To Wager Her Heart Read online

  The group had only been gone a week, but it felt like much longer to him. Alexandra had already written him twice, and though he wouldn’t admit it to just anyone, he carried her letters in his coat pocket. Right next to his flask. He’d especially appreciated her post script about sneaking a drink of the cordial on the train.

  Since writing her back, he’d managed to fix his schedule so he could leave at the end of the week. He planned on surprising her in Columbus on Sunday evening in time for the concert. The Blisses were going to be in attendance that night too, and he hoped the four of them could meet afterward for dinner.

  “All loaded up!” Uncle Bob slid the lever into place on the last wagon, then hefted himself up to the bench seat. Sy climbed up beside him.

  Uncle Bob gave the reins a slap, and the team responded. The other four wagons fell in behind them.

  Sy had grown to appreciate the time he and Uncle Bob spent together when he was out here working on the project. On a couple of occasions he’d watched the man training the stallions, including Enquirer. Everything he’d been told about his giftedness with horses was true. Uncle Bob had a connection with them unlike anything Sy had ever seen.

  He checked his pocket watch. Just enough time to supervise the yearlings being loaded onto the train before heading to his meeting with General Harding and the investors.

  The timing of the North Carolina/West Virginia project was working out perfectly; he couldn’t have planned it any better. And while he didn’t wish to tempt fate, a part of him kept waiting to receive a telegram about something having gone wrong. Land deals and railroad projects never ran this smoothly.

  He’d wagered everything on this deal, investing all he had. And though he was a little strapped for cash right now, come late spring or early summer when the railroad between Charlotte and Charleston opened up, he’d be a rich man. And that ranch outside of Boulder would be his.

  After seeing Alexandra, he planned on heading to Charlotte next week to check on things.

  “You hear my news, Mr. Rutledge?” Uncle Bob eyed him.

  “Your news?

  “Yes, sir. This ol’ man’s gettin’ married.”

  “You? Married?”

  Uncle Bob feigned an injured look. “What? You don’t think any woman in her right mind would wanna be hitched to this fine figure of a man?”

  Uncle Bob puffed out his chest, and Sy shook his head.

  “How could any woman not want to be married to that?”

  They both laughed.

  “So what’s her name? This woman you’re going to marry. And does she know it yet?”

  “Yes, she knows it! Her name is Ellen Watkins. She’s as pretty as pretty can be, and she done said yes to me two days ago. We already plannin’ the weddin’ too.” Uncle Bob beamed. “I told her the sooner, the better. We’ll live right here at Belle Meade, in the old Harding cabin.”

  “Sounds like a good life’s ahead of you.”

  Uncle Bob nodded. “Mmm-hmm. I’d be fine to live and die right here on this land. Been here since I was two years old! Come with my parents. We was a weddin’ gift to the first Mrs. William Giles Harding.”

  The man stated it so matter-of-factly, and Sy found his thoughts returning to what Alexandra had told him about how they’d dug up rusty chains and manacles at an old slave auction site in town. Then had sold them to a smelter and bought supplies of Bibles and paper for the Fisk students with the money. There was something poetic—and right—about the shackles that had once bound these people now being used to set them free.

  “That depot’s lookin’ mighty fine, Mr. Rutledge. Mighty fine.”

  Sy had to admit, the Belle Meade Depot had turned out well. Some of the carpentry work still needed to be finished on the inside, but they’d easily meet the November 1 deadline two weeks away.

  Uncle Bob slowed the wagon as they maneuvered onto the completed portion of macadam road, then snapped the reins again. “You build a nice road too, Mr. Rutledge. Smooth as glass. Just in time for winter snow and cold too.”

  Sy spotted something lying in the field. “What’s that out there? You see it? About two o’clock. Looks like one of your horses didn’t make it.”

  Uncle Bob laughed. “That’s just Old Gray. A gelding who’s been around here forever.”

  “Old Gray? He looks more like Dead Gray.”

  “Aw, he ain’t dead, sir. He’s just sleepin’. And come to think of it . . .” Uncle Bob grinned. “Him bein’ a gelding, there ain’t much left for him to do but sleep, now is there?”

  Sy laughed. Then smiled again as they passed Alexandra’s rock, as he’d come to think of it each time he passed it. And he’d passed it plenty in recent weeks. He thought of how she’d responded to him when he’d kissed her. About knocked him off his feet.

  He hadn’t come South looking for a wife. But as he’d learned through the years, sometimes the best things were found when you weren’t looking for them.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Jamison. There are no rooms available in the hotel.”

  “But that’s not possible, sir. I wired ahead and reserved these rooms three weeks ago, and received this confirmation in response. On your hotel stationery.” She held up the paper and pointed to the name Springfield Inn. “We’re tired and hungry, and we have a concert to give this evening. So please, check your register again.”

  The man looked down at the register, then immediately back up again. His attention flitted beyond her to where Ella and the other singers stood waiting inside the lobby. “And I’m telling you again, ma’am, that there are no rooms available.”

  She bristled, knowing exactly what was happening. And she struggled for patience, her own worn thin in recent days from low concert attendance, low contributions, and even lower spirits among the group. Hotel and travel expenses were consuming far too great a portion of their dwindling purse, and they weren’t even raising enough money to cover costs. And this after seventeen concerts in fifteen days.

  Plus, Ella was sick. She refused to admit it, but Alexandra saw the signs of fatigue and headaches. And young Minnie had a troubling cough.

  And yet, even as their own funds were swiftly diminishing, everyone had agreed without exception to donate the entire proceeds of that very first concert—all fifty dollars—to the Chicago relief fund. She couldn’t have felt more proud to be part of this generous group.

  Which made this situation even more infuriating.

  “I’d like to speak to your manager, please, sir.”

  The man leveled his gaze. “I am the manager, ma’am. And now I’m asking you to leave my hotel. Right now.”

  She glanced back at Ella, who had quickly become the matriarch of the group—especially when Mr. White was gone, as he was now, working to book more concerts in the area. Ella gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

  So they left, and went to three other hotels before they found one willing to allow them to stay.

  “There’s one stipulation, ma’am.”

  Alexandra looked up from signing the register.

  “My other guests will not appreciate me allowing you to”—he smiled briefly—“well, not you specifically, but . . .”

  She stared, not about to help him.

  “The stipulation is, ma’am, that you must all take your meals before the usual hour. And please, I would ask that you not . . . linger in the lobby.”

  If the hour hadn’t been so late and they hadn’t been so bone tired, Alexandra might have left and gone looking for another place. But there wasn’t time. And she couldn’t be assured there would be another place.

  With no time to rest, they quickly changed clothes for the concert. And since patrons were already in the dining room, they ate standing up in a back hallway of the kitchen, then walked the twelve city blocks in a misty rain to Black’s Opera House.

  The chilly October wind made it feel colder than the temperature actually was. And not one of them had an overcoat. Not due to an oversight in bringing them a
long, but because none of them owned one.

  Ella led the group through scales and warm-up exercises, sticking closely to Mr. White’s instructions. And in Mr. White’s absence, Thomas Rutling prepared to give the plea for support at the end of the evening. But when the time came for the concert to begin, they found fewer than twenty people gathered to hear them.

  Thomas spoke up first. “Miss Sheppard, I believe, under the circumstances, with some of us not feeling well and all of us weary, that Mr. White would with a heavy heart announce that we would postpone the entertainment for another evening.”

  Alexandra could see the struggle on Ella’s face, but in the end she nodded. On the way back to the hotel, Alexandra insisted they stop by an apothecary, where she purchased medicine for Ella and Minnie. And once back at the hotel, they all went straight to their rooms and to bed.

  Ella was asleep in seconds. Alexandra determined not to be far behind her. But first she had to write out several more press releases to be delivered to the local papers and churches.

  Part of her wondered if perhaps it was her fault that more people weren’t showing up to hear the singers. Maybe she needed to reword her description of the group or list different songs. She sighed.

  When she finished her task she turned down the lamp and pressed her face into the softness of the pillow. Mr. White had painted the North to be a far more accepting place than they had found to be the case. Many here resented the “invasion” of freedmen, alleging that they depressed wages and competed for jobs. It was difficult navigating friend and foe in this randomly segregated North.

  One of the churches last week had insisted they give separate concerts—one for whites, one for blacks. In the face of the group’s mission, such a request defied belief. Mr. White had flatly refused, so there had been no concert at all.

  She turned over, unable to get comfortable. She missed Nashville. She missed Fisk. She missed her students and teaching. And most of all she missed Sy. “Be watching for me along the way,” he’d said. And she had been.

  But she had yet to see his face in the crowd.

  Sy entered through the front door of the Columbus Bible Church and could already hear the singers. He’d hoped to make it before the concert started, but problems with construction of the bridge over the creek at Belle Meade had forced him to take a later train. And he was only here overnight. Tomorrow would see him traveling on to Charleston, West Virginia, to settle escalating labor issues with the railroad workers.

  He removed his hat and raked a hand through his hair, not eager to have to tell General Harding and the other investors about the possible delay. But knowing he was about to see Alexandra helped to lift his spirits.

  The auditorium was full. That was a good thing. In her last letter, she’d said the group had been a little discouraged due to low attendance.

  He looked around, but didn’t see her. Didn’t see Bliss or his wife either. But again, it was crowded. Sy opted to stand in the back. Too much sitting on the train. Plus, it offered better perspective.

  The song ended and Thomas, one of the singers he’d met before, stepped forward to speak. Sy looked around again, searching for Alexandra.

  He’d gotten a letter from Bliss earlier in the week confirming their attendance tonight and their eager acceptance for dinner following the concert. Their train from Ashtabula should have arrived about an hour ago. Bliss had also included a note about Miss Glenn, who’d died peacefully at her home two days after their meeting. Which, after all the woman had been through, Sy had been grateful to hear.

  He still marveled at what had come out of their meeting. He’d thought he’d been going there to get information that would benefit his own search, and then she’d told him about David Thompson. The discovery still weighed heavily on him.

  Or maybe what weighed heavily was knowing he still needed to tell Alexandra about it. That, and whenever he thought about David Thompson and how Alexandra spoke of him—as such a kind and compassionate man, intelligent and so well-educated—the greater the contrasts he saw between himself and her late fiancé.

  The Fisk group began singing again. A song he didn’t recognize, but he did know who they were singing about. Even hidden back in the mining towns of Colorado, he’d heard about John Brown and his armed insurrection against slavery. And about the man’s hanging. Sy liked the song, and apparently the audience did too, because when it was over, they stood and applauded enthusiastically.

  He took that opportunity to look for Alexandra. And finally spotted her near the back on the far side of the auditorium. He just stared for a moment, drinking her in, wondering exactly when she’d managed to so thoroughly capture his heart.

  Now if he could only find a way to capture hers.

  Chapter

  TWENTY-NINE

  When Thomas stepped forward and announced the last song, Alexandra was relieved. She still enjoyed listening to the troupe, but her mind was on other things.

  Mr. White had added four more concerts that morning, but the venues were quite a distance south, which meant more expensive train tickets—which meant more money. Money they didn’t have. And when she’d tried to explain her concerns to him, he’d merely said, “The Lord will provide, Miss Jamison.”

  She rubbed her temples. She believed the Lord would provide. But she also knew that sometimes her ideas of provision and his did not match up. And there’d risen some contention within the group. Petty bickering where there once was unity. Hurt feelings over the least little thing. But she knew the root of it.

  Everyone was worried about Fisk’s survival. And about what they would do if they had to return home empty-handed. Especially after having taken such a gamble with this venture, and with so many of the parents and the entire missionary board against them.

  There was a restlessness inside her she couldn’t define.

  Unable to sit still any longer, she rose, needing to get back to the lobby anyway to prepare to greet guests and answer any questions.

  Halfway down the aisle she stopped stone-still, unable to believe what she saw. But that languid smile tipping one side of his mouth told her she wasn’t dreaming. She hurried to the back of the auditorium, accepted Sy’s outstretched hand, and followed him into the lobby.

  He pulled her to him and she held him tight. Head against his chest, she relished the strength of his arms and the solid beat of his heart. He let her go too soon.

  “What are you doing here?” she whispered, hearing Mr. White deliver his plea from within the auditorium.

  “I think that should be obvious,” Sy said softly, and touched her face in a way that stirred emotions far too close to the surface. “Let me know when you can leave. I’d like to take you to dinner. Philip Bliss and his wife are here too. Somewhere. They’re going to join us.”

  Pleased more than she could say, Alexandra found that for a moment she could only stare. “It’s so good to see you.”

  He smiled. “I’ve missed you too.”

  Something stirred inside her. “How long are you here?”

  “Only until the morning. But,” he said quickly, as if sensing her disappointment, “I’ll try to stop back through whatever town you’re in on my way back to Nashville in a week or so.”

  She nodded, willing to take a few hours with him over nothing. She saw people begin filtering out of the auditorium and whispered, “I only have to stay for a few minutes, answer any questions people may have about Fisk, then we can leave.”

  “I’ll find the Blisses and we’ll meet you back here. And, Alexandra? It’s good to see you too.”

  The moments couldn’t pass quickly enough. Finally the attendees began to leave, and Alexandra joined Sy and Ella as they spoke together by the front door.

  Ella looked her way. “Imagine my surprise when I looked up and saw Mr. Rutledge here.”

  Alexandra caught the subtle lift of Ella’s brow. “Yes, I was as surprised as you were, I’m sure.” She looked about. “Sy, could you not find Mr. and Mrs. Blis
s?”

  “I don’t think they came.” He shrugged. “They must have had a change of plans. But I know they were excited about hearing the singers, so my guess is they’ll try to attend a concert in the future.”

  “I surely hope so.” Ella inclined her head. “The other singers and I would love to meet him as well. We’re all admirers of his work. Perhaps when you correspond with him next, Mr. Rutledge, you could let him know how much we appreciate his hymns.”

  “I’d be happy to, ma’am.” Sy nodded.

  “Well.” Ella looked between them. “It was nice to see you again, Mr. Rutledge. And to you, my dear roommate”—Ella looked every bit the schoolteacher she was—“I’m going back to the hotel to read your paper on the Intellectual Standards Used for Critical Thinking, so be ready to discuss my comments when you return later.”

  Alexandra laughed. “Be lenient, please.”

  “Never! Especially not with so bright a pupil.”

  To Alexandra’s surprise, Ella gave her a quick hug, a glint in her eyes.

  “Enjoy your evening discussing ‘business relations,’” Ella whispered, then walked on without a backward glance.

  Sy eyed her. “You’re writing papers while on the tour? And Miss Sheppard is grading them? You have time for that?”

  “She’s helping me earn my degree. Several of the other singers are helping me too, actually. We all study during our spare time, what little there is. They’ve been so helpful. And”—she gave a little shrug—“I’ve known the answers to a few of their questions too.”

  “I believe we call that Southern Reciprocation, Miss Jamison.”

  Happier than she could remember in a long time, Alexandra accepted Sy’s offered arm, and they walked outside. The cool October evening was a welcome change from the warmth of the church building.

  “Do you have a preference of restaurant, Miss Jamison?”

  “I do not. We only arrived here this afternoon, so I’ve not been out. But I warn you, Mr. White said it would be best for appearance’s sake if you have me back to the hotel no later than ten o’clock.”