She has also offered to entertain one other guest, and here, Annie, I must ask your sincere help. No teasing me about it, as I am far more fearful of this than of a saber in battle. I have been in correspondence with our mutual friend Charlotte. I must admit to being struck down by Cupid’s bow myself. I have asked her to attend this review as well, saying that you would come and fetch her as you passed through Warrenton on your way to Culpeper. The two of you could then travel together.
And I have yet another request about Charlotte. There is a box buried deep in my mattress. It contains a watch and other trinkets from Father. I hid them there, not knowing what the war might bring. Inside it is a ring that belonged to his mother, that Father told me I should give to the woman I ask to marry me. Could you bring that ring to me, Annie? But keep the fact of it to yourself? Please don’t tell Mother or Jamie. Or Charlotte, obviously! I want her to enjoy the ball and the review and come to her own decisions about me, before I ask her. If you tell her before, I fear she might not come.
Annie caught her breath and smiled. Not come? Why, Charlotte would probably sprout wings and fly down to Culpeper like a songbird if she knew Laurence’s intentions. “Oh, brother Laurence,” Annie whispered with amusement, “how blind you are.”
There was one more paragraph.
I have a last request of you, Annie. I need you to bring me two good horses from Hickory Heights. I don’t know how many are left. We have heard that the Feds have been confiscating every horse that they find in the attempt to cut off Mosby’s supplies. By the way, I saw Mosby when he delivered that captured Federal, General Stoughton, to Fitz Lee. Stoughton and Fitz Lee had been classmates at West Point, and the Yankee popinjay asked to be turned over to Fitz. Mosby is a cold, calculating man, Annie. Fitz hates him and despises the hit-and-run tactics he uses in the night, no matter how much favor General Stuart lavishes on him. Beware the man. And do not let Mosby coerce Jamie into riding with him.
Annie’s eyes blurred with tears. What could she say to Laurence? He clearly didn’t understand that Mosby seemed their only protection against the Union buzzards. Stuart and Lee had moved south, deep into the heart of Virginia, and left them unguarded, completely open to Federals. Mosby’s daring raids brought hope to them, inspired them to keep up their defiance of the Yankees. And yet she knew that much of what Laurence said was true. There was nothing warm or reassuring about Major Mosby. And although his raids did disrupt the Federals, they didn’t win real battles.
She blinked to clear her vision and kept reading:
When you pick out the horses, remember that I need a fast, brave horse, one that will jump anything and outrun a gunshot. And then I need a replacement of the same ilk in case that one is shot down. Think of Merlin—he was fearless, willing to charge down anything. I can’t count the number of times he carried me out of harm’s way, jumping huge fences and fallen trees. I must admit that I wept for him more than for some of my fallen comrades when he died. On Merlin I felt invincible. I need another Merlin. Do we have any such horses, Annie?
Annie dropped the paper. Hickory Heights had seven horses left of the sixty they had at the beginning of the war. These remaining few were brood mares and youngsters, not really trained for riding yet. Jamie rode their one remaining well-trained gelding. And given his activities with Mosby, Jamie needed a fast, strong horse as badly as Laurence. There was only one horse left that matched Laurence’s needs: Angel.
Annie stroked the shining black mane as she rode. Angel’s ears pricked up, and her head lifted high in response. How could Annie send this beautiful, affectionate horse into the gore of a battle? She let the jaunty clip-clop of Angel’s prancing walk reverberate up through her own bones, memorizing the feel of it. Angel had such joy in her gait, a thrill to be moving. Annie could sense that Angel took in everything she passed, reveling in the smells, the sounds, the winds that rippled along her body. Every ride with Angel was a celebration of life.
Annie shifted in her saddle and fought back tears. There was nothing else to be done. She glanced back at Isaac, who was accompanying her to Warrenton. Jamie had announced that he was too busy for dances and that he might be needed for a raid. So Isaac drove their carriage, to which their next-best horse was tied. He was a three-year-old, fast and sleek and muscled. But he was barely broken to saddle and was a silly thing, spooking at everything and yanking against his halter. God forbid that Laurence would actually have to count on that horse in danger. No, he must have Angel. Angel would keep him safe. No matter how headstrong Angel was, she was fleet, and she could jump the moon.
“You be good to Laurence, my beautiful girl,” Annie whispered, and she patted Angel. The mare snorted and shook her head, jingling the bridle. Even though she felt like crying, Annie smiled and nodded. Sometimes she truly believed that Angel read her thoughts.
Annie put one gloved hand to her throat to check for the feel of a ribbon tied round her neck, tucked underneath her clothes. Slipped through the ribbon was the ring Laurence had requested she bring. She’d hidden it under her clothes for fear of running into stragglers on the road. Isaac carried an old musket with him, but Annie wasn’t sure he’d know what to do with it if they were attacked. The county was plagued with deserters from both armies, and even the Southern ones were bad. They were hungrier and bitter.
That was one thing, at least, in which Mosby, the one-time lawyer, was unquestionably a Godsend: policing the area and establishing some sense of law among the citizens. Mosby’s rangers hunted down thieves and looters as avidly as they did Union supply trains. Horse and cattle thieves were often executed by Mosby’s orders. His justice was feared. Most troublemakers avoided what was known as “Mosby’s Confederacy,” a large wedge of valleys in Loudoun and Fauquier counties. It stretched from Snicker’s Gap in the Blue Ridge Mountains, east along Snickersville Turnpike to Aldie, south down the edge of the Bull Run Mountains, and then west again, along the Manassas Gap Railroad back to the Blue Ridge, which then drew the long, back spine of Mosby’s territory.
As Annie left the heart of Mosby’s terrain and rode south toward Warrenton, she felt intensely vulnerable. Although Mosby often raided Union camps around it, his presence was not pervasive in lower Fauquier. Warrenton itself was forever changing hands. She wasn’t even sure which side currently controlled the town.
When she finally saw Warrenton’s church spires in the hills before her without having run into any Union picket posts, Annie was hugely relieved. The ride had been a bleak one. She’d passed farm after farm whose fences were broken down and houses and barns were deserted. Some of the mills along the way had been burned and looted. The giant mill wheels stood still, the grinding stones silent. Fields that should have been neatly plowed and lush with new growth of wheat or corn instead lay barren, pimpled by weedlike cedar trees trying to retake the land. Miles of her homeland were deserted and ghostlike.
Warrenton, too, lacked its usual busy bustle. As she rode through the streets, she noticed two women bartering with a seedy-looking sutler. From the eaves of his covered wagon hung shoes, hams, and bags of sugar. Inside she could see bolts of material, sacks of flour, canned fruit—rare, coveted items.
Angel danced past and Annie heard one of the women gasp, “Thirty dollars for a pair of shoes? Eight dollars for a turkey?” Then the woman held up a bracelet and asked the traveling merchant if he would take that instead of cash. Sickened, Annie goosed Angel into a trot. She wondered if the bracelet was a beloved heirloom or something given to the lady by a sweetheart. How many treasured things—like her beautiful Angel—would they all be forced to give up before this fight was over?
“Annie! Annie!” Charlotte was on the stoop of her house, waving her handkerchief.
Annie smiled and wondered how long she’d been watching the road. And Laurence was afraid that Charlotte might not come!
Charlotte skittered down the steps and onto the street to catch hold of Annie as she dismounted. Like a child, she swung Annie around in a circle,
hand to hand. “Oh, Annie! I’m so excited. Do we really have to wait until tomorrow to leave?” She giggled and chattered on. “How silly I am! Of course, you must be exhausted. Come in, come in. We’ll have tea this afternoon with Eliza. Is that all right? She is so interested in all the news from you. She wants to learn if you know the legendary Mosby. She’ll be pea green with envy if you do!”
Charlotte dragged Annie up the stairs and into their house. Annie noted that the elegant home didn’t have any saber marks along its walls or obviously missing items. Perhaps there was an advantage to being in a town that mostly had been occupied by an enemy that wanted to enjoy it and use it. Still, she noticed that Charlotte’s pretty face was not as round as it used to be and her waist was thinner. And tea that afternoon was a meager offering, a few ham biscuits and a bitter brew of raspberry leaves.
Eliza, however, remained her coquettish self. One of her sisters was engaged to a Mosby ranger, and she was full of gossip about the Gray Ghost. Did Annie know him personally? What was he like? Was he part man, part spirit, the way everyone described him? If Eliza were to hear of troop movements or the like, how would she get information to him?
Annie answered all her questions, again flattered and seduced by the girlish friendship she was so unused to enjoying. Isolated as she was at Hickory Heights, with so many grown-up worries, she was rejuvenated by the teasing, gossipy conversation.
Their banter had become quite bubbly when Eliza leaned back in her chair and said, “Oh, Annie Sinclair, I do believe you are the luckiest girl in the world. Not only to know General Jeb Stuart, but Major John Mosby, too.”
“Why, you don’t know the half of it, Eliza,” blurted out Charlotte, caught up in the vivaciousness. “General Stuart actually wrote a poem to Annie.”
Annie gasped.
Eliza’s face changed from mirth to dead serious. “Really? Oh, let me see!”
Annie was speechless. She’d never shown that poem to Charlotte. She felt completely naked and violated. She glared at Charlotte.
Charlotte’s mouth popped open. “Oh, Annie. I’m so sorry. I…I…” Her cheeks turned red and she looked down at her hands. “I noticed you reading something one night that made you sigh…and…I…I…found it after you went to sleep and read it. I didn’t mean to, Annie. And I didn’t mean to say anything…. I…” She stopped.
Annie was furious. How could Charlotte invade her privacy like that and then blab it to Eliza? Annie had another horrible thought. “Charlotte, have you told anyone else?”
Charlotte stammered and her voice became almost inaudible, like a guilty child’s: “Well, I might have mentioned it to one or two other friends, right after General Stuart was here.”
“Charlotte! How could you?”
“Oh, Annie, it was just so exciting when he came through, and everybody was talking about him and how dashing, how princely he was, and I said, ‘You’ll never guess the half of it. The man’s a poet as well!’ And then they said, ‘How do you know?’ and I couldn’t not tell them, don’t you see, Annie? It was a matter of honor then, and I—”
Eliza interrupted her. “Well, Charlotte, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! I thought we were like sisters—how can you keep confidences from me?”
Charlotte looked as if she were going to cry.
Annie couldn’t believe any of it—first Charlotte’s betrayal, and now Eliza’s irritation at not being in on it.
Eliza turned to Annie, who was still staring at Charlotte in disbelief. “Annie, I want to see that poem. Please, oh please,” she wheedled. “It must be simply awe-inspiring. Don’t you be denying a poor girl that joy. Belief in our leaders is what keeps us going. Unless, of course, there’s something in it that…well…might embarrass you.”
Annie wanted to scream at Eliza that she’d never share something so personal. Who did she think she was to ask for it to begin with, or to imply that there might be something improper in it? She wanted to slap Charlotte and tell her that Laurence had planned to marry her, but that Annie was going to tell him what a simpering idiot she was and put a stop to it. She balled up her fists and imagined how splendid spitting out those words would be.
But instead, Annie stood up and lied. “I don’t have it with me, Eliza. I’m tired, Charlotte. I’d like to rest for a bit upstairs.” She swept from the room.
As she reached the stairs, Annie heard, “Well, Charlotte, that one is certainly stuck-up.”
Charlotte burst into sobs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
June 4, 1863
Culpeper Courthouse,
Virginia
Annie stood among a grove of ferns that had been dragged in to decorate the courthouse for the ball. It was a warm night, and she was flushed from dancing a spirited polka with a rather fat lieutenant who stomped on her toes. She flipped her carved ivory fan in front of her face, for the moment glad to watch the dancing parade before her and to ease her bruised toes out of her tight shoes. Honestly, she wished propriety didn’t insist that she accept all dance requests. That lieutenant was a horrible dancer! She smiled in understanding at his new partner as he turned her awkwardly past Annie. She recognized the sudden look of pain on the girl’s face. Yes, the lieutenant had found her toes as well!
Although the hall was dim from lack of candles, the faces before Annie were clearly visible, lit up from a joy within. There was a grand festivity to it all, a swell of hope-filled giddiness. Hundreds of handsome cavalry officers strode through the hall picking out Virginia beauties to squire. The dance floor itself was a swirl of bright colors—pink, yellow, turquoise, silver—as men waltzed their breathless partners around and around and around, hoopskirts swinging in unison, the rustling a backdrop to the band’s music.
Hanging from the high ceiling were Confederate flags and long banners of blue and white. Culpeper gardens had been completely emptied of their flowers, and the hall was filled with the strong scent of full-bloom roses, lilies, and peonies, competing with the spicy perfumes worn by the ladies—and some dandified gentlemen.
Enraptured, Annie took it all in, recognizing that she might not see the like again. As her eyes scanned the room, pausing at each satin dress, each golden sash and saber, they came to rest on the waltzing figures of Laurence and Charlotte. For a moment her happiness was dampened. She still was very angry at Charlotte, even though her friend had apologized, often in tears, at least a dozen times on their trip to Culpeper. She cocked her head and watched them. They did make a beautiful couple—Laurence so fair and lithe, Charlotte so dark and soft. Their eyes did not leave each other’s, even as other, less graceful couples bumped into them. Charlotte was clearly hanging on his every word and look. Annie had watched her duck behind the flower arrangements when other young gallants approached her to ask for a dance. She was saving herself for Laurence.
Annie sighed. She had burned to tell Laurence all about Charlotte’s foolish indiscretion when he’d asked for the engagement ring Annie had brought along. Did he really want to spend his life with someone who was so nosey and gossipy? But his boyish excitement had been too great to spoil. And how could she explain that poem to her big brother anyway? Instincts told her that Laurence would not approve of it, and that it could make him frosty toward his commanding general.
Besides, hadn’t Annie herself made mistakes before? There had been nothing malicious about Charlotte’s blunder. She knew that. Still, she would love to be able to just throw a real tantrum once in a while. All this ladylike self-containment and patient understanding was infuriating!
She looked at the dais at the front of the hall. There sat General Stuart with the town’s mayor and other Confederate army dignitaries. At the last moment General Robert E. Lee’s frantic schedule had kept him from the festivities. Annie knew Stuart was terribly disappointed. She had spoken to him briefly. The flash of genuine gladness that had come into his eyes at seeing her was buoying her through the night. She smoothed her skirt and touched her hair to make sure it was still h
eld back by its wreath of flowers. She wore one of her mother’s dresses—thin white muslin atop an underdress of sky blue silk, with off-the-shoulders puffed sleeves, all trimmed with black velvet ribbon. She knew she looked pretty. But it was unlikely that Stuart would ask her to dance. And besides, Annie reminded herself harshly, he’s married.
“Will you give me the pleasure of a dance, Miss Sinclair?”
Annie jumped at the sound of a soft, lilting voice in her ear. She hadn’t heard anyone approach her from behind. She turned and faced William Farley.
Farley smiled at her shyly. “I am sorry if I startled you.”
“Oh, no, Captain Farley, not at all.” Annie blushed. He had large, light gray eyes, with long, dark lashes, and an open, pleasant face. “It must be your ability as a scout that allows you to move so silently.”
Farley held out his right hand, and she took it. There was something almost elegant about him as he led her toward the floor.
“Form lines for the Virginia reel!” shouted the caller from the band platform.
“Yeehaw!” yipped a few of the more exuberant youths as they grabbed girls and whirled them to the floor.
“Oh, dear.” Farley laughed. “This dance is not my forte.”
Annie happened to love the capering and swinging of the Virginia reel, the frothiness of the horn-pipe music. She’d brightened instantly at the call. But she tried to respect Farley’s reticence. “Well, if you’d rather wait,” she demurely said.
“Oh, no, Miss Sinclair. Just forgive me if I falter!” They took their place as the second couple in the line of dancers.
As the jaunty Irish jig began, the women and men took four quick steps forward, curtsied and bowed, and skipped back into place. A lady and man diagonally across from each other skimmed forward, joined left hands, and made a complete swirling turn. They do-si-doed, passing each other right shoulder to right shoulder. And as the head couple joined hands and chasséd, skip-sliding, down the line, the others clapped to the music, until it was their turn to pass through the line, turning it inside out on itself.
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