Saving Grace (The Grace Series Book 2) (9 page)

“We don’t know dat,” Martha said. “But we knows he’s doin’ da best he can. He’d be dere ta stop dem evertime, if’n he could. It cain’t be easy fer him, bein’ all alone out dere.”

“I said this before and I’ll say it till my dying day,” Ruth declared. “That man is a gift from God. He is Heaven’s Saving Grace.”

* * *

Sebastian was lounging in his parlor when the knocker sounded. His first thought was Jessica had come and his pulse quickened in anticipation, but it was too late for her to visit. Darkness had fallen hours before. Whoever was on his porch, he was certain, didn’t have friendly intentions. He set his book aside and went to answer the door. His visitor was the last person he expected to see.

“Captain,” he said, “this is a surprise.”

“I’d like to have a word with you,” Jon Kinsley said curtly. “May I come in?”

With a welcoming gesture, albeit a forced one, Sebastian said, “Of course. Please do.”

As Kinsley hung his coat on the clothes tree by the door, it didn’t escape Sebastian’s notice that his eyes were fixed for an extended moment on the black knitted scarf hanging there.

After that he refused Sebastian’s offer of coffee. Without waiting for an invitation, the man went boldly into the parlor and took a seat in the wing chair by the fireplace, the same chair Jessica preferred. The irony struck Sebastian, but he didn’t break a smile.

Cautiously, because he needed to remain cautious with Kinsley in his house, Sebastian returned to the sofa. He watched Kinsley glance around the room. He watched the lingering look he gave to Margaret’s portrait. Kinsley was not an easy man to read. More often than not, he had this bland, somewhat smug expression on his face. That same expression was there now. At the same time there was no mistaking his tension. It was so severe, Sebastian could physically feel it. Doing his best to hide the animosity he harbored for this man, he asked, “What can I do for you?”

Kinsley sneered, “I want you to leave this town. I want you to go back to Boston.”

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry but I won’t do that. I am committed to this church and to this community. I am here to stay.”

“Let me put it another way, Reverend. If you do not leave, you will be killed,” Kinsley said.

With a shrug Sebastian said, “My fate is up to God. I am not afraid of death, Captain.”

“I think God would prefer to have a man with your faith and dedication alive, carrying out His work here on earth.”

“Again I tell you, I am not afraid to die.”

Kinsley nodded slowly. “Then perhaps you will consider this. I’m sure my wife told you I am a member of the Sovereign Sons of the South. I’m sure you’re aware of what we’re capable of doing. You’ve felt the wrath of the Sons personally on more than one occasion.”

“Yes, I know of your involvement with the Sons,” Sebastian said.

“I’m also guessing you’ve heard of the spook. The Sons despise the spook with a passion not worthy of description. They want him dead. And they suspect you are him.”

“Yes, I know of the spook. But I wonder, why would you come here to warn me? Your being here is a betrayal to the Sons.”

“You are a man of God,” Kinsley stated succinctly.

“That doesn’t seem to matter to the rest of the Klan.”

That smug expression of Kinsley’s grew. “Reverend, if you do not leave this town, I’ll tell the Klan you are the spook. I’ll tell them our suspicions have been confirmed. I’ll say I saw you personally removing the covering you wear to hide your face. And then I’ll tell them not to kill you. I’ll tell them a better punishment would be to mutilate you, to cripple you, to castrate you, to wound you so severely you live the remainder of your days in extreme pain.”

Sebastian smirked. That little speech of Kinsley’s was quite humorous. “Captain, you bewilder me. I would never have thought you to be one so predisposed to violence.”

“Things are not always as they seem, Reverend.”

“No, I suppose they are not.” Sebastian paused, and he asked again, “Why would you do this? Why would you come here?”

For the first time since their conversation began, Kinsley’s voice rose. “Because I don’t like you! I don’t like what you’ve done in this town. I don’t like what you stand for, and I want you gone!”

All of the things Jessica had told him about this man ran through Sebastian’s mind. Everything he’d determined on his own did as well. He regarded Jon Kinsley closely. When he spoke he chose his words carefully. “You admit, Captain, you have tortured in the name of the Klan. You say you have murdered in the name of the Klan. You purport yourself to be a violent man. You threaten to beat your servants.” Sebastian paused. “But you’ve never done it. With the exception of the time you accidentally bruised her arm, you’ve never laid a harmful hand on Jessica. Why is that, I wonder?”

“I want you to leave my wife alone!” Kinsley fumed.

Sebastian grunted. Hiding his exasperation behind a smile, he said, “Now we get to the real issue here. A man doesn’t usually threaten another with castration unless—”

Kinsley moved so swiftly Sebastian didn’t have time to finish his statement. Kinsley’s hands fisted in the lapels of his coat. With a loud growl Kinsley hauled him up, spun him and shoved him roughly against the wall. Holding him there, Kinsley got right in his face and seethed, “So help me God, if you lay one finger on my wife I will kill you myself!”

Slightly surprised by Kinsley’s strength, but secure in his own ability to fight back if needed, Sebastian stood still and stared into Kinsley’s outraged eyes. Calmly he said, “Your wife is a very special woman. Her compassion for those less fortunate is awesome. Her inner strength is remarkable. But you have not made her life easy. She is unhappy and she needs someone to talk to.” He took a deep breath and forged on, “I do love your wife, Captain, but to her I am only a friend.”

Kinsley continued to hold and glare at him, and then he abruptly let go and turned around. “Damn you, Nash! God damn you!” he muttered gruffly.

Not a very smart move, Sebastian mused, to turn your back on someone against whom you’ve just raged, especially someone who was larger and stronger than you. Shrugging his disrupted clothing into place Sebastian stared at Kinsley’s back. He’d wanted to provoke him. He’d wanted Jon Kinsley to give him an excuse to fight. It would be very easy to haul off and…
Patience
, he reminded himself. Kinsley had to swing first.

It was virtually impossible for Sebastian to make himself utter his next words. “Perhaps Captain, you could use a friend as well?”

Kinsley turned around. “I won’t tell the Sons you are the spook,” he said shortly. “But I won’t be able to stop anything from happening to you if you stay.”

“I don’t hold you accountable for my welfare.” Sebastian squinted. Instinct told him he shouldn’t let the captain leave his house just yet, and his reason had nothing to do with his overwhelming desire to pummel the man. “Let me get us some coffee.”

Kinsley shook his head. “I have to go. I would appreciate it if you would say nothing of my coming here to my wife.”

“If that’s what you want.”

“Good evening, Reverend.”

Sebastian followed Kinsley to the foyer and watched as he reached for his coat. He yanked it from the hook roughly and was about to drape it around his shoulders when he froze. In that millisecond of time, before he shoved his arms into the sleeves his eyes were focused again on the black scarf.

Sebastian’s mind was racing. He watched Kinsley jam one hand and then the other into his gloves, and he asked, “Has Jessica played any of her new music yet?”

Kinsley grabbed the door knob. Without turning, he said blandly, “What new music?”

“Strange…” Sebastian’s heart was suddenly and oddly pounding. “I never saw anyone more pleased with a gift in my life. I would’ve thought she would want to learn those pieces right away, especially the one only you knew she wanted.”

“Jessica doesn’t play the piano when I’m home anymore.” Kinsley yanked the door open.

“You know, she felt terrible about not giving you a gift at Christmas,” Sebastian said casually. “She gave me something to give you. Like you, she was afraid if she gave it to you directly, you wouldn’t accept it.”

Kinsley spun around. “What?”

“I think Jessica intended that scarf to be for you,” Sebastian said.

Jon’s eyes narrowed. Furiously, he spat, “Don’t patronize me, Nash. It’s bad enough—” He stopped abruptly, lowered his voice and finished, “It’s bad enough she’s in love with you, too.”

The door behind Jon Kinsley slammed loudly.

His astonishment was so great Sebastian could do nothing but stand there immobile. He felt like he’d been hit in the face with a brick. Perhaps he had. His stomach rolled and he thought he just might be physically ill. Turning, he looked through the entryway of the parlor directly at Margaret’s portrait.

“Dear God,” he whispered aloud, “what have I done?”

Jessica was in the dining room putting away the silver she and Ruth just finished polishing when she heard them come in—Jon and his fellow Klansmen, the pig-faced, smelly, hog farmer, Arnold Whistler, and the one with the lisp, Edward Murphy. There was another voice she recognized instantly, too, but one she’d never heard at Bent Oak Manor before. There was no mistaking Harry Simpson.

From the time Jessica had been a little girl in the school house, she’d been smitten with Harry. He had a brutal upbringing at the hands of his stepfather. Jessica used to imagine running away with him. Harry, however, never returned her feelings. He barely noticed her. Regardless, he was someone the Klan suspected might be the spook. If Sebastian was the spook then obviously Harry couldn’t be, but the mere fact that the Klan was suspicious of him, set him in a different light. Jessica was sure, due to his difficult childhood, he wouldn’t condone the Klan’s violence. Invariably he must have tried to convince them not to raid, which was why they didn’t trust him. Perhaps… just perhaps Harry was the spook’s informant?

Jessica tiptoed across the foyer to stand outside the parlor doors. When the doors were closed, as they were now, sometimes their voices were muffled. But if they spoke loudly enough, she could hear them. Apparently they were celebrating. Their laughter rang out, their glasses clinked and Jon chortled, “Well deserved, Harry!”

“It’s about time!” Harry spouted. “I’ve been kissing Stone’s ass long enough!”

Loud guffaws followed, and Arnold Whistler said, “Jon, you’re the only one of us left.”

“Stone won’t promote me,” Jon said. “I’m too new.”

“Don’t be so sure about that. Stone is unpredictable. And he never forgets anyone or anything.”

“Stone is harmless,” Harry cut in. “The trick to getting what you want with Stone is to tell a good joke every now and then, and never be afraid to stick up for our brothers.” Then he changed the subject. “I tell you, I am ready to go. Things have been stagnant for too long. Has Hughes said anything about what’s next and when?”

“Another Carl Robbins wannabe,” Jon said. “Goes by the name Weber. He was in town yesterday preaching. It’s pathetic. We go Thursday night.”

Carl Robbins was a colored man Jessica had admired. He’d been vocal about the importance of education for former slaves. Listening to his speeches had given Jessica the idea to start her school. Last year the Klan brutally murdered him. They’d tied him up, doused him with kerosene and set him on fire.

“Jon, you were supposed to get details about Weber, weren’t you?” Arnold Whistler asked.

“I got them. He lives close to the tracks, about a mile south of Shanty Town,” Jon said. “I checked it out just the other day. The house is isolated enough.”

“Doth he have any daughterth?” Edward Murphy sniggered.

“I still can’t believe you, Ed,” Arnold Whistler teased.

“Don’t knock it. You theemed to enjoy yourthelf,” Edward Murphy said.

“No complaints here,” Arnold Whistler tittered. “Although she sure was ugly.”

That provoked another round of laughter.

“What happened to you, Jon?” Edward Murphy asked. “We thought you were right behind uth but you dithappeared. You, too, Thimpthon.”

Jon said, “No offense, gentlemen, but I like my bitches a little older. Next time pick one with some curves on her.”

They all laughed again. All of them, except Harry Simpson, who said curtly, “Excuse me. I have to go.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Arnold Whistler said.

“What you did was wrong,” Harry retorted. “It’s rape, and I don’t want any part of it.”

“Oo-oo!” Edward Murphy mocked. “What are you going to do, tell Thtone?”

“I should,” Harry threatened. “Don’t do it again or I will.”

The room grew quiet. From where she stood, Jessica could hear boot heels thumping across the carpet. Someone was moving purposefully toward the parlor doors. She backed away, hoping whoever came out would think she was simply passing by on her way to another part of the house.

The door swung inward and Harry Simpson came through it. Briefly their eyes met, but he didn’t say anything. Jessica stared after him until the front door closed behind him. But she didn’t have time to think about Harry. Almost immediately, her attention was captured by the continuing dialogue in the parlor.

“… you have one here with nice tits,” Arnold Whistler was saying. “What’s her name? The one you think is such an idiot? She cleans for you?”

“All the bitches I have here are idiots,” Jon drawled. “You’re speaking of Martha, my maid. Stupid as they come, but she does have great tits. And sorry to disappoint you gentlemen, but she’s mine and I don’t share.”

They laughed.

“I need one for myself,” Arnold Whistler chortled. “A man can only go so long without.”

Jon chuckled. “You can say that again. And you’re right. I have my bitch trained. I just give her the signal—” Demonstratively he snapped his fingers, twice, in rapid succession. “—and that tight, black cunt is mine, and mine alone, whenever I want it, day or night.”

* * *

Jessica was too ill to sleep that night. She spent most of it by her window watching the snow falling outside. Jon was forcing Martha…
oh God
… she couldn’t even formulate the words in her mind…

And that wasn’t all she’d heard her husband say to his friends. After so crassly describing how he summoned Martha, he went on, “Of course a little variety never hurts,” and then he told them he would be glad to pick the next one.

He’d raped other colored women, too! He probably was among the men who raped that poor thirteen-year-old girl Ruth and Martha told her about.

Unable to listen to any more, Jessica fled. Her pulse had been pounding so badly, she’d barely made it to her room. Once there, she bolted the door, then ran to the door that connected her room to Jon’s and ensured that lock was secure, too. She couldn’t eat. She hadn’t left her room since.

Over and over she replayed what she’d seen so long ago in Nashville. Before they married, Jon took her there to attend the opera. Herlin drove them and Martha came along as a chaperone for her. She and Jon stayed the night in a plush hotel, in rooms adjacent to each other. In the morning she rose early, and she’d been too impatient to wait for Jon to knock. She peeked out into the hallway.

Jon was there, standing in the doorway of his room, wearing only his dressing gown, and Martha was with him. She’d been in his room. Jessica remembered how Jon patted Martha’s shoulder. There had been affection in his touch, she was certain of it. She could still remember the stricken expression on Martha’s face when Martha first spotted her.

That incident alone proclaimed Jon’s guilt. At the time, Jessica had been too blind and naïve, and too charmed by Jon to see what was displayed right before her eyes. Now she knew better. What Jon was doing to Martha wasn’t something that had begun recently. He’d been using her—crudely snapping his fingers at her—for a very long time!

Jessica spent the rest of her sleepless night deciding what to do. By morning she knew. She had no choice. As Martha’s friend, it was incumbent upon her. She had to tell Herlin, so Herlin could protect his wife.

It was still quite early when, after confirming with Ditter that Jon was away from the manor, Jessica wrapped herself warmly and went out to the stable. Herlin was there, laying fresh hay in one of the far stalls. Jessica took a deep, fortifying breath and strode toward him.

“Miss Jessica.” Herlin set his pitchfork aside and tipped his cap. “What kin I do fer ya dis mornin’?”

Herlin had such a friendly smile, and that made it so much more difficult to say what she needed to say. Her heart was hammering and her hands were wringing. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“What’s wrong, Miss Jessica?”

“I don’t quite know how to tell you this. Yesterday, I overheard the captain talking and he said something—” She stopped abruptly, unsure of how to continue. Herlin looked at her curiously. She took another deep breath to garner the courage to forge ahead. “Herlin, I think the captain has forced himself on Martha.”

Jessica had anticipated any number of reactions from Herlin. She expected anger, sorrow, perhaps even denial. She’d even predicted burgeoning acceptance of something he couldn’t control. Never, however, had she imagined the reaction he had. Herlin burst out laughing.

His laughter faded, but only because of Jessica’s unchanged, troubled expression. “No, Miss Jessica,” he said. “Ya must be mistaken. Da cap’n ain’t never been alone wit Martha. It ain’t possible.”

“But he said… he told Arnold Whistler and Edward Murphy that he…” Jessica stammered.

“Ya must o’ misunnerstood.”

“But I saw them together in Nashville when we went to the opera in September. I saw Martha with him. I saw her come out of his hotel room in the morning.”

“She was gettin’ da breakfas’ order.” Herlin shook his head and looked down at the toes of his boots. “Miss Jessica, da cap’n would neva touch a black woman. We disgust him. Ya know dat.”

Herlin was right. Jessica was so confused. More than anything, she wanted to believe what she’d overheard Jon say wasn’t true. Perhaps Herlin was correct. She had misunderstood. When the parlor doors were closed, which they had been, voices were muffled and she often had to strain her ears to make out exactly what was being said.
But that horrible, vile snap of his fingers…

“Miss Jessica,” Herlin said, “Please don’t worry none. If’n it makes ya feel betta, I’ll talk wit’ Martha ’bout it.”

That was the best Jessica could ask for. “I’m sorry, Herlin,” she murmured. She turned to go, but Herlin stopped her.

“Sometimes men stretch da trufe ta fit in. It’s a common fault of our gender,” he said.

Jessica could think of no reply.

* * *

Facing Martha was as awkward as talking to Herlin. Throughout the day, Jessica found herself watching the pretty colored woman closely. She didn’t know what she expected to see, perhaps an underlying sadness she’d never picked up on before. There was nothing in Martha’s demeanor, however, that led her to believe Martha was unhappy, or that she was hiding such a terrible secret. Most of the time, as usual, she smiled and laughed. At one point she came into the kitchen to say hello to the children, and stayed for a few minutes before getting back to her chores. At recess, she came outside to romp with them in the snow.

By the time darkness was falling, although Jessica was still terribly unsettled, there was something else at the forefront of her mind. She’d even planned ahead, by waiting until the servants were having dinner before going to the stable to ready Jasmine. She didn’t want anyone to notice her departure. But she wasn’t so lucky.

She was only as far as trying to heft the sidesaddle up onto Jasmine’s back when she was startled by a soft voice behind her. She spun to see Herlin standing not far away.

“Miss Jessica,” he said. “Would ya like me ta take care o’ dat fer ya?”

Jessica let him take the heavy saddle from her. “I used to do this on my own all the time, but it’s been a while. I feel like I’m all thumbs,” she told him.

“Yes, ma’am,” Herlin said.

While she watched Herlin efficiently prepare Jasmine, Jessica wanted to apologize to him. She wanted to tell him she didn’t intend to cause trouble between him and Martha. The only problem was she didn’t want to broach the subject and cause further upset. Herlin, however, was the one who brought it up.

“I spoke wit Martha,” he said. “She says dere ain’t nothin’ ta be concerned ’bout. Da cap’n ain’t neva done what ya been thinkin’ he done.”

“I hope Martha is not angry with me,” Jessica said contritely.

“Oh no, Miss Jessica, Martha thinks yer special. She like ya jus’ fine,” Herlin said.

“Thank you, Herlin, for being so understanding. And please tell Martha I’m sorry.”

“Will do,” he said. “But now I thinks ya need ta tell me where ya is thinkin’ of goin’ dis late in da night. Da cap’n won’t be pleased, ya goin’ out dere all alone.”

“You don’t need to worry, Herlin. I have everything under control.”

Herlin shook his head. “Ya done used dat excuse afore. And we both know what happened afta dat. Ya knows I cain’t let ya go runnin’ off wifout knowing where ya is. If’n ya ain’t gonna tell me, I’s gonna hafta come witchya.”

She hadn’t wanted to involve anybody, but there was no hope for it. And if there was anyone at the manor worthy of her trust, it was Herlin. She said, “Yesterday I overheard that the Klan is planning an attack on a man named Weber. He lives near the railroad tracks, about a mile south of Shanty Town. Do you know him?”

“Nope, cain’t say dat I do,” Herlin said.

“I have to warn him,” Jessica said firmly. “I have to let him know what the Klan intends to do so he can get away and save his family.”

Herlin looked at her sideways. His eyes were wary. “Miss Jessica, ya got no business gettin’ involved in dese things. Dat spook, he’ll take care o’ everthin’.”

“Herlin,” Jessica argued, “the Klan uses their days of the week in code. They might say they’re planning an attack for Thursday, but they don’t mean Thursday. They could be planning something for tonight. I can’t wait. The spook won’t know and he won’t be able to get there in time. I have to go.”