Page 21 of In These Hills

“Yes, I have read Ben-Hur. Several times, in fact.”

He leaned forward. “So it was to your liking?”

She didn’t have to reach far for one of her favorite quotes from the novel, memorization being another habit her parents had instilled in both her and her brother. That, and she routinely assigned the novel for reading and discussion with her older students. “To begin a reform, go not into the places of the great and rich; go rather to those whose cups of happiness are empty—to the poor and humble. Chapter five, I believe, if memory serves.”

“Well, well . . . I have, indeed, met my match.” He rose, and, to her surprise, stood a good three or four inches shorter than she, though his knee-length black frock suit coat lent him a taller air. “I am impressed, Mrs. Dunham, if you don’t mind me saying.” He made a show of clearing his throat. “Every age has its plenty of sorrows; heaven help where there are no pleasures.”

Finding it an odd quote but nonetheless remembering the thought in the novel, she gave a nod. “Well done to you, sir.”

He drained his glass, set the book aside, and retrieved a wide-brimmed ivory country squire hat from the back of the chair. “We don’t get us many visitors through these parts, ma’am. I surely hope our paths cross again while you’re here.”

“Thank you, sir. That’s most kind of you.”

“Kind got nothing to do with it. Pure selfishness on my part.” He offered a bow. “Jasper Newton Daniel at your service, madam.” He held her gaze. “You need anything while you’re visiting our fine little town, you let me know.”

Seeing the sparkle in his almond-shaped eyes, Josephine edited her previous assumption. Smooth in addition to charming, and with a definite penchant for flirtation. Not that she had to worry about unwanted advances in her current state. No, the man seemed harmless enough. “Thank you, Mr. Daniel.”

Without looking back, he exited the front door, closing it behind him with familiarity in the gesture as though he’d done it a thousand times, then he disappeared into the night.

The lingering damp of the cold night air brought a chill, and she ran her hands over her arms, the cuffs of her blouse filthy with dust and dirt. She didn’t even have a change of clothing, and only fifteen cents remained from the money Sarah had so generously given her. Unbidden, images of the floods of women with children who had come to Atlanta’s office of the American Woman Suffrage Association seeking help crowded her mind, and she blinked, suddenly viewing their plight in a much starker light.

She was just herself, alone. No child, or children, depending on her for shelter, nourishment, and safety. She closed her eyes tight, hearing the echo of her own now glib-sounding counsel to them. She’d encouraged them to have enough bravery to leave their abusive husbands, saying they could find shelter in one of the women’s centers until they could locate another situation. But what other situation did they have waiting? Where would help for them come from? How shamefully casual her words of counsel seemed now, however well-meant at the time.

Staring out into the night, she better understood now why women in such circumstances stayed.

She turned and let her gaze trail the lobby, the furnishings simple compared to Atlanta hotels, but still tasteful with small-town appeal. She simply had to find a way to win Miss Mary over so she could stay here. At least for a while, until she could make contact with Sarah again and figure out what to do next. What to do next . . .

The words sounded so simple. But what did a woman do after she’d killed a man? One thing was for certain, she could not return to Atlanta, at least for now. Not with Mayor Darden. Not with the corruption in the police department and lack of rights for women. As numbing as her new reality was, she realized Sarah had been right. If she wanted to live, she had to run. And keep running. The question was . . . to where?

As she waited for Calla to return, a rustic wooden box on the foyer table caught her eye. It was similar in size and shape to one that might hold cigars. She ran a finger over the top, admiring the rugged mountain ridge the artist had carved. Jagged peaks rose in varying heights with one in particular soaring above the others. The edges of the lid bore markings resembling wildflowers.

Curious, she lifted the hinged lid, its slight squeak scarcely audible, then stared, wide-eyed. Coins. A lot of them. The shallow box was nearly full. Ashamed at the thought that sprang to mind, she immediately closed the lid just as footsteps sounded behind her.

She turned, expecting to see Calla. But there stood Miss Mary in her night robe instead, hands on hips.

“Can I help you with something, Mrs. Dunham?”

“No, I’m—” Aware of what it might look like, Josephine took a hasty step back. “I’m just waiting for Calla. She’s getting bedding from upstairs.” She glanced at the table. “I was simply admiring the box. That’s all.”

The silence lengthened, as did Miss Mary’s doubt-filled stare, and a vivid image of being cast out into the cold and rain brought a suffocating dread.

Finally, Miss Mary sighed and shifted her weight. “Can you do more than fair to middling around a cookstove, Mrs. Dunham?”

Josephine hesitated. “I’m not sure what you—”

“I’m asking do you know how to cook? ’Cause I got a sneaking suspicion you’re looking for a place to stay. And for more than just a night or two. Am I right?”

Not prepared to have this discussion yet, Josephine could only nod.

“My door is always open to the truly needy, Mrs. Dunham. But I do not abide folks taking charity when they’re fit to work.” Her gaze drifted to the box. “And I sure don’t take kindly to someone stealing the cook’s tips.”

“Oh no, ma’am, I would never—”

“If you’re wanting shelter only for the night, you and me are fine, and I’ll see to it you get safe passage back to Tullahoma tomorrow. But if you’ve a hankering to stay longer, then you’re going to have to work. So I’m asking you again . . . Can you cook?”

Josephine’s mind raced. “What about housekeeping? I’m very good at cleaning and I can wash clothes, too. I’m also good with numbers. I could keep your books and—”

“I keep my own books. And I already got a good cleaning woman and washer woman, too. What I need is help in my kitchen. My other cook quit me two weeks back and it’s too much for one alone. I only hire the best, and the pay is good. But hearing you running every whichaway around that question is answer enough. I’ll ask Dodge in the morning if he can tote you on back down the—”