Bethann

By Sandra Bruney

Seventeen-year-old Bethann nearly loses her life attempting to trace her birth family, and becomes resigned to helping her adopted sister raise her children and occasionally helping Colin McKay at the local mercantile. Life is not all work, however. McKay encourages her writing and Matty Pope, her neighbor on nearby Riverbend plantation, become a close friend.

Matty's half-brother, Henry, arrives in North Carolina and Bethann is instantly attracted to his dark good looks and cosmopolitan air. Henry's determination to prove he is the rightful owner of Riverbend forces Matty to reveal the truth about Henry's parentage and Henry flees to England.
Bethann pens a scathing account of the evils of slavery that is serialized in a Boston newspaper. When she realizes she has unwittingly put her adopted family in danger, Bethann faces an agonizing choice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sandra Bruney
• Release date: May 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463173015

Sandra Bruney

I am a writer living in North Carolina. I enjoy reading, crafting, gardening, and obeying the whims of my rescue cats.

Book preview

Bethann

by

Sandra Z. Bruney

Bethann

Copyright 2020 by Sandra Z. Bruney

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Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Other Titles by Sandra Bruney

Connect with Sandra Bruney

Chapter One

She stumbled down the dirt road, her footing made precarious by the ruts caused by wagon wheels in the recent rain. Tears stung her eyes, but Bethann was too proud and too furious to let them fall. Mrs. Batykefer's voice rang in her ears, the tone soft and conciliatory, the words sharp and painful as a filleting knife.

You understand, my dear. Isaac simply must marry Caroline Mabry. Her father is a banker and will see Isaac has the money he needs to improve his business. Here the woman had hesitated. And the social connections to raise him in the community.

When Isaac made a bleat of dismay, his mother turned her implacable gaze to him. You do realize your 'understanding' with Miss Iver is simply the result of a youthful infatuation. It will pass.

If Isaac replied, Bethann didn't hear it. She threw him a look of anguish and recrimination before whirling about. He let her go without a word of protest.

Isaac's store was failing. He failed to keep accurate accounts. He failed to impress upon his customers the need to pay promptly. He didn't know how to order goods his female customers would buy.

She knew what actions would improve the store more than any influx of money, but could she could persuade Isaac of this and encourage him to stand up to his mother? If only the store's success was the only thing that mattered.

One hot, salty tear rolled down her face as she contemplated what she could not give him—the social connections Mrs. Batykefer had dangled before his eyes. She knew how Isaac admired his betters, bowing and scraping over a rich cotton planter's wife while ignoring a poor farmer. Mrs. Batykefer herself boasted a distant uncle who was a Lord. Her pride had been humbled when she married Isaac's father, a mere merchant. After his death and her second marriage, she had become even more determined her son should rise to what in her mind was his destined place in society. And to rise, Isaac had to marry well.

Bethann did not come from a family of wealth and prestige. Her name opened no doors.

She didn't hear the carriage coming up behind her until the jingle of harness and a horse's soft whicker interrupted her thoughts.

Elizabeth Ann, what in the world are you doing out here? I thought you were spending the day with Isaac. Did you two have a quarrel?

Glancing up, Bethann shaded her eyes against the blazing, late afternoon sun. Not exactly.

"Get in. Your shoes are ruined and you've torn the hem of your skirt. If you didn't exactly quarrel, you should have let Isaac bring you home as he intended. It's much too far to walk. In those shoes," he added with a frown.

Oh, Luke. At his words Bethann let the tears she had been holding back fall in a furious flood. She took her brother-in-law's hand and let him haul her up to join him on the padded seat of the open, two-person conveyance. Missis McLeod—I mean Missis Batykefer—told Isaac he cannot marry me as we planned. He must marry Miss Mabry to gain access to her father's money and connections. Her voice rose to a wail. And he stood there like a great lump of dough and let her lead him by the nose to a marriage he doesn't want.

Luke's jay-blue eyes hardened. If he's so weak, you can't want him. Let Miss Mabry have him and consider yourself fortunate.

Not answering, Bethann searched in her reticule for a handkerchief. Pulling it out, she wiped her cheeks and then blew her nose. Then she studied Luke's face. As usual, his straw-colored hair was tied back for convenience, hidden now under an old-fashioned three-cornered hat. She decided to confide in him, encouraged by the concern in his eyes.

You are right—he let me go as easily as brushing a feather off his vest. There is only one thing I want now—to find out who I am. Missis McLeod didn't say it, but she hinted I was not worthy of her son's hand because I have no family. Not even my name is my own.

You have a family. Luke's words were curt, bitten off. Morven and I are your family. It saddens me you think otherwise.

Instantly contrite, Bethann wadded the now-sodden handkerchief in her hands. I know, and I am grateful. I'm grateful Grandmamma Iver so graciously gave her name to me, an orphan girl with no memory of her past. I'm grateful Morven didn't see me as just another burden when Missis Iver offered to take me in, just as she accepted Morven into her household when her mother died. And I'm grateful that you married Morven and joined our family. Although this last part was not quite true.

She turned to gaze in Luke's face. It would be perfect if Grandmamma were still alive. A new freshet of tears threatened to ensue

Luke's expression softened. Then we'll hear no more about it. There are plenty of young men who would jump at the chance to court you. You've kept yourself so close to that young buffoon for so long they've given up. Once they learn you are free ... He chirruped to the horse, which laid back its ears and increased its walk to a smart trot.

Bethann didn't answer. There were few young men her age about in a county populated by farms separated by miles of cotton or other crops, and none of them were eager to court a girl with no name. A girl whose early, hungry years had so stunted her growth she was as small as a twelve-year-old. A girl with unruly red curls and curious leaf-green eyes, and freckles splattered across her nose no matter how many poultices she put on it.

Morven told her she was pretty and petite.

Bethann knew the words were meant to soothe, but she did not believe them.

The two rode on in silence, Luke occasionally flicking the reins to encourage the little gray mare. When they reached the lane leading to the house and outbuildings, he allowed her to slow down until they reached the back of the house where a kitchen garden was laid out in neat rows.

Luke pulled the buggy to a halt. Go wash your face. Tell Morven I'll be in as soon as I get Molly unhitched and wiped down.

Bethann obeyed, splashing water on her face from the basin set on a bench by the back door and drying it with the rough toweling hung on a nail. Once inside, she took off her bonnet and shawl and hung them on a peg.

Morven was stirring venison stew in a pot on the hearth, her chestnut hair neatly tucked beneath her white muslin cap. She straightened and sent Bethann a smile. You are home early. The smile faded and her amber eyes sharpened. What's wrong? What happened?

Bethann repeated her story again, this time without tears, and ended with, If I can't marry Isaac, I refuse to marry anybody. All men are weak fools, and I want nothing more to do with them. Sensing Morven's little movement of dismay, she said hastily, Except Luke. But there aren't many men like Luke around and I doubt if any would have me if there were.

Instead of offering false consolation, Morven sat down in a nearby chair. Indeed. In that case, what do you propose to do?

Do?

Obviously, you aren't going to marry Isaac and help run the store. Now you say you won't marry anybody. You started to train as a midwife under Mary Dunbar, but gave it up the first time something bad happened.

Bethann shuddered at the memory. It was more than bad—it was horrible. I cannot bear to go through it again.

A shadow of sympathy swept over Morven's face, but she kept on. The herbs you gather for Mary earn you only a few pennies, not enough to support yourself.

Realization dawned. You want me to leave! A great chasm yawned open beneath her feet.

No, no, honey! But you must look to your future. If you don't wed, there are very few options open to you. You can stay with us as long as you want, but is it truly what you want? To be dependent on others? To be described as a spinster of the parish in the roll books?

I can help you around the house. Milk Susie and collect the eggs, weed the kitchen garden ...

Sweetheart, Tamsen already does these things. Would you put her out to pasture like an old mule?

As if summoned, Tamsen came in the door, followed by her son, Alex. You're home early, she said as Alex ran to Bethann for a hug.

Stroking the little boy's light brown curls, Bethann told her story again. This time, it didn't seem to hurt as much.

What are you going to do? Tamsen inquired.

Bethann lifted her head, hugging the child who had first called her Bethann when he couldn't lisp her full name, Elisabeth Ann.

I am going to find out who my parents were. Somebody must know something.

We'll talk about it after supper. As long as you're home, sit down and hem this shift. Remember to keep your stitches small and close together. I could have pulled your last hem out with my nose.

As she obediently threaded her needle, Bethann realized two things. One, Morven intended Luke to join the conversation. Second, she had missed dinner, the noon hour long past. Her stomach rumbled as she sighed. The simmering stew gave out a tantalizing odor. It was going to be a long afternoon.

At last the plates, cups, and spoons were washed and put away, the scraps of food fed to the hound hanging around the back door, and candles lit against the encroaching twilight. Tamsen took Alex to her cabin to put him to bed and by the way she said goodnight, she wasn't planning on returning. Bethann wished she had stayed; although Tamsen spoke seldom, what she had to say usually made good sense.

Why don't we start with what we do know, Luke suggested, pouring himself a dram of precious brandy. He eyed Morven, seated in the rocking chair by the hearth. When was Elisabeth Ann put in your care?

It was after Mam died. That was September in eighteen-ten. Let me think ... I had gone to live with Missis Iver. I believe it was the following spring when we were asked to take in an orphaned child, her mother, father, and two brothers all having been found dead of poisoning. Surely you remember, you were so surprised to see her when you came to call on me after you returned from one of your trips.

Mushrooms, I think you said. He turned to Bethann, who nodded. She had heard this story before, but until now it had been just that, a story. Now it was so much more. It was a clue to her past.

Luke took a sip of his brandy. So, with no other family with which to place her, they called upon Missis Iver's charity.

I suppose they felt she had taken in one orphan, why not another. Morven's voice was sharp and Bethann knew why. It might have been Lucy Iver's home, but it was Morven who did all the work for the elderly blind woman. And cared for me. Bethann experienced a rush of gratitude for the woman she called both mother and sister, for Morven was only ten or eleven years older than herself. She bit her lip. Another thing she didn't know for sure was her age—it could be sixteen or as much as eighteen. Morven had taken a guess when she first saw her, judging her years by her size.

Luke continued his query. Where did this family live and why did no one come forward?

They apparently built a small cabin near the river in a swampy area about five miles west of Sneydsborough where no one would bother them. A nearby farmer, Ewan Jones, said he'd tried to talk to the man, but he had no English and Jones didn't recognize what language he was speaking.

When Luke failed to reply, obviously waiting for more, Morven shook her head. That's all I was told. Maybe Mister Jones can add more, but it's been some time now. He may not recall.

But I can ask. Bethann leaned forward in her eagerness. I will go tomorrow, if I can borrow the buggy. And Molly. She turned her face toward Luke. Please, Luke, it's so important.

Of course. He gazed at her soberly. But don't raise your hopes too high. You may learn nothing more than what we discussed here.

I know. But I have to try.

Morven let out a little sigh. If I had known you were so eager, we could have gone long before now.

I really hadn't thought about it before. I was content with you and Grandmama Iver. She flushed, remembering how that contentment had been shattered, first by Lucy Iver's death, and then by Morven and Luke's marriage.

I suppose I just want to prove something to Missis Batykefer. And Isaac.

They shouldn't matter. Morven's tone was reproving. "Nor should you have to prove anything. But I understand you are curious." Thankfully, she let the matter drop.

Soon it was full dark, and Bethann made her excuses to retire, leaving Luke and Morven to talk in private by the fire. She took a candle with her, to read a bit in her room, knowing she wouldn't be able to sleep.

However, the moralizing tone of Mrs. Hatton's latest novel soon made her eyes droop. Bethann gave up and blew the candle out. Curled under her quilt, she watched the moon from her window as it sailed across the sky. What would tomorrow bring?

Chapter Two

Impatient to start out, Bethann sped through her breakfast of porridge and milk warm from the cow. She helped Tamsen wash up, an apron protecting her gown of sprigged dimity. Morven had made it for her birthday—a day randomly selected by Lucy Iver, who had also given Bethann her name.

Bethann missed the old lady greatly. Although sometimes contrary and admittedly sharp-tongued, she was also kind and generous to those she loved. And she had loved Bethann, praising her slightest accomplishment and defending her small sins.

I wonder if I have a real grandmother somewhere? The thought spurred her to move even more quickly through her chores.

Have a care. You'll splash water all over the floor if you trip. Morven frowned at her over her sewing.

I'm sorry. I won't trip, Bethann said with more confidence than she felt. The thought of stumbling slowed her down, though. Emptying the basin over the daisies planted beside the stoop, she noted Molly was hitched to the buggy and was waiting patiently.

She went back inside to get her bonnet. It was too warm for a shawl, much warmer than the day before had been. Spring was on its way out and summer was arriving. It was a perfect May morning, filled with songs from bluebirds, robins, cardinals, and mockingbirds, and the occasional harsh caw of a blue jay.

There are some biscuits and a slice of ham. Morven nodded to the muslin-wrapped bundle on the table.

Thank you. Bethann picked up the little packet. I suppose I'm ready.

She didn't feel ready, but was inexplicably nervous. Perhaps you could accompany me?

Morven sighed and laid down her needle. I can't, my sweet girl. I must finish this gown by tomorrow or lose Missis Partridge's custom.

Morven knew without being told they needed the money, Luke having sunk every penny he owned into the farm.

I wish I had a talent, she burst out. I can't sew, like you, or weave baskets like Tamsen. Every time she takes them to market they are sold immediately. Now she is taking orders from people just as you do. I'm the only person in this household besides Alex who doesn't contribute. As you said yesterday, my pennies from collecting herbs for Missis Dunbar don't amount to a pin.

I didn't say that. I said they wouldn't support you. But they do help us. Every little bit helps. And once Luke begins to see a profit on his horses, we won't need to worry about pennies. She stared down at the fine wool in her lap and whispered, And maybe I can stop sewing except for my family.

Bethann knew Morven worried about her eyesight failing and tried to think of something comforting to say, but was interrupted.

You had best get going if you want to see Mister Jones and be back before evening. You'll need to ask in the village where the Jones farm is. Check at the inn, Missis Knox knows everyone in Anson County, if not the whole of North Carolina.

I will. She dropped an impulsive kiss on Morven's cheek.

It didn't take long to reach the village of Sneydsborough. Bethann found herself wishing it took a little longer, both eager to hear what Mr. Jones had to say, and reluctant to face the fact that he might know no more than he had told the commissioners who had placed her with Mrs. Iver.

The canal was empty except for one lonely-looking barge. In the fall, it would be busy with farmers bringing their loads of cotton to ship downriver to Georgetown or Charleston. Bethann glanced sadly at the little house she had grown up in, empty now, and carefully averted her eyes from McLeod's Mercantile.

Then she was at the Knox Inn.

Giving a boy a penny to watch Molly, she entered the imposing three-story building. In addition to guest rooms, there was a tap room in the bottom floor. Like the canal, it was empty this early in the morning.

Elisabeth Ann! How nice to see you. How are the newlyweds?

Happy. Bethann endured the older woman's sweaty embrace.

As well they should be, separated by an ocean for ten long years! Such a romantic tale, it is like one you would read in a book.

The ocean wasn't as much an impediment as the war, Bethann replied, trying to disengage herself.

Indeed! Indeed! But true love wins out, always, the stout woman declared. Now, miss, what brings you to my inn? If you are seeking employment, I'm afraid—

No, I need directions to Ewan Jones' farm.

Mrs. Knox's eyes narrowed. Trying to find out about your parents, are you? Perhaps it might be better to leave well enough alone. Who knows what you will discover, if anything?

Sensing it was a rhetorical question, Bethann said nevertheless, I need to know if I have family somewhere.

Martha Knox heaved a sigh. He lives just past the Little plantation. Do you know where it is?

Yes. It was one of the biggest farms in the county, second only to the Pope holdings abutting Luke Forester's property.

There is an enormous live oak in front of his house that will tell you when you have arrived.

Bethann smothered a giggle at the thought of a tree greeting her. She knew what Mrs. Knox meant, though. Thank you, Missis Knox. I'd best be on my way.

Good fortune, Mrs. Knox answered, but her tone was more doubtful than optimistic.

Once back on the road, Bethann noted the sun was higher in the sky and getting warmer. She was thankful the broad brim of her straw bonnet prevented the sun's rays from bringing out even more freckles. How I hate them! They make me feel so ugly. No wonder Isaac...

She refused to let her thoughts go back to the scene in the mercantile.

She passed fields, the first green shoots of the cotton plants just appearing. Cows grazed in a meadow, and further on, slaves were clearing land of mixed hardwood and pine for yet another field.

At last, Bethann spied the wide-spread oak and pulled the reins to slow Molly down. This must be it. Her heart began to beat erratically.

She got out of the buggy, making sure Molly was secured to a post set in the dirt yard for that purpose. She had taken only a few steps before the door to the farmhouse opened and a woman wearing a plain brown cotton day gown came out. A strand of gray hair had escaped her cap and lay across a red, roughened cheek.

Good morning! Bethann called, hoping she sounded more cheerful than terrified.

Good morning. The woman, who Bethann assumed was Mrs. Jones, wrapped her hands in her apron and waited, unsmiling.

I'm Elisabeth Ann Iver and I've come to ask you some questions. It was you and your husband who found me and—

She could get no further, for the woman rushed down the stone steps and flung her arms around her in a warm embrace. Then she stepped back, her hands on Bethann's shoulders, and studied her face.

Of course you are! I should have recognized you at once. Your pretty red hair, and those green, green, eyes! I heard Missis Iver took you in, a Christian woman if there ever was one. If I hadn't had four rapscallion boys of my own, I'd have kept you myself, but it wasn't possible. Now they're gone and you're all grown as well, and mighty bonny you are, too. Come inside and have a glass of water, you must be warm.

Somehow during this onslaught of words, Bethann was guided inside the house and Mrs. Jones put a cup of cold water into her hands.

Sit down. Mrs. Jones pointed to a wooden chair with a padded cushion. Excuse me, I've chicken frying. Mister Jones will be back from the field soon and expecting his dinner. You'll stay, of course.

Bethann sipped her water and watched as the woman, tall and thin as a fence rail, bustled about in the room that was both kitchen and sitting room. Most people had their kitchens in a separate building some distance from the main house in case of fire, but lately people were choosing convenience over danger, especially with the improvements on Mr. Franklin's metal stove. She was a little surprised the Joneses had one in their fireplace. Maybe one of their sons had done well and gifted his parents with it, because to her eyes the farm did not seem very prosperous.

As if guessing her thoughts, Mrs. Jones preened as she turned the chicken pieces frying in a cast iron pan on top of the stove. Unfortunately, the heat emitted from the burning wood made the room hotter than it normally would have been. Perspiration gathered under her arms and a slow trickle made its way down Bethann's back.

The room held a horsehair sofa, a Welsh dresser holding various pieces of china and pewter, and a large plain table with several stools pulled up to it. The table was set with two places, but Mrs.