The Quaker and the Rebel Read online

  “No, thank you. I don’t care for spirits. And you shouldn’t lower your practically nonexistent inhibitions.”

  He laughed and took a long draught. “Don’t worry your pretty head. This is only sassafras tea. Your virtue is safe for the remainder of the afternoon.” Leaning back against a tree trunk, he ate a rolled slice of cheese and ham, the kisses they had shared apparently forgotten.

  Emily wasn’t so fortunate. The piece of cheese she sampled stuck in her dry throat. “May I have that, please?” She took the flask and drank half its contents to wash the cheese down. After that, she limited herself to the egg and grapes because gagging wouldn’t be appropriate after a kiss. Her first since Matthew’s death. Alexander’s kisses was nothing like the few clumsy, embarrassing kisses she’d shared with Matthew during their brief courtship. Surprisingly, she felt not guilt or remorse. After all, this was business.

  She sipped more tea and cleared her throat. “Thank you for lunch. I’m glad you decided to share with me.”

  “You’re quite welcome.” He leaned back on one elbow. “Tell me how you learned to ride like that. Your seat is superior to any woman I know.”

  Emily considered her answer. “My father taught me. He hand raised a mare from birth so she would be gentle, and then he gave her to me on my fifth birthday. I rode bareback until my father could afford a used saddle—astride, of course, not sidesaddle. Girls weren’t sissies where I grew up. Eventually, I could beat almost everyone in town in races—boys included, I might add.”

  “Astounding. I can picture you racing across the meadows with your pigtails flying.”

  “Yes, well, those days are gone. We all grow up and must put childhood behind us.” Emily rose to her feet. “Shall we continue our tour of your estate, sir? At a slower pace, if you don’t mind.”

  Amazement registered on his face. “Of course, but I’m surprised you still wish to be in my company after my unwanted advances.” He swept the remains of their lunch back into the sack. His tone was exasperatingly hard to decipher.

  “Should I have slapped your face with indignation? Is that the feminine behavior you anticipated?” Emily hid her trembling hands behind her back on the way to Miss Kitty.

  “I can’t seem to anticipate a single thing around you.” He steadied her arm as she mounted.

  “It was just a kiss, Mr. Hunt. Not my first and certainly not my last. But I will ask you to refrain from future bold gestures until certain that the affection is mutual.” She tugged her reins free and cantered off, trying to ignore the effect his touch had on her.

  For the remaining afternoon they rode at a leisurely pace. He pointed out pasturelands that contained more fine horseflesh than Emily had ever seen in her life. In addition to the Thoroughbred bloodline, Hunt Farms owned Arabians, Standardbreds, and Narragansett pacers, besides the requisite draft horses and Tennessee walkers for farming. Fields of hay, oats, and sweetgrass covered the hills and valleys for as far as the eye could see. Behind the mansion he presented a kitchen garden that took her breath away. Every vegetable Emily knew and many she’d never heard of grew in tidy rows, surrounded by mesh fencing to keep out rabbits. There wasn’t a weed or a mealy bug to be found. Around the other side of the house she discovered an expansive flower garden.

  “I’d wondered where all the lovely flowers came from. I don’t think I’ve been in a room yet without at least one fragrant bouquet.” She stood up in the stirrups to view hundreds of roses, giant dahlias, daisies, and arbors filled with climbing vines. “My, Mr. Hunt. One can do wonders on a plantation with a huge slave labor force,” she said spitefully, remembering her own spindly, weed-choked attempt at horticulture.

  Alexander stared at her. His magnetic gray eyes had turned icy. “I’m sure that’s how it appears, Miss Harrison.” He spoke in a bitter voice. “But half our workers are free and remain here by their own choice.”

  “Why only half? Why not grant freedom to the rest?” Emily shifted on the uncomfortable sidesaddle.

  “My mother and I wish it were that simple.” He focused on the Shenandoah Mountains in the distance. “My father inherited everything you see from his father and so on, back to an original land grant from King Charles. My father has the Hunt family honor to uphold, as well as the responsibilities of the estate. This is his culture—the way he was raised—the way you are a product of your parents’ values.”

  “My parents’ values could never include keeping people in bondage.”

  “Nor does my mother’s or mine, for that matter.” Alexander met her eye. “We cannot change my father’s mind overnight, but he has instituted Uncle Porter’s plan whereby slaves can earn money to purchase their freedom. That’s why half our workers are free. We also teach our slaves to read to prepare them for the future—a practice against the law in Virginia.”

  “Why should men have to buy something that should be their God-given birthright?” Emily’s voice raised up a notch.

  Alexander lifted his chin and rolled his eyes. “I should have known you would make no attempt to understand. Yankees see things only one way—their way. Let’s change the subject, shall we? Suffice it to say things aren’t as simple as your small, narrow mind would like them to be.”

  “My…small…narrow…mind?” She repeated his words as her face flushed a shade of scarlet. He finds me dense and ignorant? Kicking Miss Kitty’s flank, Emily took off toward the barns as her eyes filled with tears. She didn’t stop until she reached the cool interior of the stable. Slipping from the horse’s back, she cross-tied her mare and dragged the infernal saddle from her back.

  “Let me rub down your horse, miss.” William appeared at her side carrying an expensive leather bridle with silver buckles and nail-head trim.

  “No, thank you, Mr. Tyler. I’m used to doing my own chores. If I could borrow one of your brushes, I’d be much obliged.” She patted her horse’s sweaty flank.

  William’s gaze scanned her riding clothes—or rather those belonging to Mrs. Hunt. His expression changed to one of mortification as he hooked the tack on a peg on the stall wall. “Ladies don’t do barn chores at Hunt Farms. If someone were to see you, I could lose my job.”

  Exhaling slowly, Emily contemplated her options and found none. “Thank you, William. I am in your debt.” She retreated until she tripped over the saddle she’d carelessly discarded. She flailed clumsily before catching her balance, and then she hurried from the barn before Alexander came in. At least the Lord granted her that small blessing.

  Once she was within the private confines of her room, Emily paced the floor trying to make sense of her afternoon. Try as she might, she couldn’t deny she had enjoyed his kisses. After all, she was a grown woman and not a child. It was normal to be flattered by a man’s attentions, especially an attractive man like Alexander Hunt. Despite his arrogance, she found his off-kilter humor and self-assurance appealing. Apparently, she wasn’t any more immune to his patrician features and raw-boned power than vapid Virginia belles. Emily attempted to generate guilt over his boldness, but she could not. Matthew had grown fuzzy in her mind. He was a bittersweet memory, his loss no longer triggering the pain it once did.

  Alexander provided an invaluable entrée into his world. If he were her beau, no one would question her. A small dalliance with the master’s son would open doors for her that even her relationship with the Benningtons could not. And she wouldn’t have to fear falling in love as she had with Matthew. How could she respect a man who had paid someone to take his place on the battlefield so he might stay far from the horrors of war? And without respect, there never could be love.

  “I’ll teach you to sass your betters.” Every time she remembered those words, she was spurred to action anew. She would set her small, narrow, Quaker mind on one goal—to convince each slave she encountered to take the first step on the Freedom Road.

  SIX

  Alexander would have loved to take back his words the moment he spoke them. Her scornful remark had crawled under his ski
n and settled in his gut. She had prodded and provoked him. But losing his temper with an abolitionist schoolmarm was the last thing he wanted—especially because he agreed with her on most counts. How could she possibly understand that his father, as kind and generous as any man, came from another era? And frankly, he was tired of judgmental Yankees. Did they think God reserved His grace solely for them? He’d seen tenement slums and company housing up North. Freedom could get mighty cold during the winter.

  Slumping into a chair, Alexander decided not to follow her. What could he say to undo the damage? Better to give the woman a wide berth for the rest of the day…and maybe the remainder of her visit. But something cautioned that would be hard to do. He’d seen her tears as she rode away, evidence that he’d hurt her feelings. What happened to the sassy firebrand? Had the vim and vinegar all been an act or was this?

  Emily Harrison wasn’t like the other women he knew. The ladies at last night’s ball were lovely creatures, but they played demure games to move poor fools around like pieces on a chessboard. The women he knew would merely murmur, “Dear me, it’s growing warm in here,” if their gowns were on fire. Their hearts contained not one genuine emotion. Emily possessed neither their shrewd wiles nor their artifice. This afternoon, with her cheeks reddened from the wind and her hair a tangle down her back, she had still looked beautiful. Unlike other ladies, Emily didn’t fret endlessly over her appearance. What thoughts crossed her mind by day and what did she dream of at night? Did she ever yearn to be held in the dark? Alexander forced those thoughts from his mind. Miss Harrison had been gently brought up, even if it was in an Ohio River frontier town. During their ride he had gone too far and offended her. Apparently, he spent too much time in the saddle with his rangers and was no longer fit for polite company.

  Feeling lower than a flea-ridden dog, Alexander couldn’t sleep that night. After tossing and turning in his hot room, he finally rolled out of bed, slipped on his trousers, and strode from the airless room onto the welcome cool of the verandah.

  “Women,” he muttered. “Confound them.” Yet he couldn’t block out the memory of their unpleasant parting. Why should two kisses on the riverbank create so much torment? He’d stolen more than kisses from willing belles in the past. The ladies of his social circle expected certain liberties and suffered no pangs of guilt the next day. And the women of Middleburg, although certainly not ladies, enjoyed sharing their charms with him. Once or twice, they even refused his coin. But today had been different. Emily had reacted like a wide-eyed schoolgirl. Aunt Augusta had told him snippets of her past history. How well had she known her unfortunate fiancé before he’d been killed in battle? Had her parents arranged a match between two strangers—people who had only shared shy glances over a church pew on Sunday mornings? Her life in Ohio must have been difficult after her parents had been killed. Why hadn’t the mysterious beau married her before enlisting in Mr. Lincoln’s army? Maybe he had second thoughts about someone who disdained the sidesaddle, could never remember her hat, and expressed her opinion at every opportunity.

  Emily was cheerful, patient, and caring while tending his aunt. Aunt Augusta spoke of the young woman’s wit and intelligence, but in his presence she avoided meeting his eye, blushed profusely, and fidgeted. Although she dressed like a schoolmarm, Alexander suspected she would kick off her high button shoes and run barefoot through the meadow if no one was around.

  Sleep would now be more elusive than ever. As it was pointless to return to bed, he took the stairs to the garden for a solitary walk. Yet even the flowers reminded him of Emily. Passing beneath her darkened window, he swore he smelled lemon verbena floating on the air. As the first streaks of dawn colored the horizon, he turned his thoughts to more troubling matters. He had overheard her questioning Beatrice and the maids about their life on Hunt Farms. He’d heard her ask his mother about the religious background of their neighbors. Why would she be so curious about life on a plantation—the very thing she held in contempt?

  Heading to the horse barns, Alexander was determined to work off his fascination with a woman so patently wrong for him. Emily was a stubborn Quaker, a holier-than-thou Yankee who thought herself superior to dissipated Southerners. And that would never change, no matter what he said or did.

  Having slept like a baby, Emily awoke to a new day feeling refreshed. Her pique with Alexander had ebbed and then faded altogether. After all, she probably was narrow minded, but she absolutely refused to consider the other side of the matter of slavery.

  She had missed dinner last night due to a feigned headache. Lila had been concerned and peppered Emily with questions: Why are you so upset with Mr. Hunt? What did you two argue about? The young maid had become her first true friend. Yet Emily couldn’t explain what they had disagreed about. She hoped they could get past the comments of yesterday. She couldn’t put Alexander to good use if their romance fizzled out due to her hot temper.

  This morning, Emily dressed quickly and then hurried downstairs to arrive first in the dining room. Or so she thought.

  Alexander stood sipping coffee by the tall windows. “Good morning, Miss Harrison. I picked you these myself.” He held out a massive bouquet of day lilies and mountain laurel. “They grow wild by the fencerows. Please forgive my thoughtlessness yesterday. If anyone can be narrow minded, it is I.”

  “Let’s not speak of our argument again. Mrs. Bennington would probably fire me if she knew how I behaved toward you.” She accepted the bouquet with a smile. “These are beautiful, Mr. Hunt. Thank you.” Pouring a cup of coffee, Emily remembered her grandmother’s advice: Spread the honey on thick, and then watch the bees swarm around you.

  “My lips are sealed, and you’re welcome.” He sat down with his coffee.

  Setting the flowers on the sideboard to be put in water later, she took a seat on the opposite side of the table. “Your farm is beautiful. I meant to tell you that yesterday. It’s a tribute to hard work and your love for the land.”

  He nodded graciously. “Tell me about your home, Miss Harrison. I’ve seen Ohio only from the banks of Bennington Island.”

  “A fertile valley looks the same on both sides of a river.” She carefully avoided the essential difference between the two states. “My father farmed fifty acres outside Marietta, planted mostly in corn and hay. We owned four cows, a dozen chickens, two horses, and a pair of goats, but I never figured out why.” She grinned at the memory. “The male was the orneriest billy on earth, and our nanny never produced an ounce of milk.”

  “Tell me about your mother.” He leaned back from the table.

  “My mother raised a huge garden and had a small orchard. She put up the best peach preserves in the county, with blue ribbons from the fair to prove it. She took first place in the apple pie competition more times than naught.”

  “What was her secret?” Alexander studied her from beneath lowered brows.

  Emily glanced around as though looking for eavesdroppers. “She picked the apples a bit early and then sweetened them with honey. They would remain firm instead of mushy like those of her competition. I will expect you to keep that secret under your hat,” she whispered.

  “I promise.” He solemnly drew an X over his heart. “Do you share your mother’s joy in the kitchen?”

  “I’m afraid not. I didn’t inherit a fraction of her abilities. I once roasted a goose to charred oblivion. Downright unrecognizable, I’m afraid.”

  “You’re young. There’s still time to learn. I admire your high regard for your mother. No Southern woman would ever admit to inferior domestic skills, even though most probably possess far less than you.”

  “I see no reason for deception. We are what we are. Don’t you agree, Mr. Hunt?”

  “Unquestionably.” He drained his cup and lifted the carafe to refill it. “Sounds like you had a happy childhood in Ohio.”

  It was a statement, not a question, but Emily felt obliged to confirm. “Yes, I enjoyed my childhood. I climbed trees, skinned my knees, and
rode my horse bareback through the woods. My mother and I picked blackberries in July, but I would eat more from the basket than ever landed in a pie. My father taught me to swim in the river and how to skip stones. We waved at the passing riverboats and made up stories about traveling to places like St. Louis or Memphis or New Orleans.”

  “And what would you do, Emily, if you visited one of those places now?” Alexander spooned fried eggs and crisp bacon from the platter offered by Nathaniel.

  She glanced at him, taking a small portion of food. Yesterday, stolen kisses, and now he used her given name without permission. “What would I do? First, I would go to a fancy shop where the dresses are already made and try on each and every one. I’m tired of looking at patterns and bolts of fabric, trying to imagine what a dress might look like. Next, I would seat myself in a fine restaurant and order every dish I’ve never heard of. Then I would walk down a street of fine homes and peek in their windows to see how they live.” Emily felt a blush crawl up her neck. She set down her fork to hide her shaking hands.

  “You would look in people’s windows?”

  “That’s what I do in Martinsburg whenever I take a walk.” She clamped her mouth shut, unsure why she had just bared her soul to a son of wealth and privilege.

  “Why?” He sounded truly perplexed.

  “I’m not spying on them. I like to see the color of their draperies, which portraits hang on the walls or what furnishings they own.” She ate a forkful of eggs with melted cheese and tomatoes, waiting for him to laugh.

  But he did not. “Rest assured, those people are no happier with their fine possessions than your family. They just have more to dust.” He watched her over the rim of his cup. “What happened to your parents, Emily?”

  Although she had been enjoying the meal, she set her fork and knife on the plate. “They were killed in an accident. My father used to race his horse down the road along the river. It was the only reckless thing he ever did. One day the axle broke and his buggy lost a wheel. My parents were thrown to their deaths a few miles from home.” Her eyes filled with tears, but she refused to cry. “Because the farm had a mortgage, I had no choice but to sell it and look for employment. The Benningtons were the only family in the area that could afford paid help.” She leaned back in the damask chair. “You now know the entire dismal story of my uneventful life.” Her tone took on an unwarranted defensiveness.