Ecstasy's Promise (Historical Romance)

by Constance O'Banyon

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Ecstasy’s Promise

  by

  Constance O’Banyon

  Copyright © 1982 by Constance O'Banyon

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This book is dedicated to my daughter, Pamela, with love and gratitude, for the faith and encouragement she gave to me.

  Beloved Enemies

  He is my enemy, a hawk not a dove;

  My mind says to hate him, my heart says to love.

  In all of his beauty, the danger I fear; my eyes will betray me, when he is near.

  I cry out for mercy, to God up above; He is my enemy, he is my love.

  1

  The small canoe moved swiftly over the water. It was a cloudy, overcast day that threatened rain. The brown, mud-colored Savannah River had already swelled up its banks from previous rains, but the two occupants of the small craft paid little heed to the weather.

  One man, the smaller of the two, kept looking back over his shoulder nervously. The other occupant of the canoe, a giant of a man, showed none of the fear displayed by his companion. His face was stoic as his gray eyes stared straight ahead. His huge hands gripped the oars, and with great thrusts moved the small craft swiftly forward.

  Around noon, the clouds parted, and the sun broke through. The cry of a blue jay flying overhead broke the silence, causing the smaller man's eyes to search the banks fearfully. They rounded a bend in the river, and pulled alongside a small pier that jutted out into the water. The large man disembarked first, secured the canoe, and helped his friend to shore.

  They moved quickly up the bank, not stopping until they reached the shelter of a huge willow tree. The large man was the first to speak. "It is much worse than we thought, Tom. I think you had better get Martha and what valuables you can gather quickly and seek the safety of Savannah."

  Tom O'Brian studied the large man for a long moment. Bodine was a giant with broad, powerful shoulders and iron-gray hair. His cold gray eyes never flinched as he stood waiting for Tom to answer. "Hell, Bodine, I am too old to pack up and leave what I have worked all my life for. I have put my life's blood into this plantation and I will not leave it to the mercy of a bunch of damned Yankees. My son, Paul, is off fighting somewhere. God only knows if he is alive or dead, but if he should come home and find his home in ruins and all he fought for in ashes, it would be a terrible blow to him. No, my wife and I will remain," he said with conviction.

  Bodine looked down at him from his great height. "That is up to you, of course, and I would feel much the same as you if it were not for Victoria. Tom, you saw with your own eyes the destruction wrought by Sherman's army. They are cutting their way through to Savannah, and your place and Farraday Plantation are right in their path."

  "You are going to take Victoria to Savannah?" Tom asked him.

  "Yeah, and she is going to fight me all the way. I dread facing her with the news."

  Tom thought of Victoria Farraday. She and his son, Paul, would have married by now, but for the war. Both Victoria's father and mother were dead, and she was alone in the world except for Bodine. Bodine was hard to put into any category. He was neither a gentleman nor of the working class. He had come to Georgia from Texas, where John Farraday had met and married Victoria's mother. Some people laughingly called Bodine Victoria's watchdog, and Tom thought that it might be an accurate description. He was fiercely protective of her. Even when she had been a baby toddling around, Bodine had never been far away, watching over her. Victoria's mother had died the night she was born, and her father had been away from home more often than not, but Bodine had always been on hand when Victoria needed him. He had won the trust and respect of the people in the county, and they had accepted the fact long ago that wherever Victoria was, Bodine would not be far away.

  "I would not like to be the one to tell Victoria that she must abandon Farraday Plantation to the enemy," Tom O'Brian said. "Besides, Bodine, who is to say that Savannah will be safe? You know what happened in Atlanta, the whole damned town was burned."

  "There is no guarantee, of course," Bodine replied thoughtfully, "but maybe there will be safety in numbers. I wish you would reconsider. At least urge Martha to accompany Victoria."

  "No, my friend. My wife will not leave me, of that I am certain, and I will not leave my home."

  "Well, at least bury what valuables you can and hide your livestock in the swamp. That is what I have done."

  Tom O'Brian nodded his gray head. "I wish I was a younger man. I was just itching to get into this war," he said bitterly.

  Bodine looked at him thoughtfully. "The war is lost, Tom. We have no army to throw against Sherman. All that is between him and us are a few hours—maybe a day, if we are lucky." Conscious of the passing time and the need for speed, Bodine extended his hand to Tom O'Brian. "Take care, Tom, and good luck," he said.

  Tom clasped his hand. "Godspeed, Bodine. Send us some word of Victoria as soon as you are able."

  Bodine made his way back to the river and the waiting canoe. Time was against him. There was an urgency in his walk and a determined look in his gray eyes.

  Victoria Lee Farraday came down the stairway slowly. She paused at the bottom step and looked about her tentatively. Then she crossed the hallway to her father's study, opened the door, and looked about the room. It looked as it always had when her father had been alive. She felt the need to be close to him, and here in this room where he had spent so much time, among the things he had treasured, she did feel his presence.

  She looked at his dark mahogany desk. His pipe still lay in its stand as though waiting for his return. Victoria let her eyes wander to the bookshelves that ran the length of one wall. She walked over and ran a delicate finger over the titles until she found the book she had been searching for, Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare. Her father had given it to her on her thirteenth birthday, and she had read it many times. Victoria opened the green leather-bound cover and thumbed through the pages. She closed the book and laid it on her father's desk.

  Maybe later she would read it again, but now she could not concentrate on anything.

  Oh, Father, she thought, why did you have to die in this senseless war?

  Men had been going off to war since the beginning of time, leaving those who loved them behind to wait in fear for their safe return, and Victoria had been no different. She remembered the day she had received word that her father had died, somewhere in Virginia in a
place she had never heard of. His body had not even been returned to her for a proper burial.

  She stood before the window and looked out. The sunlight filtered into the room and fell on her honey-colored hair, making it seem alive with golden highlights. Her face was perfect, as though a master's hand had sculptured it. Her lips were full and sensuous; her tiny nose turned up slightly at the tip. But her eyes were the most startling thing about her. They were dark blue, with soft depths that made it seem one could drown in them. They were outlined by long golden lashes that were black at the tips, and were framed by delicately arched black brows.

  Everyone who came in contact with Victoria was moved by her beauty. Her voice was musical, her speech cultured. She spoke with only a hint of a southern accent. She was intelligent and well-read for one who was only seventeen years of age.

  She walked gracefully across the room and stood looking up at the portrait that hung over the fireplace. The woman in the portrait was so like Victoria it was almost like looking into a mirror. She stood before the portrait of her mother, as though willing her to speak. The cool blue eyes smiled down on Victoria, who felt the loss, as she always had, of not having known her mother, who had died the night of her birth. All Victoria knew of her mother was what her father and Bodine had told her.

  She sighed and left the room that was too full of memories of the dead.

  She walked out the back door and down the well-worn path that led to the river; then stood on the grassy slopes and scanned the horizon, looking for Bodine. He had been gone for two days and she was full of apprehension for his safety. When he had left her, to try to pinpoint the movements of the Union forces, he had told her he would be gone no longer than a day, or two at the most.

  All night she had heard the distant gunfire, and had slept very little. Today, however, the guns were silent, and it was almost worse. Farraday Plantation, which had always teemed with life and activity was silent, too. As soon as Bodine had gone, the slaves had started disappearing, and only three were left now. Victoria walked purposefully toward the house. She loved her home. The big two-story structure seemed like an old friend to her; with its Grecian pillars it seemed to beckon to her, to offer her sanctuary.

  Victoria decided that she could stand the waiting no longer. She would have to take some action. She looked toward the west and saw a dark rolling cloud reaching for the sky. She stared in horror as she realized it was not a cloud at all, but smoke, and it was coming from the Martin plantation. She felt real fear and hopelessness for the first time. Stacy Martin was her best friend, and Victoria had spent many happy times at Five Hills. She picked up the skirt of her gown and ran toward the house, determined not to wait idly for Bodine to return.

  I hate the Yankees. If I were a man, I would help drive them from Georgia, she thought bitterly. "No Yankee will burn Farraday Plantation," she said with conviction, determined to protect what was hers against any intruder.

  She found Bess in the kitchen bent over the ironing board, her dark face concentrating on the linen tablecloth she was ironing. "You know the doctor told you not to do heavy work," Victoria scolded her, trying to hide the fear that gnawed at the pit of her stomach.

  The black eyes looked up at her and noticed the color had gone out of her face. "What's wrong, honey. What you looking so worried for?"

  "Five Hills is burning," Victoria told her, trying to keep the panic from her voice.

  "Lawd have mercy on us all," Bess said, her dark eyes wide in horror.

  Victoria took Bess's hand and led her to a chair. She looked lovingly down at the black face. Bess had given her all the love a mother would have. She had bullied Victoria and pampered her. Strange, thought Victoria, I never noticed how old she looked before. She knelt down beside Bess and put her hand on her arm. "There is something I want you to do for me, Bess," she said urgently.

  "Honey, you knows I do anything for you," Bess answered, her dark eyes shining with love.

  "I was hoping you would say that. Gather what silver and valuables you can, and my mother's portrait, while I find Becky and Moss. I want the three of you to go to the townhouse in Savannah where you will be safe."

  "You coming, too?" Bess asked suspiciously.

  "No," Victoria told her. "I am going to wait for Bodine."

  "Well, I's not budging from here if you ain't," Bess said stubbornly.

  "Oh, Bess, I do not have time to argue with you," Victoria said helplessly. "Do you not understand that the Yankees are coming?"

  "Well, maybe they is, and maybe they ain't. But if they does, they will be greeted at the front door by me."

  Victoria sighed in exasperation. "Hurry, Bess, gather up what you can. I am going to find Moss and Becky."

  Later in the afternoon Victoria and Bess stood on the veranda and watched the wagon move slowly down the drive, loaded with as many valuables as they could cram into the limited space. Becky and Moss had been reluctant to leave, but Victoria had convinced them that there was no one else she could entrust her mother's portrait to.

  They watched until the wagon disappeared. Bess squeezed Victoria's hand. "Don't you fret none, honey. Mr. Bodine will be back any time now. Them Yankees ain't about to mess with him."

  Victoria sighed. "I hope you are right."

  Bess walked toward the door. "I's going to make you some nice potato soup with lots of butter, just like you like it. And I had Moss bring up some apple cider from the root cellar. You ain't eat a bite all day."

  Victoria stood for a while, leaning her face against the pillar. It was so quiet, she could feel the tension in the air. It was as though everything had stopped and time was standing still, waiting, watching. There was no doubt in her mind that the Yankees would come. They were not about to let a prize like Farraday Plantation go unassaulted. Victoria went into her father's study, opened a drawer in his desk, and took out a black leather case. She opened it and stared down at her father's dueling pistols. Her fingers touched the cold steel. She lifted them from the case and loaded them, hoping that she would not have to use them. Then she laid them on the desk and went to find Bess.

  After she had eaten the lunch Bess had prepared for her, Victoria went outside and walked hurriedly toward the swamp. She lifted her gown and disappeared among the trees laden with Spanish moss. How clever of Bodine to build a pen for the livestock away from the house. No one would think to look in the swamp. It was a dangerous and unpredictable place to those who were unfamiliar with it.

  She made her way to the enclosure and climbed onto the rail of the fence. "Rebel," she called softly. She was answered by a familiar whinny, and a beautiful black stallion ran to her. His coat was as black as ebony and as soft as silk. He nuzzled her hand with his nose. "How are you, my beauty? Glad to see me, are you?" He pranced about as though he were showing off for her. He tossed his shiny mane and reared up on his hind legs. "Poor boy, you do not like being penned up, do you?"

  Rebel pranced over to her and tossed his head. She laid her face against his satiny coat. Paul O'Brian had given Rebel to her for her sixteenth birthday. Oh, Paul, she thought, where are you now? I pray God that you are safe.

  Paul was five years older than Victoria. She had grown up in his shadow. He had treated her with the fondness of a younger sister, and she had adored him for as long as she could remember. He was so handsome with his curly blond hair and his sparkling blue eyes. He had been the favorite with all the young girls in the county.

  When Victoria was fifteen, and Paul had been home on leave, Victoria had been surprised to find that he no longer thought of her as a sister. She thought of the ball she had attended at Five Hills. When he had come into the room Paul had walked slowly toward her, his eyes on her face. He had bowed to her gallantly, and taken her hand in his. He had danced every dance with her, and finally, as they had walked in the garden, he had slipped his arms around her and kissed her softly. Raising his head, Paul had looked at her tenderly. "When was it that I fell in love with you, Tory?" he had said i
n wonder, using the pet name that he had always called her by. Then he had kissed her again.

  Victoria remembered the wonder of that kiss. It had been sweet and gentle, and he had held her so masterfully. "You are still so young, Tory, but I love you. Will you wait for me? I want you to be my wife when this war is over." From that time on she had been Paul's girl. As she grew older, she had been admired by many of the neighborhood boys, but she had had eyes only for Paul.

  We would have been married by now, she thought bitterly, if this war was ended. It was one more thing to hold against the Yankees.

  Rebel brought her back to the present. He was nudging her hand. She laughed at him. "I know what you want." She drew a carrot from her pocket and held it while he nibbled on it.

  Rebel was outstanding. His sire and dam had been champion thoroughbreds, and when, to the delight of the O'Brians, the dam had produced twins, Paul had insisted on giving one to Victoria for her birthday while he kept the other twin for himself. He had been on leave again, and had presented the colt to her, with a bright red ribbon about his neck.

  Victoria had been overjoyed. "I will call him Rebel," she told him.

  That night Paul had to return to his unit. They had walked hand in hand, wishing they could have had more time together. Victoria had felt a lump in her throat when Paul had put his arms about her and held her close. "I wish we were married, Tory," he had said; "then it would not be quite so hard to leave you."

  "Oh, Paul, I am going to miss you so badly. Please take care of yourself. I will pray for you every night."

  "I will take comfort in that thought," he had said, then had kissed her tenderly and rode away.

  It was only a week later that Victoria had received word that her father had been killed in battle. The letter had praised John Farraday as a hero, but Victoria had felt only grief that she would never again see her father. "I swear vengeance on all Yankees from this day forward." She had cried bitterly against Bodine's shoulder as he had tried to comfort her.