In His Eyes(30)

Trees passed slowly with the sway of the carriage and Westley was once more glad no others shared the hired coach with him. He could bear the weight of his guilt in peace. Memories of his youth swept over him. They had come to this swampland in 1845 when he was but a boy of eight. His father and his uncles had bought up vast areas of land and started growing cotton in the fertile ground. Indian squaws had been hired to harvest it back then, before they built Belmont in 1857 and acquired 200 slaves. Then his mother said Jesus didn’t want her owning another person and insisted that all the house slaves be freed. His father had consented, but held his ownership of the field hands until the war. Then, in ’64, when Father suspected that the South could not win, he granted freedom to those who had not run off and the lands had lain fallow.

How he wished his parents had made it through the winter. Westley shook his head. Rather than the winter, it was more likely the summer that got them. The mosquitoes could be thick around Belmont, and his parents usually spent their summer months at their home in Natchez. But it was sold to pay for what the crops had not, and, thus, his parents had spent two summers in Belmont.

The carriage slowed to a stop, pulling him from his dark thoughts. Yes, best he be rid of this place and the burdens it would give him. He noticed the scene out the window once more and his chest constricted. Burned homes, toppled buildings, and ragged-looking people lined the streets of Greenville. He’d been told things had been bad here, but seeing it with his own eyes stirred him.

Westley opened the door and slowly climbed out. After paying the driver for his services, he turned down the main street in town. He’d elected to come here before going on to Belmont to see if he could locate his father’s solicitor. The carriage rolled away just as he was about to tell the driver he’d changed his mind, as it seemed too little remained of this place to be considered functional. As the hackney left him, he leaned upon his cane and started forward. Father had always said God gave a man but one direction. One could not go back, so he must move forward as best he could.

Dust billowed up around Westley’s feet. The few people going about their business on the street passed him without so much as a glance. Dressed in plain black trousers, a gray vest, and broadcloth jacket he’d purchased for the journey, he did not draw the attention his uniform would have stirred. He recognized one or two of those who passed by him, but did not call a greeting. Would his former Greenville neighbors identify him? And, if so, how would he be received? Not with joy, he felt certain. And if he happened upon any of his boyhood friends, they would likely greet him with a pistol. Ducking his head, Westley continued to the solicitor’s office, only to find that it had been reduced to a pile of blackened bricks.

The livery, then? The jingle of tack made him look up as a carriage came down the street at a quick pace. Surprised, Westley took a step back, lest he risk being trampled. As the carriage rolled past, a young woman inside stared at him through the window. He frowned. Was that…?

The carriage carried on and then pulled to an abrupt stop about fifty paces past him. The Negro driver hurried down and opened the door, and two ladies in hooped dresses emerged into the dust their carriage had roused. They stepped into a ramshackle building that seemed to be the center of activity.

Deciding it probably passed for a general store, Westley headed that way. He would likely find what he sought in one of two places, and as he didn’t care for the idea of a tavern just yet, he would first find what he sought at the mercantile.

Ignoring the ache that had now become a throb, he hobbled down the road and through the front door. Nodding at a proprietor he didn’t recognize, he looked to the sparse shelves several patrons mulled over.

“Mr. Remington!”

A woman’s gasp made Westley cringe. So, it didn’t take long for him to be recognized. Steeling himself for the scorn he would face, he turned to the female’s voice and discovered a lovely woman in a yellow dress.

“It is you!” She began fluttering her fan. “Oh, Mama!”

An older woman appeared behind the younger and recognition slammed into him. The dour Mrs. Martin narrowed her gaze at her daughter, then it flew wide as she looked to Westley.

“It can’t be!”

“I know!” The younger woman’s cheeks bloomed a soft pink.

Westley studied her. Could this be the same little Miss Martin he remembered? The one with the rounded face and form who had twittered about at neighborly gatherings? It seemed so, though this young woman hardly resembled the girl from years past.

He opened his mouth to offer greeting, especially as the young lady did not presently shower him with scorn, but her next words caused his own to lodge in his throat.

“Won’t she just be faint with joy?”

She?

Mrs. Martin fingered the buttons on the collar of her navy blue dress. “Indeed. Seems she won’t be needing those widow’s gowns after all.”

Widow’s…?

Westley cleared his throat. “Excuse me, ma’am, but I—”

Miss Martin clasped her hands. “Can you imagine it? Oh, I would so love to see the surprise on her face when you get home.”

“Home?” This question managed to make it through the constriction in his throat.

Mrs. Martin lifted her brows. “Why, of course. Did you not know your young bride and child are at Belmont?”

Westley filled his lungs and slowly released. What game did this woman play? Had some imposter set sights upon his family home? Perhaps he should fish out further information. “I was injured and have been under the care of the doctor for several weeks.”