Lizzie quickly found her rhythm again and read with a flourish, pausing on occasion to hold up the book and show the pencil-drawn illustrations. Since Christmas was only a week away, she’d planned to read only a portion of the first chapter, having divided the story accordingly. But after Scrooge soundly rebuffed the two portly gentlemen who called on him to request donations for the poor, Lieutenant Shuler insisted she read on.
At Sister Catherine Margaret’s hearty “Amen,” Lizzie complied, clearing her throat. She wished she’d had the foresight to bring a glass of water with her. And there were no more cups of hot chocolate that she could see.
“‘Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy tavern; and having read all the newspapers, and beguiled the rest of the evening with his banker’s-book, went home to bed. He lived in chambers which had once belonged to his deceased partner, [old Jacob Marley]. They were a gloomy suite of rooms . . .’”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Roland lean down and whisper something to George, who ducked into the bedroom and appeared moments later with a glass of water.
“Thank you, George,” she whispered and took a sip.
She shot a look of gratitude at Roland too, and he offered a tiny salute with his bandaged hand. But still no smile.
Parched throat refreshed, she found her place in the story again and made note to pay close attention to the nuns. “‘The yard was so dark that even Scrooge, who knew its every stone, was fain to grope with his hands.’” She softened her voice, and everyone seemed to instinctively lean forward.
“‘The fog and frost so hung about the black old gateway of the house, that it seemed as if the Genius of the Weather sat in mournful meditation on the threshold.
“‘And then let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened that Scrooge, having his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, without its undergoing any intermediate process of change—not a knocker, but Marley’s face.’”
The nuns took a collective breath.
“‘It was not angry or ferocious,’” Lizzie continued, delighted to find even the soldiers spellbound, including Lieutenant Taylor and Private Smith. Even Roland seemed to be enjoying it now. “‘As Scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon . . . it was a knocker again.’” She widened her eyes.
“Lord help us all,” Sister Angelica whispered, then made the sign of the cross and kissed her rosary.
Lizzie couldn’t help but smile, as did others. But knowing what part of the story lay ahead, she dissolved her smile quickly. She read to them about Marley’s ghostly visitation upon Ebenezer Scrooge and of the purpose of Marley’s coming. “‘“I am here to-night to warn you, that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate.”’”
She turned the page. “‘“You will be haunted . . . by Three Spirits . . . Without their visits,” said the Ghost, “you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first visit to-morrow, when the bell . . . tolls . . . One.”’” As if someone downstairs were in cahoots, the clock in the family parlor chimed the hour.
Lizzie could almost feel the cumulative rise of gooseflesh. Eyes widened. And she swiftly took advantage of the moment. “And that, my dear listeners, is where we will pause in the story for this evening.”
A resounding chorus of noes rose up, but she assured them she would read more the following night. As she closed the book, something slipped from the pages and fell to the floor. Thaddeus’s letters that she’d slid between the back pages for safekeeping. She reached down to pick them up, but George beat her to it.
“Here you go, Miss Lizzie.”
“Thank you, George.” As she took the letters, she felt Roland’s attention and looked over.
We need to talk about those, he mouthed silently, and she nodded. She slipped the bundle into her skirt pocket.
“You read mighty fine, ma’am,” George offered. “Your voice is somethin’ akin to music. It’s easy to listen to.”
“That’s very kind of you to say. Thank you. And I’m not sure if Tempy told you yet, but I have some things that need to be moved in the morning. If you’ll check with her, she’ll give you the details.”
Without a blink, George nodded, seeming to understand. “Yes, ma’am.” He turned back to Roland. “You ready, sir?”
Roland sighed, his expression resigned. “Do I have a choice?”
Puzzled by his reaction, Lizzie watched as George lifted the foot of the cot and started pulling the bed toward the bedroom. Only then did she notice—the cot had wheels on the other end.
“Can I ride with you, Captain?” Winder asked.
“May I ride with you,” Lizzie corrected.
“May I?” Winder repeated.
Roland nodded and gestured for the boy to climb aboard up by his head, but he didn’t seem his usual self. Little wonder, considering what had happened yesterday. He had to be thinking about how drastically his life was going to change if the Confederacy fell. And she already knew he was itching to walk again.
“Dr. Phillips should be by tomorrow or Wednesday,” she said, following as George pulled the cot back into the bedroom. “Maybe he’ll allow you to begin doing some exercises.”
“I hope so. If not, I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever walk again.”
George situated the cot by the hearth, then gave Lizzie a discreet look before he left to help the others.
She leaned down and straightened Roland’s blanket. “So how do you like your cot thus far?”
“I’m grateful for it.” He grimaced as he pulled himself to a sitting position. “It’s a far sight better than the floor.”
Giving him the space she sensed he wanted, Lizzie crossed to the bedside to help Sister Catherine assist Lieutenant Shuler into bed. It was then that she caught a whiff of something unpleasant. The nun’s furtive look said she smelled it too. Several of the soldiers weren’t as mindful of hygiene as they should be, but she hadn’t noticed that with Shuler before. And this smelled . . . different.
“Lieutenant, Miss Clouston and I are going to check your wound, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all, Sister. It’s taken to hurtin’ in the last day or so. Kept me up some of the night too.”
Sister Catherine removed the bandage from his arm, and Lizzie schooled her features not to show a reaction. A black spot, no larger than a dime, had formed on the incision near the drainage hole, and the skin around it was red and swollen. She’d checked the wound herself yesterday, and while it had been swollen and sensitive when she cleaned it, there’d been no blackened flesh.
She exchanged a look with Sister Catherine, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Lizzie laid a gentle hand on the lieutenant’s arm.
“I believe we need a fresh bandage on this, Lieutenant Shuler. I’ll fetch some water while Sister Catherine Margaret gets some clean cloths. We’ll be back shortly.”
Lizzie reached the hallway first and turned. “Gangrene,” she whispered.
Sister Catherine nodded. “If Dr. Phillips doesn’t come within the next two to three days, we’ll need to send for someone.”
“Agreed. And if it spreads, they’ll likely need to take more of his arm.” She winced at the prospect. “But for now, we’ll clean it as best we can. I’ll give him a small amount of morphine for the pain.” Lizzie glanced back toward the room. “He’s so young.”
“And he may yet live, Miss Clouston. If God chooses,” the nun added quietly.
Together they cleaned the lieutenant’s wound and dressed it with a fresh bandage. After which Sister Catherine offered a prayer on his behalf and excused herself to help another soldier. Lizzie administered the morphine, then set the bottle on the bedside table.
She pulled a chair up beside the bed, ever mindful of Roland on his cot only feet away, watching her every move.
Roland couldn’t explain it, but being around Lizzie tonight, watching her as she read, listening to her voice, studying the soft curves of her face, only made him feel more alone. And d
esperate. Like a man parched with thirst with the fountain of life lying just beyond his reach.
Lizzie scooted her chair closer to Shuler’s bedside, and the young lieutenant’s countenance brightened. Shuler hadn’t felt too well lately, so it was good to see that reaction from him.
“Lieutenant . . .” Lizzie leaned forward. “You said your mother used to read to you when you were younger.”
“Yes, ma’am, she did. She read good too. But maybe not as good as you.”
Gratitude lit her eyes. “Since you love reading so much, I’ll bring you a couple of my favorite books. Then you can choose which one you’d like best to read.”
A shadow flitted across the boy’s face, as though he couldn’t believe she’d made such an offer. Or maybe, Roland wondered, there was another reason behind that look.
“Thank you, Miss Clouston,” Shuler said softly. “That’s real kind of you.”
“Do you know, Lieutenant, that yours was the very first surgery I ever assisted Dr. Phillips with?”
“I wondered about it that night, ma’am. But you had such kindness in your face, I figured what you didn’t know, the doc could walk you through. And that somehow all his learnin’ would make up for how affrighted you looked. But kindness . . .” He exhaled slowly. “Kindness is a harder thing to be taught.”
Her expression softened. “That’s very true about kindness, Lieutenant. And also very gracious of you to say. Thank you.”
Shuler nodded, his eyes briefly slipping closed.
“What’s also true is that I certainly was affrighted that night.” She made a face that drew a grin from the young lieutenant and encouraged a similar reaction from Roland.
Shuler laughed, then a shyness seemed to come over him. “I’d be obliged, Miss Clouston, if you’d call me James.”
“James it is.” Lizzie narrowed her eyes. “James . . . Campbell . . . Shuler, I believe.”
“You remembered!”
“How could I ever forget you, James? Now—” She rose, a glistening in her eyes. “You let that morphine relax you, and you get some rest.”
“Yes, ma’am. I already feel it tuggin’ on me. Like one of those apple-brandy hot toddies my mama used to make.” He yawned. “They sure were good.”
She leaned down and kissed the young man’s forehead. “I’m sure they were. And I’m sure your mother misses you very much and looks forward to you coming home.”
Shuler went quiet. “My mama’s in heaven, Miss Clouston. She died last year, while I was away fightin’. I hate it that . . . that I wasn’t there for her in her last days.”
Lizzie brushed the hair back from his forehead, and Roland could all but feel the softness of her touch on his own skin. Shuler closed his eyes, and soon his breathing came steady and even. Same as that from the rest of the other soldiers in the room, if their gentle, morphine-induced snores were any indication. She rose as if to leave, but Roland didn’t want her to. Not yet.
“He’s right, you know,” he whispered.
She looked over.
“About your kindness. It’s the second thing I noticed about you.”
Brow rising, she stepped closer. “What was the first?”
Liking her response, he didn’t answer immediately, and a blush slowly crept into her cheeks.
“That you’re a woman of honor. A woman who keeps her word.”
He’d meant it as a compliment, but even he had heard the regret in his voice. And judging by her expression, so had she. The clock from somewhere downstairs struck the eleventh hour, and the chimes reverberated in the silence. He held her attention, wondering if she had any idea what effect she had on him. His gaze lowered to her mouth and lingered, and he would’ve sworn her breath quickened. Even without touching her, which he wanted to do, she sent his pulse and thoughts racing. The last chime faded and she looked away, fingering the collar of her shirtwaist.
“Thank you, Roland,” she whispered. “That means a great deal to me, coming from you. Now, was there something you wanted to tell me?”
Hearing the definite closing of a door between them, he begrudgingly followed her lead. “I sent George to town yesterday to look for a man, a preacher, who was with us the night of the battle. I hadn’t heard what happened to him, if he’d made it through. But George said a lieutenant told him the preacher had been wounded but was very much alive. George left word with the officer to ask him to come to Carnton as soon as he can. If that man ever met Thaddeus, he’ll remember him. I’m sure of it.”
“Thank you for doing that.”
He could tell from her tone that it wasn’t as promising of a prospect as she’d hoped it would be.
“Don’t lose heart, Lizzie. There’s got to be record of that boy somewhere. We’ll find it.”
She nodded. Seconds passed, and she turned to go.
“I wasn’t there either, you know. For Weet and Lena when they got sick. I was away fighting, like Shuler. Fighting for home and family. While my wife and daughter died.” The wind howled beyond the windows, and a downdraft caused the fire in the hearth to dance and sputter. “Influenza took Weet first. Lena followed three days later. I didn’t even know about their deaths until they’d already been gone nearly a month. My mother wrote to tell me, but the mail hadn’t caught up with our regiment.”
“I’m so sorry, Roland.”
The compassion in her expression moved him, which only fed his frustration over the fact that she could never be his. “I’ve wondered this for a long time, but especially over the last couple of days . . . Was all of this worth it? And now, looking where we’ve come to, I don’t think it was. Because maybe if I’d been there, they wouldn’t have died. Susan asked me to come home so many times in her letters. But I was so busy fighting to keep our land, our home, our future.” He gave a rueful smile. “Ironic, isn’t it?”
“Roland, there was no way you could have known they would get sick and die. And with influenza, there was likely little, if anything, you could have done to prevent the outcome.”
“But I could’ve been there for them, couldn’t I? If I hadn’t been away fighting. Surely you’ve thought that of me.”
She stared, an injured look moving over her face. “No, I’ve never thought that about you.”
“Really? Even with how you feel about this war?”
She froze. Then swallowed hard. “I-I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you? Don’t you feel about the Confederacy the same way you feel about men who own slaves?”
The instant he said it, Roland saw the shock—and fear—on her face and wished he could take back the words. But the guilt gnawing at him over not having been there for Susan and Lena, coupled with his growing desire for the woman standing before him—so beautiful, so close he could touch her, yet so unattainable—had him surly and itching for a fight.
CHAPTER 30
Lizzie’s heart pounded in her ears. She wanted to believe she’d misheard him, but knew she hadn’t. “H-how do you know—”
“I’m sorry, Lizzie. I shouldn’t have said that. Or at least, I shouldn’t have said it in that manner.”
“But how do you know?” If the McGavocks found out, if he were to tell them . . .
He sighed. “It was the day you gave me Sir Horace here.” He gestured to the bear wedged behind his head.
She looked at the bear, then back at him, not following.
“You were surprised to discover George was a slave. Then you asked me how many slaves I owned. Your disapproval was fairly tangible.”
She didn’t like it that she could be so easily read. But even more frustrating, she realized that he’d been waiting to bring this up. “It’s true.” She kept her voice low and quickly surveyed the room to make certain everyone was still asleep. “I’ve long believed that slavery is immoral.”
His expression darkened. “So you’re saying that I am immoral?”
His voice came out a harsh whisper, and she gestured for him to keep his voice down.
“That I’m immoral in the sense that I own slaves?”
She squeezed her eyes tight, the toll of recent days catching up with her. “Roland, I don’t think that now is the appropriate time for this conversation. Why don’t we wait until we’re both more—”
“I’d like an answer to my question,” he whispered. “Do you believe I am an immoral man because I own slaves?”
She’d sensed earlier in the evening that something was troubling him, but she never would have suspected this. She saw the anger and hurt in his eyes and wanted to believe that his lashing out stemmed from the Confederate defeat and his mourning his wife and child, and that she had just happened to get in the way. But she wasn’t so sure. She took a breath, then gave it slow release. “I believe that it is immoral for one human being to own another.”
He laughed beneath his breath. “Even though slavery has existed throughout history and it’s the natural state of mankind? You’re an educated woman, Lizzie. Surely you know that the Greeks had slaves, the Romans had slaves, and the English had slavery until very recently. Even Abraham, in the Bible, had slaves.”
“Yes, but just because something has always been a certain way doesn’t mean it’s right.”
“Saint Paul returned a runaway slave, Philemon, to his master.” He continued unabated, as though he’d faced this argument before. “And slavery was widespread in Jesus’ time, yet he never condemned it.”
“You know your Bible. Good. But the Word of God also says that he created man in his own image, both male and female. So we are all made in the image of God. Would you agree with that?”
“Most certainly. But we are not all equal in our abilities and our roles. God has gifted us differently, both individually and according to our gender. And also in varying groups of people.”
She eyed him. “So you’re saying that God created some groups of people specifically to be slaves?”
He held up a hand. “I do not share the belief that Negroes are biologically inferior to whites. I’ve encountered that argument numerous times in both social and scientific circles and find it a baseless premise.”
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