When the first buildings of Washington appeared in the distance, he took the slip of paper from his pocket and read the direction in the soft morning light. Then he just stared at the hand—quick and efficient, but with the flourish of an educated man. Walker could write like that too, having taken his lessons beside the Arnaud boys, but he never chose to. It didn’t make sense for him. He’d learned early on that a man with any black in him had better not put on airs, not in the South. That would get him nowhere but on the kitchen table, his anxious mother patching up his wounds.
Osborne didn’t put on airs either. Maybe his clothes were nice, but he only had a couple sets of them. Maybe he dined in the big house, but from what Cora said, he was careful to keep his distance from the masters. He was a hired man. One who lived on his wits, not on his daddy’s bank account.
Walker could respect that. It didn’t mean the man was right for Marietta, but…it wasn’t a mark against him, his common-stock origins. More one in his favor, to Walker’s way of thinking. She needed someone who could see beneath the pretty. He wasn’t sure Osborne could, but Mr. Lane was usually right about these things.
The streets of Washington soon surrounded him, and he put aside all thoughts but finding the right building. He eventually did, an aging boardinghouse near the Capitol, and by then enough people were out and about that his knock on the back door was quickly answered by a woman who looked as old as the building.
She motioned him into the warm kitchen. “Morning. What brings you here?”
Walker swept his hat off his head with a smile. “I’m looking for Fred Herschel, ma’am.”
“He just came down for breakfast. I’ll fetch him.”
No offer of coffee or food, but that was all right. Walker was grateful for the warmth from the stove and eager to be back on his way. So he was glad when a man sauntered into the kitchen, still wiping his mouth with a napkin. His stopped when he spotted Walker. “What can I do for you?”
He didn’t see anyone else lingering about, but wisdom dictated a quiet tone and vague words. “Your friend Oz sent me. Said to tell you to change the route today, and at the last minute. There’s trouble afoot.”
Herschel measured him for a long moment, though a brief smile at last touched the corner of his mouth. “I suppose I shouldn’t worry too much about your being on the other side.”
The very thought drew a breath of laughter from Walker’s lips. Even if his mind were twisted enough to want to join the Knights of the Golden Circle, they wouldn’t ever take anyone whose blood was part Negro. “No, sir.”
“Tell him to consider it done.” Without another word, the man pivoted and sauntered back out.
Walker had gotten up at four, in the black of a frigid night, for a thirty-second exchange?
It was easy to see where Herschel and Osborne would get along.
Twenty-Two
I’m so glad you could join me today, Mari.”
Marietta summoned a smile that she hoped convinced Barbara she was glad too, though she had a difficult time forcing her gaze from the window of the carriage. “As am I.” Mostly. Though her stomach threatened to heave at the mere mention of a hospital. Heaven help them all if they asked her to change a bandage.
But being always in the company of a woman so very good and selfless made her determined to try something other than rolling bandages and stitching sashes. Something to quiet this twisting in her chest she didn’t understand.
“Are you all right? You look…perplexed.”
“Do I?” Try as she might to laugh that away, it was no doubt true. Part of her was eager to arrive at the hospital at which Stephen had once volunteered, which she had not seen since it was a family home. Part of her recoiled at the imagined sights and smells.
And part of her was none too sure her confusion had a whit to do with that. Sighing, she gave up on the familiar streets leading to the edges of Baltimore and focused on her friend. “I feel strange, Barbara.” She splayed a gloved hand over her chest. “An urgency, almost, though I cannot understand why.”
“Hmm.” Barbara’s gaze went unfocused for a moment, and then her usual serene smile touched her lips. “It sounds as though the Spirit may be asking you to pray.”
With a long blink and a tongue that seemed unable to wrap itself around words, Marietta shook her head, slowly. Not in rejection but in shock. “But why would the Lord ask me to pray?”
Her friend chuckled and reached across the space between them to grasp her hand. “It is all part of your burgeoning relationship with Him.”
Was it? She held fast to Barbara’s fingers. “I have spent hours lately studying the Scriptures, sermons, dwelling on what Stephen once told me, and still I…” Unable to meet her friend’s guileless eyes, she resorted to the window again. “During the day, I feel as though I am finally beginning to understand. Then when Dev shows up for dinner, it is as though chains are cuffed to my wrists and ankles. How does one escape one’s past, Barbara? How?”