Concealing Grace (The Grace Series Book 1) (30 page)

The victim’s eyelids flickered. “Your mask, sir!” Herlin exclaimed.

Whether the spook ever bothered to pull his kerchief up, Herlin didn’t know. He looked up and yelled, “Go! I’ve got this!”

Herlin had no choice but to follow orders. He had a feeling, though, that he wasn’t going to get off lightly. Not this time. The turn off to the creek at Bent Oak Manor was just ahead of him when he heard the spook gaining on him. At least he was pretty sure it was the spook. The rapidly pounding hoof beats surely sounded like Midnight’s. But, glancing back, he saw nothing. Suddenly nervous, he started to veer off the road into the trees.

“It’s just me, Herlin!” the spook called out.

Expelling a breath of relief, Herlin steadied Buster and waited. It didn’t take long. In a matter of seconds the spook was there, looking down from his great height on Midnight. The bottom half of his mask hung loosely around his collar and he didn’t look happy.

Firmly, he said, “This is the last time, Herlin. Don’t disobey me again!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Herlin said humbly. “Is Oz okay?”

“He’s fine. He’ll be fine,” the major said shortly.

Herlin knew when to keep his mouth shut. It was much better, when the major was still piqued to do just that. He followed as the major turned Midnight left then right onto the road along the creek. The path was narrow through there, but the major waited until Herlin caught up, and as they rode onward, he didn’t take the lead. He remained by Herlin’s side.

After a time, he said, “Herlin, I know how much you want to help. Believe me when I tell you your heart is in the right place. I wish there was another way, I really do, but the color of your skin puts you in danger out here. It’s a risk we cannot afford to take. You are too important to this mission. You are too important to your family. You are too important to me. I can’t lose you.”

Herlin didn’t say anything. There was nothing he could say.

Firmly enunciating each of his words, the spook repeated, “I will
not
lose you, Herlin!”

* * *

Yesterday afternoon she had gone to the parsonage. This afternoon Jessica had another undertaking, one that was as important, and one she’d put off too long already.

Outside the familiar old barn, Jessica slid off Jasmine. She opened the door and led her mare through it. The two draft horses were in their stalls. Bullet, Trent’s horse, was there, too, but her father’s was not. This was just as well. Trent was the one she came to see. After ensuring all of the animals had plenty of hay to nibble on, she resolutely made her way up the walk toward her childhood home.

Inside the house, she called out, “Trent! Where are you? Trent!”

The lack of response didn’t surprise her. Absently she slipped out of her coat and gloves. Had her purpose in coming not been weighing so heavily upon her, she would have laughed at the unkempt condition of the place. On the stairs she had to place her feet carefully lest she step on whatever odd whatnot had been left there. The clutter reminded her of Reverend Nash. Compared to this, however, the reverend’s was minimal.

Jessica didn’t bother knocking on Trent’s bedroom door. In the spring, summer and fall her brother woke early and went to bed late. He preferred to work in the mornings and the evenings, thus avoiding the sweltering midday heat. During it, he napped. Although there wasn’t as much farm work to do in the winter, his routine didn’t change. Trent enjoyed his naps. Jessica found him exactly as she expected, fast asleep in his bed.

For a moment, she stared down at him. He was sprawled on his stomach, with blankets covering him almost to his neck. His long, dirty blond hair was splayed on the pillow. She could tell it had recently been trimmed. In the past, she was the one who did this for him. Along with the memories came a crushing wave of homesickness. Her life was so much simpler here. Or maybe she’d just been too uninformed and sheltered?

Because Trent wasn’t wearing a nightshirt—he never did—his bared, grotesquely scarred shoulder lay in her view. A lot of things were difficult for him without the arm, including his daily ritual of tying his hair back, but it always impressed her watching him do it. No matter what the task, Trent somehow managed to compensate for his missing limb. She pictured the plow and how he leaned into the left handle to keep it going. He worked just as hard now as he had before the war. He was a lot stronger now, too. The muscles in the shoulder and bicep of his remaining arm, gripping the pillow, were bulging.

Jessica had never really paid attention to her brother’s physique, but now she couldn’t help it. If Trent and her husband were to stand side by side, Jon’s arms, compared to Trent’s, would appear almost thin. She didn’t want to think about her husband’s body. She didn’t want to think about her husband at all.

Hoping she wouldn’t startle him too badly, Jessica whispered loudly, “Trent! Wake up!”

In an instant, he flipped over. “Geez, Jessica! You didn’t have to sneak up on me!”

“I didn’t sneak up on you. I called out several times from downstairs.”

Trent rolled his eyes and pushed himself up until he was leaning against the headboard. His pectoral muscles were much thicker than Jon’s, too.

He ran his fingers through his hair and asked, “What are you doing here?”

Jessica ignored his question. “I see you got your hair cut.”

Trent averted his eyes. “Emily did it for me.”

Bashfulness in her brother was rare. It made Jessica smile. “How are things with Emily? You never said whether her father gave you permission to court her, but he must have. You’ve been bringing her to church.”

“Her father didn’t give his permission. He still hasn’t made up his mind. Emily told me to call on her anyway. She says eventually her father will come around.”

“I’m sure he will.”

“We’ll see,” Trent grunted. “He sure doesn’t like me much.”

“But Emily does. No self-respecting girl would cut a man’s hair if she didn’t like him,” Jessica teased.

Modestly, Trent looked away again. “She likes my hair.”

“Well, that’s a start. Are you going to ask her to marry you?”

Trent’s eyebrows came together. “It’s only been a couple months, Jessica. I don’t know!” he growled.

This was the Trent she knew! That scowl was a like a balm to her soul. She laughed and laughed even harder when he rolled his eyes. Once she had herself under control again, she asked, “Should I pull up a chair, or are you getting up?”

“I’ll get up. Hand me that shirt.” He pointed to one that had been tossed onto his desk.

Jessica threw it at him. “I’ll go make you some coffee.”

Not much later, in the sitting room, Jessica handed her brother a steaming cup and sat down beside him.

Trent sipped heartily. “Jessie, I do miss your coffee,” he said.

“Thanks. The house is a mess.”

“I know. Pop and I really, really miss you.” When Jessica didn’t say anything, he looked at her pensively. “Are things not going so well with your captain?”

Trent’s sincere inquiry was enough to cause Jessica’s eyes to burn. But the last thing she could afford to do was give in to her emotions. Swallowing, she said, “I don’t want to talk about my marriage. I came to talk about the Klan.”

Trent sighed. “Jessie, you shouldn’t concern yourself with these things.”

“Maybe not, but I am concerned,” she said. “I know you’re a member so don’t deny it. A long time ago, back when you and Papa were part of the Klan you told me you didn’t participate in raids. You only attended meetings and rallies. Is that still true, Trent? What I overheard from your discussion with Jon and Arnold Whistler and Edward Murphy led me to believe otherwise. I need to know you’re not going on raids and… and…”

“Jessie, let’s not talk about this,” Trent interjected. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“No!” she said firmly. “I need to know. I need to know why you joined the Klan again. Violence is wrong. You know that. I don’t understand why you would want to be involved with them.”

“It’s not the Klan anymore. It’s the Sovereign Sons of the South. Not the KKK, the SSS,” he said flippantly.

“Stop it, Trent!” Jessica glared at him. “You can call them whatever you want to call them. I don’t care what you call them. You need to answer my questions! You need to tell me why you joined again!”

“Okay, okay,” Trent grumbled, but he was giving in and that was all Jessica wanted. He went on to talk about the original Klan, and how, when it started, it was all for fun. They dressed up in silly costumes and got together for drinks and games. When the Sons began they were supposed to be like the original Klan, nothing more than a social club. Most of the members, as before, were upstanding citizens and business leaders in the community. Pop insisted they join because it was important to maintain these relationships—

“Are you telling me Papa is a member, too?” Jessica interrupted. She didn’t want to hear this. It was bad enough knowing Trent was part of it. She didn’t want to believe this of her beloved, gentle father! “Oh Trent! How could you! How could Papa!”

“He has no choice,” Trent said. “Don’t you understand, Jessie? We do it for our farm, for our livelihood, our wellbeing.…”

Jessica cut in, “But the
Sons
do a lot more than get drunk and play games.”

“Jessie,” Trent said, “the people we go after are criminals. We do what we do to protect our community and our homes.” He went on to talk more about Klan history, explaining how they came to realize their costumes scared people. They were able to help keep peace solely by their presence. The Sons, when they began, were going to do the same. The escalating crime and the lack of police intervention demanded they do more. Justice had to be served. Their leaders identified the criminals—

Jessica cut him off again. “How do you know the people you go after are guilty? Who tells your leaders? You can’t just take someone’s word. What about our legal system? What about a fair trial?”

“I don’t know, Jessie. All I know is the people we go after deserve to be punished.”

“Did Carl Robbins deserve to be punished? He didn’t commit any crimes. He didn’t stir up trouble. All he did was stand on the street corner and talk about education for colored people. His points were well made and valid. What’s so awful about that? Who did he hurt by doing that?”

“Us, Jessica. He hurt us. Blacks are taking over and we have to defend ourselves,” Trent said.

“Taking over? Trent, are you listening to what you’re saying? Taking over what? The government in Washington? The government here in Mount Joy? There are no colored people in the government. Name one community leader here in Mount Joy who is colored? Trent, it doesn’t make sense!”

Trent just looked at her.

“Do you remember all the things Maybell and Titus did for us? Do you remember how they took care of us? Do you remember how much fun we used to have with Sammy? You used to love them, Trent. A couple weeks ago, you said Sammy wasn’t your friend. You’re wrong, Trent. He was the best friend you ever had, and you know he was. All of a sudden you have this belief that colored people are threats. Can you imagine Maybell being a threat? Or, kind, gentle Titus? Can you imagine Sammy being a threat?”

Trent said nothing.

“Carl Robbins gave harmless speeches on a street corner, and the Klan
killed
him for it!”

Still Trent said nothing.

“I need to know, Trent,” Jessica demanded firmly. “How many people have you attacked? How many people has Papa attacked?”

“Does it really matter, Jessie?”

“Yes, it matters!” Jessica said. “Have you killed anybody, Trent?”

“No,” Trent bowed his head. “Not personally.”

“Has Papa?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

Lowering her voice, Jessica asked, “Has Jon?”

“Yes, Jessie, he has.”

* * *

For days Jessica managed to avoid her husband. In her spare time, she didn’t go anywhere on the manor without first checking with Ditter to ensure Jon was out. She always asked when he was expected back, too, so she would be long gone by the time he returned. If she needed to go somewhere in the house when he was home, she used the servants’ corridors. Thankfully, he never came to the kitchen, where she spent most of her time. The headache that had developed the day she spoke with Trent was still with her. All she could think of was what Trent had revealed to her. Jon had killed!

This particular afternoon she was seated beside little Willy at the piano, listening as he played a little piece he composed himself. For several weeks now, she had been teaching him about the keys and different chord progressions. Little Willy was like a sponge soaking everything in. There was no question he was extremely musically gifted, and his creativity in making up songs was just delightful. When he finished with his latest composition, Jessica clapped and exclaimed, “Bravo! That was wonderful!”

Willy’s proud grin was enough to provoke hers. Unable to help herself, she put her arm around his skinny shoulders and gave him a warm squeeze.

“Miss Jesska, how much longer ’til I kin play as good as you?” he asked.