My Heart Belongs in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania Page 4

  Clarissa had been living on three different levels while he spoke: sharply disappointed that he was against her work with the Underground Railroad, absolutely mesmerized by his ability to string thoughts and words and beliefs together with clarity and eloquence, and eternally grateful he detested slavery enough that he would rail against it from the pulpit. Perhaps there was hope for the two of them. But she had chosen to play the role of the woman opposed to flouting the decisions of the courts, especially the Supreme Court, so she could not express her truest feelings. In a bold move, she reached up with her leather-gloved hand and patted his cheek.

  “There, there. Calm yourself, sir.” She gave him her best smile. “I breathe a sigh of relief, Mr. Forrester, for I had it in my heart to like you. Now it’s much easier to do.”

  “Is it?”

  “Oh yes. You are against slavery—a practice I personally abhor—but you choose to confront it inside the law. That pleases me more than I can say.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “I’m glad to say it.”

  “I’ve taken you far off the beaten path, Clarissa Avery. We should make our way to your home directly or we’ll be late for lunch.”

  Clarissa decided to stay bold for a while. “And that wouldn’t do, would it, if you are trying to impress my parents, especially my mother.”

  He smiled. “It would not do, no.”

  Her boldness continued. “May I take your arm, sir?”

  Inwardly, she shrugged. She risked her life on the Underground Railroad. Why did a burgeoning relationship with a man have to be so tame? Why couldn’t she take some risks there too?

  Kyle did not hesitate.

  Which, to her, was a welcome sign.

  He bent his right arm and offered it to her. “Shall we?”

  She grinned the imp-and-devil grin and placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. “We shall. Lead on, Macduff.”

  “You do know that’s a misquote, Miss Ross?”

  “I do, Mr. Forrester. It actually is ‘Lay on, Macduff,’ where Macbeth is egging his foe on and inviting him to attack. However, common usage has rendered it as an invitation to follow, and I am quite happy with the common usage this Sunday afternoon.”

  “How are your boots holding up in this slush?”

  “My boots? Father made them to last me until I’m in my coffin. It will take a lot more than snow and ice and a drop in the temperature to have them come apart at the seams.”

  “Hmm. I imagine that applies to you as well.”

  “Mr. Forrester, I can assure you it does.” A thought popped into her head, and she chose to be impulsive. It had been an impulsive kind of night, and now it had become an impulsive kind of day. “But you don’t have a pulpit to rail against slavery from, sir.”

  “What? Trying to keep up with your thoughts, Miss Ross, is like trying to catch hummingbirds with my bare hands and my two feet far too firmly on the ground.”

  “I’m simply referring back to our discussion of slavery in the great Republic. You said you would preach against it in the churches. But you are only a seminary student, sir. You have nowhere to plant those two feet of yours and give us a sermon against that despicable trade.”

  “Only?”

  “I’m sure you are a brilliant student, Mr. Forrester. It’s not my intention to belittle your efforts in hermeneutics and exegesis and homiletics. But, the fact remains, how will you fight slavery within the law if you have no law degree that gets you into the courts and, before God, no pulpit where you can boldly make your stand before a congregation?”

  “It’s odd you should bring that up.”

  “Why odd?”

  “I have to give a public sermon as part of my studies. It gets evaluated, of course.”

  “Public?”

  “Yes, anyone may attend. There are three of us preaching that evening, so I’m sure it would soon get tiresome for a young woman like you.”

  “Where is this taking place? And when?”

  “In two weeks. At our church. At eight o’clock at night. Honestly, I can’t see it being of any interest to you, Miss Ross.”

  “I suppose I can decide for myself what I find interesting or uninteresting, Mr. Forrester. I may very well be there. Despite your attempts to steer me away.”

  “I just think …”

  “Hush. I’ve already made up my mind. There’s my home. Let’s go in and cheerfully enjoy our lunch.”

  And two weeks later she was at Christ’s Church at seven thirty in the evening, mother and father in tow, to ensure she got into the family pew early.

  Front row. In the middle.

  She laughed to herself. A few more feet and I’ll be in Kyle’s lap.

  “My dear,” her mother complained, “is it necessary to be in such a rush? We’ll be on display as much as the students what with all our hustle and bustle.”

  “We aren’t Baptists, are we, Mother?” Clarissa retorted, settling herself and unwrapping her long woolen scarf. “Lutherans can sit as far forward as they like and come as early as they want.”

  More people were showing up than she had expected. It turned out one of the students was the son of a prominent banker in Gettysburg, and friends and relatives were joining his family to show their support. So be it, thought Clarissa. No one was there for Kyle Forrester except her and her parents. He had come to Gettysburg from New York City, and she knew that his own mother and father had passed away and that, like her, he was an only child. An only, lonely child like me, she mused as she waited for the service to begin, her eyes roving over the Christmas decorations in the sanctuary. Several of the wreaths, rich with burgundy, forest green, and large pine cones, she and her mother had fashioned and then placed. She wondered how unique being an only child made her or Kyle. Certainly, a child raised among siblings must have a different experience and perception of life than one raised without brothers and sisters. Was she used to getting her own way, since there was no competition with a sister who wanted her desires met over Clarissa’s? Had constantly getting what she wanted made her more selfish or more demanding? Was she spoiled? Self-centered? A brat?

  She pouted as she sat there in the pew, her wagon wheels turning over and over in her mind, and her mother saw the fat lip and frowned. I am not a brat, Clarissa said to no one in particular, though she never voiced the words. I AM NOT A BRAT, she repeated to herself with more vehemence. She could tell by her mother’s disapproving stare that the mood of her unspoken words was scribbled all over her face, but she didn’t care. It wasn’t her fault she was an only child. She’d made the best of it, and she felt she had come out pretty well in the end. Kyle Forrester certainly had: seminary student at the top of his class (her father had made what he called discreet inquiries), a top competitor when it came to athletic contests, an excellent marksman (that she’d found out about on her own), a fine rider and horseman…. Even after they’d stood to sing a hymn and the service had begun with the banker’s son giving them the first sermon with his mousy nose buried in his notes—I am sorry for the adjective mousy, Lord, but it is accurate—her thoughts continued to wander around her experience of Kyle Forrester from the past two weeks.

  The lunch at her home after church had been a success. And although she had thought she’d have no interest in Kyle’s parlor conversation with her father after the meal, she found herself drawn in by their talk of the possible secession of the Southern states from the American Republic. Now, with South Carolina seceding from the Union the Thursday before, on the twentieth of December, she realized how prescient Kyle and her father had been, for both had laid down convincing arguments that several Southern states would indeed leave and break up the country.

  “They will say it is all about states’ rights,” her father insisted as he sipped a third cup of black coffee. “And on one level, it is. But what they will not trumpet is the fact that the states’ right which matters the most to them, above all others, is that of slavery. They will fight to retain their rig
ht to buy and own and work human beings on their cotton and sugarcane plantations. I would say some see it as a sovereign right. They shall hold on tightly to that right and never open their hands to release their slaves, unless compelled by force.”

  Kyle agreed and added, “What they call their right is the right to take away another’s right to be free.”

  “Right to be free? What right, young man? The Fugitive Slave Law is already ten years old. You know very well that slave catchers can go anywhere in the country they like and chain up runaway slaves and even free blacks.” Her father shrugged. “And they will point to the Dred Scott decision and say no slave can have rights or citizenship or protection under the constitution.”

  “I do not accept the Dred Scott decision, sir. It must be appealed. It must be overturned.”

  Her father shook his head. “The Supreme Court will not hear an appeal against their own seven-to-two ruling. Would you resort to force to overturn the court’s decision?”

  “No, sir. No I would not. But I would take it to the people. Let there be public referendum.”

  “No, no, that will not do, Mr. Forrester. Remember the war in Kansas? That was what an attempt to have the people vote for or against slavery brought about. A civil war among its citizens. Bleeding Kansas. No, a referendum will not do.”

  “What then, Father?” Clarissa intervened. “You say no to this and no to that. So how shall slavery be brought to an end? How can America be a free country once again?”

  “It never was a free country, my dear girl. Slavery was with us from the beginning. Jefferson wanted to end it with the Declaration of Independence, but South Carolina and Georgia would not have it. Thus, the passage pertaining to the matter was stricken from the document. You can blame Ben Franklin and John Adams for that. No, they left the question to another generation and turned their backs on it. You should be asking, when will America be free? For the first time in its history, when shall America be free?”

  “And when shall it be free, Father? When? And how?”

  But her father had only shook his head and poured himself a fourth cup of coffee.

  They stood to sing another hymn, and Clarissa was determined to focus on the sermon presented by the second student, who was not Kyle Forrester, but a pleasant-looking young man with a handsome beard. Unfortunately, try as she might, she could not stay with him as he droned through the first two chapters of Genesis verse by verse, as if he were plodding through a muddy field after a hard winter’s rain. Where is the inspiration I need, sir? Her imagination roamed back to her and Kyle. There had not just been the political talks. They had enjoyed three, no, four more walks together since the beginning of December, one of them with the most amazing sugar-crystal snowflakes falling lightly on their heads and shoulders. She had caught them on her tongue. And once, just once, he had impetuously leaned down and kissed one that had landed on a loose strand of her crimson hair. After which he had immediately apologized. This had annoyed her to no end.

  “Oh, I wish you hadn’t done that, sir.”

  His face was red. “I apologize, Miss Ross. I … I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Kyle.” She rarely used his Christian name. “I’m not talking about kissing a snowflake that got caught in my hair. I liked that. But you spoiled it by apologizing for it.”

  “I … apologize for apologizing then.”

  “You take back the apology, sir?”

  “I do, Miss Ross.”

  “Then make up for it.”

  “Make up for it?”

  “Yes. Do something else that is impulsive. Something that will surprise and please me.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “Well, my goodness, sir,” she responded with a good measure of exasperation, “if I tell you what to do, then it isn’t impulsive anymore, is it?”

  “I suppose not.”

  And then he was very impetuous, even impertinent, and absolutely surprised and shocked her. Lucky for him, she loved it.

  He tilted her chin up toward his face, bent down, and gently, briefly, touched his lips to the brow of her eye.

  Then he straightened and waited for her reaction.

  “Well, Mr. Forrester … well, Mr. Forrester.” She was tongue-tied. “Well, Mr. Forrester …”

  “Yes, Miss Ross?”

  She finally smiled. “Do it again, oh, do it again.” And she placed a gloved hand on his arm. “Linger, sir. Please, linger.” Then she laughed like the tinkling of silver Christmas chimes. “I don’t have to teach you everything about wooing a young lady, do I?”

  “I trust not.”

  “In any case, the rules for wooing other young women do not apply to me.” She laced her arms about his neck. “I’m a redhead. You may take risks with me. You may be bold. I shall be bold in return. Do I frighten you, sir?”

  “A little,” Kyle confessed.

  “Good. A redheaded woman should be a little frightening to a man.” She turned her face up to his and the shower of falling snow. “But not so frightening he won’t kiss her eyes when it’s only a week until Christmas Day.”

  And his kiss was amazing. Two kisses. One on each eye and eyebrow. They made her giggle. Such childish kisses. Yet she refused to relinquish her embrace of his neck. And she knew she was strong. She knew he couldn’t break away without using a lot more force than a gentleman would be prepared to use on a woman. Especially one he liked.

  “You do like me, don’t you, Mr. Forrester?” She smiled up at him. “I do have a bit of a hold on you, don’t I?”

  Kyle smiled a bigger smile than hers. “I’m very fond of you, Miss Ross. I admit I don’t know all the reasons why.”

  “Good. A woman should be something of a mystery to a man.”

  “I do know some of the reasons, however.”

  They were standing in the backyard of her house. Only two lamps had been lit inside, and both were at the front. The only things that were bright in the back by the picket fence were the ice crystals of swirling snow. She snuggled into his chest.

  “Enlighten me, young scholar,” she murmured into the thick woolen cloth of his coat and cloak. “Please enlighten me.”

  “‘If the Son therefore shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed.’” Kyle’s voice broke into her daydream. “You may be sure our Lord was not simply speaking about a spiritual freedom, as important as that is, for this was a man who fed the hungry with real food and who made the sick happy by giving them real healing, returning to them the capacity to truly walk and truly run and—may I not say it, when we shall gather here again tomorrow night for Christmas Eve and enjoy a ball afterward—dance and celebrate the freedom His touch had given them. No, Christ’s freedom extends to every part of a man’s life—his appetite, his health and his strength, his soul and his prayers, as well as his ability to move about freely, speak freely, choose freely, think freely, live freely. ‘Ye shall be free indeed.’”

  Clarissa blinked. What had happened to the boring Genesis sermon? Hadn’t there been a hymn between that sermon and Kyle’s? Hadn’t she stood for it? How long had Kyle been speaking? Well, whatever she had missed, it was his fault she had missed it, for he was the one who had kissed her on her eyes the Tuesday before, and his kisses, just to her dark red brows, had been so potent they remained with her yet. As if they had never ended that snowy night, as if his strong, sweet lips were still sealed lovingly and oh so richly and tenderly upon her smooth white skin.

  “One of my professors, who is here tonight,” Kyle continued, looking, Clarissa thought, tall and strong and magnificent behind the pulpit in his robe of stark clerical black, “encouraged us to prepare sermons with the Bible open in one hand and the newspaper open in the other. In that spirit, I do not say anything shocking to you when I emphasize that our great nation is at a crossroads. One state has left us. Others shall follow in the new year, once the holidays have concluded and governments are back in session. What does the future hold? I tell you, we
must be true to God. We must be true to scripture. We must be a free nation before God. We must be a Christian nation. And to be such a nation all men must be free in their souls and in their intellects and in their will to choose freely. And their bodies must be free. Without chains. Without bars on their windows. Without manacles on their wrists and ankles. We cannot be a nation honoring to God as long as one man or one woman or one child is enslaved. I say again, Christ did not just set souls free. He set lives free. He set bodies free. He set women and men free. ‘Stand fast therefore in the liberty wherewith Christ hath made us free, and be not entangled again with the yoke of bondage.’”

  A hush fell over the congregation. It was not a hush of boredom or disinterest or sleepiness or impatience; no, Clarissa recognized the sort of hush it was. Everyone was waiting with the sort of anticipation people had for the next strike during a lightning storm, the next peal of thunder—what Kyle would say next and how he would end.

  “I preach from Galatians. Yes, Martin Luther’s favorite book, Galatians. And why was it his favorite book? Because in it Paul argued that the grace of God set the captives free. Not unjust laws like we see coming from our Supreme Court. Faith in the supreme grace of a supreme God. And Paul made his argument under the inspiration of God Himself. So, what do I say to you with Christmas less than forty-eight hours away, a time when we celebrate the Son who came to set us at liberty from our sins? I say to our Lutheran churches: freedom now, freedom tomorrow, and freedom forever. I say America ought to be a Christian nation and therefore ought to be a nation of independence for all people, not just a privileged few. I say we stand fast in the liberty God has bequeathed upon us with the birth of our Lord Jesus and we do not go back to bondage of any sort—spiritual, intellectual, physical, or political. ‘The Lord is that Spirit: and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.’ There is freedom! Amen!”