To Wager Her Heart Page 9

  Her father rose so quickly his leather chair slammed into the cherry wood credenza behind him. Her mother jumped, her eyes going wide.

  “So this is your carefully thought-out decision, Alexandra?” Restrained anger sharpened her father’s tone. “You have the opportunity to wed a man who will take care of you, who will give you a home and children. Who will provide for you so you need never want. And yet after . . . reexamining what’s most important in life, you decide to throw all that away.” His voice rose. “And for what? To teach. Where, Alexandra? Where will you teach? You have no furtherance of education. At best, you can tutor children. It is a noble task at heart, but not one suitable for a woman of your station and privilege in life.”

  “But it could be, Father.” Alexandra worked to keep her voice soft. “It could be, if I could teach at a school where I’m helping to shape lives for the better, to open new futures. Where I’m a part of something larger than myself. Something that will live beyond me.”

  He exhaled. “I’ll tell you what will live beyond you, Alexandra. Children! And a heritage. That’s what—”

  A knock sounded at the door.

  Already standing, her father crossed the room and opened it. “Yes, Melba, what is it?”

  “A letter arrived, Mr. Jamison. For Miss Alexandra.”

  Heart catapulting to her throat, Alexandra rose to intercept it, but her father took the letter and closed the door. He studied the front of the envelope, then slowly looked up at her, and she was certain she felt the floor shift beneath her feet. Either that or the too-tight corset was getting the best of her.

  “‘Miss Alexandra Jamison,’” he read slowly. “But it was sent to Belle Meade.”

  She held out her hand. “Father, please. May I have the letter?”

  He walked back to his desk and retrieved the antique letter opener that had belonged to his grandfather, and slit the envelope down the side in one swift motion.

  Alexandra drew in a breath, all but feeling the cut, just as she felt the chasm widening between them. “I interviewed at Fisk University this week. For a teaching position in which I’ll be instructing new students in their primary education. I haven’t been officially awarded the position yet. I’m still waiting for word.” Her gaze fell to the letter.

  The disbelief in her father’s expression was outdone only by that in her mother’s.

  “It’s a salaried position,” Alexandra continued, her stomach a tangle of nerves. “Though it doesn’t pay much at present, because the school’s finances are tenuous. Mr. White, the treasurer and the gentleman with whom I interviewed—”

  “Mr. White?” A hint of derision edged her father’s tone.

  She ignored it. “Yes, Mr. White is his name. He’s a teacher with the American Missionary Association. He said he doesn’t think there’s currently room enough in the teachers’ barracks for me to live there on campus with everyone else—”

  Her mother gave a small gasp.

  “—but he’s hopeful something will work out very soon.”

  Anger simmered in her father’s features as he unfolded the letter. His gaze moved over the page with a patience that belied the crimson creeping up his neck. Finally he looked up.

  “You’re telling me that my daughter, a woman born to one of the most privileged and esteemed families in Nashville, is to teach at a freedmen’s school?” His voice escalated, and her mother let out a sob.

  “Barrett, please. Don’t get upset.”

  He dropped the letter on the desk and turned toward the window. “I told your mother years ago that you were far too independent-minded. Too lacking in respect both for tradition and . . . it would seem . . . for your parents.”

  “Father, that’s not true.” Alexandra stepped closer. “I do respect you. Both of you. And I love you dearly. But this is something in which I believe strongly. When David came into my life, he showed me an entirely different way of—”

  Her father held up a hand, his attention still focused out the window. “No more of this, Alexandra. David Thompson indulged you in this regard, I know. I did not approve of it then, and I do not now. I believe he did so foolishly and to your detriment. And perhaps to your mother’s and my detriment as well, as I fear we soon shall see.”

  The silence in the room thickened as the grandfather clock ticked off the seconds, and Alexandra looked at the letter again, wishing she knew its contents. But from what her father had said, she gathered she at least had the job.

  Her father turned to face her, his demeanor surprisingly calm. “Are you certain this is what you want to do, Alexandra?”

  She searched his face, and her heart. “Yes, sir. I am.”

  “Very well, then. Every choice comes at a cost, and yours is no exception.” He walked to the office door and opened it. “Alexandra, if you choose to teach at Fisk University, then you choose to leave your home—and your mother and me—behind.”

  “Barrett, no!” Her mother rushed to his side. “Don’t do this. Please. Not now. Now with all that’s—”

  He silenced her with a look, then faced Alexandra again.

  “Father,” she whispered, looking between them. “It doesn’t have to be this way. I don’t want it to be this way.”

  “And if you choose not to teach at Fisk University, you will marry Mr. Buford at the earliest possible opportunity. Up until which time, you may live here with us. But beyond that, this house will cease to be your home. Along with everything in it.”

  Alexandra stared, the words harder to hear from him than she’d imagined. “I understand. I have my trunk and satchel packed upstairs.”

  “And they will remain in this house. As I said, Alexandra . . . you will take nothing with you.”

  “But, Father, those things belong to me. I need my clothes, my books, what money I’ve saved to—”

  “I’ve made my decision, Alexandra. And now you must make yours.”

  He turned and strode into the foyer, her mother trailing. Alexandra quickly grabbed the letter from the desk and followed, starting to object a second time, thinking of everything she’d packed—David’s books and papers, his photograph, so many tangible memories. Items she would need. Then she saw the anguish in her mother’s expression, and in Melba’s, who stood silent in the doorway of the kitchen, and she remembered what Mr. White had said about the sacrifices she would be called to make, and about the challenges she would face.

  Only she hadn’t expected this particular one.

  Once again she wished that David were still here. Perhaps he would have known what to say to ease the moment. Then again, sometimes there simply were no words to bridge the gap or heal the wound. And struggling to find them only made the injury worse.

  She hugged her mother tight, then walked to the front door and opened it. A hot summer wind hit her in the face. As she took the front steps to the brick walkway, her gaze dropped to the pots of daisies accenting each rise.

  But the pretty little flowers of summer had already wilted in the heat of day.

  Chapter

  EIGHT

  Dust and dirt swirled around the hem of her skirt as Alexandra strode down the endless stretch of unpaved road leading to Belle Meade Plantation. An almost-six-mile walk from town. Sweat caused her chemise to cling to her front and back, and she licked her dry lips, wondering if she’d ever been so thirsty. And her corset! She could scarcely breathe.

  She’d given herself ten minutes to cry. Which had turned into thirty. But that was all she would allow.

  She wiped the last remnants of tears from her cheeks and focused on thinking of situations far worse than her own—an exercise Melba had taught her growing up.

  But it still didn’t lessen the pain of her father’s ultimatum, or the manner under which she’d left home.

  With her jacket slung over her arm, she spotted a rare bit of shade ahead and decided to rest. The large rock beneath the ancient poplar bid welcome and she sank down, almost as hungry as she was thirsty. She reached for the p
ocket watch pinned to her shirtwaist. Then remembered . . . She hadn’t taken the time to pin it on that morning.

  She blew out a breath. Something else she’d left behind.

  She took inventory of herself—her dress covered in dust, her boots layered in dirt, strands of hair slipping from the pins, every inch of her dewy with perspiration. But that was only on the outside. Her real weariness lay within.

  Fresh emotion threatened, but she stuffed it back down again, mindful of having exhausted her allotment of self-pity. She had much to be grateful for. She had a place to live at Fisk come Monday, and a friend in Mary Harding to turn to until then.

  In his letter Mr. White had indeed confirmed her teaching position, for which she was grateful. Yet the other bit of news he’d shared took a chunk of her courage with it.

  She withdrew the crinkled stationery from her pocket and attempted to smooth it again. He confirmed that the teaching position paid ninety cents a week, which she was especially glad for. The point of remuneration was far more critical now than it had been only a day ago.

  As she scanned the lines, she could hear Mr. White’s distinctive New York accent.

  Dear Miss Jamison,

  It is with utmost pleasure I write to inform you that the board sincerely welcomes you to the faculty at Fisk. As we discussed, we had no instructor for an incoming class of students beginning Tuesday next, so your joining the faculty is well timed. Your talent and knowledge will make it possible for thirty-five precious souls to not only learn their subjects but to grow closer to their Savior.

  Alexandra sighed and stared across acre after rolling acre of Harding land. Thirty-five students! And this Tuesday! Only four days hence. How did she begin to prepare for that many? And without her books and teaching materials?

  The largest group of children she’d tutored was six brothers and sisters, and all but two of them had already known how to read, write, and work their numbers. How would she handle thirty-five unschooled students in one classroom? How would she keep them all still in their seats?

  In regard to your living in the teachers’ barracks, I believe I have found a solution. A teacher here at Fisk University and my assistant, Miss Ella Sheppard, occupies her own room and has offered to share her quarters with you. All accommodations at Fisk are meager, to be certain. But I hold that you and Miss Sheppard will get along splendidly. You will need to provide your own mattress and bedding, as is customary for our teachers. My apologies, but we do not have the funds to purchase such.

  Thank you again, Miss Jamison, for your kind heart and . . .

  She scanned the remainder of the letter, the words—and her head—growing a bit hazy in the heat. Where was she going to secure the funds to purchase a mattress and bedding? Much less clothing? Necessities?

  She would take all of her meals at Fisk University, so that was something. But still . . .

  What did a woman do when she suddenly lost everything? Her home. Her means of support. Especially if she had no one to turn to?

  The thoughts were sobering.

  How many thousands of women in this city alone had gone through exactly what she was dealing with now? But with no other choices at hand, no friends. No Mary Hardings to come to their aid.

  Alexandra glanced both ways down the road, then unbuttoned the top three buttons of her shirtwaist and fanned herself with the letter. She’d worn more comfortable boots today, but her ankles were still a little sore from negotiating the pebbled terrain in heels.

  She loosened the laces on each boot and slid her stockinged feet out, feeling instant relief. She recalled Mary stating General Harding’s desire to layer this road with macadam and—based on the dirt clinging to the hem of her skirt—she wholeheartedly approved that proposal.

  Thirsty and hungry, she knew that resting here wouldn’t get her to Mary’s any faster, but the heat was proving more difficult to abide than usual. She hadn’t forgotten that General Harding was hosting his formal dinner tonight for the men bidding on his railway. But it was still early enough for her to get there before his guests began to arrive.

  She lay back on the rock, wishing for even the softest breeze. Dappled sunlight penetrated the canopy overhead, and she closed her eyes.

  Until the clomp of horse hooves brought her head up with a start.

  The rider coming toward her at a good clip swam in her vision, his white mount eating up the distance at a pace that sparked her jealousy. She sat up and blinked repeatedly in an attempt to focus. The features of the man’s face were shielded by his hat, but his dark duster—

  No. It couldn’t be.

  She squinted, then swiftly looked for a place to hide. But other than behind the tree—or up in its branches—there wasn’t one. And judging by the animal’s slowing gait, she gathered Sylas Rutledge had already seen her.

  Realizing her shirtwaist was still unfastened at the top, Alexandra turned and hastily secured the buttons again, then did her best to shove strands of hair back into place. All while thinking again of his bold insistence of his father’s innocence. It set her teeth on edge even as renewed animosity began to build inside her.

  “Miss Jamison!”

  She turned back as he reined in. He’d shaved since yesterday, she noticed. No more stubbled jawline. An attempt, she assumed, to impress General Harding, and to appear more like a Southern gentleman. She could have told him it was going to take more than a shave to accomplish that.

  “Good day, ma’am.” He tugged at the brim of his hat. “What brings you all the way out here?”

  “Mr. Rutledge.” She did her best to appear confident beneath his wary gaze. “I’m on my way to see Miss Harding at Belle Meade.”

  He looked around. “Afoot? And without benefit of an escort?”

  She trailed his gaze, then leveled hers. “As you can clearly see.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t know Southern women had it in them.”

  Her resentment ticked up a notch. “I enjoy walking, Mr. Rutledge. I find it invigorating. And I am a grown woman. Not some . . . debutante in her first season.” As soon as she said it, she regretted it. Because it made her sound older than she was. “I believe I’ve earned the right to walk from town to Belle Meade on my own, if I so desire.”

  He leaned forward in the saddle. “I couldn’t agree more, Miss Jamison. Still, it’d be my pleasure to offer you a ride.”

  “I prefer to walk, Mr. Rutledge. But thank you.”

  He proceeded to dismount.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just stretching my legs a little.” He looped the reins around a low-hanging limb. “As you said, it’s a ways out here.”

  She eyed him as he removed a flask from the inner pocket of his coat, uncorked the bottle, and took a short swig. Her throat constricted. She licked her dry lips.

  “Mmmm . . .” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared out across the countryside. “Beautiful land.” He glanced over at her. “You want some?” He held out the flask.

  “No.” She swallowed, pride answering. “I do not.”

  “It’s awfully hot out here.”

  She shook her head again. “I’m fine.” Her throat felt like parchment.

  “How many acres does Harding have?”

  “General Harding owns close to six thousand acres, Mr. Rutledge. He’s one of the wealthiest men in the South. But I would think you would know that since you’re striving to do business with him.”

  He smiled. “‘Know your enemy,’ huh?”

  “I didn’t say General Harding was your enemy. But yes, it is wise to know one’s opponent as well.”

  “Or business colleague.”

  He took another swig, and her throat all but closed for the wanting of whatever was in that bottle.

  “Sure you won’t have any?” he offered again.

  She looked at the bottle, then back at him. And finally nodded.

  He handed it to her and—grateful he looked back toward the hills to the west�
�she thoroughly wiped off the mouth of the flask, then drank. Only a tiny sip at first, to make sure it wasn’t liquor. But when the delicious wetness touched her tongue, she tipped the bottle full tilt and drank. The water was sweet and satisfying, and she drank the bottle dry.

  “Whoa there!” He covered her hand on the flask and gently urged the bottle from her mouth. “Let’s slow down there a—” He turned the bottle upside down. “You drank it all?”

  “I’m sorry. I was thirsty.” She licked her lips, feeling only mildly guilty, considering who it was.

  He smiled. “Yes, I guess you were.”

  “But I thank you, Mr. Rutledge. It was very . . . satisfying.”

  “That’s one word for it.” He slipped the bottle back into his coat pocket. “You sure I can’t offer you a ride? Thunder here is awfully gentle.”

  The horse pawed the ground and snorted, and the timing of Mr. Rutledge’s comment with the animal’s movement struck her as comical. She smiled, feeling somewhat more refreshed. If not also a bit . . . heady.

  “As I said, Mr. Rutledge, I enjoy walking. I find it—” What was the word? It was right there, on the tip of her tongue.

  “Invigorating?” he offered.

  “Yes! Precisely.” She started to stand, then remembered her feet were still relieved of her boots. She reached down to slip them back on when the road did a funny little swirl. She blinked and grabbed hold of the rock.

  At the same time, Mr. Rutledge caught hold of her upper arm.

  “You all right, ma’am?”

  Alexandra nodded, then immediately regretted the decision when the road’s little swirl turned to a sway. Her breath came short and she braced herself on the rock, wishing again that she could loosen the laces of her blasted corset.

  “I think, Mr. Rutledge, that perhaps I will accept your offer of a ride. It’s quite warm out, and . . . I believe the heat has taken a greater toll on me than I realized.”