"Yes, I need to go." Emma moved to the door.
"Emma," Lily said, "thank you, for all you did for James, and for our boys." She hugged the letters to her chest. "These will mean a lot to James and David, especially when they're older." Lily reached for Emma's hand, then squeezed affectionately. "It's a comfort knowing he didn't die alone."
One last time, Emma studied the face of the woman James had loved. She realized how right he had been when he said she was nothing like Lily. Soft, thin, and delicate, Lily never would've been taken for a man. A different kind of courage defined Lily, and Emma respected her for it.
"I wish there had been more I could do," Emma said. "In the short time I knew him, I knew how much he loved you."
Tears spilled onto Lily's cheeks, but she grinned through them.
Emma thanked them again for their hospitality and stepped outside. An equal mix of sadness and satisfaction flowed through her. She felt she knew James better now, and at the same time, she realized that she didn't know him at all. Alone in the countryside, she had a great deal to contemplate as she made her way back to Washington and toward an unknown future.
****
Washington, D.C.
April, 1863
Emma returned to the capital city as the dismal news of the battle at Antietam Creek arrived. The clash between McClellan's and Lee's troops near Sharpsburg, Maryland, resulted in over three-thousand casualties in a single day. Although McClellan put Lee and his men in retreat, the confrontation was not a clear victory for the North. McClellan had refused to use the full magnitude of his sizable army and missed a critical opportunity by not pursuing Lee's forces across the Potomac River. In November of 1862, Lincoln removed Little Mac as commander of the Army of the Potomac. McClellan's military career disintegrated, though he remained in charge of several corps. General Ambrose Burnside, unfortunately, fared no better than McClellan in the way of military leadership. Within a few months, Burnside was replaced by General Joseph Hooker, who, in April of 1863, busied his men with building pontoon bridges as the army set to move across the Rappahannock River and attack Confederate forces at Chancellorsville, Virginia. President Lincoln had no choice but to remain optimistic.
Although Emma could no longer serve the Union as Private Edmonds, she could volunteer at the local brick-and-mortar hospital. Even though serving as a nurse was ladled with sorrows, Emma believed in her skills.
Letters came from Stuart and Knox on an irregular basis, and Emma prepared herself for difficult news before she opened each correspondence. In the last six months, the Cartwrights had endured further devastation. Olivia had passed, whether from too much medication or the anxieties that plagued her, no one could say. She was laid to rest next to Thomas and Alexander. Quinn, they said, continued to advance in rank, though he had sustained a 'traumatic injury' to his neck during the battle of Antietam that nearly killed him. Knox planned to bring the rest of the Cartwright children home from New Orleans, even though they had all grown fond of life in Louisiana. Knox suspected they didn't want to know their home without their mother. When Stuart told him that Sylvia had run away, Knox took the news as one who was immune to the beauty of hope. He focused on plans to groom Pierce and Preston to one day take over the plantation, or at least what was left of it. Stella and Dawson were expecting another child in the summer, and Stuart hoped Emma would visit and see the baby.
Both he and Knox expressed their hope that Emma would return home, but Stuart said nothing more about marriage. Emma knew her time, her life on the estate had ended. As much as she loved her family, the marshes and the smell and feel of the low country, too many unpleasant memories loomed there. Plus, she still held out hope that Sylvia would find her in the city, though no one had heard from her since her last letter from Aunt Celia's.
Now eighteen and living with Eleanor and Zechariah, Emma devoted herself to working at two nearby hospitals and to her studies. She intended to become a doctor. Although women doctors were uncommon and unaccepted in certain areas, Emma knew from her experience as a Union nurse that more doctors were needed. Construction of hospitals increased as combat inflated the number of dying and injured men on both sides of the Mason-Dixon Line, and no foreseeable end to the conflict was in sight.
Emma dashed home one evening, books cradled in her arms and rain cascading down. Her hair, which reached the top of her shoulders now, became soaked, along with the rest of her. She scaled the front steps of the Pratt home and made it inside. Rain dripped from her and quickly made a puddle. She was thankful Eleanor and Zechariah were at church for the evening, knowing Eleanor would hate to have her clean floors wet and dirty. The fate of her books concerned Emma, as they too were wet, but her attention was quickly diverted.
"Miss Emma, deys someone here fo' you," Rosemary said. She glanced at the increasing mess on the floor. Exasperation crossed her face.
Emma removed as much of her wet clothing as she could but found no comfort. The last thing she needed in her current state was a visitor. Eli Nash had come by, but neither of them could deny the awkwardness that had settled between them. Nash still called her Edmonds, even though Emma now wore a blouse and skirt. She didn't bother correcting him.
Inwardly, Emma harbored a secret wish that she would be approached by a Union officer with another spy mission, but no such visitor ever came.
"Can I have a minute to change?" Emma asked Rosemary, but she looked at the person who suddenly emerged from the kitchen. Curly, strawberry-colored hair flowed over her shoulders.
"Emma!"
It took her only a second to recognize her sister.
"Sylvia!"
Despite Emma's wet clothes, they embraced. Tears and squeals of joy erupted. They squeezed one another until they couldn't breathe.
"How did you find me?" Emma asked.
"The newspaper," Sylvia said.
For months, Emma had spent a portion of her earnings putting ads in local newspapers. She asked for anyone who might have information about her sister Sylvia to visit her at Reverend Pratt's home. At first, the ad had only attracted pranksters and people attempting to bleed Emma for money. She'd given up hope that anything would materialize, but her conscience forbade her from stopping the ad.
"I can't believe it!" Emma looked Sylvia over from head to toe, never letting go of her hands. Almost as tall as Emma now, thin but with the figure of a young woman, Sylvia had far outgrown her former self.
"Ma, ma," came a tiny voice.
Everyone looked to the toddler who came out of the kitchen, a finger in her mouth. Sylvia went to her, whispered to the child and picked her up.
"Emma, this is Anna."
Rosemary excused herself as Emma stood wide-eyed, slack-jaw, and speechless.
"You… you have a baby?"
"No! Well, yes, but she's not really mine. I didn't give birth to her. I found her, and I saved her." Sylvia hugged Anna and kissed her cheek. "It's a long story."
Emma smiled, thinking of the wild tales and adventures she had to share.
"Yes, I'm sure it is."
Sylvia held Anna close, then looked at Emma with sheepish eyes.
"A lot's happened, Emma. I wanted to find you sooner, but it just didn't work out that way. I know it may not be proper to ask, but do you think we could stay here with you?"
Emma knew the Pratts would welcome Sylvia and the baby, even though it meant two more mouths to feed when money and food were already tight. She knew from looking at Sylvia that she had been through a great deal. Just as Emma was no longer a girl wading through the marshes and hiding when her mother called, Sylvia was no longer the carefree, giggly girl, following her sister like a devoted puppy. Emma knew they would have to rediscover each other and learn who they had each become against a backdrop of war and loss. Emma had so much to tell Sylvia, including the painful news about Alexander and their mother.
But Emma pushed aside those melancholy thoughts for the moment. She embraced Sylvia and Anna as thankful prayers flowed fr
om her heart. Anna reached for Emma's face with her tiny fingers and mumbled. Emma mumbled back and they laughed.
"Of course you can stay," Emma said. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First off, a heartfelt thanks to the amazing, courageous women who risked everything to serve as soldiers (incognito) during the Civil War. Such tenacity and bravery helped pave the way for bold strides in rights and freedoms for both women and African Americans.
A round of applause to the organizers and participants of the Ohio Civil War and Artillery Show in Mansfield, Ohio. Getting the chance to handle and study a plethora of Civil War relics, coupled with the opportunity to chat with experts and collectors, was an unforgettable day. My impromptu role as 'Mary', wife of an amputee, was a fun highlight.
Special thanks to: John Turney (all-star "BiCCO" and author), for unending insights and for providing valuable resources that helped shape this book; Carolyn Melvin, fellow "Sister in Crime" for always being up for an adventure, for dreaming big with me, and for your supportive, fun friendship through the years; Twila Kolda, for lending your "editor's eye" and for much-needed girl time dinners.
Much gratitude to Stephanie Taylor, Amanda Wimer, and staff at Astraea Press for believing in this book!
This book may not have happened if it weren't for my family. We've created a life together that I never would've imagined, one that I wouldn't trade for anything. All my heart, all my love to the six of you!
About the Author
An Ohio native and founding member of Sisters in Crime Columbus, Ohio, Mercedes King has three passions: her family, her dogs, and all-things books and writing. When she isn't reading or elbow-deep in research, you can find her on a bike path or at her kids' ball games. A graduate of Capital University, she's working on her next writing adventure.
Another great read from Astraea Press
CHAPTER ONE
THE HUNT
Early October 1095, Bouillon in Lower Lorraine
He kicked the hard sides of his muscular horse and charged through the Ardennes woodlands, zipping by an array of colorful oak and beech trees. After winding between the mazes of low hanging branches, he directed his horse down through a small stream and then up to the top of a hill that flattened at its peak. The rider pulled on the reigns, and his mount came to a halt. Knocking a few strands of his peppery brown hair out of his eyes, the rider looked back to witness his household following behind at a leisurely pace. At the head of the group was a beautiful woman with long, silky black hair. She looked angelic with her fair skin and rode gracefully over the crunchy leaves. Below, a young and proud looking boy did his best to jog alongside her. Behind the woman, an elderly couple rode atop two fine looking horses. They were her parents and a youthful and energetic aura hovered about them. Their eyes prodded the woods like two children exploring a cave.
Beyond, the rider could just make out the rest of his hunting party, Baldwin the chaplain, Fulbert the head steward, and Oswald the captain of the guard. Ten staff members accompanied each of these men. Relaxing his body, the rider whiffed in a deep breath of crisp air and took in his surroundings. Streams of sunlight gleamed through the tree canopy illuminating the sparse undergrowth and soft earth. The sounds of the hunting grounds, the rushing of craggy streams, and the morning songs of sparrows filled his ears. Autumn in Bouillon was an ideal time to hunt.
Abruptly, the rider was taken out of his reverence. Turning his head, he caught sight of his wiry and green-clad huntsman motioning him over. In the huntsman's hands dangled a pair of leashes. The cords led down to two fine looking alaunts, slender hunting dogs with long noses and thick, russet coats.
"Lord Godfrey," the young man said, pointing down to a muddy and pocketed line in the earth. "These tracks are very fresh, less than an hour I believe." The indentations were of hoof prints from a large quandary of boar, perhaps thirty or more. With the huntsman's good news in mind, Godfrey nudged his horse to start along the pig trail. However, he heard a hard battering against the creek and so relented. Still at the lead, the seraphic woman crossed first. As she approached him her sapphire eyes glistened in the light, and her lips curled into a natural smile. Godfrey then greeted her with a kiss.
"How are your parents fairing?" Godfrey asked in his native tongue of Walloon French. His fair mistress's cheeks warmed like two budding roses.
"They have not stopped talking about you since they left the castle." Her voice was like silk.
"And you, my love?" Godfrey asked her endearingly.
"I am just happy to see them." She sighed. "They are getting older. Father is talking always about the old days, and Mother is having health problems, even though she won't admit it." She went silent for a moment before saying, "This means a lot to me, Godfrey, thank you."
Sophie was veritably meek, yet only because she remained wholly selfless. In truth, he could not ask for a better lover. If God had permitted, he would have made her his wife. However, he was forbidden to marry by an old law of the church.
"Rainald," Godfrey called harshly in German.
The boy who had been running along Sophie immediately stood at attention. So quickly did he do so, his curly blond hair shook. Awaiting Godfrey's order, the boy hastily adjusted his tunic.
"Tell our guests and the rest of the household to remain on the trail the huntsmen have carved. Tell Fulbert to keep anyone from following too close to me or the huntsmen. Quickly now."
After making a quick bow, Rainald leapt atop a boulder in the stream and like a rooster calling out the morning, he boldly announced his lord's request. As Godfrey watched Rainald he wondered if such precautions were histrionic. Nonetheless, he considered the outcomes if he were too lenient. Neither of Sophie's parents had undertaken boar hunting and many in the household were oblivious to the dangers. In fact, as he rustled his whiskers Godfrey really did not like the idea of Sophie being on a hunt, and he felt his stomach tighten with the thought of her injured.
Wild boar hunting, Godfrey knew only too well, existed as a dangerous venture and often a fatal sport. Vindictive to their cores, wild pigs carried a gory spirit that was only accentuated by their substantial builds. Sprouting from their lower jaws waited a set of bladelike tusks. If a boar could gain the upper hand in a fray, the animal could burrow through even the strongest mail, sometimes tearing a man from gut to throat. Youthful sows were agile, treacherous, and would happily smash through underbrush to spearhead an enemy.
Sophie's parents made it up to the flat part of the hill. They were draped in a sunny yellow. Fixing her strands of grey hair, Isabelle, Sophie's mother, gave a humble smile while Gregory, her husband, scratched his arms at his long woolen tunic.
"Good lady and lord, how are my most prized guests fairing?" Godfrey asked them with a charming smile.
"Why, my lord," Isabelle said sheepishly. Her voice was much like her daughter's, rich and soft. "We have never had an opportunity — well I have always wanted to — it is just that—" Her husband nervously placed his arm on her shoulder. Embarrassed, Isabelle covered her mouth, and her cheeks flared apple-red. "Forgive my impropriety, my lord, I sometimes ramble as many nervous people do."
Godfrey smiled reassuringly. When Sophie's parents first arrived at his castle, he quickly learned Isabelle and Gregory could have easily been saints by their humility alone. Even though the couple had been at the castle for about a week now, they remained most uncomfortable in Godfrey's presence. Curious why Isabelle and Gregory were still fidgety when around him, Godfrey supposed his status stood as the thickest barrier to a warm friendship. For his life existed in contrast, being that he was nobility and they his tenants — well, rightly his servants if he called them to be. Godfrey, a descendent of Charlemagne and the duke of Lower Lorraine, answered only to the German Emperor Henry IV, and to God.
"What joy would we have if we didn't have a little rambling once in a while?" Godfrey asked as Isabelle's cheeks burned all the brighter. Emerging from the c
olorful trees, Fulbert, the castle steward, rode past Sophie's parents. Fulbert was a broad knight who wore a permanent frown on his face. Readjusting his conical helm, the steward gave Isabelle and Gregory a polite nod as his long auburn beard brushed against his shining stomach. The steward was dressed much like Duke Godfrey. Both of their heads were topped with iron conical helms, where below, chain coifs wrapped their heads and fell to the base of their necks. Thigh-length mail protected their torsos and arms. Beneath the armor they wore padded jerkin. Linen pants and leather boots completed the attire.
Slightly taller than his steward, Godfrey had green — Sophie told him emerald-green — eyes, lengthy, peppery-brown whiskers and hair, and a large, straight nose. Also, Godfrey's skin was slightly darker from his familial ties bordering the English Channel. His skin was also leathery; he was thirty-five and almost an elder by the standards of the time. By comparison, Fulbert remained rather pale with a set of hazel eyes. He was also younger at twenty-five. Turning, Godfrey nudged his horse and trotted along the pig trail. When he rode a few yards ahead of everyone else, Fulbert cantered up beside him.
"You will do anything for her, will you not?" Fulbert asked casually, brushing off a crimson leaf that fell onto his horse's mane.
"I would be a fool not too," replied Godfrey.
"Then I would be a liar to not tell you that I envy what you have."
"What are you talking about?" Godfrey asked flatly, keeping his eyes on the brown trail. "Is your life not heavenly at home?"
"My lord, most so," Fulbert said as he rolled his eyes. "Never did I imagine that I would see the day that my home in Flanders resembled a harem."
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