Читать книгу Nights In White Satin - Jule Mcbride - Страница 7

Big Swamp, Florida,

a dark stormy February night in the late 1860s…

“HURRY, Miss Marissa! We must run!”

“Don’t you tell me what to do, Lavinia,” returned Miss Marissa Jennings in a hushed, terrified drawl as thick as cold molasses. She cast the Creole housekeeper a furious look, her green eyes glistening with tears, then she glanced around the parlor of her fiancé’s plantation, her pale fingers clutching the skirt of the wedding dress she’d waited so long to wear, her mind barely able to process that she might not marry Forrest tonight as planned. Surely, he and Reverend George were on their way, she thought, her fingers tightening around the gown’s white satin. Lifting the hem above her ankles, she exposed a pair of white slippers, preparing to do as Lavinia had said—run! The gorgeous cluster of diamonds Forrest had given her sparkled when she glanced down. It seemed centuries ago that she’d been given the ring, centuries since her slippers had been hand-beaded by her mama, long before the war drew near and they’d all blissfully envisioned the Jenningses and Hartleys gathering at Hartley House for the wedding.

“Hurry!” Lavinia urged as lightning flashed, her voice scarcely audible over cannonballs, rifle fire and the shouts of looting Yankees as they circled nearer, some on foot, some whipping neighing horses into a frenzy. “We’ve got to hide in the swamp!”

“We can’t go out there, Lavinia!” The gale-force wind would sweep them from their feet, killing them before any Yankees could. “What if Forrest comes?”

“He’ll find us.”

Another lie. A deafening boom sounded, and a flash of fire lit the sky in bright white light that threw the parlor into bas relief. For a second, Marissa could see Lavinia clearly—a small-boned woman who wore her hair plaited in tidy rows—before they were plunged into near-darkness again. Only a lit taper in the housekeeper’s hand illuminated the fear in her eyes, the flickering, wind-tossed flame tinting her skin with a red glow like that which burned beyond the windows.

Marissa’s eyes blurred with tears, her heart beating in terror for her groom. Surely he was on his way! She’d sooner die than leave this home they were to share! How could she abandon things her beloved Forrest had worked so hard to attain? How could she let all this beauty be pawed by crass, looting Yankees?

“We should have gone weeks ago, Miss Marissa!” assured Lavinia, pushing Marissa toward a doorway. Tears splashed Marissa’s cheeks, falling as hard as the rain against the windowpanes as she cast a last glance around the parlor—taking in a chandelier Forrest had brought from Paris, then a pedestal table and a fireplace hewn from unpolished jagged pieces of local quarry rock. Forrest had been so precise when decorating the room, especially regarding how she should pose for her portrait and where it should hang, the key to their secret hiding place. The portrait had been removed now, but she could still see marks indicating its position.

“The chandelier!” she protested, her heart wrenching. Forrest had called it their mistletoe. Oh, how they’d kissed beneath it, holding each other and shuddering with need, wanting to consummate their passion, but reined in by the desperation of restraint, knowing it would be well worth the wait. She and Lavinia had tugged on the heavy light fixture, hoping to hide it, although it wouldn’t fit beneath the upstairs floorboards where they’d put the jewelry—all but the ring still on Marissa’s finger. The chandelier seemed to have grown a mind of its own, though, as if it had decided it wasn’t leaving Hartley House; it had taken root in a medallion of ceiling molding, as immobile as cypress trees and salt marshes.

Her heart aching, Marissa sucked in a sharp breath. She and Lavinia had been hiding here, cut off from civilization for what felt like eternity, the field hands long gone, and now Marissa realized she’d been a fool, waiting for Forrest to come back from the war. And yet he’d returned. Just a week ago, she’d seen him for the first time in two years. Appearing like a vision from one of Lavinia’s prophetic dreams, he’d been far off, coming down the shell-covered driveway in the heat of a Florida February afternoon. It was long after the morning dew had burned off and the sun had risen high in the sky, looking wavelike as it shimmered on the driveway. Forrest had appeared, without warning, wounded but still walking, using his rifle as a crutch.

Marissa had fainted dead away, but Lavinia had run for the salts, and Marissa had awakened to find her own true love peppering her cheeks with kisses. Of course, Forrest had wanted to turn around and head for the war again, but he’d suffered a gunshot wound and his leg needed tending. Even worse, he’d said the Yankees were coming.

Oh, she’d wanted nothing more than to nurse her well-loved warrior. As he’d rested this week, she’d sat beside him, staring at the man she intended to wake beside every day of her life and whose babies would soon be growing inside her. They’d decided to marry before his return to the front and spend at least one passionate night. And then she and Lavinia would travel to Marissa’s sister’s house two counties away. It never occurred to them that the Yankees would get this far, nearly to the front door of Hartley House. Come tomorrow, Forrest was to have joined the few men left in town to march north. But Forrest was dead. He had to be. No one could survive what was happening now.

“Follow me,” Lavinia commanded, turning on her heel and heading through the parlor, toward a back door.

Marissa had frozen in place. Forrest’s ring! She couldn’t wear it into the swamp. Now she wished she’d let Lavinia hide it under the floorboards with the rest of the jewelry. There wasn’t time to go back upstairs, though. Her eyes darted around the parlor—taking in the pedestal table, the space where her portrait had hung and the mantle. She’d hide the ring in her and Forrest’s special place, she thought, her heart pounding when she knelt, her heavy white skirts cushioning her knees as she twisted the ring from her finger. Oh, please, be safe here, she thought, slipping the ring into the hiding place. Then she wrenched as Lavinia’s voice sounded again. “Hurry!”

She ran then, nearly tripping on the hem of the dress, her heart lurching as she reached the back door. Howling wind caught the edge of the door, nearly tearing it from its hinges. Her finger felt bare now, bereft of the symbol of Forrest’s love, but there was no time to think about it because the door slammed against the house, and Lavinia’s taper flickered out.

Thunderclouds raced across the moon as Lavinia pocketed the candle and whispered, “This night’s the devil’s handiwork, missy.”

Shuddering, Marissa took in the shadowy shapes riding like phantom demons across the sky. There were skulls and crossbones. Angry steeds. Lavinia wasn’t lying. She dealt in herbs and voodoo and was known to have premonitions. Marissa grasped her hand and stepped onto the lawn, her head bent against the onslaught of wind and rain. The temperature had dropped, the heat of the day giving way to cooling northern winds blowing in from the sea. It was hard to run in the gown, but Marissa dodged trees in the yard, the soupy mud sucking at her slippers. Stumbling, she could barely make out the ancient moss-hung cypress trees at the edge of the swamp.

Something snagged her dress and a cry tore from her throat as satin ripped away. Her sisters—all accomplished seamstresses—had insisted on making the gown, and now it was going to be ruined. They’d made so many plans that seemed silly now, never imagining war could touch their lives.

A jagged finger of lightning illuminated the swamp, and Marissa saw Lavinia once more, a tiny firecracker of a woman with skin the shiny red color of glazed clay pottery. Beyond was the Benchley plantation, not that the Benchleys had offered assistance, even though their land was on higher, dryer ground. Men were on the shell road now, and soon they’d be in the house. Once there, they’d see remnants of dinner, and know people were hiding somewhere. Armoires would disclose the inhabitants had been women and, soon, hungry men would be in the yard, hunting for her and Lavinia.

“Get in the water, Miss Marissa!”

“Grab these roots, Lavinia,” Marissa returned as a torch flared, the fingers of pale, delicate hands gripping the mangled claws of cypress roots, just as a gust lifted her skirt and her feet, which almost left the ground. Lavinia snatch the skirt, to steady them both, right before Marissa plunged into the pulsing swirl of black waters. Madness, she thought as Lavinia followed into the icy water. Another torch flared, then Marissa heard a male voice from far off, the words unclear, but gruff, making her swoon because she’d heard what vagabond soldiers did to women. Downwind, the waters fed salt marshes, then tidewaters that met the Atlantic, and now, as she sank into the pull of currents, spiders seemed to climb the ladder of her spine; her body shook as she imagined gators circling beneath her, and she wished her gown wasn’t ballooning and deflating as the white skirts became soaked.

“Who’s out there?” came a Yankee shout, traveling on the wind. “I saw you run! Show yourselves!”

Lavinia grasped Marissa’s shoulder in assurance, but when the sky lit up again, men on horses fanned across the yard…men whose faces were no longer shadows, but rather, clearly defined, made hard by a war in which they’d seen too much killing.

The heavy winds whipped up, lifting twigs and sending them spinning, and suddenly, the hand on her shoulder was gone—simply gone! Marissa’s own hand was almost ripped from the cypress root. She gasped, and when lightning cracked again, she realized the other woman really was gone! Lavinia! Had she really lost her hold, been swept away? Was that her head bobbing in the water? A hand waving? Or just tricks of Marissa’s imagination? Marissa wrenched once more, and in another lightning flash saw…Forrest?

She felt faint. Her wet corset clung to her ribs, stealing her breath. Surely, it was her imagination, but now she saw Forrest running along the shell drive, coming toward the Yankees in the yard. Had he lost his mind? No…like her, he was in love. He was searching for her, but if she called out, they’d both be killed.

Yankees were in the house now. A taper flared in a window. Oh, how she hated those men who were defiling the home of her beloved, where she was meant to experience the passion that women only spoke about in hushed tones, behind closed doors, and usually only long after they were married. Her body ached to experience sensual pleasure with Forrest, her eyes hungered to see his body, to drink in his maleness. In this very yard, she was to have raised beautiful babies from their union.

She gritted her teeth against the chill of the water and the rawness of her hands, chapped by wind. Gasping, crying in the rain, Marissa’s heart lurched when the sky lit up once more. He was still on the road! He was alive! Gallant, wearing the uniform she’d mended. Suddenly, a fireball whistled through the storm. Something splashed. A bullet? A cannonball?

She had to tell him she was safe. Their love was strong enough to conquer everything, even this war, but she watched in horror as the Yankee reined in his horse and turned, trotting the way he’d come, his eyes scanning the trees as if he’d heard Forrest in the brush. It was the wrong moment for her beloved to emerge in plain sight. The enemy leaned down, the night air rent by the sound of a sword drawn from his sheath. It rose high, glinting under the moon, arching as it bore down.

“Forrest!” she shrieked as the blade swung, the soldier bending. And then silence. Lightning and bullets ceased fire, plunging everything into darkness. He was dead. She knew that much. I curse this ground, she thought, rage swelling like the tides. Damn women who’ve lived and loved on this bloodstained ground without paying this price. I hope they never find you, love. Never! Never!

Lightning flashed. Thunder cracked.

And vaguely, Marissa realized she’d uttered the wrong curse—that the Yankees were to blame, and greedy people who would rather work the land with slaves than make do with less, but months of mere survival and feeling her heart shatter was too much! No one should enjoy Hartley House, or love, or the life Marissa was to have lived here, not until she and Forrest were reunited.

Envy—a kind of hate she’d never known—bubbled inside, so she barely noticed the next burst of fire. She felt as if she was floating above the water, no longer in her own body. She was aware of smoke, but she was numb, her skin frigid, then she realized warmth gushed from somewhere. From her shoulder, maybe? Was it blood? She wasn’t sure. All she knew for certain was that Lavinia was gone. Her mama and papa, the sisters she loved. And now Forrest.

Her mind stuttered with grief. Her fingers slipped, but she kept hold of the root. If she let go, she’d never make it, and she was going to stand and fight. Oh, damn it, she would stand! For Forrest! Her hand weakened. Wind whipped her hair, and she realized a bullet had found her. She was losing blood to a salty swamp where gators circled, drawn by the scissoring movements of her legs. Suddenly, she was pummeled by wind.

And then the swirling dark waters took her.