When the Splendor Falls

by Laurie McBain

  “Well, if it ain’t my own face lookin’ back at me,” someone said, staring at his grinning reflection in one of the gilded girandoles hanging on the wall. “Gave me a start, it did, seein’ how ugly it was, thought fer a minute there it was Johnson,” he continued, laughter echoing around the cave as the men began to wander around aimlessly, as if lost in another world, and feeling safe for the first time in several days.

  “Did you ever see such fancy ladies and gents?” the Bucktail asked, almost doffing his cap as he stared down at the gold-leaf framed painting he’d accidentally kicked with his boot.

  Overcome with curiosity about what manner of gentlefolk had hidden their valuables in a cave, he pulled another of the paintings into view.

  “Hey, if I ain’t a duck in thunder, this is the house we saw burned to ashes downriver a piece. Recognize them six chimneys. Ah, what a pity. Mighty fine-lookin’ place, it was. Like them columns, I do,” he said. “Reckon all this stuff come from there? Must’ve hid it when things started lookin’ bad fer the rebs, our troops fightin’ so deep into Virginia.”

  Sliding another, slightly smaller painting from the stack on top of a tapestry-covered sofa table, he was standing there gazing at it, when suddenly he sucked in his breath, choking so that his eyes bulged and someone standing close by slapped him hard between the shoulder blades.

  Gulping, he looked up, his startled gaze meeting his captain’s pale-eyed stare in disbelief.

  “Cap’n?” he questioned, glancing between the hawk-featured face of the young, golden-haired gentleman dressed for riding in the painting, and his hawk-featured, golden-haired captain, dressed as a Yankee raider and standing in the flesh not five feet away.

  Silence descended on the cave as the men stilled, all eyes turning to stare at the painting the Bucktail had held up to the light.

  Someone whistled softly beneath his breath. Sure enough, it was the spitting image of the captain. Only the man in the portrait, standing indolently in the door of a blacksmith’s shop, was dressed in shiny black Hessians up to his knees, his tight breeches of the finest buff-colored buckskin, his blue coat long-tailed with brass buttons and cut away in front to show the flowered silk of his vest, and his lacy cravat elaborately tied beneath his strong, square chin. His hair was styled in elegant curls of a fashion worn over a quarter of a century ago. Quite the dandy, standing there with the blooded bay, which, someone else decided, bore the distinct markings of the captain’s own big bay, Thunder Dancer.

  “Gives me the shivers,” Johnson mumbled, risking a glance at the captain, almost believing he might be staring at a ghost.

  “Figure that’s why we been so lucky? We been ridin’ with the dead? Maybe the captain can’t be kilt,” someone of a similar frame of mind voiced nervously, pinching the man next to him to make certain he was real, the responding yelp of pain comforting to him.

  “My father, gentlemen,” Neil said, coming to stand close enough to the painted face in the portrait for a number of the men to shake their heads in dismay at the resemblance between father and son.

  “This cave is filled with the possessions from Royal Bay, that white-columned house,” he said, glancing briefly at the painting of the house the Bucktail had spoken of as being the same they’d ridden past earlier in the day. “My father’s family has lived at Royal Bay since before the Revolution. My father chose another way of life, and traveled west to the territories. That is where I come from, but this,” he said, his raised hand encompassing the contents of the cave, “is my heritage. These treasured possessions were hidden here by my cousins so that something belonging to our family might survive this war. I shall take full responsibility for the safety and care of these items. I know I need not remind you men of my policy concerning looting,” their captain said, slowly glancing around the gathering, meeting and holding each man’s gaze.

  No one noticed when the man standing hunched over at the back of the group returned the stolen silver to its rightful place in the velvet-lined chest, his hand shaking so he fumbled with the pieces, the clinking together of the silver sounding like thunder in his guilt-sensitive ears. Instinctively he placed a cupped hand over his groin, almost expecting to feel the lightning-fast flash of the captain’s knife slashing down on his own most treasured possession.

  Lieutenant Chatham, who’d nearly fallen from his perch on the settee while trying to see the portrait around the captain’s broad back, and who’d been preoccupied with how he’d work this revelation into his tale of the Bloodriders, suddenly blurted out, “No one would ever betray you, Captain! You’ve our word, word of a Bloodrider, that nothing will ever be said of this cave, and its contents. We all took the blood oath when we signed up with you. Damnation, sir!” the lieutenant bellowed, surprising everyone, including himself, with the profanity and the loudness of his voice, for no one had ever heard the mild-mannered, soft-spoken lieutenant curse. “Hell, you’re our captain, and you’ve saved all of our lives too many times to count, never leaving any of us behind to rot in some reb prison. No one,” the lieutenant repeated again, his soft blue eyes hardening as he gazed at the others, “would betray you, and let it be known right now that they would have the rest of us to answer to if they did.”

  “The lieutenant’s right, Cap’n,” the Bucktail said, glancing around at the others, some of whom were nodding in agreement—and especially vehement, one of the riders at the back.

  “Ain’t none of us who’d betray ye,” McGuire vowed. And for two reasons, he thought silently. One, because he respected the captain. The lieutenant was right, the captain had saved all of their lives more than once. And two, he’d have to be a fool to want the captain out searching for him and seeking revenge. He wouldn’t bet on anyone so inclined to live long enough to enjoy his ill-gotten fortune.

  For a moment, Neil said nothing, then he nodded. “We’ll camp in here tonight, men. Unsaddle your horses. And no fires. Jimmy, you’re on duty first, then I’ll stand the watch.”

  “No problem, Cap’n,” someone said, “that soup is still warmin’ my innards, thanks to that lil’ reb, and at least we’re dry. Don’t know what was in that broth, ’cause it sure looked thin, but it’s been stickin’ to my ribs since it went down.”

  “Cap’n, sir, look at this crate. It’s marked in green with the name ‘Travers.’ Reckon some of the stuff in here is from the place we were at? Travers Hill, wasn’t that the name of the farm?”

  Neil glanced around, seeing now that another group of crates, set slightly apart from those from Royal Bay, had been marked with the Travers name.

  “Reckon them bein’ neighbors, they hid their belongings together, this bein’ the best place around.”

  “My cousins married two of the Travers daughters,” Neil said, knowing Nathan and Adam would have suggested to Stuart Travers the perfect hiding place for Travers Hill’s cache of valuables.

  “One of them marry that pretty little miss who helped us, Cap’n?”

  “No,” his captain answered abruptly, “she married someone else.” The man didn’t ask another question.

  The Bucktail, trying to replace the portrait, knocked over a painting from another stack leaning against the wall. Ever curious, he looked at it as he was replacing it, a smile of recognition crossing his weathered face.

  “Cap’n, speakin’ of the little lady,” he said, lifting the painting so it was in the golden glow from the chandelier. “Betcha this is the whole family, here. What happened to them, d’ya s’pose?” he wondered aloud as he stared down at the Travers family portrait.

  This time, Lieutenant Chatham did fall from the settee, so determined was he to see the portrait of the family that had once lived at Travers Hill, and that had so captured his imagination.

  Helping hands tried to assist him back onto the settee, but he insisted, and somewhat testily, that he be carried closer to view the portrait.

  Taking off his round-rimmed spectacles, Lieutenant Chatham quickly cleaned them, then carefully resettled
them back on the bridge of his short nose, his blue eyes widening with wonder as the painting, with the people posed so naturally in the scene, seemed to come to life before him.

  The Travers family was enjoying a lazy, summer’s afternoon. It was a peaceful, somnolent setting. The house as comfortable as an old friend with its rosy-bricked facade and green-shuttered windows thrown open to catch the cooling breeze. On the veranda, a lovely, gracious woman stood with a woven basket full of roses over her arm. Apparently she’d just plucked a bouquet of the summer blooms from her garden. The lieutenant sighed; he’d been in that garden. Standing next to her was a woman the lieutenant recognized—the mulattress. She was laying a damask-covered table with all manner of appetizing fare. And just behind her, stepping from the house with a tray of tall glasses, was a green-liveried black man; the same man the lieutenant had met that morning, only his hair had turned as white as snow. On the first step, a serious young man with dark hair stood, offering one of the red roses to a young woman with the same golden hair and delicate features as the older woman. The lieutenant recognized her too. It was the same woman he’d seen lying so ill in the study at Travers Hill a couple of days ago.

  The lieutenant glanced over at the captain, who’d also been staring intently at the portrait. As if feeling his gaze, the captain glanced at him.

  The lieutenant placed a hesitant finger on the young woman’s figure.

  Seeing the question in the young man’s eyes, Neil said, “Althea. And that is her elder brother, Stuart James, I believe that was his name. He died sometime during the last four years. The other woman is Mrs. Travers. She’s gone too. And you met Jolie and Stephen.”

  The lieutenant nodded sadly, then moved his finger to the little dark-haired girl sitting on the knee of a boy with a shock of thick golden curls, her grinning face staring out at them as she tried to grab the pup the boy was holding just out of her reach.

  “Blythe and Palmer William,” Neil answered. “They are both gone now.”

  The lieutenant’s hand hovered over the figure of a handsome young man with chestnut hair, surrounded by a pack of hounds as he walked across the yard, and even stilled in time by the artist’s brush, there was a definite look of devil-may-care arrogance in the man’s stride.

  “Guy Travers,” Neil said, his tone causing the lieutenant to frown slightly, for he’d heard that harsh note in the captain’s voice too often not to take notice; it usually boded ill for someone. “He still lives.”

  Out in the yard near a stately oak, fluffy white clouds floating across the blue sky above green hills in the distance, a short-legged, stocky gentleman stood beside a beautiful roan Thoroughbred, his hand stroking the satiny coat, while the reins were held by a tall, smiling black man. Sitting on the horse’s back was a small, chestnut-haired girl, not more than nine or ten.

  “Stuart Travers, master of Travers Hill, and Sweet John. They’re dead. Sweet John was the best trainer of Thoroughbreds in Virginia. Another breeder wanted Sweet John, but Stuart Travers damned the man, saying his trade was raising and selling horses not humans.”

  “Slave owners,” someone said in disgust and spat on the floor of the cave.

  “Them two we met this mornin’ is free enough now. Heard the man tell Johnson that when he was servin’ us that broth. Seemed sort of a lordly fella to have been a slave, and sure surprised me how fancy he spoke. Felt almost as if he was lookin’ down his nose at me, and wouldn’t have let me in the big house, ’ceptin’ through the back door. Got the feelin’ he kinda resented me even bein’ out in his stables.”

  Lieutenant Chatham didn’t need his captain to tell him the name of the little girl sitting astride the Thoroughbred in her sky-blue dress, a lacy froth of pantalettes leg showing above a white-stockinged foot that dangled high above the ground, yet no fear showed on her young face, despite the precariousness of her perch, as she stared out at them. Her rounded chin was raised proudly, her blue eyes wide with the wonder of her vaulted position.

  One small hand was holding onto the roan’s long mane, the other the blue ribbons of a wide-brimmed straw bonnet, which she’d pulled from her chestnut curls.

  Neil stared at the child’s face painted there, then remembered the warmth of the woman he’d held in his arms not an hour past, the woman this little girl had become, and he knew a sudden despair. She was just as far out of his reach today as she had been four years ago, as she was in this painting.

  He had lost Leigh when she had chosen to marry another, and now, when he could have taken her, made her his, made her forget Matthew Wycliffe, he had to walk away and leave her.

  Always just beyond his reach, he thought savagely, turning away from the painting, and issuing his orders in a harsh tone of voice that had his men jumping.

  * * *

  “I can’t reach it,” Leigh said, standing on tiptoe as she tried to knock down a cobweb.

  “Here, let me.” A voice spoke behind her, then a masculine hand had taken the feather duster from her and with a clean swipe had freed the corner of the unsightly cobweb.

  Leigh cried out in surprise, spinning around and nearly tumbling from the footstool.

  Strong arms reached out and caught her, swinging her down.

  “Adam,” Leigh breathed in relief.

  “Who else?” he demanded with a laugh.

  In truth, Leigh had caught her breath when seeing him, thinking it was Neil Braedon behind her, forgetting about Adam for the moment when she heard the deep voice and saw the gold of his hair. Still shaken from her last encounter with Neil, even the thought of him brought a wild blush of color to her cheeks, for she could not forget his fiery kiss, or the intimacy of his touch, or her own shameful response.

  Adam smiled as her arms embraced him, holding him close for a moment, then she placed a sisterly kiss against his cheek, and he responded, placing a brotherly kiss against her brow.

  “You are worse than Noelle holding up her face for her expected farewell kiss,” he complained, pleased nevertheless to be included amongst those so privileged. “You’re working too hard,” he said, frowning as he noted her flushed cheeks and wondered about the shadowed expression that had entered her eyes for an instant, then, just as quickly, had vanished, as if she’d banished an unwelcome thought, or image, from her mind.

  Leigh laughed, hugging him with surprising strength for a moment before she looked up at him. “I’m so happy you’ve come,” she said, trying to hide her dismay at how ill he looked, far worse since last she’d seen him.

  “Lucinda?” he asked eagerly of his daughter.

  “More beautiful and precious every day,” Leigh told him, and reaching out, she smoothed a golden curl from his brow, feeling the light beading of perspiration beneath.

  Adam jerked away from her soothing hand, then managed to smile apologetically when he saw her bewildered look. Holding her away from him for a moment, an almost pained expression in his light gray eyes, he stared at her. Sometimes, he thought shakily, the way she tipped her head, the twinkle in her eye, her lips curving so readily into a smile, the way she moved reminded him so much of Blythe, as if she were still here with him.

  “Blythe was always doing that,” he said quietly. “I threatened to have the curl cut, but she threatened to leave me if I did,” he said gruffly, then turned away quickly, gesturing to a large woven basket he’d set on the bench in the foyer. “Good thing I’ve brought supplies, you’re getting too thin. I would have gotten here yesterday afternoon, but the storm opened up and rained buckets down on me. I had to stay over at the Draytons. I was relieved to see Meadowbrook still standing. Reverend Culpepper is staying with them. His church was burned. Wonder if it had anything to do with one of his pompous sermons. I must say, he wasn’t too friendly. Forgive and forget, I was always taught,” Adam chuckled, then sobered. “Poor Jasper looked like death. They lost two of their grandsons at Sharpsburg. One at Dunkard Church, the other in the fighting at Bloody Lane. Even more tragic for them, one of their nephews
crossed Antietam Creek during the battle, only he was with the Union forces. Ruth Canby was born in Maryland, and one of the Drayton girls is married to a lawyer in Baltimore. That must be hell for them, wondering if…”

  “Did you hear about John Roy Canby?” Leigh asked, unwilling to think about one cousin wearing gray, the other blue, and meeting on the battlefield. “He joined the cavalry. They only let him in because he had a horse of his own, even if he couldn’t stay in the saddle.”

  “Sounds intriguing already,” Adam said, grinning with anticipation.

  “He managed to get a command and was leading his men into battle during a charge at Chancellorsville when he lost control of his horse and went galloping off in the opposite direction. His men followed, thinking he meant to flank the enemy, and apparently it worked, because the enemy retreated. He’s a colonel now, but they’ve assigned him to desk duty at Headquarters. His commanding general, and a friend of the Canby family, said riding a chair was the only way John Roy could keep his seat and the Confederacy safe.”

  “Uncle Adam! Uncle Adam!” Noelle cried out, racing from the study and throwing herself into Adam’s arms. “What’s wrong with you?” she demanded, gazing up at his face. “Do you have a tummy ache?”

  “Hello, sweetheart,” he said, meeting Leigh’s amused gaze as Noelle placed kisses all over his face. “I’m not sick, just bent over double laughing at something wicked your aunt told me. My, my, you’re growing as fast and as tall as a sapling hoping to be brought into the house in time for Christmas and the dressing of the tree,” he declared.

  “Joyeux Noel!” Noelle said, “Je m’appelle Noelle Rose Braedon, et puis-je vous presenter Mademoiselle Travers?” she said, holding out her hand and lifting her chin with the haughty and graceful airs of a grand dame.