In less than a week, the bathroom was nearly rebuilt. The new logs fit seamlessly with the old. All that remained to be completed was the roof.
Elizabeth took a break to drive to the general store to collect the mail, the first time she’d been there since the day the Walshes had snubbed Abraham. Conn and Will decided to tag along.
Mrs. Walsh was behind the counter as they entered the store. “Hello, Elizabeth,” she said. “What can I get for you?”
“Just my mail, please.”
“Nothing else?” Mrs. Walsh asked. “You haven’t been in for two or three weeks.”
“That’s right,” Elizabeth said sweetly as the doorbell tinkled behind them.
“Mrs. Mitchell?”
Conn turned to see a tall man removing a fedora to reveal thick gray hair, with a matching gray beard along his jawline, like Abraham Lincoln, she thought.
“I don’t expect you’ll remember me,” the man began. “Obediah Peregorn, Molly’s brother.”
“Of course I remember you, Mr. Peregorn,” Elizabeth said, shaking his hand. “And I cannot thank you enough for sending Lemuel and Buck with those logs. They’ve been such a help to us. It was so generous of you.”
He waved off her thanks. “Not at all. Glad to do it. As a matter of fact, that’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve got extra roof shingles from when Abraham repaired my barn, and if you could use them, I’d be more than glad to send them your way.”
“You are so kind,” Elizabeth said sincerely. “At the risk of taking advantage of your generosity, yes, we could use them.”
He chuckled. “Good. I’ll send them today with Buck and Lem.” He turned to Mrs. Walsh. “Mail, please, Betty.”
“Nothing else?” she asked, sounding displeased.
“No, no, I got everything I needed last Tuesday in Marlinton,” he said. “Ran into Abraham there,” he said to Elizabeth as Mrs. Walsh gathered his mail in a bundle. “He said you were there earlier.”
“Yes, we were,” Elizabeth smiled.
Conn’s eyes darted back and forth between her mother, Mr. Peregorn and Mrs. Walsh.
“Well, why in the world would you do your shopping there?” Mrs. Walsh asked in a voice much higher than normal, forcing a smile onto her face.
Elizabeth and Mr. Peregorn glanced at one another before she said, “You and your husband are perfectly free to do business with whomever you choose, Mrs. Walsh. And so are we.”
“Why, whatever do you mean?” asked Mrs. Walsh, no longer attempting to sound friendly.
“I mean that I will no longer tolerate the vicious gossip that you and your husband and your friends have propagated,” Elizabeth said, keeping her voice neutral. “Gossip that caused someone to want to set my house on fire. Nor will I do business with people who could treat Mr. Greene the way you and your husband have.”
“I’m afraid that goes for me, too, Betty,” Obediah Peregorn added genially, as if he was discussing the weather. “Abraham Greene is one of the best men I know. You won’t see any business from any of the Peregorns or any of our people. Not until you and Walter change your ways.”
He reached forward to retrieve the two bundles of mail Mrs. Walsh had set on the counter, handing one to Elizabeth.
“And that includes an apology to Mr. Greene,” Elizabeth said, sliding her mail into her purse.
“If it comes to that, I think you owe Mrs. Mitchell an apology as well,” said Obediah. “I’ve heard some mighty nasty talk in here the last good while. You should be ashamed. I know I am. I should have spoken up long ago.”
Conn grinned as Mrs. Walsh stood with her mouth hanging open. Mr. Peregorn held the door for Elizabeth and the children as they left the store together.
“Those roof shingles will be out your way later this morning,” he called, tugging the brim of his hat respectfully as he got into his truck.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said as he pulled away.
She hummed as she drove home. “Isn’t it a beautiful morning?”
Conn smiled broadly.
***
“Oh, Mr. Greene,” Elizabeth said a couple of days later as she inspected the finished bathroom, “it’s just like new. That fire might never have happened to look at the place.”
Jed blushed furiously as she hugged him, saying, “And you were a tremendous help.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Everyone who helped was so kind,” she said. “I just don’t know how to thank them all enough.”
“I think they were happy to do it, Mrs. Mitchell,” Abraham said, surveying the new structure proudly. He turned to Conn. “I say we deserve an afternoon off for some fishing.”
“Yeah!” Jed grinned happily.
Within the hour, Abraham and all three children were piled into his pickup and bouncing along a dirt road to the river. Abraham got Will set up where he could sit on a rock and drop his line into the water while Jed and Conn waded out into the stream. They spread out, standing knee deep in the crystal clear water. Conn made a couple of casts, but her eye was drawn to the flashes of sunlight reflecting off the water….
§§§
By July, the weather was again sweltering, and tempers were running as short as the food supplies.
“Not grits again,” groaned Burley as he came in for breakfast.
“You’ll eat it and be grateful,” said Fiona irritably. “We could tell you stories –”
“I know, I know,” he grumbled. “The horrible famine.” He stuck a spoon in his bowl of thin, watery grits. “But I dream of a big breakfast of bacon and eggs, and real coffee…”
Caitríona smiled as she gave Deirdre a small bowl of the grainy cereal and a tiny spoon. She was as tired of their meager rations as everyone else, but the horror of the famine would never fade for anyone who lived through it. She might grimace, but she would never complain.
“You might like it this mornin’, Mr. Burley,” said Dolly. “I put a little bacon grease in for flavor.”
Batterston came into the kitchen and helped himself to a bowl. “I want the slaves to work in the southwest field today,” he said.
“Then you take ‘em,” said Burley. “We’ve got corn needs pickin’.” He waved his arm in a vaguely southern direction, toward the sheds. “I don’t know where you think you’re gonna put more tobacco. The sheds are full to the rafters from the last season you couldn’t get to auction. We need food, not more tobacco.”
“I could fire you for saying that,” Batterston threatened.
“You just try,” Burley returned, knowing it was an empty threat. “When this dadblasted war is over and life gets back to normal, then we’ll worry ‘bout tobacco. But for now, we need to get through this comin’ winter. And to do that, you need all of us. Or there won’t be no plantation for Lord High ‘n Mighty to come back to.”
Batterston scowled and went back to his small house, calling over his shoulder as he did so, “I don’t know why we even keep so many god-damned niggers on the place.”
A couple of days later, everyone at the house, including several slaves, were mustered to husk the huge pile of corn that had been picked. Deirdre rocked away on the wooden horse Henry had made for her as Caitríona, Hannah and Ellie worked at an outdoor table, cutting the kernels off the cobs into large pots so that Fiona and Dolly could blanch them in preparation for canning.
They all paused and watched as a rider approached the house. He was rough-looking, with a dirty, unkempt beard and a shirt stained with perspiration under his suspenders. A rifle was visible in a scabbard buckled to his saddle, and he wore a pistol on his belt. As he drew nearer, they could also see large coils of rope strapped to the pommel of his saddle and hear the clank of manacles strung behind the cantle.
He touched a finger to the brim of his sweaty hat and said, “Afternoon, ladies. I need to see the owner of the place, if I may.”
The politeness of his speech created a better impression until he spat a large quantity of tobacco juice on the ground.
Looking up at him disapprovingly, Ellie said, “You’ll have to settle for the overseer, Mr. Batterston.”
Batterston appeared at that moment, and invited the stranger into the study. Suspicious, Caitríona carried a pot of corn into the kitchen and, ignoring Fiona’s complaint that it was only half-full, crept quietly down the hall.
“… could use ten to fifteen if I can get ‘em,” the stranger was saying.
There was a long silence.
“I could probably do that,” Batterston said at last. “Got more than I know what to do with anyhow.”
“I’ll make it worth your while,” the stranger said, and Caitríona could hear the clink of coins.
“All right.” Batterston seemed to have made up his mind. “But we’ll need to do it after dark.”
The stranger laughed. “Just tell ‘em to smile, so’s we can see ‘em. I’ll have men with me to make sure there’s no trouble.”
“There’s a drying shed about a quarter mile down the lane,” Batterston said. “I’ll round up fifteen good, healthy ones and meet you and your men there at ten tonight. I’ll keep this as a deposit.” Caitríona could hear coins clinking again. “You’ll have the rest tonight?”
“I’ll have it.”
Caitríona’s heart was pounding as she went back to the kitchen. Batterston was planning on selling fifteen of the Negroes. She was only half-aware of what she was doing as she returned to the pile of corn.
“What’s wrong?” whispered Hannah.
Caitríona gave a tiny shake of her head. It wasn’t until later in the afternoon as she rocked Deirdre’s cradle in the shade and fanned her to sleep that she had an opportunity to tell Hannah what she’d overheard.
“He can’t do that!” Hannah exclaimed as Caitríona shushed her. She continued in an angry whisper, “Lord Playfair told him he wasn’t allowed to sell any more of us.”
“I think he’ll not be worrying about that any longer,” said Caitríona grimly. “He knows there’s nothing Lord Playfair can do from England.”
Hannah’s eyes filled with angry tears. “It’s not right,” she said bitterly. “You said that the proclamation meant we’re not property anymore.”
“I know,” Caitríona said. “But who in the South is going to care about that? This trader will buy and sell those men and no one will ask questions.”
All that day, Caitríona stewed, trying to think of how she could stop Batterston. The only thing she could think of, and even she had to admit it was weak, was to threaten to write to Lord Playfair. But she had to find a more immediate way to thwart him in case the threat didn’t work. Later that evening, she went to find Ruth and Henry.
“Hannah told us,” Henry said quietly.
“We’ve got to keep those men from going with him,” Caitríona said. “Do you know who he picked?”
Henry nodded.
“If they ran away, they’d just be caught,” she said. “Could you tell them to go to the far pastures, spend the night in the woods there. They can say they were sent to move the cattle and horses.”
“He’ll just find them the next day,” Ruth said.
“But it will give me more time,” said Caitríona.
“For what?” asked Henry.
Caitríona didn’t answer. She asked Ruth to keep Deirdre and went to check on Batterston’s whereabouts. He stayed in his house all evening, emerging only to get a dinner plate and take it back with him.
Caitríona waited until after the kitchen was cleaned up, and then went to the overseer’s small house. She knocked and was startled when Batterston jerked the door open.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said nervously. “What do you want?”
Caitríona looked past him and saw a stuffed valise sitting on the floor. “Going somewhere?” she asked, pushing by him and entering the small parlour.
“What do you want?” he repeated in a more menacing tone.
“You’re not going to sell those men,” she said, deciding to take the upper hand with a direct approach.
If Batterston was startled to hear that she knew of his plans, he hid it well. He closed the door and walked to the window that faced the big house.
“Are you going to stop me?” he asked quietly as he pulled the curtains closed.
Mustering as much bravado as she could, Caitríona said, “I’ve already written Lord Playfair.”
Batterston chuckled and turned to her. “By the time he gets any letter and tries to do anything, I’ll be long gone. I’m not going to stay here and wait for this damn war to kill me or starve me.”
Caitríona had known her bluff had little chance of succeeding. “Well, the ones you were going to sell aren’t here,” she said. “I sent them away.”
Batterston’s eyes widened. “You sent them… you!” His face twisted into a snarl, his lip curling as his teeth were bared. “I’ve had enough of you!”
He lunged across the room, reaching for her throat. Caitríona ducked, but Batterston managed to grab her dress at the shoulder. He slammed his other fist into her face, knocking her to the floor. In his rage, he dropped to his knees, pinning her and pummeling her with his fist. It felt as if her nose was broken as blood gushed over her face, choking her.
He grabbed a handful of her hair and slammed her head back against the hearth stones. Caitríona saw lights pop behind her eyes as her head hit the stone. Batterston placed his hands around her throat. Gasping for air, she tried to prize his hands from her throat as she looked into his crazed eyes. Desperately, she reached out, her hands flailing about, searching for something, anything that might help. Her hand hit a heavy earthen crock used for kindling. She floundered for a moment, trying to get a grip on the heavy pot, and finally managed to swing it up, smashing it hard against the side of Batterston’s head.
He crumpled to the floor beside her and didn’t move. Caitríona lay there, still gasping. She rolled to the side and spat out the blood from her mouth. She struggled to her hands and knees, prepared to fend Batterston off when he got up. She looked over at him, and saw that the side of his head was sunken in where the crock had hit him. His lifeless eyes stared up at nothing as blood trickled from his ear.
She sat heavily on the floor, trying to gather her wits. Batterston was dead. It seemed to take a long time for that fact to sink in. The mantel clock indicated it was nearly nine o’clock. What would that trader do when Batterston didn’t show up at ten?
She staggered to her feet, so dizzy that she almost went back down. When she finally felt steady enough to walk, she slipped out Batterston’s door, making her way to Ruth and Henry’s cabin, trying to keep to the shadows so no one would see her.
She knocked softly and Henry opened the door.
“Good lord, girl,” he gasped, pulling her inside.
Hannah was sitting in a rocking chair, holding a sleeping Deirdre. Her hand flew to her mouth at the sight of Caitríona’s bloody, bruised face.
“Sit down,” Ruth whispered, taking Caitríona’s arm and leading her to the table. “What happened?” She poured water from a pitcher into a shallow bowl.
“He… he went crazy,” Caitríona said hoarsely. “He was all packed. He was going to run off with the gold. He didn’t care if Lord Playfair knew.” She rubbed her throat which clearly showed bruises. “He was choking me. I had to stop him. I… I hit him. I hit him with a crock.” She looked at all of them. “He’s dead.”
Ruth paused in the midst of wringing out a cloth she had soaked in water. “He’s dead?”
Caitríona nodded. Ruth began sponging the blood from her face as Hannah put Deirdre on one of the beds.
“I don’t know what to do,” Caitríona said numbly. “Should we report this to the law?”
Ruth and Henry looked at each other, and Caitríona could see the fear in their eyes. “Of course, I can’t involve you with the law,” she realized.
“I don’t know you’d be much better off yourself,” Henry said.
“What about Burley? Should I tell him?” she wondered.
Henry squatted down in front of her. “Miss Caitríona,” he said as if talking to a child, “you’re the only one heard what he was plannin’. You got no proof, and now he’s dead.”
“But look at her face!” Hannah said indignantly.
“Since when has the law cared if a white man beats a nigger or a woman?” Henry asked. He paced as Ruth finished washing the blood from Caitríona’s face and began applying one of her salves to the gashes and bruises.
Henry turned to her. “Where is he?”
“He’s where I left him, in front of the fireplace,” Caitríona said.
“That trader might come lookin’ for him when he doesn’t show up,” Henry said. “We best get him buried and fast.”
Hannah retrieved a sheet from the laundry pile and the four of them went to Batterston’s house. They rolled him up into the sheet, and Henry hoisted him over his shoulder as Hannah hastily scrubbed the blood from the floor. Caitríona grabbed the stuffed valise and, together, they made their way to a deep patch of woods on the plantation property, digging far into the night.
§§§
“Connemara!”
Conn came to as her face hit the water. Abraham lunged toward her, but Jed got there first. Grabbing her by the back of her shirt, he hauled her up coughing and sputtering, water streaming from her hair down her face.
“What in tarnation were you doin’?” Jed yelled.
“I… I lost my balance,” she lied, avoiding Abraham’s eyes.
“Are you all right?” Abraham asked.
“‘Tis nothing,” Conn said, trying to laugh it off. “Just a wee bit clumsy.”
“Hey!” Will hollered indignantly. “Doesn’t anyone care I caught a fish?”
***
“She killed him.”
Almost beside herself at this latest glimpse into Caitríona’s life, Conn forced herself to continue fishing for awhile, though Abraham quickly realized she was not focused on the fishing when he looked over to see that her rod was almost bent double as she stood, oblivious to the fish on the other end.
“Let’s call it a day,” he said gently, reeling her fish in and releasing it.
He kept glancing at her worriedly as they packed up and got back in the truck.
“I’m all wet,” she protested.
“It’s all right,” he assured her. “You won’t hurt anything in this old truck.”
She stared absently out the window as he drove, not speaking until she suddenly called, “Stop!”
Abraham braked and Conn flung the truck door open. “I’ve got to go to Miss Molly’s,” she said.
“Connemara,” Abraham started to protest, but Conn looked him dead in the eye as she shut the truck door.
“I’ve got to go to Miss Molly’s,” she repeated. “If my mother wants me, that’s where I’ll be. I’ll be home for dinner.”
With one last look, she hopped down off the running board and took off through the woods.
“Women,” Jed said, shaking his head.
Running all the way to Molly’s house, Conn breathlessly banged her fist on the door. When she heard no bark, and no one answered, she ran around the house. There, she saw that the door to the shed connected to the tunnel was standing ajar, with most of the contents of the shed sitting in the grass. Sprinting across the yard, she saw Molly and Vincent inside. Molly was sorting through the tools hanging on the walls.
Vincent gave a welcoming bark as she skidded to a stop, clutching the stitch in her side.
Molly turned to her in surprise. “Connemara? What’s wrong?”
It was a couple of minutes before Conn could answer. “Had… had another vision…” she gasped. “She killed someone.”
“Caitríona?”
Conn nodded.
“Come to the house,” Molly said, looking around to make sure no one else had overheard.
Quickly, they walked to the hemlock grove and into the little house where Molly poured Conn a glass of ice cold water.
“Drink,” she said, “and then tell me what you saw.”
Conn gulped the water, nearly choking on it in her eagerness to tell someone what she’d seen.
“Batterston – he was the overseer of the plantation Caitríona and Orla were sent to – he was going to sell some more slaves…”
“Caitríona and her sister?”
“No,” said Conn impatiently. She realized she needed to back up. “Orla was already dead in this vision, because Deirdre was about two. This was during the Civil War and Lord Playfair and his son were back in England, so Batterston knew they couldn’t do anything to him. He had already gotten in trouble for selling slaves and keeping the money.” She took another drink and continued, “Anyway, a slave trader came by, and Batterston agreed to sell him some slaves, but Caitríona heard them talking and she tried to stop him. First, she told him she’d written to Lord Playfair, but he said he’d be long gone before they could do anything. Then she said she’d sent the slaves away and he… he went crazy and started hitting her and choking her and… she grabbed this jar thing, like one of those,” she said, pointing to a heavy crock Molly had sitting on her kitchen counter, “and hit him in the head with it and killed him.”
Conn got up and began pacing agitatedly around the table. “She didn’t mean to, but she did.”
Molly was staring at her. “I didn’t realize your dreams were this detailed,” she said.
“It’s like I’m in her head, like I see everything she saw, feel what she felt,” Conn said. “She told me, she said, ‘‘tis a terrible shame I’ve brought on our family.’ This must be what she meant.”
“Maybe,” Molly agreed, somewhat doubtfully. “But it sounds like this was self-defense, and you said she didn’t mean to do it.” She thought for a moment. “Who else knew about this?”
Conn stopped pacing. “Only Henry, Ruth and Hannah. They decided not to tell anyone else.”
“Who were Henry –”
“The black people, the other slaves that she was friends with,” Conn said impatiently. “More than friends,” she added.
Molly’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, ‘more than friends’?” she asked carefully.
“Caitríona loved Hannah,” Conn explained, pacing around the table again. “They loved each other.”
“She showed you this?”
Conn stopped again and stared at Molly. “You think I’m too young to understand about two girls loving each other?” she asked, almost challengingly.
“No,” Molly said slowly, looking at Conn with new eyes. “But I’m beginning to understand why she’s been waiting for you.”
Conn wasn’t listening.
“She told Henry, Ruth and Hannah,” Conn repeated. “And they buried him in secret. That’s when I fell in the river and woke up.”
“What do you mean you fell in the river? I wondered why you were wet,” Molly said. “I thought you usually had these dreams when you were asleep.”
“I used to,” Conn said, rubbing her eyes. “But, lately, more of them have been happening when I’m not really asleep, but I can’t really remember anything, either…”
She sat down heavily, suddenly looking exhausted. Vincent laid his head on her lap and she rubbed his soft fur absently.
“Have you told anyone else about your dreams, or about Caitríona?” Molly asked.
Conn shook her head. “No. But I think Mr. Greene suspects something. He keeps asking me if I’m in any kind of trouble.”
She looked up at Molly. “What were you doing in the shed?”
It was Molly’s turn to look bewildered as she shook her head. “I’m not sure. I just woke up this morning with this feeling that I should clean out the shed so the entrance to the tunnel is clear. I couldn’t shake it, so I figured I’d better listen.”
Conn’s shoulders slumped. “How am I supposed to figure all this out? How am I supposed to make it right?” she asked imploringly.
Molly looked at her sympathetically. “I don’t know, child. But I believe you will find a way.”