To Wager Her Heart Page 24

  “Mr. White said to stay here,” Minnie Tate offered, her eyes round with excitement. “He’ll come get us in a moment.”

  Alexandra looked around the room, already acquainted with everyone. The four men were huddled together, speaking in hushed tones. Greene Evans, who sang bass and worked as a groundskeeper to pay his way through Fisk, motioned them over.

  “Miss Sheppard, do you have any idea what he’s going to tell us?”

  Ella shook her head. “He hasn’t said a word to me.”

  Alexandra listened as they discussed the possibilities, noting again what a sober and industrious sort of young man Greene was.

  Quite the contrast to Isaac Dickerson, who also sang bass, and who was fun loving and sometimes even flirtatious. Isaac possessed an extraordinary gift for extemporaneous speaking as well, and often spoke in chapel. Alexandra wagered he knew as much, if not more, about the Bible as any learned preacher in a Nashville pulpit.

  “If Mr. White says yes to the tour, do any of you think your parents are going to object?” Thomas Rutling’s gaze circled the small group.

  Isaac shrugged. “It’s hard to say. But I think we all know that the decision will have been baptized in prayer. Surely our parents will know that as well.”

  They all nodded.

  Phebe, who stood next to Ella, looked over after a moment. “Miss Sheppard,” she whispered, “I’m not certain my father will allow me to go on the tour. Even if Mr. White demands it.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, Phebe.”

  Phebe nodded, just as footsteps drew their attention to the hallway.

  Mr. White appeared from around the corner and gestured for them to follow him. His customary stony expression revealed nothing. They all crowded into his office.

  Alexandra was surprised to find no one else there. Not President Spence nor any of the board members.

  “Thank you for coming to meet with me so late this evening.” White moved to stand behind his desk. “I’m sorry to interrupt your studies, but . . . I’ve come to the end of a very difficult and gut-wrenching season of reflection and consideration.” He gripped the back of his chair.

  Alexandra felt a sinking inside her, and judging from the others’ expressions, they felt the same. So this was it. No fund-raising tour? Did this mark the beginning of the end for Fisk? After only five years?

  If she felt this great a sense of loss, she could only imagine what the others were experiencing.

  “As you all are aware, President Spence and I have not seen eye-to-eye on the idea of this troupe’s tour. Same for the board members from the American Missionary Association. I have wrestled with those men both in personal arguments—and with their opinions in hours upon hours of prayer.” White’s expression was one of enmity. “So many naysayers. So many who do not believe in the mighty power of our God, and who have refused to take the necessary steps to save this school.”

  Alexandra felt a burning behind her eyes.

  “And yet, I’m here to tell you that by God’s mercy and the much-needed determination of some of his most stubborn creatures, the Fisk Singers will be going on tour!”

  For a moment, no one said anything. No one moved. Then Isaac Dickerson gave his deep-throated, funny little laugh, and they all began to cheer and hug.

  Alexandra turned. “You’re going, Ella! You’re going!”

  Ella beamed. “God is so good! There’s hope for Fisk yet!”

  Alexandra laughed as she looked into the eyes of these extraordinary people, and she felt a depth of gratitude to Mr. White for having included her in this moment.

  White held up a hand. “I have a few more words to say, please.”

  The group fell silent and attentive.

  “I’ve long believed that this troupe is an appointed agency of God for the salvation of Fisk University. And now we shall take the definitive step to prove it! Despite,” he added quickly, “those who still do not agree and have chosen not to support us. We will step forth in faith and depart Nashville for the North by train the first week of October! And with full faith in God’s ability to deliver, I believe our journey from town to town will be met with great success.”

  Again, excited whispers skittered through the gathering, and Alexandra felt a thrill of excitement for them all. Sobered nods and amens rose in response, and she nodded in agreement, then found Mr. White’s gaze settling surprisingly on her.

  “Miss Jamison, I, along with Miss Sheppard, my assistant, and everyone else here, are most grateful for your recent contributions to Fisk. Your skills in organization and leadership are exemplary, and are qualities that will greatly benefit this endeavor.”

  Alexandra smiled. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be honored to support this group, and your tour, in whatever way I can.”

  “I expected no less from you, Miss Jamison. Which makes this next announcement even more gratifying. You, too, will be joining us on the tour, as the trip’s preceptress. Arranging train schedules, hotel stays, and being our publicist as we venture North!”

  More laughter and celebration. Alexandra felt congratulatory pats on her back. But her smile faltered even as her pulse edged up a notch. “I-I . . . don’t understand, sir. I h-have classes to teach and—”

  “No worries, Miss Jamison! Your introductory classes will be completed by the time our train departs for Cincinnati on the first Friday in October! You’ll be traveling with us as a fellow ambassador for Fisk University . . . and for the Lord Jesus Christ!”

  The room ignited again in excitement, but all Alexandra could hear was the grinding of metal on metal and the splintering of wooden passenger cars.

  Chapter

  TWENTY-TWO

  Alexandra hesitated in the hallway outside Mr. White’s office, her stomach a taut bundle of nerves. Same as it had been since his announcement of the tour three days ago. She’d waited for Saturday so he would, she hoped, have more time to talk to her. Though what she had to say wouldn’t take that long.

  She simply had to find a way to tell him she couldn’t accompany them on the tour. And she’d have to tell him why. She’d tried twice to tell Ella, but couldn’t. The image of Sarah Hannah Sheppard carrying her daughter down to the river prevented her from it. Ella had faced more challenge and struggle in her lifetime than Alexandra ever would.

  She bowed her head, ashamed.

  Yet she could not get on that train. Every time she thought about it, she broke out in a cold sweat. And the one person she wanted to talk to most, who would understand, she hadn’t seen or heard from. She missed Sy more than she would have thought possible. Then again, admitting this paralyzing fear to him wouldn’t be easy either.

  Squeezing her eyes tight, she knocked on the door.

  “Come in.”

  She stepped inside, and Mr. White looked up from his desk.

  “Greetings, Miss Jamison! I only have a few moments before the next rehearsal. But what I have is yours. Have a seat, if you like.”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m fine to stand. This won’t take long.”

  “Music to my ears.” He smiled. “And to my ever-full schedule.” He rose from his desk and began gathering files and stuffing them into his satchel.

  “Mr. White . . . This isn’t an easy thing for me to say, but—” She swallowed. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to travel with the troupe on the tour. I so wish I could . . .” Which wasn’t a falsehood. She would do near anything to move past this. “But something happened to me. A year ago. Something I haven’t talked about with anyone here, and that left me very much afraid of—”

  “Sit down, Miss Jamison.”

  His firm tone and countenance brooked no argument, so she did as he bade.

  “You may not realize it, Miss Jamison,” he continued, moving around to her side of the desk. “In fact, I’m certain you do not. But I was once a man ruled by fear. Allowing fear to dictate what I would do and what I would not do. Fear of failure, fear of not living up to my own expectations,
much less others’ expectations of me. Until I—”

  She stopped him with a shake of her head. “Mr. White, I appreciate all that, but my fear is not one of failure or of others’ opinions. It’s far more . . . tangible in nature. And its talons sink deep.”

  He stared. “Go on.”

  “To state it aloud feels so foolish.” Her laughter came out flat. “But the reason I can’t go on this tour is that I . . .”

  She couldn’t get the words to come. It felt as though some invisible hand were tightening around her throat.

  He eased into the chair beside her. “Miss Jamison.” His voice was gentle. “Whatever this fear may be, know that you will receive no judgment from me. There is a reason why our Lord repeatedly told his disciples to ‘Fear not.’ It is precisely, of course, because they were afraid. Just as you and I are at times. He knows. He understands.”

  She nodded, thinking of Ella, Maggie, Thomas, George, and the other singers, as well as the students and teachers. “So many people here have endured so much more hardship than I have, Mr. White. Which makes me even ashamed to admit this to you. Or to anyone else.”

  “Oh, Miss Jamison . . .” His gaze held both understanding and censure. “I fear the Enemy has entangled you in one of his most deceitful and yet successful lies. I cannot count the times I have been ensnared by him in this regard.” His expression held discernment. “There will always be someone who has suffered more—or less—than you. To think the person who has suffered more, in your estimation, is somehow more worthy is just as prideful in nature as thinking that the person who has suffered less, in your estimation, is not quite as holy as you are.” He smiled. “God alone sees our lives from start to finish and ordains what your suffering and mine will be. For he alone sees what we each must endure to become more like his Son and to be made ready for eternity. For though we all are his, we are not all the same. As you and I have discussed before in this very office.”

  She nodded, feeling herself begin to calm.

  “Now. You said something happened to you a year ago. Why not begin there? Just as it’s easier to pluck a seedling from the ground rather than to uproot a mighty oak, I’ve found it’s often less difficult to speak of where the fear first took seed rather than of the fear itself.”

  Alexandra took a deep breath. “You’ve heard of Dutchman’s Curve, Mr. White.”

  He nodded, expression somber.

  Her eyes filled as her mind took her back to the scene. “I was on the train that morning, the one from Memphis. With my fiancé.” Myriad emotions flashed across his face, and as she described the awful seconds, moments, and hours as that day aged into night, his gaze grew glassy. Finally, grateful to have it past her, she sighed. “And I haven’t been aboard a train since.”

  He bowed his head for a long moment, then finally looked up. “Oh, my dear Miss Jamison. But for moments like this, we none of us know the weight the other is carrying within, do we? I am deeply sorry for your losses that day, and for the pain they still inflict.”

  She offered the semblance of a smile.

  He rose. “So now I know why you feel as though you cannot accompany us on the tour.”

  She nodded, grateful he understood, and relief filtered through her.

  “What I do not think you yet know, Miss Jamison, is the cost to you if you do not.” Though his voice held its usual strength and frankness, his expression held compassion. “God showed me long ago that I must not allow my fear to rule me. Because I have his almighty power dwelling within me. The same power that raised Christ from the dead, the Word says, resides in me, and in you, to carry out his good will. Whatever that may be.”

  He reached for his satchel, and Alexandra stood, the anvil back on her chest and even heavier now than before.

  “One last question for you to pose to yourself, Miss Jamison. And it in no way is meant to diminish your sorrow or to belittle your fear. Because there is nothing little about it. Your fear is real and it is warranted. Because I cannot guarantee that another situation like Dutchman’s Curve will not intersect with your life again. I wish I could. But then . . . I would be God, and I clearly am not.” He smiled briefly. “My question is a simple one, and it’s one I often ask myself when prone to fear over a decision or a direction to take . . . Is the Lord leading me to do this?” He stared into her eyes. “Because if the answer to that question is yes, then you and I have no choice but to do his will. We are the clay, after all. And he is the potter.”

  He opened the office door, then paused, the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “You see, I believe that if the Lord tells me to jump through a wall, it is my part to jump—and the Lord’s to put me through it.”

  Feeling beaten yet comforted, Alexandra followed him down the hallway.

  He stopped by Mrs. Chastain’s desk and pulled a piece of paper from his coat pocket. “Mrs. Chastain, I have a wire that needs to be sent today. And my dear wife is in need of some soup bones from the butcher. I fear she’s ailing at present. I need to attend to troupe practice and won’t be able to get there before the shopkeepers close. Would you be so kind as to—”

  “I’ll go,” Alexandra volunteered, needing to get away for a while, to stretch her legs. To breathe. And maybe even to see Sy, if she could find him.

  “So you were personally responsible for the alterations to this stock car, Mr. Rutledge?” General Harding strode around the inside of the specially refitted railcar that had transported Enquirer some weeks back. He took it in from every angle.

  “I was, sir.” Sy sneaked a look at his pocket watch, needing to get to some shops in town before they closed, then out to Fisk before it got too late.

  He’d waited an entire week after returning to town before going to see Alexandra, and he’d only been able to do that because the last three days had been nothing but problems. One step forward and five back. Rail had to be pulled up and laid again due to the ground being softer than the soil tests had first noted. Supplies hadn’t come in on time or were back-ordered. It’d been one thing after another.

  Yet he was also eager to get an agreement from Harding about the yearling sale. Anything to get the deal closed.

  Feeling Harding’s attention, he looked over and realized the man had asked him a question he’d only half heard.

  “Ah . . . yes, sir.” Sy nodded, pulling his thoughts back. “We could easily fit six stalls on this side of the car to transport your yearlings to the sale in Philadelphia, and still have room for the handlers, the feed, the water, and such over here. You could squeeze in eight stalls, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Traveling that distance is hard enough on the horses, and if we crowd them up, it’ll be even more so.”

  Harding nodded. “I agree, Mr. Rutledge. And I like what you’ve done. If we’re talking six yearlings per car, then I’ll need . . . five cars total.”

  “That many?” Sy didn’t even try to hide his surprise.

  “Will that be a problem?”

  “No, sir. I was just thinking about how busy those Belle Meade studs of yours must be.”

  Harding laughed and offered his hand. “I enjoy doing business with you, Mr. Rutledge.”

  “Much obliged, sir, and the feeling is mutual. I’m honored you’ve entrusted me with your railroad project. And with your yearlings.”

  “And my investment. Let’s not forget that.”

  Sy laughed. “No, sir. I’m not forgetting that.”

  “As for the yearlings, Uncle Bob speaks most highly of you, Rutledge. And that man’s trust isn’t easily won.”

  Harding bid him good day, and Sy turned toward town, eager to get out to Fisk before the day wore on. But as soon as he entered the butcher’s shop, he saw that Fisk had come to him.

  Chapter

  TWENTY-THREE

  Alexandra was waiting in line, fourth in the queue, and every bit as beautiful as he remembered. Sy started to approach her, then saw another young woman and what appeared to be her mother glance Alexandra’s way. He sensed
familiarity in the way they looked at her, so he stepped to the side, figuring he’d let them visit with her before he did.

  But it was Alexandra who turned and saw them first.

  “Maribelle! Mrs. Johnson!” Beaming, she crossed to where the two women stood. “It’s been weeks since I’ve seen you. How are you both?”

  The older woman’s expression instantly turned sour. “Come, Maribelle!” She skirted around Alexandra, shunning her entirely.

  But her daughter hesitated, looking at Alexandra, then back at her mother. She opened her mouth to say something, but her mother gave her a look and hissed, “Maribelle!”

  The daughter swiftly clamped her mouth shut and hurried to her side, leaving Alexandra to stand alone.

  “We do not consort with Negro schoolmarms!” The older woman cast a hateful glance in Alexandra’s direction. “Of all the insults to which the fine families of Nashville have been subjected . . .” She huffed and turned toward the counter.

  If the old bat had been a man, Sy knew exactly what he would’ve done. But as it was . . .

  Seeing the hurt on Alexandra’s face twisted his gut.

  Then she turned and saw him. For an instant, her features cleared. Then just as swiftly, they clouded again. He started to go to her, but her look told him to wait.

  Once Mrs. Johnson and her daughter left the shop, she quietly moved back to the line, and Sy joined her.

  “Good afternoon, Alexandra,” he said softly, stealing a look at her. “I was coming to see you after this.”

  She looked over at him, doubt in her eyes. “When did you get back in town?”

  The question, a simple one, carried weight. He sensed that his absence, even at her request, so to speak, had hurt her. If only she knew how much it had cost him too.

  “A week ago. But it’s been so busy and believe me, I’ve wanted to—”

  “Help you, ma’am?” The butcher waited behind the counter.

  Alexandra stepped forward. “Yes, please.” She glanced at the meat, then at the coins in her hand. “How much for a soup bone? Preferably one with a good amount of meat left on it.”