Cluney couldn’t close her eyes to sleep that night. Even in the darkness, she could sense Hunter’s pain. Every change in his breathing, every shift of his body brought her instantly to his side. She held his hand and talked softly to him, trying to make him fight for life.
“As soon as you’re well, darling, we’ll go back to Bluefield. They burned the barns and other outbuildings, but the house is still there. We’ll put it to rights again—just the way it was before the war. And then we’ll raise our family there. Our sons will learn to ride and hunt just like their father, and our daughters will be the belles of the whole county. The war’s over for you, Hunter. It will be over for all of us soon. Then life for us will be the way we’ve always dreamed it should be. Hang in there, darling. We have a beautiful future ahead of us. Listen to me! Believe me!”
Even as Cluney spoke with firm assurance, tears streamed down her cheeks. She had to keep hoping, but, oh, it was hard! Hunter had gone too long without proper medicines—medicines that didn’t even exist in this time and place. What if something happened and Wooter couldn’t get back here? Or what if he arrived too late for the penicillin to work its miracle?
She stared out the window at the waning moon. Its glow through her tears seemed to form a new sort of moonbow.
“Oh, hurry, Wooter! Please hurry!”
A moan of pain brought her full attention back to Hunter. She gripped his hot hand and brought his fingers to her lips.
“I’m here, my darling,” she whispered. “I won’t leave you. Not ever again.”
“Larissa,” he whispered. “Look to the moon…”
His words trailed off. Cluney leaned closer, trying to hear, but he said nothing else for a time.
“Yes, Hunter. What about the moon?”
“When I’m gone … look to the moon. I’ll be smiling down at you, loving you always.”
Swallowing a sob, Cluney answered him sternly, “Don’t talk that way! You aren’t going anywhere. You’re going to stay right here with me. You’re going to love me, but here and now, my darling.”
Cluney slipped into bed and snuggled close—holding him, feeling the erratic beat of his heart against her breasts. She refused to let him go. She would will his heart to keep beating.
She sensed a change before she actually knew what it was. At first, she thought Hunter’s breathing had altered. Then she realized that it was something else—something from out in the night. She heard the wind stir and saw black clouds cover the moon. Then the hair at the nape of her neck rose as she felt a presence enter the room. Even through the darkness, she could see a blacker shape at the foot of the bed. An awful stench filled her nostrils. Her heart thundered with a new kind of fear.
Did she imagine the words or did someone actually speak? “It is time.”
She clung more fiercely to Hunter. “No!” she whispered hoarsely, her heart pounding. “Go away! You can’t have him!”
“Tim-m-me …” The ominous word hung in the thick air like some poisonous vapor.
The black shape remained—shifting, swirling, inching ever closer to Hunter’s motionless form. His old dog whimpered and slunk down off the bed, then under it.
Cluney, shivering as she clutched at Hunter’s still body, heard the beating of wings and the howl of the wind. She closed her eyes and prayed with all her might. She forced herself to concentrate only on willing Hunter to live. She knew she had to block out the awful black vision and the terrible sound of its grim voice. She felt as if she were in the midst of some heated battle—some challenge of wills beyond anything she had ever experienced or even imagined possible.
Hunter was so still suddenly, so cool when only a short time ago he had been burning with fever.
“No!” she sobbed. “You can’t have him. He’s mine!”
If only she dared leave Hunter long enough to light the lamp. Surely the apparition would vanish with the darkness. But something warned her not to release her hold on him or all would be lost.
“Damn you!” she seethed. “Leave this place. Now! We want none of your dreadful gifts. We want to be left in peace.”
The black cloud swirled and reformed, closer to the bed now, hovering, waiting to strike. Cluney covered Hunter’s body with her own, screaming, “No! Get away from him!”
On and on she fought, until she was exhausted. Her voice grew hoarse, her body limp with fatigue. It was no use. She couldn’t protect him forever.
After what seemed hours, Cluney sensed a sudden change. Or was she only imagining what she had fought for so long and hard.
“No,” she breathed. “It’s gone!”
Hunter stirred against her and murmured her name. She opened her eyes to find that they were alone again in the room. The awful odor of sulfur and decay had vanished. The night seemed calm and quiet.
Had the black shadow been only a nightmare? The moon was shining again, too, casting its faint light across the bed. She was bathed in sweat, shivering in the chill of the air. Hunter once more felt hot, but, for a change, she welcomed his fever. His burning flesh meant that he was still alive, that he hadn’t been whisked away from her by their ominous night visitor.
Quickly, Cluney rose from the bed and lit the lamp. A new wave of relief came with the light. She went to the pitcher and poured cool water into the bowl. With great care and tenderness she sponged Hunter’s burning body, all the while murmuring reassurances to him.
Once he seemed calm and comfortable, Cluney lay down beside him again. But she knew she wouldn’t sleep. Her nerves were raw. She dared not even close her eyes for fear that the threatening cloud might return. She must keep up her guard. Sitting up in bed, she glanced about the room, checking again to make sure they were still alone. Her gaze lit on Hunter’s journal.
“I’ll read to you, darling,” she whispered. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Hunter never heard, never answered. But Cluney rose quickly to get the diary. She decided to begin at the beginning. The first entry was dated 13 May 1846, and was written in boyish script.
Mother and Father took me up to Lexington today to pay a call on Colonel and Mrs. Courtney. It was an especially fine day, with the air as hot as summer and the sun shining bright. I’d have rather gone to the creek with Jordan and the fellows for an afternoon of swimming and sporting. But Father seemed to think that I needed to be with the men today, and, besides, Mother insisted. She always gets her way. Neither Father nor I can abide her hysterics.
You can well imagine my surprise when we arrived at the fine Courtney mansion, only to be ushered off to the horse barn by a certain surly servant wench, who declared to all within the limits of her powerful voice, “This ain’t no barbecue. It’s a birthin’. So you gentlemen get yourselfs on down to the barn and out from underfoot so’s Miz Jenny can have some peace and quiet for her laying-in.”
Well, I can tell you, my face went scarlet. Neither Mother nor Father had mentioned to me that Mrs. Courtney was even expecting a baby, so certainly I had no suspicions that I might get caught up in any such sort of female event. How I longed to be with Jordy and the boys!
However, the day turned out pleasant enough for us men. We spent a fine few hours in and around the barn, pitching horseshoes, swapping tales, and admiring Colonel Courtney’s new foal, a fine filly he calls Dancer.
By the heat of the afternoon, though, Colonel Courtney was showing the strain. Being the youngest in the group of eight—husband and brothers of Mrs. Jennifer Courtney—I kept quiet and listened to their conversation, learning much about this process of birthing babies. It seemed Miss Jenny had been seized with the pains of labor at sunset the day before. Having previously lost two babies in childbirth, Mrs. Courtney sorely feared her coming travail. Although a physician had been summoned at the very moment “her water broke” (a term used freely by her husband and the others, but never explained to me) she begged to have word sent to my mother, who has been her best friend since they were girl
s, so that she might have a sympathetic hand to hold during her “long hours of suffering.” (These were her husband’s exact words. Which brings to mind this question: If a husband knows that inflicting his wife with a child is surely going to make her suffer, and he loves his wife, then why does he do such a thing? It appears my tutoring on such matters is sorely lacking.)
Mrs. Courtney’s suffering became much apparent to us all as the afternoon wore on. Her screams were ever so much like those I heard once from a slave being whipped by Father’s overseer. I shuddered and trembled at each outburst since it brought with it the well-remembered sight of that poor black man tied to a post while his back was laid open. During this period of Mrs. Courtney’s labor, the men took to passing around a jug of prime Kentucky bourbon. I took a sip when Colonel Courtney offered, but only after receiving a nod of approval from my father. And so, another first for this day—my first drink of a man’s liquor. It burned, tasted of smoke, and made my head swim. But I do see how a man might acquire a liking for its fire, its taste, and especially its euphoric aftereffect.
By sunset, Colonel Courtney was, as the men say, “in his cups.” He told bawdy stories for a time, then began singing at the top of his voice in order to drown out the cries of his suffering wife. By the time a servant came to announce that Mrs. Courtney had been delivered of a fine, healthy daughter, the colonel was snoring away. My own father roused him and gave him the good news only to be faced with the new father’s wrath. “A girl?” Colonel Courtney roared, all red in the face. “Why a girl? The two she lost were sons. This must be some other man’s bastard.” Then he set to moaning and holding his head, finally lamenting loudly, “Girl young’uns and bull calves are the poor man’s doom, and surely I am one of those doomed.”
Within a short while, however, Colonel Courtney was quieted and soothed by the others. His face washed, his hair combed, he made his way rather unsteadily up to the big house to see his long-suffering wife and the female she had spawned with such success.
I myself was allowed into Mrs. Courtney’s bedroom to pay my respects and view the tiny, red-faced creature named Larissa Flemingate Courtney. Rather a grand name, I feel, for such an unlovely scrap of flesh. But I did as my father instructed me and assured the screaming infant’s mother that Larissa was beautiful beyond my powers of description. Poor, weary Mrs. Courtney smiled at me, patted my head, and promised me that someday I would marry the homely little creature. I shuddered at her words!
Late tonight, long after we returned to Bluefield and were sleeping, I was awakened by a shower of pebbles against my windowpane. I knew, of course, that it was Jordan, who had sneaked off earlier, wanting a full report of the day’s proceedings. I opened my window and he climbed up the sycamore. After telling him all that had transpired, I put several questions to my brother. Concerning the reason why men make babies on their wives, even knowing that the birthing will bring suffering, Jordan claimed that women thrive on such pain. He told me further that a woman who cannot give her husband sons is worse than useless. He went on to explain that a horse who can’t foal can be sold the same as a slave wench who drops no suckers. But a wife with no sons is worth less than nothing to her husband, and that’s why so many men form relationships in the quarters.
I confessed that I doubted the truth of all this. He bloodied my nose for calling him a liar, then ran off to his room, leaving me standing with my nightshirt clinging to me and turning scarlet as my nose dripped upon it. So ended this fine day in May—the day of Larissa Courtney’s birth.
Cluney stared down at the page. As many times as she had read Hunter’s diary before, this was the first time she realized that she was reading of her own beginning.
“Larissa Flemingate Courtney,” she repeated. “Can that really be who I am?”
She glanced down at Hunter, who had written as a boy that she was an “unlovely scrap of flesh.” Although he had remained asleep while she read to him aloud, his grimace of pain had given way to a slight smile and he seemed less restless now.
Cluney leaned down and kissed his forehead, then smoothed the covers over his chest. Suddenly the full impact of their relationship struck her. As difficult as it was to believe, she knew that she must be his wife, Larissa. This was her real world now. Her existence as Clair de Lune Summerland had been only a fleeting dream.
With new purpose, she opened her husband’s journal once more, determined to discover a new understanding of herself.
Since dawn was still hours away, she would continue reading. The sound of her own voice would keep her awake, and it seemed to soothe Hunter, as well. She skipped over the boy’s entries to read of Hunter as a young man, first discovering his love for Larissa.
Very soon, she discovered that she wasn’t simply reading about the lives of Hunter and Larissa. She felt herself transported back through time to experience it all once more. To remember the life she had once lived, then forgotten. To wonder at the woman she had been. And to hope that she had learned a few lessons through the years.
Chapter Fifteen
On that day shortly before her marriage to Hunter, when Larissa went alone to visit Jordan, she risked everything. But she did it for Hunter. She had so dreaded the thought of the two brothers meeting at sword point in battle, that she had put her own reputation on the line to stop that from happening.
She had been so young then, so foolish!
Jordan had deceived her, of course, begging her to come to him alone so that they could talk about his final decision on joining the army. He had said that he trusted her and valued her opinions. But Jordan had lied.
On that fateful day, Jordan had mocked her—making sure that her arrival coincided with his dalliance with his slave lover. He had shamed her—using her body as his own private plaything. And, finally, Jordan had ruined her—telling Hunter that Larissa had come to Broad Acres, on the very eve of her marriage, because she simply could not stay away.
The confounding contradictions of Larissa’s life were all so clear to Cluney now. Was there any wonder that Hunter had seemed strange on their wedding night? Was there any wonder that Hunter had left for the war, convinced that his marriage was a mockery?
Cluney, hugging herself and rocking back forth on the bed, let the tears flow freely. She felt dirty and used, remembering that afternoon with Jordan.
“How could Larissa have been such a little fool?” Cluney moaned.
Then she confessed to herself that the modern-day Cluney would have done the same thing for the same reasons. Not much had changed through all the years.
Cluney finally managed to calm herself by thinking, not of the bad times in the distant past, but of how wonderful her future with Hunter would be. He trusted her again. He loved her. And she loved him!
She looked down at his handsome face. “And damned if I’m going to give up that love without a fight!”
Dawn was breaking, tinting the sky with threads of amber and amethyst. She put away the journal, and set about doing everything she could to make Hunter comfortable. She bathed his fevered body, changed his bandages, and talked to him all the while about what their life together would be like back at Bluefield once he recovered enough to travel. She talked of riding horses while morning dew still clung like shining crystals to the bluegrass. She spoke of gay house parties with guests coming from miles around to feast and dance and make merry. She whispered of children—strong sons, loving daughters. And she promised him love—all the love that was within her heart and soul to give, all that she had been saving up for him so long.
So involved in her work and her dreams was Cluney that she never heard the soft knock at the door. Mary Renfro stuck her head in just in time to hear Cluney talking to her husband about taking him home.
“Larissa?” Mary said quietly.
Cluney turned with a jerk, startled.
“Leave the major and come out here for a minute. You and me, we need to talk.”
Satisfied that Hu
nter was still sleeping (comatose actually, if she had allowed herself to accept the truth) Cluney followed Mary out into the main room.
“What is it, Mary? Is something wrong?”
The older woman looked stern, worried. “I reckon there is! You ain’t really got yourself believing that the poor major in there is gonna be fit to travel anytime soon?”
“Well, it might be a while, but he’s stronger now, Mary.” Her eyes glittered with hope. She wanted so badly to believe her own words. “He’s gaining strength every hour.”
“I hate to be blunt with you, child, but in a pig’s eye!” Mary pointed toward the bedroom door, her hand shaking. “That man in there has one foot in the grave already, and I reckon it won’t be long now till he crosses over.”
“No!” Cluney cried. “That’s a lie!”
“The only lie is what you’re telling your own self, child. You don’t even have to look at him no more to know his last battle is almost done.”
Cluney cocked her head, not sure what Mary was getting at.
“He ain’t gonna get better, no matter what you do. Best brace yourself for the end, Larissa. It’s hard, I know. But you ain’t the first woman to lose her man to this war, and, pity to say, you won’t be the last.” Mary shook her head sadly and gripped Cluney’s cold hand. “I’m sorry, but it don’t do no good for you to spin pretty tales that’ll come to naught.”
“But Wooter’s on his way,” Cluney insisted, nearly hysterical. “He’ll be here soon—any minute—with medicine to make Hunter well. It’s powerful stuff, Mary. You wait. You’ll see.”
Once Upon Forever Page 22