The Measure of Katie Calloway,: A Novel (31 page)

“I’ve been saving up.” The eagerness in her voice was genuine. “I been praying for something I could do to get out of the business.”

Praying? Who would have guessed? Not him. The thought shook him. How many other people had he dismissed as being too far gone to even think about God?

“I’m meeting with Charlie in a couple hours. You’re welcome to come along if you want.”

“Oh, I’d like that.”

He noticed that she stood a little straighter than when they had first begun their conversation, and her voice had lost its perpetual wheedling sound.

“But first, I have some information you’re going to need.” Delia pulled a piece of paper out of her purse. “That redheaded cook of yours had the decency to treat me like a regular person back in October. I ran into her at the embalmer’s yesterday and she told me what had happened to her husband. I figured you might be interested in where she was going, so I wrote her address down. You’re a fool if you don’t go to Georgia and bring her back.”

Robert gratefully took the slip of paper. “Why do you care so much?”

Delia drew herself up. “If I’m going to become a respectable businesswoman, I’ll need a good friend like Katie Calloway in town.”

30

With grub hoes, pries, and axes

we loosed the roots and stumps

and we filled up all the hollows

as we leveled down the lumps.

“Johnny Carroll’s Camp”
—1800s shanty song

April 24, 1868

The one-room church building the Calloways had built on their property felt close and suffocating. Katie had almost forgotten how humid and hot Georgia could be, even in the spring. As the preacher droned on and on about Harlan’s virtues, she kept her eyes straight ahead.

It was not an easy thing to do when she knew that every eye was focused on her. Not the casket, not the preacher, just her. It felt as though the back of her head was in danger of catching fire from the stares she knew were aimed at her—the Northern woman who had the arrogance to abandon a Calloway. She was the woman who had not had the decency to stay and rebuild the plantation that her husband’s family had labored upon for generations.

Oh yes, she was an evil one, she was.

There was nothing she could do about it. If she kept silent, they despised her. If she opened her mouth and tried to explain the kind of person Harlan was, they would despise her even more. The genteel, lost culture of the South, exemplified in the well-manicured plantations, had rested on the shoulders of men like Harlan—boys raised to believe that their needs, their desires, their wants, had more weight than those of other mortals. It was a myth that was perpetuated from parent to son, until most believed it without question—except for the slaves who had labored beneath the misbegotten myth and some of the mistreated wives who had silently endured.

Now destitute, the people of Harlan’s county still clung to the memory of a chivalrous South and sweet abundance, all the things that Harlan Calloway had once represented. There were so few young men left. So few to start over again and rebuild. So few who could bring back a semblance of the vision that had once been Georgia aristocracy.

It was all bunk, of course. Harlan was no one to hang one’s hopes on. She had, to her own detriment, done exactly that at one time. The only thing she could do
now
was endure the stares. And then, her duty done, she could go home.

Funny, when she thought of home, it was no longer Pennsylvania where she was born and raised. Instead, it was the wild, windswept wilderness of Michigan with its lakes and scent of pine and the raw exuberance and heroism of those rough-and-tumble shanty boys.

And Robert. If she went back, would he want her?

The service finally ended. A procession of mourners walked to the private cemetery where generations of Calloways resided. Most of the people in the procession were women. After living in the all-male lumber camp, there seemed to be an astonishing lack of men here.

She and Ned were at the head of the black-clad assembly, directly behind the preacher. The preacher was yet another soldier—one who walked up the small rise with much effort and a pronounced limp. She knew him. He had fought on the side of slavery—a dedicated Christian man who had felt justified in shooting at other dedicated Christian men—like her father.

That was the part she would never, ever understand . . . how Christians had believed it to be appropriate to go to war against other Christians—ripping apart the fabric of the nation, destroying entire families and cutting down the leadership of too many fine churches.

The service at the graveside was interminable. Many women, their grief still fresh over their own sons and husbands, openly sobbed. Katie felt tears fill her own eyes—both for the terrible waste of her husband’s life and the pain and devastation she saw in the ravaged land and in the haunted eyes of the women.

When she thought she couldn’t bear one more minute, the last amen was said and the mourners began to disperse slowly, almost reluctantly. She guessed that there weren’t many social activities anymore. The days of large parties were over for now.

She felt almost embarrassed that she was wearing new widow’s weeds purchased back in Michigan. Women who had once been noted for the extravagance of their wardrobe now donned worn and discreetly patched clothing. They watched her with narrowed eyes.

She had never had a close friend while she lived here. She had not been allowed to leave the plantation alone. Harlan had informed her that women of her standing did not go about the countryside by themselves.

She soon found out that most plantation wives were as trapped as the slaves who served them. Her only friend while she had lived here was her maid, Violet.

The quiet animosity with which she was being treated now made her long for a friendly face. She wondered where Mose and Violet were now. Had they moved to Canada as Mose had mentioned? Wherever they were, she wished them well.

One bright spot was Carrie Sherwood and her fiancé. She and Carrie had never been close, but she liked the woman and was happy she had dodged a lifetime with Harlan—even if she was unaware that had ever been his intent.

A man she vaguely remembered to be Harlan’s solicitor approached her after the others had left. She stiffened, fearful that there would be something else she was expected to do.

“My name is Elias Jones.” He bowed with gentlemanly courtliness. “May we talk in private, Mrs. Calloway?”

At least he spoke to her civilly. The first one so far today who had not had thinly veiled contempt in his voice. She supposed, as an attorney, he was used to hiding his feelings. Still, her heart fell at the seriousness of his voice.

“Of course.” She glanced at her brother. This sounded like talk intended only for her ears. “Ned, why don’t you go down and play by the creek for a bit.”

Mr. Jones took her by the elbow and led her to a small bench. It was one that Harlan’s mother had had built so she could be comfortable while visiting her husband’s grave. Katie was certain she would never again need it.

Sitting down beside her, Mr. Jones extricated an official-looking envelope from his suit coat pocket.

“I hope you haven’t brought me bad news,” she said.

“I suppose that’s up to you to decide. Were you aware that your husband had a will?”

“No.”

“Did you know that he left Fallen Oaks to you in that will?”

Katie blinked in surprise. “That’s not possible.”

“Actually, it is quite possible.”

“Harlan said the plantation would go to his oldest male relative, Fenton Calloway. Isn’t that what usually happens to family property around here?”

“Usually.”

“Why would Harlan leave it to me?”

“The will was dated a few days before he left for war. I was the one who drew it up. I remember specifically that when he came into my office, he was incensed over something Fenton had done—or not done. Your husband could sometimes be quite . . . volatile. But at the time, he had decided he would rather you have it than his cousin.”

Katie had never expected nor wanted the responsibility of the land that Harlan and his family had worshipped.

“Fenton will surely contest this will. I certainly won’t object if he does.”

“Fenton fell at Gettysburg, Mrs. Calloway.”

“Oh.”

She thought that over.

“But what am I to do with an overgrown plantation? I’m no farmer.”

“One thing you cannot do is sell it. He insisted that I write the will in such a way that you cannot sell it during your lifetime. Upon your death, assuming you have not left a will of your own, it will revert to one of the blood relatives.”

“Can I give it to one of them?”

A strange expression passed over the solicitor’s face. “Forgive me, madam, but do you mind if I ask you why you ran away from your husband?”

“You can ask, but after the glowing eulogy the preacher gave, you won’t believe it.”

“Try me.”

“Harlan was a cruel man.” Katie took a deep breath. “He hid it well, but those of us who were his victims knew the truth.”

Elias Jones tapped the will against his knee. “I always suspected. As you said, he learned to cover it well, but that cruelty was in his eyes when he made that will disinheriting Fenton, a much better man than himself. Fortunately, at that moment, he was angrier with his cousin than with you.”

“Why didn’t he change it after I left?”

“Harlan didn’t come to town often after that, and frankly, I deliberately avoided him. His behavior became very erratic after the war and he seemed to fall into a steady decline. I’m surprised he sobered up long enough to follow you north.”

“Won’t the other Calloway cousins contest the will?”

“Probably, but I’m a very good lawyer. I made absolutely certain it was ironclad. Fallen Oaks belongs to you. Except you cannot sell it or give it away.”

“Can I leave and let it grow into brush and brambles?”

“I suppose you could. Or you could stay there. The cabin where Harlan lived is habitable after a fashion. You might consider renting it out. There are quite a few sharecroppers now, former slaves who work the land as they did before, giving their former masters a portion of their earnings as rent.”

“How many acres are left?” she asked. “Did Harlan sell any more than the section by the river?”

“As far as I know, there are approximately eight hundred acres. It seems a shame to let the soil go to waste when there is such a need for food in this country—and so few able-bodied enough to raise it.”

“Are you suggesting I take up the plow, sir?” she asked.

“No. I’m suggesting you find someone willing to do so.” He handed the will to her. “Or you can let it grow into brush and brambles and forget all about it. Of course, you realize you will be expected to pay taxes. Fortunately, as far as taxes go, the land is now valued at less than half its prewar value.”

“I can’t sell it. I can’t work it. I don’t care if I ever see it again. But I’m responsible for it.” Katie creased and re-creased the stiff paper. “It appears that I will have this albatross around my neck for the rest of my life.”

“There are many people who would not consider the ownership of eight hundred rich, bottomland acres an albatross.”

Her fit of annoyance left her. He was right. Even though it was Calloway land and held too many bad memories to count, would the Lord want her to allow it to lay fallow when so many people were trying to survive on so little?

She knew what hunger felt like and she hated the idea of innocent people having to endure it—especially the elderly and children.

“You have given me a great deal to think about, Mr. Jones, and I thank you for your kindness.”

“There is one more thing, Mrs. Calloway.”

“Oh?” She wasn’t certain she wanted any more surprises.

“Very little gets past me in this county. I know that the reason your husband was able to find you was through your connection to Violet.”

“That’s true.”

“Did you know that Mose and Violet have married and are living at Mrs. Hammond’s?”

“I wasn’t certain they were still there. I would love to see them again.”

“I believe that could be arranged. Mrs. Hammond passed away three weeks ago. Unfortunately, even though Violet nursed her faithfully during her last illness, Mrs. Hammond’s son is planning on turning Mose and Violet out soon.”

“I hate to hear that.”

“It is especially unfair since Mose has already finished the plowing and planting of Mrs. Hammond’s farm this spring.”

“Are you trying to suggest something, Mr. Jones?”

For the first time since they had begun their conversation, Mr. Jones smiled, and it was a smile worth seeing. His heart and soul was in that smile, and she saw for the first time that the elderly solicitor was an exceptionally kind man.

“Very few people know this, Mrs. Calloway, and I would appreciate it if you kept this between the two of us, but I have been an abolitionist at heart my entire life. There was little I could do about it before the war, and I was too old when it broke out to enlist. But in many small quiet ways I have done what I could.” His eyes twinkled. “I have to admit, as I sat through the eulogy, it occurred to me that there would be an ironic justice to a freed slave making a living off land his master once owned.”

The idea he proposed shimmered before her, silvery with justice. Mose and Violet would have the skill and the heart to turn the humble foreman’s cottage into a haven. They had all the knowledge it would take to farm the rich soil.