To Wager Her Heart Read online

  She smiled. “Well, don’t sound so surprised! After all, I’m the one who knew what execrable meant!”

  He smiled. “No, I didn’t mean it that way. I meant . . . that it’s very kind of you to have done all this work.”

  She waved a hand. “I enjoyed it, actually. Now, let me explain . . .”

  He followed along on the page—that, to her credit, looked remarkably like an actual printed handbill. The handwriting was neat and evenly spaced. She’d even drawn fancy little curlicues to decorate the margins.

  But how this could help his proposal was another thing altogether.

  “At the top here I’ve included a brief history of Belle Meade for first-time visitors, along with what they’ll see along the route to the plantation. The deer park, the bison, a glimpse of the limestone quarry, the high pastures. Next, I thought it would be nice to offer some refreshment.”

  “Refreshment?” Sy looked from her to the page, then back again.

  “So next is a brief menu with some delectables that could be offered to passengers once they’ve boarded. You’ll remember Susanna Carter, Belle Meade’s head cook?”

  He nodded, already imagining how hard it was going to be to abide Harold Gould’s gloating once Gould won the bid.

  “Susanna has some signature dishes, you might say, that she makes often. One of them is the carrot cake we had for dessert the night we were there. And she makes wonderful beaten biscuits with country ham. Also a delicious blackberry cobbler. I’ve listed a couple of other options here. And lastly—”

  Despite being skeptical about her ideas, Sy found himself watching her, imagining what a man could do with this woman beside him. As his wife, his partner, his friend . . . his lover. How much more rewarding and enjoyable life would be for that man.

  “—I thought that perhaps at the Belle Meade depot itself, you could suggest that certain items be made available for sale to the passengers. For instance, General Harding could commission a local artist to draw the house or the stables and corrals, then those likenesses could be framed and sold. Or have a photograph made instead. The same for the champion thoroughbreds. People come from all over the country to see those blood horses. I think they would enjoy taking home a souvenir of their journey.”

  Sy just stared for a moment, taking it all in. “You really think people would take the time to stop and look at paintings? And that they’d want cake on their way to see thoroughbreds?”

  The instant he asked the questions, he knew he’d made a mistake.

  “I do, but . . .” She pulled the paper back. “You apparently disagree.”

  He covered her hand. “Alexandra . . . I’m not saying I don’t like your ideas.”

  “Your face is saying exactly that!”

  He had to work not to smile. “What I’m trying to communicate is . . .” He struggled to find the words.

  Meanwhile, a feminine eyebrow arched in none-too-subtle warning.

  “It just seems to me that these ideas might appeal more to women than to men.”

  “And how is that a bad thing? Do you think only men come to visit Belle Meade? Or that only men come to yearling sales? Or that only men buy blood horses? And as far as the refreshments . . . I saw how much you enjoyed that carrot cake the other night.” Her chin lifted a notch. “I think a lot of people would be interested in knowing the history of Belle Meade. And I think General Harding would be impressed that you think enough of his home, his thoroughbreds, and his life’s work to share them with visitors as they’re on their way there. And furthermore—”

  This woman was even more fetching when riled. And though he hated to admit it . . .

  “I think you’ve got a point there.”

  She stopped and looked at him more closely. “So . . . you’re saying you agree with me now? I’ve won you over?”

  If she only knew. “I’m saying that I also believe your ideas are very good. And I think you’re right about how General Harding will respond.” He tapped the page on the table between them. “So thank you, Alexandra.”

  The sun that was setting outside suddenly rose again in her features. “I’m glad you’re pleased.” But she gave him the tiniest sideways look to let him know she hadn’t forgotten how ornery he’d been at first.

  She returned the handbill she’d designed to the folder and slid it across the table to him. His eyes never leaving hers, he placed it on the empty chair beside him.

  Truce offered and accepted, conversation came easily between them as they ate.

  “So tell me, Sy—”

  She laid her fork and knife parallel on her plate, both pointing toward the eleven o’clock position, just as she’d taught him, and he couldn’t help but smile. Then did the same with his own utensils.

  “—you said you were coming to ask Mr. White about enrollment at Fisk. Is it too personal a question to ask for whom you’re inquiring?”

  “Not at all. It’s for a friend . . . an employee of mine. Vinson and I were thick as thieves as boys. And still are. I couldn’t do what I do without him.”

  She looked at him across the table. “So,” she whispered, water glass in hand, “Vinson is a freedman?”

  “Actually, he was never enslaved. His parents were, but when their owners moved to Colorado years ago, they allowed them to buy their freedom. Vinson is one of the finest men you’ll ever know.”

  A moment passed before she spoke again.

  “And the two of you were close growing up?”

  He nodded, then took a long drink of lukewarm coffee, remembering the last winter he and his mother endured before Harrison Kennedy came into their lives.

  “Somehow, when it’s the dead of December and you’re huddled in bed beneath a thin quilt, watching the snow come down through the cracks in the roof of the cabin, and you’re hungry and cold . . . it doesn’t matter to you what color the person is who brings food to your door. You’re just grateful that they came.”

  The server chose that moment to approach. “More water, ma’am? Coffee, sir?”

  They both nodded, and the woman obliged.

  As she poured, Sy sensed Alexandra weighing the newly discovered knowledge about him. He didn’t fully know why he’d told her, since he usually kept those details about his life to himself.

  Before the server left, Sy glanced quickly at the menu. “And could we have two pieces of pie, please?”

  “Certainly, sir. We have peach, apple, buttermilk, chocolate chess, and rhubarb.”

  He looked across the table.

  Alexandra’s eyes widened. “Chocolate chess, please.”

  “The same for me, please.”

  The woman left, and Alexandra leaned forward. “One more idea, and then I’ll stop.”

  He winked, grateful for the change in topic. “I could listen to you all night.”

  She gave him a doubtful look. “At dinner the other evening I recall General Harding mentioning something about a yearling sale in Philadelphia. He asked one of the gentlemen what type of railcar he would provide for the blood horses.”

  “To which Mr. Maury replied cattle cars. Which did not go over well.”

  “Understandably.” She nodded. “A practice my father has always pursued is to gain as much of a person’s business as he can—to ‘make yourself indispensable’ to them, he says. So my suggestion, if it’s possible with the current routes on your railroad, is that—”

  “I mention to General Harding tomorrow that I’d like for him to consider my railway for that contract as well. It is possible, and I’ve already got that on my list.”

  She looked impressed. “Very good, Mr. Rutledge.”

  He feigned a frown. “Yes, as I’ve bumbled my way through life, I’ve somehow managed to learn a few helpful things here and there.”

  “Your pie, ma’am. Sir.” The server set the desserts and forks before them. “It just came out of the oven not long ago, so it’s still nice and warm.”

  Alexandra took the first bite. Sy had thought her exp
ression with the barbecue indicated delight, but that had been nothing compared to this. And her gentle sighs of pleasure tempted his own appetite in directions decidedly not related to chocolate chess pie.

  “This . . . is . . . delicious!” She licked her lips. “Make sure they have this at the Belle Meade depot as well.”

  He nodded, his gaze going briefly to her mouth. “I’ll see what I can do to satisfy that desire, Miss Jamison.”

  No sooner had he turned his attention to his own piece of pie than Alexandra let out a little gasp.

  “Oh no!” She looked past him toward the door.

  He turned, but could see little through the darkened window.

  “What time is it, Sy?”

  He glanced at his pocket watch. “Half past nine. Why?”

  She winced. “Teachers are supposed to be in their rooms by nine o’clock!”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I am. It’s study hour.”

  “But you’re a teacher, not a student.”

  She scooted her chair back. “I know. But it’s one of the rules!”

  She paused for an instant and looked at what remained of her piece of pie. For a second, Sy thought she might wrap it up in the cloth napkin and take it with her. But, of course, that would mean taking the napkin, which belonged to the café. Which, in her mind, would be tantamount to murder. Or at the very least, anarchy.

  She suddenly sat back down and began forking the dessert into her mouth, her jaw working furiously. The sight was entertaining enough. But that she still insisted on cutting the pie into tiny ladylike bites was especially amusing.

  “Nobody will say anything about you getting back a little late, Alexandra. Nobody will even know. I’ll sneak you back in.”

  She shook her head, eyes widening, and washed down the last of her pie with a gulp of water. The woman could really put it away when properly motivated. She took a deep breath.

  “That would be even worse.” She wiped her mouth, then tucked her napkin neatly beside her plate. “I can’t be seen walking back with you at this hour.”

  “But we sat on the steps until nearly dark two nights ago.”

  “Yes, in front of everyone. We weren’t . . . skulking about like—”

  “Skulking?”

  She made a face. “It means to sneak or to—”

  “I know what it means!” He looked at the bill, pulled money from his pocket, and left it on the table. He rose. “I just can’t imagine skulking as something you would ever do.”

  “Thank you for dinner, Sy.” She skirted past him.

  He followed. “I’m not letting you walk back by yourself.”

  She turned at the door. “If Mr. White or one of the older, more . . . mature teachers sees us together, they’ll—”

  “If that happens, I’ll take care of it. Trust me.” He opened the door for her.

  He had no trouble keeping up with her, but was surprised at how quickly she could cover ground in that skirt. And after downing a hearty dinner and a piece of pie, no less.

  It was a good fifteen-minute walk back to Fisk. But at this brisk stride, they’d make it in ten. Only when the faint outline of the barracks came into view did Alexandra finally ease up on her frantic pace.

  She glanced over at him. “If we see anyone, we need to act as if we haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “But we haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “You know what I mean!”

  He grinned—and made sure she saw it.

  The hasty tread of boots on dirt filled the silence between them, along with the chirrup of crickets and the occasional hoot owl. They were nearly back to the teachers’ barracks when Sy spotted a figure swiftly moving toward them from the shadows.

  Chapter

  EIGHTEEN

  Miss Jamison, is that you?”

  Sy recognized the voice immediately. And as the man stepped from the shadows, his tall, lanky frame, reminiscent of the late President Lincoln, left no doubt. “Mr. White!” Sy took the lead, as he’d promised Alexandra he would do.

  “Good evening, sir. It’s Sylas Rutledge. And yes, Miss Jamison is with me. We’re both so grateful you’re still out and about this evening.”

  “Well, I, along with others, have been greatly concerned about our Miss Jamison here.” Darkness cloaked the man’s features, but didn’t disguise the disapproval in his tone. “It’s nearly ten o’clock! No one had seen her since before dinner. And I’m certain I don’t have to tell you both about the nightriders that often frequent schools such as ours. We can take no chances. Especially with our female teachers.”

  “No, sir. You’re right. You can’t.” Sy shook his head.

  “Mr. White.” Alexandra bowed her head. “I’m so sorry, sir. I was—”

  “Helping me prepare for a very important meeting I have in the morning, sir.” Sy stepped forward. “It’s my fault she was out so late. She was sharing her ideas about how I could include freedmen in my new venture, to improve their lives, increase their wages, perhaps. We simply lost track of time. But the fault, Mr. White, is entirely mine.”

  “Including freedmen in your venture, you say. Precisely what is this venture, Mr. Rutledge?”

  “As you and I were discussing the other day, sir, I own the Northeast Line Railroad. Tomorrow morning I meet with General William Giles Harding about the possibility of—” Sy stopped, then forced a laugh he hoped sounded genuine. “Look at me, Mr. White. Here I go again. And at this hour, keeping you both from your studies and your sleep.”

  “I would very much like to hear more about this venture. However . . .” White nodded. “You’re right, of course. This is not an appropriate time.”

  Sy felt Alexandra watching him. “Mr. White, maybe we could talk more about this at lunch one day soon. My treat, of course. Also, I have an employee who may be interested in attending the evening classes at Fisk. So we could discuss that as well.”

  “Splendid idea, Mr. Rutledge! As I frequently tell Fisk scholars, ‘Anyone devoted to his books is on the road to freedom, while anyone ignorant of books is on his way back to slavery.’ So yes, please. Let’s do meet soon. When our schedules allow.”

  “Yes, sir. And now, with your permission, I’ll walk Miss Jamison to the teachers’ barracks. Unless you’re headed that way?”

  “No, I’m not, Mr. Rutledge. You see her safely there, please. I’ll continue my prayer walk around the campus. It helps me sleep at night to have walked the grounds and prayed. Miss Jamison, fine work on assisting Mr. Rutledge with this venture. You continue to prove yourself both tenacious and resourceful, and a welcome contribution to Fisk. Though in the future, please see that you inform someone of your comings and goings. We must always be vigilant in our care and concern for each other.”

  “Yes, Mr. White. And again, my apologies, sir.”

  “Well . . .” The man dipped his head. “Good evening to you both.”

  Mr. White left as stealthily as he’d come, the darkness swallowing him whole.

  Alexandra exhaled. “That was . . . impressive, Sylas Rutledge.”

  Sy took a mock bow. “We best get you back before he runs out of prayers.”

  She laughed softly. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  He walked her the rest of the way and expected her to go right inside, but she paused at the base of the steps and looked up.

  “Sy, I hope your lunch with General Harding and his colleagues goes well tomorrow. And that you overwhelm them with your newly acquired Southern charm.”

  He laughed. “I’ll try to do you proud.”

  “And please be sure and tell me as soon as you know about the bid!”

  “You know I will.” For all the world, he wished he could kiss her good night. That he had earned the liberty to draw her close, to touch the curl at her temple. That she would even want him to.

  It was a fool’s wish, he knew. Instead, he settled for a bow. “Good night, Alexandra.”

  Sy knew better than
to interrupt her Friday-night class, yet he couldn’t wait until tomorrow. And he knew she wouldn’t want him to. Not with this news. But it was the happenstance conversation he’d had with a porter earlier that afternoon that truly had him hopeful.

  Alexandra had pointed out the barracks where she taught before, so he let himself in and quietly walked down the darkened hallway. He heard her speaking before he reached the open doorway, the glow of lamplight in the schoolroom spilling into the corridor.

  “Next, please retrieve the primers from the shelves. Remember, there aren’t enough for everyone, so please form groups of six or seven and share. Begin with the assignment on the board, and I’ll come around to check on you. If you get stuck, raise your hand.”

  He stood for several moments by the doorway, hidden in the shadows, and listened as she answered questions. Her voice confident yet nurturing, corrective yet encouraging.

  Once she fell silent and he heard the crinkle of pages turning, he stepped around the corner and discreetly caught her attention. The way her expression lit when she saw him did his heart good.

  “I need to step outside the classroom for a moment, but please continue. Lettie will be in charge until I return.”

  No sooner did she round the corner than she whispered, “How did the meeting go? Did you get the bid?”

  He only hesitated for a second. “I did.”

  She squeezed his arm tight. “I knew you would! Congratulations, Sy.”

  “Thank you. And thank you again for all your help. General Harding was very impressed by your ideas. I think that’s what finally won him over.”

  She beamed. “I’m certain that’s not the case, but thank you for saying it. And what about the luncheon? Did you form any worthwhile associations there?”

  “I would say so. Harding and two of his colleagues expressed a desire to invest in my next venture.”

  Her jaw went slack. “I would say those are worthwhile associations indeed. What is your next venture?”

  He hesitated to tell her too much. Not because he didn’t trust her, but because he still wasn’t certain the deal would come together as he hoped. “There’s a stretch of land between Charlotte, North Carolina, and Charleston, West Virginia, that isn’t serviced by rail yet. And since the Northeast Line already travels through Charlotte Station—”