Authors: Elizabeth Courtright
Healing Grace
Copyright © 2016 Elizabeth Courtright
All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Year of the Book
135 Glen Avenue
Glen Rock, Pennsylvania
ISBN 13: 978-1-942430-97-1
Library of Congress Control Number: 201695310
June 1881
From the wooded bluff, a lone Klansman on horseback viewed the enveloping property with the immense white house at its helm. Farther away in the yard near the stable he could see three colored men at work, shoveling horse manure. Near them a number of colored children romped. Even from a distance the Klansman saw their smiles. He heard their laughter.
They sickened him.
Everyone at Grace Manor sickened him.
He waited, watching from his place in the trees until darkness descended. By then the yard was empty. The colored people were long gone. The lamps brightening the inside of the manor would make it impossible for anyone to look out through the windows. No one would see him closing in.
From his new vantage point on a rise of ground a few yards away, he could see directly into the parlor. Two children were on the floor. The boy, in blue trousers and a checkered shirt, was on his stomach lining up toy soldiers. The girl, younger than the boy, and adorned in a frilly yellow dress, was pretending to feed a doll.
Their doll-like mother was at one end of the sofa. The knitting needles in her fingers flew. She was making an afghan, the completed portion of which was spread across her lap. The Klansman could see her lips move, but the window was closed. He couldn’t hear what she said.
On the opposite end of the sofa a man lounged. His long legs were sprawled out in front of him. His dirty blond hair was long enough to be tied back at the nape. There was a book open on the cushion beside him, but he wasn’t reading. His attention was on the pink-wrapped infant he held in the crook of one arm. Where his other arm should have been, his sleeve was rolled and pinned.
The only remaining occupant of the room was seated in a wing chair. The stout old man had silver hair and a full beard of the same hue. The Klansman watched him rise, only to lower his bulk awkwardly to the floor to be with the boy and girl. Before long, he was on his back with the children climbing onto him. He picked up the little girl and lifted her high in the air. Even though the Klansman couldn’t hear, he could tell from her dimpled expression she was squealing with glee. Her lips moved as she hollered, “Grampie! Grampie!”
He hated them.
He hated them all.
Eventually the children vied for the honor of yanking on their grandfather’s hands to help him to his feet. The old man rolled himself up and each of the children received a hug for their assistance. In the chaos of farewells, the baby got a kiss on the forehead, and the mother a kiss on the cheek. The one-armed father got a pat on the shoulder.
It was time for the Klansman to move. He steered his mount away from the house and back to where he’d hidden earlier. From there, by moonlight, he watched the grandfather saunter across the lawn and disappear into the barn. When the grandfather emerged he was on horseback.
The grandfather was the worst kind of enemy—a traitor.
They all were. They all deserved what was coming to them.
Keeping a decent distance to prevent being noticed, the Klansman followed. There were bends in the well-worn roadways, and bushes and trees that, at times, caused him to lose sight of the grandfather, but it didn’t matter. He knew where the old man was going, and he was familiar with the terrain between Grace Manor and the grandfather’s destination.
Not long after the old man turned from the main path to the last leg of his journey—a fairly isolated stretch that would lead him home—the Klansman made his move. With revolver drawn, he barreled after the grandfather, not drawing rein until he was a scant few yards away.
Hearing the charge coming from behind, the old man maneuvered to the side of the road and turned around. His mount pranced and snorted, as startled and alarmed as its rider. It took a moment for the animal to settle, but the Klansman didn’t lose patience. As soon as the night was silent and still, his thumb settled on his weapon and slowly pressed. The click of the hammer resounded loudly, echoing in the Klansman’s ears.
“What do you want?” the grandfather said. “I don’t have any money.”
To disguise his voice, the Klansman roughened it. “Get off your horse.”
While the grandfather did as ordered, the Klansman was patient again. The old man was fat, so getting off a horse wasn’t an easy thing to do. As long as it took, no matter how much the grandfather teetered, the Klansman’s aim didn’t falter.
“What do you want from me?” the grandfather repeated. “I told you, I don’t have any money.”
I don’t want your money
. A simple pull of the trigger and a bullet would lodge deep in the old man’s skull. It was time.
“For your treachery against the Klan, you shall die!” The Klansman’s finger curled in until the metal of the trigger gouged into the folds of skin on the underside of his knuckle.
The grandfather didn’t cower. He didn’t try to run. He remained where he was, arms at his sides, chin raised, waiting for his penance.
He isn’t afraid. I knew he wouldn’t be afraid.
The Klansman could hear his own breath heaving, each inhale louder than the last. Inside his chest his heart pounded, but he didn’t have a choice.
Pull the trigger. Pull the trigger!
The weight of the revolver dragged on his shoulder, the ache an acute spasm trailing to his elbow.
Pull the trigger. You have to!
The horse under him sidestepped and the Klansman jammed in his heels. The horse reacted, bolting. He was a good horseman, easily able to maintain control without losing sight of his target. He would fire as he rode past. It would be better that way.
He couldn’t fail. If he failed, the life of another would be at stake, and he couldn’t let that happen.
He raced forward.
Luther Emerson must die!
For this year’s summer session there were nineteen students, ranging in age from five to sixteen, and Constance Pruitt adored every one of them—even the not-so-good ones. For two years now she’d been the teacher at the Northeastern School in Mount Joy.
The decision to move to Tennessee hadn’t been an easy one. Asserting her independence and starting a new life had been a petrifying undertaking, but reflecting back, she could only smile. She had a cozy little home next to the schoolhouse and a job she loved.
From the top step of the schoolhouse porch, Constance watched the children romp. How they could exert so much energy at recess and not be bothered by the stifling humidity she couldn’t figure. She was being as still as possible and yet sweat trickled down her back and pooled on her chest. Self-consciously she wiggled inside the whalebones of her corset, and then looked down to ensure no damp spots were seeping through the material of her dress.
Streams of sunlight filtering through the high branches overhead were strong enough to sting Constance’s cheeks, and she wondered if later the mirror would reveal pink blemishes, or worse, freckles. Absently she brushed fallen tendrils of her dark locks from her forehead. Most of the time she wore her dark hair down, simply tying the front ends back with clips, but today she’d decided to pin the heavy lot of it up, allowing the minute breeze better access to her neck.
A child’s scream caused her to look up. One of the boys—seven-year-old Daniel Emerson—was chasing two girls across the yard, a large earthworm dangling from his outstretched hand. Constance merely smiled. Daniel was one of her favorites, not because he was naughty, which he often was, but because the first real friend she’d made since coming to Tennessee was his mother, Emily.
It still humbled and mystified Constance that someone as well-off and sophisticated as Emily Emerson would take the time to welcome a lowly teacher to the neighborhood. Constance could no longer count the times she’d been invited to Emily’s home—the stately Grace Manor—for parties and dinners. Sometimes Emily asked her to come just so the two of them could sit and chatter.
Constance enjoyed every minute of Emily’s company, although she was also highly drawn to the children. Daniel was the only one old enough yet to attend school. Five-year-old Rebecca would begin in the fall. The baby, Mary, had been born just six months ago. Constance had been at Grace Manor to take charge of Daniel and Rebecca while Emily labored. The memory of holding the sweet infant just minutes after birth was one Constance cherished, and why little Mary held a special place in her heart.
“Mrs. Pruitt?”
Constance had been so absorbed in her musings, the unexpected interruption made her jolt. “Oh!”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” her gentleman caller said.
How she hadn’t heard him approach, she wasn’t sure, but Harry Simpson was there, just a few feet from the porch steps. Today he was dressed in light brown trousers and a royal blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, an ensemble she’d seen before. As with all his clothes these were well-worn and faded, and hanging too much on his thin frame, but they were clean. His belt was so tightly cinched, Constance was sure his waist would measure smaller than her own, even corseted. The only thing Harry ever wore that appeared to fit properly were his boots.
As if realizing he’d forgotten, he hurriedly grabbed the cap off his head. His hair was so fine and pale, it looked as downy as baby Mary’s. Out of the corner of her eye, Constance noticed three of the older female students grouped together under a not-too-distant tree, whispering.
“Hello, Harry,” Constance said. “It’s nice to see you.”
The bashful grin that emerged in reply intrigued her as much as it had when they’d first met, a few weeks before.
“I know I shouldn’t come by the schoolhouse during lesson time like this, but I was thinkin’ about you and wonderin’ if you’d mind havin’ dinner with me? Wednesday is meatloaf night at Rosie’s in town. She makes the best meatloaf…” His voice, a timid southern drawl, trailed off.
“I would like that,” Constance said, smiling.
“Okay. Uh, well then, okay.” His grin turned crooked, but he didn’t look her in the eye. “May I stop for you around five o’clock Wednesday evening?”
Constance nodded. “That will be fine, Harry.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Pruitt… I mean, Constance.” He put his cap back on and took a step away, but then stopped abruptly. “Uh, this is for you.” Hastily he withdrew his hand from behind his back. In it was a single, long-stemmed pink rose.
Giggles erupted from the trees, loud enough to carry, and Constance felt heat that had nothing to do with the sun creep into her cheeks.
“I think I got all the thorns cut off, but be careful just in case I missed some,” Harry said as he handed her the flower.
Constance dipped her head, as much to hide her blush as to sniff the rose. “Thank you, Harry. It’s beautiful.”
“I’ll see you Wednesday.” He bowed slightly. “Bye, Mrs. Pruitt… I mean, Constance.”
Constance waited, watching her new suitor disappear down the road. For a second she contemplated joining her giggling, not-so-clandestinely pointing students, but she was supposed to be too mature for such silliness. She was the teacher, for goodness sakes! So she stood up and fixed the adolescents with what she hoped was a decent schoolmarm glower. “Girls!” Then quickly she retreated inside.
Seated at her desk, she closed her eyes and buried her nose in the rose once more. Having a gentleman caller was fortune she’d never expected. Whether it was good or bad fortune still remained to be seen. She was too old at twenty-nine, and too dull, for any man to truly want her, and she had long been resigned to the notion that she would never, but more importantly
should
never marry again.
Her former husband’s name was George. As old-fashioned as it sounded, their match had been insisted upon by both sets of parents. At sixteen, Constance had been as enthralled by the handsome army officer as her girlfriends. She’d soon discovered being a wife wasn’t what she’d imagined. The only time she could remember being content had been while George was away with his regiment. In those days the newspapers announced the number of soldiers’ wives newly made into widows. Deep down, Constance had wanted to be one of them.
But George had survived the time he spent out west. He’d been home when he got sick. The morning she found him in his bed, cold and still, she’d been unable to stop crying. Neighbors tried to console her, but their sympathy only upset her more, and shame kept her from saying a word. Not one of the tears she’d shed was from mourning her loss.
Soon after George died, it became apparent that in order to survive she would need to seek work. Using the last of George’s money, Constance had applied to the teacher’s college in Washington, D.C. The superintendent of the school, the Reverend Sebastian Nash, was the one who recommended she take the teaching position in Mount Joy.
Since coming here, the evil-mindedness that had prevailed while George was alive, had dissipated. At least Constance believed it had. In the last few years, she hadn’t had one malicious thought about another person. And sometimes, not often, but sometimes she wondered if she might marry again. It wasn’t that she wanted to be married—that particular institution held no appeal. What she wanted was to prove that her prayers were answered, and that somewhere along the line God had removed her wicked immorality.
This was why, she supposed, Harry Simpson’s past didn’t trouble her. And Harry was the complete opposite of George both in temperament and looks. Constance could remember how women used to turn and stare at George. He’d been handsome and aloof, strutting about with such superiority. Unlike George, Harry wasn’t the type to turn heads. He didn’t exude confidence. Quite the contrary, in fact. And he wasn’t what most would consider handsome.
Even so, there was something appealing about Harry, especially his reticent smile and the laugh lines around his blue eyes. Constance liked his nose too, even though it was a little crooked and had a bump on it that made her think it had been broken a time or two. What she liked best though, was his sun-bleached feathery hair. Sometimes she found herself wondering if it would feel as soft as it appeared.
Mrs. Winthrop, the organist at the church, had been the first to warn Constance about Harry. She said he’d been in prison and Constance should have nothing to do with him. But when Harry had approached her on the lawn in front of the church and asked, in his stuttering, bashful way if he could walk her home, she hadn’t been able to say no. She didn’t say no the next Sunday either, when he asked if he could share the pew, or when, after the service, he walked her home again.
During that second stroll, while sauntering along the rutted country road surrounded by aromatic honeysuckle bushes, Harry blurted, “Mrs. Pruitt, I think you’re one of the prettiest ladies I’ve ever seen, and I…I would like to court you.”
When Constance was young, her mother and father used to tell her she was pretty, but she’d come to realize her parents were merely being kind. All parents thought their own children were handsome. George had never really courted her, and once they were married, he made it clear she wasn’t the slightest bit attractive.
“You should have been a nun,” George used to say. “That’s what plain women who can’t get a husband do. You’re too skinny, too tall and you have no chest.”
Harry hadn’t given Constance a chance to laugh his false flattery away.
“Please don’t say anything yet,” he’d gone on. “There’re some things I should tell you first. If, after I tell you these things, you don’t want me to call on you, I’ll understand and won’t bother you again.”
So Constance had listened as Harry spoke of his involvement with the Ku Klux Klan. She knew of the Klan, and she’d read about their violence, but she’d never actually seen a Klansman, or known of anyone who was one. Harry had continued on, telling her of the crimes he’d committed in the name of the Klan, of being convicted of rape and murder, and his subsequent incarceration.
Constance had been appalled by Harry’s admissions, and she probably would have remained so had it not been for the rest of what Harry said.
“I was a young foolish kid,” he murmured. “I never thought about the people I hurt, or their families. Being sent to prison was what I deserved.
“Take some time to think on it, Mrs. Pruitt. I don’t have much to offer, especially for someone as genteel and smart as you. I’m thirty-two years old and don’t even have a home of my own. I work my father’s farm for him.
“God knows I don’t deserve to breathe the same air as you. But I have to ask, once you’ve had a chance to think on it, if you decide you don’t want me to call on you in a romantic sense, I was just wondering, if you would consider… if you could see it in your heart to… be my friend.”
That day, Harry’s humility broke Constance’s heart. She’d had to blink, and blink again. And then she had to shake herself. To lighten everything, she’d stuck her arm through the crook of Harry’s and said brightly, “If we’re going to be friends, I think you should call me Constance, don’t you?”
Constance couldn’t deny she enjoyed Harry’s company. And even if his compliments were exaggerated, they were nice to hear. She found herself taking special care with her hair and clothes, just in case he happened by, like today. This was the third time he’d unexpectedly stopped at the schoolhouse.
Still, the guilt ate at her. Harry had been forthcoming about his past. She, on the other hand, had disclosed nothing of her own. She supposed this was because somewhere inside a fleeting hope was beginning to grow. She wasn’t good enough for anyone else, but maybe, just maybe, she was good enough for someone like Harry.
He’d committed horrible wrongs against people.
Physically Constance had never harmed a living soul, but she’d desperately wanted to, and in her mind that was just as bad.