Al had been home for a week. Every move, from staring across the kitchen table at Toby’s empty bench to today’s job helping Hébert and Mundy paint the school, brought a sharp ache. Painting had been one of Toby’s favorite jobs, and as the work began Al’s thoughts turned to how the boy was doing. Did he feel accepted? He’d been to New Orleans too often to react like a country boy in Boston, but did he seem too southern, too much like a Confederate weed sprouting in a Yankee rose garden?
They had started painting the schoolhouse at first light before the heat got too intense. When Hébert finished the little bell cupola that straddled the roofline above the narrow front porch, he scooted down the ladder, not a smear of paint anywhere on his hands or his loose cotton shirt. “I was thinking how we love this place. Samantha would never have built it.”
Samantha. I’ve never heard him call her Miss. “I can’t explain Charles or Samantha. Even when I showed Charles that freed slaves at the townhouse in New Orleans functioned as well as anyone, he refused to listen.”
Hébert refilled his paint bucket and positioned the ladder under the eave. “Master trusted us to work in the field from dawn till dark without him coming once to see how we were doing. But let me start writing in those ledgers and he was over me like spilled molasses.”
Al watched Hébert’s face for any sign of anger. He was like his mama––at peace with himself. He could have walked away that day in 1852 when Al manumitted all Samantha’s slaves. His skin was as white as the Germans moving into the county. All the slaves stayed except for his brother. Anthony left before the ink dried on his papers. “You showed Charles you could run this place and keep all the records. It hangs in my craw that neither of them lived long enough to see how well this co-op functions.”
“We wouldn’t have a co-op if they’d lived. Samantha pretended we were slaves even after you freed us. The only reason she put up with us having that tutor was because you paid for it all and you built the teacherage.”
Al heard the flash of anger in Hébert’s voice. “I never understood why you let her dress you up in Charles’ old morning coat to drive her to the Browning Plantation for those games of chivalry.”
“It made life easier on Mama Zoé. When I refused one of those stupid demands, I could go off to my cabin, but Mama was stuck in that cavern under the big house enduring her tirades.” Hébert shook his head. “When you gave us our freedom papers, Anthony and I sat up all night arguing. He was determined to be out of here the next day, and he wanted Mama and me to go with him. She didn’t want to leave, and I didn’t either. To settle Anthony down, I promised him I’d see to it that Samantha didn’t mistreat Mama.”
Al snorted. “You bent over backward to keep Samantha happy. I can still see you perched on Samantha’s buggy geared out in that top hat, the tails of Charles’ morning coat flapping. She held that parasol like Queen Victoria on the way to Buckingham Palace.”
Hébert’s booming laugh made the birds flutter out of the cottonwoods. He began painting again, his brush making long strokes. “You know my grand-mère was part French?” His voice stayed so low that Al had to lean in to hear him. “She was one of the Metoyer slaves up near Natchitoches. That’s part of how we got so much white in our blood. The French took slaves into their family. Mama grew up with their genteel manners. She was tutored with all the white children, and she spoke French, but she kept her African ways for making medicine and carving all those little figures into her wooden rosary beads.”
“I didn’t know that,” Al whispered.
“Mama says her mère was tall and elegant like the French ladies and her babies, including my mama, came out with light skin. Master and Samantha went up the Red River to Natchitoches for some big affair and saw my mama. She was about thirteen. Samantha wanted a servant who had manners and knew about serving and taking care of the house. All those people up around the Isle Brevelle Colony were mixed race and cultured.”
Al leaned against Hébert’s ladder. “They took her away from her family?”
“Mama planned to go looking for her mère, but she passed before we moved here.”
They had finished painting when a rider came down the road from Independence and dismounted out by the well. In between long gulps from the dipper, he explained that Elizabeth complained of a case of stomach troubles. Jessica, her maiden sister with whom she lived and carried on a hate-contest, wanted Al to tend the store. “Miss Jessica is on a tear because she has to look after things,” the young man said. “She said to tell you she took one dollar out of the cash drawer to pay me.” He grinned. “And you had better get up there before she takes out more to hire a nigger to handle her sister’s job.”
Al rubbed a bandanna across his sweating face to hold down his anger. “Cool down your mare and eat some lunch. When you get back, inform Miss Jessica that I’m on my way. If I don’t arrive in time to suit her, she can close the store and go home.”
The boy led his mare into the shade and hunched down against one of the cottonwoods that dominated the schoolyard. “Me and Old Gray will rest a spell before we go back and face Miss Jessica. Maybe she’ll be cooled down by the time we get back.”
“I doubt it.” Al headed up the road toward home.
Hébert helped load water and hitch Miss Millie to the buggy. They agreed that he would take the freight wagon to Brenham and meet the train with Al’s latest order for the stores. “If school hasn’t started, hire Ezra to help me in Independence.” Al grinned. “But don’t give him an excuse to skip class.”
“With all the crops dried hard as jerky, nobody’s going to be picking any cotton. I bet his Brenham school has taken up.” Hébert nodded toward the school. “Miss Perdue got in here yesterday. She’ll start our classes by the end of the week.”
“Are you going to teach French again this year?” Al loved to listen when Mama Zoé and Hébert were together. She refused to speak to her son in English; she didn’t intend for him to forget French. She was the power behind the French lessons that Hébert offered every year.
Hébert’s finely chiseled face spread into an embarrassed grin. “Miss Perdue came to visit Mama right after the stagecoach arrived. Right away she asked me about French.”
Al punched Hébert’s arm bulging under his work shirt. “I keep telling you, that woman is after you. Why don’t you loosen up? See what happens?”
“She’s a city girl. Have you smelled her?”
“Jesus, Hébert,” Al howled, “I don’t sniff the teachers.”
“She’s like a gardenia, sweet-smelling and fluffy.”
“That’s supposed to make you want to get closer. Try it. She’s not going to make any of that city business rub off on you.” Al punched Hébert again. “You’re the reason I convinced her to come back for this school year. Young women don’t like living way out here in that little house behind the school. You know how much trouble I’ve had keeping teachers, only the old grouchy ones will stay more than a year.”
“So, you want me to convince her to stay?” Hébert ducked his head, shuffled his big boot in the dirt.
“Nope. I want you to court her. She obviously wants the same thing.”
“When I get back from Independence, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Hébert, you’re not organizing a cotton-picking crew or drawing up plans for building a barn. You’re courting a pretty lady.”
“Look at you, passing out woman advice.” Hébert leaned his arm on Al’s shoulder and grinned.
“You win. Stay an old, lonely bachelor. You can see by looking at me, how happy it makes a man.” Al swung himself up onto the soft leather of the carriage seat and looked down with affection at his brother’s son. “Why don’t you speak to her before you take off for Brenham? Let her know you’re eager to get yourself back here.”
Miss Millie responded quickly to Al’s light snap of the reins. She was a slightly nervous, red bay that had stopped winning races when Al and Toby found her at the quarter horse track in Columbus. The mare had welcomed Toby on her bare back and pranced home alongside the freight wagon, swishing her black tail like the queen of the racetrack. She took to the carriage without complaint. Toby said it was because the buggy was the best-looking in the county.
Al relaxed on the comfortably-cushioned seat and gave Miss Millie easy rein, allowing her to set her own pace—trotting and then slowing to a relaxed walk. The road rose out of the forested bottomland onto the undulating prairie. As far as he could see, the heat had yellowed the fields where milk cows should have been grazing. He maneuvered the carriage bonnet for more shade and opened the front of his shirt to allow the little breeze stirred by Miss Millie’s speed to tickle his neck. Maybe Hébert would bring a letter from Tobias.
The heat had driven the entire population of Independence indoors. He rode through the empty streets, pulled into the livery stable, and was surprised to see how hard it was to get out of the carriage. Ezra was right; I’m going to have to use a cane. He hobbled around the corner to the front door of Waters Mercantile and faced a scowling Miss Jessica. “Thank you for helping in the store.” He held out his hand and watched the old maid brush past.
“I resent the way you’ve over-worked my dear sister,” were the last words he understood as her feet echoed along the wooden walkway.
He stepped into the welcome coolness of the store. William Crane, president of Baylor University, rose from one of the chairs behind the cash drawer and extended his hand. “Good afternoon, Al. I’m glad you’ve come to relieve Miss Jessica. She’s worked herself into quite a state.”
Clasping the giant man’s exuberant handshake, Al saw lines of fatigue in the usually cheery face. Crane was a hallmark of acceptance even for souls like Al who was not a member of the Independence Baptist congregation. “I hope you haven’t been here all day with Miss Jessica.”
“No, no. She’s one of my flock who never hesitates to call on me. I learned how to ration my time with her. I came in on the stage from Sherman.” Crane folded himself onto his chair.
Did he get off the stage and stop in here to rest or to visit? “You look like it’s been the trip from hell.” Al sat on top of the counter facing his visitor, glad that no customers were in the store to interrupt them.
Crane’s face wrinkled into a mischievous grin; an expression Al noticed when he said words like “hell” that Crane would never allow himself to utter.
“It was a long, hot trip. I spent a week trying to convince the convention folks that Baylor needs more of the Baptist dollars.” He shrugged. “We only have seventy-five students enrolled this semester. Waco has over two hundred fifty—”
“Damn. Can you do anything about it?”
“The Alumni are on my side, but Edward Burleson is determined to consolidate, move us all to Waco University. That’ll end Baylor at Independence.”
“You’ve also got the competition in October of that new Agricultural and Mechanical College over in Brazos County,” Al said.
Crane stood, paced to the front door and back. “I’ve let our boys know that the new school requires them to join the Corps of Cadets and have military training.” Crane stopped and bent toward Al. “And they’re not offering a course in agriculture.”
“It can’t hold a candle to Baylor. You’ve broadened the curriculum and created the separate female school—”
“Contrary to the views of most Baptists, I’ve backed state support for public schools. Our good neighbors over at Bryan got the state to endow their college.” His expression—eyes pleading—was that of a man needing understanding.
“With that Constitutional Convention going on in Austin, the Democrats are hell-bent on rewriting every law the Republicans crammed down our throats. Even the good laws like having a statewide school system.”
Crane slumped back in his chair. “Yes, and the Baptists are mostly Democrats.”
Al felt sorry for this man who gave almost $10,000 of his wealth to strengthen Baylor. He was such a charming fundraiser that he got $1,000 out of Al. “Baylor’s the lifeblood of Independence. The town will dry up without it.”
“That’s what I hope to avoid.” Crane rolled his eyes. “Thanks for listening to me.”
“Do you think Miss Elizabeth is seriously ill? Should I check on her?”
“Not at all,” Crane said. “I expect she’ll get back to the store as quickly as possible.”
Al nodded, aware that the entire town knew of the lifelong feud that raged between those two old maids.
“Tell me about Toby. We’re already missing him,” Crane said.
The mention of his name brought a thump of pain to his chest. “He should be settled by now.”
“Some of the faculty were talking about him before I left. We think he’ll make a fine doctor, be a blessing to the county.” Crane headed for the front door. “Don’t suppose he telegraphed you about what he thinks of the school so far?”
Al shook his head. He wished he could tell Crane what was eating at him. Maybe he would, someday. “I wanted to ask him to, but I tried not to hold the reins.”
“I understand.” Crane stepped onto the porch. “Not one of my eight children would have telegraphed me.” He walked on down the road, waving to people as he passed the hotel and the Masonic Lodge.
Miss Elizabeth appeared the next morning looking a little pinched. “I had to get out of there. Jessica would drive a preacher to drink.”
“Take it easy a few more days. If you need to rest, go up to my quarters for a while. I’m staying until I get everything stowed after Hébert gets here with the New Orleans order.”
In late afternoon Al heard the jangle of the freight wagon in the alley and met Hébert as he shoved open the wide double-doors, a worried look on his face. He pulled an envelope from his pocket. “The good news is this letter from Boston.” He grinned as Al fumbled to open the letter and paced the floor in a slow limp as he read.
“He says it’s cool up there. He’s wearing his jacket every day. Made the trip with no trouble.” Al leaned against the counter, surprised at how weak he felt with relief. He’d feared the boy might not write. “He found a room in a boarding house with two other men. He can walk easily to the James River. He’s already become a Boston Red Stockings fan. Says they won their fourth consecutive National Association championship. Classes start end of the month.” Al stared at the wrinkled pages and read the last line to himself. Toby was surprised to see all white students––not a colored man except for janitors. He sucked in a deep breath. “He sounds like he’s settling in.” He folded the letter and slipped it into his shirt pocket, patting it as he stared out the storefront window remembering that a year ago Toby and his classmates gathered out on the porch to watch the female students stroll into town to shop and to be admired by the males. This year, they were gone, some as far away as Brazil where their families had opened slave plantations.
Hébert came in from the wagon with a crate of lamps and set them on a display table. “I’m stumped about Ezra. Wally and Cora haven’t seen him. I went to his school. The teacher says he and his sister haven’t been there since classes started last week. I looked for his house. I’m too white for anybody to be willing to tell me where he lives. They pretend they don’t remember me coming into town to the Union League meetings. I recognized several men that I registered to vote. It felt like they were hiding something. I finally gave up. He needs to be in school and not up here working, anyway.”
“I’ll go back through Brenham,” Al said. When the Camptown folks tell him we’re looking, I’m sure he’ll show up.”
Elizabeth whisked the new crinolettes into the portion of the store arranged behind tall shelves where the young women, under her strict guidance, could have privacy to examine corsets and stockings and other female needs. She held up one of the new, smaller bonnets and shook her head at Al. “These little hats tempt the girls to buy all that false hair you ordered. They look at the lady’s magazines and learn to twist the hair in a high knot or a cluster of ringlets under the bonnet.”
Al laughed. “That’s the point, Elizabeth. One item attracts the customer to buy something else.”
“Well, it feels dishonest.”
Before he blew out the lamp that night, Al unfolded several pages of a letter he had been writing to Toby over the days while he waited to hear the boy’s new address. He had struggled to convey his feelings, find some word that would heal the wound he had inflicted. He would carry the letter back to Brenham rather than leave it for the stage.