Beauty for Ashes (33 page)
Joe danced around the parlor. “We’re finally goin’ to school.”
“I wouldn’t be so happy about it if I was you,” Caleb said. “Jimmy D. Washburn said old man Webster is mean as a snake. Jimmy D. said Webster takes a cane to you if you don’t follow his rules. But he’s not the boss of me.”
“He is when you are in his classroom,” Griff said quietly. “And I’ll be very disappointed indeed if I hear that you haven’t treated him with respect.”
Caleb blushed. “Yes, sir.”
“It’s late,” Carrie told them. “Both of you go on up to bed. And, Joe, don’t forget to wash behind your ears. I’ll be up later to check.”
“Will you read ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’ again?”
“We’ll see. Go on now.”
Joe rushed over and threw both arms around her legs, burying his face in her skirts. “Good night, Aunt Carrie.”
She stroked his hair. When had she begun to need these children as much as they needed her? “Good night, Joe. You too, Caleb.”
He ducked his head and pounded up the stairs.
Carrie returned to the kitchen to finish washing the dishes. Griff followed. She was aware of his sheer size in the small kitchen, the clean soapy smell of his skin. She poured water into the dishpan and scrubbed a bowl harder than was necessary.
“Good news about the school.” He picked up a towel and dried a glass.
“Yes. We’ve been without a teacher for so long, I’m afraid Mr. Webster will find the children have a lot of catching up to do.” She scoured the soup pot and set it on the sideboard. “I suppose you’re eager to be off at last. We’ve kept you here much longer than you intended.”
“Yes, but it hasn’t been at all unpleasant. I’ve enjoyed the boys.”
“They look up to you.”
“I’d like to think so.” The look in his dark eyes softened. “I’ve never had anyone look up to me. Philip, my younger brother, always looked to our father, not to me.”
“And whom did you admire?”
He shrugged. “I never really looked to anyone until the war. Then it was the other blockade runners I grew to admire. But of course by then I was long past the need for heroes.”
“I don’t think we ever outgrow our need for heroes.”
“Maybe you’re right.” He smiled down at her, and her heart stuttered. “Who are your heroes, Carrie?”
She considered. “My grandmother Bell. My husband Frank. And Henry, of course. I don’t remember very much about my parents. I was still a child when they died.”
The kitchen went too quiet.
“I was hoping I might have made that list.”
His smile made her stomach drop. Of course she admired him, as much as anyone she knew. She loved everything about him. But now he was leaving her, going away forever. Why tell him how she felt?
A gust of wind blew through the cracked windowsill, guttering the lantern. Griff ran his fingers over the rotted wood and sighed.
“What?” She hung her apron on a peg and dried her hands.
“That needs fixing before it gets any colder.”
The sill needed attention, true enough, but an old pillowcase stuffed into the hole would suffice until Henry’s return. She studied him beneath her lowered lashes and felt a flutter of hope. Was it possible Griff was looking for a reason to stay?
Griff lit a cheroot and, with a contented sigh, buried himself chin-deep in the steaming bath water. The staff at the Hickory Ridge Inn certainly knew how to take care of a man. Since moving back to town a week ago, he’d enjoyed hot baths, fine meals in the dining room, and an occasional brandy in the gentlemen’s smoking room afterward. It made for a peaceful return to town.
Walking away from Carrie, from her farm and those father-hungry boys, had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done. But it was surely for the best. With every trip to town, he’d felt the townsfolk’s disapproval not only of him, but of the fact that he was staying at the farm with two women who were neither his kin nor his wife. It wouldn’t do for their disapproval to taint Carrie’s standing in Hickory Ridge. She would have to live here once he had moved on.
Besides, truth to tell, the weather had turned too cold to continue sleeping in Carrie’s barn, and he enjoyed his creature comforts. Still, he missed Carrie and the boys, missed the effort required to keep the farm going. He had forgotten the exhilaration of pure physical labor and the quiet satisfaction of a job well done. He missed seeing Carrie across the table in the evenings, the lantern light turning her hair to burnished copper. The bell-like sound of her rare laughter. There had been no laughter on the morning he left the farm, his few belongings tossed into a rented rig. She waved bravely from the porch as he drove away, one arm wrapped around Joe’s shoulder, but he knew her heart felt as empty as his own.
A discreet knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. The valet, a tall, powerfully built colored man wearing a white jacket, stuck his head inside. “More hot water for yuh, Mr. Rutledge?”
“Thank you, Isaiah, but I suppose I ought to get going.”
“You goin’ back to the bank again this morning?”
“I am indeed.” He’d mulled over his plans for weeks now, more energized by the possibilities than by anything since his blockade running days. But his dream was still too fragile to talk about with anyone but the banker.
“I’ll get your clothes laid out for yuh.”
Griff nodded, and when the man withdrew he sat for a few moments longer before snuffing out his cheroot and reluctantly rising. He wrapped himself in a thick towel, padded down the carpeted hallway of the gentlemen’s floor, and returned to his room.
He dressed and perused the latest edition of the Knoxville paper that had been delivered on this morning’s breakfast tray. Christmas was only three weeks away, and the paper was full of advertisements for everything from harnesses to chocolates. He thought of Christmases in Charleston—candles everywhere, the tables laden with elaborate centerpieces, glittering crystal and china, and an indecent amount of food. He pictured his father at the head of this year’s table, Philip and Susan basking in the happy glow of their upcoming nuptials. He’d have to send a gift, though Philip and Miss Layton were hardly in need of anything.
He turned the page and skimmed the national news. The notorious Boss Tweed had escaped from jail in New York and absconded to Cuba. The Chicago evangelist Dwight L. Moody was attracting great crowds to his revival meetings. And P. T. Barnum was planning a tour with Jumbo, the elephant he’d recently acquired from the Royal Zoological Gardens in London. Griff searched the article for a schedule for the showman’s traveling circus. What a treat that would be for Joe and Caleb.
He grinned, remembering their earnest attempts to learn poker. He had long since forgiven Joe for shooting Majestic with the slingshot. Though his shoulder still pained him, the accident had resulted in some of the happiest days he’d known in a long time.
A photograph of a white-stockinged bay colt captured his attention. The headline read, “Kentucky Derby Winner Sold to Mr. William Astor, Jr., for the Sum of $7000.” He wondered about the bay’s winning time. He hadn’t timed Majestic before Race Day, but he had a strong feeling that the sleek black colt could hold his own among the likes of Vagrant. If his plans panned out, maybe one day he’d have a chance to test it.
Downstairs, the lobby clock chimed the hour. Griff folded the paper, picked up his key, and headed for the bank.
“Aunt Carrie, is Griff coming for Christmas?” Joe stood on a stool in the kitchen, breaking eggs for a raisin cake. The kitchen was warm and fragrant with the smells of spices and wood smoke.
“I don’t think so, Joe. I’m sure he has plans of his own.”
“Well, did you ask him?”
She stopped stirring. Pale yellow batter dripped from her wooden spoon into the blue crockery bowl. “No, I didn’t. We’ve taken up too much of his time already. Besides, your mother doesn’t feel well enough for company.”
He sighed and cracked another egg. “It seems like Mama’s going to be sick forever.”
It felt that way to Carrie too. In the weeks since Griff’s move back to town, time had moved at a glacial pace. Her future stretched out before her, an endless string of empty days broken only by the demands of duty to Henry’s family. More than once she’d rushed to the door, imaging the sound of hoofbeats on the road. But Griff hadn’t visited even once.
Perhaps it was for the best. Every time she looked at him, every time she recalled the sweet heat of their shared kiss, she found it all that much harder to know that the joy he brought to her life was only temporary. Better to sever all ties now.
“Are you finished cracking eggs?” She set her cake tins on the counter, greased them, and dusted them with flour.
“Yes’m.” He pushed the bowl toward her. “Are we goin’ to the Christmas pageant at that big church tonight?”
“I wish we could. I miss hearing the Christmas story and singing carols, and I miss my friend Deborah. But your mama can’t make the trip into town. Besides, it’s raining up on the mountain.” She glanced out the window at the wild, dark sky. “I won’t be surprised if we have a wet night here too.”
“Can I go play with Caleb now?”
“Yes, but don’t go far. After supper we’re going to look for our Christmas tree, and I want to be back before the rain gets here.”
“I don’t know why we need a tree. Mama said there won’t be any presents tomorrow on account of our new papa hasn’t sent us any money. Why hasn’t he, Aunt Carrie? Doesn’t he love us anymore?”
Her chest went tight with sadness and worry. She wrapped her arms around the boy. “Of course he loves us. I don’t know why we haven’t heard from him either, but I’m sure there’s a very good reason.”
He shrugged. “It sure won’t seem like Christmas without any presents.”
He looked so dejected that, for a moment, Carrie was tempted to tell him about the small gifts she’d bought last week. The Verandah had acquired two new residents, prompting Mrs. Whitcomb to double her order for fresh bread. The money had been just enough to buy a gift for each of the boys. But she wanted to surprise them.
She brushed Joe’s hair out of his eyes and made a mental note to give the boy a haircut. “When the baby Jesus was born in the stable, there were no presents for him at first.”
“But then the wise men brought gold and stuff.”
Carrie smiled. “They did. And I imagine his mother must have thought those presents were another miracle.”
“One time Mama said the animals talk on Christmas Eve and it’s a miracle. Is that true? Does Miranda talk?”
“I’ve never personally heard her, but miracles make anything possible.”
“I guess. But—”
The teakettle whistled. “Go find Caleb. Tell him supper will be ready in an hour.”
Joe ran outside. Carrie finished the cake batter, set the filled tins into the oven, and went to check on Mary. Despite the doctor’s orders and Carrie’s coaxing, Mary ate hardly anything. Her reticence was irritating. How would she have the strength to deliver the child when the time came?
Carrie peeked into the room. How tranquil and saintly Mary looked in sleep . . . how truculent in every waking hour. Well, having to spend months and months abed was surely a tedious affair. Perhaps seeing the boys enjoying their Christmas presents would improve Mary’s mood and her appetite.
Carrie heard hoofbeats on the road and crossed over to the door, her heart thumping. Had Griff come at last? But it was Nate Chastain who reined in and hurried across the yard, his coat flapping in the sharp December wind.
Carrie flung the door wide and ushered him in. “What brings you out this way?”
“I heard things were a little tight for you these days.”
She led him into the parlor and tossed a couple of logs onto the fire. Bright sparks flew up with a popping sound. “Oh, Nate, ‘tight’ hardly begins to describe the situation. We’ve had no word and not a dime from Henry since October. I’m worried that something awful has happened. In his last letter he said some of the men in the rail yard were nearly ready to riot. What if he’s hurt? What if he has lost his job?”
Nate patted her shoulder. “It’s worrisome, all right, but don’t go borrowing trouble. If Henry was hurt, somebody would have sent word. We ought to hope for the best until there’s a reason not to.”