Love in Three-Quarter Time (16 page)

CHAPTER 23

“I tell you, Mr. Lorimer, we're travelin' plumb west now.”

Martha had fussed at him concerning his route to Richmond all day, despite his repeated reminders that he would need to make stops along his normal circuit. Though the women had chatted without pause for the past hour, the uneven surface of the road must have caught Martha's attention and started her harping again.

The wagon jostled and she grabbed onto the seat behind him. “Mercy! Those are the Shenandoahs up ahead. I done told you we wasn't headin' toward Richmond.”

Mrs. Beaumont had sent along the correct chaperone, and trail guide to boot.

Miss Cavendish joined her behind the seat, peeking over with her pretty profile as well. “He told Mrs. Beaumont he'd have to make a few detours.”

“And she done told me to have you back by Monday, come what may.”

“Just this one delay, Martha. Tomorrow morning we'll head straight toward Richmond. You have my promise.” Lorimer tightened his hold on the reins to control the animals over the rough trail. Soon he'd abandon the wagon altogether.

“I reckon it will be all right. I know you're a man of your word.” Martha settled back down against the side.

“In fact, our stop is right ahead.” He pointed to a small, log cabin at the base of the first mountain in the tree-topped range, which rose against the hazy sky.

“What is that?” asked Constance, leaning her chin on the bench beside him.

“That is the home of Widow Shielding, one of God's true devotees.”

“Who wouldn't be while living in the shadow of such majesty?” Constance sighed like a whisper on the wind.

“You'd be surprised. Those mountain men are a tough lot.”

“Then why have we come here?”

“You'll find out soon enough.”

After a few minutes, Lorimer directed the horses over the grass to the cabin. The Widow Shielding stepped out to greet them, wiping her flour-covered hands on her apron.

“Well, what is this? I didn't expect to see you 'til tonight at the meeting.” The gaze of the wiry, gray-haired woman traveled to the back of the wagon. “And who are these lovely ladies you brought along?”

Lorimer jumped down and kissed her wrinkled, leathery cheek. The woman barely came to his shoulder, but he had no doubt she could take on any beast these mountains might toss her way. He knew well the rifle that hung over her door. It had met him in the nose the night he came upon her after dark. “Widow Shielding, may I introduce you to Miss Constance Cavendish and Miss Martha Beaumont.”

He watched as the old woman looked the two younger ones up and down as they climbed out of the wagon—one mahogany, the other fair with copper hair and a smattering of freckles that had appeared with the bright summer sun. A study in contrasts, but he'd had the entire trip to witness how close they'd grown.

“I haven't had such fine company in years.” Widow Shielding shook both their hands with equal vigor. “Are you off to join the Indians, Miss Beaumont?”

“Goodness, no. Me and the heathens? And call me Martha. I'm just chaperoning these two so they don't start up no funny business along the route to Richmond.” Martha turned and glared at Lorimer. “Which I still insist is in the other direction.”

“It sure ain't floating in the mountains.” Widow Shielding guffawed at her own joke, slapping her knee. “But since you're here, you best join me for supper.”

“Why don't you ladies go ahead inside. The widow and I will be there in a minute.”

The girls headed up the steps to the cabin. Lorimer pulled Widow Shielding around the side of the wagon. “I'm taking Miss Cavendish to visit the Black Indians, and I need your help to divert Martha from her duties for a few hours. That woman's like a hawk. You can bring her to join us later at the meeting.”

“Aye, I can do that.”

“Follow my lead.”

He picked up his pack and ushered the widow into the cozy house. Colorful quilts and drying herbs filled the log structure. Sunlight streamed through the open windows. A rocker sat near the stone fireplace, and the young ladies waited for them at the rough-hewn trestle table where Lorimer flopped his sack on its top.

“I've brought you a gift, Widow Shielding.” He withdrew a book wrapped in paper. Much planning had gone into this gift, both as a present for Widow Shielding and as bait for Martha.

“Eee!” the widow squealed. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Open it and see.”

The young women both leaned in curiously as the elder tugged at the string and removed the covering. Widow Shielding, despite her strong-as-nails appearance, had a soft spot for romance novels. Women. Who could fathom them?

Martha shouted first. “
Mansfield Park
! Ain't that the new one by that mysterious lady what wrote
Sense and Sensibility
and
Pride and Prejudice
? Don't you wonder who she is? Why, I been dyin' to get my hands on that book.”

“Well, then you must.” The widow offered the novel to Martha.

Martha yanked back her hands. “No, ma'am. I could never. That one's yours.”

“I'm too busy today to read it. It's pie day for old Widow Shielding. And you'll all be staying 'til tomorrow morning, I'm guessing. You could have it partway done by then.” She shook the book at Martha this time, urging her to accept.

Martha touched it, reverently. Lorimer almost chuckled. To think the slave girl spent her spare time reading of the aristocratic parlors of England. She took the book and hugged it to her chest, swaying side to side like a giddy child.

He slapped the girl on the shoulder. “I have an idea. I need to take Miss Cavendish to visit an old friend of hers. Why don't you keep Widow Shielding company and then join us tonight for a Bible meeting up the mountain a way?”

Martha narrowed one eye. “You can't get rid of me that easy, Mr. Lorimer.”

“A friend?” said Constance. “This is the first I've heard of it.”

“Please, Martha. It's important. And you know I can be trusted with Miss Cavendish's virtue. We don't have to worry about tattling tongues out here in the mountains. I wouldn't take her if I didn't believe it was important.”

Martha eyed him, a saucy, crooked frown on her face. Then at Miss Cavendish, who looked all innocent confusion. She glanced to Widow Shielding, who nodded her support. At last Martha turned her gaze down to the book in her hands and stared at it wistfully.

“I'll tell you what,” said Widow Shielding. “I'll make you a deal. Stay here with me today. If you can't finish the book by morning, you can take it with you, and Lorimer can return it later.”

“You'd do that? For me?”

Widow Shielding gave Martha a sturdy whack on the back. “I sure would.”

“A friend?” asked Miss Cavendish, still stymied.

Lorimer looked into her soft, brown eyes, the color of chestnuts hot off the fire. “Do you trust me, Miss Cavendish?”

“More than almost anyone.”

“Then let this be a surprise.”

Martha settled into the rocker and opened her novel with a beatific grin.

* * *

Lorimer did not divulge his secret the entire way up the mountain. Constance clutched his rough shirt, her face pressed hard against the back of it, trying not to fall off the horse along the steep incline. Roots and rocks erupted from the trail. Dense branches crowded them from overhead. Constance had little opportunity to wonder about her mysterious visit in her bid to save her
derrière
from a good thump.

But finally they reached a clearing. A stream gurgled across a field of tall grass. At a distance, trees loomed before the mountain spiked another hundred feet toward the sky.

A figure stepped from the forest.

A woman, Constance guessed from her willowy way of moving. An Indian woman? The clothing appeared correct—a short, one-shouldered, buckskin dress. And a dark braid hung over the bare shoulder. But the woman's coloring seemed wrong. Not the bronze she had admired on Dancing Waters but rather a coffee-and-cream shade that jogged Constance's memory from the distant past. As the woman drew closer, Constance noted the gentle sway of her hips, the fullness of her mouth.

No. It could never be.

But it was.

Constance slid down from the horse on her own. “Lorimer?” She did not take her gaze from the approaching figure.

“Go,” was all he said.

“Sissy?” she whispered.

“Yes,” he said.

“Sissy,” she uttered the word with shock, disbelief.

“Sissy!” she yelled, and then she was running across the field, her eyes filling with tears.

The blurry image before her took off at a sprint as well, and they met in the middle, throwing themselves in each other's arms and nearly knocking over one another.

“Miss Ginger!”

“Sissy!”

“Oh, my very own Miss Ginger.” Sissy rocked her back and forth as she had after a quarrel when they were children.

“Sissy, I thought I'd lost you for good.”

“I've missed you something fierce.” Sissy dragged in a deep breath, as if breathing in Constance's very essence.

Constance took Sissy's face in her hands. The tears cleared, and she studied each of the priceless features, running her fingers over them. The almond-shaped eyes. The long, thin nose. The full, maroon lips she had always envied. She laughed. The smooth wide cheek bones. Constance had forgotten Sissy's mesmerizing beauty.

Sissy inspected her features with the same intensity. Like each was a mirage, fated to vanish upon closer inspection. But moments passed, and still they held each other firm in their grips.

“I can't believe it's you.” Constance choked out the words. “All these years I feared you were dead. And I knew if you weren't, I would never find you. Why now?”

“Mr. Lorimer done figured it out. He said he prayed a whole lot, and he decided we need each other. I sure enough need you, Miss Ginger. I need to say I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. God help me, I'm sorry.”

Constance felt as if a knife stabbed into her gut and twisted to and fro. “How could you leave me? How could you betray me?”

“Oh Miss Ginger!” Sissy burst into tears and the two women collapsed into each other's arms.

Constance cried out a lifetime of tears she hadn't realized she'd held at bay. But now, here with Sissy, the healing rivers flowed free. Each woman drenched the other in salt water, a baptism of love and pain.

Many minutes passed before Sissy wiped her eyes. “I didn't want to leave you, but I had to, and I couldn't never explain. But I wouldn't let them hurt you. Not you or your mama and sisters, or even your daddy. I made them swear to me.”

“Why, Sissy? Why did you have to? You promised to come to the river. And Daddy died. He collapsed on the porch. Maybe if we'd been there. Maybe if he knew we were alive. But you made us wait at the river. And you promised you would come. I believed you.”

“I know all that, Miss Ginger. And it's been eatin' me up inside for years. But there are things you don't know nothin' about. And it's time you did.” She waved to the woods.

A tall, broad man with skin near to black and wearing only leather leggings strode into the clearing along the stream. At the halfway point, he paused.

“James?” asked Constance, only now stopping to wonder why her former slaves were dressed like wild savages.

“Yes, my husband.”

“Is that why you left?”

“That's part. The Black Indians have changed his name to Trail of Tears.”

“That's horrible.” Constance held a hand to her mouth. “Why such a sad name?”

“Because…” Sissy struggled for a moment. She wiped her brow. “Because the lashes your daddy done gave him…looks like a mass of rutted wagon trails on his back.” Sissy motioned for the man to turn.

He crossed his arms over his chest and lifted his chin. Then he did Sissy's bidding, slowly, revealing his telltale back.

Even at a distance Constance could see the whip marks striping his skin in thick, corded, crisscross patterns. Thirty or more layered atop each other.

She gasped. “No, it can't be. Daddy would never.”

“He would, Miss Ginger. That man never could keep his fiery temper under control. Only no one wanted to tell you or your kind mama. And the overseer was even worse. Cold and cruel, he was.”

“I can't believe it.” Constance's mind reeled. Her father? Her very own beloved papa? How could he? Her stomach began to churn. Her head grew light.

She sagged against Sissy. It would take days, weeks even, for her to reexamine her childhood, her entire life, in light of this new information. She could hardly fathom it. Had he harmed Sissy? “What do they call you?”

“Mourning Dove.”

A sorrowful name as well. Perhaps he had. But if so, Constance wasn't certain she wished to hear of it. “I see.”

Sissy patted Constance's arm where she leaned against her. “Hold on tighter than that, Miss Ginger. There's more.”

Constance grabbed hold of Sissy's fringed dress as commanded, for she couldn't possibly handle one more revelation. “No, please. Not yet. I can't bear it.”

“I'm sorry, Miss Ginger. But it's now or never.”

Sissy waved again.

And one more revelation emerged from the woods.

A little girl with skin not the color of coffee and cream like Sissy's, nor dark brown like James's, nor any shade in between. More like pale tea with milk. The girl approached James and cuddled into his leg, not quite reaching his hip.

And her hair…Constance sank to her knees while still clutching Sissy. The world wavered about her. The child's long, braided hair glared the color of a bright copper kettle. It might have come straight from Constance's own head.

Sissy knelt beside Constance and rubbed her back. “We call her Red Bird. He would have sold me away from my James. You see that now, don't you?” Sissy said. “And if he didn't, how could I ever bear for your poor mama to find out?” She pressed her cheek to Constance's and closed her eyes.