The Rebel Wife by Taylor M. Polites Read Free Book Online Page B

your mother find yourselves? Starving, most likely, like half the families we know. The earth has shifted under our feet.”
    “That can’t be, Judge,” I said, thinking of Buck and his betrayal. He had left me alone, and even when I looked for him, I could not find him. Not at his father’s house. Not anywhere. I needed desperately to speak to him. He had to know. I had to tell him. I knew if I could speak to him, I could make him marry me. “There must be another way.”
    “I’m tired, Augusta. And you are trying my patience. I have spoken reason to you, and you won’t hear me. There is no other way.” He shuffled the papers and picked up his pen, dismissing me without a glance.
    “Is—is Buck here?” I asked haltingly.
    Judge’s eyes held pity or maybe contempt. I could see it. He remained unmoved. “You must put Buck out of your head. It is an unsuitable match.”
    What an effect those words had on me. I abandoned everything I had thought to say to him. Poor broken Buck. Who knows what was in his heart? He was never the same after the war. No one was. A week later, I was married to Eli. February 10, 1866.
    And now Eli is dead. Someone must know about his money. It can’t be as simple as Judge says. Judge can’t be the only one to know.
    Simon is in the far back of the garden. I shouldn’t bother him, but I have to ask. No one else knew Eli as Simon did. Simon may not have known Eli that well after all. Who knows? I lived with him for those years, but what did I learn from him? Nothing. I didn’t want to learn from him. I assumed the things I knew made me superior to him. Maybe they were. What did that pride gain me? Were they right to make me marry Eli? I don’t know. Maybe Simon will.
    He is working at one end of the grape arbor. Though the catalpa tree shades him, it is still so hot. He wears leather gloves and rips at a large weed, pulling it up and tossing it aside. The weeds grow in clusters with hairy stems and spiked leaves. He uproots them and then digs into the soil with a trowel, searching for the pale roots that look like undergrown white radishes. He wipes his arm across his forehead. This heat goes on. It’s too early for this kind of heat. So heavy and damp. The air feels thick, as if you have to drag it in to breathe.
    He stands and grasps a bundle of the weeds and heaves back. They snap and leave their roots behind. He tosses the weeds on the pile. They seem to wilt right away. Some of them have small purple flowers just starting to bloom. The grape vines are a tender green.
    “These weeds will spoil the grapes if I let them go,” he says. He nods at the pile, his hands on his waist and his face streaked with sweat.
    “Simon, you shouldn’t be doing any work today.”
    He nods, looking at the weeds. “I’d rather keep my hands busy, ma’am. And this vetch won’t wait for me.”
    “Is that what it is?”
    “Yes, ma’am. It must have blown in here this spring from across the way.” He nods at the Sheffield garden. Their carriage house is weathered with split boards. Masses of the purple flowers and spiky leaves climb its sides. He lets out a sigh. He is waiting for me, but I can’t speak.
    “Is there anything wrong, ma’am?”
    “No, Simon.” How on earth can I ask him? It’s so inappropriate. I was Eli’s wife. I should know these things.
    “Can I help you with something?” He frowns at me.
    I must look a fool, sweating like mad in this black dress. “Yes, I...”
    “Ma’am?”
    “Simon, were you familiar with Mr. Branson’s business affairs?” This is ridiculous. Asking a Negro man about my husband’s business.
    Simon’s face doesn’t change. He kneels at the vines and picks up the trowel, digging into the earth with a sharp stroke. “To some extent. Did you have some questions about Mr. Branson’s business?” He doesn’t look at me. He levers up the trowel, and the dirt spills over his hand. The earth falls away and leaves a bundle of the white