Face-to-face with Sylas Rutledge again, Alexandra found herself annoyingly tongue-tied and blushing for no cause.
“Miss Jamison, nice to see you again, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rutledge,” she managed, pleasantly surprised at his show of etiquette. “You as well.”
He peered down at her from beneath the brim of his Stetson. “Don’t tell me that in addition to being an assistant attorney, you’re a plantation foreman as well.”
She couldn’t help smiling. “No, sir. Mr. Walters, General Harding’s business manager, is presently occupied. So the general requested that Miss Harding, his daughter, and I assist at the table.”
Seated beside her, Mary was speaking with another of the bidders, so Alexandra searched the box for Mr. Rutledge’s envelope, trying not to think of how his voice sounded like the slow pour of fine bourbon into a glass. Or the rich taste of chocolate melting on her tongue. How had she not noticed that before? But then, he’d scarcely said a handful of words in her father’s office yesterday.
She handed him the envelope. “Congratulations on being one of the final bidders on General Harding’s project. Once you read the letter, Mr. Rutledge, you’ll find that the general has extended an invitation for you to join his family for a soirée tomorrow evening at their home. The address and directions are included within. May I mark you as attending?”
“You may, Miss Jamison.”
Alexandra made a mark by his name on the list, catching a glimpse of the man’s faithful companion, who was watching her intently over the edge of the table. She smiled at the dog but didn’t dare try to pet him again.
“The best of luck to you, Mr. Rutledge.”
“Actually, I don’t hold much stock in luck, Miss Jamison. I quit that claim some time ago.” He eyed her. “You don’t think I need one of those special deeds to make it official, do you?”
Alexandra laughed, surprising herself. How long had it been since she’d laughed so spontaneously? “No, sir. No quitclaim deed required in this instance.”
He held her gaze a tad longer than necessary, and the thoroughness of his attention combined with that same indefinable quality she’d glimpsed yesterday summoned a heat inside her that traveled from her face down to her toes in the space of a heartbeat. And took her breath with it.
“Much obliged to you, ma’am, for your help.”
She responded with a polite, parting nod, then made herself look past him to the next man in line. Yet she was aware of his every move as he and his foxhound made their way to the station platform.
She noticed Mary eying him too and knew her friend would question her at the earliest opportunity.
Perhaps the man wasn’t so wild and untamed after all. But she knew enough to know that General Harding preferred to work with likeminded businessmen. Namely, Southern gentlemen like himself. So Mr. Rutledge was at a disadvantage from the start.
“And who exactly was that?” Mary whispered when the line at the table cleared momentarily. “And how do you know him?”
“His name is Mr. Rutledge. And actually, I don’t know him. I’ve only met him once, when he came to see my father yesterday. I know he’s from Colorado and that he’s the owner of the Northeast Line Railroad.” And that he appreciates music, she thought, and adores his dog. Though she kept those two observations to herself.
Mary slipped her hand into the crook of Alexandra’s arm. “He’s a bit rough around the edges, I’d say,” she whispered, turning to watch him. “But from where I sit . . . he’d be well worth taming!”
“Mary Elizabeth Harding!” Alexandra glanced at her friend in mock alarm.
“Well, look at him, Alex. Tall, dark . . . and a little dangerous.”
Alexandra nudged her. “While two of those qualities can be considered desirable, the last is decidedly not. Besides, you already have your perfect Mr. Jackson.”
Mary sighed. “Howell is rather perfect, is he not?”
Alexandra loved seeing the light in her friend’s eyes. “How are the wedding plans progressing?”
“Beautifully. My dress should be finished soon.” A shadow eclipsed her smile.
“What is it?”
Mary shook her head. “All this wedding planning makes me miss Mother.”
Alexandra hugged her. “I’m so sorry, Mary. She would have loved to have experienced all this with you. Your mother had such wonderful style too.”
Mary looked at her hands in her lap. “It’s hard to believe it’s almost four years since she passed.” As soon as she said it, empathy moved into her features. “And I know you’re missing David today, Alex. He was such a fine man. As perfect for you as you say Howell Jackson is for me.”
Alexandra steeled herself against the emotions simmering just beneath the surface. “Yes, he was,” she whispered. “Even if he didn’t have five children to usher me into instant motherhood.”
Mary’s grin found its place again. “I realize some people are talking, wondering how could I possibly want all those children. Even my aunt said she thought I had too much sense to take on that responsibility.” Mary shook her head. “But I’m twenty-four years old, Alex. I’m long past ready to be a mother and to have my own home.”
“You’ve been ready since you were five. You’re going to be the most wonderful mother to those children.” Alexandra smiled, thinking again about what her own mother had said to her last night. “And your husband-to-be, esteemed attorney that he is, is bound for marvelous things too, Mary. I couldn’t be happier for you both.”
Mary grasped her hand and squeezed. “I see you’re out of mourning garb, and I’m glad. You honored him properly, Alex, but I’m glad to see you in color again. Although I think we can do better than dark blue.”
Alexandra shushed her with a look.
“Is there someone . . . anyone who’s caught your eye of late? After all,” Mary continued hurriedly, as though anticipating a rebuttal, “it’s been a year. A lot of people aren’t even waiting that long anymore. I think the war has made us all more aware of time’s passing. Howell’s wife had scarcely been gone six months when he asked me to marry him. He said he didn’t wish to ‘act with unbecoming haste,’ but he does have the children to consider.”
Alexandra met her gaze. “My dear Mary, while you may believe whatever you like about Mr. Jackson’s haste in marrying you, don’t forget . . . I’ve seen the way the man looks at you.”
Mary’s eyes watered. “The same way David looked at you.”
Alexandra nodded as her own tears welled.
Her friend leaned closer. “Is there anything I can do to help you through today? And to help you . . . move beyond this difficult season?”
“You’ve already done so much. Just remembering today along with me helps. But . . .” Alexandra raised a brow. “I did use your address today for correspondence regarding a possible position.”
“You applied to teach somewhere?”
“I did.”
Mary squeezed her hand. “David would be so pleased, Alex. And so proud of you. But what did your father say?”
“I haven’t told him yet. Or Mother.”
Mary made a face that aptly described what Alexandra was feeling whenever she thought of that exchange.
She was tempted to tell Mary more, but she knew that would only elicit questions she wasn’t ready to answer. And might not even need to answer, if she ended up not getting the job after all.
She didn’t think Mary would fault her for wanting to teach at Fisk. But her friend was the daughter of General William Giles Harding, and everyone knew where he stood on the subject of educating freedmen. Exactly where her own father stood.
“You’ll likely receive a letter for me in the next day or two. And if you can either bring it or send it over to my attention, I’ll be so grateful.”
A gentleman approached the table, and Mary turned to help him, but not before she whispered, “I want to hear more about this. I hope it isn’t too far away. I don’t want to lose you!”
Alexandra nodded. Mary was the closest thing she had to a sister, and it was sweet of her to say that. But Alexandra knew that she was the one about to lose Mary. To a wonderful man, granted. But why was it that every time a friend married, a page turned and a chapter closed? It was about to happen all over again.
After distributing the remaining envelopes, the two women joined the crowd near the edge of the platform, where General Harding was speaking.
A moment passed, and Alexandra felt someone watching her. She turned to see Sylas Rutledge looking her way. He nodded and smiled, and she did the same before turning back. He was a handsome man, as Mary had said. And as it turns out, he had a sense of humor as well. He was obviously successful. And intelligent, even if in a less formal sense.
Alexandra felt a stab of guilt. How could she be having thoughts like that on this day? Her heart was still with David, as was her future now, in a way.
“To the fine citizens of Nashville,” General Harding said, his voice carrying over the quieted crowd, “I pledge to do everything within my power to continue to rebuild this fair city alongside you, and to garner the much-desired attention it is due.” He paused briefly as applause momentarily drowned out his voice. “As one whose roots go deep into the soil of this city . . .”
Alexandra eyed a certain stock car on the track, one with the gangplank lowered, surmising that’s where the thoroughbred was being held until the presentation. Then she glanced back in Mr. Rutledge’s direction, only to find him gone.
The discovery brought both relief and disappointment.
“So it is with deep remorse,” General Harding was saying, “and heartfelt sympathy to everyone who lost a loved one exactly one year ago today . . . that we pause to remember.” The general withdrew his watch from his pocket.
“In just a moment,” he continued, “after the bell in the First Presbyterian Church strikes three o’clock, it will continue to strike one hundred and three times. Once for each life lost that afternoon on Dutchman’s Curve. And though the pain of loss remains, let us focus today on lives well lived and love that was shared.”
Alexandra felt her throat closing.
“Would you please bow your heads with me as we remember . . . and pray silently for one another?”
Heart pounding, she bowed her head, not having expected this. Seconds passed in tense, almost painful silence, then from a few streets away the bell in the church tower struck three times. And continued . . .
One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .
She found herself counting along, feeling each strike resonating deep inside her.
Which toll was for David?
As she’d wondered many times . . . Had he died instantly? Or had he suffered beneath the weight of that train car, his body crushed and broken? Had he cried out for help? Only to die before they could reach him?
The ache in her chest sharpened with each toll.
Thirty-two . . . thirty-three . . . thirty-four . . . thirty-five . . .
Though General Harding hadn’t mentioned it, the majority of the victims had been freedmen riding in the frontmost cars. Where David had been.
Not far from where she stood, soft sobs rose. Slowly she lifted her eyes to see an elderly woman, her face buried in her frail hands. Nearby, a young Negro woman stood with a small boy cradled to her chest as she looked heavenward, silent tears trailing her cheeks. Even some of the men wiped unshed tears from their eyes as the bell continued to toll.
Seventy-one . . . seventy-two . . . seventy-three . . . seventy-four . . .
Suddenly it felt as though they’d been standing there for such a long time. Too long a time.
Eighty-one . . . eighty-two . . . eighty-three . . .
Too many people, Lord. Too many lives senselessly cut short that day. Needlessly, carelessly. Oh, David . . .
How she missed him. Missed his laughter and the life they’d intended to share. Why had they not married sooner? If they had, he might never have been on that train that morning. But she knew why . . .
She’d bent to her father’s will in that decision too. He’d wanted them to wait until after David began teaching at the university in Memphis. To make sure “the young man settles into the position well, Alexandra.” But looking back, she wondered if her father had hoped she might change her mind.
Ninety-nine, one hundred. One hundred one, one hundred two . . . one hundred three.
The final reverberation of the bell seemed to cling to the heat and humidity, and to the almost palpable grief now hovering over the gathering. For a moment Alexandra doubted if the sound would ever completely fade away.
But it did, finally, and everyone drew a collective, audible breath. She felt a tug on her hand and looked over to see Mary, whose cheeks were also damp.
Her friend leaned close. “I see someone I need to speak with, Alex. Wait here for me?”
Alexandra nodded, grateful for a moment to collect her thoughts. Then she spotted him again. Sylas Rutledge. Standing across the way near the gangplank of the stock car. And his expression . . .
Pained best described it. Or even anguished. But why would he be feeling such a sense of loss? Had he known someone who’d perished in the accident that day too? Doubtful, his being from so far away.
Then again, he was a railroad man. Maybe that alone provided a strong enough link. After all, she’d read in the newspapers of train accidents in the Colorado mountains and of workers plummeting to their deaths while building trestles across canyons. She shuddered.
The railroad represented progress, she knew. But at what cost?
General Harding resumed his speech, yet all she could focus on was the thunder of those two massive locomotives as they’d met head-on in that cornfield, the grinding of metal on metal. From where she’d sat by the window in her railcar, she’d watched helpless as the forward-most passenger cars telescoped into one another, the wooden structures splintering like children’s toys, the impact fanning out and over the remaining cars on both trains in a wave of destruction. Then everything went still. A sudden, unearthly silence, as if the entire world had gone mute.
Until the screams and cries arose.
“In conclusion of our remembrance,” General Harding said, his voice strong yet compassionate, “thank you, dear neighbors, for honoring those who died that day. If they could speak to us, I believe they would challenge us to venture on with fresh courage. To live out our days not shrouded in grief, but in the bold hope that, through the compassion and mercy of our Lord, we will see one another again someday.”
A wave of subdued amens rose and fell, and Alexandra added one of her own, the determination to start living again steeling inside her. And to live the life she chose, not one chosen for her. She’d already taken the first major step in that journey. Now to figure out how to tell her parents about her decision.
Hot and tired, she found herself eager to get back home. Even if she didn’t secure the position at Fisk, she wasn’t marrying Horace Buford. She would tell them that much at least. And surely she would find someplace else to teach. A school that didn’t demand the higher education she didn’t have.
But whatever she did, she needed to plan her departure quickly yet carefully. With as volatile a topic as this was, especially for her father, everything could go terribly wrong if she didn’t.
“So in the spirit of looking toward the future,” Harding continued, “and also in the continuing vein of this city’s nationally renowned blood horse lineage, allow me to share with you the most recent addition to Belle Meade Plantation . . . a world-class thoroughbred of which Nashville can be proud. The best three-year-old of 1870, the winner of the Kenner Stakes at Saratoga and the Phoenix Hotel Stakes at Lexington! I give you . . . Enquirer!”
Applause rose as all eyes shifted to the stock car where a tall, muscular Negro man was leading a massive horse down the gangplank. The magnificent bay stallion, standing at least sixteen hands high, snorted and tossed his head as the man coaxed him down to where Sylas Rutledge waited, Uncle Bob beside him.
The two men were conversing like old friends. Then again, Uncle Bob seemed like a friend to everyone he met. He’d certainly always made her feel welcome at Belle Meade.
“Alexandra!” Mary appeared at her side, breathless and face flushed. “You’ll never believe what I just heard. And on today of all days!”
Alexandra might’ve been tempted to smile, if not for her friend’s sober expression. “What is it, Mary?”
“It’s about Mr. Rutledge, whom we were talking about only awhile ago. The man in your father’s office yesterday.” Mary grabbed her hand and squeezed hard. “Mr. Rutledge’s father was the engineer driving the No. 1 that day, Alex. The train that you and David were on.”
Alexandra blinked. She heard the words but couldn’t get them to make sense. “That can’t be right. His last name is Rutledge, and the engineer’s name was Harrison—”
“Kennedy. Yes, I know. Harrison Kennedy was Mr. Rutledge’s stepfather. Apparently one of the other bidders was privy to the information and shared it with a friend of mine.”
Alexandra found her attention drawn back to Sylas Rutledge, who was still speaking, and even laughing, with Uncle Bob. Harrison Kennedy . . . his stepfather?
“Alexandra, are you all right?”
She heard Mary’s voice from far away and nodded, her gaze still riveted. “Yes. I’m fine. But . . . I need to go, Mary. I need to get home.”
“Would you like me to come with you? I will.”
“No.” Alexandra turned, numb inside and suddenly feeling unwell. “I’ll be fine. You go see Mr. Jackson. He’s waiting for you over there with your father.”
Mary looked across the platform and gave her fiancé a brief wave as the crowd pressed closer. “Alex . . . I’m so sorry. But I thought you’d want to know. And I truly don’t mind going along with you.”
“I prefer to be alone, Mary. But thank you.” Alexandra forced a smile. “Let me know if a letter comes for me?”
“I will.” Mary hugged her tight. “I’ll send it over myself. Take care going home.”
Alexandra nodded, and as Mary maneuvered toward her father and fiancé, Alexandra felt herself being carried along by the crowd’s momentum as they pressed closer in the direction of the thoroughbred.
How could Sylas Rutledge be here today? How could he be standing here among all these people, knowing what he knew? That his father was responsible for taking all of those lives? For taking David’s life? The audacity of it. The disrespect.
It would seem her initial instincts about the man had proven true after all.
Tears in her eyes, she tried to push her way back through the throng toward the street, but it was no use. She’d have to move forward, press off to the side, and then cut back.
She hadn’t noticed it before, but stacked crates connected with lumber formed a makeshift paddock around the horse, and a couple of General Harding’s stablehands stood nearby as well. Measures to ensure the public’s safety, she felt certain, but also the safety of the thoroughbred, which represented a sizable investment.
Makeshift paddock or not, Alexandra had no intention of getting any closer. She’d been around enough stallions to know they were dangerous animals. Handsome, to be sure, with a masculine strength and beauty that lured one in, then could crush a person in a single blow.
Not unlike Mr. Sylas Rutledge.
She looked back and found him looking in her direction. Their eyes connected, and he smiled at her. Then just as quickly, the expression faded. His brow furrowed, and a clear question showed in his features. But Alexandra looked away, and seeing a break in the crowd, she forced her way to the side, scarcely able to breathe for the pain in her chest.
Even when she heard him calling her name behind her, she didn’t stop.