To Have and To Hold
Read To Have and To Hold Online
Authors: Tracie Peterson,Judith Miller
To Have and To Hold
© 2011 by Tracie Peterson and Judith Miller
Cover design and photography by John Hamilton
Cover background image © Getty Images/Bertrand Demee
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
Ebook edition created 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meansâelectronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwiseâwithout the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-3378-3
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
To Lorna Seilstad
For your prayers, encouragement, and steadfast friendship during this difficult time. You have blessed my life.
With a grateful heart,
~Judy
Chapter 1Bridal Veil Island, Georgia
Late August 1886
Audrey Cunningham knew that look. The wrinkled brow, the furrowed crevices around the lips, the eyebrows dropped low above gunmetal gray eyesâthe look her father displayed when trouble loomed in their future.
She'd observed far too many of those worried expressions over the past months. And though she'd questioned her father on more than one occasion, he continually denied that anything was amiss. But not this morning. This morning, he motioned her toward the breakfast table and pointed to one of the spindle-back chairs. She settled on the cane seat and braced herself for the bad news that was sure to follow.
“We've got troubles.” His shoulders hunched forward, and a thatch of dark hair that age and worry had peppered with strands of gray fell across his forehead. Even at fifty, his hair remained thick and unmanageable, much like Audrey's unruly coffee brown curls.
She pressed her spine against the hard wood of the hand-turned spindles, folded her hands into a tight knot, and waited.
Her father raked his fingers across his forehead and pushed the errant hair into place. “I've been keeping this from you for a while now. I thought I'd find a solution, but I guess the time has come that I've got to tell you.”
When her father hesitated, Audrey leaned forward and reached for his hand. “What is it, Daddy?” Fear caused her to resort to the familiar moniker she'd used during her childhood.
Her father smiled and squeezed her hand. “Sounds strange to hear you call me Daddy. How long has it been since I've heard that word? Ten years?”
Audrey's thick curls bobbed against her pale cheeks. “Ten and a half.” The day Audrey turned eighteen, she had declared the term far too childish. From that time forward, she'd addressed her father only as
Father
or
Dad
.
He stared at their entwined hands, and she feared he'd lost the courage to continue. “Please, tell me what's happened. Together we can overcome any problem, can't we?” She forced a smile and hoped he wouldn't sense her fear. “We always have before.”
After releasing her hand, he leaned back in the chair, his eyes clouded with defeat. “Not this time, Audrey. Even joining forces, we can't overcome this problem.” He reached into the pocket of his blue chambray shirt and removed a folded envelope. After placing it on the table, he pressed the creases with his palm. “This is the delinquent tax statement on Bridal Fair and our remaining acreage.” With a fleeting look of desperation, he pushed the envelope across the table and lifted his hand. “We don't have money enough to pay.”
Audrey slipped her fingers inside the envelope and withdrew the contents. She rippled through the pieces of paper, carefully noting the amounts and dates on each of the pages. Her stomach tightened into a knot the size of a summer melon as she slowly grasped the truth. They'd been living there for only two years. These tax statements dated back to 1880. “Grandmother hadn't been paying the taxes? Did you know this before we left Pennsylvania?”
Moving to Bridal Veil Island hadn't been Audrey's idea. She'd been opposed to the return to Bridal Fair, the home her ancestors had constructed many years ago. She'd argued against the plan with great vigor. Remaining in Pittsburgh, where she could continue her work as a housekeeper's assistant and enjoy the company of her friends, had been her stated preference. Although her father hadn't articulated a plausible explanation for the move to the aging island home off the coast of Georgia, there had been no doubt he would not rest until Audrey agreed to his request. In the end, she'd been unable to deny his appeal. Now, faced with these tax statements, she silently wished she hadn't given in to his pleas.
“I won't lie to you, Audrey. I knew some money was owed. I just didn't know how muchânot until after we'd already been here several months. I thought maybe we'd be able toâ”
“Able to
what
?” All effort to remain calm vanished. “You've known for all this time, yet never said a word? How
could
you, Father?”
He bowed his head and cupped his face between his palms. “I thought it would all work out. Your grandmother was a close friend of the tax collector's wife. You know how things are in the South. Folks want to lend a helping hand.”
Audrey shook her head. How did he expect her to know how things worked in Georgia? They'd left Bridal Veil Island when she was seven years old. She had a far better idea of how things worked in the North than in the South, but she doubted they'd be granted leniency on their taxes in either place.
“If so many folks want to lend a helping hand, why are you worried?” Though she didn't want to be unkind or disrespectful, Audrey's attempt to keep a civil tongue fell short. But her father's answer wasn't helpful in the least.
Lifting his head from between curved hands, her father met her eyes. “Not everyone is accommodating. Your grandmother's connection to the tax collector's wife helped keep a tax sale at bayâfor her and for us. But the tax collector died a month ago, and a new fellow has taken over.”
“And this new collector doesn't have any reason to be nice to us. Is that right?” Now she understood. Just like in Pittsburgh, it was
whom
one knew rather than
what
one knew. And whom one knew could maybe save one from having a tax-sale notice posted on the front door.
“That's pretty much the sum of it. I don't even know a distant relative of the new fellow. We've been gone far too long to keep up with the necessary socializing. We're going to have to get to know folks over in Biscayne. Then maybe we can get this thing taken care of.”
“Rather than socializing, maybe we need to figure out how we can pay the taxes. How long do we have?” Audrey's mind raced as she considered their options. Perhaps she could get a job in Biscayne. Leaving her father and Aunt Thora alone every day wouldn't be good, but right now there seemed to be no other choice. Given her father's physical condition, he couldn't take on construction work in Biscayne. It had been several months since he'd been able to work more than a day or two without having to recuperate for several days. Now the doctor said he shouldn't commit to any workâmuch less strenuous work. There weren't many options available. And over the past two years they'd depleted most of the funds from the sale of their home in Pittsburgh. This tax burden would be more than they could financially manage.
As if Audrey's thoughts had summoned Aunt Thora into the room, she plodded into the kitchen, her white hair askew.
She fanned herself with determined strokes. “Land's sake, it's a warm one today.”
“Good morning, Aunt Thora,” Audrey and her father said in unison.
In truth, Thora wasn't related to the Cunninghams, nor was she aunt to anyone. She'd been Grandmother Cunningham's former companion and housekeeper of sorts. The housekeeping duties had fallen by the wayside as both of the women aged. When Lavinia Cunningham died two years earlier, there'd been no place for Thora to go, so Audrey's father invited the old woman to remain with them. Aunt Thora had appeared perplexed by the invitation.
In fact, she'd been quite clear in her response. “This here island is more my home than it is yours, Boyd Cunningham, and I don't have plans to go anywhere.” Audrey's father didn't have a response for that.
Over the past two years, Aunt Thora had helped as much as possible, but she couldn't always be relied upon. Frequently her mind slipped into the past, and those lapses proved a challenge for both Audrey and her father. But when Thora was thinking clearly, she could be a fount of information. It was through her stories that Audrey came to know her grandmother and gained a better understanding of the Southern heart and mind.
Today Audrey wasn't certain if Aunt Thora was coherent or not. The old woman arched her thick white eyebrows and
tsk
ed. “You gonna get stuck paying them taxes, Boyd?”
“If we want to stay here, I don't see as I have much choice. 'Course figuring out how to pay them is the hard part.”
Just like up North, the taxes on Bridal Fair and the surrounding acreage had continued to rise through the years. Though somewhat smaller than the plantation homes in Savannah, Bridal Fair was impressive enough to catch the eye of any tax collector eager to assess higher values on landholdings. The mansion hadn't been constructed to impress society, but its magnificent design couldn't be denied. Rather than brick, the mansion had been constructed of native wood with a row of pillars carved from local cypress to mimic the Classical Revival style preferred by her grandmother. When she'd been four years old, her grandparents had added a railing between the huge pillars to give the wraparound porch a more genteel appearanceâat least that's what she'd been told several years later when she had questioned her grandmother. The structure remained an odd mixture of old and new, fancy and plain, yet, situated among the stand of live oaks, it appeared a perfect fit.
Aunt Thora eased onto one of the chairs and set her steely expression upon Audrey's father. “That was the hard part for your mother, too. She never did learn to manage this place after your father passed away. Would have been different if you'd been around to help her.” The old woman shook her head. “Trying to keep things going by herself for all these years just didn't work.” She leaned toward Audrey's father. “I know you did your best to help, Boyd, but your mother jest didn't know how to handle money. Instead of adding those newfangled bathing rooms and spending money like it was water, she should have been taking care to save what money was left from selling off the rest of the island afore your daddy died. 'Course, I know your mama done her best, God rest her soul. If it hadn't been for those Yankee soldiers, we'd still be fine and dandy.”
Audrey cleared her throat. “The Yankees had nothing to do with Granny selling off most of the island, Aunt Thora.”
The old woman pointed a gnarled finger at Audrey. “Them Yankees got everything to do with what's gone wrong in the South. They came down here and tramped their boot prints of blood across our land.” She shuddered. “The South will never be the same. Never!” Her pale blue eyes slowly glazed as she shook her head.
There was no doubt Aunt Thora's mind was slipping back in time. Hoping to hold her in the present, Audrey clapped her hands. “No need dwelling on the past. Father and I will worry about the taxes. You set your mind at ease, Aunt Thora.”
The old woman stretched her hand across the table and patted the tax statement. “You need to summon up your Southern charm, Boyd. Go make friends with the tax collector. Ask him to come for a visit. I'll bake a jam cake.” Her eyes sparkled as though she believed her jam cake could solve any problem.
Audrey's father grunted. “I don't think a jam cake is going to help. What I need is cash.”
“Now, don't you go sounding like one of them Yankees who like nothing better than disregarding the importance of a cordial visit over a piece of jam cake and a cup of tea.” Wisps of white hair fluttered as she shook her head. “Them Northerners grab hold of your heart while you were living up there among 'em? You need to remember your roots.” She clucked her tongue and glanced back and forth between father and daughter. “Both of you!” She pushed up from the chair with a grunt. “You go ride yourself across the sound to Biscayne, and I'll start mixin' up the cake.”
She seemed to think crossing the water to Biscayne was as simple as walking outside to sit on the front porch. Audrey might have commented had she not known it would do little good. Instead, she let her father calm the old woman.
“No need for a cake just yet, Thora. I sent a letter to the tax collector on the mail packet this morning and asked if I could have a couple more months. Let's wait until I hear back from him before you start heating up the oven.”
Thora shook her head as if Father had just admitted to joining the Grand Ole Party. Aunt Thora would have just as soon shot members of the GOP as she would the Yankees. After all, most of the GOP
were
Yankees.
“That there is where you're makin' your mistake. Southerners like to talk face-to-face. Air out their differences in person. If you hadn't lived in Pittsburgh so long, you'd remember how we do business here. Land alive, but it's good you returned to your roots afore you forgot everything your mama ever taught you.”
Audrey's father grinned and folded the tax statement. “I'm sure I remember more than I've forgotten about living on this island. And it takes too much time and too much wood to fire up
Old Bessie
. Besides, that launch is on its last leg. Can't afford to fire her up for a trip that would probably prove useless. That tax collector is likely out pounding up tax-sale signs instead of sitting in his office.”
