by Martha Hix
Faded hair pinned away from a tired face, Opal wore a dress too heavy for Southern summertime and carried her ever-present ear trumpet. Pinched lips showed years of putting up with a lout. A woman ill-used described her.
Sad eyes swayed to the judge. “General, you’ll be patient with me, I pray. I have an affliction.” Her voice rang off-key, as always. “But surely you won’t assume me stupid just because I cannot hear as well as you.”
General Andrews nodded respectfully to Mrs. Lawrence. “Ma’am, I’m eager to hear whatever you have to say.”
“Mind if I come closer?” He didn’t mind, and she let a corporal pull her chair right next to the general’s. After Andrews repeated his question, she said, “It’s about my husband. He is not being fair to Miss Marshall, I mean, Mrs. O’Brien. Roscoe Lawrence is not a fair man, period.”
India couldn’t believe her ears. Opal Lawrence, the most loyal of wives, had turned against her adored husband?
Stealing a glance at Connor, India saw a smile working its way across his tight mouth. He winked. His teeth flashed in triumph before he forced a solemn mien again.
“I am here, Your Honor, for two reasons,” said Opal. “Firstly, our niece was grievously injured at the hands of Roscoe Lawrence. General, sir, he forced himself on that girl for years, but I refused to acknowledge it. In Natchez, when I found out what happened to Antoinette, I had to accept the truth. He corrupted an innocent girl.”
The prosecutor shot to his feet. “That’s irrelevant to the case before the court.”
“What did he say?” Opal asked; Andrews told her. “It may sound irrelevant to you, but it all ties together. Roscoe is a bitter man for not being born rich or handsome. It turned him mean-minded. He hated Major O’Brien from the first. Vowed to bring him down. Furthermore, my husband hated the Confederate prisoners in his keeping. He tried to starve them, left them sick and unprotected against the cold of Illinois. India Marshall O’Brien may have impersonated a sanitarian, but she was an angel. Without her, many of those boys would have died.”
Roscoe Lawrence burst into the courtroom. “Opal, what the hell are you saying!”
Glancing at his sergeant-at-arms, Andrews arced a finger toward Lawrence. “Restrain him, and get him out of here.”
It took more than one soldier to do it. Being led away, Lawrence screamed, “Don’t listen to a word my wife says. She’s just mad ’cause she thought I did something to Antoinette. Which”—the rest came with a slamming of door—“ain’t true.”
“Go on, Mrs. Lawrence,” the general urged, building India’s hopes.
The prosecutor objected again.
“I’ll hear what she has to say, then I’ll give a ruling.” Andrews laced his fingers, rested them on the desk. “Go on, Mrs. Lawrence.”
“Roscoe got in trouble with the War Department, when word reached Washington about his ill treatment of the prisoners. He blamed that on Mrs. O’Brien as well as the major. He plotted against them. I know this. One day, when he thought I couldn’t hear him, he said a lot. It seems he and some youthful redheaded lieutenant—I think his name was Jones, perchance John Jones?—devised a plan to get the Major O’Brien in trouble.”
The general asked, “Why are you testifying against your husband’s character, ma’am?”
“I’ve had enough of his abuse. And the truth is, Mrs. O’Brien wasn’t even in trouble with the War Department. They wanted to hear her side of it, then make a decision. Roscoe made it appear differently.”
“Really, sir, this is absurd.” The prosecutor threw his hands wide. “Totally irrelevant.”
Opal, finding reward in the gift of deafness, went on. “I have contacted my sister in Ohio, and she’s agreed to take me and my unfortunate niece in. I’m taking Antoinette into my care and keeping. We’ll have a fresh start. For once, in peace.”
The judge listened to the rest of what she had to say, and India held her breath, expecting the testimony to be thrown out.
Her expectations came to pass.
General Andrews took a drink of water before saying, “Although I sympathize with your plight, Mrs. Lawrence, your husband isn’t on trial here. The issue isn’t his treatment of prisoners-of-war. It’s whether Mrs. O’Brien conspired to enter a federal compound with malice aforethought. Furthermore...”
He eyed India sheepishly, with apology. Yet he went by the letter of the law, this West Pointer who’d dug through law books to prepare for the trial. Giving attention to Opal Lawrence again, he said, “Unless you’ve got evidence to back up your claims about the plot, I’ll have to disallow your testimony.”
The angel of mercy to his troops in 1863 might have well have been just another Reb, to India’s way of thinking.
Twenty-eight
Lost. Convicted. All but hanged. Stand aside, boys, the little lady’s liable to land on your heads. As was sometimes said in the country, it was all over but the shoutin’.
All the way back to Pleasant Hill, after her trial had recessed on the same day Opal had tried to free the accused, India kept her forearm braced on the Edna Gal’s rail and made herself do nothing but study the river. Comin’ to you, Winny.
In thus mood, India didn’t join the conversation between Phoebe and her aggravating sister, who gripped that stupid lamp like her life depended on it, and calm as could be, announced that everything would turn out “fine, fine, just fine.”
Why wouldn’t she give someone else a try at magic? It had worked for getting India and Connor to the altar, so why couldn’t Tessa be generous enough to allow a life to be saved?
It was all India could do not to bare her teeth and toss that stubborn old lady—lamp, chain, and appurtenances thereto—into the Edna Gal’s set of paddles. It would almost be fun, watching her blood spread like poor Antoinette’s had. India, you ought to be ashamed.
Well, she was.
But she didn’t have much to say to anyone, not until her husband asked, “Should we let Opal take Antoinette away?”
“It seems the best solution. We shouldn’t tax Pleasant Hill’s resources with Antoinette’s care and support, not when she has kin who’ll provide it, lovingly and willingly. Not when I can’t help Antoinette myself.”
“India, the trial isn’t over. Don’t give up.”
“If I hadn’t stolen your leather pouch, it wouldn’t even have started.”
“As Fitz O’Brien says, ‘No use crying over spilt milk.’ ”
“I’m not crying,” she denied as the Edna Gal reached the Pleasant Hill dock. India lifted the hems of her skirts and called over her shoulder, “We’ve still got one good horse in the Marshall string, and I intend to ride her. Don’t wait dinner for me.”
She rushed to the stables, got a sidesaddle on the mare, and rode out. Circling the property, she knew her life was going in circles. She finally pulled back the reins at the family cemetery. The mare ground-tethered, India went to Winny’s grave.
Her thumb scratched lichen from the inscription. He’d been the beginning of her mistakes. This was the end.
She heard a horse, wheeled around. Connor. So tall in the saddle, so handsome and dignified, her husband walked the majestic Arabian stallion toward her.
Will you bring your fine husband down with you?
Leather creaked as he swung a leg over the saddle; the fading sunlight glinted on the brass buttons of his blue uniform. He doffed the cocked uniform hat. His face had a haggard look, not unexpected.
“Don’t even consider sending me home, India. I refuse to leave you here, especially not in the state you’re in.”
Home. He’d called Pleasant Hill home. She prayed he couldn’t tell from her expression how much she loved him, how much she yearned to run to the strength he gave so freely. Time was running out for him to report to Georgia.
Intuition told her he’d offer not to go.
What a fool you were, thinking his love conditional. So many times he’d sacrificed for her. Every time she’d needed it, or simply asked. Yet sh
e’d been angry with him for wanting to ensure in both their minds that their marriage was legal.
Aladdin had never been so noble and true. All that silly character had to do? Rub a magic lamp and everything came to him, without work or sacrifice. Aladdin couldn’t come close to Connor as a hero.
She yearned to fly into his big, strong arms and beg him to take her away from this cemetery. Take her some wonderful somewhere where they could make love, make their marriage totally whole, and forget the world around them.
Her hero set his hat atop Winny’s tombstone. “India, I’m going to ask General Andrews to delay the trial until we can investigate that plot Opal Lawrence mentioned. Andrews will do it, he’s fond enough of you as a nurse and humanitarian.”
“Pish posh.”
Connor crouched back on his heels beside her. “I’ve just had a talk with Zeke. He’s already given a deposition, so he and the Edna Gal will beat for Memphis, first light in the morning. He’ll tell my grandfather to exert influence, and find out who by the name of Jones could have conspired with Lawrence.”
Don’t bring Connor down with you.
She must sacrifice for him, must set him free so he could live his life. How could she have any peace for whatever was left of her days on earth, knowing she’d ruined a good man and a fine soldier? She knew what she had to do. Make it easy on him to leave. Leave, and go to the Army that had given him order and the life he needed.
Yet too selfish to make his sacrifice, she couldn’t carry on. You’ve got to! Like when she’d gone into the water, she could do anything, if it meant survival. For Connor.
“That’s fine,” she answered sarcastically. “I’m sure it’ll be easy to find a particular Lieutenant Jones in the Union Army. Won’t take more than a hundred years.”
“Won’t hurt to try.” He took her lichen-tipped fingers, placing them on his palm and gentling the grime away. Then saying the words that would have brought her supreme happiness and peace, once upon a time, he gazed into her eyes. “I can get out of the Georgia assignment. I can get out of the Army—I’ll buy my way out. I’m staying here with you. For always.”
“How do you reckon you’ll buy your way out of anything, Major Shallow Pockets?”
“I’ll get the money from Fitz.” He smiled, a little. “Indy, take a look at your new planter-man.”
“What’s the matter, Connor? Are you getting yellow, now that Sherman and his dog-of war, Stewart Lewis, are making life tough in Georgia? Why, I think you’re trying to hide behind my skirts, like some sissy who gets his mama to pay a replacement to take his spot at the front.”
“Strange words, coming from a dove of peace.”
She flapped her hand, as if to bat at a fly or mosquito. “Dove of peace? Maybe so. But if there’s anything I can’t stand, it’s a gutless man.”
He grabbed her elbows, his fingers sinking in. Yanking her to him, he ground out, “Whatever you’re trying to accomplish, forget it. I’m not buying it. You love me, and I love you, and you better come to your senses, little gal.”
“What makes you think I truly love you? Just because I say it? It was lust, only lust. Always was, always would be.”
He looked as if she’d slapped him. The hardest thing she’d ever done in her life was keeping up this hurtful attack. It broke her heart to say these words. “Don’t be a sap, Connor. If I truly loved you, and if I’d wanted to be with you, do you think I’d have jumped off a moving train in enemy territory? I seem to recall Memphis. It was you chasing me down, not the other way around. I struggled all the way from Illinois to get shut of you.”
“That isn’t the way I recall the Delta Star.”
“Then you’ve got a convenient memory. You showed up in my cabin. I was on my way to the only thing that has ever, ever mattered to me, besides poetry by candlelight. Saving my family. But you were easy to use, always rarin’ to save the damsel. I played along. The lust was good, and I did think you could do something heroic with your Yankee buddies in Port Hudson.”
“My buddies? My buddies?”
“Excuse me. Birds of a feather. All you’ve been able to do is send an old man to an even older man on the off chance some Jones will magically appear.”
“What else do you suggest I do?”
“Ride for Georgia.”
“We haven’t come all this way to dissolve to this.”
“You have no choice. Oh, and don’t worry about that duty and honor malarkey. We haven’t started a child. I found out this morning. So, go do what you’re good at. Being right and honorable. But do it somewhere else.”
His hands dropped from her elbows. “Let’s get back to the house. You need rest. Everything will look better in the morning.”
“There you go, jumping to your usual conclusions.”
He shoved to stand, glaring downward. His eyes were hazel bullets. “Get up. Let’s go. Before you lose the rest of your fool mind and that nurse you hired has three patients on her hands.”
She stayed put, and he grabbed her arms, pulling her to her feet. “The big man uses brute force on the small woman.”
“Where’s the woman I married? What’s gotten in to you?”
“Remember back in Rock Island, when you warned me off Antoinette? I said everyone has two sides. You’re seeing my true side, Connor O’Brien. I used you. All along and at every opportunity. You were never what I wanted.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Was there nothing she could do to make him stop loving her? Her words forced brittle and even meaner than before, she threatened, “On the night we met, I would’ve slit your throat if you hadn’t given permission for me to stay at Rock Island. I’ve still got Pearlie May. And I’ll wield her against you. I can’t hang but once.”
His hazel eyes grown dull, Connor stepped back from her, slapped that blue felt hat back on his head. His eyes were haunted by pain and betrayal. “There’s no need to twist a knife in my gut, India. You’ve already killed me.”
Doing an about-face, he marched to his mount, climbed into the saddle, and urged Intrepid into a gallop. Speed dislodged the uniform hat, and it sailed to the ground. He never looked back.
And for that, India gave thanks. If he’d got an eyeful of her, he would know her for a liar. A liar who stumbled for that hat and brought it to her lips. Her tears stained the brim; her fingers crushed its shape. Gone. He’d left. Just as she’d demanded.
Yet her heart hurt so much that it was almost too much for her chest to take. For love, she’d renounced the most precious thing in her world.
Connor.
Twenty-nine
She’d had enough. Bedtime approached. No longer would they wait to act, so Phoebe O’Brien—Mabel Mathews and Zeke Pays in collusion and to her rear—paraded to Tessa’s empty room, the occupant expected shortly. The trio hid behind an armoire.
Brass lamp and its chattel arrived, went to bed. Tessa, yawning, twisted to extinguish the bedside lantern.
The aggressors sprang.
“Heavens! Don’t you dare,” their prey warned, agape. “Eugene, hel—”
Mabel shoved a rag in that gaping mouth, Phoebe threw herself atop her squirming sister, and Zeke set metal cutters to work. He jerked the lamp away, placed it aside. The intruders then set to work tying Tessa up with the linens from her bed.
Assured their quarry could neither move nor utter a peep, Mabel and Zeke gathered around Phoebe, anticipatory and worried.
Phoebe clutched the magic lamp to her bosom. Her hands trembled, so dire was her mission. “This must work. It must! ”
“Please let it,” Mabel whispered, tears forming. “All is so very lost.”
It was. Connor and India, both inconsolable, were separating. He to Georgia, she to her fate. He’d told his aunt as much tonight, the very night of their argument. Phoebe had gone to India’s grandmother and Zeke. Tessa’s assailants would not let it happen, a chasm between newlyweds.
The lamp bowl felt cold beneath Phoebe’s parchment-
dry fingers. She swallowed. Closed her eyes. She cupped the bowl with her palm, then rubbed quickly, the friction warming brass. “Oh, lamp, bring magic.”
It was then that Eugene Jinnings, wearing a nightshirt and cap, burst through the door. His eyes widened upon catching sight of a trussed Tessa. “My lady!”
She did her best to move, to shout.
Earring bobbing, he swung around, seeing the threesome. A wealth of expressions crossed his copious face; one settled. Supplication. Quietly, he walked to Phoebe. “My lady, your wish is my command.”
What should she ask for? Her wishes were compound, yet instinct reminded her that if one wish were granted, the rest would fall into place. “Free India.”
Eugene bowed low, his arms arcing like angel wings. “So shall it be.”
She stepped to her sister. “I’m sorry it had to come to this, but I had to take control. You see, your happily-ever-after asked too much of the lamp. You should’ve kept it to one simple wish.”
Tears spilled, pooling in Tessa’s ears, yet she nodded, acknowledging her fatal mistake. Phoebe unfastened the gag.
It was then that Phoebe realized something. Something vitally important. She, who’d chided over specifics, in her nervousness had forgotten to add “now.” Hoping against hope that she hadn’t done India ill, she demanded of Eugene, “Don’t even think of tarrying.”
“My lady Phoebe, magic takes time.”
“Time and specifics, we’re learning.” Tessa wiped her wet cheeks. “Genie, may I amend my wishes for my other nephews? I can’t let them know hell, like Connor and India have.”
His head shook slowly. “No, my lady. What’s done is done. The younger brothers will have their wives, but the swiftness and calm of their unions is up to them.”
“Phoebe,” demanded she, “rub the lamp again. Take heed for our other nephews’ happiness.”
“We’ve got lots of time between now and their thirtieth birthdays. I think I’ll keep the lamp, in case it’s needed for more dire situations. Might just wish for my own man. Someday.”
“Heavens!”