Healing Grace (4 page)

“Trent! Let him go!” The shriek came from Trent’s wife, Emily. Skirts flying, she skittered from the carriage across the dusty road, toward her husband.

“Did you kill my father?” Trent fumed at Harry Simpson a second time.

His fist was so tightly curled into Harry’s collar, Constance was sure Harry’s airway was completely cut off. Even if he’d wanted to, Harry wouldn’t be able to answer. And Trent was completely ignoring his wife.

“Trent! Oh, for goodness sake, Trent! Let go! Let him be!” In seconds, Emily was upon them, her expression no less tumultuous than Trent’s. Blue eyes flaming, she took hold of the tail of her husband’s tied back hair. And yanked. Hard.

Trent’s head snapped back and he yelped. But it worked. He let go of Harry.

Then he spun around to face off with his wife, bellowing, “Dammit, Em!”

Constance took one look at Trent’s leaning frame—and balled fist—and her breath caught in her throat. He was going to hit Emily! Trent was going to send his wife sprawling in the dirt!

The memory of when she’d first met the Emersons flashed through Constance’s mind. She’d been seated in their parlor, slightly overwhelmed and intimidated by the opulence. But Emily had been lovely. Her eyes had sparkled and curled, belaying how pleased she’d been to have Constance in her home. Trent, however, had been the opposite.

Constance had thought he was annoyed, that he believed she—a simple teacher—wasn’t sophisticated enough to set foot in his impressive house. She had a hard time looking at him too, because her eyes had been continuously drawn to his armless sleeve. Later, once they’d become friends, Emily shared that Trent had lost his arm during the war. That day though, while Emily had congenially chattered on, one-armed Trent had remained brooding and silent.

But then he’d done something that had stunned Constance. At the time, Rebecca had been just shy of her third birthday. The little girl had come running into the room, in tears, holding her skirt up to reveal a torn stocking and scraped knee. Trent had reacted first. He’d scooped their daughter up in his one arm, gently shushed her and kissed her ‘booboo’ well again. That, along with the way he’d soothingly rocked her, was enough to still the child’s cries. Constance hadn’t known a man could be capable of such tender care.

When Rebecca said she wanted to go play, Trent had set her down. Before leaving, however, the little girl skittered gleefully over to Emily. While Emily briefly embraced their daughter, Constance had still been watching Trent. She’d seen him gazing at his wife and child. There had been nothing callous or hardhearted in him then. Not one single thing.

Since then, Constance had witnessed Trent’s devotion many times, including the day baby Mary was born, and she found it almost surreal. Emily frequently whined about Trent’s faults, primarily his tendency toward slovenliness, but Constance also knew, despite the complaints, Emily was happy. Theirs was a marriage that up until Constance had seen it with her own eyes, she’d believed only existed in fairytales.

On the street in front of Rosie’s restaurant, as she watched Emily fearlessly counter her husband’s offensive stance, she realized her assumption that Trent would hit Emily was so farfetched, it was almost laughable.

“Oh, for crying out loud, Trent!” Emily ranted, one dainty finger poking into the center of her spouse’s chest. “What kind of example are you setting? Daniel and Becca are in the carriage. This is not the way. And look at the scene you’ve created. Everybody’s staring at you, you big oaf!”

That was true enough. Several people had stopped to gawk. Young Daniel Emerson’s face was plastered to the carriage window. Constance took all of this in, and watched as Emily ducked out from under her husband’s looming presence, elbowing him in the ribs in the process. The jab was hard enough to make Trent grunt.

Emily went to Harry and said, “I apologize on behalf of this lout. Are you okay?”

Harry nodded meekly, tugging on his shirt to straighten it. Until that moment, Constance hadn’t put two and two together, but now she did. Trent had accused Harry of killing his father, and that meant Luther Emerson had died, and apparently by violent means—someone had
killed
him!

Constance had been fond of Luther, not because she knew him well, but because of his affection for his grandson. For the first few months of school, Daniel’s first year, every day Luther had accompanied the youngster to and from the schoolhouse. He hadn’t recently, but that was only because Daniel was old enough to make the walk on his own. Regardless, everything made sense now. The reason Daniel hadn’t come to school was because his grandfather had died.

No one had spoken of Luther Emerson’s passing, and that was odd. Surely the death of a man well known in the community would have prompted a slew of rumors. Rumors in such a close-knit area were prevalent, and the way most news spread. Although Constance didn’t have many friends here, it was surprising that one of her students hadn’t said something. That could only mean none of them had heard.

Constance remembered the stories Emily had told about Trent’s brother-in-law, Julien Grace, and the plot he’d been involved in to bring the leaders of the Klan to justice. It was because of Julien that Harry Simpson and several other Klansmen had been arrested, and subsequently sent to prison. Now Trent believed Harry had killed his father.

Despite Harry’s confessions of the terrible acts he’d committed in the name of the Klan, Constance couldn’t imagine him doing anything so heinous. Not Harry, who was so remorseful he believed he’d deserved imprisonment. Not bashful, stuttering Harry.

Looking at his feet, Harry stammered, “I’m…I’m sorry about Luther. I didn’t know.”

Trent’s fist was still clenched and his glower didn’t waver. “After all my father did for you—”

“That’s enough, Trent!” Emily cut him off.

Though she shoved him toward the street, Trent didn’t budge. Instead he turned on Constance. “And you? What are you doing with
him?
Do you know what he’s done… what kind of person he is? We’ll take you home. Get in the carriage—”

Emily stomped her foot. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Trent. If you can’t be civil, then go!” Threateningly she added, “I’ll pull your hair again!”

If the situation hadn’t been so tense, Constance would have laughed. As it was, she had to swallow to find her voice. “I’m sorry about Luther,” she managed.

Emily came close and took Constance’s hand. Her next words were intended for Constance’s ears alone. “Will you come by the house tomorrow after school? We can talk then.” She threw a brief glance at Harry, then lowered her voice even more. “We’ve come to pick up Julien and Jessica. Their train arrives this evening. Our carriage may be crowded, but we can figure out a way for all of us to fit. Please come with us. Let us take you home.”

“No, no, I don’t want to intrude,” Constance hemmed. “Harry will take me. I’ll be fine.”

Emily shook her head, the stilted motion more of a silent warning than a negative response, and whispered, “Please, my friend, please be careful.”

Blood… so much blood…

Instead of green, the trampled blades of grass were dripping crimson, the mud beneath a swamp of red, sucking and swallowing his boots. Carefully he stepped over them… body after body, soldier after soldier, man after man, boy after boy… strewn as far as the eye could see. Among them lay the random severed limb and other mangled pieces of human flesh. To his left was a torso, neck to groin, but nothing else. Some of their bloodied clothes were blue, some gray, some the remnants of homespun rags. There were thousands… thousands dead…

The faces came to him, one after another… a young man with blond hair and blue eyes, smiling. The smile withered as blood spewed from his mouth. Another with a long straggly beard asked, “Where to now, sir?” No sooner did the words leave him, than his face split in two. Another, an older man, stooped with a cane, said, “I’m proud of my boys.” A bullet pierced his temple. Yet another was just a child, carrying a drum. From behind, a bayonet speared him, its sharp blade going all the way through. Falling to his knees, the boy choked, “I didn’t mean to, sir.” Still another, this one with bright red hair and freckles, had a hand at his throat, blood oozing between his fingers. Another, sad dark eyes staring up beseechingly, while hands writhed at his gut, trying to shove entrails back inside his body…

He tried to run, but he couldn’t, not without stepping on them. More faces came at him, they were endless, groaning, screaming men and boys… just boys. He did run, but covered no distance. And he stepped on them, though he didn’t want to. A forearm splintered beneath his heel, rib bones caved, a nose cracked.

His boot caught on something… a leg… and he flailed wildly to get his balance. But he couldn’t. He landed eye to eye with a face that had been torn off. Under patches of remaining skin, he saw the jawbone and teeth, but the mouth was gone. One side of the skull was crushed. He scrambled off and fell again. His hands up past his wrists were immersed in blood…

They were coming. He could hear them… troops… the infantry. They were in formation, two by two, an endless line. Left, right, left, right, their footfalls getting louder. He was with them, but he wasn’t. Distant cannon fire boomed in his ears, constant and sporadic, but increasing in volume. And then the shells began to hit. Shrill screams accompanied the booms as bodies flew. A severed hand landed at his feet, the fingers still moving, opening and closing trying to grab the cuff of his trousers. He kicked it away, and when he looked up, there were only four men left. Out of thousands, only four!

“No!” he screamed. “No! NO! NOOO!”

The faces came again. Every one different, every one smiling at first, every one grotesquely dying in front of him. He began to count them. Numbers floated through his mind but made no sense. Death tolls from different battles… one hundred thirty-eight, eight hundred sixty-seven, two thousand fourteen. The faces kept coming. What number was the boy with the freckles? What number was the man with the big round nose and squinted hazel eyes? He’d lost count. How many? Four thousand eight hundred twenty… nine thousand three hundred sixty-two… twelve thousand… twenty-six thousand…

“You killed them. You killed them all!”

“Colonel! Sir!”

…pounding, pounding, reverberating through his skull. But it was coming from the door. Etienne clutched his head, as if by holding it, he could make the thumping stop. He could hear himself breathing, each inhale a loud gasp. His chest was heaving.

“Colonel! Colonel Grace!”
BANG. BANG. BANG.

It was Sam, beating on the door. Etienne squeezed his eyes shut and sat up. Or tried to.

THWACK!

That was his head cracking on the low frame of the upper bunk. Pain rifled through and he groaned, sinking back to the hard cot.

BANG. BANG. BANG
. “Colonel? Are you alright, sir?”

He was sweating under his clothes, his neck, his back, under his arms, on his forehead, through the stubble of his beard…

“Colonel!”
BANG. BANG. BANG
. “Colonel Grace!”

“For god’s sake, I hear you!” he yelled, though he hadn’t meant to be so harsh. Forcing himself to take a deep breath—at least his harpy gasping had lessened—he called out, “Coffee, Sam. Bring me coffee.”

“Yes, sir. I have some here for you. Freshly brewed. It’s good, sir. Best batch since we’ve been on the train.”

Etienne glared at the still-closed door. He could have used a minute, or two or ten, to blink himself out from under the dream, to get his bearings, to settle his racing heart. But of course, ever-efficient Sam wouldn’t allow that.

“Come in. The door’s not locked.” Ducking his head this time, Etienne sat up.

The hinges creaked as Sam slipped into the tiny sleeping compartment, steaming mug in hand. “Here you are, sir.”

Etienne took the coffee, but his hand shook so badly he couldn’t hold it. He dropped the mug to his thigh and wrapped both sets of fingers around it, hoping Sam wouldn’t notice. But Sam noticed. Sam noticed too much.

“Sleeping on a train is highly overrated,” Etienne intoned as lightly as he could. “The constant creaking gets into your bones.”

“Yes, sir. It does that, sir,” Sam said. “You’ll be happy to note we’re arriving early. The conductor announced thirty minutes to the Mount Joy stop, about five minutes ago,” Sam said.

“Good. Two and a half days confined in this iron contraption is long enough.” Etienne shouldn’t have complained. Trains were faster now. The last time he’d made the trek to Tennessee, three years ago, it had taken twice as long. Five years ago, he would have had to ride on horseback down from Nashville. The train station in Mount Joy was fairly new.

He tried again to raise the mug, but the shaking hadn’t dissipated. It was just that he was so darn tired. He hadn’t slept, not since boarding the train, not until this afternoon when he’d told Sam he was going to lie down for a while. But he couldn’t blame the train, or the circumstances. The truth was he never slept well. He couldn’t remember anymore how long it had been since he’d slept an entire night through.

“See to the luggage, Sam. I’ll get the horses and meet you on the platform,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

Etienne waited for Sam to close the door behind him. After that he waited for Sam’s footfalls in the narrow corridor outside to fade. Only then did he raise the coffee mug, but not to drink. Instead he chucked it with full-armed fury.

The hard ceramic slammed into the wall, its steaming liquid splashing out in every direction. A split second later, it crashed in a jumble of splintered pieces on the floorboards below. Throwing the mug should have helped, but it didn’t. It never did.

Less than an hour later, he was better, or would be once they arrived at Grace Manor. Thankfully the estate was only a few miles from town. While ever-capable Sam secured their satchels to their mounts, Etienne glanced around the depot. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but perhaps he was.

Plenty of people were about, some having just departed the train, others present to greet them. Some were elderly. Some were children. Some were more formally dressed, others not so much. Most were white, but there was a small gathering of colored folk on the far side. Several buggies were parked near the curb. A colored man was tending to one of the harnessed horses.

As Etienne’s eyes continued to slowly scour, he noticed a scruffy, tow-headed boy peering around the corner of the station building. He supposed the kid was staring because both he and Sam were in full dress uniform. The army’s presence in this town was non-existent now, at least compared to how it had been during martial law after the war. Of course the boy didn’t look old enough to have been alive then. A smile tugged the corner of Etienne’s mouth as he tipped his hat to the youngster. For a second the kid’s eyes bugged, then he scampered off.

Chuckling, Etienne glanced at Sam. He expected Sam to still be occupied with his task, but the satchels were secure. Sam was staring after the boy too, his expression oddly anxious.

“Do you recognize him?” Etienne asked curiously. The question was preposterous. That is, it would have been if Sam truly hadn’t been in this town for three or four years as he’d claimed.

Sam’s head snapped around. “He’s… I mean, no, sir. How could I, sir?”

Sam didn’t normally stutter. He didn’t normally lie, either. For now, Etienne let it pass. “Let’s go,” he said.

Once they were through town and had moved out into open country, he pressed Sam again. “So, your family’s farm is around here somewhere? Is it this same direction, north of town?”

“No, it’s west, sir.”

“Close or farther out?”

“It’s not far from town.”

“Tell me again how many brothers and sisters you have? It’s two sisters and three brothers, right?”

“No, sir. I have two sisters and four brothers,” Sam said.

“Hmm, I could swear you told me differently. My memory must be failing.” Etienne smirked.

“No, you’re right, sir,” Sam said. “I have a younger brother. He was born after the war. He’s nine now.”

“About the age of that kid at the station,” Etienne surmised. “Did you think that boy was your brother? Since you haven’t been home for a while, you might not recognize him. What’s his name?”

“Archie, sir,” Sam said, then added, “but I don’t think that was him.”

Etienne’s patience had reached its end. Though he understood—he understood all too well—he’d had enough of Sam’s avoidance and prevarication.

“You know, Sam,” he said, “you’re not a good liar, so it would be in your best interest to refrain from doing so. Especially to me. I know exactly how many brothers and sisters you have, including the younger boy. I know you were here in Mount Joy during your leave, and I know why.” Etienne paused, then went on, “Murphy may be a common name, but do you think for one second I would’ve hired you as my adjutant without knowing where you’re from or who sired you? Did you really believe, all these years, I overlooked your father’s connection to my brother?”

Sam’s face reddened, and humbly he stuttered, “I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have lied. My…my father is Edward Murphy. But I—”

Etienne cut him off. “Contrary to the lie
I
just told
you
, my memory isn’t failing. I remember everything you shared about your family during the war. I’m also well aware of your concerns about your siblings. Believe me, the last thing I want to do is ask you to meet with your father. But you must be prepared. Due to present circumstances, I may not have a choice. Do you understand, Sam?”

“Yes, sir,” Sam said. “I understand, sir.”

“Sam,” Etienne intoned more lightly this time. “I have never questioned your dedication to this service, or your loyalty to me. Let’s keep it that way.”

With that issue behind them, Etienne kicked in his heels and tore off down the road. He had his own family to worry about. And Jessica, his beloved sister-in-law… he couldn’t stop thinking of her…