The Soldier's Lady (14 page)

“Humph!” mumbled Josepha, too surprised at Jeremiah's words to say a word.

“So she jes' gwine sit here with me a spell longer,” Jeremiah went on, “an' ef you don't like it, den maybe Emma an' me'll jes' go fer a walk down by da ribber an' you kin finish dat ironin' yo'self!”

With a look of speechless shock on her face, Josepha continued inside, muttering to herself what was best no one else heard.

Emma looked over at Jeremiah and slowly a smile spread across her face. She leaned toward him. “Dat wuz brave, Jeremiah!” she whispered. “I'd neber dare talk ter her like dat!”

“Aw, Josepha don't scare me wiff all dat talk like she does.”

Emma started giggling as she remembered the look on Josepha's face. “I don't think
anybody's
eber talked to her like dat, except maybe Mistress McSimmons.”

“Well, I reckon I'd better git back ter Micah,” said Jeremiah, gulping down what was left in his glass. He stood. “Thanks fo da tea, Emma.”

“Don't forgit da bread an' milk you wuz takin'.”

“Oh . . . yeah, thanks.”

Jeremiah hurried back inside, grabbing up the parcel of food, dashed over and gave Josepha a quick kiss on the cheek before she could object, then darted from the house.

“Bye, Emma,” he called after him.

Emma sat for a minute more on the porch, slowly sipping her glass of tea, thinking about how good it felt to have a man stand up for her. Slowly she rose and went back into the kitchen where Josepha was waiting for her in silence.

Late in the afternoon Emma heard a shriek and knew instantly that it had come from William. In terror she ran from the house, frantically looking every which way to see where the sound had come from.

Another wild yell sounded. It had come from behind the barn! Her heart leapt into her throat as she thought of the woodpile out there. What if a rat or a snake had come out from hiding and bit him!

She tore from the house and rounded the corner of the barn just as a third shriek burst from her son's lips.

Emma stopped at the sound and stood gaping at the sight in front of her.

There was Micah jogging around in a wide circle, William on his shoulders laughing with delight.

“Look, Mama!” he called to Emma. “I's got me a horsey!”

Micah glanced toward her and smiled broadly. As Emma's fear subsided she could not help breaking into laughter herself to see William having such fun.

“He's gettin' too big fo me ter gib him rides like dat!” she said.

“He'll be on a real horse before long,” rejoined Micah, cantering over to where Emma stood beaming.

“This is quite a boy you've got, Emma,” he said as he slowed. “You ought to be real proud.”

“I reckon I is at dat.”

“You've done a good job with him.”

“I jes' want him ter hab da best life he deserves.”

“You deserve a good life too, Emma.”

“Me, I ain't nuthin'. I want him ter hab better'n me.”

“Well, you both deserve a good life.”

“Whatever I got, I owe to Miz Katie and Mayme.”

“Hey, horsey, gid-up . . . gid-up!” called William, growing impatient with their talk.

Micah laughed and began running again across the ground.

Emma stood watching and William continued to call out to her, enjoying his ride ten times more with his mama now watching his daring adventure.

The unexpected sound of a carriage driving up behind them interrupted the ride and laughter. They ran around, William still on Micah's shoulders, to the front of the barn to see Ward, Templeton, Katie, and Mayme approaching.

“Whatchu doin' home so soon?” said Emma, running up to greet us. “You jes' left yesterday!”

We climbed down from the wagon, weary after the long two days riding to Charlotte and back.

Josepha came out of the house, dish towel in hand with a look of bewilderment on her face just like Emma's and Micah's. The only one who didn't seem to see anything unusual in our early return was William.

As Micah set him down on the ground he ran over to give Katie and me hugs as if we'd been gone a week.

“Let's just say things didn't go as we'd planned,” said my papa, pulling down the carpetbags. “Things have changed since we were all there.”

“What happened?” asked Micah.

“The hotel where we usually stay has changed their policy,” said my papa irritably. “They wouldn't let Kathleen and Mayme share a room. Made me so mad I almost lost my temper.”

“Why didn't you go someplace else?”

“We did, but it was the same story everywhere—either no blacks at all, or separate accommodation for blacks. We searched the whole town but could find no place to stay. Reconstruction they call it . . . the New South.”

“What did you do?” asked Micah.

“It was getting late and we were angry and tired and frustrated and finally just decided to come home. We drove an hour out of the city under the moon, then slept alongside the road—nearly froze to death since we didn't think to take blankets, then got up at sunrise and came the rest of the way.”

“But it wasn't a total loss,” said Katie. “Look at this book we bought in a bookshop in the city.” She
held up a book by some fellows called the Brothers Grimm. “I can't wait to read it.”

Emma followed Katie and me inside while Micah helped Papa with our bags, and Uncle Ward tended to the horse and carriage.

M
ASTER AND
M
ISTRESS

12

W
ILLIAM
M
C
S
IMMONS HAD NOT BEEN SITTING
around doing nothing in the matter of trying to find out what had happened to the result of his dalliance five years earlier with one of his father's house slaves.

That the lame-brained girl had run off and disappeared and not been seen or heard from again gave him hope at first that perhaps she was dead and the child with her. Or, if not dead, so far away that he needn't worry about her popping up again at an inconvenient time.

But in his heart of hearts, he couldn't help but worry. He had a bad feeling. What he felt came from no guilty conscience. How much of a conscience he had at all in the matter was doubtful. The fool girl had been colored. What did it matter what happened to
her
? He was just afraid of getting found out. If his secret was discovered, it would doom any chance he had for a political future. North Carolina voters were not quite ready to elect a man with an illegitimate black child on his resume.

“Have you thought any more about when you will
make your formal announcement and first speech?” Mistress McSimmons asked.

“I'm thinking early summer,” her husband replied. “There's no hurry. Everyone already knows. I thought we would wait until the weather is pleasant. It will give you the opportunity to play the hostess with a real nice Carolina garden party—just like before the war.”

“Then we should begin planning it,” she said. “What about that brat of yours that's wandering around God knows where? Have you cleared that up yet?”

McSimmons turned a dark look on his wife.

“You don't really think it's going to turn up now, after all this time?”

“I want to take no chances.”

“If someone had any intention of trying—”

“Look, William,” she interrupted, “I will not be made a fool of in public. I told you before and I will tell you again—do something about it so that we do not have to spend our lives wondering. I will not put on a lavish lawn party with every influential politician and plantation owner for miles, and their wives, only to have some colored wench sneak in and walk up to you, hold out a child in a blanket, and say, ‘Here, this colored baby is yours!”'

“Don't be ridiculous, Charlotte. If the child's even still alive, it wouldn't be a baby by this time.”

“All the more reason. I tell you, William, I will not be humiliated. I refuse to be haunted by your, shall we say,
indiscretion
for the rest of my life. You figure out a way to deal with it once and for all, or you can count me out of your political ambitions. When I go to Washington it will not be to have myself talked about in connection with such
sordid matters. I will not be made a spectacle of.”

William McSimmons walked into Sheriff Jenkins' office in Oakwood. He made sure the door closed behind him, then sat down.

“Bill,” said the sheriff.

“Sam,” nodded McSimmons. “What can you tell me about those two Northerners I've been hearing about—the ones causing all the trouble.”

“You mean the ones with the coloreds?”

“That's them.”

“The Daniels brothers,” nodded the sheriff. “They're no carpetbaggers, that's for sure, but even worse if you ask me. I've had words with them a time or two.”

“They dangerous?”

“Naw—couple of sissies who seem to think niggers oughta be treated like everyone else. If you got trouble with them, why don't you come out one night with me and the boys? We can take care of things. We been there a time or two already.”

“I can't afford to get involved in any of that,” said McSimmons. “I've got to be respectable, you know, if I'm going to get to Washington. My wife's putting me in three-piece suits—”

“I can see that!” laughed Jenkins.

“That's not the worst of it!” rejoined McSimmons. “She's got me going to social functions, kissing babies, letting old women fawn over me—it's dreadful. But I suppose such is the life of the politician, and Charlotte's been hankering to be a politician's wife ever since she met me.”

“No more whipping the darkies out behind the barn, eh?”

“I'm afraid all that fun is gone,” answered McSimmons with a sigh. “Respectability is all I have to look forward to—the boredom of respectability.”

“Then what's going on between you and the Daniels brothers?” asked Jenkins.

“Nothing much . . . a personal matter. Is it true what they say about the darkies at the place?”

“It's true—more niggers than whites—girls, kids, an old sow who used to be one of your slaves, even old Henry Patterson's taken up with them.”

“Kids too, huh?”

“That's what I hear.”

“Black or white?”

“Don't know. I've never actually laid eyes on any myself—it was night when I paid them a visit.”

“I get your meaning, Sam,” grinned McSimmons. “You know . . . it would really help me out to know more of what's going on there.”

The sheriff's eyebrows rose, but he quickly masked his speculation. “If I hear anything, I'll let you know.”

The would-be politician rose. “Thanks, Sam,” he said. “And, uh . . . this little conversation will stay just between the two of us, won't it?”