A Thousand Shall Fall

by Andrea Boeshaar

  But then Miss Monteague opened her mouth and spoke, complaining first about her horrid, week-long journey to Winchester, and next, how utterly boring this town was compared to Staunton, where she’d attended numerous parties.

  Did she not realize that a war was going on?

  Lavinia prattled on about an incident at a party, ending a long-winded story with, “So I said to Veronica Lewis …” Miss Monteague turned to her mother. “You remember Veronica. Her father is an attorney at the prestigious law firm Lewis, Cardwell, and Blinkman.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” Her mother sipped from the porcelain teacup.

  “So I said to Veronica, ‘You must be joking.’” Miss Monteague released a peal of laughter.

  Her mother chuckled merrily.

  Was that remark amusing? Carrie glanced at Aunt Ruth, who twiddled her thumbs.

  “What a witty comeback, Lavinia.” Turning slightly toward Carrie, the older woman hurled a glance upward.

  At last Carrie had a reason to smile.

  “So, Miss Collier … my, but it feels strange to be sitting here speaking to Peyton’s half sister.” Miss Monteague gave Carrie a speculative glance.

  “It feels strange to be sitting here and speaking with you, Miss Monteague. Even stranger to be referred to as Miss Collier. You see, that’s incorrect.” A fib was one thing, but denying her identity, her very self, was quite a different matter.

  “She’s a Collier by birth,” came Aunt Ruth’s speedy explanation. “However, her adoptive father’s last name is Bell.”

  “Carrie Ann Bell. My, my …” Mrs. Monteague smiled. “Your name even has a ring to it.” She laughed. “Like your last name. Bell.”

  Her daughter’s countenance lit up as if the pun had just resonated with her too. “Oh, yes … Bell. Ring to it.”

  The two Monteague women twittered together like a couple of chickadees on the back fence.

  Carrie sighed at their attempted humor and wondered how long this gathering would last.

  “So what do you do with yourself, Miss Bell?” Mrs. Monteague set her teacup and saucer on the small table beside her chair. “Were you away at boarding school or are you employed somewhere? A scullery maid, perhaps?”

  “It must not have been good whatever it was, Mama,” Miss Monteague said as if Carrie were no longer in the room. “She’s here living with her auntie whom she never knew until recently.”

  “That’s true, Lavinia, my pet.”

  Both women stared at Carrie, wide-eyed, as if they expected refutation.

  They’d get none. Their rudeness didn’t warrant one. Scullery maid, indeed! Although, the work Carrie had done at the Wayfarers Inn was equally lowly.

  Bringing her teacup to her lips, Carrie sipped the brew. Mmm … rich black tea from the Orient. “Aunt Ruth, where did you get this wonderful tea?” she asked.

  “We’re fortunate, dear, that Colonel Kent and his men are … guests in our home,” Aunt Ruth said. “You see, they procured Federal currency and purchased foodstuff that we wouldn’t have had otherwise … like black tea.”

  “I read somewhere,” Carrie said, “that General Ramseur was lamenting the fallen Confederate currency but stated that he and his men could buy almost anything for their table in Southern towns with Yankee money.”

  “Indeed.” Aunt Ruth peered across the room at her neighbors. “Carrie Ann is studying to be a journalist, like her adoptive father. What’s more, she’s been a volunteer, nursing wounded men on the battlefield.”

  Miss Monteague’s upper lip curled. “How dreadful, the nursing part. As for your interest in journalism …” She produced a dainty guffaw. “That’s a man’s world, Miss Bell.”

  “Nursing is what Ruth and Miss Bell have in common, Lavinia.” Again, Mrs. Monteague behaved as though neither woman sat in the room. “Ruth was a nurse during that dreadful conflict almost twenty years ago. You were too young to remember.”

  “The Mexican-American War?” Impressed, Carrie glanced at her hostess. Oh, how she’d love to write an article based upon Aunt Ruth’s experience.

  “I tried to talk her out of going, but she insisted.” Mrs. Monteague brushed crumbs off the skirt of her dark brown dress. “But, bear in mind, Ruth didn’t have a husband or children to care for like I did.”

  Carrie felt the jab. Would Aunt Ruth be insulted? Hurt?

  “A choice I freely made, dear Frances. I had my offers of marriage, as you well know.”

  “Swimming upstream, Harm used to say.” A sentimental look softened Mrs. Monteague’s features. “Ruth is always swimming upstream, against the current of social propriety.”

  Any offenses were forgotten as Aunt Ruth seemed to share in the nostalgia. “Yes, Harm told me the same thing many times. And he was correct.”

  The air of animosity—which had fairly crackled in the room only moments before—vanished, and the two older women suddenly behaved like long-lost friends.

  “Oh, but didn’t we have good times, Ruth?”

  “Yes, we certainly did.”

  Miss Monteague yawned, unabashed. “So has anyone heard from that scoundrel Peyton?”

  Aunt Ruth snapped from her walk down memory lane. “Oh, well, I believe Carrie Ann was the last to see him, weren’t you, dear?”

  “Um …” She thought that was supposed to be secret. “Yes.”

  “Carrie Ann heard of that recent skirmish near Charles Town,” Aunt Ruth said, “and she went there straightaway to see if she could be of some help. Amazingly, she had a chance to visit with Peyton.”

  Miss Monteague’s dark eyes fixed on her. “Is that so?”

  “Yes, and he’s in good spirits and good health.” Carrie wasn’t sure what more to say.

  “Edward said the Confederates routed the Federals,” Mrs. Monteague said, “and the Union army retreated northward where those nasty invaders belong.”

  Carrie brought her fingertips up to nervously brush the side of her neck. She didn’t want to say too much. Best to let Aunt Ruth make the replies.

  “We’re anxious to hear news of this young lady with whom Peyton has been corresponding,” Mrs. Monteague said. “Do you know anything about her?”

  “Yes, Carrie Ann knows all about her.”

  She did? Carrie stared at Aunt Ruth.

  “Her name is … Lois, isn’t it?”

  Feeling awkward, Carrie half shrugged and half nodded.

  “And Peyton is quite smitten, I’m afraid.”

  “Lois?” Miss Monteague’s features contorted and she looked as though she’d been smacked in the face with a wet dishrag. “I’ve always disliked that name for some odd reason. And now I’m being told that Peyton is serious about a young lady by the name of Lois? It’s almost too much for me to take in.”

  “What do you know of her, Ruth?” Mrs. Monteague asked. “What does Lois’s father do?”

  Carrie mirrored Aunt Ruth’s raised eyebrows. “He’s a … surgeon,” Carrie blurted.

  “Yes, that’s it. I couldn’t recall for a moment, but you’re correct, Carrie Ann. He’s a surgeon.”

  “I suppose Peyton met Lois while he was convalescing last year in Washington.”

  “You’re correct.” Aunt Ruth smiled before politely sipping her tea.

  “I hope you know that I plan to put an end to this affinity Peyton has for this woman.” Miss Monteague’s eyes flashed. “He made a promise to me and I intend to see that he keeps it.” She stood abruptly and thumped her teacup down.

  Aunt Ruth rose in less haste. “It’s too late, Lavinia.”

  “Hardly, if he’s just now corresponding with … Lois.”

  “No, what I mean is …” She drew in a breath. “I’m afraid I made up Lois to protect Peyton’s real love interest.” Aunt Ruth peered at Carrie then back at Miss Monteague. “There is no Lois. But, you see, Peyton is … married.”

  Carrie felt the blood ebbing from her face as she feared what would come next. “No, Aunt Ruth, please …” She pushed to her feet and shook h
er head.

  “Carrie Ann is not his half sister. We merely thought she’d be safer if we lied and said she was.”

  “I’ve always said you aren’t a good liar, Ruth.”

  “How right you are, Frances.”

  “He’s married to … her?” Miss Monteague shrieked and pointed at Carrie. “But … look at her. She’s as thin as a reed.” She pouted. “Pretty enough, I suppose, but her father is a journalist from Woodstock. Peyton has married far beneath his social standing. All our friends will reject him for this poor decision.”

  Carrie’s gut cinched.

  “I highly doubt that.” Aunt Ruth’s voice sounded smooth as velvet.

  Carrie’s mind began to swim. If she played this game of pretense, that would mean she was a Union officer’s wife in Confederate Winchester. She was in more danger here than she was among the Yankee cavalrymen.

  “Aunt Ruth, word of this cannot be spread. The Confederate authorities might jail me—or worse.”

  “Not to worry, dear.” Aunt Ruth looked at the Monteague women. “I trust you won’t divulge this news.”

  Miss Monteague huffed and pursed her lips.

  “Whatever are you doing in Winchester, Mrs. Collier?” The last to stand, Mrs. Monteague slowly got to her feet. “Shouldn’t you be in Washington where you’d be safe among your … own kind?”

  “Yes.” Carrie glanced at Aunt Ruth. “I probably need to leave immediately.”

  “Nonsense, dear.” Aunt Ruth took Carrie’s hand between both of hers. “The Monteagues will keep our secret. Heaven knows I’ve kept plenty of theirs.”

  In all the exchanges of glances, Carrie could tell that it was so. But what would Peyton say?

  “Now, let’s all sit like civilized women.” Aunt Ruth motioned for her guests to take their places.

  “I’m sure Colonel Kent will overlook the fact that you’re the enemy’s wife,” Aunt Ruth said. “After all, he and your husband were the best of friends at West Point.”

  “It was a delightful summer the year Colonel Kent visited Winchester.” Miss Monteague smiled dreamily then affixed Carrie with a hard stare. “Before the war.”

  “So I assumed.” Carrie turned to Aunt Ruth. “Still, I don’t think this was a wise plan.”

  “Oh, stop fretting, Mrs. Collier. It’s most unbecoming.” Miss Monteague sipped her tea. “Your secret is perfectly safe with us.”

  “Pray, what secret is that?”

  Carrie swung her gaze toward the smooth male voice, and found Colonel Kent darkening the parlor’s doorway. The teacup and saucer clattered as her hand shook until Aunt Ruth took it and offered a refill.

  “Why, Colonel Kent.” Aunt Ruth gave a tenuous smile. “Please come in and join us. May I pour a cup of tea for you?”

  “Thank you, but no. It’s much too hot for tea—unless it’s served over a block of ice.”

  “I’m sure that can be arranged—come November.”

  Smiling at the jest, the colonel strode into the room.

  Aunt Ruth nodded toward her guests. “You, of course, know Miss Lavinia Monteague and her mother, Mrs. Harmon Monteague.”

  “I do, indeed.” The colonel gave the ladies a polite bow. His ebony hair and suntanned face seemed accentuated by his faded, butternut frock. Then his deep brown eyes landed on Carrie. “And Miss Bell and I met earlier. In fact, I had a lengthy conversation with a mutual friend of ours.”

  “Oh?” Carrie’s heart hammered. She thought it might leap into her throat. “And who would that be?”

  “A man who, like you, hails from Woodstock.” The corners of the colonel’s lips twitched slightly but gave no real indication as to whether he was angry or amused.

  Instinctively, Carrie knew who he meant. Her insides caved.

  “Major Joshua Blevens.”

  CHAPTER 18

  To say that Lieutenant Colonel Elijah Kent had a commanding presence was putting it mildly. He made an imposing yet charming figure, and Carrie thought his aura filled the entire parlor. However, she didn’t get the impression that he was interested romantically in her as Aunt Ruth claimed.

  “You do remember Major Blevens, don’t you, Miss Bell? He escorted you here.”

  “How could I forget him, Colonel? I’ve known him all my life.”

  “And I’m told that you’re aware of his … duties to the Confederate army.”

  “I am, and I believe he and I have an understanding regarding his … duties.” The colonel obviously wanted to be sure she kept Joshua’s dual identity to herself. And she would. After all, she’d promised.

  Glancing across the room at the neighbors, Carrie couldn’t say she trusted them to keep quiet about Aunt Ruth’s blunder. Their gazes were bouncing between Carrie and the colonel as if they watched a shuttlecock match.

  “What duties are you speaking about?” Miss Monteague finally inquired, batting her lashes ever so innocently.

  To his credit, Colonel Kent wasn’t persuaded to answer. “My apologies, ladies, but Miss Bell and I have business to discuss. Won’t you please excuse us?”

  His dark eyes moved from the Monteagues to Carrie, their depths, deep and somewhat fathomless. Fear nipped at Carrie, but she refused to allow it to take hold.

  “Oh, but her name isn’t Miss Bell,” Mrs. Monteague spouted, wide-eyed. “This is Peyton’s wife.”

  “His … wife?” The colonel appeared dumbstruck and Carrie almost grinned.

  Almost. Until she realized what a terrible fix she was in. How could Peyton’s aunt do this to her? She sent an annoyed glance at the older woman.

  Aunt Ruth rose and strode to the parlor doors, sliding them closed. “This news must not leave this parlor.” She turned and stared imploringly at Colonel Kent. “Please. We were going to tell you, but—”

  “I don’t believe it.” His dark brown eyes fixed on Carrie’s. “Everyone in this room knows that Miss Bell is not Peyton’s … how do I put this delicately? She’s not his type.” He sent a glance toward Miss Monteague. “I mean that with all due respect, of course.”

  “Of course, and I agree.” She focused on Carrie. “She’s not at all Peyton’s type.”

  “I told you before that Peyton’s a changed man,” Aunt Ruth said, each word spoken with a clipped tone. “His wife will attest to it.”

  That much Carrie felt comfortable attesting to. She gave a nod.

  Colonel Kent, on the other hand, didn’t appear convinced in the least. He turned to Aunt Ruth’s guests. “Miss Lavinia, Mrs. Monteague, I’m afraid I must ask you both to leave. I have pressing business here.” His eyes locked on the younger of the two. “However, I trust I will see you later at the celebratory party, Miss Lavinia.”

  “You will indeed, Colonel Kent.” Suddenly Miss Monteague appeared in her element. She glided across the parlor. “Come, Mama. We have to find something for me to wear tonight.”

  “Of course, pet.” The older woman dutifully followed.

  Aunt Ruth opened the parlor doors and called for Tabitha, who showed the two neighbor ladies out. When only the three of them remained in the parlor, Aunt Ruth slid the doors closed once more.

  “Oh, Eli, I intended to tell you later, but I was so overjoyed with the match that I blurted out the news of Peyton’s marriage to the Monteagues and gave Carrie Ann away. However, I’m sure they’ll keep it quiet.”

  “I think you may have overestimated their abilities in that regard, Aunt Ruth.” The Confederate colonel gave her a hard stare then strode over to Carrie, who still sat on the settee. She supposed he was handsome, but she disliked his intimidating manner. Amusingly, it brought out the rebel in Carrie.

  But for Peyton’s sake, she studied a point across the room. She pondered the idea of telling Colonel Kent the truth—that Aunt Ruth did, indeed, blurt out the news, except it was a lie. If Joshua found out that she posed as a Union colonel’s wife, he’d likely strangle her—that is, if Peyton didn’t do it first. Then again, Peyton adored his aunt. How could Carrie betray him by ex
posing her as a talebearer?

  “Well, Miss Bell—or should I say, Mrs. Collier? What do you have to say about all of this? Is it true? You married Peyton?”

  Carrie hesitated.

  “It was a battlefield wedding,” Aunt Ruth said. “Eventually they’ll have a traditional ceremony, and if the war is over, you, of course, will be invited.”

  “That’s enough, Aunt Ruth,” the colonel said, irritation thick in his tone. “I don’t know what kind of scheme you’ve concocted, but I’m interested in the truth.”

  Something darker than his gaze passed between them. Aunt Ruth gave a little huff and sat in one of the vacated armchairs.

  Carrie knew right then what she’d do. She would go along with this “scheme”—at least for now. Then, later, she’d leave and continue doing what needed to be done: looking for Sarah Jane—and maybe finding Papa too.

  “You want the truth, Colonel, then I shall tell you.” Carrie stood, pretending she had as much tenacity as Jane Austen’s Emma. “I fell in love with Peyton last year in April when he and his cavalrymen came through Woodstock. Peyton was wounded and I sutured his forearm. Months later I heard from another soldier that he fell at Gettysburg. I was deeply saddened.” Carrie stepped toward the empty hearth. “Recently, however, I learned the Union cavalry was in the Valley again, and I left Woodstock under the guise of finding my runaway sister.”

  “To find Peyton? But you thought he was dead.”

  “I always wondered if it was hearsay, but I couldn’t very well check in the newspapers because he’s a Northerner.” She faced Colonel Kent. “The only time I got my hands on a Yankee paper was if one was left behind at the inn. But no Federal troops have been in Woodstock for some time.” That was the truth. “I love him. I told Joshua that, but he doesn’t know all the particulars, although he saw me kiss Peyton good-bye. Up until the day I left Woodstock, I hadn’t seen Joshua since the war began.”

  “I find your story compelling, but highly suspect.” Colonel Kent folded his arms. “On the other hand, as a serving girl, I imagine Peyton’s inheritance was more temptation than you could handle.”