To Wager Her Heart Page 4

  Then, as if bookending that event, she’d read an article in the Nashville Banner shortly before the end of the war that announced the closing of this . . . establishment. And told how Porter, the owner, had buried piles of manacles and chains in the yard, as though he could simply cover up what he’d done and forget his part in the buying and selling of human life.

  She averted her gaze and continued on, renewed purpose in her step and a vigor in her chest that all but dared to be challenged.

  No grand signage marked the entrance. Only a dirt road leading to the rows of one-story framed buildings that once made up the Union Army compound of Fort Sill, but that now housed the nation’s first school dedicated to the higher education of freed people.

  A continuous front porch connected this particular row of barracks, and Alexandra realized after a moment what was missing. She’d expected to see students milling about, visiting between classes. But to her disappointment, the porch and surrounding common areas were empty.

  She hurried up the steps leading to the barracks marked Administration, her grip tightening on her teaching satchel.

  In her conversation with President Spence following the concert last night, he’d instructed her to ask for a Mr. George White, whose offices were located in this building. He’d assured her she didn’t need an appointment.

  Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and was met by the sharp tang of sweat and stale cigar smoke—and something else she couldn’t place but somehow knew was distinctly male. She discreetly pressed a forefinger beneath her nose and then heard a feminine chuckle.

  “It’s pungent. I know,” a woman’s voice chided, the slightest Northern accent detectable. “You can thank all the Union soldiers who convalesced here during the war. Thousands of them passed through this compound, we’re told.”

  Alexandra’s gaze quickly adjusted to the dimmer lighting, and she spotted a middle-aged Negro woman seated behind an old farm table now serving as a desk. The woman’s gaze was as sharp and discerning as her smile was welcoming.

  “The smell’s always worse in the deep of summer,” the woman continued. “Brings all that living out of the wood. And the dying too, I guess,” she added softly.

  Alexandra lowered her hand to her side and managed a smile. “I suppose one could say that we should be able to withstand the smell . . . considering what the soldiers withstood while they were here.”

  Understanding deepened in the woman’s features. “Yes, ma’am. We often say much the same to each other when it’s an especially potent day. Now please, how may I be of service?”

  Briefly debating whether or not to use her real surname, Alexandra decided that being forthcoming was best. “I’m Miss Alexandra Jamison, and I’m here to see Mr. George White. About a teaching position,” she added quickly. “I spoke with President Spence following the concert last evening. He said Mr. White was the gentleman with whom I needed to speak. I don’t have an appointment, but President Spence said that wasn’t required. And I’m able to wait. For a while, at least.”

  The woman rose, her gaze appraising. “I’m Mrs. Chastain, the administrative secretary. Allow me to see if Mr. White has time for an introduction. Have a seat over there if you’d like, Miss Jamison.”

  Mrs. Chastain disappeared down a hallway, and Alexandra noted the confident, cultured manner in which the woman conducted herself. She was tall and stately, and possessed what some might term “handsome” features for a female.

  Alexandra shifted her weight, the soles of her feet beginning to throb, and she decided to accept Mrs. Chastain’s invitation. But after sitting for a moment her nerves got the best of her, and she rose again.

  “Miss Jamison?”

  Alexandra looked up to see Mrs. Chastain standing in the hallway.

  “Follow me, please, Miss Jamison.” Then the woman paused. “By chance, ma’am, did President Spence give you any . . . advice for your meeting today with Mr. White?”

  “Advice?” Alexandra studied her expression, unable to decide whether she saw warning in the woman’s features—or amusement. “No, Mrs. Chastain, he didn’t. Is . . . there something you think I should know?”

  The secretary’s eyes narrowed. “Have you ever known someone who speaks their mind without fully thinking it through? Or they might think it through, realize they shouldn’t say anything, and then do it anyway? Someone who has no qualms whatsoever about stating the truth even when the truth might be better left unstated?”

  A layer of her confidence evaporating, Alexandra nodded.

  “Well, that’s Mr. White.” Mrs. Chastain smiled. “On a good day.”

  She continued down the hallway, and Alexandra knew she should follow. Yet she couldn’t help but glance behind her at the door through which she’d entered moments earlier. Then she thought of David and the conviction she’d felt in the middle of the night and turned back.

  She followed Mrs. Chastain down the narrow, shadowy corridor until the woman paused by an open door backlit with sunlight.

  “Mr. White, Miss Alexandra Jamison to see you, sir.”

  Inside a cramped office stood a man, book in hand, beside an open window. He was a very tall man. Six foot three at least, his large, lanky frame appearing even more so when backlit by the sun.

  “Come in, Miss Jamison.” Intent on his book, Mr. George White did not look up. “I understand you’re here on President Spence’s recommendation to speak with me about a teaching position. However, he and I have not spoken in recent days, so I was unaware that we had an appointment. Which, of course, we do not actually have because you did not make one. So please come in and swiftly state your business. I have a class to teach shortly.”

  Though she’d been warned, Alexandra was still taken aback by the man’s direct manner, which sounded even harsher in the clip of his crisp New York accent. She stared at his profile, waiting for him to look at her.

  When he didn’t, she glanced at Mrs. Chastain, hoping to take a cue from the woman after such a welcome. But the secretary only chuckled, her expression saying she found the man’s behavior not the least surprising. Then wordlessly she retreated down the hall.

  The overloud ticktock of a clock from somewhere inside the office seemed to echo Mr. White’s command for swiftness, so Alexandra stepped inside. A straight-back chair waited not two strides from her, yet she dared not presume to sit without invitation.

  Based upon President Spence’s heartfelt plea for teachers, she’d expected a warm, even exuberant welcome, not this cool reception, and her nerves inched up another degree.

  A framed wedding photograph on the wall—of a slightly younger Mr. White along with his wife, Alexandra presumed—gave a hint as to what the man looked like in more congenial moments. Something she wasn’t certain she’d ever see.

  She cleared her throat. “In speaking with President Spence, I learned about what you’re doing here at Fisk University. I’d heard of the school before, of course, but I’ve never had any personal dealings with the institution.” Institution seemed too fancy a word to describe a campus composed of old army barracks gone to rack and ruin, but she tended to exaggerate when she was nervous. “I understand you have nearly two thousand students enrolled here, Mr. White, with more seeking admittance. That’s quite impressive.”

  His attention remained on his book, and the silence lengthened.

  The clock’s rhythmic tick tick tick sliced away at her confidence. “Something else the president and I discussed last night after the concert was—”

  “You attended the concert?” Mr. White looked up at last, his dark bushy eyebrows framing piercing blue eyes. “What was your opinion?”

  She hesitated.

  “About the singers, Miss Jamison. What did you think?”

  “I-I thought they were . . . exquisite. Tremendous.”

  “And your favorite part of the cantata?”

  Her smile came easily. “By far, sir, it was the duet ‘Who calls—’”

  “‘—my part
ing soul from death.’ Yes, yes, that’s a splendid piece. Handel outdid himself. And Miss Porter is a tremendous talent.”

  “The soprano? Yes, sir, she is indeed.”

  He clapped his book shut. “How did you hear about the concert? Did you receive a flyer? A personal invitation?”

  “Actually, neither of those, Mr. White. I was out walking and happened upon it.”

  He eyed her, nodding. “Continue stating your business. Except”—he gestured—“please move ahead to your teaching experience.”

  The man was precisely as Mrs. Chastain had pegged him, which could actually be considered refreshing, if framed in the right perspective. At least Alexandra didn’t have to guess what he was thinking.

  “I’m an experienced tutor, Mr. White. I was schooled by my governess until the age of twelve, and from there I studied on my own—”

  “Any advanced education? College, perhaps?”

  She hesitated. “No, sir. But I am very well read and—”

  “Why do you desire to teach at Fisk University, Miss Jamison?”

  He crossed to his desk, his eyes never leaving hers, and eased his generous frame into the worn leather chair, the aging springs squeaking in protest.

  “Well, sir . . . I . . .”

  “It’s a straightforward question, Miss Jamison. One we ask of every instructor who applies to teach here.”

  With thick black hair that joined a coarse, heavy beard and mustache, George White possessed commanding features that made an already tempestuous-looking brow appear more so. Even if she hadn’t known who he was—the treasurer of Fisk University, and the school’s music director—she would have guessed him to be a man who held a position of authority and influence.

  She straightened, her damp chemise sticking to her back. “I’m here because I desire to help the freedmen in their new lives. I believe we have a responsibility to teach any and all who would like to learn. Up until recently, the freedmen have not been afforded that opportunity. And I would like to help change that.”

  His brow furrowed slightly. “Continue.”

  “As I told President Spence, I have an excellent command of a basic education, and even beyond in some subjects. I can teach spelling and reading. I can instruct students in sums and penmanship, in American and European history. And I’m well read in literary works and poetry. I have a fairly good command of French and German. And I know some Latin, though it’s rusty from disuse, I’m sure. But I assure you, my utmost desire in wanting to teach here is to do whatever I can to ease what must still be a difficult transition for new students entering Fisk, and to share what knowledge I possess with them.”

  She punctuated her response with a smile, which went unreciprocated.

  “Those are altruistic goals, Miss Jamison. Quite noble. But we must be careful when we adopt the view that we are humbling ourselves to help someone less fortunate.”

  She swallowed to moisten an overdry throat. “Sir, if I sound as though I’m having to humble myself, it’s only because I’m—”

  “Adjusting to this new world. Yes, I’ve heard that explanation before.”

  “But, sir, that’s not what—”

  He raised his hand in a manner worthy of the most venerated schoolmaster, and she knew better than to interrupt again.

  “Regardless of what a great many people in this part of the country believe about the freedmen, Miss Jamison, they possess keen minds and a thirst for knowledge. They want to better themselves, no differently from you or me. And they are worthy of those pursuits, madam, not because you and I deem them so, but because God Almighty does.”

  “Yes, Mr. White. I’m attempting to—”

  “Allow me to share a bit of wisdom with you, Miss Jamison. And in doing so, to clear up a common misconception among many Southerners, and Nashville society specifically.” Gaze unrelenting, he continued with nary a breath. “Every scholar here at Fisk is educated in multiple branches of study—in languages, science, mathematics, literature, history. Our students, both the very young and older, excel in their educational pursuits, and advance far beyond a basic education. That is why, in fact, we usually do not hire teachers who do not possess some level of formal preparatory education. However, we do make exceptions. And though I commend you, Miss Jamison, for your willingness to teach at Fisk University, it is imperative that our instructors possess the proper motivation behind that desire. For instance, it would not be in Fisk’s best interest to hire someone who feels as though they have a debt to repay. Or who pities the freedmen. Or, for that matter, has something to prove to society . . . or to their closest family members, perhaps.”

  His gaze deepened, and Alexandra wondered if he was privy to her personal situation. But . . . no, he couldn’t be. Could he?

  “Such ambition would be self-centered,” he continued. “And in the long run would not serve our scholars or Fisk’s reputation well. Would you agree?”

  Feeling at once vindicated, yet also guilty as charged, she nodded. “I would wholeheartedly, sir.”

  He smiled then, and it was a most pleasant expression. “As I have had to tell others who have come with less than honorable intentions—not that I am questioning yours in this manner, mind you—our scholars here have no need of a white deliverer. And they already share a common faith in our Savior.” He laughed softly. “And we are not him. All we desire are teachers who are willing to teach people who want to learn and who deserve no less than our very best.”

  Liking this man more than she would have thought possible awhile earlier, Alexandra smiled. “I appreciate your sharing that with me, Mr. White, and I can assure you—”

  “You cannot go back there, sir! Please! Sir!”

  Mrs. Chastain’s authoritative voice carried down the hallway, as did the heavy pounding of footsteps.

  Chapter

  FOUR

  A man burst into the office, red-faced and seething.

  Alexandra stepped swiftly to the side, uncertain whether to stay or go. Which soon proved a moot point, as the intruder blocked her exit.

  “See here, Mr. White!” The man held a crumpled piece of paper in his grip. “I received your letter this morning and here’s what I think of it!” He ripped the stationery into shreds and sent the pieces fluttering. “Nine months. Nine! That’s how long it’s been since my company has been paid by your school. Yet I’ve continued to deliver supplies from my mercantile. Every month you’ve begged and pleaded for more time to honor your bill, and I’ve given it. Well, I’m here to tell you that your time is up, sir! Fisk’s account is due in full. With interest! And if you cannot assure me that—”

  “Mr. Granger!” George White’s deep voice thundered through the room as he unfolded himself to his full, imposing height. With a glance he dismissed Mrs. Chastain, then stepped from behind his desk, his expression severe. “Sir, I am in the midst of a—”

  “I don’t give an eyetooth what you’re in the midst of!” Granger turned and, as if only now seeing Alexandra, gave her a brief yet scorching glare.

  His gaze flickered, and Alexandra quickly bowed her head.

  Granger. Of Granger Mercantile. She shopped there on occasion. She didn’t know the store owner personally, but she was certain her father did. While the possibility of Barrett Broderick Jamison knowing George White—or anyone else associated with Fisk University—was slim, her father knew every business owner in town.

  If Mr. Granger happened to recognize her—or learn her name—news of her being here would get back to her father lickety-split. The possibility sent her heart plummeting.

  “I’ve already contacted my lawyer,” Granger continued, and Alexandra chanced a look up, relieved to see him focused again on the target of his wrath. “As have five other of Fisk’s suppliers, Puckett’s Dry Goods and Caldwell’s Dairy among them. You’ll be hearing from all of us very soon.”

  The sternness in Mr. White’s features hardened into anger—and desperation, if Alexandra read the man correctly.

&n
bsp; White stepped closer until he towered over the mercantile owner. But Granger—blessed considerably more in breadth of stature than in height—outweighed him by a good sixty pounds and didn’t back down.

  “Mr. Granger, you know our situation here.” White’s voice quieted to molten steel. “The majority of our scholars are dependent upon themselves. Some of them are as young as twelve or thirteen, and they must earn their own support while securing their education at Fisk University. So it’s upon that truth and the importance of our mission that I entreat you again to—”

  “I operate a business, White, not a missionary barrel. I’ve been more than patient.” The man hesitated, his struggle mirrored in his expression. “Mine was the first business in this city to agree to supply this school, because I believe in what you’re doing. But I simply cannot continue to carry your debt. I have my own creditors to pay.” His features firmed. “The entirety of Fisk’s obligation to my mercantile is due immediately. And if you cannot pay your note by the end of the month, then my attorney will take charge of the situation.”

  “Again, Mr. Granger, I would kindly appeal to your Christian nature in this matter. If you could only see your way to—”

  “It is my Christian nature, sir, that has sustained my patience thus far. And it is that same nature that appeals to yours now. Good day, Mr. White.”

  Granger strode from the office, leaving George White to stare after him, unblinking. A moment passed, and Alexandra wondered if she should simply take her leave.

  “Well,” he finally said. “My sincerest apologies to you, Miss Jamison, that you were forced to witness such an exchange.”

  He turned and looked at her and, regardless of how he’d treated her initially, Alexandra found herself more than a little sympathetic. Especially considering what this could mean for the school—and her chances for employment.

  “I was raised with three brothers, Mr. White. I am well acquainted with arguments. Or ‘spirited discussions,’ as my mother always termed them.”