Counterfeit Courtship (14 page)

Still standing next to Miss Ophelia, Ellie now made for the door. “Excuse me a moment.”

She rushed through the center hall to the front entry and gallery. About to collapse in a rocker, she remembered it was Sunday night. All of Natchez seemed to be still out, promenading on the sidewalks of Pearl Street, stopping to visit on porches or lawns.

The last thing Ellie needed now was for one of them to stop her for a chat. She hastened to Graham's backyard, where she could hide among the myrtles.

Once in the garden, she collapsed on the grass, next to the smooth marble statue of Rachel at the well. As a child, she used to pick the flowering myrtles and place one in Rachel's hand every morning. Now she plucked a sprig and fastened it between Rachel's fingers.

Rachel still had a home, at least until the next time taxes came due. But Ellie was fooling herself to think she and her uncle were safe.

If only she could sit here in the quiet of the evening and think of the sweet things of life, mainly Graham's kiss and the promise it held. Could she ever again think of it without remembering how safe she'd felt, how cherished? But now, despite those moments, the whole world seemed to root against her. She could talk all she wanted of picking cotton, of offering daily wages, of rebuilding the cabins for more workers, even of selling her hoarded cotton—but it was all talk. Mere talk. She had two weeks to pay her debt. She had twenty workers already dependent on her, not to mention Uncle Amos, Lilah May and Roman.

Two weeks to save her uncle's plantation—her grandfather's plantation before him. Ellie's plantation after him.

If Miss Ophelia could lose her property, it could happen to Ellie too. Because like Miss Ophelia's, Ellie's plans never quite worked out.

Her fear of returning to the poverty of her childhood had driven her to defy society and learn how to become a planter. And that fear had served her well, had worked for her as she made the hard decisions since Uncle's illness. So why not now?

She had two weeks to pay her loan and harvest the crop—all while keeping both her outward promise and her inward vow to Graham. She had to do it in two weeks. If she didn't, she'd fail her family—her only living relative—in a worse way than her father had failed her.

She tucked the myrtle bud closer to Rachel.

That failure would be worse than death to her.

Chapter Thirteen

G
od, please stop me if I'm misunderstanding Your instructions.

The next morning, Graham stayed on his knees at his bedside even longer than he had the day before. Somehow, being the man of the house that sheltered an elderly stepmother, a man living in the past, a baby and a widowed aunt weighed heavier on him than his command of thousands of troops ever had.

Not to mention Ellie.

Last night had proved beyond doubt that he still had feelings for the one woman who would never become his wife. And he could do nothing about it. With that kiss, what little peace he'd had about this counterfeit courtship vanished like fog on the river.

Worse yet, the best he could discern, God was leading him to become Ellie's broker. And once he accepted the position, he'd have to work closely with her and spend even more time with her than before.

God, help me to keep my mind on business when I'm around her.

And off their kiss. He rubbed the ache that was starting in the back of his neck. Nothing less than divine intervention could bring that kind of focus to pass.

In order to shield his heart and do Ellie's business, these thoughts of romance needed to go. Yes, he'd keep his thoughts where they needed to be, concentrate on the cotton brokerage instead. If his arrangement with Ellie worked out and he thought he had some aptitude for brokering cotton, he'd offer his services to other area planters who wanted to get their ground productive again. These were new days and hard times, and old methods wouldn't work anymore. Planting—and selling—cotton would have a different face today. Graham would need Ellie's creativity and ideas in order to pull a profit from the old dirt of Natchez.

He glanced at the clock on his lowboy. Ten of seven. He needed to get up and get downstairs if he didn't want to hear that offensive bell this morning.

Aunt Ophelia picked up that bell just as Graham bounded down the last step. “No need, Auntie. I'm up.”

“You're up, dressed and perky.” She looked rather perky herself in her bright blue dress that pulled the blue out of her hazel eyes. “What plans do you have today?”

“Big ones.” Graham crooked his arm at her, and she took it, letting him escort her. He turned left to head to the library.

“Not in there.” She tugged him in the opposite direction, toward the back of the house. “I have reinstituted the tradition of high breakfast in the dining room.”

“High breakfast?”

“That's what your dear, departed grandmother used to call it. She knew how to set a breakfast table. All of Natchez envied her.”

Graham didn't know about that, but Aunt Ophelia certainly seemed to have made a place for herself in the household already. And that was probably a good thing. He could understand Noreen eating in the library when she lived here alone, but now they had four adults and a baby in the house. The dining room seemed a better option. And the aromas coming from that direction told him they had a feast waiting.

They entered the room where Father and Noreen sat, not at their usual places at the head and foot of the table, but across from each other at one end. Betsy sat on Noreen's lap, babbling and grabbing her grandmother's silverware. The room's yellow walls and white trim made it even more cheerful than Graham remembered.

“Good idea to eat in here again.”

Then his gaze landed on the mahogany sideboard—the one whose contents had saved this house. Thousands of dollars' worth of gold coin, hidden nearly in plain sight. Too bad it was empty now and couldn't buy back Ashland Place or Ammadelle.

He seated Aunt Ophelia next to Noreen and then rounded the table to sit by his father, against the west windows. “Good morning, Father.”

Father turned and fastened his empty-eyed gaze on Graham. “Good morning.”

It would be easy to let his father's condition drag Graham into melancholy as well. But the women at the table needed his strength, so he forced himself to smile. Perhaps they all needed to talk to Father more, encourage him to participate in the family's chatter. It was hard to make conversation with a man who often couldn't or wouldn't speak back, but Graham decided to give it more effort.

The bowl in front of his plate caught his eye: scrambled eggs with onions and peppers from their garden. He glanced around at the rest of the table and saw hotcakes and thin-sliced ham. “Father, look how good breakfast looks. Where did all this come from?”

“Ophelia made it,” Noreen said, giving Betsy her spoon to play with.

Graham couldn't help laughing. “Aunt Ophelia, your cooking skills are the best-kept secret in Natchez.”

“My mother believed every girl of privilege should know how to cook and keep house.” She puffed herself up to her full height and girth. “One never knew, she said, when one would find oneself without domestic help. And this war has proven her right.”

“But you've gone to far too much trouble for us, Ophelia,” Noreen said.

She sniffed. “Yesterday, I didn't know if I would have to find a job as a cook somewhere, just to survive. I can surely cook for my family.”

“Let's make her happy and let her cook, Noreen.” Graham breathed deep of the good aromas. “Father, would you like to pray?”

His father bowed his head. “We give Thee thanks, Almighty God, for home and food and family. In the name of Jesus, amen.”

“Meh-men!” Betsy banged the spoon on the table.

Well, it wasn't Father's usual lengthy prayer, but his tight voice hinted that he'd meant it. That was a good start.

When they'd finished, Graham helped Aunt Ophelia carry the dirty dishes to the kitchen dependency. She stacked the plates and then turned to him, a motherly concern in her eye.

“Susanna Martin came to my home yesterday afternoon.” Her expression suddenly clouded. “She was the last caller I'll ever receive in that house.”

“I'm sorry.” Sorry for her grief over her home, and sorry that he even had to talk about Susanna.

“She gave me some distressing news. It seems she saw you and Ellie riding out of town together yesterday.”

That prying little husband-hunting snoop. “We drove out to Magnolia Grove, yes.”

Aunt Ophelia took one of his hands, and hers felt soft as cotton. If she kept cooking and doing dishes, they wouldn't be that way for long. “Don't you see, dear, that such behavior compromises Ellie's reputation? I know you were childhood friends, but you're not children anymore.”

“But our trip was for business.”

“Doesn't matter. Now that you're courting, you must protect her virtue. At all cost.”

Of course she was right. “But I've decided to become her broker. How will I advise her about her crops if we don't go to Magnolia Grove together?”

“I have the solution.”

Ten minutes later, Graham dashed to his room and scribbled a quick note to Ellie.

Are you game for a visit? You're not the only one with crazy ideas. Now Aunt Ophelia has one for us.

Graham

He crammed the scrap of paper into the broken fountain pen barrel still outside his window. Then he tied it to the twine, pulled on the rope and sent the missile flying toward Ellie's window. With a satisfying clink, it hit the glass.

Within seconds, she reached through the open window, grabbed the barrel and gave him a quick wave. A few minutes later, her answer came sailing back.

Come in the back door and up to Uncle Amos's room. Don't be late! I'm meeting with Joseph this morning. Come with me if you like.

Sis

Well, it had been a fine morning until he read her signature. It was time to put a stop to this. He grabbed his pen.

If I'm courting you, then you're not my sis. I don't want to see that again.

He sent this note zooming over their yards with much more force than necessary. Her reply took only seconds.

Very well. Signed, your loving, faithful, devoted intended. Like that better?

He would have eight years ago. As it was, the mockery cut into his heart more than “Sis” had.

Go back to Sis. Or Boss, since I'm going to be your new broker.

This time, when the barrel hit her window, it sounded hollow. He stormed out and down the hall. He'd gotten what he deserved, sending messages to her house over a pulley as if they were still children. Why did she make him act so childish?

Or was it childish? Perhaps it was merely lightheartedness, as Noreen had said. How was a man to know the difference? He banged on the guest room door, which was now Aunt Ophelia's, and yelled that he was ready to take her to Ellie's.

She poked her head out the door, her eyes wide. “What's your hurry? Why are you shouting in the house? And what was that thunking sound I heard coming from your room?”

What was wrong with him? He'd never even yelled at his soldiers on the battlefield. “I was just thinking how I was being childish, and then I confirmed the fact by hollering at you.”

“So you did.” She patted his cheek. “That happens sometimes when you're in love.”

In love. What would she say if she knew he had just demanded that Ellie sign her notes “Sis”? “If that's what causes childishness, I must have it bad. I've not been thinking straight.”

She took his arm as they started down the stairs. “I don't like to drop in on people this early in the morning, but I suppose it's excusable since we're calling on your intended.”

There was that word again.
Intended.
“She knows we're coming.”

Aunt Ophelia came to a full stop on the bottom step, her brow furrowed. “How could she possibly know?”

“Because...” The ridiculousness of the situation hit him like a flying ink barrel to the chest. Why had he told her Ellie knew they were coming? Now he had to explain and bear the embarrassment. “I...sent her a note, of sorts.”

She nodded and stepped off the staircase. “You delivered a note saying you'd be there in five minutes. You're right, Graham. You're not thinking straight. Her maid probably won't see the note until after we have left.”

“It wasn't exactly like that.” He didn't want to tell her, didn't want to confess his foolishness, but her uncharacteristic silence drove him to it. “All right, I admit to our childishness. There's a pulley above each of our bedroom windows, and there's a long piece of twine attached to them. We send each other notes by this system.”

Her laughter rang out into the yard as they exited the back door and he pointed out the twine stretching above their yards. “That's not childish,” she said. “That's childlike. There's a difference.”

“What difference? A child is a child.”

“Childishness is selfishness, greed, pettiness. Childlikeness is innocence, trust and faith.”

Now, that was something to think about when he was alone.

They approached Ellie's back entrance. “We're to walk in and head upstairs to Amos's room.”

“Amos.” His aunt spoke his name as if he were a cherished friend, which he was. “I hope he's well. I haven't seen him since his misfortune.”

“But why? He and Uncle Willis were great friends.”

“Yes, my Willis and Amos were the best of friends. But after Amos had this spell, he didn't want me to come.” She stepped inside as Graham opened the door. “I've never understood why.”

They took the wide staircase to the second floor, then Graham knocked on the open door to Amos's room.

With a flurry of pink hoopskirts, Ellie ushered them in. As he stopped to catch his breath at the sight of her the morning after their kiss, she dropped her gaze, her cheeks rosy as her dress.

Perhaps she had as much trouble not thinking about that kiss as he did.

“Ophelia.” Amos sat up straighter in bed—unassisted—and smoothed down his beard. “I didn't want...”

She hesitated, and then a knowing look came over her face. At his bedside, she reached for his hand. “I know you didn't, Amos.”

Didn't what? These people had a strange way of communicating, but they seemed to understand each other.

“Graham asked to come over and meet with us,” Ellie said.

“What for?” The twinge of irritation in the older man's words surprised Graham. He wasn't sure he'd ever detected that in Amos's voice before.

Ellie pulled out one of the dining chairs. “Miss Ophelia, would you please be seated here next to me?”

When they had all taken their places at the table to the side of Amos's bed, Graham addressed the older man. “With your approval, sir, Ellie and I would like to put an idea into place.”

He narrowed his good eye, making himself look severe. “I already told Ellie that I don't like it.”

What? He didn't want Graham to be their broker? “I don't understand. I thought you would trust me to do this.”

“Why would I trust you with something that precious to me, when I know you're just going to throw it away?”

Throw it away? “I admit that men sometimes have poor judgment and make bad decisions, but I would do my best—”

“Miss Ophelia, would you please join me in the kitchen?” Ellie sprang up from her chair and grabbed the older lady's hand. “I have great need of your advice.”

What now?

“Ellie, dear, can it not wait?” Aunt Ophelia tried to pull her hand away, but Ellie didn't give in.

“It is of utmost importance!”

Probably seeing that Ellie had no plan of turning loose of her, Aunt Ophelia slowly stood. “Very well, but I don't know why it must be now—”

“This is so gracious of you. I don't know of anyone else I can ask.” Ellie stood back and waited for the older woman to exit the room, and then she closed the door.

“What was that all about?” Amos asked with that slur in his voice that Graham couldn't get used to.

“Who knows, with those two?” Should he talk to Amos about becoming their broker, or should he wait until Ellie's return? And what could be so important in the kitchen that she had to drag Aunt Ophelia down there before he could accept her offer?