Leaving Waverly: Novella Read online

  The cruelty in his tone tore at Claire’s heart.

  “What happened?” Claire could not stop the question that pressed out of her lips.

  All eyes were on her.

  Including Pa’s.

  “They were shot,” Pa said as if he delivered the latest crop yield estimates. Then he took a swig from his glass.

  Her stomach convulsed. Claire pushed back from the table, one hand on her mouth, one on her stomach, and ran. She didn’t stop until she was next to the stream between Mr. Amos’ and Henry's fields.

  Falling to her knees, she lost her nerve and her stomach by the side of the creek. She shook from the physical upheaval as well as from the turmoil within.

  Grace. Her sweet Grace. Claire never knew—never knew of her fate.

  Mammy—Grace’s mom. And Abraham, her father. How they must have suffered.

  A cry worked its way up and out of Claire’s mouth. She groaned, doubling over. All of these years knowing something had happened to Mammy, indeed that much was clear. How had she never guessed? Never understood the sadness that plagued Abraham? All along they must have known.

  She clung to the ground beneath her hands, digging her nails into the damp grass. The ache, unbearable. Oh to be comforted right now, by Mammy’s sweet voice, Abraham’s tender gaze, Henry's embrace…

  Henry's embrace?

  She sat straighter. Did she truly want for that?

  Yes, so very much.

  Hadn’t he told her she could trust him?

  But how would she find him? She had no idea where he lived. Sinking back down over her lap, she bemoaned her situation. Could she face her father again? But without Henry, where else could she go?

  To the Amos’ home.

  ****

  Henry laid his mother’s prized cornbread on the table as well as a sack of vegetables. It wasn’t much, but it was all his family could spare.

  Mrs. Amos nodded.

  And he understood. She was grateful, but knew not how to say so. Her eyes told a story of a world upturned, a future—uncertain. Her situation screamed of injustice, but what was there to do? What could he, a tenant farmer, offer in terms of aid? The Amos family was not friendless, but there wasn’t much their friends could do for them.

  Henry wished there was. But his hands were tied. So he bobbed his head once more and turned toward the door, near relieved for fresh air.

  He leaned against the side of the house. How could God allow such things to happen? But Henry saw it everywhere. People hurting, dying, suffering. It was no way to live.

  His breath caught.

  And his next breath was short.

  A weight slammed into his chest.

  Would he be able to draw in another breath?

  Stop it!

  Sucking in a long breath, he pushed it out slowly. Then, forcing the next one in just as calmly, he measured its release as well. Over and over, he did this until his breaths came easily.

  His head felt lighter, but his breathing was steady.

  Gazing at the horizon, he spotted a figure in the distance. A woman, dressed in fine clothes with long dark hair pulled up off her shoulders. Could it be Claire?

  Certain it was a daydream, perhaps a symptom of his daze; he shook his head and blinked several times.

  She continued to move along the tree line. Perhaps it was Claire.

  Should he move to intercept her? Or leave her be? Had she came to pay her respects to Mrs. Amos?

  Before he could decide, he found himself walking toward her. His gaze trained on her, he noted the minute she became aware of his presence.

  She halted. Her arms wrapped around her stomach.

  Was something amiss?

  Then her hands covered her face.

  His pace quickened until he stood an arm’s length away. Hands itching to touch her, he fought that urge. It would do no good to frighten her, but his gaze went where his fingers longed. He drank in the sight of her.

  “Claire,” he breathed. Dare he step closer?

  She closed the distance between them, laying her forehead on his chest. “I hardly know where to begin.”

  His hands cupped her upper arms. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll listen when you’re ready.”

  Laying her hands on his chest, she looked up into his eyes. If he had not already fallen under her spell, he would have in that moment. Her eyes were deeper than any pit he had known. And as much as something within her called to him, seeking, there was also an offer, a hope, a promise.

  What was happening?

  “My father. You were right about him.”

  “Has he hurt you?” Henry searched her anew for injuries.

  “Not like that.” Tears brimmed anew. “But in the ways that matter. Here.” She pressed a hand to her heart.

  He ducked his head, biting at his lip, so she wouldn’t see his anger.

  Claire laid a hand on the side of his face.

  Henry raised his head to meet her eyes again.

  “He had my best friend killed.”

  Opening his mouth, Henry then found himself unable to speak.

  Claire sniffled. “Years ago. She was a slave. Killed when she tried to run away. But he never told me. Until today. And he took great pleasure in doing it this evening.” She looked toward the horizon.

  Henry still couldn’t find the words. Hadn’t he fought for her father to retain that very right? Otis died for plantation masters to continue to treat people that way. Otis…

  “Henry? Are you okay?”

  Claire's face loomed in front of his. Her eyes so wide, so trusting. How could he tell her? “I’m sorry. It’s nothing.”

  “You’re certain?” Her brows furrowed.

  He nodded.

  She looked at the ground.

  Had he said something wrong?

  Her eyes flickered to his. “I know that every man of age had to fight in the war to protect the slavery laws.”

  Henry gazed at her for a few moments. How had she guessed? There was a depth, and such sadness in her eyes in that moment.

  An unspoken question hung between them. The questions that every man in the war had to face. Questions about slavery.

  She let out a breath and stared at his chest. “Do you think runaway slaves deserved to be shot?”

  Henry pulled her closer. “How can you ask me that? Of course not.”

  Claire wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  “I was young, forced into the Confederate Army. Just trying to do my best to stay alive. Especially after…” His hold on her slackened. He had almost said too much.

  “After what?” She looked at him.

  Henry pushed a hand through his hair and licked his lips. “I only joined the Confederate Army for two reasons: they were going to draft us anyway, and because my cousin Otis and I signed on together.”

  Looking for Claire to say something yielded nothing. She kept her eyes on his, waiting for him to continue. Neither pushing nor prodding, just giving him the space to share or not. And he was grateful for the room to do so.

  But he wanted to continue. Henry had not talked about Otis in so long. And even then, he’d never truly shared what happened. He just couldn’t.

  “Otis was never serious. Always horsing around. Even when it came to the war. But when it was time for battle…and we were in a tough spot, he…”

  Claire rubbed a hand up and down his arm.

  “A small contingency of Union soldiers found their way into our bunker. I don’t know how. We fought them off. But one of them wouldn’t go down. I remember his bayonet, ready to run me through. And Otis…he…he jumped between the soldier and me. The man stabbed it right into his heart.”

  Closing her eyes, a tear escaped down Claire's face.

  “He was dead before he hit the ground. As was the Union soldier.”

  Henry drew in a ragged breath.

  “But I will never forget Otis’s face as long as I live.”

  Claire hooked a hand behind Henry's neck and dre
w him into her embrace.

  It was sweet, to hold her fully to himself. He could believe, in that moment, that anything was possible between them. That she wasn’t a plantation master’s daughter, or that he wasn’t a simple farmer’s son. But that they were simply Henry and Claire. And that love was all that mattered.

  Because, bless it all, he loved her.

  ****

  A gentle breeze blew over them. It was cool. But it did not chill Claire. Her body was warmed by the safety of the cocoon created by Henry's arms.

  She opened her eyes. The sky had exploded in a myriad of pinks, oranges, and purples. Had they lingered so long?

  Reluctantly, she pulled away.

  His eyes were on hers.

  “If I don’t return to the house, Mammy will worry.”

  Henry nodded. “And your parents.”

  Claire looked off to the horizon. “I don’t know.” She met his eyes again. “Pa would worry, except…” Sighing, she turned her face toward the ground. “I’m not sure of anything with him anymore.”

  “And your mother?” Henry's brows creased.

  Her eyes were on his again, perhaps a bit sharp. He flinched under her gaze. “My mother has never concerned herself with my whereabouts or my well-being. Only my behavior.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  Claire studied Henry's disbelieving features. Was he so innocent? Did his mother not treat him thusly? Perhaps his mother was more like Mammy. “I have few early memories of my mother. Only Mammy. And Grace. My mother kept her distance. I never understood why. I thought…” Emotion welling, she looked down again. “I thought maybe it was me. Maybe I wasn’t good enough.”

  Henry's eyes softened and he opened his mouth.

  But Claire didn’t give him a chance to speak. “So I tried my best to please her. Mammy once told me that Ma’s favorite flowers were lilies. We had a bunch growing near the house. And one day I decided to pick some for her.”

  Henry remained quiet, listening, holding her hands and rubbing the backs of her fingers with his thumbs.

  “Was she ever angry.” Hot tears stung Claire's eyes. Still? After all this time? “I learned that day what a beating felt like.”

  Henry reached for her, but she pressed a hand to his chest, halting him. She had to finish.

  “Mammy told me something that day that I didn’t understand until much later.” Claire’s gaze drifted off toward some point in the distance. “I had an older sister. She died from a strange fever. Ma loved her so very much. Lily. It broke Ma’s heart. Apparently, she just didn’t have it in her to risk loving another child. Those flowers had been planted on Lily’s first birthday.”

  She didn’t bother with the tears flowing down her face as she ended the tale. When she peered into Henry's eyes expecting pity, she found sadness, yes, but something more…something deeper. Something she had only found in Mammy’s eyes.

  Compassion.

  So she let him enfold her once again in his embrace. And let herself hope that perhaps in this man she might find the ability for her heart to heal. God, may it be so.

  Chapter Four

  Caged

  HENRY APPROACHED THE manor house. He could not remember being more nervous. Pausing at the door, he rubbed his sweating palms on his trouser legs.

  Looking to the heavens, he lifted a prayer for strength and wisdom. But was this not the craziest thing he had ever attempted? Including many poorly thought out escapades with Otis?

  Henry tucked the bittersweet memories of Otis aside, and set his eyes on the large, perfect white door, and knocked.

  In the span of minutes it took for the butler to come to the door, Henry lived and died a thousand times. Or so it seemed in his soul. For this was an errand of the heart.

  The graying, slender black man answered the door. What had Claire said his name was? Abraham?

  Henry managed a smile for the man. “Good day, Abraham.”

  There was only a slight upturn of his mouth. Barely perceptible, but there.

  Clearing his throat, Henry straightened his father’s one Sunday jacket. Henry had dressed in his own best trousers and shirt, but he did not have a jacket. Only a coat. And while it was too warm for that, a visit like this called for the best he could manage.

  Still, this butler was dressed better than he.

  “I would like to speak with Mr. Crawford.”

  Abraham’s eyes widened. Again, only slightly. The man seemed to try his best not to betray any emotion. He stared at Henry for a few moments. Was he considering whether to honor his request?

  At length, Abraham stepped back and opened the door wider. “This way, sir.”

  Henry stepped into the house for the first time. The entry was as large as the Amos’ entire house. Everything appeared clean and bright, nearly blinding in its brilliance. Much different than the home in which he was raised with its wooden walls, earthen floors, and humble décor of browns and oranges. This home, however, was full of whites and blues, tiles, marble, and other fine materials.

  “This way.” Abraham’s voice rose as he repeated himself.

  Jerking his head in that direction, Henry realized he had become distracted. He picked up step behind Abraham.

  They moved down a hall and into another large room. Was this the family parlor? Deep burgundy carpet covered the floor and fine curtains caused the light to shimmer as it entered the room. The dark wood of the furniture was offset by burgundy and cream patterned padding.

  Abraham held out an arm toward the room.

  Henry entered, worrying about the traces of dirt on his boots.

  The door shut behind him.

  He whirled around. Had Abraham left him in here? Alone?

  Turning in the space, Henry became less sure what to do with himself. Should he sit? That didn’t seem right. Nor did it seem suitable for him to stand awkwardly at the entrance to the room.

  Would Mr. Crawford come here? If so, he might come in to find Henry standing here gawking at the oversized space that could hold most of the rooms in his father’s house. No, he didn’t want that.

  Stepping farther into the parlor, he moved to the piano. The only piano he had ever seen was the older one at church, never one so grand. It was as big as two dining tables.

  Reaching forth, he touched one of the white keys. Smooth. His finger slid easily across the surface. The black keys shone in the sunlight coming through the nearby window. Laying his hand over the collection of black and white, side by side, he marveled at the instrument. Could he produce harmony from it? Could Claire?

  The door opened.

  He looked up and his hand pressed down. The piano betrayed his snooping with a loud sound.

  Mr. Crawford’s gaze landed on Henry. A frown betrayed the man’s displeasure.

  Henry withdrew his hand and stood straight, muttering an apology.

  Crawford waved it off. Was he already bored with the interruption in his day? This did not bode well for Henry. The older man strode into the room and toward a chair near the window. Then he sat and looked at Henry.

  “What can I do for you? Your tenancy has only just begun. What situation could possibly have arisen that requires my attention?” Mr. Crawford pinned Henry with steel eyes.

  Henry licked his lips. “There are no problems with the tenancy.” Coming around the piano, he then stood several feet away from Claire’s father.

  Crawford’s brows furrowed. “Then what can I help you with?”

  Henry played with the fabric at the corner of the jacket opening. Then forced his hands to still and fall at his sides. He could do this.

  Taking in a deep breath, he pushed it out and said what he came to. “Mr. Crawford, I know I am of little means. And I am not what you probably envisioned for your daughter. But I will do everything I can to take care of her and provide for her. I would like to ask permission to court your daughter, sir.”

  “With the intention of marriage?”

  Henry nodded, leg working a nervous
pump.

  Crawford’s features twisted into something Henry had a difficult time distinguishing. He stood. “You? What could you possibly offer my daughter in the way of comfort? Stability?”

  “I can offer her love.”

  The man scoffed at that, walking toward the window. “Love. What does anyone have need of love?

  Henry opened his mouth, but was cut off by a wave of Crawford’s hand as he turned his back to Henry.

  “Now be gone. I’ve had enough of this headache for today.”

  What could Henry say? What could he do? He wanted to plead with the man, to speak his peace. But there were no words that could be used to convince such a man.

  Looking at Crawford’s back, he nodded, though the man couldn’t see it. “Sorry for the disturbance.”

  Crawford remained stoic, eyes trained out the window.

  Henry spun and made his way out of the parlor, down the hall, and was quickly out of the mansion altogether. How could he ever think such a thing was possible?

  ****

  Claire leaned over her okra. They would be wonderful in a stew. And it was almost time to pick them. Any day now.

  The front door slammed. She heard it from her garden. Who had left the house in such a huff? Looking up from her plants, she searched to the right and left side of the house, watching for whomever it was to come into view.

  She shrugged.

  Perhaps they had gone toward the main road. Turning back to her work, she moved to the patch beyond the vines. It would be time for the strawberries soon. Claire could hardly wait. Strawberry pie!

  Standing, she stepped to the edge of the garden. Movement to the left caught her eye. A figure walked with hurried steps in the direction of the creek.

  Was that? Henry?

  Narrowing her eyes to focus her vision, she tried to take in more details. It had to be him!

  Had he come to see her? Did her father send him away? Was that why the door slammed? Lifting the hem of her skirt, she took off after him.

  Holding her hat to keep it on her head, she moved as quickly as her skirt would allow, but his longer legs carried him farther away faster.

  “Henry!”

  The wind blew in her direction, muffling her words. What drove him to retreat at such a pace? Would he never pause to catch his breath? She needed to.