To Whisper Her Name (8 page)

Although he didn’t like this new angle Green had thrown in, Ridley didn’t see that he had any choice. He held out a hand, and Green shook it. “Fair enough. I’ll look forward to meeting him.”

“And meet him you will, soon enough. He’s usually in the saddle ridin’ the plantation from dawn ‘til dusk. But there’s somethin’ you got to promise me ‘fore we agree to all this, Lieutenant. And it’s not somethin’ I’m willin’ to budge on.”

His interest piqued, Ridley waited, watching. “And what’s that?”

“No matter what, you can’t ever tell anybody what side you fought for, sir … And General Harding can’t ever know that you and me met on that mountain.”

O
livia, dear, please have a second serving.” Elizabeth gestured to the servant holding a bowl of mashed potatoes beside Olivia. “You’re hardly eating enough for a bird.”

The young Negro girl tried to scoop another dollop of potatoes onto her plate, but Olivia held up a hand. “They were delicious, thank you. But I’ve had plenty.” Glad Elizabeth didn’t force the issue — like she had with the buffalo roast — Olivia sipped her water and tried not to stare at Cousin Lizzie, the new head housekeeper, who had arrived shortly before she had that morning. But with the young woman seated directly across the table from her, it made the determination a challenge.

Olivia glanced down at her own gray ensemble, which she’d changed into before dinner. Wrinkled though it was, this dress was in better shape than the other she’d worn here. A servant had already claimed the black dress for cleaning and mending, assuring her it would be back in her wardrobe by morning.

Conversation whirled about the table, as did the variety of topics discussed, and the spirited exchanges all but abandoned the customary etiquette of formal dinners Olivia had attended here before. It occurred to her then that she’d never actually attended a family dinner at Belle Meade. The stinging realization as to why didn’t help her feel any more welcome.

She was an outsider.

Surely everyone else around the table was thinking the same thing. Even Aunt Elizabeth — who appeared weary from the day’s events — treated her more like an honored guest than someone who would be living here permanently. Selene was politely cordial and attentive — painfully so. And Mary …

Olivia sneaked a look at the youngest Harding daughter. Mary Harding rarely met her gaze at all, yet was thick as thieves with Lizzie, despite the difference in their ages. Even now, the two had their heads together, smiling and whispering about something.

Lizzie was older than Olivia had expected. In her mid-thirties, Elizabeth had confided earlier. Lizzie’s parents were deceased and she’d never married. The hope of matrimony for a woman of such years was paper-thin these days, or so Elizabeth had shared, what with so few men among them. From every indication, however, the young woman seemed nice enough.

The greatest infraction Olivia could lay at Cousin Lizzie’s feet was that she’d requested a third serving of cinnamon apples. But the apples were delicious. Prepared to perfection, like everything else. So there was little fault to be found with the woman.

Everything about the meal was exactly as Olivia imagined a real family dinner should be. So unlike the dinners of her childhood, which had been quiet, proper, and in order. No one talking over anyone else. Sentences never touching. No dramatics. No outburst of laughter like here.

Having been an only child born to an older couple, she’d never experienced a family dinner like this and likely never would — not with the reputation Charles had left behind. A reputation yoked as snuggly about her neck as the rope that had been tied around his.

The thought of Charles, the reminder of how he’d died, made her squirm. She didn’t desire to marry again, so why even a passing wish to experience such a setting as this for herself? Yet, looking around the table, seeing the smiles, the warmth, the familiarity and ease with which this family interacted, she knew why.

Because she’d once held such hopes for what marriage and family might be.

As a girl, she’d daydreamed about it. As a young woman, she’d been groomed and prepared for it. And as a bride, she’d swiftly realized it was nothing like she’d imagined.

There would come a day, she knew, when she would have to remarry. If only to avoid burdening the handful of people around this table who still welcomed — or at least tolerated — her company. But she prayed that day was a long way off. At least a year, if not two, abiding by the customary grieving period for a widow.

And the next man she married — if given a choice, a choice
she’d fight for this time — would be nothing like Charles. He would be feeble, paunchy, and dull. Scarcely able to raise his voice to her, much less his hand. If she was fortunate enough, she’d feel for him a kindly sort of affection. Not the depth of love and longing she’d once dreamed of. Those were the childish dreams of a little girl who hadn’t known any better and a young woman not yet acquainted with life and its realities.

And disappointments.

Olivia studied the napkin in her lap, smoothing out the wrinkles and fingering the elaborate
H
embroidered on one of the corners. Other attributes she’d wish for in a husband — if given the right to choose — were loyalty and honesty. And beyond question, he’d be a Southerner, dedicated to rebuilding all that was lost when the Confederacy fell.

Laughter echoed around the table, bringing Olivia back to the moment, and she thought she heard her name. She lifted her head to see Elizabeth watching her, as was everyone else.

“I was just asking you, dear … Have you heard the general tell this story before? It’s quite amusing and goes along rather well with our dessert this evening, which our Susanna makes to perfection.”

Olivia blinked. “Ah …” Having absolutely no idea what Aunt Elizabeth was talking about, she forced a smile, seeing the young server from before setting bowls of syllabub in front of each of them. “I don’t believe I have, Aunt Elizabeth. But I’d certainly love to!”

Olivia guessed, by the general’s satisfied expression and the way he settled back into his chair, that she’d answered correctly. Eager to taste a spoonful of the whipped-cream dessert — so light and airy, one of her favorites — she waited for Elizabeth to take the first bite, as etiquette dictated.

“My late father, John Harding, God rest him,” the general began, “was quite a man who lived quite an adventuresome life, as my family well knows. Not only did he carve out the beginnings of what is now Belle Meade, but he was instrumental in shaping the framework for the city of Nashville. He and my mother used to entertain local and national dignitaries, and on several occasions —”

“Oh, hurry, Papa,” Mary cajoled, “and get to the good part.”

“And be sure to do Grandpa Harding’s voice too,” Selene added.

He held up a hand. “Patience, daughters, patience.” Then he sneaked them a wink.

Olivia saw the other ladies smile, so she did too. Until she saw General Harding looking at her.

“I’m assuming you’ve heard of David Crockett, Olivia? The famous bear hunter and Tennessee congressman?”

She nodded. Every child in Tennessee was taught about Davy Crockett.

“Well, shortly before Crockett left Tennessee for Texas” — General Harding leaned forward — “my father and mother entertained him. Right here, at Belle Meade.” His smile grew wistful. “Mr. Crockett was one entertaining storyteller, ladies. After dinner we’d sit around for hours and listen to him weave his stories. One night …” He grinned. “My mother, Susan, served this very dessert.”

As if on cue, everyone looked at their bowls then back at him.

“When Crockett asked my father what it was, my father said …” General Harding lowered his chin a fraction. “‘The ladies call it syllabub, I believe, Mr. Crockett,’” he said in a deeper register, his drawl thicker than usual. “‘Do you like it?’”

Selene, Mary, and Lizzie giggled. Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled, and Olivia found herself grinning too.

“Crockett,” the general continued in a normal voice, “whose reputation as a witty man was known far and wide, replied, ‘Well, I don’t know. I took a snap or two at it but I reckon I missed it!’”

Laughter erupted around the table and Olivia joined in, a sense of relief inching back toward her. The general included her in his gaze.

Elizabeth took the first bite of syllabub and the rest of the table followed suit. “Olivia, I wish you could have met Mr. Harding, the general’s father. He had such a gentle presence about him, so mild in manner and speech.”

“And what was his motto, girls?” the general asked.

Selene looked at Mary, who paused her spoon mid-air. “‘If you had tried a little harder,’” they said in unison, and even Lizzie joined in, apparently familiar with family history too, “‘don’t you think you could have got a little further?’”

Once again, everyone laughed. And once again, Olivia felt like she was on the outside looking in.

“Selene …” The general sipped his coffee. “Was that your young friend Roberta here today?”

“Yes, Father, it was.”

“And did you finally coax her into riding?”

Selene shook her head. “She would scarcely set one foot inside the mares’ stable, much less get close enough to touch one. Or ride. She kept insisting they wanted to do her harm.”

Everyone around the table laughed. Everyone except Olivia.

“The next time she’s here” — the general looked pointedly at his eldest daughter, his voice holding firm resolve — “you must let me know. I’ll take it upon myself to get her seated and riding immediately. Every young woman should know how to ride and handle a horse. We must face our fears instead of running from them. And you may tell her I said as much.”

Silence reigned as though everyone were taking the general’s edict to heart. Olivia kept her gaze glued to her bowl, praying with a fervor no one would ask her about riding.

“And just how is your son these days, General?” Cousin Lizzie asked, braving the quiet.

“John Jr. is doing quite well, thank you for asking, Lizzie. He and his wife and their children are most comfortable at Stones River Farm near Nashville. They were here for dinner not a week ago.”

Olivia had almost forgotten the general had a son by his first wife. No fault to Elizabeth, however. She’d mentioned him often in her letters, but Olivia had never met him.

“Selene received a letter from someone special today,” Elizabeth announced in a lyrical voice, and Olivia peered up.

Selene continued eating her dessert, a tiny smile her only response.

“Indeed,” the general replied. “But doesn’t she routinely receive such letters? I’ve chased off at least four admirers this month alone. None of them worthy.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “You are far too severe on her gentleman callers.”

Sipping his coffee, the general waved the comment away. “Who might this someone special be? Don’t tell me, let me guess. Might he be … a butcher?”

His comment drew laughter.

“Or baker?”

“Father,” Selene said, her tone playfully scolding.

“Or perhaps a candlestick maker?” he finished.

Olivia watched the scene unfold, grateful for the shift in topic and enjoying the syllabub, but noticing that Mary wasn’t taking part in the playful exchange.

“Dear husband.” Elizabeth laughed. “Surely you can guess the author of said letter.”

“Yes, I could,” he answered, his smile faint. “But I want my daughter to tell me. I want to hear her say the gentleman’s name.”

Hearing a pinch of seriousness in the general’s voice, Olivia feigned interest in the cream pooling at the bottom of her bowl while still sneaking looks.

A gradual blush crept into Selene’s cheeks. She gently laid her spoon aside and looked down the table at her father. “His name is General William Hicks Jackson, as you well know, Father.” A smile bloomed on the young woman’s face, as telling as any declaration could be.

“Ah, yes.” General Harding scooped a bite of syllabub into his mouth and, judging by his expression, savored the taste. “I believe I’ve heard of this gentleman before. But I wanted to know how my daughter felt about him.” His gaze grew endearing. “One can always tell how a woman truly feels about a man when she speaks his name. She either does it with affection, stemming from pride. Or with hesitance … born of shame.”

The table fell silent, and Olivia went still, her lungs expunged of air. She kept her focus on her bowl, needing to take a breath but not daring to for fear she would gasp.

“And I can tell,” the general continued, “that you are most proud of your General William Hicks Jackson.”

Parting her lips, Olivia drew in a slow, silent breath, her lungs and eyes burning.

Selene chuckled. “He’s not
my
general, Father.”

“Not yet, perhaps,” the general countered. “But I have a hunch he’d certainly like to be. And why should he not, with you as the prize? Of course” — his laughter was curt and telling — “in order for that to happen, he’ll have to win me over first.”

Finally breathing again, Olivia glanced down the table and found Selene’s smile ever bright and hopeful, while Mary discreetly brushed something from her cheek.

Following dessert, General Harding rose from his seat at the head of the table and conversation fell to a hush. “Before we depart the table
this evening, I’d like to make a toast, ladies … if you could somehow bring yourselves to cease jabbering to each other for two minutes straight.”

Elizabeth and the others laughed at the feigned sternness in his tone, but Olivia thought of Charles again and couldn’t.

The general raised his water glass. “To Miss Lizzie Hoover, the fair daughter of my first cousin, who has most graciously agreed to coordinate this busy household and keep it operating as it should.” He looked at the opposite end of the table. “You will no doubt help to ease the weight that my dear wife has had resting on her delicate shoulders for far too long.”