Concealing Grace (The Grace Series Book 1) (26 page)

“Try the hat,” Arnold coaxed.

From inside the starched cotton covering his face, Jon asked, “How do I look?”

“Like a true Klansman,” Luther chortled. “What do you think?”

Jon’s smile as he took the hood off was wide. “I like it. I’m guessing this means the date for my initiation has been set?”

“Yes. Tonight,” Luther said.

“That’s fast!”

“Is that a problem, Captain?” Whistler asked.

“No, not at all!” Jon chortled. “The sooner the better as far as I’m concerned.”

“Excellent!” Luther clapped his hands. Thrilled with the prospect of his son-in-law becoming part of the organization he valued so highly, Luther wanted to ensure Jon knew what would be expected of him. He was so caught up in describing the structure of the meeting to come, and giving Jon examples of the questions he would be asked, it never occurred to him that Jessica might walk in on them.

She made such a stink about he and Trent being members of the Klan the first time around, Luther had gone to great lengths to hide his involvement with the revitalized Klan, the Sons. He’d even sworn Trent, much to Trent’s displeasure, to secrecy. If Luther had his druthers, Jessica would never find out. Jon, however, was still sporting the white sheet when the parlor door swung open and Jessica came through it.

She was clearly startled. “Oh! I apologize. I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

Luther expelled a frustrated breath. There was no question where his daughter’s eyes were focused. Hoping to distract her, he said, “Jessie, have you no greeting for your papa?”

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”

Behind her, as Luther took her attention by embracing her and asking how she was, he was relieved to see Jon quickly strip out of the garment.

“I didn’t mean to intrude. Please excuse me,” she said as she turned to go.

“Jessica, dear,” Jon stopped her. “Would you mind checking with Ditter? He is supposed to be bringing coffee for our guests.”

By the time Jessica returned, carrying a large tray herself, Jon had safely hidden his new robe and hat away. She set her heavy burden down on the table next to the sofa and said, “Here you are. I do apologize for the delay.”

Jon was evidently unhappy with this turn of events. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said. “I need to have a private word with my wife.”

He rose, took her hand and led her from the parlor. In pulling the door shut behind him, he didn’t use quite enough force. The latch didn’t catch and the door bounced back open about an inch. Though he could no longer see them, Luther could hear them clearly.

“Where is Ditter?” Jon asked her.

“In the kitchen. I told him I would bring the tray,” she said.

Jon yelled, “Ditter! Get out here! Now!”

“Don’t yell at him!” Jessica implored.

The next thing Luther knew, Jon was ranting, “When I give you an order, you follow it! If my wife ever does your work again, I will beat you! Do you understand? I have had enough embarrassment in front of my guests because of your stupidity. If it happens again, I will kick your moronic girl and those nappy headed animals you call children out into the street. And while I’m on the subject, keep the brats out of the stables, or I will withhold your pay indefinitely! Do you understand me,
boy
?”

“Jon, you’re being unreasonable,” Jessica said.

“Jessica,” Jon said, “these people work for me and they will do exactly as I tell them. I have given them plenty of time to understand what their duties are. I’ve been a damned saint putting up with all of their mistakes, and I’m done. I have no patience for stupidity, and I will not tolerate it in my paid help.”

Luther could imagine Jon throwing up his hands. His next words were directed toward the colored man. “My God,
boy
, I had slaves that were better doormen than you, and I didn’t have to pay them!” To his daughter, Jon said, “Jessica, I’m going back to my guests. You’re welcome to join us.”

“What were you wearing in there?” she asked. Luther recognized that disdainful tone. This didn’t bode well, not for Jon, or for him or Trent if she were ever to put two and two together.

Jon, however, put her off nicely. “Let’s have this conversation later. I’ll tell you all about it, Sweetheart,” he said. “Right now, I really should get back to our visitors.”

“Fine,” Jessica retorted. “I will see you at dinner.”

“I’m sorry, my dear, but I won’t be here for dinner tonight,” Jon said.

The last Luther heard of his daughter that evening was the rapidly fading clack of her heels on the hardwood floor. Wryly, he mused, she was Jon’s to deal with now. Fortunately his son-in-law was an adept enough fellow to handle a prickly temper like hers. Jon would probably do a better job than Luther ever had.

* * *

The abandoned barn was overflowing with Sovereign Sons in full costume. From the place he took up near the back, Trent bided his time, trying to decipher the identity of each of his fellow Klansmen. For some it was easy. Others were more difficult. When he played this game, something he did frequently, he more often than not mixed up Harry Simpson and David Houser, their newest member. Both men were of the same height and build. Even their voices were similar. He’d narrowed the two of them down but was still contemplating which was which, when his father and Arnold Whistler walked in. The Almighty Captain himself was with them.

As Whistler and Pop robed up and situated themselves behind the makeshift leadership table, where three other elders were already seated, Trent stealthily made his way forward. He needed a better view.

It was either Harry Simpson or David Houser who produced this obnoxious yellow, green and orange monstrosity for Kinsley to wear. The hood that went with it had purple donkey-shaped ears sewn to either side of it. This costume, of course, was only used for new recruits, and it didn’t hide their faces. Doing so would make the hazing more difficult. Standing there in front of the elders’ table, dressed like that, High and Mighty Kinsley didn’t look quite so high and mighty! Under his hood, Trent had to bite his lip to keep from chuckling.

William Hughes, seated at the center of the elders’ table, began the questioning. “What is your full name?”

“Jonathan Christopher Kinsley,” Kinsley said.

“Your birth date?”

“June fifth, eighteen forty-two.”

“Where were you born?”

“Greenville, North Carolina,” Kinsley said.

“Tell us about your tenure in the army,” Hughes asked next.

Kinsley spoke of attending a military academy in Richmond, Virginia, and how, thereafter, he joined the army. Trent had heard all of this before. Kinsley had been in the Northern Virginia Third Calvary Division. He went on to talk about his promotion to captain during the war, and being wounded—a ball in the knee—at Gettysburg. The elders asked why he stayed in the army after the war, to which Kinsley explained the army was the only life he knew. It seemed like the logical choice at the time. He’d been guaranteed a position in Northern Virginia. Kinsley’s answer to why he decided to retire was, “I got tired of working for Yankees.”

This caused chuckles to erupt throughout the barn. Trent rolled his eyes.

Next they began asking about Kinsley’s move to Tennessee. He explained how he heard from an army friend that Bent Oak Manor had been abandoned and was for sale by the government. He told them of the land holdings his father had in Virginia, which he sold in order to purchase the estate in Tennessee. He chose the area because it was known for its horseflesh and he was a breeder. This information prompted questions about Kinsley’s childhood. Trent learned Kinsley had been raised on a profitable tobacco plantation, and that Kinsley’s father had owned as many as thirteen slaves at one time. Kinsley went on to give his opinion about the institution of slavery and his displeasure over emancipation. He said, “Our federal leaders should come here to Mount Joy and get a good look at Shanty Town. That place is proof niggers are not capable of taking care of themselves.”

Someone from the crowd asked him about the colored people working at Bent Oak Manor. Kinsley told them he had eighteen servants in total, four house, eight stable and six field.

“Why didn’t you hire white folks?” Either David Houser or Harry Simpson asked this question. Trent wasn’t sure which of them it was.

“Colored are cheaper,” Kinsley said.

Another man from the crowd hollered, “If you have money enough to pay servants you should have hired white. Didn’t it occur to you there are plenty of people around here who need the work?”

“I did think about it,” Kinsley replied. “But, as I said before, niggers are cheaper. My business is new and will take several years to turn a profit. I can’t afford anything else right now.”

“You must be hoarding a lot of cash, Captain.” Again either Harry Simpson or David Houser made this comment.

“I have enough to cover the years of loss, but that is all,” Kinsley said.

“It still doesn’t make it right,” the same man said. “You rich people are all alike.”

“Let him be, Houser,” Luther chimed in.

How Pop could tell Houser and Simpson apart so easily was baffling to Trent.

“Are you queer?” the other Houser said, which meant Harry Simpson was the one who asked the question. Chuckles erupted around the room.

“For God’s sake, Simpson,” Luther spouted. “He’s my son-in-law. He’s married to my daughter. The man is not queer!”

The questions continued. Repeatedly Kinsley was asked about his childhood, his political opinions, and his stance on the outcome of the war. Many of the questions were phrased differently as the elders and others from the crowd tried to trip him up, but anytime Kinsley said something they considered contradictory, he was able to appease them.

Eventually Hughes leaned over and whispered something to the elder next to him. This was an elder Trent had never met in person. The only thing he knew about the man was that he was from the southeast sector. Straightening, Hughes said, “Let the initiation begin.”

Two men came forward with a rickety chair in hand. They made Kinsley sit and then tied his arms and legs. Another man produced a blindfold. Two others were responsible for forcing Kinsley’s head back. The rest of them lined up, and one by one took turns pouring whiskey down Kinsley’s throat. The bottle was half empty by the time Trent had it in hand. Several others caused Kinsley to sputter and spit up. Trent upended that bottle and held it until Kinsley choked. If Trent had been holding Kinsley’s head, he wouldn’t have let him up. The two men who were, were too easy on him. They let him go. But, it all worked out well enough in the end. Kinsley was coughing so badly, he tipped the chair over, taking himself with it.

Laughter rolled, as still dressed in the hideous robe, Kinsley was made to crawl around the dirty floor and kiss each of the member’s boots. Because he was blindfolded, his movements had to be verbally directed. The men taunted him, sending him off in different directions. Occasionally, to help keep him on track, they nudged him. The whole thing was uproariously amusing.

Afterwards they hoisted him up and tied him to the chair for another round of whiskey. This time Trent didn’t bother lining up. It was entertaining enough watching Kinsley’s reactions to the rest of the men. By the time they stood him up, Kinsley was wobbling precariously. The buckets of muddy trough water thrown on him were enough to knock him to the ground. But this was only the beginning.

They stood him up in the front of the elders for more questions. They mocked him, called him names, and jeered at his increasingly slurred speech. Eventually somebody demanded he kiss boots again. They had him crawl until he was perched directly over a pile of horse dung. When they told him to drop and kiss, Kinsley’s face went straight in. As he rolled to his back, swiping madly at his nose and mouth, the men drenched him once more.

On and on it went, more whiskey lines, more boot kissing, more dirty water thrown in his face. At one point they covered him with hay, tied him up hobble style, and told him he had to stand up on his own. Their next game they called cow tipping, although a more apt name would have been Kinsley tipping.

Throughout, none of the elders moved from their seats at the table. Trent found himself glancing repeatedly at his father. It wasn’t easy to tell what Luther was thinking with the hood covering his face. Considering how loyal and protective he was toward Kinsley, Trent was surprised the old man wasn’t putting a stop to all the shenanigans.

Again they had Kinsley in the chair, but they hadn’t bothered tying him to it. He was sprawled there, arms dangling. The purple-eared hood had long since fallen off his head. The men were holding him by his hair.

Trent began counting. As the tenth man grabbed the bottle and upended it, Trent hollered, “That’s enough!”

“You’re no fun, Emerson!” This was either David Houser or Harry Simpson.

“He’s had enough!” Trent barked.

“Emerson is right. Let him go,” Hughes said.

A halt called by an elder was all it took to end it.

Trent got on one side of Kinsley. Houser or Simpson was on the other. Kinsley groaned as they hauled him to his feet. And, lord, did he reek! The smell was gag worthy. Trent had to hold his breath as he and Simpson—he was pretty sure it was Simpson—practically carried Kinsley over to stand him up in front of the elders.