The Candle Star Read online

  “Oh, we do!” She dropped her voice conspiratorially. “But I was raised Methodist.”

  Isaac chuckled and stood as the front door opened. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bronner,” he said with a nod. “Were you able to find another retailer for your furniture?”

  A gray-haired man dressed all in black gave her uncle a dignified nod. “I received orders for three more rocking chairs and a bureau. Enough to keep me busy for several weeks.”

  “And I enjoyed a lovely tour of the city,” Mrs. Bronner chimed in.

  Isaac smiled. “Then your visit has been a complete success. Forgive my poor manners, but I have a few things I must attend to. Will I see you both at dinner?” At their nods, he closed himself behind the Dutch door.

  As soon as it latched, Emily fled past the astonished couple and out the garden doors, sucking in deep breaths of air to keep her emotions in check. But it was like holding a litter of puppies inside a shallow basket. A few tears managed to escape. She wiped at them angrily. She would not cry! Instead, she’d channel that energy and use it to get what she wanted.

  She found herself on a flagstone patio. Though in the midst of a crowded city, the house had managed to retain a bit of space around itself, like legroom granted to a tottering old man. The entire backyard was laid out in the geometrical shapes of a French garden and enclosed by a high brick wall. Emily could smell the green scent of growing things, made sharper by the coolness of early autumn. She entered, following a path of crushed limestone.

  The path wound through the different garden rooms, each bordered with clipped, shoulder-high hedges and planted with a unique theme. The first boasted vibrantly hued asters, zinnias, and daisies all leaning heavily against each other on tall, slender stalks. The next held only herbs, low growing and fragrant. Another grew blooms all ghostly white, winding into the hedge and surrounding a pair of white wicker benches. Yet another displayed formal tea roses in every color, complete with a wrought iron table and matching chairs.

  The garden was too perfect for Emily’s tastes. Too tame. Too forced and manipulated. All these plants were compelled to follow some gardener’s wishes instead of growing free and unhindered. As she strolled down the path, she identified with them, for the same constrictions had recently been imposed on her.

  For fourteen years Emily had been indulged and allowed to ramble at will, carefree and happy. Suddenly her parents realized she would be marriageable in only a few short years and began to prepare her. They controlled and contained her—just like the plants being forced into these boxes. All the new rules made her want to run, to scream, to fly away! How could she be held accountable for her sudden bursts of temper?

  Emily entered the garden’s very last room. Unlike the others, this one was choked with weeds. They grew in random disarray, intertwining and bulging over the path. Emily’s heart lightened as she identified many of the same wildflowers that grew in the fields of Ella Wood: Indian paintbrush, blue chicory, black-eyed Susan, and the flat, feathery bloom of the yarrow. She scooped up handfuls to brighten her room.

  The path emerged near a stable at the back of the lot. Peering inside, she saw that five of the stalls were occupied. She recognized her uncle’s team at once. A name plate nailed over the gray’s head gave its name Barnabas; the sorrel was called Mabel. The stable also housed a pair of matched bays and a beautiful black riding mare.

  Emily was drawn to the mare. Its small ears were pricked forward, and it watched her with intelligent eyes. As she rubbed its forehead, Emily wished she had a carrot in her pocket. Instead, she offered it a clover blossom. The horse was quite valuable and reminded her of Chantilly, her own saddle mare. Did it belong to a guest, or could her uncle own such a fine animal?

  Her attention shifted to the door of the very last stall. It was closed, but no head showed over the top. Instead, odd snuffling sounds issued from within. Her curiosity aroused, she peered inside. At the same moment, something rose up in an explosion of noise and brown fur.

  Screaming, Emily stumbled backwards and landed on her backside in an empty stall, flowers strewn everywhere. A huge, rangy hound stood with paws hooked over the top of the stall door, staring down at her with head tilted and floppy ears cocked as if it couldn’t quite figure out what she was. It bayed again, long and throaty, and dropped back inside the stall.

  “Stupid mutt!” she yelled, flinging a clod of mud that struck the door and disintegrated into a puff of gray powder. She brushed straw and petals off her dress and gave the dog’s door a swift kick. A second hound appeared, bawling out another long, wailing bellow.

  She lurched backward and snatched up her bouquet. Keeping a wary eye on the half-door, she stormed toward the exit.

  At the door she hesitated, a devilish look narrowing her eyes and tightening her lips. She waited till the dogs settled down before she crept back to their stall and scattered her flowers before it once again. Then she turned the latch until it barely held. If the dogs pounced on it even once, the door would fling open and they would be free. And with any luck, the flowers would point to her.

  With a devious chuckle, Emily hustled up the gravel lane to the front of the house, hoping the mongrels didn’t gain their freedom until she reached safety. She paused only briefly to pick half a dozen mums from the porch’s flower border before entering.

  It must have been nearly time for dinner, but as she passed her uncle’s office she slowed. She would dearly love a look inside his private room. Surely, she could turn up some morsel of information to twist to her own uses.

  She pressed her ear to the door. All was quiet. Glancing up and down the deserted hallway, she tried the knob again.

  This time it turned.

  She slipped inside, quiet as a falling leaf, and closed the door behind her.

  Like the bedrooms, the office was plain, almost stark. Aside from a desk, a chair, and a small shelf of books, the only other furnishing in the room was an oil painting of a magnolia tree in full bloom. In the corner, looking extremely out of place, were stacked five shiny tin buckets with half a dozen hammers placed in the topmost one.

  Emily moved to the bookshelf and glanced through the titles: Pilgrim’s Progress, A History of the Great Lakes Region, Selected Sermons of George Whitefield, A Complete Guide to Managing Business Finance, and a collection of poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Her breath escaped in a long whisper of disbelief. Did her uncle actually read this stuff?

  She set down her flowers and bent over the desk. In contrast to the tidy room, it looked like a dynamited paper factory. Poking through the mess, she pulled out several handwritten receipts, a clipping from a newspaper advertising railroad stock, pages ripped from a ledger, a shopping list, and stacks of hotel business. A pried-up handful revealed only more of the same underneath.

  She dropped the papers in disgust and tried a drawer. Each was filled with the same papery clutter. She recalled her father’s neatly organized desk at home. How could her uncle run a business this way?

  Disappointed, she gathered the mums. The break-in had gained her nothing. But as she turned away, something caught her eye. Something that wasn’t quite right.

  A gap appeared where two panels of the desk came together. She bent closer and ran a finger over the opening. It was a secret compartment. One that would be completely hidden beneath the writing surface of the desk if only her uncle had closed it properly. But thanks to his carelessness, she had discovered it!

  She reached her fingers into the space and pulled out a brown, leather-bound volume with a star embossed on its cover. With a furtive glance at the door, she opened the book.

  It was some kind of journal. She could tell by the dates written in the margins, but the entries made no sense at all. They appeared to be simple lists; food, clothing, objects, names, places, and money amounts. Nor had it been written in every day. Not even every week. Thumbing backward, she saw seven entries for July, two in June, several in May, then nothing till March, and only one in January. Flipping back
farther, she saw the journal ran for years. What could it mean?

  Glancing up at the clock on the bookshelf, she saw it read 4:40. She had just enough time to dress for dinner. Vowing to give the book more thought later, she slid it back into its hiding place, closed the compartment firmly, and slipped into the hall.

  Chapter 3

  Back in her room, Emily was pleased to find her trunk on the floor at the foot of her bed. She dropped the mums into the pitcher of water and splayed out the skirt of her traveling suit. It was stained, wrinkled, and smeared with muck from the stable—not at all suitable for dinner. She couldn’t abide the thought of any Yankees looking down their nose at her.

  She opened the trunk and pulled out a beautiful gray taffeta dress with sleeves as wide as bells and dripping with lace. Layer upon layer of ruffles made up the skirt, which flounced wide over a crinoline petticoat and a pair of frilly pantalettes and fell several inches below her knees.

  It was the most expensive dress Emily owned, the one her father had ordered special from Paris. But how was she to get it on by herself? Her maid, Lizzie, always assisted her, draping the gown carefully over her head, fastening buttons, tying bows just right, and pinning her curls. Lizzie, however, was young and willful and had been forbidden from making the trip with her. Emily’s parents were afraid Lizzie would run away in the free North; old, reliable Zeke had been sent instead. But what good was a doddering old man when dressing for dinner?

  Emily wriggled out of the traveling suit with some trouble and stepped into the undergarments. Getting the elaborate dress over her head proved much more difficult, but with a few grunts and a lot of willpower, it finally settled in place. She did her best to tie a proper bow behind her back, but it looked sadly wilted, like a vase full of daisies too long without water. Nothing like the crisp, perfect knot Lizzie always tied.

  She moved on to her hair, glancing into her hand mirror with dismay. Her curls had pulled free of their combs and straggled in wild disarray. She reached for her brush, pulling it through the locks with long, unpracticed strokes, but her hair lay limp and dirty on her shoulders.

  At home, she wouldn’t have given any more thought to her appearance than a mule would give to its tail. What did the wind and the woods care how she looked? But here her pride was at stake. And at the moment, that was all she had.

  A knock sounded at her door, and a woman called out, “Miss Preston? Isaac sent me to remind you that dinner is in five minutes.”

  Emily recognized the rolling voice from the kitchen.

  “Miss Preston?” The door opened and a young, red-haired woman peeked inside. She was hardly more than a girl. “So you are up. I thought perhaps you fell asleep after your long trip.” The woman took in Emily’s sloppy appearance. “Oh dear. I believe you could use some help.”

  She crossed the room uninvited and began tugging and adjusting the gray dress. She corrected a button, pulled the back hem free from where it had tucked under the pantalettes, and retied the bow. Then she reached for the brush and with a few practiced twists fastened the curls in a simple style.

  Emily admired the effect in the mirror.

  “I’m Shannon, by the way. Shannon Burns. I used to wait on Lady Pennington back in Ireland, but now I clean for Isaac and sometimes help with dinner. I’m very pleased to meet you. I hope we’ll be friends.”

  Emily frowned at the maid’s informal overture and the disrespectful use of her uncle’s first name, but Shannon didn’t seem to notice. Instead, the maid gave the bow one final tug. “Dinner will be waiting,” she called as she left the room.

  Emily took one last, approving glance in the mirror and adjusted her arrogance. Just let any person in this hotel try to find fault with her now!

  In the dining room, several guests were already seated, and Shannon was busy taking orders. As Emily stood near the stairs wondering where to go, a black woman pushed through the swinging kitchen door and delivered two steaming plates of food.

  Isaac waved. “Emily, I saved you a place beside me. Come.” He pulled out a chair for her. “I’ve already ordered.

  “Breakfast and lunch are served only to guests, but a few nights a week we open our dinner hour to the public,” he explained as she scanned the busy room. Five other tables were occupied, including one where Mr. and Mrs. Bronner sat.

  Smiling, Shannon brought them each a plate loaded with mashed potatoes, green peas and a thick pork chop. The whole plate was covered with steaming gravy that tickled her nose as she waited for Isaac to finish saying grace. As the prayer went on, his low tones were overpowered by the familiar sound of a Southern voice.

  “They just disappeared,” it said. “I don’t understand it.”

  Emily’s heart leaped! She peeked with one eye to see who had spoken and discovered a young man seated at the next table, neatly dressed and sporting a full beard. His hair was parted on one side and combed in a wave over his forehead. He sat with two friends who appeared rough and unkempt. As she watched, one of them replied, “We’ll go south tomorrow, down to the river.”

  “Amen,” Isaac finished and started in on his food without another word.

  Emily took a few small bites but continued to cast glances at the next table until she caught the eye of the well-dressed man. “Excuse me,” she broke in, “but I overheard you talking, and it is so good to hear someone from home. I declare, I was beginning to feel all alone in this godforsaken state.”

  Isaac frowned at her impulsiveness, but the gentleman flashed a gallant smile. “Well, I’ll be! A Dixie flower in the middle of Michigan! Isaac, where have you been hiding this delightful child?”

  “Good evening, Jarrod,” Isaac said with a polite nod at his guest. “This is my niece, Miss Emily Preston, from Charleston, South Carolina. She arrived today. Emily, Mr. Jarrod Burrows, a regular patron of mine.”

  Mr. Burrows bowed politely across the tables. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Preston. And I know exactly what you mean about leaving civilization for these northern climates. One can get to feeling a bit forlorn.”

  “Are you from Carolina, Mr. Burrows?” Emily asked.

  “No, miss. Virginia born and bred.”

  “What are you doing so far from home?”

  “I run sort of a detective agency, you might say.”

  One of his companions choked, and the other slapped him heartily on the back. Emily could see the Bronners glancing in their direction.

  “How intriguing!” she burst out. “I’ve never met anyone in your line of work. What are you investigating?”

  “Emily, let’s allow Mr. Burrows to finish his dinner in peace,” her uncle warned.

  His reluctance only made her redouble her efforts. She pretended to pout, her mouth puckered like gathers in a skirt, but her eyes danced. The look worked on her father every time. “But I do so want to know what Mr. Burrows is about. I may ask, mayn’t I?”

  Mr. Burrows smiled, charmed by her childish petulance. “Certainly she may, Isaac.” He explained, “A friend of mine back home had a valuable piece of property stolen from him. He has hired me to recover it for him.”

  The Bronners now stared openly at them. Emily pretended not to notice their lack of etiquette. “How noble of you, Mr. Burrows, but couldn’t that get dangerous?”

  “A very real possibility. That is why I have brought along my companions, Joseph Sturgis and Edward Satterfield.”

  Both mumbled a greeting.

  Mr. Bronner set down his napkin and cleared his throat. “Would this property have taken flight of its own accord?” he interrupted.

  Mr. Burrows chuckled. “That would be something, wouldn’t it, sir?”

  But the elderly man wasn’t put off. Fire snapped in his eyes as they bored into Mr. Burrows. “Property indeed!”

  Satterfield leaned back in his chair and picked at his teeth with a dirty fingernail. “That’s what the law calls this particular item, and we have every intention of returning it to its rightful owner.”

&
nbsp; The tension in the room mounted, and Emily searched the face of each speaker. What were they talking about?

  Mr. Bronner shifted his gaze to Satterfield. “How, sir, does thee reconcile the law and your Christian faith? The man thee seeks was made in the very image of God.”

  Satterfield leaned forward threateningly. “God ain’t black,” he growled.

  Mr. Burrows stood and offered the elderly couple a conciliatory smile. “I really had no intention of disrupting your meal, and I do apologize. It was tactless of me to discuss business at the dinner table.”

  “Business!” Mr. Bronner scoffed, also rising. “Son, thee is nothing but a common bounty hunter!”

  A sudden gasp escaped Emily’s lips. The men were slave catchers!

  Mrs. Bronner spoke quietly. “Our nation is founded on the truth that all men are created equal. Yet thee would condemn a man to a life of bondage?”

  “It ain’t so hard to do, ma’am,” Satterfield said, leaning back and exchanging amused grins with Sturgis.

  Mr. Bronner seemed gentled by his wife’s example. “Forgive me,” he said to the men. “I am a man of peace. But I am also a man guided by the Word of the Lord, and I will not break bread with those who seek to enslave another.”

  Before following her husband from the room, Mrs. Bronner gave them a gentle nod. “I will pray for each of thee tonight.”

  Sturgis nodded back. “Please do that, ma’am. Maybe we’ll catch that darkie and get back to ‘Ginnie all the sooner.”

  Throughout the conflict, the guests at the other tables had fallen silent, eyes downcast, eating with earnest concentration. When the Quaker couple was gone, Mr. Burrows turned to Emily’s uncle. “I apologize, Isaac. I didn’t mean to drive away customers.”

  Isaac appeared grave. “Gentlemen, you are always welcome in my establishment, but I must insist that you keep your business to yourselves in the presence of my other guests.”

  Mr. Burrows nodded shortly. “Agreed.”