Chapter
SEVENTEEN

Well, good evening, Miss Jamison.”

Alexandra motioned frantically toward the door. “Go! Go!” she whispered, hearing Mr. White and President Spence continuing their exchange in the hallway. “Hurry!” She shoved him toward the door, nearly dropping her papers.

He grinned. “What are you—”

“I’m telling you for the very last time, Mr. White! If you pursue this idea, I’ll be forced to—”

Still urging Sy toward the door, Alexandra saw understanding dawn in his eyes, and in a blink he had the door open.

He grabbed her by the hand and pulled her out, then closed the door noiselessly behind them. But Alexandra didn’t stop. She hurried down the steps, took the path at a run, then ducked around the corner, Sy matching her stride for stride as she watched for anyone who might have seen them.

But it would appear that everyone else was already at dinner.

She finally stopped and pressed back against the building, working to catch her breath. “Oh my goodness.” She squeezed her eyes tight. “That was one of the most uncomfortable moments of my life!”

“What was going on back there?”

“I came to see Mr. White to share with him . . . how well my students were doing when . . .” Between deep breaths, she recounted the conversation she had overheard. “I heard him shouting, saying that God has provided a way to save the school. Then President Spence shouted back that they’re nearly out of money—and food! And that what we’re eating now is execrable! Which”—she made a face—“I would have to agree with. Still . . . when I heard the front door open, I was certain it was another teacher, or a student, or even Mrs. Chastain. And they’d see me and think I was listening.”

“Which . . . you were.”

She nudged him. “Not intentionally!”

He smiled.

“Which raises the question . . . What were you doing in there, Sy?”

He briefly glanced away. “I was coming to speak with Mr. White.”

“About?”

One side of his mouth tipped. “Just because you eavesdrop on everyone else’s conversations doesn’t mean you get to know my personal business too.”

She gave him a droll look.

“I was coming to ask Mr. White about going to school here. How much it costs, how much you need to know before you can start.”

Alexandra sobered. “Sy . . . are you thinking about—”

“No! It’s not for me!” All humor faded. “I may not be the most educated man you’ve ever known, Alexandra, but I do have a fair amount of learning. Especially when it comes to things that can’t be taught in school.”

He started walking in the direction of the teachers’ barracks, and she hurried to catch up with him.

“I didn’t mean anything by my question, Sy. But when you said that, I simply assumed you might be—”

He held up a hand. “Let’s just forget it, all right?”

Recalling an afternoon at the old Harding cabin when he’d poked fun at her for wanting to do just that, she started to do the same. Then saw the firm set of his jaw and decided she best not.

“You go on to dinner.” He gestured. “I’ll wait on the steps.”

“Actually, it’s too late for me to go into the dining hall—everyone will be seated and served by now. But honestly, that’s not too terrible a thing. Because the meals here . . . leave a lot to be desired.” She grimaced, hating to say anything disparaging.

“So I take it that’s what execrable means?” His smile resurfaced. “What President Spence said about the food.”

She looked at him and, for the first time, noticed how kind his eyes looked when he smiled. Honest. Kind and caring.

“Yes, that’s what it means. But I don’t think I’ve ever used that word in all my life.”

“And I’m sure I’ve never heard it before in all of mine.”

They laughed together. He glanced down the road, then back at her.

“Do you have time to walk over to town with me? Get some dinner? There’s a place not far from here that serves barbecue. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s good. And they typically have musicians playing too. It’ll be my treat.”

“I don’t know if I should . . .” Alexandra debated, her stomach arguing with her head.

“It’s just dinner, Alexandra. Not a lifetime commitment.”

She heard the humor in his voice and acquiesced. “In fact, I would enjoy having dinner elsewhere. Very much. Let me stop by the teachers’ barracks, put my papers in my room, and then we’ll go.”

He enjoyed the way she closed her eyes after she took a bite of barbecue.

“Oh . . . This is delicious!” She savored another bite. “It’s surprising how wonderful food can taste after eating the watered-down soup they serve at Fisk. Same for the porridge in the mornings.” Her smile faded. “Although I feel a little guilty eating this when all the staff and students are back there eating that.”

He nodded to her across the table. “There have been plenty of times I’ve been without, so I know what that’s like. But the tour you told me Mr. White is planning should eventually turn the finances around. Is that right?”

“If it comes to fruition.” She lowered her voice, glancing at patrons at nearby tables. “But President Spence vehemently disagrees with him, remember. Still, something must be done or the school will be forced to close.”

He gestured to her plate. “For now, please . . . Enjoy your meal. You work hard, and you’re sacrificing a lot. And you’ll be back to that soup soon enough.”

Still looking slightly guilty, she took another bite, then dabbed at the corners of her mouth.

The group of four musicians playing in the corner by the front window were quite good, and Sy was enjoying their music. Appalachian, they called it, deftly blending guitar, banjo, fiddle, and dulcimer in unique fashion.

“Do you like it? The music?”

He looked back to see Alexandra watching him. “I do. Very much.”

“I’m guessing you don’t have music like that back in Colorado.”

“Yes, because we’re not civilized like you Southerners are.”

She smiled, then her expression grew timid. “I saw you that night. At the concert with the singers from Fisk.”

“You were there?”

“I came in late and sat in the back. I saw you leave right after the concert ended.”

“And did you enjoy it? The concert?”

“Oh, very much.”

“I did as well. Be sure and let me know when they perform again. I’d like to hear them.” He wanted to add, Perhaps we could even go together, but didn’t feel at liberty to. Not with Dutchman’s Curve standing between them.

He slathered butter on a piece of cornbread. “I think I’m ready for my meeting with General Harding and the other men tomorrow morning, but I was hoping you might’ve had a chance to think more about what we discussed last night. About things I could do to make my bid stand out.”

She nodded. “I have thought more about it, and I do have some ideas. You may like them, you may not. We’ll see . . .” She set her fork aside. “As best I can judge, given the blueprints you showed me last night, your plans for the railroad and for the Belle Meade depot in particular are exemplary. You’re taking advantage of the best vistas the plantation has to offer, and we already know General Harding is impressed with the design of the depot. So as far as contributing anything else to that part of your proposal, I’m afraid I can’t. However . . .” Her blue eyes took on a gleam. “I do think there are ways to make your presentation more . . . unique. And memorable.”

He smiled inwardly at her enthusiasm and the way her hands fluttered on occasion as she talked.

She withdrew a piece of paper from the folder she’d brought with her. “My idea is to enhance the train ride from the Nashville station to the Belle Meade depot by offering certain amenities to the passengers. For instance . . .”

She turned the page around so he could see it.

He took it in, then looked back up at her. She’d obviously gone to a lot of trouble, and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but . . .

“This is . . . really something, Alexandra.”

She smiled. “Well, don’t sound so surprised! After all, I’m the one who knew what execrable meant!”

He smiled. “No, I didn’t mean it that way. I meant . . . that it’s very kind of you to have done all this work.”

She waved a hand. “I enjoyed it, actually. Now, let me explain . . .”

He followed along on the page—that, to her credit, looked remarkably like an actual printed handbill. The handwriting was neat and evenly spaced. She’d even drawn fancy little curlicues to decorate the margins.

But how this could help his proposal was another thing altogether.

“At the top here I’ve included a brief history of Belle Meade for first-time visitors, along with what they’ll see along the route to the plantation. The deer park, the bison, a glimpse of the limestone quarry, the high pastures. Next, I thought it would be nice to offer some refreshment.”

“Refreshment?” Sy looked from her to the page, then back again.

“So next is a brief menu with some delectables that could be offered to passengers once they’ve boarded. You’ll remember Susanna Carter, Belle Meade’s head cook?”

He nodded, already imagining how hard it was going to be to abide Harold Gould’s gloating once Gould won the bid.

“Susanna has some signature dishes, you might say, that she makes often. One of them is the carrot cake we had for dessert the night we were there. And she makes wonderful beaten biscuits with country ham. Also a delicious blackberry cobbler. I’ve listed a couple of other options here. And lastly—”

Despite being skeptical about her ideas, Sy found himself watching her, imagining what a man could do with this woman beside him. As his wife, his partner, his friend . . . his lover. How much more rewarding and enjoyable life would be for that man.

“—I thought that perhaps at the Belle Meade depot itself, you could suggest that certain items be made available for sale to the passengers. For instance, General Harding could commission a local artist to draw the house or the stables and corrals, then those likenesses could be framed and sold. Or have a photograph made instead. The same for the champion thoroughbreds. People come from all over the country to see those blood horses. I think they would enjoy taking home a souvenir of their journey.”

Sy just stared for a moment, taking it all in. “You really think people would take the time to stop and look at paintings? And that they’d want cake on their way to see thoroughbreds?”

The instant he asked the questions, he knew he’d made a mistake.

“I do, but . . .” She pulled the paper back. “You apparently disagree.”

He covered her hand. “Alexandra . . . I’m not saying I don’t like your ideas.”

“Your face is saying exactly that!”

He had to work not to smile. “What I’m trying to communicate is . . .” He struggled to find the words.

Meanwhile, a feminine eyebrow arched in none-too-subtle warning.

“It just seems to me that these ideas might appeal more to women than to men.”

“And how is that a bad thing? Do you think only men come to visit Belle Meade? Or that only men come to yearling sales? Or that only men buy blood horses? And as far as the refreshments . . . I saw how much you enjoyed that carrot cake the other night.” Her chin lifted a notch. “I think a lot of people would be interested in knowing the history of Belle Meade. And I think General Harding would be impressed that you think enough of his home, his thoroughbreds, and his life’s work to share them with visitors as they’re on their way there. And furthermore—”

This woman was even more fetching when riled. And though he hated to admit it . . .

“I think you’ve got a point there.”

She stopped and looked at him more closely. “So . . . you’re saying you agree with me now? I’ve won you over?”

If she only knew. “I’m saying that I also believe your ideas are very good. And I think you’re right about how General Harding will respond.” He tapped the page on the table between them. “So thank you, Alexandra.”

The sun that was setting outside suddenly rose again in her features. “I’m glad you’re pleased.” But she gave him the tiniest sideways look to let him know she hadn’t forgotten how ornery he’d been at first.

She returned the handbill she’d designed to the folder and slid it across the table to him. His eyes never leaving hers, he placed it on the empty chair beside him.

Truce offered and accepted, conversation came easily between them as they ate.

“So tell me, Sy—”

She laid her fork and knife parallel on her plate, both pointing toward the eleven o’clock position, just as she’d taught him, and he couldn’t help but smile. Then did the same with his own utensils.

“—you said you were coming to ask Mr. White about enrollment at Fisk. Is it too personal a question to ask for whom you’re inquiring?”

“Not at all. It’s for a friend . . . an employee of mine. Vinson and I were thick as thieves as boys. And still are. I couldn’t do what I do without him.”

She looked at him across the table. “So,” she whispered, water glass in hand, “Vinson is a freedman?”

“Actually, he was never enslaved. His parents were, but when their owners moved to Colorado years ago, they allowed them to buy their freedom. Vinson is one of the finest men you’ll ever know.”

A moment passed before she spoke again.

“And the two of you were close growing up?”

He nodded, then took a long drink of lukewarm coffee, remembering the last winter he and his mother endured before Harrison Kennedy came into their lives.

“Somehow, when it’s the dead of December and you’re huddled in bed beneath a thin quilt, watching the snow come down through the cracks in the roof of the cabin, and you’re hungry and cold . . . it doesn’t matter to you what color the person is who brings food to your door. You’re just grateful that they came.”

The server chose that moment to approach. “More water, ma’am? Coffee, sir?”

They both nodded, and the woman obliged.

As she poured, Sy sensed Alexandra weighing the newly discovered knowledge about him. He didn’t fully know why he’d told her, since he usually kept those details about his life to himself.

Before the server left, Sy glanced quickly at the menu. “And could we have two pieces of pie, please?”

“Certainly, sir. We have peach, apple, buttermilk, chocolate chess, and rhubarb.”

He looked across the table.

Alexandra’s eyes widened. “Chocolate chess, please.”

“The same for me, please.”

The woman left, and Alexandra leaned forward. “One more idea, and then I’ll stop.”

He winked, grateful for the change in topic. “I could listen to you all night.”

She gave him a doubtful look. “At dinner the other evening I recall General Harding mentioning something about a yearling sale in Philadelphia. He asked one of the gentlemen what type of railcar he would provide for the blood horses.”

“To which Mr. Maury replied cattle cars. Which did not go over well.”

“Understandably.” She nodded. “A practice my father has always pursued is to gain as much of a person’s business as he can—to ‘make yourself indispensable’ to them, he says. So my suggestion, if it’s possible with the current routes on your railroad, is that—”

“I mention to General Harding tomorrow that I’d like for him to consider my railway for that contract as well. It is possible, and I’ve already got that on my list.”

She looked impressed. “Very good, Mr. Rutledge.”

He feigned a frown. “Yes, as I’ve bumbled my way through life, I’ve somehow managed to learn a few helpful things here and there.”

“Your pie, ma’am. Sir.” The server set the desserts and forks before them. “It just came out of the oven not long ago, so it’s still nice and warm.”

Alexandra took the first bite. Sy had thought her expression with the barbecue indicated delight, but that had been nothing compared to this. And her gentle sighs of pleasure tempted his own appetite in directions decidedly not related to chocolate chess pie.

“This . . . is . . . delicious!” She licked her lips. “Make sure they have this at the Belle Meade depot as well.”

He nodded, his gaze going briefly to her mouth. “I’ll see what I can do to satisfy that desire, Miss Jamison.”

No sooner had he turned his attention to his own piece of pie than Alexandra let out a little gasp.

“Oh no!” She looked past him toward the door.

He turned, but could see little through the darkened window.

“What time is it, Sy?”

He glanced at his pocket watch. “Half past nine. Why?”

She winced. “Teachers are supposed to be in their rooms by nine o’clock!”

“You’re not serious.”

“I am. It’s study hour.”

“But you’re a teacher, not a student.”

She scooted her chair back. “I know. But it’s one of the rules!”

She paused for an instant and looked at what remained of her piece of pie. For a second, Sy thought she might wrap it up in the cloth napkin and take it with her. But, of course, that would mean taking the napkin, which belonged to the café. Which, in her mind, would be tantamount to murder. Or at the very least, anarchy.

She suddenly sat back down and began forking the dessert into her mouth, her jaw working furiously. The sight was entertaining enough. But that she still insisted on cutting the pie into tiny ladylike bites was especially amusing.

“Nobody will say anything about you getting back a little late, Alexandra. Nobody will even know. I’ll sneak you back in.”

She shook her head, eyes widening, and washed down the last of her pie with a gulp of water. The woman could really put it away when properly motivated. She took a deep breath.

“That would be even worse.” She wiped her mouth, then tucked her napkin neatly beside her plate. “I can’t be seen walking back with you at this hour.”

“But we sat on the steps until nearly dark two nights ago.”

“Yes, in front of everyone. We weren’t . . . skulking about like—”

“Skulking?”

She made a face. “It means to sneak or to—”

“I know what it means!” He looked at the bill, pulled money from his pocket, and left it on the table. He rose. “I just can’t imagine skulking as something you would ever do.”

“Thank you for dinner, Sy.” She skirted past him.

He followed. “I’m not letting you walk back by yourself.”

She turned at the door. “If Mr. White or one of the older, more . . . mature teachers sees us together, they’ll—”

“If that happens, I’ll take care of it. Trust me.” He opened the door for her.

He had no trouble keeping up with her, but was surprised at how quickly she could cover ground in that skirt. And after downing a hearty dinner and a piece of pie, no less.

It was a good fifteen-minute walk back to Fisk. But at this brisk stride, they’d make it in ten. Only when the faint outline of the barracks came into view did Alexandra finally ease up on her frantic pace.

She glanced over at him. “If we see anyone, we need to act as if we haven’t done anything wrong.”

“But we haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You know what I mean!”

He grinned—and made sure she saw it.

The hasty tread of boots on dirt filled the silence between them, along with the chirrup of crickets and the occasional hoot owl. They were nearly back to the teachers’ barracks when Sy spotted a figure swiftly moving toward them from the shadows.