River Magic
Page 30
“Hush, Tessa,” Phoebe ordered, turning her sister’s favorite expression on her. She clasped the now-warm bowl. “Furthermore, I’m not leaving anything to chance.”
“What be yer meaning?” Zeke asked, and Mabel nodded.
“It means I’m going to collar Connor before he rides for Georgia. I need to ensure magic.”
Connor saddled Intrepid, then buckled the cinch. Had it been but a few hours since India showed her true side? Each moment that he stayed on Marshall ground was like a hundred. It was hell, finding love, just to find out it wasn’t returned.
Wish I’d never met her.
Guiding the mahogany Arabian from the stables, he saw a buggy pulling away from the main house. He knew it carried the Lawrence women. At least he could feel good about something. Roscoe Lawrence had had his last go at hurting those women.
He also spied Aunt Phoebe’s approach, and it drew a groan; he was in no mood for a chat, but he did owe her good-bye.
She marched forward, that plagued lamp under her arm.
Magic—screw it. What had it brought but a broken heart? He didn’t even want to know how she’d gotten her hands on it.
Aunt Phoebe asked without preamble, “Anything strike you funny about the way that Jones fellow got described?”
“No.”
“Well, I’ve got a leg up on you.”
“Please, if you’ve got something to say, Auntie, say it. I’m in no mood for games.”
She shifted the lamp. “I’ve been in contact with Jon Marc. Your redheaded brother wears the Union uniform.”
Something did strike Connor. Two and two were making four. As kids, Burke had called their baby brother Jones. Was this too much of a coincidence?
“Jon Marc’s a spy,” said Aunt Phoebe. “Been working his way through the North, impersonating Union officers. Undermining this fellow and that.”
Connor didn’t want to allow himself to hope, but it came. “Good God, Aunt Phoebe. You may be on to something.”
“I know it, I do.”
Common sense striking, Connor shook his head. “Couldn’t be one and the same. Anyhow—even if John Jones is Jon Marc O’Brien, what does that get us?”
“A chance.” She grinned. “It’s insurance, perchance. I’ve rubbed this lamp, and Eugene says my wish’ll come true, but I’m wanting to make certain—”
“Spare me.”
“Connor, I may know how to get in touch with your brother. Wouldn’t hurt to try to check on a few things, would it?”
Already, Connor had headed for General Andrews. India might be through with him, but he wouldn’t leave without giving her a chance at surviving her trial.
“I’m adjourning your trial indefinitely, Mrs. O’Brien.” George Andrews banged the gavel.
He wouldn’t give specifics of the case. That was what Major O’Brien, unwilling to give his wife false hope, had requested. Andrews had gone along with it, for there was nothing, besides a quick end to this war, that he wanted more than to free the angel of Port Hudson.
That angel, her expression hollow, said, “I don’t want an adjournment. I want to proceed. Please don’t string this out.”
“I have no choice. I’ve been called to New Orleans. It will take a while before I can return.” Andrews spoke the truth. “Go home, Mrs. O’Brien. I’ll send for you when I return.”
A delay. India couldn’t abide the thought of it. The sooner the better to hear the judgment. Without Connor, she had no wish to prolong her life.
Along with his aunts and the so-called genie, Connor was definitely gone. Phoebe, Tessa, and Eugene had left to search for something or someone—they hadn’t been specific.
Distance from her husband and his family may have been what India had asked for, but that didn’t make it any easier to live with. During those months of the trial’s delay, India busied herself, though she lacked fire and zeal.
Money aplenty, Matt, with Honoré’s blessing, made plans to go to sea, and he and Catfish went about hiring fieldhands in anticipation of the day he’d leave. Everyone on the plantation pitched in to plant a late crop of corn. Honoré set to work buying fabric to clothe the people of Pleasant Hill, both family and workers; and she found several women eager for the job of seamstress. Persia took charge of provisions, and canned the harvest of her earlier-planted garden. As for Granny Mabel, India knew she wanted to marry Zeke Pays but wouldn’t, not amid her favorite granddaughter’s unhappiness.
Pointedly, India didn’t take charge of any activity. She wouldn’t start a job just to leave it.
Two months after the trial had been adjourned, Zeke received a letter from the neighbor whose food had sustained India on the night of leaving Rock Island. She’d given a deposition to the new commander of the prison camp; it was being forwarded accordingly. What’s the use? India wondered.
The letter also held news. Roscoe Lawrence had returned by train to the prison, but his stay had been brief. While arguing with a junior officer, he’d fallen into the Mississippi River. The Davenport rapids swallowed him, his body unrecovered.
There were no tears for this victim of the mighty waters.
“Ha!” Zeke laughed, his tonsils dancing, his beard wagging, as he heard the news. “Ol’ Rosc, he be fine bait for fish.”
The Marshalls agreed. Even India got a surge of retaliatory pleasure from the news that Roscoe Lawrence would cause no more trouble for anyone.
But what about the trouble he continued to make for India?
While refusing to think too much about the eventual outcome of Port Hudson, she did allow herself the pleasure of past remembrances. She recalled the good times with Connor. Dear Connor. Had he reached Georgia? Would he survive it? Over and again, she prayed for his well-being.
As well as her own.
The trial’s delay drew to an end in October.
India arrived at Port Hudson, her family along for moral support. She presented a stoical countenance, though she cried on the inside. It especially hurt to sit down . . . and see an empty chair. Where Connor had sat, giving unconditional love.
General Andrews got the trial underway again, but banged his gavel abruptly. “Mrs. O’Brien, ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to render these proceedings”—he smiled warmly at India—“null and void.”
What!
India sat stock-still. But she heard a commotion behind her. Her family going wild with joy. And Zeke giving a Yankee impression of a Rebel yell.
“Last evening I received a deposition relevant to this case,” General Andrews explained. “The mystery of John Jones is explained.” He lifted a folded document. “Lieutenant Jones attests to the fact that he planted ideas in Colonel Roscoe Lawrence’s head. Those ideas jeopardized and imperiled the liberty of both Major Connor O’Brien and Miss India Marshall, now Mrs. Connor O’Brien.”
Many people clapped. India remained frozen.
Andrews banged his gavel anew. “Mrs. O’Brien, you are free.”
Free. But no Connor to share that freedom with.
Thirty
“Atlanta is burning.”
“I know, Aunt Phoebe,” Connor replied. “Heard this morning.”
William T. Sherman, commander of Union forces in the Georgia campaign, had vowed to end the rebellion by involving the Southern citizenry by scorching the earth from Atlanta to the Atlantic. Colonel Stewart Lewis’s cavalrymen were with Sherman.
Mr. Connor O’Brien, a civilian of three months standing, sat behind his desk at Fitz & Son, Factors, and found something to be thankful for, over and above the temperate month of November. It wasn’t because he’d joined the family business for lack of anything better to do.
“I’m glad not to be part of Sherman’s fireball in Georgia,” he said to his aunt.
“Being around India got to you, didn’t it?”
India. He’d tried his best not to think about her. An impossibility.
Odd, how life played its hand. Connor once would have been zealous to march into battle. For the glory,
for duty, for the sake of reclaiming his grace as an officer in the Union Army. Being with India had assuredly changed his outlook.
“No way would I get a thrill from laying waste to a state as well as a people.”
“I just wish your kid brother wasn’t on the losing side, serving in Georgia.” Phoebe closed the book of accounts that she’d been going over with her eldest nephew. “Giving that deposition put an end to his spying, but don’t you worry, Connor.”
How could he not?
She grinned. “I made a wish on the magic lamp. For him to die elderly.”
Not that anyone in the O’Brien family would ever know. These had been hellish months, finding “Jones” and getting the argumentative cuss to agree to give up his clandestine work for the Confederacy. Jon Marc may have gotten his arm twisted into signing that deposition in India’s favor, but he remained firm against reconciling old differences with Connor. Before the ink was dry, he’d turned on a heel and marched away. To Confederate service. In Georgia. God help him.
But Jon Marc’s word had changed the course of Port Hudson, and for that, Connor would always be grateful.
Phoebe spoke. “I sure do prize that lamp. Got you married, got India free.”
“Spare me your tales of that damned lamp.”
“Don’t you worry, Nephew. Things’ll work out for you and our little India.”
Connor groaned. He knew his wife had been set free. Word reached him a few weeks back. Not a day had passed when he didn’t yearn to make for Squirt to beg a second chance. That urge had been especially strong after learning about her freedom. Too hurt to run to her, he’d stayed put.
Had a woman ever said more cutting words to her husband?
The sensible part of his brain said, She did it for you. Like always, she sacrificed for someone else. This time, you. To spare you the grief of watching her climb a set of steps to her scaffold.
There would be no scaffold.
Not a word had come from Pleasant Hill.
Could be she’d meant each and every cruel word.
“No need to ask what ails you,” Phoebe commented. “Go to her. She’s free. You’re free. Fetch your wife.”
“I was never what she wanted.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
“Men.” Phoebe shoved out of the chair, marched toward the door. “If you’ve got any sense atall, you pigheaded fool, you’ll wrap up that book you bought and give it to her.”
He eyed a copy of Arabian Nights Entertainment purchased in a weak moment. In weaker ones, he’d been reading poetry, not that it made heads or tails to him.
“Nephew, get the heck outta Memphis.”
“Not a bad idea.”
The chill of this November night cut through India’s bedroom at Pleasant Hill, but she wouldn’t be stopped from composing a letter to her husband. She begged his forgiveness.
This was, after all, a weak moment. Last week, she’d convinced Zeke and Granny Mabel not to put off their marriage, and earlier today, a wedding had been celebrated at Pleasant Hill, a shivaree now in progress in the opposite wing from India’s bedroom. Amid such revelry, India had decided to try to get her own life back in order.
If it wasn’t too late.
She’d kept abreast of her husband, thanks to his red-haired aunt, and knew he’d given up the Army to take up factoring cotton. India couldn’t imagine that.
Whatever he’s doing, I want him to be happy.
Suddenly, the balcony doors blew open, and the icy wind seemed to call her name, quietly . . . She knew she was hearing things, but that sounded like her husband’s voice.
“India . . .”
Frissons ran up and down her spine.
Her eyes turned.
While her heart took wings, her every prayer answered by his mere presence, she couldn’t quell her laughter.
Standing on the balcony, wearing a burnoose and Arabic sandals, Connor—looking wonderful, though incongruous—carried a book under one arm and what looked like crumpled colored paper under the other.
Wariness in his hazel gaze, he swallowed and straightened. “It’s your birthday.”
How did he know? What difference did it make! She rose from the chair so fast it fell behind her.
“It’s your birthday,” he repeated, reminding her of the night they had met, “and I’m wanting to give you a present.”
His presence was the greatest gift, yet she allowed him to finish.
“Your humble husband may not be what you wanted out of a man, but he’s your man, whether you think him good or bad.” Connor adjusted his burden, shifted his weight, and cleared his throat. “ ‘And you must love him, ere to you. He will seem worthy of your love.’ ”
“ ’A Poet’s Epitaph’?”
He nodded. “ ‘And now good morrow to our waking souls—’ ”
“Ouch!” Laughing, she slapped hands over her ears. “Stop with the interpretations.”
Stepping toward her, the hem of his robe swaying, he asked, “And what would you have me do, lovely wife?”
“I think you know,” she came back in her best Kentucky bourbon voice.
“ ‘Blind and naked ignorance’?” He threw off his clothes, shivered, but kept his gifts in hand, which she now saw as including a candle for poetry by candlelight.
My, how she did love the sight of him.
“Hell, Wife, are you going to ask me in or let me freeze?”
She crooked her fingers, each in turn, thrilled at everything about her naked hero. Thrilled at having a second chance with the world’s greatest hero.
He took only enough time to close the doors before sailing to her. Crouching down, he held up the mass of papers, proud as a schoolboy. “Flowers for my lady.”
“Flowers?”
“Well, I don’t have a deft hand with scissors, but surely you get the picture.”
In the abstract. “It’s the thought that counts.”
Next, he presented a book. “This is long overdue.”
She took a copy of Arabian Nights Entertainment into her palm. “Overdue?” she teased. “Did you borrow it from a lending library?”
“Would Badroulboudour say such a thing to Aladdin?”
India flushed. “Connor . . . I said such awful things to you. I didn’t mean a word of them. Honest, I didn’t.”
“I know. You did it for my sake. Promise you’ll never do such a thing again.”
“Never. Ever.” That was an easy promise to give, one she knew she’d keep. “Connor . . . you know what I’d really like for my birthday?”
“Your wish is my command, my lady.”
“I’d like to be a real Mrs., in every sense of the title.”
“Would you?”
“I would. And this bedroom is empty, except for us. Not a merrymaker in this wing of the house . . . unless we do the merrymaking.”
He laughed, dropped his offerings, and pinched her nose. As a grin turned into a smile, he said, “Lady, you’ve got a deal.”
Sweeping her into his arms, he carried her to the four-poster, climbed the ladder, and placed her on the counterpane. The heel of one hand skimming across her breasts, he settled beside her. “Would this farm have a job for a neophyte planter?”
“You’d give up your heart’s desire,” she teased, wiggling against another desire. “Factoring cotton?”
He put the backs of his fingers to his brow in a comical fashion. “Somehow, someway, I’ll make the sacrifice.” He turned serious. “I love you, Indy.”
“I know you do. I love you, too. And, Connor . . . thank you for all you did for me. I want you to know something. You’re a wonderful hero.”
His lips touched hers. “As good as Aladdin?”
“Who’s Aladdin?”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Thanks for reading River Magic. I appreciate your interest and outlay of money, and hope you’ll enjoy the next two books in this trilogy. As I warned you in River Magic, each of the O’Brien brothers is fated
to meet the woman for him on his respective thirtieth birthday. Naturally, Burke and Jon Marc are as reluctant to marry as Connor was.
Just when Burke O’Brien thinks he’s safe—as midnight approaches on his Big Day—along comes black-eyed Susan! Burke’s story will be on sale in mid-October 1996. (A long time to wait, I know.)
Last but not least, Jon Marc O’Brien faces his own Big Day by trying to meet as many women as possible. He meets but one . . . and she may be the last woman any man would wish to meet! Look for Jon Marc’s story in the summer of 1997.
If you’ll give me the name and address of your favorite bookseller, I’ll send you a thank-you gift. (Please include a first-class stamp for return.) Watch out. I may turn up at that favorite bookstore!
May the magic be yours,
Martha Hix
P.O. Box 160674
San Antonio, TX 78280
Zebra Books and Kensington Books
Proudly Announce . . .
SUMMER DARKNESS, WINTER LIGHT
Sylvia Halliday
Coming from
Kensington Books Hardcovers
in early May, 1995
The following is a preview of
SUMMER DARKNESS,
WINTER LIGHT . . .
ADVANCE PRAISE FOR
SUMMER DARKNESS,
WINTER LIGHT
“SUMMER DARKNESS, WINTER LIGHT deals with the many faces of love—and obsession. I read it in one sitting and found it fascinating.”
—Roberta Gellis
author of Dazzling Brightness
“SUMMER DARKNESS, WINTER LIGHT is an engrossing story of two people fighting the demons of the past to make way for the possibility of a future. Sylvia Halliday delivers a strong, emotional tale of the darkness of despair giving way to the bright light of hope.”
—A Little Romance
“Funny, poignant, brimming over with bright dialogue . . . highly entertaining . . . an irresistible read that grips you from page one and never lets go. Clever, original . . . a thinking reader’s romance. This one has it all!”