by Aileen Fish
“Is something wrong?” Oh, Lord. Had Trudy been caught stealing again? Or worse, was she injured? She frowned. She glanced at the clock over the mantle. Six-fifteen? Where had the day gone? Her stomach fluttered with nerves. Trudy had slammed out of the house early that morning. It hadn’t occurred to her that Trudy couldn’t take care of herself. Blast. Trudy was the one requirement of her current position.
“That’s just it, you see. Gertrude never showed up. I expected her after school. I feared something happened to the darling girl.”
Darling girl? Elizabeth blinked, trying to think. Elizabeth considered her new stepdaughter. They hadn’t spoken a word to one another since they’d returned from the wedding when John dropped them home and left for his shop the day before. “I see,” she said as an onslaught of annoyance pressed against her chest. But her annoyance shifted quickly to one of concern. Perhaps she was expecting too much of Trudy too soon.
A knock at the door startled Elizabeth. Jillian entered with a tray laden with tea, and surprisingly, a plate of shortcakes. “Shall I pour, ma’am?”
Elizabeth shot her a grateful smile. “Thank you, Jillian. I can manage.” She owed the girl. Jillian slipped back through the door, latching it behind.
After a slight pause, Bernadette smoothed her elegant hands over her skirts. “Mrs. Williams—Elizabeth, I don’t wish to criticize.”
Her condescending tone took Elizabeth by surprise. “Perhaps we were too hasty. Gertrude, well, she’s not had it easy—” she started.
“I fear I am offending you, madam.”
Elizabeth clenched her jaw, biting back a sound agreement, and instead poured out their tea. She handed her guest a cup.
“Gertrude is at a troubled age.” Bernadette gentled her voice, speaking as if the two of them were the greatest of confidantes.
“I may not have children of my own—” She dabbed the corner of her eye with her napkin. “I had a younger sister, you see.”
But Elizabeth didn’t see and did not appreciate where this conversation seemed to be heading. Elizabeth’s outright failure as a substitute mother. She started to rise. “Mrs.—Bernadette—”
“—please, Elizabeth. Hear me out.”
Truly, there was no choice. Elizabeth sank back down.
“My sister was close to Gertrude’s age. Ten—”
“Eight.”
“Pardon?”
“Gertrude is eight.”
Pink tinged her cheeks but she forged on. “No one could contain her. Lord knows, my father tried.” Her lips tightened as some unseen memory seemed to grip her and Elizabeth felt a stab of sympathy. An awkward silence permeated the room. A beat later she seemed to remember herself. “One particular trying day, she defied him.” An awe breathed from her. “She, Eleanor, stood up. Yelled at him—” Her hand flew to her chest, the glitter of tears shimmered.
“She twisted past my mother. She was in terrible health.” Bernadette took a shuddering breath, and her dark gaze pierced Elizabeth. “She never returned. Eleanor never returned.”
Elizabeth was at a loss, stunned for words. “What happened?” she whispered.
“They found her the next day, floating in the creek, faced down, her body ravaged.”
She couldn’t possibly mean—Elizabeth swallowed. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m afraid I do. Soldiers had been spotted in the area.” She patted her hair, her emotions back in control. “Of course, my mother never recovered. She perished a week later.”
Why was she telling her this? It seemed so inappropriate to inquire in light of what she’d just shared. But… “I’m afraid I don’t understand what this has to do with Gertrude.” But she was afraid she did. Her heart pounded.
“Don’t you see? If someone had taken Eleanor in hand, things would never have progressed to such dire consequences.”
“I’m terribly, terribly sorry for your loss, Bernadette.”
She grabbed Elizabeth’s hand, fear pouring from her. “I beg of you, Elizabeth. You are that child’s only hope. I’ve heard there were rebels about,” she said softly, urgently.
The temptation to jump up and storm from the room, declare that the woman knew nothing, was overwhelming. But not only was Elizabeth not so ill-mannered, she was intuitive enough to realize she may be out of her depths in this child-rearing business. Trudy was a child. A child shouldn’t have to depend only upon herself. What if something happened to Trudy? And on her watch? Yes, she would keep a much closer eye on her stepdaughter.
She inhaled deeply. “I see your point,” she said slowly. “We shall move forward on your advice. However, I must insist on setting a specific time limit in Gertrude’s retribution. I propose three weeks.”
“Elizabeth, I can see that I’ve upset you.” Her head shook in a sympathetic gesture.
Elizabeth’s hand came up, palm out to stall the most insistent woman. “Mrs. Babbage, please.” She took another deep breath. “It isn’t as if I disagree with the punishment. I just feel a reasonable amount of time will allow the child to see the light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak. In that way Gertrude will be able to complete the task and understand the message we are attempting to convey.”
The front door opened then slammed, followed with familiar footsteps pounding up the stairs. Thank God. The prodigal child had returned. The tension fell from her shoulders.
Elizabeth looked down at the hand gripping hers, knuckles white as Bernadette squeezed tighter. She refused to flinch at the pain.
The memory of the men in her father’s house, how close she’d possibly been in Eleanor’s place made drawing a breath difficult. Bernadette was right. Trudy needed curbing from her reckless actions. And Elizabeth was truly in over her head. She would acquiescence for now. For Trudy. “She’ll be there tomorrow, Bernadette. If I have to drag her by the hair.” Her statement was a vow.
~*~
John’s walk home was the lightest he’d felt since having left West Point in 1850, ready—no, destined—to take on the world, a new wife, a new life. But he’d been rewarded with disaster, his ideals crushed.
And right now nothing could dim his spirits. Not the black sky, and air, heavy with more snow, nor the bitter wind that cut through his cloak like glass. Still digesting the depth of Trudy’s artistic skill. Proud did not begin to describe his gratification.
He’d sat back that afternoon, looking at her. Staring until she’d furrowed her brows at him. “What?” she’d demanded.
Of course, he couldn’t tell her that for the first time since her birth he realized she was of his blood. Not his friend’s—ex-friend, he corrected. Now dead—ex-friend’s child.
John tugged his hat further down on his head, trying to protect his ears from frostbite as the memories engulfed him.
October, 1861
Up to his ankles in mud, his worn boots failed in keeping the moisture from seeping through to numbed toes. With freezing hands, John gripped his weapon, butt end on the ground, facing Daniel James, the man he’d believed his closest friend since childhood. The rest of the troops had fanned out among the trees, hidden along the banks of the river. He was certain others could hear the conversation. No secret held up within the regiment. Everyone’s life a living hell, never knowing, from one moment to another, when the next Confederate’s bullet would strike.
Still John lowered his voice. “And just what is it you think you know about my relationship with my wife?” he bit out. Fury, in a red haze, blinded him; it was threaded with guilt.
The air about them was hushed, the birds already flown south. For winter looked to be one of the harshest in years. A pained look fleeted over Dan’s expression. He broke eye contact, peering out over the water and drew a deep breath. “You are not the husband to her she deserves.”
John’s mind buzzed, clearing of rational thought. His reaction, all physical as he shifted, tossing the heavy artillery up with one hand and catching it. His other clenched into a fist. “How long?” A low gro
wl he hardly recognized as his own rumbled through his chest.
“I love her. I’m sorry, John.” Dan’s shrug struck deep. A callus gesture that hit John square in the chest, a dagger to his heart. “This isn’t the time for “true confession” but then what time would have been?”
Enraged, John’s fist came up but an explosion rent the air, and Daniel was thrown back before John could smash his nose into his all too handsome face. He spun. A second blast burned through him. Down he went, tumbling over the embankment in Daniel’s wake. He rolled to a stop, landing in the shallow muck at the river’s edge.
A faint hold squeezed his arm. He raised his head, swiped at the mud in his eyes for all the good it did.
Daniel’s grip was weak. “I’m sorry.”
He looked as awful as John felt. The burn in his leg scaled into an inferno. “Don’t. You don’t have to explain.” he whispered. He wanted to tell him he understood. Tell him that John knew he was a terrible husband to Anne. Pride had wiped out everything he should have said.
Daniel fought for breath. “We didn’t—” But his words got no farther. His hand slackened and his eyes grew blank.
“Daniel. No. No.” But John’s screams went unheard as the confederates drew closer and he shoved his face back down into the muck.
The front door flew back. “What—is something wrong?”
Startled, John blinked and his eyes regained focus. Elizabeth stood just inside, head angled slightly to one side, hair neatly tied at her nape. Not tight, like the first day she’d confronted him. His arms lifted with the sudden need to hold a warm body. Hers.
She stepped back. “You are just in time. We were about to sit down for supper.”
His arms fell to his sides. “Right. Yes. Of course.” Heat poured from the house, reminding him of the frigid weather…or was that his own discomfiture infusing his neck? Quickly stomping the snow from his boots, he moved through the door. “I should wash up.”
“There’s warm water in the kitchen.”
He nodded sharply at her matter-of-fact manner, grateful he hadn’t acted upon the fool notion of embracing her. After all, he was the one who’d set the rules for this marriage.
~*~
A little shaken, Elizabeth watched her husband disappear into the kitchen, smoothing her hands over her dark blue skirts. What had just happened? One minute she heard his steps on the front porch and the next, his blank stare, searing her, scaring her. She’d startled him from some distant memory. A not so pleasant one. And when he’d held out his arms—
She shook her head. Obviously, she’d caught him in a weak moment. The temptation to dive into his outstretched arms frightened her. Letting down her guard to be rebuffed was far worse than allowing her attraction grow into something heart-stopping.
As Trudy pounded down the stairs, which seemed the only way the child knew how to travel, Elizabeth considered the possibility of new rugs, then guiltily shoving it aside. There were people starving with the war’s effort. With a heaving sigh, she entered the dining room.
Chapter 7
“Um, yes. My father traded. Skins, goods, arms, whiskey. You name it, Papa traded in it. I believe trading was quite lucrative. I’m a little unclear on just how lucrative. After my mother—” Elizabeth’s voice caught as it usually did when she spoke of her mother. She cleared her throat. “My mother expired when I was twelve.”
“A most inopportune time,” John murmured. “And where did you grow up?”
She hesitated. But lying would do no good. “Virginia.” She despised her southern roots.
He smiled. “Your accent, while mild, is distinctive.”
“You don’t think that I—”
“No,” he said quickly, then again. “No. The thought never crossed my mind.”
The perfect opportunity presented itself in mentioning the southern men who’d visited Papa, but another slight smile tipped her husband’s lips. The sight sent a flutter of awareness deep within her belly and her nerve deserted her.
“What of your father? He doesn’t seem to get out much.”
Nerves fluttered again, though in this instance, they more resembled fear. Her fingers moved her needle deftly through the taut fabric of her embroidery hoop. “After my mother’s passing, I realized how closely she protected me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Papa imbibes too freely to keep control of his temper,” she said darkly. Desperate to prolong the pleasantness of the night took hold, and she reached for something to speak of other than her horrid upbringing and how he seemed to take pleasure in smacking her hands or face when she tried straightening something as simple as that picture on the wall. “What do you do at your shop for hours on end?” she asked instead.
A rigid silence filled the air and she glanced up. The intimacy of the parlor, with its blazing fire in the grate, shattered as his gaze sharpened into suspicion.
The needle shifted and stabbed her thumb. She gasped in pain. “Forgive me. I-I didn’t mean to pry.” She dropped the hoop and thread into the basket at her feet. “I should go to bed.”
~*~
As Elizabeth slipped from the room, John sipped his whiskey, resisted asking—no, insisting—his wife stay. Her calm demeanor soothed him unlike any tonic he’d ever ingested. Strands of her hair, burnished almost gold from the firelight, made his fingers curl with the urge to touch.
How he longed to share his talk over his concerns at Kelly’s Ford and Mine Run. With someone. With her. Unwise at best, given information from Auburn had somehow reached the South. Not that John was that besotted. Such knowledge had the power of endangering a person. Yet, surprise flowed through him at the thought of allowing another inside, touching his heart. The feeling was as foreign as speaking Latin.
He pushed away sentiments only Elizabeth had the ability to stir and concentrated on his work. It rankled. Perfecting his drawings, detailing the caves, coves, and any minute place the north could grab their advantage. Yet, someone had dared to share the intricacies. Shown them to someone nefarious. And John had yet to puzzle out who.
With rare and random visitors, the list was short. When they did happen by, as Sheriff Answell had several days ago, John had been most careful in covering the work laid out on the drafting table.
He looked at the closed door glumly. It wasn’t as if his wife were the culprit. Elizabeth had not stepped foot in his shop since the day she’d presented his thieving daughter to him. It was a conundrum.
John raised the glass to his lips, wondering how he could find a way to change rules he himself had instilled, for a marriage that was not turning out to be so convenient to emerging aches.
She wasn’t immune to him, he decided, feeling an unbidden smile touch him. The catch in her breath when he drew near, his hand brushing hers at dinner when he’d politely asked her to pass the potatoes. No, she was as aware of him as he of her.
~*~
It took another three days before John found a way to coax Elizabeth into sharing her company with him again. Sadly, he had stooped to using Trudy.
“Papa, can we cut down a tree for Christmas?”
“It’s much too soon,” he said. The parlor was warm, and he was pleasantly sated having his fill of a dinner of roasted chicken and buttery vegetables.
Trudy coming by the shop each day was as rewarding as his work. He shook his head. For two weeks, he’d reveled in her wit and acuity. And, except for the worry over whoever was pilfering details from his maps, life would be perfect.
Well, almost perfect. Elizabeth was not in his bed. He wasn’t exactly certain when he’d determined to rectify the notion but that was exactly where she needed to be. Still, there was plenty of time to bring her around.
He shifted his thoughts to work. He’d been a bit cleverer, in his mind, with his latest maps. Disguising the advancing troops as boxes was sheer brilliance. General McBride should have nothing to complain of. He glanced over at Trudy, sprawled on her stomach before the fire, head be
nt over her latest drawing. Her skills with her pencil rivaled his own. “How is school going?”
Her brows furrowed as she frowned at her current creation. “What do you mean?”
“How are your studies faring?”
She glanced at him from the corner of her eyes. “Oh. Um. They are fine.” She angled her head then took an eraser to the page.
But John was as stubborn and determined as his wily daughter, and pushed on. He’d done her a disservice her entire life. Something he intended to right. “What are you studying?”
“Oh, um. Nothing much.”
“Could you be a bit more specific?” Sarcasm filled his tone.
She glanced back at the closed door. Elizabeth had yet to join them. “Um. History.”
“What kind of history?”
“War.”
He felt a little exasperated. “You mean the Revolutionary War?”
“Um.” She sketched a few strokes then applied the eraser again. “Yes. The Revolutionary War. You know, General Washington and that man that rode in on the horse.”
“Paul Revere?”
“Uh huh. The one who said “The British are coming! The British are coming!” That one.”
Irritation crept up his neck. “I take it you prefer art.”
She looked up then, grinning, and the sight stole his breath. His irritation dissipated in a puff of smoke. He wish to shout his love to the heavens—apologize for keeping her out of his heart. Even if he learned sometime in the future she did happen to belong to Daniel—he couldn’t bring himself to care.
His eyes stung with the thought. This quirky, intelligent child was his. He cleared his throat. “How are things going with Elizabeth?” The question came out gruff.
Her smile fell away, but she appeared to be thinking over the question with seriousness. “I like how she cooks.”
“Yes,” he said softly. “So do I.”
The parlor door opened just then and John’s chest tightened when the subject of their conversation appeared in the arch, hair escaping her chignon. She looked adorable. He rose and took a surprisingly heavy tray from her.