To Wager Her Heart Read online

  Every singer was Negro.

  In addition, the audience consisted mostly of Negro men and women. Only a handful of white people were in attendance. And though the discovery didn’t leave her discomforted in the least, she couldn’t help but acknowledge she’d never been at a concert attended by black and white together.

  David would have delighted in it.

  A pang of longing hit her again, and she quickly claimed a seat toward the back, wondering if she would ever cease missing him. She knew from losing dear Jacob in the war that time helped heal the wounds of loss. But David had filled her life in ways no one ever had. He’d challenged her to demand more of herself, to see the world in ways she hadn’t before. He’d made her a far better person than she’d been before he came along.

  And she didn’t want to go back to being that other woman ever again. She wanted her life to have meaning. Beyond an arranged marriage she in no way desired.

  The tempo of the piano music changed, and the voice of the powerful soprano on stage soared into upper registers. Alexandra found her attention riveted once again, as was everyone else’s, and she gave herself fully to the music, grateful for the distraction. Such perfection in a voice—and delivered with seeming ease. The cantata flowed from one piece to the next and finally into the duet Alexandra had been anticipating.

  Her eyes watered as she drank in the familiar lyrics, first from Queen Esther as sung by the talented soprano, and then answered by a handsome young tenor in the persona of King Ahasuerus.

  Who calls my parting soul from death . . . Awake, my soul, my life, my breath. Hear my suit, or else I die . . . Ask, my queen, can I deny?

  Gradually the rest of the troupe joined in again, and far too soon the last note of the music faded and the audience rose to their feet in applause. Alexandra joined in, filled with gratitude and—

  She squinted. What was Mr. Sylas Rutledge doing here?

  He’d been seated two rows in front of her on the opposite end. But standing well over six feet tall—and dressed in that dark duster like the gunslinger he apparently considered himself to be—the man was easily distinguished in a crowd.

  He certainly had not struck her as the classical-music-loving sort. But at least he’d had the decency to remove his hat this time, so perhaps there was hope for the man after all.

  At that moment, one of the singers stepped to the front of the stage, and the patrons sat back down. Alexandra did likewise, turning slightly to the side to lessen the chance that Mr. Rutledge would see her. She was none too eager for a second meeting with the man and whatever business reconnoitering he was conducting. But she needn’t have worried.

  He didn’t return to his seat, but slipped quietly down the side aisle and exited the auditorium.

  “Thank you, kind ladies and gentlemen.” The young man on stage spoke in a deep register, his voice resonating in the silence. “We appreciate your venturing out on this warm summer eve to hear us perform Handel’s Cantata of Esther, a most moving oratorio. At least we believe it to be so.”

  He smiled, and Alexandra laughed along with everyone else. Only then did she notice the minimal scenery on stage and the lack of elaborate costumes. But it hadn’t mattered. The voices were everything.

  “As part of the student body at Fisk University,” the speaker continued, “we appreciate your support and invite you to talk with one of us afterward if you’re interested in hearing more about the school and its academic program. And now may I introduce the president of Fisk University . . . Mr. Adam Spence.”

  Applause rose again as a man made his way from the audience to the stage. “Good evening, friends. As Mr. Green has already stated, we appreciate your coming out to enjoy this fine concert and supporting Fisk University with your ticket purchases. Customarily, Mr. George White, Fisk’s treasurer and this troupe’s illustrious leader, would be speaking to you, but he is unable to be here this evening. In addition, our usual pianist finds herself unwell. So allow me to extend a special thank-you to Miss Anderson for her accompaniment tonight.”

  The audience clapped, showing their appreciation, and the young Negro woman seated at the piano stood and bowed. Alexandra took the opportunity to peer back at the door. Mr. Rutledge had not returned.

  “Our students at Fisk are all freedmen,” President Spence continued, “by which of course I am referring to both men and women. But Fisk University exists to offer an education to any person who would seek to learn, regardless of the color of their skin.”

  His statement prompted still more applause, and Alexandra joined in, feeling a stirring at the familiar echo of President Spence’s statement. So much like what her David had said.

  “As president of Fisk University, I can assure you that these fine students possess an extraordinary thirst for learning. We’re very proud of their accomplishments and of our school. We’re also in need of teachers, so if you’re experienced in that regard, please seek me out and I can share with you more about those opportunities.”

  Following further comments, President Spence invited them to bow their heads as he closed the evening in prayer. Alexandra followed suit, but couldn’t keep her eyes closed.

  She kept peering up at the stage at the Fisk students, then back down at her hands, trying to account for the fluttering in her stomach and the inexplicable sense of closeness she felt to David in that moment. And to the dreams they’d shared for their life together.

  Later that night, Alexandra returned home to a mostly darkened house, save for a lamp burning low in the foyer. She half expected to find the front door locked, based on how abruptly she’d departed, but the knob turned easily in her hand. She locked the door behind her, turned down the lamp, and slipped quietly up the darkened stairway and into her room. As familiar with her childhood bedroom in the dark as she was in the light, she retrieved the matches and lit the lamp on her bedside table.

  The flame cast a warm glow across the bed and onto David’s photograph on her dressing table. She sat down on the bench, picked up the cherished likeness of him, and stared into his kind, open gaze, her thoughts still racing from her conversation with President Spence.

  Had she found what she was supposed to do? Is that why she’d “happened” upon the concert tonight? A thrum of excitement skittered through her, followed swiftly by a flood of uncertainty.

  She glanced at David’s trunk—full of books and teaching materials—at the foot of her bed, and wished for the hundredth time that she’d made more progress in her studies with him. Despite his insistence that she always caught on quickly and that her mind was like a sponge. But time had seemed limitless back then. She’d thought she had a lifetime to learn from him, to soak up his knowledge.

  She’d had a governess growing up, of course, who had seen to her primary education. Later, as a young woman, Alexandra had wanted to attend the Nashville Female Academy with a handful of her friends, but her father refused. Yet she’d done a good amount of tutoring children through the years, so what knowledge she’d acquired she put to good use.

  “I wish you could tell me if this is what I’m supposed to do,” she whispered, running a finger along the edge of the frame. “And oh, how I wish you were still here.”

  But in a sense he had been there with her tonight, hadn’t he? She’d felt his presence. And then that song . . .

  After the concert she’d heard the chorus members singing softly in a back hallway. It was a song she hadn’t heard since childhood, and the lyrics and depth of feeling in their voices still haunted her.

  In the morning when I rise, in the morning when I—

  A knock sounded on the bedroom door.

  She returned the frame to the dressing table and crossed the room, hoping it wasn’t her father.

  “Mother.” Relieved, she stepped aside and allowed her entrance. Even in the low light she could tell by her mother’s red-rimmed eyes that she’d spent the evening crying. Guilt pinched the measure of excitement she felt.

  “Darling, I’ve
been waiting up for you.” Her mother reached back and closed the bedroom door. “I wanted to make certain you returned home all right. Where did you go?”

  “I walked. And walked some more.” Alexandra offered a smile. “I needed time to think. To . . . clear my head.”

  Her mother nodded, hands clasped at her waist, then sat down on the edge of the bed. Alexandra joined her.

  “Alexandra . . . I know you still miss David very much, and I realize Mr. Buford is not the man you would have chosen. But he is a good match, a practical match. And he’ll take care of you. You’ll never want for anything.”

  “Anything except a man I desire to spend my life with. A man I can admire and respect. And who will respect me and my opinions in return.”

  A shadow pierced her mother’s expression. “Alexandra, your father is—” She closed her lips tightly and glanced away. When she looked back, her features were resolute. “Your father has only your best interests at heart. You must believe that.”

  “I believe he thinks he knows what’s best.” Alexandra weighed the cost of what she was about to say. “But I simply don’t agree. Furthermore, I think it’s perfectly acceptable to have opinions that differ from his. And to express them.”

  Her mother stared, then reached over and covered Alexandra’s hand on the bed. “As you know, your grandparents arranged your father’s and my marriage. When I married him and pledged to love, honor, and obey him, I scarcely knew him. But that doesn’t negate the promise I made in front of family and friends and God that day.”

  “But it also doesn’t negate that you surrender what you think and who you are,” Alexandra said softly. “At least, that’s how it appears to me.”

  Her mother offered a weak smile. “The world is changing, my dear. I’m not blind. I see that. And you are changing along with it. And while I believe a time is coming when women will have vastly more opportunities open to them, we must all move within the confines of the world in which we currently reside. And you, my dearest, are caught in an . . . in-between time.”

  Alexandra searched her mother’s expression and glimpsed a depth of understanding that both surprised and heartened her.

  “Granted, you’re not living in my world,” her mother continued, “and yet the world you desire has not yet been fully birthed. I know you have dreams, that you and David had dreams. But the door on those dreams has closed, my dear. And heartbreaking as that is, you must accept it.”

  “I do accept it, Mother. Truly. I know that the dreams David and I shared are in the past. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have my own version of those dreams. Women are doing so much more these days than they once did. The war brought so many changes. Women are working in offices and factories now.”

  Her mother stared. “So you’re thinking of going to work in an office? Or a factory? And being what? A seamstress in a mill? Alexandra, you’re from one of the finest families in Nashville. As I said, we all must move within the confines of the world we’re in. And that, my dearest, is not your world.”

  Alexandra started to object, then thought better of it.

  “It is well past time, Alexandra, for you to marry, to establish your own home, to have children. And with the war having taken so many of our men”—her mother’s chin trembled—“including our precious Jacob, your choices are greatly narrowed. Even you must agree with me on this . . . A woman can only choose among the options available to her. So consider your decision carefully, dearest. Because despite what happened this evening, Mr. Buford’s designs toward you remain unchanged.” She gave Alexandra’s hand a tight squeeze. “And though I consider you the finest and loveliest daughter I could ever have requested from the Lord, none of us is guaranteed a second chance. You have been given one, my dear. Take it. While there’s still time.”

  Her mother rose, pressed a kiss on the crown of Alexandra’s head, and closed the bedroom door behind her as she left.

  Long into the night, Alexandra lay awake weighing her mother’s counsel against the urgings of her heart, all while asking for wisdom from above and listening for the slightest whisper in her heart from the Lord.

  Or even . . . from David, if heaven allowed such things.

  Sleeping little, she rose long before the sun with fresh conviction, knowing without question what she had to do. Gone were the years of acquiescence and blind obedience. The time had come for her to choose her own path. And she was going to do it.

  No matter the cost.

  Chapter

  THREE

  Dilapidated and rotting, the rows of former Union Army hospital barracks up ahead looked as though they might collapse with the slightest breeze. But Alexandra continued down the street, chin slightly tucked and eyes averted. Not ashamed of where she was going . . . and yet she knew how people could talk. Foot traffic was busy for a Thursday morning, and she didn’t want to give anyone fodder for conversation that might find its way back to her parents.

  With high hopes and taut nerves, she focused instead on the events of last night and on what—and who—had led her to this place, to this moment. She thought, too, about all that was happening behind those ramshackle, decaying walls ahead. New lives were being built, futures forged with fresh direction—and she intended to be part of it.

  Though she’d left the house later than planned, she still managed to leave before her father had awakened. Yet another sign that God was on her side in this decision, because the man rarely overslept. Now if she could only hold to the unwavering courage she’d had upon first awakening, instead of listening to the questioning murmurs within.

  The whistle blast of an approaching train jarred her thoughts, and she looked in the direction of the train tracks—some fifteen yards away—as the iron beast churned toward her, bound for the Nashville station.

  Her pulse edged up a notch.

  She regretted now that she’d told Mary Harding she would meet her at the train station later, despite her friend’s kind invitation to attend General Harding’s special unveiling. Alexandra knew Mary remembered the significance of this day and was attempting to lift her spirits. And since Mary Harding never took no for an answer . . .

  As the train drew closer, Alexandra made out the name along the side—Northeast Line Railroad. Mr. Rutledge, yet again. For saying so little, the man certainly had a way of making his presence known. She wondered if he’d enjoyed the concert last night as much as she had, and if such a pastime was typical for him. It still seemed hard to believe, based on what little she knew of the man.

  The line of passenger cars came into view, and even through the dirt-smudged windows, she could see the people within—talking, reading their newspapers, some of them likely dozing to the rhythmic rocking of the cars on the rails. Oblivious to what could happen in the space of a single, solitary breath.

  The first few passenger cars thundered by, and she forced herself to watch even as, in a blink, the rush of the train pulled her back, and she was back in the ladies’ railcar as it left the tracks that day on Dutchman’s Curve. She relived that sickly feeling of being airborne, her stomach twisting as her body, weightless, hung in space for what had to have been only seconds—though it felt like an eternity—before the passenger car slammed onto its side in the cornfield.

  Alexandra drew in a shaky breath. You are not on that train. You are not on that train. You are not on that train . . .

  And she hadn’t stepped foot on another train since.

  She loathed the fear that still gripped her, this weakness in herself, yet she couldn’t make herself climb on board. She’d tried. Mary had even enticed her with the gift of a trip to New York City. Alexandra had politely declined. Someday . . . In time. At least that’s what she kept telling herself.

  She continued down the street and didn’t look back.

  The relentless August sun sweltered in the cloudless blue overhead. Regardless that the watch pinned to her shirtwaist read half past nine, a trickle of perspiration inched its way down her back. And her feet
, how they ached. Especially after all the walking last night.

  The distance from home had proven farther than she’d calculated. A little over two miles, which customarily wasn’t too far to walk. But in these boots and in this heat and humidity . . .

  She’d decided against taking one of the family carriages, knowing that if he were asked, Dockery, their driver, would tell her father where she’d gone. And her father would most definitely ask. This was a decision she wanted to keep to herself until she was certain that what President Spence had said was correct.

  And until she’d had time to lay the proper groundwork with her parents. Though precisely how to do that hadn’t yet come to her.

  She passed storefront after storefront, some businesses still solvent with doors open, but many long closed, their shingles left to hang at odd angles, the names of the abandoned shops barely legible. Broken panes of glass and cracked windows bore testament to better times. But one shingle in particular drew her eye, and she slowed her steps.

  The last building on the opposite side of the street.

  The sign’s weathered wood was cracked and dried, but the painted-on letters, faded with time, were still readable. Porter’s Slave Pen. Reading the name, even silently, felt like someone slipping a dagger between her ribs.

  Her gaze trailed to the yard adjacent to the building, to the rotting auction stand leaning to one side, half caved in from time . . . and long-delayed justice. An image rose, vivid in her memory. An occurrence she’d witnessed only once, by mistake—if her mother’s hand covering her eyes had been any indication—as the family carriage paused in the street traffic.

  Yet it was an image she would never forget.

  Alexandra squeezed her eyes tight, the mental picture a marker in her young life, one that had shaped her far more than her parents realized at the time. Far more than she’d realized.