Episode 20

Not sure if her father noticed the letter she hid in her pocket was missing from where he left it, Phee presented as blank of a face as she could muster.

“Yes, Father?”

“Ophelia, please sit.” Mr. Arthur Berry’s voice was similarly devoid of emotion. Phee was uncertain if unpleasantness would follow.

Miss Eugenia had returned to her bedchambers, her door shut.

His daughter situated, Mr. Berry continued.

“Miss Martin shall be returning to us within a week. Upon her return, we shall wed on the date she wishes, either here, or the First Presbyterian Church.”

Mr. Berry eyed his daughter carefully. “Phee, it is her express wish that upon my death, you shall be the sole heir. Her father has left her with a small fortune which she will have Mr. Cochran of Levitt and McCool manage. She thus has no need of further support from my estate when the time comes.”

Phee fiddled with the garnet ring on her right index finger. It once was her mother’s. It was preferable to gaze at it over meeting her father’s eyes. But as the import of his words settled upon her, she glanced upward at him.

“You see,” he continued, “it was important to her I knew she was not marrying me for my support of her. And she shall continue to care for Aunt Eugenia, and to the extent you will allow her, of you. It shall be…” Mr. Berry paused to dab his moistened eyes. “We shall have a marriage borne of respect, and of…love.” At this last word, he began crying.

“I am uncertain, Ophelia, how I am so fortunate. I am an unworthy man who never knew happiness such as this possible.”

His brief shedding of tears over, he awaited Phee’s reaction. But none was forthcoming.

“Ophelia, your mother was very young when I married her, and when she died in childbirth…” Phee’s forehead wrinkled, her cheeks grew crimson. “Oh, sweet child, I did not mean to upset you. I only meant to explain I hardly had the occasion to know your mother well. We did not profess our feelings to one another, nor did…”

Phee arose abruptly and left the room, a rush of emotions overcoming her. She did not know what to think, nor did she desire to contemplate the matter further. Better, she thought, to lose herself in reading Auntie’s story. She slipped into her aunt’s chamber, found the volume she sought, and took refuge in her room upstairs. The fire only needed one additional log, so with the lantern still lit from earlier, she resumed reading.

Judge Black stood, offered his handextended his arm and offered, “Miss Jones, I know from a prior visit that Mr. McQueen keeps some brandy in his parlor. Would you care to join me?”

I was reluctant to leave, but I knew the chief would well tend to my friend. I thus accepted the judge’s proposition and followed him within, my hand upon his arm.

The servant who stood by the door followed us inside. As we entered the parlor, he walked to a cabinet where he poured an elixir into two cordials. He approached, and, with an exquisite manner, declared, “There is no brandy at present. Would you instead prefer sherry?”

Judge Black took a glass and handed it to me and then accepted the other one. The servant receded into the background where we no longer noticed him. I attempted to smile and make pleasant conversation.

“The stars are brilliant tonight, are they not?”

“Yes,” he replied. “My daughter noticed. It is probably the effect of the chanting and being surrounded by Indians and their mysterious ways, but she apparently believes her mother comes to her through a star.”

I did not know how to respond to that, so I changed the subject.

“Mrs. McQueen certainly looks improved.”

“Yes, I agree. I feared for the worst. Miss Jones,” the judge said, addressing me directly, “I must apologize for my behavior earlier.”

He continued, “This is not an excuse but an explanation to say my wife died a horrible death from a disease that neither Indian healers nor local doctors could prevent. I feared my daughter might travel the same path.”

I wondered to myself why he demanded that Calming-Waters leave. As if reading my mind, he added, “I have no personal objection to the chief’s first wife, but in her letters to me, Zora expressed a wariness toward her. I suspected her presence was upsetting.”

The judge finished his glass and requested another. The servant filled the cordial wordlessly and asked if I should like more.

I gulped the contents of my glass and held it out, indicating my desire.

This, I should not have done.

Having downed a glass so rapidly, I felt a welcoming warmth course throughout my body. I shall have more of this, I thought, but I partook the second glass more judiciously.

The nearby fire in the fireplace, or perhaps the night air coming through an open window, may have contributed, but likely it was the sherry which heated my body to my very toes!

Judge Black charmed me as he talked about earlier days. He said he once was a Presbyterian elder who volunteered to run a mission school in Philadelphia.

“Indians from several tribes came to us as students,” he added. “Mostly, they were the children of chiefs who desired their offspring to have White advantages such as learning the English language and the ways of polite society.”

He stated other youngsters from around the world were there, seeking the same advantages.

“I believe the Presbyterians were forward-thinking in their intentions. However, we were unprepared for the consequences of intermixing males and females of different races in a social setting.”

He further explained every Saturday evening they hosted a soiree, and high tea was on Sunday afternoons.

“It should have been little surprise my Zora would take an interest in a striking young man who possessed intelligence, charm, good looks, and manners.”

Mr. Black began pacing a few feet distant from me.

“She was but fourteen when we first learned she was smitten with him. We did not worry because we thought it a romantic notion of a young girl who would soon find other occupations. The following year, we realized he returned her affections.” He paused, looked away and then resumed tracing his steps back and forth.

“Worse,” he added, “he came back after a summer as a married man, yet still gave Zora no sign his feelings toward her had changed.” He said his daughter understood the marriage to be one of uniting two families of competing tribes.

“While I know full well Creek men can have more than one wife, I had not before considered the possibility such a man would express an interest in my daughter.”

I closely listened to the judge, as another perspective on the romance helped me to better understand. But I was paying more attention to the emotions which registered on his person.

At times, he became animated with enthusiasm. Others, he turned thoughtful. Then, melancholic. He talked of his wife’s death and his daughter seeking refuge in Mr. McQueen rather than himself.

I could not help but reach over and touch his arm with sympathy. He took my hand and laid his atop it, squeezing as he did so.

“Thank you for being so kind and attentive,” he said. “I have been speaking at length without allowing a word from you. And yet, your face conveys such thoughtfulness, it touches my heart.”

As he spoke the last, he drew my hand to his chest. It was an endearing gesture at first. But he held steadfast.

“You bring comfort to an old gentleman.” 

I thought on this. True, he is at least forty years of age. But he still is handsome. There is much to recommend him.

I withdrew my hand as he might think I was plotting a course in his direction. But I did so delicately, as I did not wish to convey any offense taken.

We heard the front door open and saw the chief carrying his sleeping wife down the hallway and up the stairs.