Читать книгу The Memory House - Линда Гуднайт, Линда Гуднайт - Страница 16
ОглавлениеPeach Orchard Farm
1864
Will paced the foyer at the bottom of the stairs next to the outer doorway, ready to be about the day’s work. At the first sound of voices, he stopped to look up the staircase. Charlotte Portland, tidy and serene, came down the curving steps, brown boots tapping softly against the hard wood with two boys following along like puppies. She was lovely, kind and wise, and seeing her each morning had become a highlight of his long, often discouraging day.
Young Benjamin’s excited voice carried to his ears. “Captain Will makes marbles back in Ohio, Mama. And he’s the only son like me. And he has two sisters and a best friend named Gilbert who works in the factory. And Captain Will—”
“Benjamin, hush.” Mrs. Portland’s words were soft admonishment.
A smile stirred in Will’s middle. He’d taken a shine to the youngsters. Benjamin, fair like his mother, and Tandy, the light-skinned slave with the persistent grin and keen mind reminded him of his oldest sister’s boys, not in looks but in manner. They amused him, took his mind away from the worries of war and reminded him that there was some kind of normalcy still to be found in this state of divided loyalties called Tennessee. He prayed neither boy should ever see any more of the war than he’d brought with him. That was horror enough.
His chest tightened when the mistress of the house turned her gentle eyes on him. In the days of watching her in the sick rooms and observing her quiet, efficient running of the household, he’d come to admire her. She was a fine woman. A disturbing hum of pleasure tingled the back of his neck.
Will straightened his shoulders to attention, and the sword bumped his thigh in a reminder of who he was and why he’d come to Charlotte Portland’s farm.
She was another man’s wife. A Confederate sympathizer. He’d do well to remember both.
“Captain Will, Captain Will!” Benjamin thundered ahead of his mother down the stairs. The young slave boy was not far behind. They came to a breathless, grinning halt in front of him. Ben executed a clumsy, endearing salute. “Sir, your message has been delivered!”
“Well done, boys. Well done.” Will returned the salute but his attention drifted to the woman gliding toward him, neither breathless nor grinning.
“Captain,” she said simply, coming to stand before him, those small, usually busy hands resting serenely at her waist. “Good morning.”
He doffed his cap and held it in his hands, though his shoulders remained tight. “Ma’am, I’m sorry to trouble you again. If your husband was in residence I would take up my concerns with him.”
Indeed, Edgar Portland had shown his bloated, furious face but twice since the company’s arrival. Once to express his indignation at the outrage of being invaded before storming away on his horse, and the other to chastise his wife for aiding the enemy. A man who didn’t defend his women held no esteem in Will’s opinion.
“My apologies.” Charlotte’s mouth tightened and those tender hands began to work the cloth of her skirt. “Boys, please ask Lizzy to bring coffee for the captain while the pair of you remain in the kitchen for breakfast.”
“Aw, Mama, I want to talk to Captain Will.”
Will touched the boy’s shoulder. “A soldier obeys orders, son.” He winked. “I think I smell ham.”
Tandy cut a glance toward the kitchen. “I sure am hungry, Ben.”
“Me, too.”
As the pair galloped into the kitchen like young ponies released to new pasture, Lizzy appeared in the opening of the double doors. “I’ll bring the coffee, Miss Charlotte, and look after the boys. You’ll be wanting breakfast, too. There’s ham and biscuits.”
“Have the patients been fed?”
Mrs. Portland’s question deepened the affection he felt and didn’t want. For indeed, patients lined her parlor and dining room on rows of pallets, makeshift beds of little more than a blanket or quilt or a bundle of rags. All of them provided by Charlotte Portland.
“No, Miss Charlotte. Cook is working on that now.”
“I’ll eat later.”
Lizzy’s proud chin jutted stubbornly and doe eyes glittered with fierce affection. “You can’t go working all day again without food.”
Will’s head snapped toward Charlotte. She’d not eaten yesterday?
Charlotte brushed a hand along the hair above her ear, a smooth strip of blond pulled tightly into a bun. A loosely knit blue chignon covered the knot but couldn’t hide the golden shine.
Will felt awkward to notice such a thing as a woman’s hair. With Charlotte he was noticing too much.
“Don’t worry about me, Lizzy,” she said. “I am hale.”
The maid didn’t argue but simply stood in the doorway, her black gaze fixed on Mrs. Portland. Charlotte took no umbrage at the impudence, and Will wondered at the relaxed relationship between slave and mistress.
“Mrs. Portland.” Will touched Charlotte’s elbow, surprised at himself for taking the liberty. “She’s right. You need your strength.”
The slave’s sharp gaze cut to him and settled there in speculation. Like a man burned, he drew away. “If you please, ma’am, could we have a word in your husband’s study?”
Lizzy gave him one long, final stare before fading back into the kitchen.
Once inside the small study, Will rotated his hat in his hands as he waited for Mrs. Portland to be seated at her husband’s writing desk, and then he took the black haircloth chair next to her. She was close enough that her lemony scent drifted to him, a disturbingly pleasant variance from the campfire smoke and coppery blood that clung to this stately home.
Without preamble and in defense against her appeal, he said, “Private Stiffler discovered a rebel hiding in your orchard last night.”
She blanched, pressing back against the mahogany desk chair, a hand to her throat. “In the peach orchard?”
Had she known? Was she harboring and aiding the enemy outside while inside the house his men bled and suffered?
Will watched her shocked reaction, studied the clear-as-June blue eyes. Either she’d missed her calling onstage or she hadn’t known. The relief he felt disturbed him as much as the persistent attraction.
“Yes, ma’am. Stealing the last of the peaches. Are you aware of other rebels nearby?”
“Until you came, the only soldiers we’ve seen were new recruits marching off to war from Honey Ridge.”
“When was this?”
“Last fall.”
Did he believe her? His first inclination was yes, but he had not become a captain because he was foolish or made rash decisions. He’d invaded her home, taken her belongings and would take more before he and his band of injured moved on. Mrs. Portland had been nothing if not cooperative and caring, but she could not want him or his army on her farm.
He was drawn to this woman who worked tirelessly with an uncommon compassion. In another place and another time…Will stopped the rabbit trail of thoughts.
He had a duty and he would do it. But because of women such as Charlotte Portland, he would not become as base as some, looting and robbing and taking spoils of battle like savages.
He prayed he’d never have to.
“What will become of him?” she asked. “The man you found.”
“He’s our prisoner. When we move out, we’ll take him along.”
“Won’t he slow you down?”
“No.” Prisoners were not allowed to slow the progress of fighting men. But he did not share that bit of bad news with Charlotte. “We suspect he’s a deserter.”
“You could let him go.” Her lips formed a thin, worried line. His gaze was drawn there.
“Impossible.”
“Why?” She fiddled with an inkwell situated on the open desk, a reddish-walnut affair bare of papers.
“There is a war going on, Mrs. Portland. I have men to protect.”
“Is he so dangerous, then?”
Will huffed a short, unhappy laugh. “The only danger he presents is the amount of fleas and lice covering his body. He’s so scrawny his bones rattle.”
“The poor soul is starving. You could leave him here.”
He wished he could. Just as he wished he could send all his men home. But because he could do neither, he didn’t respond.
Lizzy, in her snowy apron and head wrap, brought the coffee. Once again her sharp glance slid between him and Charlotte. She was watchful, protective of her mistress, and he would not be at all surprised if she stood guard outside the door.
“Your maid doesn’t trust me,” he said, after Lizzy left the room.
“Should she?”
The question bothered him. He wanted to be trusted but, indeed, with the enemy, he could not make that promise. “Have you owned her long?”
Something fierce and dark flashed in Charlotte’s expression. “My husband owns slaves. I do not. Nor would I if the choice was mine to make.”
Her passion gave him pause. He set the coffee on a side table. “You are loyal to the Union?”
“I am loyal to my home and family. Your war bewilders me.”
“As it does all of us, Mrs. Portland. There are times when I—” He stopped, aware he revealed too much.
“Times when you what, Captain? Wished you’d never joined such a ruthless cause? I’m sure those young men lying in our cemetery would wish the same if they could.”
He blanched. Yes, she’d pinched a sore spot, for he was haunted by the loss of men, some of them hardly more than boys, who’d marched to war filled with fiery idealism only to face the harsh realities of butchery and death.
“I regret every lost man, whether Union or Confederate.”
His revelation, one he’d scarce let himself think much less say, softened her. “I’m afraid I do not understand the politics of war, or the propensity of men to purchase human flesh. Both are obscene to me.”
“Would you prefer the Union remained separated?”
“I would prefer, as scripture dictates, to live in peace with all creatures whenever possible.” She grimaced and a flush colored her cheeks the shade of fresh peach skin. “Forgive me, please. Sometimes I forget myself. I shouldn’t say such things to a man of your position and rank.”
“Voicing an opinion is not a cardinal sin.”
“No? Some believe a woman has no opinion, Captain.”
He wondered if she meant her husband but refrained from asking such a private, personal question. As it was, he shocked himself at the ease with which they conversed. She was bright and knowledgeable, qualities he’d been taught to admire in a woman.
“I beg to differ, considering I have two sisters with sharp minds and sharper tongues and a mother who runs the local temperance league and is an outspoken abolitionist. Father has given up trying to contain them.”
At last, she smiled, and Will realized he’d been waiting for that glimpse of sunshine. “My father is a vicar, an ardent student of both philosophy and scripture. Unfortunately, my mother showed no interest in his rather lengthy dissertations on the human condition. I, on the other hand, enjoyed them and was allowed to read widely and speak my mind. Perhaps too much, as I have learned since coming to America.”
Ah, that explained a great deal. “How did a British vicar’s daughter come to marry a Tennessee farmer?”
He was going too far, asking questions that pushed into her private affairs, and yet for the life of him he could not stop. He wanted to know everything about her. If he told himself his reasons were for the good of his army, there was truth in the lie. Until he knew her well, he could not be assured of his men’s safety. But the rest was pure self-interest. He admired Charlotte Portland.
If his question offended her, she gave no indication. Rather, she laughed. “In the usual manner, I’m sure. Tell me, Captain, are you a married man?”
“No woman will have me,” he said in jest, and yet the stab of betrayal was anything but amusing. A man who’d loved and lost did not take such things lightly.
“Doubtful, sir.”
“And why is that?” he asked, amused, intrigued, interested.
She smiled again, the light merry in her eyes. She was enjoying their little spar, as was he. “Are you fishing for a compliment, Captain?”
“Do you have one for me?”
One pretty eyebrow twitched upward as she tilted her head, moving a smidgen closer, enough that he felt the rise in his pulse.
Voice light and teasing, she said, “Perhaps, I do.”
How charming, he thought. Charming, lovely and good.
Will leaned forward, tempted to touch the feminine fingers that draped over the edge of the desk and eager to know what she thought of him as a man. To feel the softness of womanly skin, something he hadn’t touched in so long the void was an ache as strong as hunger. Charlotte was all the good things he appreciated in a woman. Edgar Portland was a very fortunate man.
Suddenly, he caught himself.
He had no right sharing such a lively and intimate conversation with a married woman. He had less right to touch her—even if that woman’s husband had embarrassed and abandoned her.
Abruptly, he stood. “Begging your pardon, Mrs. Portland. I’ve overstayed. I must see to my duties.”
“Is something wrong?” She stood with him, bewildered by his sudden change in behavior, for she couldn’t know the turmoil churning beneath his rib cage. And he certainly couldn’t tell her that he was attracted to her, man to woman, and would like nothing better than to take the weight of worry off her shoulders. Indeed, to wrap those slender shoulders in his arms and draw her close to his heart with a promise that all would be well.
“Thank you for the coffee.” He refrained from taking her hand though he wanted to badly. A touch might prove too dangerous. “I’ve enjoyed our discussion.”
“I hope I didn’t offend you with my outspoken opinions.”
“You couldn’t. I treasure them.” Again he fought the urge to touch her, only this time he longed to touch her cheek. Just to trace his fingertips over her dewy skin. “Charlotte—”
“Captain?”
“Will,” he said, though he shouldn’t have.
The tension left her shoulders. “Will.”
Heart thudding in his throat, Will strode to the door and turned the knob. He looked over one shoulder and said, “Eat breakfast before Lizzy has my head.”
Buoyed by her merry laugh, he made his exit. Standing in the dim hallway was the red-haired woman they called Josie. She glared at him.
“Good morning, Miss Portland.”
Arms crossed tight over her chest, she tossed her head with a sniff.
Will gave a nod, but he felt the pinpricks of her animosity stab him in the back as he strode away.
