To Wager Her Heart Page 5

  He managed a faint smile. “Are they older or younger than you? Your brothers.”

  “All older, sir.”

  “And do they still reside here in Nashville?”

  He was an inquisitive man. “The eldest two reside out of state. They’re both married and have families. The youngest brother, Jacob”—she briefly lowered her head—“now resides with Christ.”

  “The war,” he said softly.

  It wasn’t a question, yet she nodded. “Still, my family considers ourselves blessed. We only lost one. Many lost all.”

  “As these very walls around us attest,” he said softly. He crossed to the window, the lines of his face seeming to grow more pronounced.

  She watched and waited, trying to remain hopeful.

  From outside, murmurs of conversation and laughter drifted in. The students, she guessed, and she caught glimpses of them as they passed. A warm breeze brought with it the scent of sunshine and baked earth. In the distance a train whistle sounded. The Northeast Line Railroad, no doubt, if recent experience held true.

  Sensing dismissal and finality in George White’s lengthening silence, Alexandra let out her breath. “I appreciate your time, Mr. White. I sincerely wish you and your scholars all the—”

  “Please have a seat, Miss Jamison.”

  She did as asked, cautiously heartened.

  “Did you bring references with you today?” he asked, easing into his office chair.

  She withdrew a letter from her satchel. “I have a recommendation letter from a Mr. Pruitt, written some time ago. I tutored all five of his children and have used the letter he penned as a reference in obtaining other tutoring positions. In all fairness, I’ve never taught in a classroom setting. But I believe I can. I’m not afraid to try.”

  He perused the letter, eyebrows lifting on occasion. “No,” he said as he read. “I do not believe you are afraid, Miss Jamison.”

  Her gaze fell to a stack of papers on his desk, and without thinking, she began to read the page on the top. Despite the words being upside down, the neatness of the handwriting made reading them nearly effortless. A list of popular, lighthearted songs mixed with some classics: “Oh! Susannah,” “Beautiful Dreamer,” “How Can I Keep from Singing?” Perhaps it was a list for an upcoming concert.

  Mr. White quietly placed a book atop the stack. “Mr. Pruitt praises your abilities most highly, Miss Jamison.”

  Realizing her impertinence, she started to apologize. But he held up her reference letter, no trace of judgment in his gaze.

  “It would appear you’re most certainly qualified for a teaching position. However, as you are now keenly aware, Fisk University is facing . . . severe financial challenges.” He looked away. “The school’s financial support has waned in recent months, and we’re facing difficult decisions. So although we do have immediate need of your services, I fear the compensation would be minimal at best. Far below your expectations. All of our faculty are currently teaching at half salary until the situation changes. Which, for a starting teacher, would mean scarcely a dollar a week.”

  Alexandra took in the news. Even less than she would earn in a factory position. “I understand.” She heard the disappointment in her voice.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Jamison. I wish the circumstances were different. But perhaps you’ll allow me to keep you in mind for future opportunities, should they arise. Although with your skill and tenacity,” he added, subtle humor in his tone as he returned her recommendation letter to her, “I’m certain you’ll secure another teaching position long before that time arrives.”

  He rose, but she remained seated, her thoughts spinning. The same sense of conviction that had led her here to his office, that had reminded her so much of David, pressed strong inside her again.

  “I don’t want to teach elsewhere, Mr. White. I want to teach here. At Fisk. If there’s a place for me.”

  The man’s face lit as he sat down again. “Well, that’s an unexpected but most welcome announcement, Miss Jamison. Of course, the final approval of hiring does not lie solely with me. I must seek the board’s approval as well.”

  “Do you think the board will look favorably upon me?”

  “With both President Spence’s recommendation and my own, I’m all but certain they will.”

  A sense of excitement skittered through her.

  “However . . . they may still wish to speak with you themselves. You see, all of Fisk University employees are members of the American Missionary Association. Our goal here is not simply to educate our scholars in secular studies, but to educate them for eternity as well. Because without knowledge of the Creator and the wisdom imparted through his Son, his Spirit, and the written Word, our scholars would still be lacking the most important education of their lives. Of everyone’s life.”

  “I hold the same convictions, Mr. White. In fact, the reason I’m here today is because I believe the Lord led me to that concert last night. Which in turn led me here. And again, I assure you I have no hidden motives. No need to right a wrong or to assuage guilt. I simply want to serve where I can make the greatest difference in people’s lives. To be part of something that’s important. Something that”—she hesitated, questioning the wisdom of being so transparent—“will live beyond me. And I believe that what you’re doing here at Fisk University fits that objective. In every way.”

  Over steepled fingers, George White studied her. “Though some might argue that ‘the bloom is off the rose’ in your case, Miss Jamison, you are certainly not yet a spinster. Still, you speak of wanting to be involved in something that will live beyond you. I’m curious as to why.”

  Alexandra stared, dumbfounded. Did the man not realize how blatantly rude his statement was? How he’d insulted her? Grateful to Mrs. Chastain for warning her about his brusque nature, she searched his gaze. Seeing the honesty therein, combined with an undeniable—if at times hard to see—kindness, she swiftly decided he’d meant no offense. Perhaps his devotion to speaking the truth had blinded him to the correlating command to do so in love.

  Setting aside her bruised pride, she managed a smile. “While it’s true, sir, that twenty-five feels much older than I anticipated”—nearly twenty-six, but he didn’t need to know that—“I do believe I have a few productive years ahead of me yet.”

  Surprisingly, the man’s blue eyes twinkled.

  “And as for contributing to a work that will live beyond me,” she continued, “what person possessing breath and half a wit could have any other view? Especially having lived through the past decade. Death has an uncanny way of making people examine what they’re doing with their lives. Would you not agree?”

  He held her gaze, a smile forming. “Indeed I would, madam.”

  “I understand from President Spence that Fisk teachers live on the campus, as do students, and take their meals here. May I assume there would be room for me here as well?”

  “That is correct, our teachers do live in barracks on the premises, but at the current time I believe all of the female faculty accommodations are occupied. May I assume you currently have a place to live, Miss Jamison?”

  She hesitated. “I do. I live at home. With my parents.”

  He nodded. “I thought I recognized your family name. Your father is the esteemed Attorney Barrett Jamison, widely known in this city?”

  She nodded. “He is, sir.”

  “Perhaps you would be able to continue living at home until the time comes when a space opens here?”

  Alexandra weighed her response. If she told him that wasn’t an option, he would ask why. Then she would have to tell him about what she anticipated would be her parents’ complete lack of support for her decision. Which could jeopardize her opportunity to teach here. Yet she couldn’t say yes. Because she knew better.

  “I’m afraid, Mr. White, that my living at home will no longer be an option once I inform my parents that I’ve secured a position to teach here.”

  The room went very quiet.

>   “I see,” he said softly. “You would not be the first woman who has sacrificed greatly in order to teach freedmen, Miss Jamison. However, you will definitely be the first of your number here in Nashville. Every teacher here at Fisk is from the North and is accustomed to a humble, meager life of servitude. And with one exception, all of the female teachers are older as well. Most have never been married, although there are two widows among their number.” He held her gaze. “Are you certain you’re ready for the challenges that will be demanded of you?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. I’ve considered my decision thoroughly.”

  The slow nod of his head hinted at doubt, yet the warmth that started in his eyes then spread across his face filled her with fresh hope.

  “Very well then, Miss Jamison. Once I learn the board’s decision—which should be today since they meet here this afternoon—I’ll do my best to get word to you no later than tomorrow. Assuming their response is favorable, and I have every reason to believe it will be, I’ll speak with the female faculty and see if one of them has an idea for housing. I’m sure someone will.”

  He rose, and she did likewise, scarcely able to believe she’d gotten the job. Or had all but gotten it. He’d said the board’s approval was more of a formality. Then she remembered something important.

  “On the back of my reference letter, Mr. White, I listed an address where all correspondence is to be sent. It’s important it be delivered to that address.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” He nodded as he came around the desk. “We’ll do that. What a blessing you’re going to be, Miss Jamison, to our new group of incoming students. And what a rewarding journey you have ahead of you. Yoking my efforts with those of the freedmen has represented one of the greatest blessings—and burdens—of my life. But those two things always seem to go hand in hand in ministry, do they not?”

  Alexandra nodded instinctively, thinking about his earlier question about the challenges she would face. Namely, she thought about where she would live if there was no room here. She did have a little money set aside from tutoring in recent months. Not much, but enough to pay for room and board for a week or two.

  “One last item, Miss Jamison . . . May I offer an apology for my nettled frame of mind when you first arrived? I was deep in thought and rarely react in a decent manner when pulled away from my work. It’s a fault my dear wife continually encourages me to improve upon.”

  Alexandra found herself surprised yet again by his honesty. “Thank you, Mr. White. I assure you, no harm was done.” She turned to go, then thought of a point he’d made earlier that she wished to add to. Though it was an addition she wouldn’t have shared with just anyone.

  “For the record, sir, I agree with what you said earlier about freedmen having no need of a white deliverer, and about how we share a common faith in Christ. Yet I do find it interesting that many historians agree on something about our beloved Savior. A fact that I’m certain the study of antiquity bears out.” She worked to hold back a smile. “Although I’m not at all certain it’s a fact my fellow Southerners will appreciate knowing.”

  He gave her a quizzical look. “What fact is that, Miss Jamison?”

  She let her smile come then. “That Jesus wasn’t white either.”

  She could still hear the man’s laughter as she exited the barracks.

  Sylas Rutledge climbed down from the railcar, his sights set on General William Giles Harding, the man of the hour—and the man who was going to replenish the capital Sylas needed, following his recent purchase of the Northeast Line Railroad. Although Harding didn’t yet know it.

  Sy had never laid eyes on the man before, but one of the porters onboard had pointed him out. Upon first impression, General Harding was far older looking than what Sy had expected. The scraggly beard that almost reached the man’s waist didn’t help. Looked a bit like one of the old miners who shuffled from creek to creek back in Boulder.

  “Got him ready for you, Boss!”

  Sy turned and spotted Vinson striding toward him through the swell of spectators gathered for Harding’s public unveiling. Sy always enjoyed watching people watch Vinson. The man was a lean two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle, his bald black head polished to a sheen. And at the moment, glistening with sweat. Vinson always made an impression.

  Sy removed his hat and raked a hand through his hair. He’d been warned about the South’s oppressive summers, but this was worse than he’d imagined. Give him the dry, cooler climes of the Colorado Rockies any day.

  He wondered why the general had chosen today for this event . . . Surely he realized it was one year to the day since the accident happened. Sy could hardly believe that much time had passed.

  As the train had approached Nashville earlier that morning, he’d looked west across the city in the direction of Dutchman’s Curve and recalled the newspaper account of what had happened on that section of single track line. Where his father—or stepfather, in the eyes of the law—had breathed his last. While Sy wanted to see the place for himself, and hoped to make some peace with the ruin of it all, he also dreaded it.

  His father, the engineer of the ill-fated No. 1, had been one day away from retiring from the Nashville, Chattanooga and St. Louis Railway. That run from Memphis to Nashville was to have been his last.

  And as it turned out, it was.

  Sy only hoped Harrison Kennedy had known what a difference he’d made in the lives of a mother and her little boy abandoned by an itinerant gambler, a man Sy had been too young to remember. Kennedy, a career railroad man with an insatiable appetite for learning, had taken them as his own. Sy still remembered what his mother had said after marrying Kennedy. Sylas and I didn’t know what happy was until you came into our lives.

  That was the truth.

  Ironic then, that when her doctor in Colorado recommended a milder climate due to her weakened constitution from scarlet fever in earlier years, she and Kennedy had moved East in ’62—where she succumbed to influenza during her first winter in Tennessee.

  Sy still regretted not being able to attend her funeral. But that was part of living back in a mining camp. Come winter, it wasn’t always possible to get out. His father had wired and encouraged him to wait until spring. Then spring came and the mine got busy and another year slipped by. Followed by another. And another.

  Sy knew early on that the mining town life and its temptations weren’t what his father would have chosen for him, yet Harrison Kennedy hadn’t uttered one critical word. Not while in Colorado, and not in his letters after he’d moved to the South. He didn’t have to. Sy knew the man well enough to know what he thought.

  It was that knowledge—along with the jolting reminder of life’s fleeting quality—that finally drove Sy to make a change.

  Sy thought again of the concert he’d attended last night, and of how much his parents would have liked it. He’d happened upon the billboard outside the Masonic Hall while on his evening stroll. And though he was somewhat acquainted with Handel due to his father’s influence, he’d never heard of the Cantata of Esther, but he’d enjoyed it. Especially the song a man and woman had sung together, about calling a parting soul from death. He’d contemplated the lyrics long into the night.

  Reining in his thoughts, he slipped his hat back on and whistled for Duke. The foxhound bounded down from the platform, tail wagging. Sy reached down and scratched the dog between the ears. A snap of his fingers, and Duke fell into step beside him as Sy made his way back to the lead stock car, grateful for the progress he’d made since coming East three weeks ago.

  He’d traveled from Charlotte, North Carolina, to Charleston, West Virginia, to complete a survey of his next potential railroad project. It involved purchasing four consecutive parcels of land between those two cities, and all from different land owners. The key was to purchase each piece of property from its owner without the others being any the wiser.

  Because if word got out prematurely that the potential purchaser was the owner of the Northeas
t Line, the landholders would most assuredly join forces and hold out for a much higher price. Or other bidders could step up, which would lead to a bidding war. Which wouldn’t benefit him at all. No, he needed to get this done quickly and quietly.

  But first he needed a replenishment of capital, which is where General Harding came in. Then he needed investors for the land purchase. He hoped his connection with Harding would bridge that gap as well.

  He met Vinson by the open door of the specially refitted stock car and climbed up inside. “He make the trip all right?”

  “Like the champion he is, Boss.” Vinson hoisted himself up beside him.

  Sy cautiously approached the prize-winning stallion. Enquirer was easily one of the most magnificent animals he’d ever seen. A bay stallion standing over sixteen hands high with the longest shoulder, deepest heart-place, shortest saddle-place, and most powerful quarters recorded for a thoroughbred to date. According to what he’d read in the Denver Post, Harding had paid ten thousand dollars for him. “No telling how much this fella will bring for a stud fee.”

  The stallion tossed his head as though eager to share his own thoughts on the matter, and Vinson laughed.

  “Look at him, Sy. Already getting himself worked up about being with those sweet fillies.”

  Sy smiled, then glanced out the door in Harding’s direction, his mind on the meeting awaiting him. General Harding had referenced receiving other bids for the railroad project, yet Sy felt confident his bid would be the most competitive. Harding had also mentioned something in his letter about attending a dinner at Belle Meade, indicating that details would be provided later.

  “Get the gangplank set, Vinson, but make sure this fella’s kept out of sight until I give you the go-ahead. I want you leading him down the plank too. These stallions can be temperamental.”

  Vinson shot him a look. “As we both well know.”

  Sy nodded. “Harding said he wants a production. So we’ll give the man a production.”

  “So he’ll give you what you want.”

  “That’s the plan. But from what little I’ve been able to learn about him, Harding drives a hard bargain. And I’m not the only one wanting this contract. There are sure to be a few more bidders. Plus I’m an outsider, Vinson, being from Colorado. That won’t help me.”