Isabelle delivered the flowers to Godfrey’s plot of land, but he was nowhere to be found. Upon her next visit, his tent had been taken down and removed, and with his tools gone as well, she realized he’d abandoned the land altogether. In time, another freedman took up residence. Nonetheless a message had been sent, and between the reputation of the Foster boys, the threat of federal law, and the fallout from the fire, few dared to set foot on the Walker estate again without an invitation.
Most days, Mildred would arrive early for breakfast and while Isabelle was out making her rounds would clean and serve in the role of administrator, taking note of anyone who came to the house with a request for help or in want of land. The signs in town had been removed, but some folks still arrived having heard rumors that there was free land to be had. With room for only so many, and with all the plots already spoken for, they had to be turned away, in a manner for which Mildred had the heart and Isabelle did not. But there were also a few of the freedmen, like Elliot, deep into the winter season, who were happy to have the assistance and share the proceeds from their harvest.
At night Isabelle and Mildred ate together, discussing their day, their lives, what was to come in the future. Afterward they sat on the couch and read, or knitted, or continued the conversation from the dinner table. They were inseparable in their way, and Isabelle wasn’t afraid to hold Mildred’s hand, or place her head upon her friend’s shoulder when fatigue came over her. Yet they did not share a bed. What was between them was unphysical, an entanglement of the spirit that transcended any act of passion. To see each other in the morning and the evening was enough, and when Mildred rode home to see her boys and to sleep, the distance only gave more emphasis to their reunion the following day. Whenever the front door opened, Isabelle barely said hello, but both the newfound routine and her friend’s presence were like treats to be savored.
Occasionally they argued. Isabelle felt strongly that those working her land should have a place to stay on it. Already many of them camped out and she saw no reason not to allow them something more comfortable. If they were to build some housing it would not be permanent—they would still leave when their time had run out and they had money in their pockets. But Mildred believed that a family with a home would never give it up, and the question consumed their conversation for some time.
On Sundays they rested and talked of lighter topics. It was the last week of December now—just after Christmas, Isabelle’s first without George—and they sat on the porch, tea in hand, each cloaked in her own quilt. A bird landed on the railing, cocked its head, then took off again. The tea warmed them, though only briefly and still the heat swiftly dissipated against the chill of the morning. They would go inside soon and make a fire, but no day was spent without a little fresh air, the spot adjacent to the hearth their reward for the outing.
Mildred was in her most persuasive mode, trying to convince Isabelle that she should take up riding. There was an auction approaching and Mildred knew there was a filly from an unheralded stable that would be priced cheap. She could train it, and soon the two of them would be riding through the country together without a care to their name.
Isabelle stopped listening when a carriage, its canvas top littered with holes, appeared up the lane. It was led by a single horse, and as it grew near she could see it was piled high with boxes, but the mystery of the driver, under wrap against the cold, wasn’t revealed until she noticed the slight body beside the one holding the reins, swaddled in blankets and resting against her mother.
Isabelle put her teacup down and grabbed her wool coat from the back of her chair. “Is it you?” she called out, and stepped down the stairs as the carriage came to a halt.
“What part of me has withstood through the cold!” Clementine said. She eased her way from the carriage and grabbed her daughter as she dismounted.
They had survived the fire intact but had lost their home, as Mildred had reported to Isabelle. Clementine had come to the farm once since then for dinner, visiting George’s grave after the meal, but it appeared from the carriage, which was packed with belongings, that it was unlikely there would be such gatherings in the future.
Elsy’s hair was as bountiful as her mother’s, and her tangles eclipsed Clementine’s face as she carried her daughter toward the porch.
“But I want to see the horse! The horse!” the child said.
Clementine put her down but gripped her hand.
“The horse will pick you up with its teeth and toss you like a ragdoll. Is that what you want?”