Summers Bluff

By Suz Dempsey

Summers Bluff is the first novel in the continuing story of the Summers family a few years after the end of the American Civil War. After many trials, Emma is eventually driven from her Savannah, Georgia plantation by death threats from a ruthless solicitor, Cal Morgan, who means to see her wed to him or see her dead.

Nineteen-year-old Emma Summers, orphaned, homeless, on her own for the first time and fleeing for her life, shows her true character and courage, born of her faith in God, and her hope for a new life and future on the other side of the continent from the evil Morgan.

Her faith sees her through the dark times, and into a life of close friendships, security, and romance in California. But, has she gone far enough away to escape Cal Morgan?

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Nov 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781512718249

Suz Dempsey

Suz Dempsey is married, a mother, a granny, and loves clean, mindless romances. An RN, she has spent the past eighteen years as a full-time medical missionary to the Amazon jungle around Iquitos, Perú. Along with husband, Mike, they established Amazon Medical Missions (amazonmedicalmissions.org) and gave free healthcare and other necessities to the poor of the river villages. More importantly, they gave them a witness of Jesus Christ as Lord. Having returned to the States, with a bit more free time, Suz has set her hand to writing. You will enjoy reading her new tetrad novel, The Summers Bluff Saga.

Book preview

Emma

Summers Bluff Plantation February1870

It was a delightful, sunny, spring-like morning, just like a thousand others before it, but for some reason, each one seemed significant to Emma Summers this year. The unseasonably warm February weather was already showing signs that the day would be a scorcher. Emma thought it would probably reach near eighty degrees before noon unless she missed her guess.

The cold, long winter had seemed to drag on forever, and warm weather had been long in coming. Though it had been considered a mild winter, compared to some in recent memory, it was still good to feel the sunshine, warm upon her bare arms. Her mama and Granny Thornton would be fussing at her when they saw her skin begin to bronze, but for all that, she would continue to spend most mornings out of doors.

Emma loved to spend the first part of the morning in her garden. The daffodils, one of her favorite flowers, had bloomed just that week; those happy-looking yellow flowers were nodding their heads, glistening with the dew of the early morning. Emma normally gathered flowers for the breakfast table, as the conservatory kept flowers in bloom all winter long.

This morning she would pick some of the fragrant daffodils from the outside garden, situated along the south side of the house. She loved this the best of all her chores; it was one she had taken upon herself. She cut the daffodils at the last minute and put them in water in the cool springhouse until the breakfast hour.

Emma had loved early morning for as long as she could remember. The captivating twilight time between the light of crepuscule and that of dawn told her that God was on his throne and all was well with the world. She could be alone in the quiet, feeling grateful for her blessings and giving thanks, as she contemplated the day before her. The house would be quiet for a little while yet, though the plantation was already a flurry of activity. Emma was always up before any other member of the family, besides her papa, Josiah Summers, master of Summers Bluff.

Emma was content with her lot in life, all things considered. She had much to be thankful for, and that day she experienced a sense of well being, as she sat there in the sunshine and contemplated her life. That contentment was not to say that the Summers family had been untroubled. After all, were they not just on the other side of the awful Civil War?

Yes, they had known their share of trouble and heartache, to be sure. But, she was nineteen, healthy and some considered her a beauty, what with her thick, fiery, auburn tresses and her emerald eyes that sparkled with merriment, as she laughed and played and got on with her life.

She was maybe a bit on the tallish side at five-seven, but that was a matter of taste, as were the freckles sprinkled across her nose that became even more prominent as she spent time in the sun. She was quite slender, but well rounded in all the right places. Her husky voice made her sound maybe a bit more mature than she really was, but her voice was her own and she felt at home with herself, for all that.

Perhaps the reason Emma was such a happy, confident young miss was because she had been loved all her life and treated well by those she loved. In turn, she had always appreciated and loved those in her small world and had never had cause to know jealousy, strife, or envy. She also had no reason to rebel or fret, as after the long war, peace ruled once again in her father’s house.

Yes, Emma knew who she was and knew her place in the scheme of things. She had many friends and was usually in the midst of the social circles that were comprised by the people of standing in the community. She looked forward to attending many more activities since the advent of warm weather, but she had always been happier at home than anywhere else. Yes, I enjoy the outings to the theater, concerts, and cotillions, as well as to other plantations for holidays and celebrations, yet I’m always eager to get back home to Summers Bluff. She wondered why that was when most of her friends lived to go to town.

Summers Bluff plantation, which started as a rough, one-storied log cabin, now boasted a typical white-columned colonial home with well-appointed outbuildings. It was perched along the bluff of the Savannah River, southwest of Savannah. Home to the Summers family for four generations, it was known for producing some of the finest-quality cotton and rice in the South.

Emma’s family had also been known for their Christian hospitality and genuine goodwill for all four generations of plantation living. Emma felt that after such a tragic war that had caused the upheaval of their lives and very existence, things were finally becoming somewhat normal again.

As normal as it could be with her brother, Fletcher, having been reported killed in that awful war. She wondered how the South, or North for that matter, could ever function with so many men lost and their families left so desolate. Never mind how the nation could ever cohere again; could they ever be able to forgive and be brothers again, or would it end up in a vicious cycle of suspicion giving way to frustration and fear giving way to anger and more distrust?

Callers had started coming around when Emma was fifteen. While some came with romantic notions, many just loved Emma’s sincerity, friendliness, and ease of conversation. The young bucks knew she could be trusted with their hearts’ secrets. She knew how to listen and was genuinely interested in what they had to say. She always told them what she thought about whatever was on their minds. Since she had no real romantic interest in any of them, she had been able to cultivate rich and comfortable friendships with all of them.

Even all her friends’ beaus would visit and ask her what they should do in one situation or other with their ladies fair. Yes, she had plenty of visitors and plenty of opportunities for romance, but none from the quarter she wanted and hoped for.

The young women in her circle of friends knew of her friendships with their beaus, but Emma didn’t evoke their jealousy for all her beauty and poise, because she showed kindness, love, and loyalty to them all in many ways and many times over. She was loath to flirt for the sake of flirting, and so was held in high esteem with both genders of friends.

Later that morning, Emma felt the stifling heat as soon as she entered the stand-alone brick kitchen on the backside of the house. Granny Thornton! It’s becoming a scorcher today. It’s just too hot to be roasting those hens! cried Emma. Mercy me, but even Papa said one of your delicious cold plates would do nicely for dinner this noon.

Old Granny just nodded her head and kept on basting her birds, as she considered what would be good to serve for the supper meal. She decided that she would serve a cold plate of leftover hens from dinner for the evening supper, and said so.

Of course, Bessie was the cook and Granny the helper, but old Granny did whatever she felt up to, and making decisions was mainly what she felt up to these days. Bessie loved the old soul and always had let her have her way, saying, That’s good, Granny. There’ll be plenty of chicken left over from dinner with just the three of ’em now.

Granny had been her papa’s nanny, as well as her brother’s and hers, and was the oldest person on the plantation. She still took a hand in seeing after them, as they all certainly still needed her presence in their lives, as she was thought of as family.

Granny hummed her hymns and wished she could see just a little better. Her old eyes had been failing her of late, but she never let on, because there was plenty of time to worry the missus over something like that. I’ll jest keep on keepin’ on till I drop, I will. Jest like me granny did and her granny afore her, she thought, grateful to still be of use in her dotage.

But all in all, I’ve given life a pretty good run, haven’t I? Isn’t me back still straight, and haven’t I the most part of me own teeth left in me mouth? And who had nary a white hair on her head till long past her fiftieth birthday if it wasn’t me, ol’ Granny Thornton?

Yes, that birthday had been more than thirty years ago. So what if her eyes fuzzed a bit and she had to have Bessie thread her needle more oft than not? Worse things were happening to people all round her, so she would not be feeling sorry for herself one bit. She would carry on the best she could. Have we not come through the awful war but half a decade ago, and are we not doin’ fine as ever ye please these days? she asked herself, as she continued her musing.

Ah, but there it was! All of us had not come through the war, had we now? ’Twas the young Master Fletcher— he had not come through the war. And that sad it was. Sad enough to break the strongest heart, she mused.

Granny Thornton could recollect it as if it had been but