He was fond of Colleen’s northern dishes as well, her stuffed cabbage especially. Eric and I had always hated it on principle for being “Yankee food,” but it was the favorite meal of the younger children.

On fine Saturdays, he occasionally called on us with an invitation to come berrying and picnicking on his property, and we always readily accepted with Colleen’s approval, glad for his society. We would bring a basket of baked goods, jams, and ham sandwiches to enjoy on a quilt beneath the live oak as the younger children played.

“If you’re not careful,” Gran would joke, “one of ya is gonna cook your way right into his arms. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, ya know.” She liked Will. He had renewed the hope that Lily or I would not become old maids, and she wanted one of us to snatch him up before he moved on.

Although Will found Lily too youthful for him, there existed between them a familial camaraderie that I could not share because of my feelings. My thoughts of him had progressed far beyond those of friendship, yet there were things I had to know before I opened my heart: was he a man of patience, integrity, forgiveness? Was he short-tempered? Did he drink or gamble? Would he be willing to overlook my poverty, and my past?

On a Sunday after church, expecting Will for dinner as always, Lily and I went out to pick fresh tomatoes from the garden. It was late May and very warm. She and Ezra headed back toward the house as I stayed to pick off some of the hornworms that were eating the tomato plants. With the early summer sun beating down on my back, I heard Lily utter a scream of terror. I grabbed the hoe I had leaned against one of the tomato trellises and ran to the end of my row.

Lily was in a crouch, clutching Ezra to her, and coiled not six feet from them, waiting to strike, was a diamond back rattlesnake as thick as my thigh at its widest point.

I circled it, giving a wide berth, and it stirred with indignation, its rattle sending a tattoo of warning that sounded like dried beans in the bottom of a tin can, but much more sinister. Lily snapped her fingers at it just as I swung the hoe in a fierce arch with all of my strength, but in my terror I just missed the mark and pinned its head to the ground rather than breaking its neck as I had intended. It roiled and curved, trying to turn itself over, and Lily screamed again as I exerted more force, fastening it to the ground. Just when I thought my arms would give out from effort, a hatchet swung from my left and cut the snake in two, severing its head from its body.

I let the hoe fall and turned toward William. In my terror and struggle to defeat the snake, I had not even seen or heard him approach. A sheen of sweat had popped out on his forehead, and he wiped it with his sleeve. Lily joined us with Ezra in her arms, and I snatched him from her and clutched him to my chest just as she fell into a dead faint. Will lunged forward and caught her, lifting her easily.

He carried her into the house and placed her on the sofa in the parlor, and Colleen administered smelling salts as I hung back, watching, with Ezra balanced on one hip.

“She wasn’t bit, was she?” he asked.

I gasped. “Oh God, I never even thought! Colleen! Check to see if it struck her!”

We anxiously checked her limbs for bites but found none, to our relief. When Lily came round, she assured us that she was fine, she had only fainted from fear, and the heat. Colleen brought her a glass of cold water fresh from the pump, and we adjourned for dinner. I hung back so I might exit the room at the same time as Mr. Cavendish and laid my hand on his arm. It was the first time we had touched since the day Lily and I visited him at his home. I knew he might consider it an improper thing for a lady to do, but I couldn’t help myself.

“You don’t know how indebted I am to you, Mr. Cavendish,” I said. “You’ve just saved the two dearest things in the world to me.”

“I ran as soon as I heard her first scream. But to tell you true, when I saw your predicament, it was you I thought of saving.”

I looked up and met his startling blue eyes. They seemed to be full of feeling, but I couldn’t identify if it were regard or only kindness.

Chapter 9

June

One Sunday in June, Bill Harmon, who was the wealthiest man in Willowbend next to Ida’s father, was standing on the church steps with his thumbs hooked into his suspenders, greeting everyone who entered with jolly alacrity. He had a red, cheery face and an ample belly, but I disliked him, for he tithed to the dime and no more and had once driven past our wagon in his coach and four without so much as a glance when we’d broken an axle on the way home from the general store. I had never seen him spare a penny, not for a friend in need, nor for a poor youngster to buy a piece of candy with, as Daddy often did. He had moved to Willowbend from New York during reconstruction and, in spite of being despised and called an upstart Yankee by most of the locals at the time, had built both a lumber mill and cotton gin and employed most of the former slaves who had not run away during the war, as well as many of the sons and husbands of the poor. He had purchased an old estate nearby, built a fine house on it, and settled his wife there. She and his two daughters wore the latest fashions in the finest fabrics.

“I reckon you’ve done mighty well this year, Harmon,” a farmer was saying to him as we approached. “That new filly you bought for your Bess is a sight to see.”

Harmon boomed a laugh. “She’s a purebred quarter horse, quick as a wink! I reckon it’s a waste to give a beast as great as that to a girl, but Bess sets a great store by her riding, and with no sons, I don’t see the harm in it! We brought in a killing with the mills this year, but as for me, I can’t take any of the credit. The Lord is the one who has blessed me.”

This galled me, along with the comment about a fine horse being wasted on a girl. “You might take
some
of the credit Mr. Harmon,” I said, dropping a slight curtsy. “The Lord’s no respecter of persons, and if he were fond of handing out money to just anyone, I suppose we’d all be rich. As it is, I reckon you’ve your own ambition to thank for your wealth, as well as your workers at the mill and the fertile land the cotton grew on.”

The gentlemen standing nearby guffawed, but Mr. Harmon bristled like a scalded cat, and Colleen cried, “Landra! How insolent you sound! She didn’t mean it, Mr. Harmon, not a word.”

I bowed again, reluctantly this time, and said, “Begging your pardon, sir. Sometimes my tongue’s quicker than my manners.”

Mr. Harmon looked less than mollified, but he returned the bow and replied, “I’m sure you meant no offense, young lady.”

When we went into the sanctuary, we spied William sitting by himself near the back, and Colleen invited him into our pew. Before Eric went away to school, our seating arrangement had always been him first on the end seat next to the aisle, then me, Daddy, Colleen with Ezra in her lap, Edith, the twins, and Lily. It was Lily’s job to keep the younger children quiet, so she did not often enjoy church, as one might imagine. I remembered the days when she was a little girl and it was my place to sit next to her and keep her still; she was a curious yet introspective child—my task had been far easier.

With Eric away, the space next to me was empty, and William eased himself into it, smiling his hello. I told him good morning, but I put my chin up as I said it, like a cat snubbing someone on a whim. I was young, and I wanted him to work for my affection, not to kneel at his feet.

I was wearing my Sunday go-to-meeting clothes; my red and brown calico, a straw hat, and lace gloves. I stared at my small hands where they clutched the hymnal in my lap and spread them out to make them more visible. A lady’s hands, Mama had always said, shapely and beautiful.

I raised my head and saw that he was looking at me. I darted my eyes at him, and he only smiled. When the singing began, I glanced at him a few times from the corner of my eye and thought I could tell by the look on his face that, like me, the hymns were his favorite part of church.

When the sermon was over, he walked outside with us into the sunshine and stood next to me as Daddy talked with different church members. Colleen leaned on Daddy’s arm, attempting to hide her belly with her thin summer shawl. Her face was pale, and she was sweating. I felt a pang of worry for her. She was nearing her sixth month and an early confinement. It was her wont to miscarry in the third or fourth month, and the last time had nearly killed her. Only that morning, I had begged her to stay home rather than take the bumpy carriage ride to church, but she would not hear of it. Church was the only social interaction she had.

Lily stood between the twins, holding onto their hands. I noticed Emmett standing at a distance, looking at her. He was a gangly redhead with a frolicsome temperament, always pulling some prank or causing laughter and slight upheaval, but today he looked as forlorn as a whipped cur, his thin shoulders stooped. Lily was making a point not to return his stare.

I suddenly felt that my coldness to William in church had been unjust. He was standing next to me now, but if I continued to keep him at arm’s length, how long would he stay? Suddenly, the thought of his permanent absence was daunting.

Just as I turned to speak to him he said, “You have a fine singing voice, Miss Andrews.”

“Oh. Thank you. Are you planning to attend the singing and dinner on the grounds next Sunday?” I asked. The singing had been announced before the sermon.

“Will you be there?” he replied.

“I will.”

“Well, I shall be out of town on Friday and Saturday, picking up some supplies for planting, but Sunday I will be here.”

“And shall you come to dinner today?”

“Not today. I’ve been invited by the Harmons.”

Bill Harmon’s daughters, at sixteen and eighteen, were some of the most eligible girls in the county, and the loveliest. I couldn’t see their father marrying either of them to a younger son like William, even if he was from an old family. He was merely extending the hand of generosity. All the same, Bess and Cora Harmon were gorgeous and rich. I thought of the day in the cotton field when he had so tenderly touched my face beneath the old oak, and felt a stab of longing and jealousy. I brushed the thought away like a troublesome fly.

“You’ll have much better fare at
their
table,” I said.

“Perhaps, but not so good of company.”

“That’s kind of you to say. I hope you enjoy yourself.”

“I will. I shall see you next Sunday.” We bowed to one another, and I watched as he made off through the crowd.

At church the following Sunday, I waited anxiously for him to join us in our pew, but he never did. A few times I searched the room for his face, but it was overcrowded, and I did not see him. Finally, as everyone was filing out after the very last hymn, I saw him across the room. I tried for a moment to catch his eye, until Bess Harmon stepped up to him, her expression jovial. I turned and fled the stifling sanctuary then, seeking the solace of a breeze out of doors.

Outside, beneath the live oaks, one long table was piled with savory foods of every kind: fried chicken, country ham, chicken pot pie, boiled potatoes and carrots, barbecued ribs, collard greens in pot liquor, bread and butter pickles, deviled eggs, potato salad, biscuits, cornbread, and homemade bread. Another was covered with various pies, cakes, and preserves. I helped the married women and grown girls my age to serve the food as the men and children seated themselves at the tables beneath the trees with full plates. Finally, everyone had been served and commenced to eat. I seated myself at a distance from the crowd in the shade of a live oak. A while later I was joined by Lily, carrying two tin plates. She handed me one, and I thanked her. It was laden with food: greens, two pieces of cornbread, a sweet potato, a slice of ham, and three deviled eggs.

“This looks like heaven. No fried chicken?” I asked.

She shook her head sadly. “It went in the first ten minutes.”

“Always does.”

When we had finished eating, I filled two cups with lemonade, no longer cold, but sweet and good. Lily gulped hers, but I drank mine slowly to savor the taste. If anything, the tartness of it only parched my tongue and made me thirstier, so I went to drink from the spring that ran behind the cemetery. As I was kneeling to scoop the water with my hands, I heard William’s voice, to my right and very close.

“Here, allow me.” He stooped beside me and filled a tin cup.

I accepted it.

“There was lemonade in it before, if you don’t mind drinking after me.”

I raised the cup to my lips in answer, and he smiled, his eyes fixed on me as I drank. My own appraised him over the rim. I shook out the last few drops before returning the cup to him.

“I didn’t see you during the singing.”

“Arrived late and had to take the back pew.”

“Did you enjoy last Sunday dinner? I saw you speaking with Bess Harmon after.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “Yes. Bess and Cora are nice girls, but I missed my usual company.”

I was filled with relief at his words, and I knew it showed on my face and in my voice as I said, “How was your trip to town? Productive?”

“It was. Speaking of, something caught my eye as I was there. I thought you might like it.” He held out a paper package that had been tucked under his arm during our talk.

I hesitated, unsure of myself. I was certain it could not be proper to open the parcel in front of him, but he was watching me. Finally, I unfastened the twine and unfolded the brown paper, revealing a silk shawl. It had blue flowers embroidered on a brown background, with a heavy gold fringe.

“Won’t do you much good on a hot day such as this, but autumn will come before you know it.”

“It-it’s the finest present anyone’s ever given me, but I shouldn’t accept it. Daddy wouldn’t like it.” I hated myself for saying it, but I could never seem to hold my tongue when there was a harsh truth to be dealt.

I had gone with Henry Miller for six months, and he had never once given me a gift. As for William, I knew he liked me, but the need for caution was ever present in my mind.

“Don’t you like it?”

“William! It’s lovely.”

“Then keep it. Can you see
me
wearing that to town?”

I laughed and draped the shawl over my arm. It seemed I was always laughing in Will’s presence. It was something I liked about him. He seemed unperturbed by my assertion that the gift was too forward and at last I was obliged to keep it. I felt dreadfully conspicuous with it draped over my arm as we walked back to the tables under the trees. When I reached home that afternoon, I showed it to Lily.

“What’ll I do with it?” I asked.

“Wear it?”

“It’s surely not a proper gift to accept from a gentleman.”

“He
must
like you. Did you kiss him for it?”

“At church?”

We laughed at the thought of kissing in church, and I folded the shawl with a sprig of lavender tucked inside it and placed it in my hope chest. It was too lovely to be worn as I did chores, cooked, and cleaned house. Too lovely for my life, like William himself.

The following weekend there was a barn raising for a newly married couple, and Daddy went to lend his strength as well as his banjo-picking skills. Colleen was nearing confinement, but she allowed me and Lily to choose who should accompany him and who should stay home to help mind the children. Unable to agree who deserved the outing most, we drew straws, and I won.

As always was the case at a barn raising, the women cooked while the men worked, and food, dancing, and revelry followed the construction of the building itself. Lights, lanterns, and candles were lit and strung, and refreshments were placed on long tables. I was overjoyed during the building to see that Will was in attendance. When I had time, I allowed my eyes to follow his broad shoulders as he went about his work with the other men.

I had hoped to dance with him when the music began that evening, but he divided his time between playing the fiddle and harmonica with the other musicians and the punch table, so I sat by and watched the dancers until I was approached by Henry Miller, with his wife on his arm. Although they visited often, they did not attend the Methodist church, and it was the first time I had seen her since our first meeting four years before, when he introduced her as his fiancée.

She was a willowy thing with the figure of a twelve-year-old, and she had soft, dark hair and large brown eyes in an exquisite face. Her skin was parasol perfect, and her hands had never seen a day’s work. She gave me a smile as they approached, and although it was a tad haughty, there was something else in it; you could tell at first glance that she was light-hearted and enjoyed a good time.

Before I could say a word, Henry kissed me on the cheek and cried, “Lander Anders!” using his pet name for me from childhood. “It’s been a coon’s age since I saw you, darlin’ girl!” He held his hand out to his wife and said, “Della, you remember Landra. I grew up runnin’ wild with her and her brother Eric in the pinewoods. She’s like a sister to me.”

She smiled that pretty smile again. “No. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

“We met once,” I answered, “on the occasion of your betrothal.”

“Oh goodness! Oh yes, of course! I do beg your pardon.” She gave me her hand.

“I hope you’ll let me stand up with her, Della,” said Henry, his dark eyes dancing.

“Of course,” she said good-humoredly. “I wouldn’t separate lifelong friends such as yourselves. I shall go and find some punch.”

Before I knew it, she was gone, and Henry was sweeping me into a waltz. “You ought to have told us you were in town,” I said. “My father likes to hear how you’re getting on.”

“But you were cold at our last meetin’. I felt most unwelcome.”

“Perhaps I was.”

He looked sheepish at this response, and I said, “I am sorry if I was uncivil.”

“There’s no need for that. I know I done you wrong, and I apologize. I hope you’ll forgive me.”