Savannah Scarlett

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “Wait, Miss Lilah. That’s not what I meant. I’m afraid I do have news for you—not the best, but neither is it the worst. Captain Patrick has been taken prisoner. My sources tell me he is even now at Point Lookout Prison in Maryland The fight is over for him, dear lady.”

  Lilah pressed Mayor Arnold’s hand in thanks. Tears filled her eyes as her emotions battled within her. “Is he wounded?”

  The mayor shook his head. “I don’t know. But if so, he’ll be given care. Have no fear of that.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. She turned and fled the dark warehouse before a sob could escape her. Mayor Arnold considered her a brave woman. She didn’t want to damage that opinion by showing him a woman’s weakness.

  The very next day, the citizens of Savannah heard the first guns. Heavy artillery shells pelted Fort McAllister for hours. Terror reigned in the city. At any moment, Sherman could turn his guns on the civilians in their homes. But still the town fathers haggled, holding pride more precious than life. On December 19, General Beauregard settled the matter. His order read: Evacuate all troops from the city to assemble at Fort Jackson to be transported to Screven s Ferry.

  That bitter cold night, Lilah watched from her window as the silent troops passed through the dark streets. Muttered curses filled the air. After four years of duty, the soldiers wanted to stand and fight. They hated retreat. A few of them sang “Dixie” as they trudged toward the river and their flight into South Carolina. It was a final defiance before they had to give up the beautiful old city to the hated Yankees. Many of the men left behind sweethearts, wives, and children, not knowing if they would ever see them again. But Lilah felt only triumph. If Mayor Arnold’s offer was accepted, they would have outsmarted Sherman and thereby extinguished his dreaded torches.

  “You would be proud tonight, Brandon,” she whispered into her antique mirror, hoping to catch a glimpse of her lover, hoping the magic mirror might send her words clear to Maryland. “Proud of our men, proud of Savannah, and proud of our Cause.”

  On December 21, Mayor Richard Arnold formally surrendered his beloved city to General William Tecumseh Sherman. The mayor asked “the protection of our lives and property of the citizens and of our women and children.”

  Sherman accepted the city, granted the request, and sent a telegram to President Lincoln. “I beg to present you as a Christmas gift the city of Savannah, with 150 heavy guns and plenty of ammunition, also about 25,000 bales of cotton.”

  On Christmas Eve, Lincoln wired back, “Many, many thanks … and my grateful acknowledgments to your whole army, officers and men.”

  For a time, after reading President Lincoln’s telegram in her dream, Mary Scarlett drifted in nothingness, half herself, half Lilah. When her vision cleared again, Lilah was arguing with another woman, her married cousin, Amalee Dupree.

  “Heaven only knows what will happen next!” Amalee sobbed. “Just look out the front window. The darkies and the Yankees have taken over our city—stealing, insulting decent folks, why, they’re even pitching their tents right in our square. I may lose my mind!”

  “Would you prefer that they burned down your house?” Lilah answered with deadly calm. When Amalee made no reply, Lilah said firmly, “You will attend General Sherman’s party at the Pulaski House tomorrow night.”

  “Why, I’d rather die!” Amalee cried. “Let me see that invitation.”

  Lilah handed her the white card, addressed to them personally, which amounted to a command performance to celebrate Sherman’s good relations with the citizenry of Savannah. A messenger had delivered it only moments before.

  A hint of a smile flitted over Amalee’s thin lips. She hadn’t been to a party in over three years, not since her husband rode off to war. “Mercy, I don’t have a decent thing to wear. What will General Sherman think of us in our old rags from before the war?”

  Repulsed by her cousin’s obvious delight at the thought of the Yankee soiree, Lilah replied, “I’m wearing black—for Brandon, for Savannah, for the Confederacy. We will all wear black from now on.”

  “I’m wearing black.” Mary Scarlett came awake with a jolt as she spoke the words aloud.

  She glanced toward the mirror. She was herself again. Every trace of Lilah’s long, silver-blond hair had vanished. And the eyes that stared back at her were a brilliant, true blue, unlike the violet-shaded indigo of Lilah’s.

  Mary Scarlett sat thinking through her dream for several moments. She knew Lilah’s story; she had heard it from Granny Boo all her life. “Major Lilah” had been a heroine of the War Between the States, a brave spy for the Confederacy. And she had, indeed, kept the women of Savannah in line while the occupation forces were in the city. Lilah herself had decreed that no woman would wear anything but black until the Yankees left. That was their one small defiance. Otherwise, they treated their unhonored guests with only mild contempt rather than the all-out hatred they felt in their hearts. It was all meant to keep Savannah safe. Lilah and her ladies did a wonderful job. Sherman never suspected the depth of their loathing.

  Mary Scarlett remembered how Granny Boo used to chuckle when she told that part. Yet there were things about the dream that Mary Scarlett had never heard before. She knew nothing of this cousin, Amalee Dupree. Nor had she ever heard the songs that the little boys sang as Lilah was rushing to that first meeting.

  One thing she did know. Lilah’s lover, Brandon Patrick, had come home from the war, but he had died of his wounds and harsh life in a Yankee prison only days after his return. It was almost as if he willed himself to live long enough to see her one last time.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. “Another tragic love affair in my family. Poor Lilah!”

  A soft knock at the door drew Mary Scarlett’s attention. “It’s almost seven,” Bolt said from the hallway. “Do you still want to go to Allen’s party?”

  “That damn party!” she muttered. To Bolt she called, “Yes, I’m getting ready now.” Then she added, softly to herself, “I’m wearing black!”

  Bolt had had a rotten day. He figured Mary Scarlett was punishing him by staying in her room, not talking to him, not even wanting to set eyes on him for hours. He felt as little like going to a party as he ever had in his life. He didn’t think he could smile and be cordial, make small talk or shower the ladies with the expected compliments.

  All that changed the minute Mary Scarlett walked out of her room. She had a glow about her that he hadn’t seen in years. It took him a moment to realize that the light shining around her like a magnificent, golden aura was the sun coming out at last. A brilliant rose and vermillion sunset lit the heavens and backlit Mary Scarlett. Her gown was clinging black silk—long, cool, and slender like Mary Scarlett herself. The jewel neckline gave way to an open back that draped to an astonishing depth. Her bare shoulders and arms made him want to caress the pale silk of her flesh. When she moved toward him, his gaze shifted to the thigh-high slit up the right side of her skirt. He could feel his temperature rising as she moved closer.

  “Shalimar,” he whispered, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

  Mary Scarlett uttered a little purring laugh when Bolt took her hand and kissed it. She let her gaze roam his trim figure, clothed in a tailor-made tuxedo, his pleated shirt front gleaming with gold and onyx studs. “As Mama used to say, ‘You clean up real nice, honey!’”

  They both laughed, sounding almost relaxed with each other. Mary Scarlett thought about apologizing for the wedding gown incident earlier, but decided she’d rather not bring it up again. Not when Bolt seemed to be in a party mood. Instead, she had a totally different topic on her mind.

  “Bolt, do you remember the story about how Mayor Arnold handed Savannah over to Sherman?”

  He looked perplexed at this change of subject, seemingly out of nowhere. “Sure. Every schoolkid in Savannah knows about that. Arnold held his meetings right here in this building, right below my apartment.”

  “So that’s it!�
� Mary Scarlett said.

  “That’s what?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing really. While I was napping I took another one of my dreamtrips. I went back to 1864. I was here in Savannah when the plans were made to give the city to Sherman. I guess being here must have triggered the memories, even though I didn’t know this was where they met.”

  Bolt looked anxious. “Who were you this time?”

  “A young woman named Lilah. She was in love with a Confederate captain named Brandon Patrick.”

  Bolt went to a bookcase next to his desk and pulled out a leather bound volume that looked old and worn. “Let’s see what this says about Captain Brandon Patrick, CSA. This old registry lists the names of all the Georgia men who fought in the war. Here he is. He wasn’t from Savannah, though. He owned one of the island plantations, Fortune’s Fancy on Rainbow Hammock.”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” Mary Scarlett said.

  “I think the name was changed sometime after the war. Seems to me it’s one of the smaller islands down near St. Simons and Jekyll. Some millionaire probably bought it and built condos and golf courses all over it.”

  “You’re probably right. I was just curious. I don’t think he and Lilah ever married. You see, they were in love, and in my family that’s the kiss of death.”

  “Interesting tidbit of history,” Bolt said, trying to lighten her mood. “It will make good cocktail conversation at the party.”

  “Yes, we’d better go,” Mary Scarlett agreed, but the last thing she wanted to chitchat about at Allen’s party was poor Lilah’s loss.

  As Bolt held the door for her, Mary Scarlett felt his warm hand brush her bare back. She shivered with pleasure.

  She turned in the doorway. “Bolt? Do you forgive me?”

  He stared down at her, puzzled. “For what, honey?”

  “Don’t you mean, for what this time? Seems I’m always hurting you without meaning to. The wedding gown … the way I acted … the things I said.”

  He leaned down and brushed his lips softly against her high cheekbone. “Nothing to forgive,” he whispered. He placed his hands on her bare shoulders and let his palms slide down over her cool arms, then up again.

  “I’ve wanted to do that for years,” he whispered. “The night Allen escorted you to your debutante ball, you were wearing a white dress with bare shoulders. All I could think about all that night, while I was parking cars, was how it would feel to run my hands over all that gorgeous bare flesh.”

  “And how does it feel?” She was trembling, burning from his touch.

  Mary Scarlett went up on tiptoe and pressed her mouth hard against his. He stepped away after only an instant, as if her lips had scorched his.

  “We’ll be late.”

  “We don’t have to go to the party,” she purred.

  With a low chuckle, Bolt propelled her through the door. “Oh, yes, darlin’. I think we do. Can’t keep your adoring public waiting.”

  “It’s almost time!” Allen Overman checked his watch as he paced the front parlor, peering out the windows every few seconds. “Where is everybody?”

  “Take it easy, Allen,” Kathleen told him. “You know no one in Savannah wants to be the first to arrive. They’ll be here. Stand still and take a few deep breaths, won’t you?”

  He did as his hostess ordered, then grinned at her. “Love your gown, Katie.”

  She nodded her thanks. It was Bolton Conrad’s favorite, the rose chiffon with a plunging neckline and full, swirling skirt. It had an Old South look about it, even without hoop-skirts.

  While she was still smiling, pleased with the way she looked and with Allen’s compliment, he said, “Could I make a suggestion, though?”

  “Yes. Of course.” The frost in her reply did not invite suggestions, but Allen rushed on anyway.

  He hurried over to an antique secretary beside the parlor door and opened the front. When he turned, he held a pair of white, opera-length gloves and a flat, gray velvet box. “Put these on.” He handed her the gloves. “And this.”

  Kathleen grimaced at the gloves, then gasped when he opened the box. “Tell me that’s not real.”

  “As real as they come,” he answered. “I have it on consignment from a rich-bitch over on Isle of Hope who’s selling everything she owns and plans to take off across country in a RV She’s one of those back-to-nature freaks. If I owned jewels like these, I’d be happy to stay right at home and just fondle them.”

  “It’s a fabulous necklace, Allen. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “And you’ve got a fabulous chest, Katie. These diamonds would draw all eyes.”

  Kathleen turned and lifted her hair so Allen could fasten the cascade of diamonds around her neck. She would gladly give in and wear the gloves for Allen in order to have the jewels for the evening.

  “I feel like a queen,” she said, touching the sparkling stones reverently as she gazed into the mirror over the mantel.

  “As you should. Those diamonds once belonged to Napoleon’s Josephine.”

  “My God!” she gasped.

  The doorbell chimed just then. ’Gator White, pressed into service by Allen’s threats and turned out to look the perfect butler, glided through the hallway to answer the call.

  First to arrive was Aurelia LaMotte. Allen’s fourth ex-wife had dropped the “Overman” after her divorce in order to avoid confusion. Savannah was becoming overrun with “Overman women.” The petite, honey-haired woman with a face many times tucked, entered on the arm of a tall, distinguished looking antiques dealer whose dark good looks reminded Kathleen of Gregory Peck.

  “Miz Aurelia LaMotte and Mr. Talliaferro Fitzhugh,” ’Gator intoned grandly, bowing the couple into the parlor to be greeted by their host.

  Allen threw his arms wide, preparing to hug his ex. “Aurelia, you look ravishing. Give us a kiss, love.”

  The small woman giggled as Allen embraced her and showered her heavily remade and madeup face with butterfly kisses.

  “Oh, Allen, you sweet boy!” Aurelia gushed. “You’re still the light of my life.”

  Kathleen stood by, observing. She guessed that Allen was still making it with Aurelia. There was something in the woman’s eyes that hinted at secret rendezvous. And, too, Miss LaMotte had recently returned from a clinic in the Southwest. Rumor had it that Aurelia, fast approaching sixty, had had a boob job to please her young lover. Kathleen nodded approvingly. Aurelia certainly did fill out her low-cut champagne satin to full advantage.

  “Talli, old fellow!” Allen exclaimed, glad-handing his ex’s date while he slapped him on the back. “Haven’t seen you in ages. Where’ve you been?”

  “In France on a buying trip.”

  Kathleen noted that Mr. Fitzhugh’s dark gaze hadn’t left her throat since he entered.

  “That’s the Josephine, isn’t it?” He moved closer to Kathleen and leaned down to peer at the diamonds.

  “Right you are, my man!” Allen beamed with pleasure. “The very necklace. I have it on consignment. Bids will soon be coming in from all over the world.”

  Still peering, making Kathleen quite uncomfortable, Talli said, “It’s not been on the market in over fifty years.”

  Allen nodded. “And once I sell it, it probably won’t be again in our lifetime.”

  Kathleen suddenly realized what was going on. Allen hoped to sell the necklace to Talliaferro Fitzhugh. She was not only his hostess, but his model for the evening.

  More and more couples began arriving. Soon all of Allen’s ex-wives were there with their current lovers. A number of the guests were from the crowd Allen, Kathleen, and Mary Scarlett had gone to school with. Bolt hadn’t really been a member of that group; he had lived in the wrong part of town. But through his prowess as an athlete and Mary Scarlett’s patronage, he had been grudgingly accepted by the others.

  There were Missy and “Roach” Carlisle, Annabelle and Lawton Winthrop, Cecelia and Pryce Jasper. A
ll Old Savannah, Oglethorpe Club, and, of course, the ladies had been debutantes with Mary Scarlett.

  They oohed and aahed over Allen’s new digs. He played the role of the suave country planter showing off his ancestral home in town. A fair-haired Rhett Butler, charming the ladies and joshing with the men.

  ’Tator White, every bit as formal and polished as his twin, moved silently among the guests passing flutes of champagne and silver trays covered with crab balls, shrimp pate, petite tomato sandwiches, Russian caviar, and an array of other colorful and mouth-watering offerings.

  When the doorbell rang again, all heads turned. This could be it—the moment everyone had been waiting for.

  “I heard she’s a blonde now,” Cecelia whispered to Missy.

  “And probably put on twenty pounds,” Missy said. “All that rich food in Spain.”

  Big, red-headed Roach Carlisle leaned close to the two women and said, “You girls will know any minute. As for me, my guess is Mary Scarlett’s probably more gorgeous than ever. Her mama was a knockout to the day she died.”

  It was hard for the anxious guests not to let out a collective groan of disappointment when ’Gator announced Frankie and Donny. With their cummerbunds and ties of matching lime-and-lavender print, the two hairstylists added the only touch of color among the midnight-blue gentlemen at the party. More than one adoring and regret-filled female eye turned on gorgeous, tanned, blond-maned Donny.

  “God, Allen, you really let Katie wear it!” Frankie cried before even accepting a greeting from his host. “The Josephine,” he said in a hushed tone that sounded almost like a prayer.

  “Hey, you’re not going to fall down on your knees, are you, Frankie?” Allen laughed while Talli Fitzhugh moved closer to Kathleen as if to protect the necklace from the lusting hairdresser.

  “It’s just the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, man,” Frankie moaned. “Put that against stark black and it would knock your eyes out.” He turned pleadingly to Allen. “Can I touch it?”

  Grinning from ear to ear, Allen granted his consent. But when Frankie reached toward Kathleen’s chest, she slapped his hand away.