Chapter 6
SHIVERING WITH COLD AND DAMP, Josephine squinted as she read the wooden shingle in the flickering glow of the single kerosene streetlamp planted by the walkway. “Miss Mary Bobo’s . . . Boarding House?”
“That’s right. Used to be old Doc Salmon’s house. He practiced from here until he retired and sold it.” Mr. Coburn jumped down from the wagon and removed his hat. He ran a hand through his still-damp, wavy, collar-length hair, hardly looking worse for wear.
Meanwhile, she could well imagine her own haggard appearance.
Earlier on when he’d stared her down, maintaining his gaze had all but drained her pride, yet shame still poured through her as she climbed down, legs wobbly, stomach aching with hunger. “While I appreciate the ride, Mr. Coburn, I . . . don’t possess the means for a boarding house.”
“Well, that’s not a problem. Because Miss Mary’s full up right now. Last I knew, anyway.”
Gripping a spoke of the wagon wheel for support, she stared, not understanding.
“This is the only inn in town, Mrs. Dunham. But Miss Mary’s not an altogether unfeeling woman. Most days, anyway. So I’m betting she’ll work out something with you. Least for a night or two.”
Whether in his tone or appraising glance, she caught the reprisal of his earlier stated opinion, This is no place for a woman like you. As though she had a choice in whether to be here.
Dodge Coburn wasn’t as unlearned a man as she’d initially pegged him to be, despite his vernacular.
Whether that would ultimately be a good thing or bad, it had certainly played in her favor earlier that day.
It made her skin crawl remembering the way those two men had looked at her like she was a slab of meat on a plate, their vulgar intent unmistakable.
Like it or not, she owed Dodge Coburn a debt, and for far more than just passage.
He strode past the white picket fence with no gate and down the wide brick walkway, not bothering to knock on the double front doors before entering.
She followed at a slower pace, the simple but stately white, two-story clapboard building demanding admiration in a subtle, humble sort of way.
Square white columns rose to support an upper balcony, and black rocking chairs flanked the entrance.
Even in the cold and damp, the house issued a warm welcome.
Josephine could well imagine Miss Mary, its proprietress—a dour, persnickety old spinster resolute on condemning everything and everyone.
Especially those daring to challenge the status quo.
She knew those women only too well. After confirming her suffragist sash was tucked securely in her coat pocket, she followed Mr. Coburn inside, smoothing a hand over her damp skirt and arranging her mess of hair as best she could without benefit of brush or comb.
As soon as she crossed the threshold, aromas so delicious, so promising, caused her stomach to spasm in anticipation, and emotion sprang to her eyes, as did hunger pangs for home and family long gone. And for Sarah—and their tiny, shared boarding house room.
“It’s late, so supper’s probably long over.” Mr. Coburn glanced back. “But I’m sure one of Miss Mary’s cooks will be able to rustle up something for you.”
Willing to eat almost anything, she whispered a throaty, “Thank you,” then quickly looked away, uncomfortable beneath her vulnerability.
To her left, an open door revealed a dimly lit but nicely appointed den, one wall filled with bookshelves. To her right stood two closed doors she assumed to be bedrooms for boarders who, hopefully, had already retired for the night.
A staircase leading to the shadowed second-floor landing drew her gaze, and the steepness of the stairs reminded her of her childhood home.
She could still recall every nook and cranny of that house.
After her parents died, the proceeds from the sale had barely covered their outstanding debt, leaving next to nothing.
They’d spent nearly all they had championing freedom and rights for the formerly enslaved.
A tempered bitterness rose inside her. If only her parents had considered the rights of women—of their own daughter—to be equally as worthy, then perhaps her current circumstances would be different.
How could two people so devoted to equal rights not have seen that she needed a champion too?
“Mrs. Dunham?”
Pulled back by the gentle whisper, she swallowed against the knot in her throat and joined Mr. Coburn at the far end of the shadowy hall.
But seeing the odd look he cast back in her direction, then hearing the din of conversation, she slowed her steps.
Too late, she spotted a half dozen men and three women still gathered around a dining room table, and it took everything in her not to bolt.
At that same moment, an older woman clearing the table looked in their direction. “Well, look what the cat done dragged in.”
Josephine took a swift step back, thinking the comment directed at her. But the woman’s grin, clearly intended for Mr. Coburn, corrected her misassumption. Meanwhile, conversation around the table continued unabated.
Mr. Coburn removed his hat and gestured to one of the serving dishes she carried. “Don’t tell me you’re out of those candied apples I love.”
“If you’re late to this table, son, then you get what you deserve. Come here and give us a hug.”
Mr. Coburn obliged and, with a forefinger, sneaked a swipe in one of the bowls and licked off the remnants. She swatted his arm, her laughter playful—until her gaze moved past him.
“And just who might you be, young miss?” she asked, her humor fading, as did the table conversation.
Heat rose to Josephine’s face, all eyes on her.
Mr. Coburn looked back. “Oh, my apologies. This is Mrs. Josephine Dunham of . . . Tullahoma, most recently. Charlie Poyner’s uncle, Slim, asked me to give her a ride. I told her I thought y’all might be able to help her for a night or two.”
The woman raised a brow.
He motioned for Josephine to join them.
She didn’t move.
“Dodge . . .” The woman cocked her head. “Why don’t you take Mrs. Dunham on out back to the kitchen while I finish up in here.”
Grateful for the woman’s astuteness and compassion, Josephine thanked her with a nod and followed Mr. Coburn outside to the porch, grateful she’d been proven wrong about the proprietress. Miss Mary, expectedly older, seemed far more understanding than dour and judgmental.
Shadows draped the porch, which actually appeared to be a deck, judging by the plank boards beneath her feet.
Darkness obscured the path, the only illumination a pale silver moon and the warm glow from a window a few feet ahead.
Josephine looked to her right and down the street as far as she could see, but could scarcely distinguish the shadowed outlines of darkened buildings and houses. Then she realized . . .
No electricity. Anywhere. That’s why the interior of the house had seemed darker.
She wasn’t unfamiliar with oil lamps, but electricity had been installed in their family home some years back.
And parts of Atlanta, thriving city it was, had been powered by electricity for over two decades.
But not Lynchburg, Tennessee, which felt another world away.
A very good thing, in one sense. But very lonely and unfamiliar in another.
In the kitchen, they found two women standing by a massive cast-iron stove in the center of the room, their backs to them. And they were having words.
“All I’m saying, Calla, is it simply doesn’t taste as good as usual. It’s still worth eating, mind you. It’s simply not your best. And it’s important we always give our best, no matter who’s sitting at the table.”
“I’m hearing you, ma’am, but I made it just how I always do. I don’t know what’s making the difference.”
“Maybe the eggs weren’t as fresh.”
“I gathered them eggs myself this morning, so it wasn’t—”
“Well—” The woman, presumably the head cook judging by her authoritative tone, gave a succinct nod, clearly ending the discussion. “Let’s make it again later this week and see if it doesn’t come out better.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll do it, and with a skip in my step. But I’m telling you, I—”
Mr. Coburn cleared his throat, announcing their presence, and the women turned.
Surprisingly, the head cook was much younger than Josephine had assumed from seeing her only from behind.
Calla, her coworker with warm brown skin and steady eyes, looked to be a few years older.
Both women shifted their attention from Dodge to her—and their smiles faded.
Concern washed over Calla’s face, while guarded suspicion settled on the younger woman’s.
“Mr. Coburn . . .” Suspicion seeped from the woman’s tone as well. “You’re much later than expected. And toting a stranger to boot.”
“Yes, ma’am. Got held up in Tullahoma, then hit some hard rain on our way back. Heavy load didn’t help either. We slipped and slid our way up and over Lynchburg Hill. But allow me to introduce—”
The young woman held up a hand, and in that simple gesture, commanded the room. She approached Josephine, her gaze assessing. “Welcome to Lynchburg, Miss . . . ?”
“It’s M-Mrs. actually,” Josephine managed, regretting the stammer and trying not to squirm beneath the lie. “Mrs. Josephine Dunham.”
The woman’s gaze darted to her left hand, as though she doubted Josephine’s claim. Only then did Josephine realize, with sickening regret—her wedding ring was gone.
“My ring!” She clutched her left hand, searching the floor for her mother’s thin silver band.
“It was on my hand just a—” When was she last aware of it?
She couldn’t remember. Regret hardened her gut.
The thought of having lost that ring too, on top of all else, felt like the final blow. “It has to be here somewhere, I—”
Aware of the sudden silence, she looked up.
The young woman’s gaze had turned downright appraising. “I’m right sorry about your ring . . . Mrs. Dunham. That’s more bad luck on top of what already looks to be none too good. I’m Mrs. Jackson Bobo. But everybody around here just calls me Miss Mary.”