Thursday's Child (Out of Time #5) (5 page)

A few moments passed before Simon shifted and peered out from the safety of their hiding spot. Elizabeth followed suit. The cemetery was as empty and as still as it had been before the man arrived. Slowly, Simon stood and helped Elizabeth up.

“That was close,” Elizabeth whispered.

Simon flipped back the hood of his cloak. “Too close. Could you see what drew his attention?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I think it was a fox, back there in the woods. I'm not sure. I think my imagination was getting the better of me.”

“This is the place for it.”

“You were as calm as a toad in the sun.”

“Appearances can be deceiving. I was busy praying that it wouldn't be zombies,” Simon added with a wink.

Elizabeth laughed. “Funny.”

Simon worked the kinks out of his legs and rolled his shoulders to loosen them. “Let's take a look at those flowers, shall we?” he asked as he nodded toward Mary's grave. He took Elizabeth's arm and helped her walk up the soft grass to the grave. Once there, he knelt down and picked up the small bouquet of blue and purple flowers.

“Whoever he was, he cared enough to leave those,” Elizabeth said.

Simon gently placed the flowers back exactly as they had been and stood. “Yes, but did he do it out of love or out of guilt.”

He looked around the empty graveyard once more before nodding to the woods. “We should go.”

Elizabeth was more than happy to head back to the warmth and security of town and their hotel. They walked down the hill and into the woods.

“By the way, did you notice his clothes?” Simon asked as he helped Elizabeth pick her way through the woods. “I could only make out the edges of his overcoat and trousers, but the coat was frayed and poor quality. The trousers, however, were something a wealthy man would wear.”

“And his boots. They were like yours. Expensive.”

Simon nodded thoughtfully. “So we know he's a man of means, and one who did not want to be seen visiting Mary's grave.”

“That's not much to go on.”

“It's more than we had this morning,” Simon said.

They reached the small clearing where their horse and buggy waited patiently and Simon helped Elizabeth onto the seat.

“So, tomorrow?” she asked.

Simon retrieved the anchor weight and rope from the horse's harness, and slid in next to her. “Tomorrow we find Miss Stanton and see what more we can learn about Mary.” He deftly eased the carriage down the dark path. “And with any luck, meet a few of the local aristocracy and worm our way in.”

“Worming's good.”

“It's an incestuous society. If our mystery man is among them, our paths will cross.”

The lone fox screamed again and their horse unsettled before Simon calmed her. Elizabeth shivered. “I don't think I'll ever get used to that sound. It's so anguished.”

Simon nodded. “Yes, it is, isn't it?” After a pause, he urged their horse on and they started down the narrow path.

Elizabeth looked into the trees as they left the woods and turned onto the road. She half-expected to see the fox looking back, or a pale faced little girl in a white dress, but there was only darkness.

Chapter Five

Simon tipped his hat as two of Natchez's elite walked past them on the sidewalk followed closely by a nanny who was pushing a rather gaudy velvet-covered pram. The women smiled and dipped her heads in polite greeting.

Because it was such a beautiful day and the address wasn't too far away, they decided to walk. It felt good to stretch his legs and work out the cramps from last night.

The streets of Natchez proper were laid out in a perfect grid. Clusters of enormous houses sat on the streets on and near the bluff, just above the landing where they'd arrived. Under-the-Hill and above it might be separated by hundreds of feet, but they were worlds apart. Elite planters of the early 1800’s had spent fortunes on massive estates both in town and out on their plantations. Each was a testament to their power and wealth. Catherine's family was apparently one of the one percent of the one percent that made up the Natchez Nabobs.

“I think this is the house,” Elizabeth said at his side as she stopped and checked the address scribbled on the note Mrs. Nolan had given them yesterday.

Catherine Stanton's house was definitely more than just a house; it was one of the grand homes of Natchez. Simon looked up at the imposing façade of the Stantons' Cypress Hill estate. The three-story square, red brick building with its four gleaming white Doric columns and impressive, projected pediment stood set back from the street with a wrought iron gate that kept the unwanted away. Tall magnolia trees in full blossom stood on either side of the path that cut through the lush, green lawn.

“Catherine does all right,” Elizabeth said.

“Someone does.” Simon opened the gate for Elizabeth and followed her up the brick path.

They were just nearing the steps leading up to the front door when it opened and a man, every inch the definition of a dandy, from his black top hat and elaborately tailored tight-fitting tail coat to his silk and velvet vest, appeared with a flourish. He turned back toward the door and was joined by an older man in a conservative black suit and grey vest. His face was hewn from stone, back ramrod straight, even his beard stood at attention. Despite being several inches shorter than the younger man, the older man cut a powerful figure and one used to getting his way.

The younger man made a sour expression on his already pinched face and forced an unnatural smile. His voice had an unnaturally high pitch. “I'm sure you understand how embarrassing this is, Colonel. I simply cannot have such disrespect shown by a fiancée.”

Colonel? A military man, Simon thought. That was fitting.

The Colonel forced a thin smile to his lips. His voice was deep and resonate and angry. “Of course.”

The younger man clapped him on the shoulder. A gesture that was not welcome, but endured. “You can hardly be blamed for your daughter's lack of social graces,” the younger man said. “But I'm sure you understand that a man such as myself cannot have a wife who runs off, unaccompanied no less, to such places as Water Street.”

The Colonel's natural frown deepened. “I will speak with her about that, you can be assured, Archer.”

Mr. Archer smiled broadly. “Of course.” He tipped his hat. “I'll give Father your regards.”

The Colonel grunted and managed another forced smile.

Mr. Archer nodded and hurried down the stairs. He bowed and tipped his hat to them as he passed and walked briskly to the street.

The Colonel stood at the top of the stairs and noticed Simon and Elizabeth for the first time. He put his fists on his hips. “And you are?”

Elizabeth started to speak, but Simon managed to beat her to it. “Good morning,” Simon said removing his hat. “We were wondering if Miss Catherine Stanton is at home.”

The Colonel's eyes narrowed and he took a step forward. His keen eyes darted to Elizabeth and he frowned, before addressing Simon. “You're one of them, aren't you?”

“Pardon me, I—”

“Get out!” he said turning on his heels and starting for the door.

“Sir, I think you—”

The Colonel stopped and turned back. He nearly charged down the stairs. “You and,” he said, looking at Elizabeth with what could only be described as disdain, “your kind, filled her head with your suffrage nonsense. Independence! The vote!”

He said the last two words as though they were the most absurd things he'd ever heard. Simon could feel Elizabeth begin to simmer next to him and hoping to preempt an explosion, put a gentle, but restraining hand on her arm. “Sir, I'm afraid you're mistaken. We are not suffragists.”

The man gave Elizabeth another appraising look. He was clearly skeptical of Simon's claims.

“We simply came here to ask Miss Stanton about her work at the orphanage. Her charitable works, but I can see we've made a mistake.” Simon took Elizabeth's arm and turned away. They'd taken several steps down to the path when the Colonel spoke again.

“Wait!”

They stopped and slowly turned back. The Colonel glared at them for a moment and was about to speak again when a young, broad shouldered black man wearing a maroon and buff livery appeared in the doorway. “Colonel?” he asked anxiously.

“It's all right, Abraham.” The Colonel waved him away before turning back to Simon and Elizabeth. “I must beg your pardon,” he said and judging from the pained look on his face, he was not used to doing so.

“Of course,” Simon said. “It was presumptive of us to call without prior notice. My card.” Simon pulled out a silver cardholder and handed the Colonel his card.

The Colonel took it and offered his hand. “Colonel William Stanton.”

They shook. “Simon Cross and this is my wife, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth offered him a small curtsy and her most disarming smile.

The Colonel bowed, but still wasn't warming to Elizabeth. “Mrs. Cross.” He glanced at Simon's card. “Sir Simon?”

“A minor baronetcy,” Simon said as though he were talking about something thoroughly insignificant.

The Colonel was impressed, no small feat it appeared, and tucked the card into his coat pocket. “My daughter is not home at the moment, but I will tell her you called.” Apparently, their audience with him was at an end. He bowed and waited for them to get the message.

Simon smiled graciously and tipped his hat. “Colonel.” He escorted Elizabeth down the path to the street.

When they reached the sidewalk and shut the gate behind them, Elizabeth said, “I'd like to suffrage him.”

Simon chuckled. “Is it that or that we may have met the first man ever who is immune to your charms?”

Elizabeth frowned.

“You still have my heart,” Simon said, stifling another laugh as her expression soured. “Come along,” he slipped her arm into his. “I hear there are wanton women on Water Street.”

~~~

Elizabeth was still stewing over the Colonel's attitude toward women as they approached the section of town where they hoped to find Catherine Stanton. With an effort she put the Colonel out of her mind as the neighborhoods rapidly changed. The divides of the class structure were easy to see.

They traveled from the beautiful, stately residential streets of the wealthy planters and powerful businessmen to those busy with commerce. Storefronts of all sorts lined the wide dirt streets offering everything from dry goods to the latest hats from Paris. Apartments of varying sizes and cost above the stores housed some of the middle class — smaller merchants, lesser public officials and professionals of moderate income. Others in that class left the city, such as it was, for the quieter spaces of small country homes on the outskirts of town or ran small farms dwarfed by their larger neighbors.

Next were the skilled laborers, mechanics, artisans and tradesmen. That left the bottom two classes of society. Tucked away on the periphery of the aptly named fringe of society were the common whites, the poor laborers, landless tenant farmers and others struggling to make ends meet, beneath them, at the very bottom of the heap, the slaves.

Simon drove the buggy around a corner and they'd arrived on Water Street. “This must be it,” he said looking at the street sign.

A row of old, dilapidated homes, most of them boarding houses, lined the street. Interspersed among the boarding houses were smaller places with slanted roofs and pillars of rough-hewn wood. Porches sagged in the middle or slanted to the side as their foundations decayed. The sun-faded wooden planks on the sides of the houses showed signs of paint lost long ago, as the small patches that remained peeled and bubbled.

The street was busy with traffic. Mule carts and other large two and four horse wagons laden with heavy piles of lumber and other goods rumbled down the dirt road. The smell of manure and sewage was heavy in the air.

This was where the working class lived — the warehouse worker and bartender, the manual laborer and the prostitute. Most could not afford homes of their own, no matter how small, and so they rented rooms in one of the many boarding houses. A saloon sign hung angled from a broken hinge and an out of tune piano clinked out some song inside for the midday drinkers.

Simon and Elizabeth and their fancy hired buggy stood out, painfully. A man sitting on a split rail fence watched them with narrowed eyes from under his straw hat. He spit a short brown stream of tobacco juice through a hole where a tooth used to be and watched them warily as they drove past.

“Perhaps, I should have left you at the hotel,” Simon said softly.

Elizabeth glared at him. He sighed and nodded, but she could feel his tension mount. She looked down the busy street. “How are we going to find her?”

“Get out!” a voice bellowed nearby.

Elizabeth turned and saw a large man with a jiggling belly and outrageous whiskers push open the swinging doors to a saloon. “I warned you about coming back here.”

A well-dressed woman was roughly escorted from the premises by two other men and shoved out onto the planked porch in front of the heavy-set man.

“I don't think that's going to be a problem,” Simon said as he pulled their buggy over.

The woman was tall and thin. The sort some people would describe as handsome, but not pretty. Her features were sharp and bold, and she stood erect with a pride that bordered on aggression.

Two dancehall-type girls in very low-cut dresses and men with drinks in their hands appeared in the doorway and watched the scene with amusement. Simon and Elizabeth climbed out of the buggy, but kept their distance. For now.

Catherine Stanton straightened her hat with incredible calm and stood regally before him. “Sir, these ladies—”

That won a raucous chorus of laughter. “Ladies?” said the fat man.

Catherine held her ground and even smiled graciously. “These women have a right to know that there is change coming and they will be able to be full citizens with all the commensurate rights, if they will just read this material.” She tried to hand the girls a few single-page flyers.

The fat man shook his head and moved toward the girls. He slung his meaty arms over their shoulders and pulled them close. “Now why would they want that? When they got me to take care of 'em? Ain't that right, girls? 'Sides, women ain't got the brains a man does. I'm doin 'em a favor,” he added with a quick swat to their behinds.