Undaunted Love, page 21
Madeline reached over and took her sister’s hand. “Maybe we can talk to people, Liv.”
Livvie turned the baby around and set him on her lap, leaning against her stomach. She nibbled on a piece of buttered bread. “Wouldn’t anybody who knew somethin’ already have told the sheriff? And Rafe’s house is so far out of town, so far off the road even, it’s not like someone would be passin’ by. Unless someone else was there when it happened, I don’t know what anybody could tell us.” She was dejected. She knew she could join Rafe in Florida and they could live there the rest of their lives. But Rafe was innocent, she knew, and she didn’t want him to live as a fugitive. Not to mention that it galled her that someone had obviously tried to frame him, to get him arrested. Her father’s involvement in it all made her uneasy, although she couldn’t see Hugh Byrd strangling someone with his bare hands. He didn’t like touching people – he was more of a gun man.
“We’ll figure it out, Liv,” Madeline assured her, but she didn’t really see how they would.
Livvie woke up in her bedroom, baby Gabriel cooing and burbling in her old bassinet. She stretched and smiled as she listened to him, waiting to pick him up until he began to fuss with hunger. Scooping him up she wrinkled her nose at his dirty diaper, and nuzzled him under his chin. He chuckled, and she laid him down and quickly changed him, then propped herself on the bed to nurse. When he’d had his fill, she burped him, settled him in the middle of her bed so she could change, then took him downstairs.
She’d just come to the bottom of the stairs when there was a loud knocking at the front door. Waiting to see if Emmy would answer it, she tensed when the knocking came again, louder this time. Hesitantly she went to the door and opened it. On the landing stood Wyman Phelps. She could tell that he was drunk, either from the night before or because he’d started with breakfast. Either way, she didn’t want to talk to him, and started to close the door, holding Gabriel tightly to her shoulder. Wyman pushed his way in, his face plastered with a false smile.
“Just who I was hoping to see. A little bird or two told me you’d come back home.” He swept past her to her father’s office, swinging the door open and weaving a bit to the desk. He propped himself up on his buttocks, crossing his arms over his chest.
“What do you want, Wyman? It’s not fittin’ you should be here, with you not working for Daddy any more and all.” Gabriel started to fuss and she bounced him gently, keeping in the doorway, with her eyes on the young man.
“Ah yes, so you heard that the great Hugh Byrd decided he didn’t need me. I should have known that news would travel.” He swung around and sat himself in her father’s chair, propping his feet up on the glossy desk.
“What do you want, Wyman?” Livvie asked again. She was aghast at his boldness, but without Emmy or Madeline around, she didn’t dare provoke him too much.
“What I want,” he spit out, his face changing alarmingly fast from amiable drunk to mean, hard stare. “What I want is what I was promised by your daddy. And the first thing he promised was you.” He stood up, lurching around the desk. Livvie backed into the hallway. “He promised me a wife, a career, greatness. He said he could see what I was destined for, and that he had a lovely young daughter who would be just the right woman to have by my side as I followed my destiny.” He took a few steps towards her, and she backed up until she was against the far wall, the baby beginning to fuss at being held too tightly. “I mean to have what I was promised.”
He lunged at her, but found that his way was blocked by a furious black woman with a cast iron skillet in her hand. Gabriel started howling, and Livvie slid sideways down the wall towards the kitchen door.
In a deadly calm voice, Emmy said, “Mistuh Wyman, you git on outa here now, ‘fore I call for Sheriff Gingras. We don’t want no trouble from you, and I don’t think it be a good idea to mess with Mistuh Hugh Byrd nor his daughter. Git on, now…” She still had the skillet raised, and there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that she could and would swing it with all her might at his head if he didn’t obey. Furious, Wyman stalked to the door, slammed it open so that it hit the wall, and walked out.
Chapter Fourty-Four
A GROUP OF MEN, MOSTLY WORKERS from the quarry, met regularly to fish on Sunday evenings. They were all veterans from the War, and had come to Florida to start a new life. None of them liked to talk about the War, the battles, the death, but they had a camaraderie from those shared experiences, even with out articulating them. Most had their wives and children with them, and the new little town was bustling with a new schoolhouse and the sounds of children at play. One of the men, a thirty year old German, had lost his wife to yellow fever the summer before the War ended. His mother lived with him to take care of his three children, but he still grieved his sunny Georgia bride.
The youngest in the group besides Rafe was Isaac Mitchell, a tall, broad, brawny man from the mountains of North Carolina. He, too, had left his wife at home. She had been pregnant with their first child, and had preferred to stay at home with her family rather than make the long and arduous trek south to the quarry and risk delivering along the way. Neither could read or write, and Rafe sympathized with Isaac’s loneliness. He had gotten a telegram when the baby was born, a little girl they’d agreed to name Elizabeth, but they didn’t have the funds for such extravagances regularly. That was the only news he’d had of his family in a year.
Rafe had six catfish on a string and Isaac four as they walked along the dirt River Road towards home. As happened most times they were alone, their talk turned to their wives.
“I make a decent livin’ down here,” the young man said, his brown curly hair a halo of frizz in the humidity. “And Mr. Wallace, he’s as good as they come.” Isaac had a heavy accent, different from the coastal Carolina accent of Byrd’s Creek. “But it don’t seem ever enough to send for Mary, and I cain’t take a month or more of’n work to go get her.” He shuffled his feet, discouraged. “They say the railroad’ll come here by and by, but nobody ever said when by and by is…”
Rafe laughed. “Florida has a law that railways can’t come across the state line. I heard tell it was to keep any company that was Yankee owned out. Closest you can get is Savannah, which is a darn sight closer than the mountains.”
Isaac shook his head and swung his fish. “Don’t do me no good to have her in Savannah. What she gonna do then, walk?”
Since Rafe had spent considerable time on this question himself, and having no solution as of yet, he walked on in silence. Finally he said, “I could write a letter to your wife for you. Is there someone in your town who could read it to her?”
The big man thought a moment, then said, “Aye, the rector up to the church, I reckon.” He looked over at Rafe. “You sure you don’t mind?”
“Course not. Come on by after supper, and we’ll write it. You can take it to the post office on your way in the mornin’.”
Not a man of many words, Isaac grinned all the way into town, swinging his fish so that Rafe thought they’d go flying off and into the road at any moment. He wished he had answers for Isaac, but even more, he wished he had them for himself.
When he arrived at home, he saw that someone had left a package in the small box by his door. Only one person knew where he was, so he knew it was from Livvie. Scarcely breathing, he set the fish down, sat in a rocker on the porch, and carefully opened the brown paper with his fishing knife. He moved slowly, wanting to put off any bad news as long as possible. He hadn’t allowed himself to think that his wife was still his. Much better to believe she had moved on, so that when he read the words, he was prepared.
Inside the box was a small leather bound book which had several folded pages inserted, and a letter. He slid the letter out and unfolded it, took a deep breath, and began to read. When he was done his face was flushed, his heart was pounding, and he wanted to jump and shout and dance and sing out in his joy. She was his! Beyond all reason, beyond all hope, she was his, and she loved him still. He sat back, shaking his head and laughing, then saying a silent but heartfelt prayer of thanks to the Father who’d knit them together.
After a few minutes of giddy happiness he remembered the journal. He realized that the folded pages were letters that Livvie hadn’t been able to send, which were dated before she had started the journal. He began to read through them, stopping dead when he read that she was carrying his child. A baby! he thought. Do we have a baby? He wanted to skip forward and see if he was indeed a father, but he also wanted to live those days vicariously through these letters, feeling close to Livvie and her joys and sorrows, so he kept reading.
It was getting dark when he was done with the letters, and the fish were still lying on the ground. He realized he’d better tend to them before they spoiled, so he set everything inside on the kitchen table and went back outside to clean the fish. A half hour later he came in with a plate of fillets, and set out a cast iron pan with oil on the stove. As it heated, he turned on the lantern and picked up the journal. When he read of his mother’s death, he put his head down on his arms and cried. He knew, somewhere inside, that she had to be dead. He’d seen her, and knew that she wouldn’t last long. But as long as he didn’t know for sure, he had fooled himself, part of him choosing to believe that she had recovered again and was reading books, and laughing with Livvie, and teasing Nackie about his cooking. He laid the journal aside as he grieved, releasing all his losses in a way he had never been able to before.
As he cried for his mother, he realized he was crying for his father, for the farm, for his family’s home, for all the dead friends in the War, for those he’d killed, for so much destruction to his beloved country. He cried for his marriage, for his wife and – dare he think it – his child. He cried for Byrd’s Creek and all the men lost. He cried for himself, for the boy he’d been, for the mistakes he’d made, for the hurt he’d caused. And he found that all those tears washed away the anger that had been building inside him, building since his daddy died, hardened when his land was taken, anchored when he was given a rifle and told to kill his countrymen. He gave it all up, and asked God to wash him clean, to take it all and leave him with nothing but peace.
When he finally picked up his head, he saw smoke billowing from the hot oil on the stove, and rushed to turn it off. Seeing that it was burned, he laughed. It was the last of his oil, and he wasn’t a great cook anyway. He wrapped the fish up in newspaper and set out. Maribel would be willing to cook it, and there was more than enough to share. In fact, he’d be sharing a lot more than fish.
Chapter Fourty-Five
IN A TOWN THE SIZE of Byrd’s Creek, it wasn’t possible to go unnoticed. While staying at home as much as possible, the sisters ventured out several times during the week, leaving the children at home with Emmy. Gabriel looked enough like Thomas, at least from a distance, that the neighbors wouldn’t question his paternity, but Livvie couldn’t bear to think of disowning her son, saying she was just his aunt, and lying to all her friends.
Mrs. Smith had opened a small tea room in the building next to the general store. Formerly a small tailoring shop, the owner, Mr. Spencer, had moved back to his family home in New Jersey as soon as the Confederacy had been declared, and the space had sat empty during the war years. Always a gossip, and loving to bake, Mrs. Smith had found herself the proprietor of a bustling little business. By mid-morning each day there were a half dozen or more women sipping tea and finding out the latest news, and so many stayed over til early afternoon that Mrs. Smith started to serve a light luncheon.
Madeline and Livvie entered for the first time, delighted by the feminine decor of upholstered chairs, frowsy chintz curtains, mismatched pine tables and chairs, and a brick fireplace, cold now and filled with vases of flowers. Mrs. Smith greeted them each with a hug and kisses to both cheeks, and she sat them in the window so they could see the townspeople walking by. There were three other tables occupied, and a group of three old women sitting in front of the fire on cushioned chairs. All looked up and smiled when the sisters came in, and greetings were called out from around the small room. After smiling and waving, they sat down and picked up crisp shortbread cookies from a plate already on the table.
“Wyman hasn’t been seen since the other morning,” Livvie said. “Emmy’s been asking around.”
“If he has a brain in his head, he realized what he’d done once he sobered up, and skedaddled on home to his daddy in Savannah.” Madeline finished her cookie and picked up another. “These are delicious!”
“I guess you’re over the sickness?” Livvie asked.
Madeline nodded. “I think I’m three months along, and the only problem now is that I’m hungry all the time!”
Livvie laughed. “We’ll have to stay in Wadmalaw again, since you sure wouldn’t be carrying a baby again so soon, if anyone bothers to count.”
“Shh!” Madeline put her finger to her lips, looking around. “This is a room full of women, and they’ve got ears like rabbits.”
Looking around guiltily, Liv nodded. “You really think Wyman’s gone? Finally, and for good?”
Her sister shrugged. “I’m not sure anybody can say what he’d do in the state he’s been in. But if he comes again while we’re here, we’re sending for the sheriff.”
“I don’t want to see the sheriff…” She remembered the overheard conversation at Mrs. Hauser’s house, and the hard accusations Gingras had made against her husband.
“He doesn’t know… Well, he doesn’t know.” Mrs. Smith set a tea tray down in front of the girls, and they stopped talking while she arranged cups and the tea service in front of them.
“Will you be stayin’ for lunch, ladies?” she asked.
“I don’t think so, ma’am. Emmy’s expecting us. We left her alone with all the children, so I expect she’ll be watchin’ at the windows!” Madeline laughed, and Mrs. Smith joined her. Livvie smiled, but she was thinking about Wyman, and about Rafe.
When Mrs. Smith had gone over to the old women by the fireplace, Livvie said, “He scares me, Mad. Gardner saved me once, and Emmy the other day. But what happens if he finds me and no one else is around? He didn’t even notice I was holding a baby! He was…”
“Drunk,” Madeline said, sipping her tea.
“Crazy,” Livvie corrected.
Livvie and Madeline had planned to stay in Byrd’s Creek for ten days before returning to the Kinney farm. With their father traveling around the state garnering support for his Senate campaign, the sisters enjoyed visiting with Emmy, restocking their personal supplies from the general store, buying fabrics and planning new dresses, and being in a town rather than in the country. They hadn’t seen Wyman again, for which they were eternally grateful, and the fear that he had engendered began to fade.
On their last day they decided to visit Mrs. Hauser. Both girls had known her all their lives, and Livvie had become close to the old woman during her time with Mariah. Emmy gave them a wedge of pound cake wrapped in a pretty gingham cloth, and the sisters set out in the cool of the morning. They enjoyed the walk, and the weather was fair and mild for June, and before they knew it they were turning down the drive to the Hauser farm. As they got closer, they could see that several carts were parked in front of the wide front porch, and men were milling about.
Alarmed, Livvie gathered her skirts and hustled the final hundred feet. When she got closer, she could see that Sheriff Gingras and his two men were standing at the foot of the stairs, Mrs. Hauser, obviously distraught, at the top, and a stranger was sitting in a wagon, watching with an impassive face. When Mrs. Hauser saw the sisters she showed palpable relief.
“Livvie! Thank goodness!” she breathed.
“What’s going on?” Livvie flew up the stairs and gave the old woman a hug and peck on the cheek. With an arm around her waist she turned to the men. “Sheriff? Is something wrong?”
Gingras was flustered by the arrival of the Byrd sisters, that much was evident. He looked at his men, and then at the man in the wagon, before responding. “We told Miz Hauser here that this gentleman…” He gestured to the man in the wagon. “… Mr. Prescott, is arranging to buy her farm, and we were suggesting to her that she might want to move on out.”
Livvie leveled a cold stare at him. “Where is Mr. Prescott’s money? Mrs. Hauser, has he given you any money?”
Shaking her head, the old woman lifted her chin a little. Good, Livvie thought. She hasn’t given in yet.
“Mr. Prescott, I don’t believe this farm is for sale,” Livvie said politely, the words sticky sweet but made of steel.
The man, in his mid-thirties, plump, and overdressed for June in the South, looked at the sheriff, then back at the three women on the stairs, plainly confused.
“I was told it was being sold off for back taxes,” he said, his accent marking him as from Massachusetts.
“By whom, sir?” Madeline asked. She had her hands on her hips and was staring down at the man with a fierce scowl on her face.
He stammered. “Uh…um, well, I was in, um, well, I was in Columbia and met a man, a very important man, from here, as a matter of fact, a Mr. Hugh Byrd, and he, um, well, uh, I was telling him that I was coming down to buy land, and he said he knew of some, uh, well, that, um, could be had. Because of taxes, do you see?” Mr. Prescott was sweating, big beads dripping down his face and onto his worsted wool coat.
