Page 59 of In These Hills

After listening to Miss Burroughs, she wanted to believe a time would come when she could plead self-defense and have her voice heard. But that time was not now, and the clock was ticking. And in the back of her mind, buried beneath fear and uncertainty, was a voice that told her she would never go home again.

23

“HAVE ANOTHER PIECE of buttermilk pound cake, Nannie. You too, Josephine.” Calla didn’t wait for replies but plopped second slices of dessert onto their plates.

Nannie shot Josephine a look that said arguing would be an uphill battle. Josephine smiled, enjoying their playful banter.

With a light supper served to Miss Mary’s boarders and the dining room cleared—thankfully without Mrs. Gibbs who didn’t work Sundays—the three of them lingered at the table, talking and laughing. Late-afternoon sun slanted through the kitchen window, glowing like firelight and bathing the room in a golden haze.

“Now finish your story, Nannie,” Calla urged as she rejoined them, pouring herself another cup of tea. Always with mint and plenty of honey. “The one about your missionary friend.”

Nannie nodded and leaned forward. “Well, as I was saying, she’s a remarkable woman, following God’s call to share the gospel in China.”

Calla shook her head. “Talk about gumption!”

“Oh, she has plenty of that,” Nannie said. “And she loves the Lord, which makes for a powerful combination. When she was preparing to leave, her church asked to pray over her and her ministry. But afterward, a small group pulled her aside.” Nannie paused. “They wanted to give her a special gift.”

Josephine frowned.

“A pair of men’s trousers,” Nannie stated evenly. “They told her to go home, hang them on her bedpost, and pray for God to fill them. Because she had no business doing such work as an unmarried woman.”

Josephine stared. “They didn’t!”

“They did. And they meant it.”

Heat rushed to Josephine’s chest. “That’s absurd! As if a woman must have a husband to legitimize her calling. Men have no right to dictate what a woman should think or do—or who she should be!”

The kitchen went still. Only then did Josephine hear the sharpness in her own voice. She looked away, wishing she could gather the words back. Not only because of their force, but because she feared they betrayed her. She sounded like a woman without a husband.

“I-I’m sorry,” she said. “That was . . . far too blunt. And out of turn.”

Nannie reached across the table and covered her hand. “It’s never wrong to speak honestly among friends. I hope you won’t consider me impertinent if I ask you something.”

Sensing what was coming, Josephine braced herself.

“After all our visiting, you’ve heard much of my story.” Nannie gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “But I know very little of yours. And I’d like to, if you’re willing to share it.”

Calla’s expression echoed the same quiet encouragement.

“So . . . you’re asking how I came to be in Lynchburg,” Josephine said softly. “And how I came to have these marks on my face.”

“As much as your injuries concern me . . .” Nannie’s gaze was steady and kind. “I’m far more interested in the courage of the woman bearing them. Scripture says God never wastes a tear of our earthly journey. That he collects all of them in a bottle. I find strength in that. And I sense you’ve traveled a hard road.”

Josephine didn’t answer immediately, not trusting herself to speak. Because in that moment, she wanted—desperately—to tell them the truth. About the suffragist rally. The brick. Clay Darden. Sarah. The train station. All of it. But confession carried too high a cost.

“My story isn’t uncommon,” she began, choosing her words carefully. “My . . . husband is a man given to anger. Recently, it turned dangerous. And this time, I believed he might kill me.” The shudder that followed was real, even if the story was not. “So I fled. I left everything and . . . ran. And somehow, I ended up here. In Lynchburg. A town far from the rest of the world and a little difficult to find,” she finished, borrowing Nannie’s words from the sermon.

Her smile faint, Nannie nodded. Calla did too, though more slowly.

“And how does your husband earn his living?” Nannie asked.

Josephine lifted her cup to hide her hesitation. “He’s an attorney.”

Nannie’s brows rose. “Where does he practice?”

Josephine panicked. No doubt this young woman had connections, ones she would have previously welcomed in service of women’s rights and the vote. But right now those same connections could sink her. “Outside Chattanooga. A small practice.” She forced a smile. “But I’d much rather hear about your plans for the school you hope to start.”

Nannie studied her for a moment. “We can speak of that. But first, may I say I agree with what you said earlier—with one small adjustment.” Her eyes sparked. “You said, As if a woman must have a husband to legitimize her calling. While a woman’s calling doesn’t come from a husband, but from God . . . Marriage, when rightly joined, should strengthen the callings of both. Two people yoked together pull farther than one alone. God’s plans for our lives are always the most important and best. Wouldn’t you agree?”