Concealing Grace (The Grace Series Book 1) (2 page)

As the discussion ebbed, Reading’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “I am sorry to have taken so much of your time. I do appreciate your attention, but it does appear we will not have enough votes to move forward—”

The squirrel overlooked him!
Seth knew this would happen, and still the blatant disregard caused his blood to boil. He fixed Reading with his most threatening glare and cut in, “Do you not want to hear my opinion?”

Reading stared at him for a long moment, as if Seth had rendered him speechless. Maybe he had. “Certainly. I apologize. No offense was intended, General McLean,” Reading said.

Before Seth could utter a word, Senator Bowman, appearing just as perplexed as Reading, chortled, “McLean, I must say, I am surprised. I didn’t think you would have any interest in pursuing this.”

The senator wasn’t the only one from the committee guardedly staring at him. Seth took his time and spoke slowly, causing his heavy southern accent to thicken. “In Reading’s plan, the troops recommended are unnecessary. The spy network is foolhardy. In short, the entire plan, if it were to be put into play, would be wholly ineffectual.”

“General, maligning the plan serves no purpose at this juncture. It’s already been made clear no action will be taken—” Reading started.

“May I finish?” Seth cut him off. Reading was insulted.
Tough.
Seth didn’t believe in mincing words, and he had no intention of mollifying a Yankee squirrel. He turned to the darkie. “The informant you mentioned… is he a colored man?”

“Why does it matter?” Reading barked.

“Yes. Yes he is,” Washington said quickly.

The glances thrown between Reading and Washington were telling. Reading would forever be a proponent of civil rights for Negroes, while Washington was motivated solely by the current goal—the demise of the Klan. For that gain alone, he would humble his egotistical colored self.

“His name is Herlin Jefferson,” Washington went on. “He’s been in my employ for several years and I trust him implicitly. For the last two months he’s been in Tennessee investigating for me. Yesterday he returned to Washington. He and I spoke at length—”

“I heard everything you said during your speech. It is not necessary to repeat yourself,” Seth interrupted. “I want your boy—this Jefferson—in my office at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Will that be a problem?”

Reading sat forward in his seat. So did the senator, as well as several of the others.

“What for?” Reading demanded.

“We’ll be there,” Washington said.

Ignoring them both, Seth addressed the room, “This committee will need to reconvene in one week’s time. Reading, I will have my adjutant contact you to arrange scheduling.”

“What are you thinking, McLean? I must say, you have my curiosity roused,” Senator Bowman tittered. “I was sure you, of all people, would want nothing to do with this.”

The derogatory reference was enough! “I may be from the South, but I am not ignorant!” Seth hissed. Then he forced himself to take a deep breath. He let it out slowly before stating, “Two years ago this government tried to stop the Klan. Men lost their lives adhering to a poorly developed plan that had no hope of permanent success. We cannot afford to repeat the mistakes of the past. This committee has no choice but to act. The violence of the Klan cannot and will not be tolerated. When we reconvene next week, after I have spoken with this Jefferson fellow, I will present a new plan, one with no margin for error. For the good of
all
the people of this blessed nation, white and colored alike, the Klan will be no more.”

In the stunned silence that followed, Seth pushed back his chair. Burying a flinch from the arthritic stiffness in his knees, he rose to his towering six foot three height. “I believe this meeting is adjourned.”

Leaving his stack of papers untouched on the table, he headed toward the door. There, he stopped. Before walking out, secreting a smile, he turned to address the squirrel one last time. “At our reconvene next week, I trust you will arrange for coffee to be served.”

“Are you ready to go, Jessie?” Trent called out. “Pop is getting impatient.”

Her brother’s knuckles wrapped at Jessica Emerson’s bedroom door a second time. She could tell by the firmness of his knock, her father wasn’t the only one losing patience. “I’ll just be another minute,” she told him.

With a frustrated huff Jessica set her brush down and stared at herself in the vanity mirror. She supposed she was pretty enough. Her mother had been a reputed beauty and her father often remarked upon the resemblance Jessica bore her. Even so, she didn’t particularly like her nose because she thought it was too pointy, and her full upper lip curled too much at the edges. Earlier she’d lightly dusted her mouth with rouge, but now she worried the color might be too bold.

Her attire, however, couldn’t be faulted. One of her father’s frequent sayings was, “We’re a first class family and by God, we shall look like a first class family!” The dress he insisted upon purchasing for her, though they really couldn’t afford it, was of the latest fashion, trim in the front with a bustle in back. It was made of the finest navy blue silk and decorated at the neckline and cuffs with the most exquisite lace Jessica had ever seen. To complement the gown she’d adorned herself with her mother’s pearl necklace, one of the few pieces of jewelry her father didn’t sell in the lean years. Matching pearl earrings dangled from her ears. Her father also bought her a new petticoat, white gloves, a silk crown and slippers.

Sometimes she wished she wasn’t quite so petite—her father termed it as small-boned. Having a fuller bosom would have been nice, too. But there was nothing she could do about that. There was nothing she could do to improve her hair either. Every morning she sat on this same stool and pinned the dark, waist length tresses into a neat chignon. Tonight she’d taken special care. With a hot iron she lightly curled the ends so they would fall warmly and full from the knot. With the silk crown in place, the result was presentable, but she wasn’t sure her coiffure was suitable for the extravagant ball they would attend.

At times like these she sorely wished Maybell was still with them. Maybell would have known if the color on her lips was too much, and Maybell would have been able to fix her hair perfectly. Jessica could remember how Maybell used to scold, “Stop yer fussin’ and sit still. I hafta git all dees here knots out!”

“But it hurts!” Jessica would cry. “I don’t care about the knots. Just leave them in. I don’t need my hair done!”

“Oh yessa ya do, missy!” Maybell would say. “You’s not a chile’ no mo’. You’s almos’ a lady, and yer papa’ll take a switch ta me if’n ya is walkin’ ’round here like some wile’ harpy, liken ya used ta do when ya was too little ta know betta.”

Maybell was forever threatening, “Yer papa’s gonna take a switch ta me!” If her father ever punished Maybell, Jessica never saw it. The threat was made more to keep Jessica in line than from fear of her father. Poor Sammy, Maybell’s son, was the one her father took a switch to, but this was only because Sammy and Trent were up to mischief. Sammy was a year or so older than Jessica’s brother, and the two of them together were endlessly getting into trouble. Trent got the switch plenty, too.

Back then, of course, she’d been too young to appreciate Maybell. The last six years without her taught Jessica just how much the colored woman had done for her. Not just Maybell, but Titus and Sammy, too. Her father bought them when Jessica was an infant. She’d been too little to remember that. For her, they’d been a solid, dependable presence, always there, through good times and bad, willing to lend a hand or provoke a giggle. They’d been there to comfort and console when her mother died. Jessica had been nine at the time. All of that seemed so long ago. She hadn’t heard from them since they left the farm. Still, she could easily picture their jolly, dark-skinned faces. Often she thought of them, wondering where they were and if they were happy. She hoped so. She had so many fond memories. There was only one which still haunted her—the awful day they took off.

She was seventeen years old and the war was finally over. Despite all the hardships her family endured, she was still too caught up in her own wants and needs, and too blind to understand. The very idea that Maybell, Titus and Sammy might want to leave made no sense to her.

Right after her father told her the news, she ran all the way across the field to the little clapboard house Maybell shared with ‘ma man an’ ma boy’ as Maybell called them. Without knocking, Jessica burst through the door. She’d never been inside before. Her father wouldn’t allow it. Trent had been forbidden, too, but that didn’t stop him. He’d been in the slave quarters many times.

There was only one room to the dirt-floored, rickety structure, and it was so small it could have fit entirely inside Jessica’s bedroom. The only furniture consisted of three narrow mattresses on the floor. The stains on them made Jessica’s nose wrinkle. Titus and Sammy were there. They both stopped what they were doing to stare at her. Maybell was there, too, down on her haunches, shoving her two spare dresses, along with some of Titus’s meager belongings into a ratty old carpet bag with a broken handle.

“Why do you have to go?” Jessica implored.

“ ’Cause
we’s free now!” Maybell stood up and raised her fist. Jessica had never seen that expression on Maybell’s face. Her lips were firmly pressed together and her eyes fiercely glittered.

“You can be free and stay here. This is your home,” Jessica said.

“Humph.”

Jessica didn’t know what that guttural sound coming out of Maybell’s throat meant. “Where will you go? Where will you live?”

“We’s goin’ north, to Pennsylvanie. We’s gonna git us our own house, a real house, and we’s gonna git us real fedder beds. I done slep’ on da flo’ ma whole life. No mo’. Neva’ agin!”

“What about me? What about Papa and Trent? Don’t you like us anymore? Who’s going to take care of us?” Jessica pleaded.

“Like ya? No, chile’, I ain’t neva done liked none o’ ya. An’ you is da wors’ of all. You is spoilt and naughty and I done spent half ma life pickin’ up afta ya. No mo’, I tell ya! No mo’ cleanin’ up messes ya done made on purpose. I’s sick and tard of it. We’s all sick and tard of it! Mebe now ya’ll learn ta take care o’ yerselfs!”

Stunned and appalled, Jessica just stood there. Sammy appeared as shocked by his mother’s vehement remarks as she was. Titus tried to soften the blow. “She don’t mean all dat, Miz Jessie. Massa Emasen been good ta us, mos’ da time.”

For a while Jessica resented Maybell and Titus for abandoning them, but this was only because much of their work fell to her. Sammy couldn’t be blamed. Even though he was an adult by then, he had no choice but to go along with his parents. Many nights Jessica cried because she missed them so much. She cried more over losing Maybell than she had over her mother. The truth was, Maybell—even being forced to the duty—was more of a mother than her own sickly parent had ever been. As the years passed, Jessica came to realize how correct Maybell had been about her. She was spoiled and naughty. She was selfish and lazy.

“You are still spoiled and selfish, and nobody likes you,” she murmured to her reflection.

One of the many reasons she missed Maybell, Titus and Sammy so badly was that she was comfortable with them. She knew them as well as she knew her brother and father. Around them she could speak, not turn into the tongue-tied, bumbling mute she became around acquaintances. With strangers she was even worse. This was why she was willing to risk trying her father’s and brother’s patience. They didn’t understand how nerve wracking it was merely imagining being in a room full of people, or how important it was for her to be prepared. Anticipation of the evening to come was already churning her stomach into knots.

What she needed to do to garner courage was refocus, and count down again, the many reasons she should be looking forward to the evening. It wasn’t true that no one liked her either. Emily and Stephanie, her two girlfriends, did. At church this past Sunday, they both said they would be attending the ball, too. First and foremost on her list was that she enjoyed spending time with them, and with them beside her, she wouldn’t be nearly as anxious. The second thing on her list was that
he
would be there.

He
was the man she’d been in love with for years. His name was Harold Simpson, but people called him Harry. He was well known in the social circles of their community for his ability to weave the most mundane stories into a hilariously amusing tale. Being of average height and very slim, he wasn’t what most women would consider handsome. His cheeks were a little too round, his nose a little too wide, and his eyes a little too narrow. Together with his thin, blond hair and peach fuzz dusted chin, he had an eternally boyish appearance, but that didn’t matter to Jessica. To her, his extroverted character and exceptional sense of humor made him the most attractive of men.

Her earliest memories of Harry were from the schoolhouse. Back then he wasn’t popular. Back then he was labeled a trouble maker and spent more time with his nose in the corner than he did in his seat. At recess he often went off by himself. She noticed him hiding in the trees, sneaking peaks every now and again at the other children at play. Numerous times, because she didn’t have many friends either, she was tempted to go to him, to try to talk to him, but she’d been too much of a coward. And then her opportunity was lost. Harry stopped coming to school.

A few years went by before she saw him again. It was a day she would never forget. Trent and Sammy were taking her for a riding lesson on her new pony. As they neared a farm belonging to a man named Oscar Anders, they saw Mr. Anders roughly dragging a stumbling boy across the lawn toward the barn. Jessica recognized Harry immediately. Once Mr. Anders and Harry were inside, the barn door was closed, so Jessica, Trent and Sammy could no longer see them. But there was no mistaking the sharp cracks of a striking belt. The switch her father took to Sammy and Trent was tame compared to those loud lashings. If Harry cried they didn’t hear him. What they heard, between those horrid, endless strikes, was Mr. Anders bellowing, “Cry baby! Take that! This will teach you a lesson!”

Trent was as troubled by the incident as Jessica. She didn’t know until they spoke to their father about it that Oscar Anders was Harry’s stepfather. After that, Jessica rode past the Anders’ farm often, hoping to catch a glimpse of Harry. Very rarely did she see him, and when she did, he was out working in the fields, too far for him to notice her. The rumors about him, however, were disconcerting. He was said to be a deviant boy who needed daily punishment to keep him in line. Jessica was sure those rumors were false. In her mind, Harry was the unfortunate victim of a very cruel man.

After the war, because they attended many of the same neighborhood social functions, Jessica had more opportunities to see Harry. As often as she could, she surreptitiously listened to him entertain his friends. She was proud of him for overcoming the trials of his childhood and maintaining his great personality. Only once did he approach her and ask her to dance. Not a day had gone by since that she didn’t think of him. He, on the other hand, hadn’t spared her a second glance and she knew, like so many others in their community, what Harry thought of her.

Over the years she’d developed a horrible reputation. Her father didn’t think she knew, but she did know. She’d overheard the whispers in town and at church. Because she never spoke, people thought she was arrogant. They said she was conceited and rude. Ironically, no matter how badly she wished to diffuse this terrible misconception, knowing what others believed only heightened her awkwardness and inability to converse. And now, at twenty-three years of age, she was a spinster! She was going to be an old maid!

Trent’s loud wrap at her bedroom door startled her. “Come on, Jessie! What’s taking you so long?”

“I’m coming,” Jessica called out.

Oh, she needed to stop wallowing in self-pity! She should be counting her blessings. She had a decent home, a brother who loved her, even if he would never admit it, and a father who doted on and adored her dearly. She had everything she could possibly want, except the only thing she truly wished for—a husband and a family of her own.

If only Harry would notice her. If only he would give her one more chance, because if he did get to know her, he would change his mind, and he would want to be with her. Together they could run off, like Maybell and Titus did. They could begin a new life, far away from the clutches of his evil stepfather…

Jessica was still daydreaming of Harry when the Emerson’s buggy pulled up in front of the mansion at the Winston’s estate. The enormous house was made of brick and stone with two-story pillars running the length of the front of it. The Winstons had rebuilt it. Looking at it in the evening twilight, no one would have guessed this house, six years before, had been little more than a pile of rubble. The union army had used it as a headquarters for a time. When they vacated, they burned it.

Trent Emerson emerged from the buggy first, gracefully stepping down to the lamp-lit, pebbled drive. There, he straightened to his full height, just over six feet. He was dressed in his best charcoal grey suit, complete with pristine white shirt, vest, coat and new, black leather boots. His straight, dark blond hair was tied in a queue at the back of his neck. A faint smile washed his narrow features as he turned to the buggy and raised his right hand to assist Jessica’s descent.

Earlier, when she emerged from her bedroom, Trent complimented her appearance. It was time for her to return his kind praise. “You look very handsome, Trent,” she said. “All the ladies will want to dance with you tonight.”