A Time for Everything (6 page)

Quickly glancing over her shoulder as
though she had intruded on an intimate secret, she scanned the
empty foyer. Mr. Stanford was nowhere to be seen. Good. She hoped
to at least get settled in and rested before she came across him
again. He wouldn’t want to keep a skittish teacher on the
payroll.

When they reached the landing,
Jonathan sped off to a room just ahead and disappeared behind the
door. Considering its placement, she figured it must be the room
from which he had watched her arrival. A wide hall stretched along
the length of the house. Like downstairs, a dark rectangle shaded
the floorboards of the landing as though a large rug had once been
there.

Isaac headed right, so she followed. A
few narrow rugs had apparently survived the great purging and
padded the floor under her feet.

Stopping at the first room to the
right, Isaac opened the door and carried her bag inside. “Here’s
your room, Mrs. McAllister. I’ll bring your chest up
shortly.”

“
Thank you.” She lingered
in the hallway, uncertain what to say next.

He lit a lamp for her and left it on
the dresser. Then he came back out, hands tucked in his pockets. In
a hushed tone, he said, “I wanna apologize for Bessie. She’s not
one to warm to new folk easy, especially since Mrs. Stanford
passed. She took it real hard. Claire was like a daughter to her…
and me. I hope you understand. She’s a good woman, and she’ll come
around.”

Portia nodded, hoping Isaac’s
prediction would be right. “What about Jonathan? Has he always been
mute? Is he deaf as well?”

Isaac shook his head. “Oh, no. He
hears just fine. He used to talk a blue streak until Beau came home
after Claire died and half lost his mind. Said some awful things to
Jonny and all of us. Didn’t mean none of it. He was just grievin’,
you see. But Jonny went quiet after that.”

Portia touched her locket. “That’s…
terrible. Poor Jonathan.”

“
I bet you’ll get him
talkin’ again. It’ll just take some time. I’ll leave ya to get
cleaned up for supper. If ya need anything, give a holler.” He
headed down the stairs.

Portia entered the room. A dark cherry
four-poster took up most of the right side and a matching dresser
stood on the opposite wall to her left. Lace curtains on the tall
window billowed in the breeze and let in the afternoon sun, which
danced on the floor in pretty patterns of golden light. Under the
window sat a small rectangular table adorned with a diamond-shaped
crocheted doily. Like the table in the kitchen, a small jar of
flowers made a pretty springtime centerpiece — snowdrops this time
with delicate white blooms — some unopened like white teardrops and
others like silky fingers reaching for something below.

Portia pulled back the
curtain and peered onto the front lawn below. There was still
enough daylight to see Mr. Stanford standing under a giant oak next
to an older gentleman. He pointed at the older man and then the
house and appeared none too happy. Was he angry about her apparent
lack of knowledge? She had half a mind to open the window and
yell,
“How was I supposed to know your son
is mute when no one told me until today?”

And what kind of father was he, saying
hurtful things that drove his son to silence? Surely he didn’t
blame Jonathan for Mrs. Stanford’s death.

Mr. Stanford flicked his gaze upward,
hooking her with those sharp eyes. She gasped and dropped the
curtain, giving the wall a reserved, but frustrated kick from her
boot. This timidity wouldn’t do at all, not with her living and
working there all day, every day, for the unforeseeable future.
Back before she lost everyone she loved, she would have prayed for
courage in a situation like this. But she and God weren’t on
speaking terms.

Not yet, anyway.

Portia took a
deep breath and expelled it in a long, dreary
sigh. She had to do something productive and stop letting her
nerves get the best of her. The carry bag sat on the bed atop a
star-patterned quilt. She opened it and removed Frank’s Smith &
Wesson loaded belt pistol, stowing it in the bottom drawer of the
dresser under extra sheets and coverlets.

Then she removed Jake’s tintype from
the bag and placed it on top of the dresser where a large lace
doily covered the center. Jake’s stern face stared back at her. He
had it taken in Nashville right after he could no longer deny the
call to conscription. The newly issued Confederate jacket fit him
well, though it was secondhand, the butternut dye faded to dull
beige. He stood from the seat, hugging her and Abby tight before
the blinding camera flash had left their eyes.

“
This war can’t last much
longer, Po. There aren’t enough men left to put up a decent
fight.”
His laughter was as light as ever,
his hazel eyes dancing with mirth. His smile was as warm as the
hopeful sun on that February morning two years ago. Yet beneath his
brave exterior, she felt the fear quivering in his rigid muscles
and shuddered in his embrace.

If she’d known that was the last time
she’d see him alive, she would have grabbed his starched lapels and
dragged him back home.

Nothing but naïve farm boys, all of
them, but unlike the days following Sumter, these conscripts no
longer believed they could turn the tide of war with misplaced
ideals and bravado. By that time, everyone had grown weary of
constant hunger and the ever-growing lists of dead men. These
soldiers shared a common, and less patriotic, goal — to evade death
and come back home. Muted cheers and quartets with their tired
renditions of “Dixie” faded into Portia’s memory.

On second thought… she stored the
picture in the top drawer. She couldn’t become a slave to the
memories again. It gave her enough comfort to know his picture was
there, safe and sound.

She took off her coat and gloves and
draped them over the chair. The aroma of supper from downstairs
smelled heavenly, so the rest of the unpacking could wait. A
ceramic pitcher filled with fresh water and a matching basin stood
next to the dresser. She washed her face and hands and rearranged
her hair. A few stubborn strands refused to stay put, so she tucked
them behind her ears. She started toward the door but hesitated.
Her brown woolen dress was appropriate for travel, but surely not
for dinner in such a fine dining room.

Quickly, she searched through the few
things she brought in the trunk. Spying her Sunday dress of pale
yellow muslin, she took it out but decided against changing. If she
kept Mr. Stanford waiting, it could make a bad impression. From
their earlier meeting, she didn’t want to incur any more of his
wrath, especially before she even began teaching his
son.

She hung her Sunday dress in a small
wardrobe by the dresser and, before she could change her mind
again, headed downstairs.

Just short of the dining room door,
muffled voices drifted into the foyer. Portia squeezed her eyes
shut and felt short of breath, but she hadn’t come all this way to
cower alone in a guest room. Jake always said she was as sharp as a
copperhead’s tooth, so she took faith in her late husband’s
assessment and hoped she could hold her own.

The men were already seated at the
table, but they stood when she entered. Uncertain where to sit, she
lingered in the doorway until the older gentleman she had seen from
the window stepped around the table and offered his hand. She
accepted it gratefully.

“
Mrs. McAllister, I’m Ezra
Stanford. I think you met my son, Beau,” he said and gestured
toward Mr. Stanford, who nodded but didn’t make eye contact. “And
you’ve met Harry Franklin already. He and Beau run the horse
business. They’ve been friends since they were knee-high to a
grasshopper.”

“
Lovely to see you again.”
Harry bowed with a flourish like a stage actor might do.

“
Thank you, sir. It’s good
to meet you all,” she said.

Jonathan stood silently by his chair
across the table, regarding her with those sheepish eyes. She
smiled at him, but he dropped his gaze to the floor.

Ezra chuckled. “Oh, now, none of this
sir stuff, and Mr. This and That. I’m just Ezra, but you can call
him Beauregard.”

With that, he pointed his fork at his
son.

“
All right now, Pa.” Mr.
Stanford stood at the head of the table and looked none too
pleased. In the flickering light of the chandelier over the table,
she noticed his prominent nose and cheekbones and a dimple in the
dead center of his chin.

Harry scooted out a chair next to his
and gestured to Portia, so she took the cue and sat. He smiled at
her like a barn cat who had caught the first mouse of spring, and
she couldn’t help but feel uneasy. He could have been looking for
someone to court or merely enjoyed a good flirtation, but either
way, Portia wasn’t ready for or interested in any such
dalliance.

“
Beau hates his proper
name,” Ezra continued as he lowered himself to his chair. “I had to
name him since his mama died right after his birth, and I always
liked the name Beauregard. He was one of my favorite
horses.”

He chuckled again, while Harry laughed
and slapped the table. Mr. Stanford, or Beauregard, glanced at his
father and cracked the slightest hint of a smile as he shook his
head. Portia felt more at ease after Ezra’s warm welcome and was
thankful to not be underdressed, after all. The younger men were
wearing shirts and pants stained with a hard day’s work on a farm,
while Ezra wore a pair of canvas overalls splattered with white
paint. A thick gray beard framed his round face and matched the
ring of gray hair growing around his head and above his
ears.

“
Hope you’ll excuse my
paintin’ clothes,” Ezra said as though he’d read her mind. “Fences
don’t paint themselves, and I was too hungry to change.”

Bessie brought in the food and dished
out bowls of what must have been beef stew, considering the
tantalizing aroma, followed by steaming hot cornbread. Portia’s
fingers twitched, longing to dig in, but she lowered her head as
Ezra said grace. The stew itself was more soup than substance, but
still delicious nonetheless. They ate in silence for a while until
Portia realized she’d emptied her entire bowl before anyone else
had even eaten half.

“
You want mine?” Harry
asked, scooting his bowl close to hers.

“
Oh, no thank
you.”

“
At least have more
cornbread.” He took a piece from the towel-covered iron skillet and
put it on her plate.

Even though everyone’s eyes were on
her, she couldn’t let that steaming piece of heaven get
cold.

“
Thank you,” she said then
took a bite, closing her eyes partway as she enjoyed the satisfying
pleasures of the warm, lard-laden bread.

“
How long has it been
since you had a decent meal?” Harry asked quietly.

Swallowing another bite, she blushed
and ducked her head, putting the rest of the piece back on the
plate. She must look like some starving waif to these
men.

“
No, you eat up,” Harry
said, leaning closer. “You won’t go hungry here. I
promise.”

She lifted her eyes enough to see Mr.
Stanford looking at her over his glass of water, but she couldn’t
read his expression well enough to know if he pitied her or thought
she belonged in a pig sty.

Bessie came around again with seconds
and refilled Portia’s bowl.

“
Maybe I ought to just set
the pot in front of this girl,” she said and returned to the
kitchen.

Ezra leaned back in his seat and
rubbed his round belly. “Keep eatin’ like that, young lady, and
you’ll look like me!”

Portia tried to smile as she picked up
her spoon. Across the table, Jonathan had hardly eaten a bite. He
slumped in his chair, pushing a potato around in his
bowl.

“
So, Mrs. McAllister, or
can I call you Portia?” Harry asked, and Portia nodded her
acceptance. “How long have you taught school?”

Clearing her throat, she wiped her
mouth and sat up straight, determined to look as professional as
she could, considering her ravenous appetite. “I earned my
teacher’s certificate right after I finished school myself, and I
taught in Brentwood up until my daughter’s birth, so about six
years.”

Mr. Stanford tapped his fingers on the
table and fixed her in his steady gaze. “Pa never mentioned that
you had a child. Where is she? Back home with your
family?”

She remembered then that she had
mentioned being a widow, but had not written about Abby in her
acceptance letter. The pain had been too fresh then to put it to
paper.

“
I lost her,” Portia said,
trying hard as she could to steady her voice. “Typhoid, about eight
months ago.”

Biting her lip, she focused on the
spoon marks on the ceramic of her empty bowl. Before now, she had
never had to say it out loud. Everyone in Brentwood knew when
someone died. It was newsworthy fodder for conversation. She
couldn’t even walk the streets without the pitiful glances, the
murmurings, and empty condolences.

“
I’m sorry to hear that,”
Mr. Stanford said. The gentle tone of his voice surprised her. The
other men followed suit. “According to your letter, your husband
worked as assistant overseer at Travellers Rest. Is that
right?”