Healing Grace (9 page)

By the afternoon, Constance knew what she was going to do, but her plans didn’t involve subtly inviting herself to Harry Simpson’s home. She’d spent a restless night, and even more gut-wrenching morning, rehashing the conversation she’d had with Etienne Grace the night before.

What he wanted her to do was enough to set her head reeling and stomach heaving. And though she’d agreed to do it, she wasn’t going to put herself through
that
without first exhausting every other option.

Last night, Etienne hadn’t mentioned Edward Murphy, at least not as far as his potential involvement with the Klan, but that didn’t mean the man was innocent. And Constance had an ‘in’ Etienne hadn’t thought of. She was Archie Murphy’s teacher, and as his teacher it was necessary to share Archie’s accomplishments and struggles with his parent. If, when meeting with Edward Murphy, she was able to gain some insight into his interests and pursuits, she could pass the information along. This might be enough to preclude her from having to…

“Oh, phooey!” Constance mumbled aloud. Having just finished preparing her horse for the ride, she was on the mounting block, foot in the stirrup, ready to hoist up into the sidesaddle.

Except the saddle on Izzy’s back wasn’t a sidesaddle. “Izzy, what in the world am I doing?”

She’d been so preoccupied she’d put the wrong saddle on her horse. Constance didn’t prefer the sidesaddle. Truthfully she despised the uncomfortable thing. Aside from not being dressed to ride any other way, in a conservative, southern place like Mount Joy, people would be mortified at seeing their diffident schoolteacher clad in britches, mounted astride.

Soon though, she had Izzy set to rights and she was on her leg-cramping way toward the Murphy farm. The one good thing, if there was a good thing, was that it was a lovely day. After the deluge that had assailed throughout the night, this was a welcomed change. The temperature was pleasant as well, not too hot or muggy. If she could have had her druthers, she wouldn’t have switched saddles. She would have returned to the house and changed her clothing instead. By now, she would have been dashing over hills, charging through valleys. Schoolteacher or not, she would have been free and flying. But this was not the time for wishful thinking.

Constance didn’t know which of the men she’d seen from a distance at the funeral was Edward Murphy, but she had a pretty good idea. Resolutions were wonderful. The problem was following through. The closer she drew to the Murphy farm, the more her apprehension rose. She was about to meet with a man who had committed murders. He’d been sent to prison for it, and very well could be the same man who had recently killed again. She reminded herself that Harry had murdered too, and she wasn’t afraid of him. Or she didn’t used to be.

Through the trees, the white farmhouse came into view, and Constance slowed Izzy. From the outside nothing seemed amiss. The bushes in front of the porch were in bloom. The evergreen at the far corner stood tall and strong. Windows both on the upper and lower floors were open. Through one a sheer curtain billowed. No one was milling about, at least not that Constance could see. All was quiet, as it should be on a lazy Saturday afternoon.

That quiet was suddenly disrupted by a dog. The muddy mongrel crawled out from under the porch and barreled straight toward Izzy, barking all the while. Constance wasn’t afraid of dogs, and neither was Izzy, and especially not this one. She remembered him from the last time she’d been here. The friendly pup was only doing its job, alerting the family of approaching company.

Constance unhitched her leg and slid down, jumping the final couple feet. Even though she remembered the dog, she held out a hand for it to sniff. A couple whiffs and its curled-up tail began to wag.

That is, it wagged until the screen door slammed. As if the pooch thought Constance had made the loud crack, it skittishly recoiled and started barking again. Constance looked up. Even though he wasn’t wearing a suit this time, she recognized the man on the porch from the funeral. He was the one with the short graying hair and the paunch. No sooner did he start down the porch steps than the door opened again and Archie’s sister, Violet rushed out.

“Thut up, dog!” Edward hollered as he moved across the yard, but the dog didn’t stop barking.

Violet, who was hurrying to catch up, said, “Daddy, this is Mrs. Pruitt, Archie’s teacher from the schoolhouse.”

“Hello, Violet.” Constance held out her hand to the young woman’s father. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Murphy.”

He didn’t take her hand. Instead he turned on the dog. “I told you to thut up!” he yelled, and then he kicked it.

The dog let out a shrill yelp as it hurtled through the air. It landed, sprawled in the grass, but quickly scampered to its feet. This time it didn’t bark. It growled, a low rumble deep in its throat.

“Oh, Daddy!” Violet shrieked. “You didn’t have to kick him.”

“You get that damn thing to thtop growlin’ at me, girl, or I’ll do a lot worthe than kick it. I already told you, I have company comin’ thith evenin’ and I don’t want that damn dog barkin’ at ’em! Now git back inthide and finith cleanin’.”

Violet took the dog by the collar and tried to shush it, but it still growled. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Pruitt,” she murmured.

“What do
you
want?” Edward Murphy snapped.

Constance jolted. That awful man was staring fixedly at her, and sneering. Behind her, Izzy snorted, and Constance didn’t let go of the bridle. Her heart was pounding. In an attempt to still it, she took a deep breath, but it did little good. What she wanted to do was haul off and throw as vicious a kick as she’d just witnessed right at the horrid, teeth-missing, speech-impedimented man’s shin.

“I, uh, came by to check on Archie,” she murmured. Originally she’d intended to say she’d come to meet him—Edward Murphy—but there was no way she could force polite conversation now.

“The boy ain’t here. He’th run off again. But he’ll be back, if he knowth what’th good for him,” Edward Murphy said.

“I see.” It wasn’t easy to hide the seething, but somehow Constance spoke without raising her voice, or disclosing how badly she was shaking. “Well, I’m sorry to have troubled you. If you’ll pardon me, I’ll be on my way.”

“If you thee that boy, you tell him to git home quick. Hith daddy wanth him. I don’t put up with no dithobeyin’! Not from the liketh of my own thrildren. And Violet, that cleanin’ better git done before my company git’th here thith evenin’.”

With that he turned on his heel and sauntered across the yard and up the porch stairs. A second later the screen door hit the frame with a loud slap.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Pruitt,” Violet murmured. “My daddy’s not always like this. He’s just mad because Archie ran off last night and hasn’t come back yet. We don’t know where he is. Daddy thinks he went to Grace Manor. My brother Sam is staying there with the colonel he works for. But we can’t go there. We wouldn’t be welcome.”

“I’m sorry, Violet,” Constance said softly.

The apology was meant for more than just Archie’s disappearance, though she wasn’t sure Violet picked up on it. The young woman wasn’t looking at Constance. She was smoothing her dog’s mud-caked coat, running her hand over the spot on his shoulder where Edward Murphy’s boot had connected. The dog was holding its front paw off the ground.

“If Archie’s with Sam, he’ll be fine. The Graces are good people. They’ll help him.” Constance tried to be reassuring. Then she moved closer, close enough that her words wouldn’t be heard through the opened windows. “Is there anything I can do for you, Violet? Anything you need?”

Violet straightened and swiped at her eyes. Until then, Constance hadn’t realized the young woman was crying.

“I’m fine. I’m just worried about Archie.”

“I understand.” Constance turned to Izzy. It wasn’t as easy to mount without a step up, but she’d had plenty of practice. To Violet, she said, “If Archie’s at Grace Manor, I’ll find out and let you know.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Pruitt. And thank you for stopping by. I’m sorry my father was rude to you. He isn’t normally like that.”

Constance nodded. She hated that Violet defended her father. A man like that didn’t deserve defending. But there was nothing she could say. “Goodbye, Violet.”

She’d already turned Izzy around, already reached the road when Violet came running.

“Mrs. Pruitt! Mrs. Pruitt! Wait! Please!”

Constance drew on the reins and looked down at the young woman, at a scuffed dress and scalloped collar badly in need of darning, at shoes with stretched, tearing seams, at tendrils of reddish blond hair escaping the confines of what had once been a shoelace, at smudges of dirt on a chin and cheekbone—was the discoloration dirt, or something else?—and finally at the scruffy bundle of fur at the girl’s heels.

“Do you… would you…” Violet stuttered. “Do you know anyone who might like a dog? He’s a good boy. Really, he is. He doesn’t eat much and he minds most of the time…”

Etienne climbed into the empty coach and settled himself in the corner to the left of the door, the last place passengers would look upon entering. He’d just paid handsomely for the seat. The money had been split between the driver of this coach and another. The second driver, who had quickly pocketed the unexpected fortune, would continue the journey for three of the original five passengers in a different coach. All five were somewhere wandering around the posting station, taking the air while the horses were changed. Soon enough a station master would whistle them up, and the drivers would corral them accordingly.

It didn’t take long. The moment voices outside heralded the pending return, Etienne pulled the wide brim of his hat down to cover most of his face. Then smirking, he listened. The two passengers who would soon join him didn’t seem bothered by the change in plans, but this wasn’t a surprise. They also didn’t appear to notice Igore’s lead connected to the rear of the coach. Then again, having a horse or two trailing a stage wasn’t out of the ordinary.

The door opened and one of the men exclaimed, “Eee gads! What’s that smell? The whole coach reeks of it!”

“Shhh,” whispered the other. “He’s asleep.”

Despite the odor they didn’t care for, Etienne’s coach mates settled on the bench across from him as quietly as possible. Certainly a polite gesture, but Etienne did nothing to let on it wasn’t necessary. He didn’t budge until the coach was underway and traveling at a steady clip.

In one abrupt move, he straightened and pushed his brim up. His heretofore quiet companions’ startle was enough to curl his lip. Lacing his tone with amicable disdain, he said, “Stone, Mr. Houser. How nice to see you again.”

Cornered in the coach as they were, Stone and David Houser had little choice but to enter the dialogue Etienne steered, or answer the questions he fired at them. In the end, however, long before they reached the next posting station, Etienne was done.

His gut, which had always been moderately reliable, told him these two knew nothing about a Klan resurgence, or an underground operation. They had no knowledge of the note that had been left with Luther Emerson’s corpse. Their claims that they were returning to Pulaski to be with their families and get on with their lives came across sincerely. Houser had been staying with Stone and would continue to do so until he could find a job and afford a place of his own. Neither had plans to return to Mount Joy, and neither had any interest in associating with Edward Murphy or Harry Simpson. In fact, both appeared inclined to put those former acquaintances behind them, and not just Murphy and Simpson.

Several names were brought up, including the men who, due to longer sentences, remained incarcerated. One of those men, William Hughes, had been Stone’s second hand in raising the Klan in 1870. Houser believed if an uprising was underway, even though he was still in prison, Hughes could be behind it. According to Houser, Hughes received more letters than the rest of them. Of course Hughes hadn’t shared those letters with Houser, so he could only speculate on who had scripted them.

Etienne left Stone and Houser at the next posting station. He had enough information, and names, to formulate next steps. The bulk of his return trip to Mount Joy was spent doing just that, as well as revisiting everything Stone and Houser had said. He was lost in thought, wondering whether he’d delved deeply enough, whether he’d missed something, whether they’d hoodwinked him, when in the distance he spotted a man walking alongside the road, heading the same direction. The man’s back was to him.

Oddly, when Etienne glanced around, he realized he wasn’t on the road that would take him directly to Grace Manor. He’d taken a more roundabout route, one that meant he’d have to pass the schoolhouse. The turn hadn’t been deliberate. He just hadn’t been paying attention.

Another minute and he’d closed more of the distance between Igore and the man walking. The second recognition dawned, Etienne pulled back on the reins. But the realization of the man’s identity hadn’t come from his appearance. Etienne was still too far away for that. The recognition had come because of the path they were both taking, and because the man was carrying something that looked like… was it…
flowers?
That man was none other than Harry Simpson, and he was on his way to pay court to the schoolteacher.

Constance.

Would she offer Simpson coffee, and bread layered with butter and cinnamon? Would she play chess with him, entertain him with her rhetoric and laughter? Would she invite him into her bedroom…?

If Simpson heard Etienne approaching, it wasn’t evident. Simpson hadn’t turned around or glanced back, at least not that Etienne noticed. Then again, he was still at quite a distance. Just in case Igore decided to snort, thereby giving him away, Etienne veered off the path until Simpson was fully out of sight.

Hidden in a thicket of trees and bushes, he dismounted and secured his horse. The beast would be happy enough. No one would bother him there, and plenty of tall grass skirted the area. The next leg of Etienne’s pursuit was made on foot. This way, by cutting through the woods, he could close in faster. By stealthily shifting from trunk to trunk, he would get near enough to overhear conversation, that is, so long as Constance came outside of her house and she and Simpson remained in the yard.

According to Stone and Houser, Simpson was harmless. They’d said he wasn’t temperamental or volatile. He was too shy and retiring, and as such couldn’t possibly be guilty of Klan collaboration. Besides, Simpson would have had no motive to go after Luther. Etienne had agreed with Stone and Houser in this regard. But calling on the schoolteacher wasn’t a murder plot. In this, whatever coercion tactics Simpson intended to use would be of an entirely different design.

Stepping carefully, lest a fallen branch crack underfoot and give him away, Etienne kept one eye on the small house situated between the schoolhouse and barn, and the other on Simpson. The bundle in his hand was indeed flowers. Big bright yellow ones, at that. Simpson was apparently as enamored by the schoolteacher as… as he was.

Where had
that
come from? Etienne scoffed off the notion as absurd. He wasn’t enamored, or smitten, or any of those things. The schoolteacher was merely the means to an end, another way to get information that would help solve this life-sucking mystery so he could go home, back to the academy and responsibilities that fulfilled him. And so Julien could return to Virginia, where he, Jessica, Jules and little Lauren, would be safe.

Of course Julien was used to all this peering in windows, bribing stagecoach drivers, prowling about in a forest, wearing old clothes pilfered from an attic trunk that reeked of camphor—apparently Emily believed the sickly sweet odor deterred mites and moths, so she’d packed pieces of camphor wood in with the clothes. The smell Houser and Stone had complained about in the coach came from Etienne’s attire.

Nevertheless, Julien was the spy, not him, but here he was, once again playing the role. If Julien could see him now, he’d probably say Etienne was doing it wrong. You don’t lurch about, tiptoeing and diving from one tree trunk to the next. You don’t poke your head out from your tree shield, over and over again, like you’ve suddenly developed chicken neck. You don’t do any of these stalker-like things in broad daylight when you could easily be spotted. And most importantly, you don’t attempt to eavesdrop on a couple about to be engaged in a romantic evening interlude. Julien would laugh and tell him it would serve him right if he got caught.

Etienne’s thoughts were abruptly cut short. Not because he was caught. But perhaps he was. Simpson was still on the road, still sauntering along with his giant ball of posies, but Etienne was no longer looking at him.

He’d just been punched in the head by laughter. Melodious, flowing laughter, swept up in the breeze, dousing him in glimmering sweetness. He chicken necked, once, twice, three times, each stilted glance allowing him to absorb a little more.

She was there, behind her house, on her knees by a washtub, with her fingers buried in fur.

Constance.

She was bathing a dog, and what the hell kind of soap was she using? Thick suds were everywhere. On her hands, in her hair. There was a glob on her chin.

“Oooo, silly dog,” she giggled. “No. No, don’t! Don’t shake off. Not again! Ahh!”

The splatter sent more soapsuds flying, and landing all over her—her bare arms and legs. Lengths of pale silky skin from shoulder to fingertip were right there in Etienne’s view. So were long shapely calves and curled up toes. The only thing on her was this slip of lacy white. The girl was in her chemise—her… her
underclothing!
As wet as she was, the skimpy white fabric was so transparent she might as well have been wearing nothing at all!

And good god… the Simpson chap, with his massive yellow bushel, was one second away from descending upon her!