Chapter FOURTEEN
For the third time in three minutes Gus conferred the nickel pocket watch that he wore in place of his treasured gold timepiece, shook his head and sat in the upholstered chair by the cold fireplace. The drawing room of his residence on Senate Street was growing dim with the summer day’s waning light.
Buck stood up from the settee on the other side of the room. “If they’re not here in the next half hour, Gus, I’ll ride out and look for them.”
“I shouldn’t have let her go.” Gus strode to the window.
“She isn’t by herself, old friend. Tracker’s with her.”
“I trust him implicitly, but he’s only one man.”
The housekeeper entered the room. “Mr. Grayson, sir, should I light a lamp?”
“Go ahead,” he responded impatiently. “Is supper ready, Alice?”
“Whenever they get here, sir.”
They heard the clop of horses’ hooves on the street outside. Gus spun to peer through the open window, and let out an audible sigh. “Thank God. It’s them.”
Buck followed him out the front door and stood off to the side while he rushed to the shiny black open landau. “Where in Sam Hill y’all been?” he accosted his wife. “I expected you home two hours ago.”
“Oh, Gus, look at this precious child.” She tickled the cheek of the placid boy in her arms.
“I see him. I see him. Now, what took you so long?”
“Oh, tush. We’re here now. Help us unload.”
Buck smiled at the endearing exchange between husband and wife. But his attention was more drawn to the man on the Appaloosa behind the carriage. Tracker was of indeterminate age. Buck judged him to be of average height and stature, with a coppery complexion that admitted of no one particular race. Dressed impeccably in white trousers, riding boots, matching waist coat and jacket, he appeared smart without being flashy. The incongruity was in his sporting a stovepipe hat while across the saddle cantle he held a Henry rifle.
Grayson said his factotum could blend in anywhere. Differently attired, perhaps he could. What Buck suspected wouldn’t change was the air of confidence that seemed to emanate from inner strength.
The creaking of the carriage as Miriam stood in preparation for stepping down brought Buck’s attention back to the old woman in the seat next to her. Poor Emma. The woman looked exhausted as she slouched against a young servant girl with a flawless, creamed-coffee complexion.
He moved up to the side of the four-wheeler. “Emma, you all right?”
“Oh, Mr. Buck,” she said teary-eyed, “I . . .”
“Janey,” Miriam instructed once she was on the ground, “you take Job while I help Emma.”
The servant girl climbed down the other side of the carriage, came around the back and took the sleeping toddler from Miriam into her arms.
Buck extended his hands to Emma. “Here, let me.”
Slowly and painfully, the former house slave struggled to her feet, swayed when the high-sprung carriage tilted, and nearly fell over its side. Fortunately Buck was there to catch her. Over her protests he carried her in his arms to the porch of the house and set her down in a rocker. Biting her lips, she sobbed.
“You’re all right now, Emma. You’re safe.”
“It’s all gone, Mr. Buck. Everything’s gone. My home. The house. My family. All gone. And now the boy—” She moaned and buried her face in her withered hands. “Ain’t nothin’ left no more. Ain’t nothin’. It’s all over.”
“Now don’t you talk like that, Emma,” Miriam reprimanded her, but there was gentleness in her words and compassion in her eyes. “We’re gonna get the child something to eat, then we’ll bring him back to you.” She turned to the girl. “Janey, in a few minutes, after Emma’s had time to collect herself, you take her to the room we fixed up for her. Then come here and get a tray from Alice for her dinner.”
“I ain’t hungry, Miz. Grayson,” Emma protested.
“Never you mind. You’ve had a long day and a hard journey. You need to eat. Then I want you to get plenty of rest. Janey here’ll see to anything else you need.”
“Yessum,” the old woman mumbled. “Ah ’preciates it, Miz. Grayson.”
“Come along, Miriam,” Gus said to his wife. “You need to eat too. Buck?”
“In a minute. I’ll be with you directly.”
As his hosts entered the foyer of the large house, Buck knelt at the feet of the old black woman. “Emma, you’re going to be all right. You having any pain? I can give you something for it if you do.”
“The pain’s in my heart, Mr. Buck. Ain’t no medicine for that.”
“Is there anything I can do for you, Emma?”
“Yessir, Mr. Buck. Promise me when I’m gone you’ll take me back to Jasmine and bury me under that old chinaberry tree.”
“Emma, I hope that won’t be for a very long time.”
“Yessir, but promise me.”
“Yes, Emma. I promise.” He stroked her arms. “I’ll take you home.”
#
Gus was waiting for him inside the front door. Beside him stood the bodyguard who came forward and offered his hand.
“Dr. Thomson, I am Pierre Bouchard. My friends call me Tracker.”
“I’m happy to meet you, Tracker. Please call me Buck and allow me to thank you for protecting Emma. She’s very special to me. I realize that may seem strange, my affection for an old black woman, but she’s been a very stable and positive influence in my life, and I love her for it.”
The words, spoken impulsively and emotionally, surprised even Buck by their intensity and honesty. Until he’d said them he would hardly have admitted to loving anyone. Honor, respect, admire. But not love.
A small smile came to the other man’s lips, not one of mockery or disbelief, but of sympathy.
“I share your affection for old black women,” Tracker said quietly. “Mine arises from heritage. Yours is voluntary and therefore purer. You have my deepest respect, doctor.” He made a small but distinctive bow, which Buck could hardly have anticipated but which moved him.
Gus, who’d witnessed this exchange and perhaps recognized the potential for mutual discomfort at so instant and spontaneous an exchange of personal views, extended his arm toward the double doors to his right. “Gentlemen.”
The three of them stepped into the front parlor. Gus closed the pocket doors behind them.
“Thank you for your information on Rufus Snead,” Buck said to Tracker. “It’s been most helpful.”
“You and I have a good deal to talk about, but not now. Not here. We can meet later. Privately.”
“Surely you’re staying for supper,” Gus interjected.
“Please thank your wife for the kind invitation. Perhaps another time, but I have some other matters I must attend to.” He addressed Buck. “Would it be convenient for me to come to your hotel room later this evening, say around ten o’clock.”
Buck was disappointed. He was eager to get into the serious discussions Tracker had alluded to, but he also realized the dinner table wasn’t the appropriate place for them, and he couldn’t imagine this man sitting through a social meal making polite small talk when much more important issues were on his mind.
“Ten o’clock will be fine,” he told him. “I’m staying at the Isaac Hayne, room—”
“The John C. Calhoun suite.” Tracker smiled more broadly this time. “Yes, I know.”