HARBINGER OF HEALING

Opening Scene

September 1870

Charity Galbraith bit back the retort dancing on her tongue. Uncle Luther’s opinions of her occupation and the station to which he believed all women were born grated on her nerves. If she had to endure five more minutes of his diatribe, she’d surely throw the nearest loose object at him. Said object happened to be her thrice-read volume of Jane Eyre. No, she’d never treat the intrepid heroine of her favorite novel so shabbily. Perhaps the stale liverwurst sandwich her uncle had magnanimously bestowed on her would serve as a better projectile.

“Uncle, I’m well aware of your disapproval of me and my ambitions.” Charity curled her toes in her effort to remain in control of her temper. Two days of train travel with her pompous, cigar-puffing uncle frayed the threads of her poise dangerously thin, but it wouldn’t do to alienate the man. She forced a smile and patted his hand. “It may make you feel better to know that my editor shares your opinion of women writers and therefore requires that I use a masculine pen name.”

Uncle Luther’s thick, black eyebrows bristled together like a fat caterpillar preparing for winter. “He does? Your articles don’t bear your name?”

Pricks of irritation made her squirm, and she glanced at the novel in her lap. If female authors of fiction were now acceptable, why not of magazine articles? The upper crust of society made up the majority of the magazine’s audience, and they apparently weren’t ready to read the expressed viewpoint of current events from the female perspective.  “The readership of Keystone Magazine thinks my articles are written by Charles Galbraith.”

Speaking her father’s name sent waves of sorrow through her. Major Charles Hampton Galbraith of the Federal army never returned home after the War of Southern Rebellion, and the ache to know what became of him still haunted her.

A harrumph met her ears, and she braced herself for more of Uncle Luther’s unsolicited criticism.

“What would your father think of the unseemly usage of his name?”

Her eyes burned and she swallowed hard. “Even though most everyone in Harrisburg knew him as Hampton Galbraith, I use his first name in tribute to him.”

He muttered something she couldn’t quite hear over the monotonous rumble of the train wheels. She turned to squint out the soot-darkened window as the landscape lurched past. Where were they? Virginia? No, they changed trains in Washington some time ago, so surely they must be in North Carolina by now.

After two full days of traveling south from Harrisburg, Charity felt it safe to inform her uncle of her intentions. She twisted in her seat and found him buried behind his newspaper.

“I hope you’ll be able to cancel the reservation for my room at the hotel in Atlanta.”

The newspaper crumpled as Uncle Luther lowered it and sent her a scowl. “What are you talking about?”