A Time for Everything (10 page)

“
I hope you’re finding
everything you need,” he said.

Startled, Portia almost dropped the
book, but managed to close it and place it with the others on the
desk. “Oh, yes, except I’m not sure where the paper and pencils
are.”

“
Did you try the desk
drawers?”

“
Yes, but a few drawers
are locked. Do you have the key?”

“
No, but Bessie might.
Just tell her what you need.”

“
All right.” She peered at
another shelf. “I don’t see any atlases or globes. Would they be
somewhere else?”

He moved to stand beside her, wishing
he had time and inclination to read so many books. Claire always
had her nose in one and could quote Tennyson and Shakespeare in her
sleep. Her mind was one of the reasons he’d fallen for
her.

“
Bessie would probably
know that, too,” he said. “She handled all that after Claire died.
But I don’t see why my son would need to know geography. He might
never leave Tennessee.”

He realized he’d struck a nerve when
she stiffened her jaw and stood straight as a fencepost. “I’m not
sure how you feel about this, Mr. Stanford, but I believe an
education is the most valuable gift you can give a child, apart
from love. When a child is lacking in those things, it’s a
tragedy.”

Beau wasn’t accustomed to backtalk
from his employees, but from the way she jutted her little chin at
him, he wasn’t sure whether to be irritated or amused. “Are you
telling me my son is lacking in education and love?”

“
Of course not. I
just…”

“
Because if you think you
can tell that from having been here for barely a day, then you need
to think twice. Besides, if I didn’t care about my son’s education,
I wouldn’t have hired you, would I?”

She blushed and averted her eyes,
placing a trembling hand on the stack of books. “I’m sorry. I
didn’t mean it to sound that way. Please forgive my
forwardness.”

There I go again.
He had to temper his attitude and meet her on
neutral ground. He took another Tennyson volume — Claire’s favorite
— from the shelf. Flipping to one of her many ribbon bookmarks, he
found a familiar poem.

“
Claire used to read this
to me when we were courting,” he said and cleared his throat,
hoping it wasn’t too late to call a truce.

He read the last stanza.

“
If you are not the
heiress born,

And I,” said he, “the
lawful heir,

We two will wed to-morrow
morn,

And you shall still be
Lady Clare.”

Watching for her reaction, he relaxed
a bit when Portia smiled brightly. Even her eyes took part in it.
“A lady of good taste, I see. And I used to recite this one to
Jake:

‘
Millions of throats would
bawl for civil rights,

No woman named: therefore
I set my face

Against all men, and lived
but for mine own.’”

She shook her head, and her smile
drooped a little. “He’d laugh and call me a rebel.”

“
For good reason, I
bet.”

Her cheeks reddened again.

“
Listen, I wanted to
apologize for being… less than hospitable. I assumed things that I
shouldn’t have, and I think it’s because I felt guilty.”

“
Guilty? Why?”

Beau placed the book back on the shelf
and raked a hand through his hair. “To be honest, I’m not sure how
to pay you. I can barely afford to pay the folks I’ve got now, and
with Jonny’s condition, your job will be even more of a
challenge.”

“
I see.”

“
So, I’ll understand if
you want to annul this position and call it even.”

Exhaling with a sigh, she said, “A
mute child can still learn just fine. And with all due respect, Mr.
Stanford, I’m not here for the money. You may compensate me when
you are able. I’m simply satisfied to have something other than
memories to occupy my hands and mind.”

“
That’s what Pa told me.
Should have listened.”

“
If you have any doubt in
my loyalty because of my husband’s affiliation…”

He held up his hand. “I think it’s
best not to venture there again. Only time will determine your
loyalties here.”

Portia ducked her head and
nodded.

“
Good, then. I expect you
to make a scholar out of my boy in return for your room and
board.”

“
I don’t think that will
be too difficult. Jonathan is a clever young man.”

“
How can you
tell?”

“
Once a teacher, always a
teacher, Mr. Stanford.”

Beau gestured around the study. “Then
this place is all yours. If you need more supplies, you’re welcome
to ask Isaac to take you into town.”

“
Do you have a buggy I can
drive?”

Beau raised an eyebrow. “Yes, however,
I’d recommend you have an escort. Times are different now. We have
to be careful.”

“
All right, and thank you.
If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll find Bessie and finish preparing for
tomorrow’s lessons.”

“
One more
thing.”

“
Yes?”

“
You’ve noticed the scar
on Bessie’s face?”

Portia shrunk back a little. “I
did.”

He kept his expression calm. He didn’t
want to intimidate her again, but he wanted her to see his side of
things. “She had gone into town with me and Pa one morning. I was
fifteen, sixteen at most. I’d been acting up, being disrespectful —
you know how boys are. We had just come out of a store and she
smacked my mouth. I deserved it, but one of the local overseers was
there on his horse and witnessed it. He struck her across the face
with some kind of whip that had metal hooks on the end. Cut her
pretty bad. I dragged that man off his horse, knocked him to the
ground and kept hitting. It took Bessie and Pa to pull me off him.
Perhaps now you can understand my distaste for your husband’s
former occupation.”

She nodded but wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“I understand.” Her voice quivered as though she might cry at any
moment. “If it makes any difference, you should know that Jake
shared your sentiments. He also paid dearly for it. If you’ll
excuse me…”

Beau stared after her as
she hurried from the room.
What did she
mean, paid dearly for it?
This woman was
proving to be more perplexing than he imagined.

He pulled out the chair and sat at the
desk. Propping himself on his elbow, he rested his chin in his
hand. His eyes drifted to the fountain pen resting in its brass
stand. He picked it up and traced a finger over the names engraved
on it:

Beauregard and Claire Stanford
,
est.
May 17,
1854

Claire had presented it to him when
they first married and when she decorated the study. He never liked
it much, though he never told her that. It didn’t hold ink very
well and left black blobs every few words in his correspondence.
But he missed the way Claire handled things with such grace and
ease. Portia was lucky in a way. At least she could get away from
the memories. Beau had no choice but to live under their
unpredictable shadows, creeping up on him when he least expected
it.

The gray cotton
dress with the white lace collar hadn’t been worn
since Portia had taught school before Abby came along. Aside from
being slightly crumpled and loose-fitting on her thin frame, it was
in good condition. Her cedar chest kept the moths away and it still
smelled like her little home. Jake had called her an old school
marm when she wore it, and although it did make her feel matronly,
the dress had proven comfortable for a long day in a classroom.
Now, of course, she had only one student — and a mute one at that.
She hoped she could find a way to connect with him despite his
silence.

Taking extra care to pin her hair
tightly so it wouldn’t come loose, she swallowed her doubts and
headed downstairs for breakfast. To her surprise, Beau was the only
person at the table, and from the bits of egg and half-eaten
biscuit on his plate, she could tell he had almost finished with
his meal. He looked haggard with dark shadows under his eyes and
more wrinkles on his brow than there should be for a new morning.
He muttered an indecipherable greeting to her as she entered the
dining room.

“
Good morning, Mr.
Stanford.”

She headed for the kitchen, intending
to eat in there, but hesitated when he asked, “Sleep
well?”

“
Yes, and you?”

“
I’ve had better
nights.”

“
Sorry to hear that.” She
started for the kitchen again.

“
Take a seat. Bessie’s
already got breakfast on the table, as you can see.”

He gestured toward a platter
containing a few strips of bacon, a nice pile of eggs, and
perfectly browned biscuits. A couple jars of preserves and a
pitcher of milk rounded out the spread.

“
All right.” She wondered
if he considered her tardy and was upset that she didn’t help
Bessie in the kitchen. But she figured it was best not to stir the
pot and risk further aggravation. She took her seat and added one
piece of bacon, a spoonful of eggs, and a biscuit to her
plate.

Several moments of strange silence
passed, with Beau slowly working his way through another helping of
eggs.

Portia wiped her mouth with her napkin
and asked, “Where is everyone?”

“
Harry’s gone to Lockport.
I guess Pa and Jonny slept in. I’m usually the first one up. Guess
you’re an early bird, too.”

“
Always have been. Farm
wife, you know.”

That last part incited a heavy feeling
in her chest. She turned her attention to her breakfast and nibbled
some bacon. At least he didn’t think she was late.

Beau cleared his throat. “Right.” He
paused as though trying to figure out what to say next. “I’ve been
wondering something… when we last spoke, you said your husband paid
dearly for his sentiments. What did you mean?”

“
Well… I suppose it all
began with a lie.” She fumbled with her biscuit, breaking it into
little pieces. “John Overton was the owner of Travellers Rest. He
had slaves, yes, but he was good to everyone who worked for him. He
was fond of Jake, too. When men started getting conscripted, Mr.
Overton vouched for Jake and claimed him as a full-time overseer,
so he could avoid being put into service. The head overseer was Mr.
Barrett, but the slaves respected Jake more even though he was
there only a few weeks out of the year. Some of them confided in
him about Mr. Barrett and his ill treatment of them. Jake was very
troubled by it. He knew what my daddy… he didn’t believe anyone
deserved such abuse. By that time, though, Mr. Overton had fled
behind Confederate lines. Jake decided to bring the matter to Mrs.
Overton, but she made the mistake of confronting Mr. Barrett. In
retaliation,
he
threatened to turn in Jake for avoiding conscription. Jake
knew if he didn’t enlist willingly, he faced prison, fines we
couldn’t afford, or worse. He joined up in February of sixty-four.
Abby was just six months old. That was the last time we saw him
alive.”

With a slight nod, he stared at his
plate, slowly chewing a bite of biscuit. His worry-creased
expression relaxed. He spoke but sounded gentler than before. “I
apologize for assuming the worst of your husband.” Another tense
pause hung between them and then, “Did you… get to see him…
after?”

Her eyes widened as she met his
gaze.

“
I’m sorry,” he said
quickly, “I shouldn’t have asked such a personal thing.”

She swallowed past the lump in her
throat. “No, it’s all right. I did see him. They brought him home
in the back of a wagon. He still looked like himself, but…” Putting
the memory into words brought tears to her eyes and a familiar ache
to her chest. “…it was as though everything that had been my
husband was gone, leaving only an empty shell, if that makes any
sense.”

“
It does make sense.” He
sat silent for a moment as he rubbed his forehead. “I didn’t get to
see Claire, just her grave. I don’t know if it would have been
easier or not to have seen her, but I’ll always wonder.”

Portia had never expected to share
such heavy things with her employer, but she found some comfort in
it. She hadn’t spoken to anyone about Jake or Abby except Ellen,
and as sympathetic as her friend had been, she couldn’t truly
relate. Mr. Stanford, at the very least, understood the pain of
losing a spouse — how lonely and topsy-turvy the world felt
afterward. She wanted to respond with something that might comfort
him in return, but Ezra and Jonathan came to the table before she
had a chance.

“
Mornin’.” Ezra’s joints
sounded like popcorn as he eased into his seat. “The hips ain’t
what they used to be. Why the long faces? Somethin’
happen?”

Beau glanced at Portia before turning
his attention to Ezra. “No. Just tired.”