Promise of Yesterday Page 4

  Chester rubbed at his chin. Honestly, he couldn’t imagine it either. For a moment he lost himself in what it would feel like to be looked after by a woman. Any woman. But especially Marylu.

  Another snap of the scissors and she startled from her reverie and turned toward him. “You sit still now and I’ll get to work. No use me worrying over that man. He sure doesn’t worry himself over his body’s needs.”

  Chester nodded and figured it better to agree. At least while she held a pair of scissors.

  six

  Cooper’s doings shrank away as Marylu set about snipping at Chester’s head. She brushed his hair back with her fingers to gauge the evenness of her cuts then trimmed some more. The mostly black hair fell at her feet, looking like miniature balls of coarse yarn.

  He sensed the way he needed to turn his head to accommodate her cutting, which pleased Marylu. When she ran her fingers through the ever-shortening mop, she became more aware of the intimacy of the gesture and all she had missed being unmarried. She swallowed hard over the swell of grief.

  If things had worked out all those years ago, she might very well be cutting the hair of her own man instead of every stray Cooper brought in. Rather than allow that line of thinking to distract her, she grasped for some subject to chat about, but the notion shattered when the question burned through her mind, So, did you really kill someone? If he said yes, she just might go down on her knees and take to crying. And her knees hurt too much already for that to happen. If only there was some way to communicate with him.

  She froze mid-snip. Her gaze fell on the cupboard above the bucket of water. If Chester wondered why the steady snipping motion stopped, he didn’t react.

  Marylu slipped the scissors into her pocket and crossed the room. Yanking open the cupboard door, she lifted onto her toes and slid her hand along the rough wood of the top shelf. Her fingertips grazed a cool, smooth surface, and she withdrew the object and faced Chester, holding the board up for him to see.

  His head tilted at her, brow lowered in concentration. It was a reaction she hadn’t expected.

  She stroked the smooth surface of the slate and guessed the answer to her next question, but asked it anyhow. “Do you know how to write?”

  Chester lowered his gaze to his hands, as if the answer lay somewhere within the rough cuticles and broken nails. It was a reaction she had seen often in the generation that had sampled the poison of slavery.

  “Then I’ll teach you.”

  His head popped up.

  Marylu witnessed the doubt that shifted into a glimmer of hope. She nodded. “I’ve done it before. Many times in fact. Miss Jenny made sure my family could read and cipher. I pass that on when and where I can.”

  Chester felt a gentle hand squeeze his heart. Conviction shone from Marylu’s eyes, turning them soft and gentle. He basked in what he saw reflected there, a surge of gratefulness carrying with it a flow of peace that washed over his heart and through his mind.

  She brought the slate with her and passed it across to him. “You take that and use this to write with.” She skirted the table and bent down, her face inches from his, though her full attention was on the slate.

  His heart raced as her profile was silhouetted against the lantern farther down the table. He could see the texture of her skin, smooth and soft. Warmth emanated from her, enveloping him and lighting his imagination with what it would be like to hold her close.

  “What you need to do first,” her voice flowed over him, “is you need to learn how to hold this here pencil.” She stroked her hand over the length of his and flattened it against the table, not for a moment realizing the affect her touch had on his senses. She cupped her hand around the pencil and showed him how the tool was moved by the fingers. “It’s very simple, but I don’t care how you hold it as long as you can make the letters right.” She pulled his hand off the table and pressed the pencil into his palm. “Now it’s your turn.”

  He mimicked what he’d seen her do. Her praise boosted his desire to try harder. When she showed him the motions of a letter she called A, he watched closely and repeated her bold strokes. She beamed a smile down on him that reminded him of sun-warmed Spanish moss twisting in a breeze.

  She rained down a steady stream of praise as they progressed through the alphabet. Marylu sang the entire stream of letters he had just practiced writing. She pronounced each one, over and over, as she finished trimming his hair, and he worked the pencil on the slate to form the last of the vowels.

  “Sharp as one of Miss Jenny’s straight pins. You’ll be writing books before too long.”

  She brushed off his shoulder, then moved across the room and replaced the shears in the cabinet. She untied her long apron and draped it across the bench seat before taking her place beside it.

  Clearly, they were done. He had no more reason to stay, and it was late. He could feel the exhaustion in his bones, but his mind, too, felt the weight of all that he had accomplished.

  “You take that on home with you and practice in whatever spare time you can find.”

  Her gaze met his. Before he could talk himself out of the gesture, he reached to cover her hand that she had rested on the table. The contact buzzed pulses of pleasure along his nerves.

  She seemed startled. Eyes wide. She stared down at his hand, back at him, then jolted to her feet so fast the bench fell backward.

  An immediate lump formed in his throat and swelled. He had panicked her. Her smile now became one plastered by politeness as she hovered near the door.

  Chester didn’t understand her reaction but knew it best to leave. He nodded his appreciation while pointing to his shortened hair and hurried out into the night, the prospect of returning to his small room leaving him hollow.

  seven

  It had been the first time a man had touched Marylu with tenderness since Walter’s lips had pressed a kiss against her hand. In her mind she could still see Walter’s dark head bent over her fingers. Feel the softness of his lips. But scratching out those tender moments was the moment he had taken a step backward and disappeared into the moonless night. Never to return.

  Chester’s hand, his touch, had startled her, sure, but her own reaction, that rush of exhilaration, left her afraid. She could have discounted the gesture as one of gratefulness for what they’d accomplished, for he’d been obviously enthusiastic about his progress, but it had been the dark softness in his gaze that told the truth. And she’d felt that same warmth from him the first day in the shop when he’d dared to defy her clean floors with his muddy feet.

  She pulled the lantern closer and raised the glass to blow out the flame, when the door opened and Cooper slipped into the circle of lamplight.

  He seemed startled by her presence.

  “Just like you to sneak in like an errant schoolboy.”

  Cooper shrugged and melted onto the seat as if every last ounce of strength went from him in that second.

  Marylu’s expert ears picked up on his labored breathing. “Should be in bed, snugged up warm, not traipsing around in the cool night air with a cough like you’ve got. I told you that.”

  No response.

  She moved around the table and felt his forehead. He was burning up with fever. She wished for Chester’s presence and strength now to help lift the old man to bed. “Up with you. I’ll raise up Miss Jenny and send her to fetch the doctor.”

  “No need,” his voice, thick with sickness, scared her more than anything. “I’ll be fine come morning.” He coughed.

  “You won’t be fine, because if that fever don’t kill you, I might be tempted.”

  She put a hand on Cooper’s arm and lifted, signaling he should raise himself.

  He struggled to his feet and shuffled toward the back door.

  “Now you get over to your little room quick-like and snuggle up in that bed. I’ll bring you something hot and have Miss Jenny get the doctor.”

  “Doctor Kermit, not that other doctor. Old Kermit don’t mind looking after us darkies so much.” Cooper closed the door behind him.

  She left to heat water and rustle around for some honey and the cinnamon she hoarded for special bakings and sickness. As she set about preparing the herbal tea, her mind turned again to Chester’s touch then to Walter. Tears burned, but she widened her eyes and refused to release them. She lifted the cup and inhaled the cinnamon sweetness. The clutch of a memory, long buried, grabbed at her mind. Walter’s fever. The way she had nursed him back to full health.

  A rustling startled her, and she half-turned.

  Miss Jenny stood in the doorway to the kitchen, worry etched in the lines beside her eyes. “I heard you down here mumbling to someone. Cooper?”

  Marylu faced her friend, the cup in her hands.

  Jenny’s eyes dipped to the mug of tea she held. “He’s worse?”

  “Best fetch Doc Kermit. Or you can stay with him and I will. I told him to get himself to bed.”

  “I’ll go. Bring some water to boil and make a tent. I’ll leave immediately.” Miss Jenny spun on her heel, but she held out a hand to stop her momentum. “He just got back?”

  “Not ten minutes ago. Came in looking like a beat puppy.”

  “Was he alone?”

  The question rattled around in Marylu’s head and raised a whole new set of questions. “He courting someone?”

  “No. No, not at all. I just … wondered.”

  Chester couldn’t help but grin at his progress. Despite Marylu’s withdrawal from him at the end of the evening, he had felt her pride in his accomplishments. He had worked over the alphabet on his slate most of the night, the slate pencil screeching with every carefully formed line and curve, until his eyes became heavy.

  Indirect moonlight lit his room, and he pushed himself down d
eep under the covers. He wondered if Marylu lay sound asleep, or if late nights were spent in some sort of needlework, or maybe she read more from her Bible. After the long days she worked, sleep would come easy for her, he was sure. Nothing to haunt her nights, being raised up in a family that cared about the people under their roof.

  He squeezed his eyes tighter and shifted position, willing away the thoughts that always invaded his mind when he lay down to sleep. An endless litany of harrowing moments spent on the run. Fearing capture. Of the cold nights and the pain of an empty belly.

  Stop it!

  A light scratch brought him alert. He lay still and tense. He hated mice and dreaded not only the thought of the little critters but also the bigger threat of their cousins. He tried to console himself that he’d not seen any of the furry vermin during the day.

  Another scratch, followed by a muffled curse.

  His mind flew. His small room was closest to the back door of Mr. Shillito’s hotel. He drove back the covers and made short work of pulling his trousers on and snapping suspenders into place over his nightshirt. He opened the door of his room and peeked through the crack. He didn’t need to see anyone to know the back door of the hotel gaped. A cold draft of air shot through the hallway and blew around his bare ankles.

  A dark shadow leaned against the wall. Weak light indicated the outline of a slender man.

  Chester caught the scent of alcohol. He moved slowly, unsure if the man posed a threat or simply couldn’t function as a result of his inebriation. He would need to get the man to his room. At least this drunk was too soused to tear up things.

  Chester took two steps in the man’s direction before the shadow sunk down the wall and landed in a heap. Snuffles indicated the first stirrings of slumber that would, Chester had no doubt, lead to an all-out snore session. He poked the heap with his bare foot. Nothing. He reached down and grabbed the man’s arm, startled to realize the form was that of a black boy. His mind flew over the possibilities. He stooped to wedge his shoulder beneath the boy’s armpit and guide him to his feet.

  The stranger must have woken long enough to understand what was being asked of him, as his movements became independent. Chester limped with the semiconscious man to his door, shoved it open with his toe, and barely got the boy through it before he lost his grip. He tried to catch his breath and hoped all the while that the noise he’d made didn’t waken the only patron present on that floor this evening. Thank goodness they were in the room at the end of the hallway.

  Chester took the time to light the two candles at either end of his room. He pulled the candleholder closer to the boy’s face. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Chester knelt beside the young man and slapped him lightly on the cheeks. He didn’t get a response and really hadn’t expected one. He rose and grabbed his shirt, balling it up to make a pillow for his visitor’s head. Sleep would be the best thing for now.

  Chester sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the too-thin form and the pants frayed around the hem. He blew out the candles, more bothered than he wanted to be by the still form of a drunken youth whose weakness for drink had him wandering around alone.

  eight

  “You’re looking tired.” Marylu swept Chester from head to foot the next morning as they worked in the same room, Chester bent over a drawer that tended to stick. “You must have stayed up working on your alphabet.”

  He nodded, eyes brightening, and held up a finger. He turned the drawer upside down and used his index finger as a pencil to write the letter A, followed by the rest of the alphabet.

  Marylu watched his progress with satisfaction. When he got stuck on Q, she spoke the consonant and wrote it on the drawer bottom. Chester tried to imitate her. When he lifted his face, she shook her head. “Remember, the stick goes this way at the end. The other way makes the letter a G.”

  He tried again, more diligent in his determination than any other person she had ever tried to teach. When he kept writing the stick in the wrong direction, she shifted to stand behind him. She placed her hand over his, her index finger pressing against his to show the direction of the tail of the Q.

  His face was inches from hers. A sudden wave of heat gripped her and made her yank her hand away and stand straight. He seemed not to notice her quick retreat. Again he made the circle of the letter and began the line, pausing at the bottom in uncertainty.

  Pulling air into her lungs, she leaned forward, doing her best to maintain more distance between them. “Now over to the right and up.”

  He nodded and finished the letter. He repeated it then went on to finish the alphabet again, but Marylu stopped watching the letters and focused on his hands. His face. The curious little scar over his right eye.

  He reminded her of Walter. Not in looks, but in the fact that he was needy. Walter had needed care and the courage to continue what he’d started. He had been near death when Miss Jenny’s family had freed him, along with the others. With Marylu’s knee strained, and a bone in her ankle broken by the horse, she had determined to keep a vigil by Walter’s bed in the hidden room, surrounded by all she needed to care for him through the day. And as their bodies healed, their hearts became knit together.

  Likewise, she knew the close proximity to Chester, night after night of teaching him to read and cipher as she planned, would do the same. Over the years of teaching others, she had seen the emotion, almost near worship, that her pupils often lauded her with. In their minds, she had given them a wondrous gift. But despite that, none of the handful of men she had taught had been one she could love, so she had shrugged off their adoration. Chester was a man she could love. Maturity would make her take the path slower than she had with Walter, and with more thought, but first she must choose whether or not to take the path at all. She must not forget the stain of murder was upon him.

  When Chester waved a hand in front of her face, she realized she had not only missed his command performance but she’d also been staring at him, lost in her thoughts. Again, she felt the heat rise up her neck and suffuse her cheeks. She took a step back, suddenly confused and afraid.

  Chester’s soft expression went quizzical and tense. He rose to his feet, a head taller than she. He opened his mouth then closed it.

  “I–It’s time we be getting back to work.” She willed her voice to have some steel. The soft brown orbs stared down at her. Through her. “That drawer’s not going to finish sanding itself.” A foolish thing to say, and she regretted the rebuke in her tone.

  Chester knew fear when he saw it. He saw it in front of him now. Every line of Marylu’s face spoke of uncertainty and doubt. Words pushed to his tongue and demanded release, but he could only make noise, so he sought to alleviate her panic with his hands.

  Not even her firm rebuke about the drawer deterred him. He advanced on her, and she shrank back a step. He raised his hand slowly and touched hers, the one she held to her cheek. He pulled her hand away, spread his fingers, and pressed it to his chest, where he knew she would feel the strong beat of his heart. His free hand rose to caress her cheek, drawing from courage born of his newfound abilities and the certainty of his feelings.

  She did not pull back at his touch. Her eyes slid shut, and her lower lip trembled. He saw the tension rise in her shoulders, and her eyes snapped open, glassy with unshed tears. “I don’t even know you. You don’t know me.”

  He let his hand fall away and shrugged his shoulders to transmit his unconcern.

  She shook her head, and a single tear spilled down her cheek. She swiped it away and bolted for the door and out of the room, leaving him to stand alone and wonder if the failure had been his for revealing his feelings too soon or hers for allowing whatever dark fear she held to separate her from the courage to love.

  Somewhere, somehow, she had been hurt. He was certain of it. And if he hoped to love her, he must prove himself worthy of that love. For the first time in a long time, he thought he might have the courage to do just that.

  Marylu avoided the room where Chester worked the rest of the morning. She moved as fast as she could from room to room, complete with her cleaning in record time, except for the room where Chester still sat, the frame of the chest of drawers lying on its side, his dark hands running over the wood in search of rough spots to sand.