Healing Grace (3 page)

The problem was he
had
told the colonel where he was from. He’d told him seventeen years ago, during the war. After so long, Sam had hoped the colonel no longer remembered.

“When was the last time you were home?” the colonel prompted.

“I can’t recall exactly,” Sam murmured. “Three or four years, I guess.”

“Hmm. Well—”

Whatever the colonel intended to say was cut short by a knock at the door.

“What is it, Godfrey?” the colonel called out.

Godfrey, one of the cadets taking his turn as office guard, peered in. “Major Grace is here to see you, sir.”

The colonel stood up. “Send him in.”

Sam rose as well, but he didn’t follow the colonel across the room. Instead he stepped back, stumbling over his own feet. He retreated even farther as the colonel’s brother entered. Unlike the colonel, and contrary to the title, Major Grace wasn’t dressed in uniform, but he wouldn’t be. He was retired now.

Major Grace’s attire was a tailored black suit, less the coat. A watch chain dangled from the pocket of an embroidered vest. It wasn’t typical for him to stop by the academy unexpectedly like this, but Sam had seen Major Julien Grace a handful of times over the years. The colonel had introduced them. Even so, Sam doubted the major remembered him, and he was exceedingly glad of that.

From the shadowed corner, Sam watched the brothers greet each other with handshakes and a brief embrace. The major wasn’t as tall as the colonel, and his hair wasn’t as long, but it was the same dark shade. He wasn’t as striking as the colonel either, though their features were similar. Somehow the colonel’s were more defined, which made him all the more dynamic.

The major didn’t come bearing good news. Sam listened as he spoke of his father-in-law, Luther Emerson. A telegram had been delivered to the major’s home just an hour before to inform them that Luther Emerson was dead. The major went on to explain the circumstances. He didn’t have all the details, but used the word ‘murder.’ And then he went on to mention the Ku Klux Klan. Three members of the imperiling group who had been sent to prison years before, had recently been released.

Despite the implication behind the major’s discourse—that Luther Emerson’s murder was related to the release of the Klansmen—the colonel’s primary concern seemed to be for the major’s wife, Jessica. More than once he interrupted to ask how she was.

“I have to go,” the major said finally. “We’re leaving on the train tonight.”

“Wait,” the colonel said firmly. “I need two days. I need to be here for the graduation tomorrow. Then I can come with you.”

The major shook his head. “I’ve got to get back to Jess.”

“I don’t like this,” the colonel said.

“Neither do I, but what choice do I have? We’ll be safe enough at Grace Manor.”

This time the colonel was the one shaking his head. But the unexpected visit was over. Julien Grace walked out.

For a moment the colonel stood there, staring at the empty doorway. Then he turned on his heel. “Sam! What are you doing over there in the corner? Never mind. I’m leaving. I need you to pack.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it, sir.”

“Dammit!” the colonel fumed as he retraced his path to the desk. “Goddammit, Julien, you fool!”

“I’ll take care of all this paperwork too, sir,” Sam said.

“No. This mess can wait. I’m going to Washington to speak with General McLean tonight. We get through the ceremony tomorrow and then leave on the evening train.”

“
We
, sir?”

“Yes,
we
. You’re coming with me.”

“But… I have to…” Sam hedged, though he’d known the colonel would expect him to go. The colonel rarely went anywhere without him.

“Think of it this way, Sam,” the colonel cut in, “while we’re there, you might get a chance to visit your siblings after all.”

What the colonel didn’t know, because Sam had lied when he’d told the colonel he’d spent his leave in Washington, was that Sam had just returned from Tennessee. He
had
gone home, as he’d been obligated to do. The colonel didn’t know that the sole reason Sam had taken leave was
because of
the Klansmen’s release from prison.

One of those Klansmen was Sam’s father.

On Wednesday, as promised, Harry Simpson showed up in front of Constance’s cottage a few minutes before five o’clock. She was waiting by the window. Through it, she watched him hop out of the buggy he’d driven. He was dressed in the suit he wore on Sundays, and his hair was damp, as though he’d either recently bathed or at least wetted it with a comb.

She answered his knock with a smile. “Hello, Harry.”

Even more endearing than his efforts to present himself well, was the bashful way his eyes didn’t meet hers.

“Hello, Constance,” he said. “You look nice.”

Constance had chosen her burgundy dress, the finest she owned, but since Harry didn’t actually look at her, she knew he was merely being polite.

He handed her up into the pristinely polished buggy. Even the leather seat shined, and the floorboards were immaculate. Inwardly Constance grinned as she waited for Harry to come around and climb in the opposite side. Seated close to him, she could smell lye soap. Harry had gone to such lengths on her behalf. He was so sweet.

He took up the reins and with a cluck to the horse, they were on their way.

“How was your day?” she asked.

“It was okay. I finished plowing the lower field. Tomorrow I’ve got to get it planted. I’m behind on that. It should have been done a month ago.”

Harry couldn’t possibly have planted a month ago. He hadn’t been released from prison yet. Curiously she asked, “Doesn’t your father work the farm? Doesn’t he help you?”

Harry shook his head. “Not anymore. He hired out while I was gone. And he’s got himself a colored boy now, but the kid’s too young to be good for much.”

“Oh, I see. Your father’s older.”

“I guess,” Harry said, shrugging. “How did lessons go today?”

“Pretty well,” Constance told him, and she rambled on about the school and her students, as much to pass the time as to entertain Harry. He seemed to enjoy her stories. Once he’d remarked that when he was young he wasn’t a very good student and was always in trouble, and then he’d said, “I think if I’d had a teacher like you, I would’ve learnt something. Your students are lucky.”

The memory made Constance smile.

During that same conversation, she’d shared the importance of meeting with her students’ parents to keep them informed of their children’s progress. Harry had complimented her on her dedication. This was why Constance didn’t think Harry would mind when she explained, “One of my students—Daniel Emerson—didn’t show yesterday or today. I was thinking, on the way home this evening, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, we could stop by his home. It’s a little out of the way, but I’m worried, and I want to make sure he’s not ill.”

“Sure,” Harry said. “I’d be glad to drive you.”

In addition to Daniel, Constance wanted to check on another student—Archie Murphy. The nine year old, who used to be as playful and loud as Daniel, had been unusually subdued of late. Constance had been to Archie’s home a few times. On her first visit she’d learned Archie lived with his older siblings. His eldest sister, Violet, had told Constance their mother passed when Archie was a baby. Nothing had been shared about the father, and Constance hadn’t pried. At a later date, Archie told her he didn’t remember his father, so naturally she assumed the father had died as well. The older siblings, however, were responsible young adults, and seemed to care for Archie. Constance had had no reason to worry about him, until recently.

She certainly didn’t want to take advantage of Harry’s kindness by having him drive her out to the Murphy farm, but if after they stopped by Grace Manor it was still daylight, she would suggest it.

Soon enough they were in town and parked in a line of other buggies in front of Rosie’s Diner. It was a quaint place, but popular, in part due to its location near the train depot. Constance had been to the restaurant a few times, but never with a gentleman suitor. As they entered, it felt like the other patrons were staring, though she was sure she was being overly self-conscious.

Once they were seated and had been served, she began to enjoy herself. And Harry was right. The fare was quite tasty, including the cherry pie brought for dessert. Although she didn’t say so aloud, she was glad to see Harry partaking heartily. Being so dreadfully thin, he needed to. It crossed her mind, as it had many times in the last couple weeks, that perhaps incarcerated people weren’t given enough to eat.

Somewhere along the line, their conversation, which was as pleasant as the food, turned to childhood memories—or rather childhood mischief. Harry told a story of catching caterpillars and bringing them into the kitchen. One of them fell in the soup. His mother screamed and chased him out with the broom.

Laughing, Constance shared some of her own tales: the time her brother stole their daddy’s whiskey and got them both drunk. She’d only been ten years old! And the time she spilled ink on the parlor sofa. She got a good wallop from Daddy’s belt for that one.

As they stepped out of the restaurant, Harry was finishing up a story of him carving his name into the dining room table.

“Oh, Harry, you didn’t! I’ll bet you got a whipping.” Constance chuckled as she breathed in the fresh evening air.

It was much cooler than it had been earlier, and the breeze was perfect. This, she realized, was because of the thickening clouds overhead. A number of people were milling about, but not nearly as many as when they’d arrived. Undoubtedly most had already sought shelter from the impending storm. The railroad yard, a block away, was almost empty.

“Nope.” Harry grinned and held out his arm to escort her down the stairs. “Never got a whippin’ in my life.”

“Well, you were lucky,” Constance chuckled. It was nice to see this different, not-so-shy side of Harry.

Because of the weather, she decided they should probably forgo visits to Grace Manor and the Murphy farm. She was about to say as much, when Harry stopped short.

He was looking at a man on the opposite side of the street, striding along the walk. The man noticed Harry, too. He waved, waited for a passing buggy, then started to cross the road. He was fairly robust with a thick salt and pepper beard, and casually dressed in work trousers and a plaid shirt. A moment later he was pumping Harry’s hand.

“Dad,” Harry said. “I’d like you to meet Mrs. Pruitt. Constance, this is my father.”

“So this is the lady you’ve been runnin’ off to see.” Harry’s father winked and extended his arm. “Harry didn’t do you justice. He didn’t say you were so beautiful!”

Heat crept under Constance’s skin, and Harry’s father made a show of bowing over and kissing her hand. Her first thought was that this man wasn’t even close to being too old to plow and plant. Her second was that he was a charmer, kind of like George had been. She didn’t like that she had to tug to retrieve her fingers from his grip.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Simpson,” she said.

Harry’s father threw back his head and guffawed, though Constance couldn’t fathom what was funny. The bland expression on Harry’s face didn’t reveal anything, either. In fact, Harry didn’t appear to be listening. Instead he was focused on a constable down the block, dragging a colored boy by the collar. The child was young, not more than six or seven years old, and even from the distance Constance could tell he was skinny as a rail.

“Not Simpson,” Harry’s father chortled, drawing Constance’s attention again. “Anders. My name is Oscar Anders. Harry’s my stepson. He was born to my wife—God rest her soul—before we married. But I raised him as my own. Only took a whippin’ or two to get him in line. He was a pretty good boy. Still is, taking care of his dear old dad here.”

For a second Constance was confused. Harry had just said he’d never been whipped. Mr. Anders, she realized belatedly, was trying to humor her. Forcing a smile, she murmured, “I’m sorry about your wife.”

“Wonderful woman, Harry’s mother. I miss her every day. But it’s not so lonely on the farm anymore, not since Harry’s come home.”

“Hey, Anders! Look what I caught.” The bellow came from the approaching constable. “Just like you said, found him hidin’ out behind the livery, with this…” Close enough now, the constable tossed a small bundle to Harry’s father.

Mr. Anders grabbed the bag out of midair, peered inside and said, “Peppermint sticks. Did you steal these from the mercantile, Franklin?”

Meekly the colored child nodded. Up close, Constance noticed the tell-tale sticky stains around the young boy’s mouth and chin.

Harry’s father shook his head, took hold of the child’s arm, though not quite as roughly as the constable, and said, “Thanks. Appreciate your help.”

“Glad to be of assistance.” The constable nodded to them and sauntered off.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Harry’s father said. “I’d better get the boy home. Thought he’d learnt his lesson after the last time he ran off, but I guess I was wrong. Little nigger sure has a sweet tooth.” To Constance directly, he added, “Get Harry to invite you out to the farm sometime. I’ll bet he didn’t tell you he cooks pretty good. Learnt from his momma. He can make one of his special dishes, like he makes for me. Puts Rosie’s food to shame.”

Harry nodded. “I’ll do that.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Constance said.

“See you later, Dad,” Harry murmured.

“Good evening to you, ma’am. Son, take your lady friend home before the storm hits.” With that, and another bow, Oscar Anders strode off, half-dragging the boy. “What did I tell you ’bout runnin’ off?” he ranted at the child. “And stealin’ from the mercantile! If this happens again, I’ll have to…”

“Sorry, ’bout that,” Harry murmured. “My father talks a lot. Are you ready to go?”

With one last look toward Oscar Anders and little Franklin, who were far enough away now to be out of earshot, Constance took Harry’s proffered arm. He led her along the row of parked buggies until they reached his. But then, just as Harry was about to hand her up, a large carriage drawn by a team of four, halted abruptly in the middle of the road. The horses’ whinnying protests caused Constance to spin.

She recognized both the carriage and the driver as being from Grace Manor, but Wally, up in the high seat, held her gaze for no more than a second. Another man had already jumped from the interior, and was striding toward them. Constance knew him right away, but she’d never seen his expression so fierce! And he wasn’t just moving swiftly. His gait was as threatening as the clouds overhead. One arm or not, Trent Emerson looked like he was going to plow them down.

“Get your hands off her, Simpson!” Trent bellowed.

Constance let go of Harry and took a hasty step back. That was all the time she had before Trent was upon them. He grabbed Harry by the shirtfront so forcibly, Harry came off his heels.

“You son of a bitch!” Trent roared. Then he slammed Harry up against the buggy.

“Tren—” Harry attempted to protest.

Trent cut him off with a deathly quiet snarl, “Did you kill my father?”