by Karen White
The earnestness in his eyes stopped me from saying more. “Just promise me.”
Slowly, he nodded; then I reached for him in the twilight and held him close.
We were married the following afternoon at the Roswell Presbyterian Church—the same church in which my Annie would be baptized in the future. I stood silently clinging to Stuart’s arm, feeling like I was having an out-of-body-experience. Charles was our witness, as was a perturbed Eliza Smith, who also doubled as organist. I shivered throughout the ceremony, wondering if there should be an added clause concerning unexplained disappearances.
Stuart kissed me, his lips warm, thawing the brittle ice on mine. He took my hand and led me down the aisle as Mrs. Stuart Elliott. I halted halfway down and looked at my husband. “Wait. I don’t know what your middle name is.”
He stopped next to me, his expression puzzled. “Did you not hear Reverend Pratt say it?”
I shook my head. “I wasn’t listening. Too nervous, I suppose.”
“Are those your teeth chattering?”
“It’s either my teeth or my knees. But I really must know—what’s your middle name?”
“Couper. Why do you want to know?”
I slid my arm through his as we continued down the short aisle. “I don’t really know. I guess I thought that I couldn’t know you well enough to marry if I didn’t know your full name.”
He stopped to lean down and whisper in my ear. “Laura, I would say that we know each other better than most couples on their wedding day.” He gave me a sly wink.
I averted my head with mock prudishness. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
He chuckled quietly as he led me out into the warm April sunshine.
We spent our wedding night in the room and bed I had shared with Michael in another place and time. I had at first protested, not wanting to add an unwanted memory into our marriage bed. But Zeke had insisted, and I couldn’t refuse when I saw all the brightly colored blooms strewn over the coverlet, smelling of spring and new beginnings. Stuart and I lay under the half tester bed, filling our lungs with the heady aroma and lush petals of violets, azaleas, and roses, the stately mahogany posts bearing witness.
I thought suddenly of Mrs. Cudahy, and a bubble of déjà vu floated through me. Most of my ancestors were conceived on this bed. I stared into Stuart’s eyes, and it occurred to me where I had seen them before. A tall, elderly woman with glorious skin and eyes the color of the Caribbean.
We lay together in the cool night air, our bodies chilled. I impatiently kicked off the covers, letting them slide into an ungraceful heap on the floor. Stuart’s fingers slowly traced circles on my skin. A rough finger slid from my collarbone to my navel, pausing on my C-section scar. He hadn’t mentioned it the last time we’d been together.
“What is this?”
“It’s the scar from an operation I had as a child.”
He bent to kiss it, his lips warm on my bare skin.
“Did it hurt?”
His lips traveled to my side, reaching my ticklish spot. I squirmed. “I don’t know, Stuart. Did it hurt when you got shot?”
He looked at me, his head cocked to the side. “You certainly have an odd sense of humor, Mrs. Elliott.” A warm tongue licked at the curve of my waist, flooding me with liquid heat. “But I like it.” He nibbled at my skin and I clawed at his back, to make him stop or continue, I couldn’t tell.
He took one of my hands and moved it over my head, his face now over mine. I felt his wanting me, but he held back.
His voice was hushed but fueled with urgency. “Now you know what it has been like to be me these past few months. The endless needing of you—without you giving me what I want. It is a little bit of torture, is it not?” He pulled my other arm over my head and bent toward my lips, biting me gently.
“I have wanted to break you, bend you to my will so many times, but I cannot. Your strength is what I love most about you, Laura. You are killing me little by little, but I will not take your strength from you. God help me, I will not.”
I wrenched my hands from his grasp, sliding them down his back to his hips, pushing him against me, my need too urgent to put into words.
His breath caught. “I will leave my mark on you.”
My eyes stung as the tears ran heedlessly down the sides of my face. “You have, Stuart. You already have.”
I reached my arms around his neck and pulled him down toward me. Afterward, I stayed awake while Stuart slept, watching the distorted shadows dance across the walls. I thought again of Mrs. Cudahy and her words, then drifted off to sleep, dreaming I was floating in a sea of spring blossoms and seeing a pair of startling blue eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
—ROBERT FROST
I awoke before sunrise, the hint of a word whispered in urgency lingering in the cool morning air. Moonlight illuminated the room, etching vague outlines of the furniture. Stuart slept on his back, his face turned toward me, soft and innocent as a child. His even breathing told me he had not spoken.
Carefully lifting the covers, I rose from our bed. A flower petal, disturbed by my movement, floated to the ground, its blackness against the wood floor like a drop of blood. I went to the window and looked out.
The dark shadow rose like an obelisk on the lawn, the hidden eyes catching the misty morning light. My breath caught in the back of my throat. It was time.
From under the bed I grabbed my carpetbag, already packed with a few belongings, including the red dress and the necklace and earrings Stuart had given me. Stopping by the bed, I leaned forward to feel his soft breath on my skin. I closed my eyes for a brief moment, remembering the previous night, then stood. I wished I had had time to write him a note, but anything I could have said would have made him come after me.
I blew him a silent kiss, then took the chain he had given me, with Julia’s key on it, off the dressing table and slipped it over my head. I escaped to Julia’s room, where I had stashed a few things on the day Stuart returned. I shimmied out of my nightgown and threw a blouse and skirt on, skipping the underpinnings. I had no idea how we were traveling, but I wanted to be as comfortable as possible.
The front door squeaked as I opened it and I paused, listening for any stirrings in the silent house. Hearing nothing, I opened it farther and stepped out. Matt Kimball waited for me on the porch.
I smelled his fetid breath in the early-morning air. “So, Laura. We meet again. I cannot tell you how much I am looking forward to our little trip together.” I turned my face, trying to escape the stench of him. “Come on. We have a train to catch.”
“Where’s Sarah? And where are we going?” I cursed my voice for wavering.
His teeth appeared gray in the twilight. “Do not bother your pretty little head about all that. You will find out soon enough.” He reached out a hand, but I ignored it, stepping past him.
He left the steps of the porch and began to lead me across the front lawn. We had barely reached the drive before I heard the shout behind me.
“Laura!”
Matt spun around, ripping a gun out of his belt and pointing it at Stuart. “Stop where you are or I will kill you.”
Stuart made a move to come toward me. I took a step backward. “No, Stuart, don’t. He means what he says. Just let me go. I have to do this.”
“Do what? Where are you going?”
I put up my hand to stop him from moving forward. “I’m leaving with Matt. I can’t tell you why, but this is something I have to do.”
He started walking toward us again, and Matt cocked the gun. Stuart stopped. “What do you mean? You cannot go with him—you are my wife!” He raked his hands through his hair and threw his arms out in a gesture of impoten
ce.
Matt stepped closer, and a veil of fear fell on me. “It is not what you think. Let me go now, and nobody will get hurt.” My eyes burned, and I said the only thing I knew that might ease his hurt. “I love you, Stuart. I wouldn’t leave you if I didn’t have to.”
“You love me? Then how can you go with him?”
He walked toward me, his eyes growing darker until they appeared ebony in the obscure predawn light. “Goddamnit, Laura. I will not let you leave.”
I ran to him to halt his progress. “Stop!” I screamed, suddenly aware of the Colt Navy he had kept hidden behind his leg. If he shot Matt, I would never see Sarah again. “Stop!” I screamed again, pushing his arm up and away from its target. But my voice was drowned by the loud report of a gun. I jerked around toward Matt, his smoking gun lowered at his side and a sneer on his face.
As if in slow motion, I turned back to Stuart. I saw more than pain flash through his eyes. I saw betrayal. Incredulous eyes stared at the blood quickly spreading on his shirt right below the collarbone. His knees buckled and I reached to catch him, but succeeded only in breaking his fall as he crumpled to the dewy grass.
“Stuart—no!” I knelt and touched shaking fingers to his neck, feeling his pulse skitter under my fingertips.
“Leave him.”
The cold barrel of a gun pressed into the back of my neck. I ignored it, leaning forward to push on the wound and stop the bleeding that had saturated his shirt and now dripped into the grass. Blood oozed between my fingers, mixing with my tears. “Don’t die, Stuart—please don’t die. I do love you—I do. God, Stuart, don’t you die.” His eyes flickered, then closed again.
The pressure from the gun became more insistent. “Leave him, or I will kill you, too. And if you die, there is no more reason to keep Sarah alive.”
“But I can’t . . . leave him here. I’ve got to get Charles.”
As if he heard his name being summoned, Charles appeared at the front door. I stood quickly, my hand firmly on Matt’s arm. “Don’t shoot—I will go with you willingly now.”
Charles ran to Stuart, his eyes full of questions as he stared at my bloody hands. “What happened?”
I shook my head. “Save him, Charles. Please don’t let him die.”
Before the doctor could respond, Matt pulled on my arm, and we ran together down the dirt drive and out to a buggy waiting on the other side of the gate.
The wheels of the buggy crunched over the dirt road, the pounding of the horse’s hooves matching the throbbing in my heart. I stared at the dried blood on my hands, my tears washing white streaks through the rivers of red. “What have I done?”
I didn’t look up when I heard the brittle laughter from my companion. “You just saved Sarah’s life.” Matt moved his hand to my lap and squeezed my leg. “Do not worry about not having a husband no more. I am available, and I am kinda partial to widows.”
I gagged, moving my head to the side of the buggy just in time. I looked back, like the biblical Lot’s wife, and half wanted to be turned into a pillar of salt. I saw nothing but the tall oak trees that lined the front drive, their branches sweeping toward the earth, the dew-laden leaves weeping. And on an uppermost branch, a crow rested, its black feathers an ominous blob against the cerulean sky. It cawed loudly, then descended in one fell swoop, still cawing, until it disappeared from sight.
* * *
The buggy rumbled over the rocky road, jostling my bones. I clenched my teeth to prevent them from shattering every time we tumbled in and out of a rut. Bright dogwood blooms heralded spring all around us, the scent of new life heavy in the air. I would have reveled in the beauty of the day except for the image penetrating my thoughts: the look of betrayal in dark blue eyes, and the spreading stain of blood on a white shirt.
Midmorning, we approached a mangy-looking pair of mules pulling a wagon. The gaunt man in front of the rickety vehicle stared at us without comment, his eyes as empty as his right sleeve and as sad as the pants leg pinned up at the hip. The woman next to him barely lifted her head to notice us, her skin hanging in loose folds, her dress baggy on her emaciated frame. A baby’s weak cries came from the back of the wagon, and I turned around as we passed them to see seven children of varying ages, as dirty and hungry-looking as their parents, thrown in the back like sacks of flour. A little girl about Sarah’s age sat against the side of the wagon, clutching a bundle of rags. A squawking began and a small hand thrashed out of the bundle. The girl placed the armload over her shoulder and looked at me with deep brown eyes, her wan little face showing no emotion.
Matt stopped the buggy and looked at me. He pointed to the departing wagon, the dry red dirt swirling in the air between us. “She reminds me of your little girl.” He shot a stream of tobacco juice out of the side of the buggy; not all of it made it over the edge. He swiped a grimy sleeve across his mouth, then used the same sleeve to wipe the sweat dripping from his forehead. Brown streaks of tobacco juice marked his skin, and I turned away, unable to look.
“When do I get to see Sarah? I need to know if she’s all right and to let Julia know. She’s worried. We both are.”
He shrugged. “I dunno. But she is safe just as long as you follow orders.” Air pushed through his nostrils in an assumed attempt at a snicker. “She is real safe—heck, they are keepin’ her in an old abandoned church, if that makes you feel any better. It is a nice place, not far from where I was born, as a matter of fact. But I am just bringing you to Miz Broderick. She will let you know when you can see your daughter.” Leering, he added, “We will have a bit of time in between to get to know each other better.”
I swallowed thickly. “Where are we going?”
“To the train depot in Atlanta. And from there we are to take the Western and Atlantic railroad to Dalton to see our fine boys in gray, and to a Mrs. Simpson’s boardinghouse. Not sure how Mrs. Broderick plans on getting you to Chattanooga from there, but I am sure she has got it all worked out.” He looked down at my hands. “First we got to find you a stream to wash that blood off your hands. People might start asking questions.”
I didn’t answer, but rested my head on the back of the seat and closed my eyes. But the bruised memory of Stuart kept coming back to me, and my eyes shot open again, my heart filled with dread. I pressed my fist to my heart, his name on my lips as I prayed that Charles had reached him in time. Failing to save Sarah was not an option. I had already lost too much, and Stuart was beyond my help. I approached my task with a single-mindedness, allowing no other thoughts to cloud my objective.
We reached Atlanta around noon, and Matt had to struggle to steer the buggy through the pandemonium of the city. People bustled throughout the streets on foot and in every kind of conveyance. The dirt roads had been reduced to muddy ruts, but the hurried pedestrians and wagon drivers carried on as if they were asphalt. They all shared a singular look of panic.
Matt stopped the buggy at the side of the street in front of the train depot. Lines of red dust caked the creases and folds in my dress. I had no mirror, but I knew my face looked equally as dirty.
We each grabbed a carpetbag and went in search of the ticket window inside. I startled at the bundle of gold coins Matt pulled from his jacket. He winked at me. “There’s plenty more where this came from.” I remembered what Pamela had told me about her followers, about how they would do anything for money.
I sat on a bench to wait, and Matt walked down the platform as far away as possible. The hands on the station clock seemed to move in slow motion, each minute seeming more like ten, and an hour like a whole day. The platform grew more and more crowded during the three-hour wait, the din of people’s voices rising as the sounds of a distant train came from down the track.
Someone tugged on my arm. “Come on now. Time to get on the train.”
I followed Matt, who was now affecting an exaggerated limp, presumably for an excuse to explain the fact that
he wore no uniform. I paused to read a broadside on a pillar:
NOTICE!! All able-bodied men between the ages of 20 and 50 are earnestly called upon to join the Southern Army. Rally to the call of your countrymen in the field. One united effort, and those Northern hirelings will soon be driven from our sunny South.
I hurried to catch up, brushing by two soldiers reeking of cheap whiskey, and moved to the steps of the train, where a soldier stood, examining traveling papers. He looked at Matt, who nodded; then he looked in the other direction as I mounted the steps and boarded the train. I began to understand the reason for carrying so many gold coins.
As I settled on the seat next to Matt, he stared straight ahead, not acknowledging me.
In a low voice, he said, “Do not sit next to me. Nobody needs to know we are traveling together.” He then turned toward the window and gazed out in silence. I stood and grabbed my carpetbag and looked for another seat. The press of bodies in the car was enough to tell me that finding another seat would be almost impossible. As if hearing my thoughts, a man across the aisle stood and pushed his way through the milieu. Before anybody could spot the vacant seat, I plopped myself in it.
A woman with a little boy and girl sat next to me. An attractive woman with dark eyes and black hair, she didn’t look much older than me, but lines of worry and exhaustion streaked her face. It was all she could do to keep the little girl from squeezing past me and toddling down the aisle of the car while holding on to the screeching infant in her arms. Finally, I turned and offered to hold the baby boy. With no hesitation and a look of deep gratitude, she handed him to me.
I looked down into enormous blue eyes and my heart jumped. He looked so much like Stuart’s child, a child I knew I could never have. His sobbing subsided as he studied my face and stuck a chubby finger in my nose. I laughed and he laughed back, forging a tender trust.
The mother excused herself and left her seat to retrieve her daughter from the other end of the car. After settling back down, she said, “Thank you so much. You seem to have the mother’s touch.”