Forbidden to Love: An Historical Romance

by Patricia Hagan

  After what seemed forever, Anjele heard sounds coming from the same direction as before. "Tom, I'm here," she softly called, scrambling to her feet and tapping the basket with the cane. "Wait till you see what I've got for you."

  "Mighty nice of you," he began, but then abruptly cried, "Oh, shit! You were followed—"

  She could hear him running in the opposite direction, and she began to beat at the air with her arms, crying, "Wait! What's wrong? Where are you going? There's no one here but me—" She jumped as a masculine voice boomed out only a short distance away.

  "Wrong, Miss Sinclair. In fact, if you could see, you'd realize you've got lots of company."

  With a moan, she sank to the ground, then jerked her head up to recognize Claudia's voice as she came running up the path.

  "Did you catch him? Did he get away?" She was asking of the man who'd spoken.

  "My men will get him, but one Reb doesn't matter. What's important is we know now who's been supplying these bushwhackers with supplies."

  "No, no, you're wrong," Anjele protested. "He's no bushwhacker. He's just a hungry soldier who got separated from his regiment, and he's on his way back, and I only gave him food. And it's the first time—"

  "And the last," the man snapped. "Take her away."

  Anjele felt rough hands grabbing her. She dropped the cane, tried to retrieve it, but they dragged her away, ignoring her pleas.

  "Where you're going, you won't need a cane," someone said.

  Claudia shrieked, "I won't help you this time, Anjele. You had your chance. I just hope General Butler realizes I had nothing to do with this, or else he'll have BelleClair burned to the ground. That's what he said he'd do to plantations giving refuge to bushwhackers, and if he does, it's all your fault."

  When they reached the house, someone shouted to bring a wagon around. Anjele's hands were jerked behind her back and tied with a rope. Officers and their wives, awakened by the commotion, gathered on the veranda to see what was happening.

  Anjele listened in angry silence as Claudia embellished her tale, saying she'd been noticing Anjele was behaving strangely lately. And, of course, she hadn't wanted to actually believe her own sister would give refuge to a bushwhacker, but she had started spying on her and was horrified to discover it was true.

  "Get her away from here now," someone shouted. "I hope General Butler has her hanged."

  "Oh, she won't hang," an officer spoke up. "But I can guarantee she'll be in prison a long, long time. She won't be hiding any more bushwhackers. That's for sure."

  From a distance, Kesia wrung her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks as she watched the pitiful sight of Miss Anjele being taken away.

  She didn't dare open her mouth to intervene, because she was at Miss Claudia's mercy now, like all the other slaves. Master Sinclair wasn't around to protect them, and Miss Anjele wasn't able to do anything. Still, Kesia felt guilty over not disputing Miss Claudia's lies. She had seen Miss Anjele when she left struggling with that basket, because she'd got up earlier than usual. She'd delivered a baby during the night, and the mother had been too weak to nurse it, so she'd gone to the kitchen to boil some sugar water to feed it. She was about to go after Miss Anjele and ask her what she was doing, but just then she had seen Miss Claudia on the side veranda talking to a Yankee soldier. So Kesia had stepped back so they wouldn't see her. But she had kept on watching and witnessed everything.

  And Lord, how she wished she could tell the truth.

  That soldier wasn't a Rebel bushwhacker.

  He wasn't even a Rebel soldier.

  Kesia knew, because she had seen him when he came running down from the cemetery, laughing as he passed the other men on their way up.

  He was the same Yankee soldier she'd seen Miss Claudia talking to on the veranda.

  Miss Anjele had been tricked.

  Chapter 23

  "You didn't have to come all the way down here to apologize for your sister again, Claudia," Major Hembree said as he sat behind his desk, wishing she'd hurry up and leave. He had been reading the confidential correspondence from General Walbridge of the Secret Service when she'd arrived and was most anxious to get back to it. "I really am busy this morning," he added.

  Oblivious to his haste to end the visit, Claudia admitted, "Elisabeth said the same thing, but I felt I had to come. Really, Major, you just can't know how much this has upset me. I've tried so hard to have a good relationship with the army, because heaven knows, I never wanted to go to war in the first place. I was always trying to get Daddy to free all his slaves and offer to pay them wages. They would've stayed, because the working conditions at BelleClair are far superior to any other plantation in the Delta, and—"

  "Yes, yes, I know that," he said impatiently. "Now I really am busy—"

  "But there's something you need to know. Something I have to tell you." She smiled, as confident of his sudden interest as she was of the outfit she'd so carefully chosen to wear that morning. The dress was lovely, pink cotton with a dainty shawl collar, fitted bodice, with double puff sleeves and flounced skirt. As a finishing touch, she wore a batiste cap trimmed with ribbon rosettes and lace over her golden curls, with kid gloves and a parasol to accessorize.

  Major Hembree hoped she might have the information he was after. "Go on," he urged.

  She looked at him demurely through lowered lashes, feigning embarrassment to broach such a delicate subject. Making her voice soft, timid, she began, "I'm afraid this isn't the first time Anjele has brought disgrace to the family. Four years ago, I had the horrible misfortune of happening upon her and one of the Acadian workers, a disreputable man known only as Gator. He didn't even have a proper name, for heaven's sake. Anyway, they were in one of the sugarhouses, and decorum, of course, doesn't permit me as a lady to put what they were doing into words, but I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. Naturally, I had to tell my parents, and it broke their hearts."

  Major Hembree noticed how her eyes were glittering, her mouth twitching with a suppressed smile. He knew she was enjoying herself immensely, despite the attempt to appear ashamed to divulge family secrets.

  "And," she continued, "to avoid all the shame and disgrace, they sent her away to school in Europe. They didn't intend for her to ever return, wanton and wild as she is, and that's why you caught her sneaking in like she did."

  She paused, disconcerted by how he was looking at her sharply, eyes narrowed as though in deep thought, yet his lips were twitching as if he were trying to keep from smiling. Nervously she asked, "Is there something wrong, Major? I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable talking like this, but I thought you should know. I wanted to make my position clear, because I simply can't allow her to continue causing trouble. Frankly, I'm hoping General Butler will do something about her, despite her blindness, especially since it's obvious she's using it to her advantage, pretending to be helpless, expecting everyone to feel sorry for her, and—"

  "Yes, yes, that's right." Major Hembree bolted to his feet and swiftly moved from behind his desk to cross the room and open the door as an indication the meeting was over. "You've nothing to worry about."

  "Did I embarrass you by speaking of something so despicable?"

  "Not at all, not at all. Quite the contrary. I needed to know all that, but as I said, you needn't worry. Your sister had a warning, and now she must pay the price. I'm sure General Butler will agree with me the safest place for her now is prison."

  "For a long time?" Claudia's pretense of charm disappeared. It was time to make her intentions known once and for all. "The fact is, I don't want her ever to come back to BelleClair. I want her declared incompetent and title to all the lands held by my father's estate given to me."

  "Rest assured..." he gave her a gentle push through the door, nodding to the soldier in the foyer to speed her on her way. "Anjele will probably spend the rest of her life in jail."

  Claudia felt like singing. "Well, that's best. I mean, she is helpless, and—"

  Wit
h a murmured "Good day," he gently closed the door in her face.

  Returning to his desk, Major Hembree snatched up the folder containing General Walbridge's report. He read again how the Secret Service had learned, from a traitor to the South, the identity of the person believed to have stolen the engraving plates during the takeover of the Mint.

  Elton Sinclair.

  Smiling, Hembree folded his arms behind his head and leaned back in the leather chair. He had already decided Sinclair's murder had to do with the plates. Somebody else knew about them and had tried to get him to talk but failed. However, he was certain Sinclair would have made sure somebody knew where he hid them. It hadn't been Claudia, for sure.

  So it was logical, despite the ugly little story he'd just heard, that Anjele had managed to redeem herself in her father's eyes, resulting in his confiding in her, if only during his final moments of life.

  And now she needed assistance in locating them for the Confederacy.

  Hembree smiled.

  He knew just the person to help her.

  By helping her, he'd be helping himself as well—to a promotion to lieutenant colonel.

  He went to the door and told the soldier outside to have the prisoner brought to his office. "Keep her hands tied behind her back," he reminded. "She's a feisty one."

  "Don't worry about that." The soldier laughed. "I saw 'em bring her in. She landed her foot right between Bailey's legs. He's still cryin' when he pisses."

  Hembree wiped away the soldier's grin with a glare of reproach for his crudeness.

  The man scurried to obey his order.

  A few moments later, Anjele was brought in, defiant, face tight with anger. "What am I being charged with this time?" she asked, as one of the two men with her pushed her down in a chair. "Murder?"

  He waved the soldiers out, waited till the door was closed to respond. And when he spoke, she sharply turned her head in the direction of his voice, for she'd been staring at the wall without realizing it. "Not murder, Miss Sinclair, but something quite serious, I can assure you."

  "All I did was give a hungry man food," she fired back, stung with fury. "If that's a crime, then shoot me, hang me. I'll not beg for mercy."

  "You are being charged with receiving stolen goods. If you cooperate and tell me where they're hidden, I can promise you leniency in your sentence for providing shelter to a bushwhacker, and—"

  "That's a lie," she blazed, "I told you—I was giving him food. And I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know anything about stolen goods, for heaven's sake.

  "What I'd like to know," she hurried on, "is how you Yankees can even put up a good fight against the South, as stupid as you are! Stolen goods, indeed." She gave an unladylike snort and settled back in the chair.

  "We're talking about engraving plates, Miss Sinclair," He had expected her to deny knowing anything but proceeded to refresh her memory to let her know he wasn't making wild guesses but knew what he was talking about.

  Anjele listened, incredulous, then told him, "The truth is, I don't know what you're talking about. My father never told me he was involved in the takeover, and he certainly never told me about any engraving plates. But even if he had, you can be sure I'd die before I'd tell you."

  "Have it your way," he said with pretended resolve, "but as I said, if you cooperate, we'll go easy on you. Maybe you'll only be in prison for the duration of the war. If you refuse, I can promise you will die there."

  Anjele was quiet for a moment, deliberately trying to make him think she was actually considering giving in. Finally, she sneered, "You bastard! Do you think it really matters to me now where I go? My parents are dead, and my home has been turned into a haven for you dirty Yankees. I've lost my eyesight and probably won't ever get it back. Do you really think I give a damn what happens to me? My life is over, anyway, so why should I care where I spend my final days?

  "Do with me what you will," she challenged furiously, "because as far as I'm concerned, all of you can go to hell!"

  Hembree reeled, struck by the glow of hatred in her sightless eyes. "Very well, Miss Sinclair. You leave me no choice." He bellowed to the soldier outside, who promptly rushed in to receive the order, "Get a detachment here to take the prisoner to Ship Island. At once."

  Anjele felt a wave of panic. "But why there?"

  Hembree told her a prison had been established there, near Fort Massachusetts, since the Union was now using the island as a base of operations on the Gulf. "You won't be able to help the Rebs find the plates from there."

  "I told you," she said between clenched teeth, "I don't know anything."

  "Maybe a few weeks locked away all by yourself will refresh your memory, but I warn you, don't take too long. Should they be found without your help, General Butler will have no mercy for you. He'll leave you in that prison, locked in solitary confinement."

  "I know nothing. As for solitary confinement"—her lips curved in a bitter smile—"I think that's where I already am."

  After she was taken away, Hembree opened the drawer of his desk and took out the folder containing the names of recently arrived soldiers and officers. At a party only the night before, some of the officers had been discussing how relieved they were to hear an Acadian had been assigned as a scout in the bayou, and Captain Bishop, Hembree recalled, had an interesting tale to share.

  It seemed when one of the new officers came to his camp, some civilians—Cajuns, working for food—had recognized him. Bishop had then listened with interest to the discussion about Brett Cody and how he'd once lived in Bayou Perot.

  At the time, Hembree had only been mildly impressed.

  Now, however, he was ecstatic.

  The man, the Cajuns had said, was known by another name, because of an amazing battle with an alligator some years before.

  He'd been known only as Gator.

  The similarity could not be coincidence. Bayou Perot, he knew, was adjacent to the Sinclair property. Gator, the Cajuns recalled, had abruptly disapeared about four years ago. From what Claudia said, that was the same time she'd seen Anjele in a sugarhouse with a man also called Gator. It had to be the same person, and Hembree was confident he'd been struck by an idea that could not fail.

  First, he went in search of Captain Bishop to share his idea. Bishop agreed it was worth trying, and Hembree promptly sent a dispatcher to find Brett Cody.

  It took nearly a week.

  Brett was not easy to locate, for he spent most of his time doing what he had been sent to do—leading Union patrols into the swamps of Bayou Vista to search for Reb bushwhackers or Southerners fleeing New Orleans. He did not like being summoned to headquarters and didn't care who knew it.

  "What's this about, Major?" he demanded as soon as perfunctory greetings and salutes were exchanged. "As far as I had to come, written communication would have saved me a lot of trouble."

  Hembree flushed with imitation over what he considered insolence but reminded himself he needed Cody and it was best to keep things peaceable. "Well, this is something that couldn't be put in writing." He forced a patronizing smile as he went on to comment how he'd seen Cody's records and was quite impressed. "You're highly regarded by every officer who's known you, Cody."

  Brett merely stared at him in stone-faced silence, thinking how quickly opinion would change if they knew he'd like just to walk away from it all. No longer did he want revenge on the past by witnessing the destruction of Anjele's world. Hell, he didn't even hate her anymore. She'd become part of the past, and in the horrors of war he'd come to realize that if it happened yesterday, it no longer mattered. All he wanted was to make it through today and do the same tomorrow. And more and more, he found himself wishing he'd stayed out West and out of the war.

  "I don't think," Brett finally spoke, "you brought me here to talk about my record."

  "You're right. I have a new assignment for you. A very important assignment. I can almost guarantee a citation and promotion if you're successful."

 
; "I don't care about a citation or a promotion if it'll get me back to the Army of the Potomac instead." He didn't like leading whining soldiers who were scared to death of everything from big gray spiders dropping down out of the moss to slithering snakes. Two had fainted at the sight of an alligator. He felt like a guardian instead of a scout.

  "Sorry," Hembree said, though he wasn't, and proceeded to get to the point. "I understand you're from this area. A place called Bayou Perot, to be exact."

  "I worked there," Brett admitted warily, wondering what the major was leading up to.

  "You worked for a planter by the name of Elton Sinclair at a plantation south of the city called BelleClair."

  "What the hell are you getting at, Major?"

  Hembree calmly continued. "We know that Sinclair was involved in the takeover of the U.S. Mint here last year. We also believe he stole new engraving plates that could be financially disastrous to the Federal government if they fall into the hands of the Confederacy."

  Brett didn't care about that. "What does this have to do with me? I wasn't working for him then. I haven't worked for him in over four years. Ask him—"

  "He's dead."

  Brett drew a breath, let it out slowly before coolly repeating, "Like I asked, where do I fit in?"

  "We believe his daughter Anjele knows where the plates are hidden."

  "Then ask her." He bolted to his feet. "I don't want any part of this."

  Hembree decided it was time to pull rank, and shouted, "I didn't ask if you did, Captain. Now sit down and shut up."

  Their eyes locked.

  Not wanting to sit the war out in jail, Brett bit back the urge to tell him to go to hell.

  Hembree continued. "I understand you were once romantically involved with her, and—"

  Brett tensed. "Where the hell did you hear that?"