The Quaker and the Rebel Read online

  It took Emily a moment to recognize his ridicule. But when she did, she responded with her usual lack of poise. With flaming cheeks she clenched her fists and spoke through gritted teeth. “My culinary abilities are none of thy concern, I assure thee. Good day!” Picking up her skirt, she flounced past him…or at least she tried to. Precisely at the same moment, he stepped into her path. She bumped soundly into his bare chest. Emily hissed like a feral cat and maneuvered to the left.

  But the horrid man moved in her way again. “I do beg your pardon.”

  When she lifted her gaze, they were mere inches apart. Her skirt blew against the leg of his trousers. She staggered and lost her balance on the flagstones.

  He reached out to steady her, his fingers spanning her waist. With an exaggerated inhalation, he breathed in her soap’s lingering scent. “My, you smell good. Not like any cook we’ve ever had. They always stink like onions and garlic.” He sniffed her hair in a noisy fashion. “You smell like honey and lemon balm,” he declared with obvious satisfaction.

  This was too much. Emily jumped back from him. “Sir, I must insist you stop sniffing me like a dog. It is most inappropriate!” She smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt with both hands. “I’m not a cook. I am the governess your…aunt…sent for. I’m Miss Emily Harrison from Marietta.” She wiped her palm on her skirt before extending her hand.

  He stared for a moment. Then he grasped her hand tightly, drew it to his mouth, and placed a kiss on the freckled skin of her knuckles. “What a pleasant surprise. I am charmed to meet you, Miss Harrison.”

  Aghast, Emily yanked her hand back. “That is most inappropriate, sir, without my gloves on!”

  “I was just wondering where your afternoon gloves were.”

  “I doubt that’s what you were wondering. If you would please excuse me.” Emily stepped to his left even as he mirrored her action.

  “I beg your pardon. We seem to be at cross purposes.” He retreated an inch.

  Folding her arms over her chest, Emily stared him squarely in the eye. At Miss Turner’s School for Ladies, she had practiced this look in the mirror to use on unruly pupils. “I must insist that you stand still so I may pass.” She enunciated each word, leaving no question as to her displeasure.

  He remained ramrod straight with his arms tightly at his sides. “Certainly, but I wish to properly introduce myself so that our first, memorable encounter won’t leave you with the sole impression of impropriety.” He bowed deeply, his long hair falling across his brow. “I am Alexander Wesley Hunt, of Hunt Farms.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Bobbing her head, Emily sprinted by him while she had the chance.

  “Of Warren County. It’s outside of Front Royal.” His voice rose with intensity. “We live east of the Shenandoah Mountains. Perhaps you’ve heard of our farm?”

  Emily hurried up the path, not pausing until she reached the safety of the portico. Then she glanced over her shoulder.

  He stood where she’d left him, rocking on his heels in a fit of uncontrolled laughter. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Please don’t rush into an impetuous marriage until I’ve had an opportunity to redeem myself.”

  Seething with fury, Emily marched into the house and climbed the servants’ staircase. This cocky man was the bookworm nephew Mrs. Bennington had spoken about? He certainly didn’t look serious and studious. He was the most obnoxious person in the world! Now she could add him to the growing list of people she had offended since arriving on the island. Why the impertinent, half-dressed man had managed to rile her, she couldn’t say. But she paced her room long into the evening, recalling his taunts and thinking of the retorts she wished she’d uttered. Why would a nephew bathe in the river, yet act as though he owned the place? And why was she unable to get him out of her head?

  That night she stood on her balcony and watched the calm flat water of the Ohio River. Occasionally a laden flatboat riding low in the current broke the smooth surface on its way south. Nightjars and whippoorwills called to her from swamp willows on the riverbank. Their sorrowful cries deepened her near-consuming melancholia. Exhausted, she crawled into bed and snuggled under the covers without any supper, either with the Benningtons or their daughters. After the day’s events, she found she had little appetite. “I’ll make you proud, Mama,” she whispered in the darkness. She fell asleep as soon as her head hit the goose down pillow.

  I’ll make you proud.

  Emily awoke to sunlight streaming into the bedroom, a fragrant breeze stirring the lace curtains, and a thump at the door. Throwing her wrapper over her nightgown, Emily padded across the thick carpet. A growl in her stomach reminded her that she’d skipped dinner. Smelling food through the closed door, she answered the knock with gratitude.

  Alexander Hunt held a steaming breakfast tray in outstretched hands. “Good morning, Miss Harrison. I trust you slept well.” He moved the tray closer for her inspection. “Here is your breakfast. You must be famished this morning. Matilde said she cooked this food herself, and that you should eat every bite of it.”

  “Good morning.” Emily didn’t move. She looked from the tray to him and then back to the tray.

  “May I come in?” He nudged the door open with his foot. “Perhaps I can set this on your balcony and share a cup of coffee with you? We have another gorgeous morning.”

  “You may certainly not, sir,” Emily belatedly recovered her wits. “I am not dressed.” She folded her wrapper about herself more securely and knotted the belt. Foolishly, she had answered the door as though she still lived on the farm with her parents. His furtive glances from her neck to her toes reminded her otherwise.

  “Please express my appreciation to Miss Matilde. And thank you, Mr. Hunt, for delivering my breakfast.” She took the tray and tried shutting the door with her knee, but his boot was too quick.

  “I remembered your Quaker convictions. Because I knew you wouldn’t eat food unless carried by free hands, I volunteered for the task.” Folding his arms across his waistcoat, he rested against the doorjamb. “And I can assure you, I am no man’s slave…or any woman’s, either. At least not yet.”

  Emily stared at him in disbelief. “Were you sent by the devil specifically to needle me, Mr. Hunt?” She glanced down the hallway, not wishing the Benningtons to overhear the question.

  Straightening, he leaned toward her without a shred of decorum. A lock of hair fell across his temple. “No. The devil sent me initially…to buy horses.” He winked and ambled down the passage with his thumbs hooked in his pockets.

  She glared at his back until the smell of the food roused her senses. Inhaling the aroma of coffee and fried ham, she almost inhaled everything on the plate: hotcakes, thinly sliced ham, a poached egg, strawberries in cream, and a pot of strong coffee. She devoured every morsel at her balcony table. Thank goodness the cook turned out to be a paid employee because Emily didn’t know when she had eaten a meal so delicious. The way her garments hung from her shoulders, she was slowly starving to death from her own cuisine.

  Once revitalized and dressed for the day, Emily slipped down the staircase and out the front door, thankfully unobserved by anyone. Tulip poplars and giant black walnut trees shaded the expansive lawn. Standing on the flagstone terrace, she surveyed the mansion that would be her home for at least the next several months. The main building was a three-storied Georgian with painted wood shingles and brick chimneys at both ends. A large Palladian window crowned the front door, and an open belvedere topped the third floor like a huge cupola. A covered portico connected two separate wings to the house—the right housed the kitchen and pantries, but the left was locked and shuttered. Everything was balanced, symmetrical, and tidy, from the matching pillars to the identical chimneys in each wing. She stepped back to crane her neck skyward.

  “Miss Harrison?” A voice startled Emily almost out of her shoes.

  She turned to see a copper-skinned woman of about sixteen, fashionably and expensively dressed, approaching from the
flower garden. “Yes?”

  “I am Lila, Miss Margaret and Miss Anne’s maid. You met my parents yesterday, Matilde and Joshua.” Her expression betrayed nothing. “If you’ll follow me, the girls are eager to make your acquaintance.” Her speech was clear, articulate, and cultured. Her accent contained a Southern inflection, perhaps New Orleans, and not at all what Emily expected in Virginia.

  “Pleased to meet you.” Hurrying to keep up, Emily followed the young maid to the location of her initial interview. Two tow-headed young ladies stood as she entered the sunny room. The taller of the two extended her hand.

  “Miss Harrison? I am Margaret. This is Anne. And I see you’ve met Lila,” she said politely. She dipped the tiniest of curtseys. “We’re so glad you’ve come to be our teacher.” Her smile seemed genuine, and Emily warmed to her immediately.

  “Yes, we hated that sour old Mr. Tate,” said the younger sister.

  “I believe what my sister is trying to say is that we had outgrown his curriculum—”

  “Yes, that and he smelled badly,” Anne interjected as she clasped her hands behind her back.

  “Smelled bad,” Emily corrected.

  “Oh, did you know him too?”

  “No, I’ve never met him, but smelled badly indicates something was amiss with his nose,” said Emily as Margaret attempted to stifle a smile.

  “Something was amiss with his nose, Miss Harrison,” Anne agreed. “It was red and bulbous. Once I heard Mama say to Papa it’s because he’s too fond of bourbon.” At this, Margaret erupted into laughter. Emily heard Lila snicker too.

  “Yes. Well, let’s forget about Mr. Tate for the moment. Please show me the books he used with you two in your lessons.”

  “With us three,” Margaret corrected. “Lila studies with us.”

  “Will you mind if I sit in?” the young woman asked, meeting the governess’s eye.

  “Mind? Goodness, no. I’m pleased, as a matter of fact.” Emily stopped rambling before she said something regrettable, as she had with the girls’ mother. “All right, let’s be seated and take a look at your books.”

  The morning passed pleasantly as Emily gauged their proficiencies. The girls had solid foundations in English grammar, diction, and penmanship. Margaret and Lila could get by with spoken French but couldn’t read or write it very well. Anne had progressed little beyond merci and s’il vous plaît. She would also require a remedial level of mathematics, whereas the other two were ready for algebra and geometry. All three needed a broader base in literature, and science seemed to have been completely neglected by the imbibing Mr. Tate.

  After two hours, Emily stood and announced, “Tomorrow afternoon we’ll start a science unit on the edible versus poisonous plants indigenous to this area.”

  They had been reading from a stack of Godey’s Lady’s Books and looked up with quizzical expressions. “I beg your pardon?” said Margaret.

  “You should know which plants are safe to pick when you are in the forest and which things you should never put in your mouth,” explained Emily, attempting to stimulate interest in her topic.

  “But Matilde usually packs a hamper of refreshments whenever we spend an afternoon on the levee or by the lake.” Margaret’s tone indicated bafflement in studying such matters.

  “Yes, but what if you became lost or stranded in the mountains?” Emily’s question hung in the air as three sets of eyes grew round as saucers. Then Lila giggled behind an upraised palm. “Never mind,” Emily said, holding up her hands in dismissal. “We’ll stop for the day. I’ll take the rest of the afternoon to plan my curriculum and course of study.”

  “Good afternoon.” Anne bobbed her head and flew out the door.

  Margaret approached the oak writing table where Emily sat. “Good afternoon, Miss Harrison.” With a demure tentativeness, she placed her hand atop Emily’s. “I’m so glad you’ve come to our island. I do hope you’ll be happy here.” After a flash of brilliant white teeth, she too was gone, taking several periodicals with her.

  Only Lila remained, silently appraising her. “I’ll bring you a lunch tray, miss, and if you like, I can show you around the island later.”

  “Thank you, Lila. I’d like a sandwich and would very much enjoy a tour.” Emily wondered more about her impression on the maid than on the Bennington sisters. Lila had watched her all morning as though waiting for something dangerous to happen. Her mother had probably repeated the story of Emily’s cooking attempt that almost burned down the kitchen. “I do hope we can be friends,” she added.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Lila said before vanishing through the door without a backward glance.

  Hours later the promised tour revealed much to Emily. Bennington Plantation wasn’t really a plantation at all, but more of an elegant subsistence farm. There were apple and peach orchards, fields sown in corn and oats, and a substantial garden behind the kitchen. But no crop appeared large enough to supply more than necessary for man and beast in residence.

  Lila stopped the open carriage near the gate to a grassy paddock. Sleek, beautiful horses grazed and frolicked with several new colts. As soon as the girl set the brake, Emily jumped down and ran with her skirt and petticoats clutched in her fist. She loved to run despite her mother’s insistence on ladylike behavior at all times. After all, only Lila would witness and she quickly caught up and beat Emily to the fence. Breathless, they climbed up to the top rail for a better view.

  “Those are some beautiful horses, Lila. Are they Thoroughbreds?”

  “Yes, ma’am, they are. Dr. Bennington’s pride and joy.”

  “Does he race them? I bet they’re very fast. I do wish Matthew—he’s my intended—could see them. He’s particularly fond of horseflesh.” Emily couldn’t contain her giddiness.

  “No, ma’am, there’s no place on the island to race. Dr. Bennington breeds horses and shows them off to his friends. But he grows so attached, he seldom sells a foal.”

  “I would get attached too. And don’t call me ‘ma’am’ when it’s just you and me. Please call me Emily.”

  Lila shook her head. “That would not be right, Miss Harrison. I won’t do it.”

  “Fine. As long as you address me as ‘Miss Harrison,’ I shall address you as ‘Miss Amite.’ ”

  Lila looked both confused and suspicious as they walked back to the carriage. “You may call me whatever you prefer.”

  Emily inhaled deeply. “Ah, the smell of timothy grass. We grew it in our best pasture. Only honeysuckle is sweeter.” Emily climbed into the buggy and took up the reins. After a cluck of her tongue, the horse broke into a brisk trot down the shady lane.

  “You can drive a carriage?” Lila gripped the seat with both hands.

  “Of course I can. I didn’t grow up on a plantation like this. I lived on a small hardscrabble farm where I learned to do most everything.” Which wasn’t exactly true, considering her cooking abilities. Emily pointed at a low, whitewashed building bustling with activity. “What goes on in there?”

  “That’s our dairy,” Lila said proudly. “We have four hundred head of Jersey cows on the island. We make our own butter and cheese to sell in town, along with any milk we don’t need.”

  “Dr. Bennington has time to run a dairy besides his medical practice?”

  “No, the workers run it and take the cheese to Parkersburg on market day. They split the profits down the middle with Dr. Bennington.”

  Emily’s mouth dropped open. “Are those men slaves?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Lila reached up to pluck low-hanging leaves overhead.

  “He lets them keep the money they earn from his milk?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Lila looked at her from the corner of her eye.

  “What do they do with it?” Emily’s questions were starting to sound inane even to her.

  “They buy their freedom once they’ve saved enough. That’s what my two brothers did last year.” Lila looked at Emily with pride.

  “Do they still work here?” Emily pul
led on the reins to slow the carriage.

  “No’m. They both moved to Cleveland to work on the ore boats. They don’t much like being sailors, from what we could figure out from their letters. My brothers don’t read or write well, like I do. There’s another business on the island too. Dr. Bennington makes whiskey from the five-hundred acres of corn grown here. He takes the whiskey down to Cincinnati to sell twice a year. He keeps all that money, though. He says it’s for the lean times when people can’t afford to pay their doctor bills. Mama says Mrs. Bennington doesn’t know anything about the whiskey, she being a former Quaker and all. Quakers don’t look kindly on spirits.”

  “I’m well aware of that, being a Quaker myself.” Emily brought the carriage to a halt. “Hard liquor is produced on this island?”

  Lila drew in a sharp breath and pursed her lips. “Have I erred in telling you this, Miss Harrison? Mama will skin me alive if the secret gets back to Mrs. Bennington.” She looked uneasy. “You did say you wanted to be friends and all,” she added for good measure.

  Emily swallowed down her revulsion over a distillery in close proximity. “Your confidences are safe, Miss Amite. Have no fear. How the Benningtons run their personal lives is of no concern to me. I’m an employee here, nothing more, the same as you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Lila relaxed against the seat again.

  “Did you purchase your freedom, Miss Amite?”

  “My father did, a long time ago. I don’t much remember.” Lila sat up and reached for the reins, which Emily handed over to her. “We’d best get back to the house. You might want to rest before dinner.”

  “Very well. You’ve answered enough questions for one day.” Truth was, the island wasn’t what Emily had expected or the residents quite the demons her mother had described slaveholders to be. But appearances can be deceiving, she reminded herself.

  “Will you be eating in the kitchen with the young ladies or dining with the Benningtons?” Lila’s bright eyes revealed an unspoken third possibility.