A Dream of Daring (8 page)

“But you have to live
their
way.”

“It’s not
their
way.
It’s our traditions. And they serve us well.”

“I just want you to be
happy, Rachel.”

“I’m happy.”

She might have said that she
was bored or sleepy with the same indifference. This was the girl who had run
into his arms, danced with joy, screamed with glee at the smallest of pleasures
in Philadelphia—at a dessert she liked, a new play opening, a morning walk
through the park. The fire in Rachel had somehow dampened.

“When I decided to stay
here, the thing I missed most was you. I missed you terribly, you know.” She
looked up at him in her alluring way. “But now you’re home too.”

His eyes searched hers as
he tried to understand. Was she really happy? he wondered.

“You said you wanted to
help Mother and me. You said you felt
responsible
. . . .”

His eyes closed in
anguish.

“I don’t want you to
suffer, Tom. I just want you to stay here with us and help us preserve what
Papa worked so hard to provide for us. Now that he’s been taken from
us . . . so suddenly . . . so
horribly.”

His head fell as if a
knife in his chest had just been plunged deeper. He took her hands. “Of
course,” he whispered painfully, “I’ll stay here with you. For as long as it
takes to get you and your mother through this.”

He was relieved when
Charlotte appeared at the door.

“We can go out now and
talk to the slaves,” said Mrs. Barnwell. “I want to be soothing. That’s how
Wiley always spoke to them. He told them he’d look after them and protect them.
We must assure them they’ll be fed, clothed, and cared for just as they’ve
always been. That’s what’s always kept
them . . . manageable.”

A sudden thought struck
Tom. Is that what Charlotte and her husband had been doing to Rachel? Keeping
her fed, clothed, and cared for so that
she
would
be . . . manageable?

As he walked out of the
parlor with Rachel and Charlotte, he paused to notice an oil painting of the
senator by the front door. Tom had seen the portrait on many occasions, but
this time it held a special significance to him. He looked admiringly at the
kind face, the intelligent eyes, and the dignified bearing of the man who lost
his life defending the invention. He recognized the signature of a local artist
in a corner of the painting.

“Mrs. Barnwell, may I ask
the painter if he can make me a reproduction of this portrait? I would love to
have a remembrance of the senator.”

“Why, yes, of course,
Tom.”

“It would mean so much to
me. The senator meant so much.”

“By all means, have a
copy made, Tom,” said Charlotte.

“The senator believed in
me.”

“We believe in you too,
Tom. You’re a good young man. You’ll provide a comfortable life for a
wife”—Charlotte’s eyes darted to Rachel—“and a family of your own.” She patted
his arm fondly. “You have a solid future here in Greenbriar. We believe you’ll
do very well running your father’s bank and plantation.”

“But Senator Barnwell
believed in my other work—my
invention
—and
he . . . bravely . . . defended—”

“The vicissitudes of an
inventor’s life weren’t what I was speaking of,” said Charlotte.

“Whenever I’ll look at
this painting, Mrs. Barnwell, it’ll serve as all the more reason why I
must
develop my invention, not only for me but now also for the brave man who
gave . . . everything . . . for it. My
success will be my tribute to your husband’s memory.”

Charlotte stared at him.
“Good Lord, Tom, what if that thing of yours is
cursed
?”

“How can
progress
be cursed?” Tom asked incredulously.

“What if Wiley’s death is
an
omen
?”

“An
omen . . . of what?”

Charlotte seemed to stare
through Tom at a disturbing image of her own. “People who tried to defy fate
are no longer here.”

“What do you mean?”

Charlotte didn’t seem to
hear him, captured by a haunting memory that tugged at her.

“Mrs. Barnwell, are you
all right?”

“No one can tamper with
our way of life. Those who tried are no longer around to talk about it.”

“Tom,” interjected
Rachel, “you’ve been away so long, you don’t remember that our traditions are
our soul. You can’t change that. No one can change that.”

Chapter 6

The Greenbriar sheriff’s
office was barely larger than a slave’s cabin, but the man occupying it didn’t
seem to care. His tavern-like furnishings—a desk, a table, and a few chairs
made of rustic planks—appeared to provide all the comfort he needed. A copy of
the state and local statutes on top of a trunk filled with legal papers
composed his library. Sheriff Robert Duran sat at his desk in shirtsleeves,
writing notes about the case that consumed him. Out the front window, he could
see the main street of the town he protected. Out the back window, away from
public view, he could see the means by which he protected it—the brick jail and
the courtyard with the scaffold in the corner, ready for use when needed.

His eyes drifted to the
jail, where his uncle Ted Cooper stood at the barred window of his second-floor
cell. The prisoner seemed to be staring across the courtyard between them,
directly into his office—and into his eyes. Could his uncle really see him at
that distance, he wondered, or was it his imagination? He lowered his head to
his notes, avoiding the window.

It was the second morning
since he had been called to the murder scene at the Crossroads. He glanced at
his pocket watch. The men he had asked to come to his office to discuss the
Barnwell case should be arriving soon. The overseer, Bret Markham, and the
plantation’s slaves had said they knew nothing about the invention in the old
carriage house or the crime committed there. They had seen guests attending the
funeral, but nothing that looked suspicious. The sheriff was unaware of anyone
having contact with the invention, aside from the three men to whom Tom had
shown it: the senator, Cooper, and Nash Nottingham.

Duran had questioned Tom,
who said he was alone in his room, writing, after the senator and Cooper had
retired for the night. One servant said he’d brought logs, and another had
taken tea to Tom’s room late that night, corroborating his whereabouts. Although
a slave’s testimony had no legal standing in a case against a white man, the
sheriff had no reason to doubt what he’d heard.

Yesterday he had visited
the Nottingham plantation, where he spoke to Nash and his mother. They both
seemed genuinely shocked to learn of the senator’s death. Nash explained that
after Polly Barnwell’s funeral, he’d left the Crossroads to have supper and
spend the night at his own plantation. Mrs. Nottingham confirmed that her son
had been at home with her the entire evening; she’d retired early and seen her
son before going to bed and again in the morning at breakfast.

Also yesterday, the
sheriff had visited Ruby Manor, where he found Tom, who had already broken the
news to Barnwell’s wife and daughter. The sheriff had learned that Charlotte
and Rachel Barnwell knew about Tom’s invention and its whereabouts at the
Crossroads, but they couldn’t conceive of anyone who’d have a motive to commit
the horrible crime. After Polly’s funeral, they had returned home, where they
had spent the evening in the company of neighbors until past midnight. When he
left Ruby Manor, the sheriff dropped in on those neighbors, who verified the
story.

Duran uncovered no loose
ends and no conceivable suspect for the crime other than his uncle, who had been
found standing over the body. Nevertheless, he had called Tom Edmunton, Bret
Markham, and Nash Nottingham to his office that day. The inventor and the
overseer were at the Crossroads at the time of the murder, and Nottingham was
the only other man besides the inventor, the deceased, and the suspect who knew
the nature of the device in the old carriage house. Duran had spoken to each of
the men separately. Now he wanted to question them together to see if he could
learn anything more.

He saw the first of his
visitors coming up the front steps to his office and rose to put on his vest.
Pinned to it was the silver badge he kept polished and wore proudly. His eyes
paused on the emblem on the badge, a replica of a blindfolded goddess holding
the scales of justice. He had always thought of her cause as his also. He
glanced up at the man in the cell window whose eyes haunted him, the man he
loved and couldn’t believe guilty. He silently vowed to uncover any information
that might lead to a different interpretation of the crime. But because of his
loyalty to the lady on his badge, the facts would have to fall where they might
on her scales.

After the three men
arrived and everyone took seats around the table, Duran searched the men’s
faces. From Nash to Markham to Tom, he saw expressions from coolness to
distrust to curiosity.

“I called you here to go
over some things and ask a few questions,” he said simply. “First, Mr.
Edmunton, tell me a little more about how your invention happened to get to the
Crossroads on the day of Polly Barnwell’s funeral.”

Tom began his story. “I
wanted to start a company that would develop my tractor and later sell it. This
was a big venture, and I needed more money than I had, so I entered a contest
in Philadelphia that was a showcase for new inventions where I hoped to find
backers. I continued to make improvements on my invention until the last moment
before I had to depart, which left me with little time to spare. It was at this
time that Polly Barnwell died, and her funeral was set for the day I was going
to leave on my trip, so I planned to miss the service.”

As he spoke, Tom looked
at the sheriff, glancing occasionally at the others.

“The day before the
funeral, I went to Ruby Manor to pay my respects to the Barnwells and apologize
for having to miss the service. Rachel was upset with me. I had been courting
her, but I was also neglecting her to work on my tractor. I hadn’t expected her
to respond so . . . unfavorably. I was puzzled for a moment
about what to do. The senator, who was present during the discussion, inquired
about my plans. He consulted the steamboat schedule in a newspaper that he had
handy and came up with a solution.”

“And what was that?”
asked the sheriff.

“I could catch another
steamer the morning after the funeral, which would get me to Philadelphia in
time for the contest. Because the Crossroads is so much closer to Bayou
Redbird, he suggested I take the invention there, attend the funeral, stay the
night, then immediately head for the docks the next morning. The delay would be
inconsequential, he suggested, and I could make Rachel happy while still
carrying out my plan. I agreed to his alternative plan, and he sent his most
trusted servant on his fastest horse to the docks with a note to reserve a
place for me and my cargo on the steamboat leaving the day after Miss Polly’s
service. The servant later returned with my new reservation.”

The sheriff nodded.

Tom continued. “The
senator came up with a further suggestion. He needed to go to the Crossroads
early on the day of the funeral. So if he hauled the tractor there for me, then
I could do him the favor of riding with Mrs. Barnwell and Rachel in their
carriage later, to console them, he said. He didn’t want to leave them grieving
without the benefit of his comfort, yet he wanted to arrive at Miss Polly’s
plantation well before the ladies would be ready to leave. It also seemed as if
he wanted to help me smooth things out with his daughter before I left town.”

“Why was Senator Barnwell
arriving early at the Crossroads?” asked the sheriff.

“He said he wanted to
look over the plantation journals and see that everything was in order because
Ted Cooper was coming to inspect the place with an eye to purchasing it. The
senator explained that the Crossroads had come into his hands upon Polly
Barnwell’s death. At his age, he said, he couldn’t take on another plantation
and would rather sell it.”

The sheriff nodded.

“Nash was there,” Tom
continued. “He heard all of this.”

“Is that so?” The sheriff
turned to Nash.

“I was at Ruby Manor to
pay my respects,” said Nash. “I heard the senator offer to haul something to
the Crossroads for Tom, so he could ride with the ladies. Now, had the senator
asked
me
instead, I would’ve been quite happy to accompany the women,
and I daresay I would’ve been more interested in them than in a chunk of
machinery.” Nash, whose manner toward Tom oscillated between politeness because
Tom was his banker and jabs because Tom was his romantic rival, smiled
pleasantly, but Tom wasn’t amused.

“So, Mr. Edmunton, you
agreed to let the senator take your invention to the Crossroads?”

“I was hesitant, Sheriff.
Truthfully, I didn’t want to let the tractor out of my sight for a second.
That’s why I wouldn’t bring it to the docks beforehand for storage or let a
servant take it there. I was reluctant indeed. The senator seemed to read my
thoughts, because he assured me he would take the utmost care of the thing. I
trusted him above anyone, and if I hadn’t agreed, I feared it would seem I
lacked that confidence. So I felt obliged to say yes. Early the next morning,
the day of the funeral, I brought the tractor to Ruby Manor, which is the next
turn off the main road to town from my place, and I entrusted it to the
senator. Indeed, he was most careful, and the invention arrived quite safely at
the Crossroads.”

The sheriff said nothing.
He stared soberly at Tom, digesting the story. Then he turned to Nash.

“Mr. Nottingham, when did
you arrive at the Crossroads?”

“I rode there early on
the day of Miss Polly’s funeral.”

“When?”

“In the morning.”

“Why did you arrive so
early, when the service wasn’t till the afternoon?”

“After I heard the
senator say he was going there early, I figured it’d be a good time to have a
conversation with him . . .”—he glanced at
Tom—“. . . in private.”

“A conversation about
what?” asked the sheriff.

“Well, it’s really no
one’s business.”

“Sir, you’ll please
answer the question.”

“But I do have personal
affairs, Sheriff.”

“Either in private or at
this meeting, you’ll please answer.”

“Why should I?”

“Because you’re one of
only three men who were shown an unusual object. And one of those men is dead.”

Nash sighed in
resignation. “Okay, Sheriff, if you must know, I’ll tell you. After all, my
affections are no secret. I was going to ask for Miss Rachel’s hand.”

“Were you?” said Tom.

“And I was going to ask
for the Crossroads as a wedding present.”

Tom looked incredulous.

Nash smiled pleasantly,
as if unaware of any impropriety. “Is that any more crazy than giving Rachel’s
hand to an inventor who goes tinkering with dirty machines and blazing around
the country with his wild schemes?”

“You mean you were going
to address your courtship suit to the senator on the day of a family funeral?”
asked the sheriff.

“The Crossroads was part
of the deal. I heard the senator say he was fixing to sell the Crossroads to
Cooper, so I had to act fast.”

“So you wanted to get
Rachel as part of a land deal?” snapped Tom.

Nash laughed,
unperturbed. “Look, old boy, I should think we could discuss this matter
civilly. Before you moved back here, Rachel and I grew rather fond of each
other. If I could obtain her father’s blessing, I had reason to hope
she’d . . . well, see the folly of her ways with you and
open her heart to a more suitable arrangement.”

“Suitable for whom?”

For a moment Nash dropped
the glossy smile and replied earnestly, as if he understood something his rival
had yet to learn. “Suitable for everyone concerned. Even for you, Tom.”

“How’s it suitable for
the senator to give his land and daughter away to someone who’s already
depleted his own fields and whose financial mismanagement is no more a secret
than his affections?” asked the man who was Nash’s banker.

“I beg your pardon,” said
Nash, his coolness returning. “By giving the Crossroads to me, the senator
could secure his daughter’s future by his side. Our children would grow up
sitting on their grandpapa’s knee.”

“Did you ask the
prospective mother what she thought of your scheme to produce babies for the
senator’s knee?” asked Tom.

“What was the
alternative? To give Rachel’s hand to someone who was
less . . . shall we say . . . 
stable
?”

Tom stared at his rival
contemptuously.

“With you as his
son-in-law, a time could come when the senator would never see his daughter
again. Why, she might have been hauled to the North, just like the tractor!”

Nash then turned to the
sheriff to press his case. “With Tom courting investors more ardently than he
courted Rachel, what future did she have with him? I could offer Wiley Barnwell
assurance that I’d
never
leave Greenbriar, and I’d
never
subject
his daughter to the vagaries of an inventor’s life.” Nash turned back to Tom.
“Look, old boy, even if you
are
my banker, for Rachel’s sake these
things had to be said.”

“And when you arrived at
the Crossroads on the morning of the funeral, did you talk to the senator about
your proposal?” asked the sheriff.

“I had a few words with
him. I told him I wanted
to . . . acquire . . . the Crossroads.
He said he thought my funds were strained. I told him I had a unique plan that
might be amenable to him. He told me about Cooper’s interest in purchasing the
place. But then he paused and added that he supposed it was good to have more
than one potential buyer. It might raise the price.”

“Did you tell him your
plan wasn’t to
buy
the place, but to get it as a present, along with his
daughter?” the sheriff blurted out.

“No!” Nash seemed
perturbed as he recalled the encounter. “I didn’t get a chance to explain the
full nature of my innovative plan and its benefits to him. The senator said he
had to go to town on a matter, so he instructed this man here”—he pointed
condescendingly at Markham—“to show me around the place. The senator said that
after I’d gotten a tour of the fields, we’d talk sometime soon.”