Alarmed, Annie looked at Thomas. He was leaning up against the wall. He smiled at her.
Had he noticed? He must have. It was so clear that someone should be sitting in that empty seat, eating that dinner. What should she do? Should she try to concoct some story? Should she say something before he asked about it? What explanation could she give for an extra place setting except the obvious—that a person sitting there had left in a hurry, afraid of being seen.
All eyes were on her. No one uttered a word, except Thomas.
“Is the doctor with Mrs. Sinclair?” He looked at her encouragingly, as if he were trying to help her start a casual conversation.
“Yes…yes, he is,” Annie stammered, regaining her balance. “I must thank you, Major Walker, for bringing him. I…I…” Oh, the words of apology stuck in her throat. “I am sorry for my rudeness earlier.”
Thomas bowed slightly. “Think no more of it, Miss Sinclair. Your brother, here, has explained to me how often your home has been—what was the word you used, James? Ransacked? I can understand your dislike of our troops.”
Annie ground her teeth. What else had Jamie been saying? Hadn’t he learned to hold his tongue?
“He also told me how mistreated he was in Alexandria, and I am sorry to hear it. I was actually quite well cared for by your officials while at Libby Prison before I was exchanged. I am relieved to hear that your brother has returned to take care of your farm. I’m sure he is a great comfort to you.”
Annie assessed Thomas’ face as he spoke. Was this a trap somehow, this recitation of everything Jamie had said? In some ways, it had the opposite feel, as if he was making sure that Annie knew of Jamie’s ramblings so that she would not contradict anything he had said by mistake. Which was it?
Thomas waited a moment—making sure Annie had taken it all in?—then continued. “I was telling James about our purposes in this area. Colonel Lowell was actually a schoolmate of mine when we were quite small. I went to the Point and he went to Harvard, but we remained close. I went home to Massachusetts after my prisoner exchange, and Colonel Lowell was there mustering a new cavalry regiment. He asked me to join him. Now we are here to police Mosby’s rangers. Washington is quite afraid of them.”
Thomas began to walk around the edge of the table. He paused a moment to pat Jamie’s shoulder—Jamie turned purple—and kept walking. He stopped beside Murdock’s empty place and actually laid his hands on the chair to lean on it nonchalantly. But his words were calculated and slow: “Most of our people do not respect Mosby. Colonel Lowell feels differently. He thinks him a worthy adversary, certainly a clever one. We’ve been ordered to burn down any house that we find harboring his riders, but Colonel Lowell says he will avoid following that order when he can. However,” Thomas continued as he walked toward Annie, “we will have to arrest any ranger we find.”
He closed the gap between them and reached Annie’s side. “May we sit in the parlor until the doctor is finished, Miss Sinclair? Perhaps you could tell me more of the poets you enjoy, since Lord Byron offends you.”
He offered her his arm. Mesmerized, Annie took it. She had understood that little speech in the dining room. He was telling her he did indeed see the plate, that he understood its implications, and that he was going to ignore it. At the same time, he was warning her. Next time, she wouldn’t be so lucky. Next time, Thomas Walker himself might have to make the arrest.
In the parlor, Annie sat and Thomas awkwardly paced in front of the bookshelves. Amazed, she wondered at the generosity of what he had just done. She suddenly felt very shy.
Thomas attempted a few beginnings of conversations. But they all fell flat.
“The doctor is taking a long time,” she murmured.
“He is very thorough, Miss Sinclair. If there is something that can be done to heal your mother, he will find it.”
She nodded. The carved wooden clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly. Thomas cleared his throat. Annie smoothed her skirt.
“Now, about Lord Byron,” Thomas tried. “You know, he really isn’t my favorite, although his narrative poems—Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage and the like—are quite impressive. I generally prefer…”
Annie brightened. She remembered. “Keats,” she interrupted him. “Keats saved your life!”
Thomas beamed. “I am flattered that you recall that, Miss Sinclair. I’m afraid I haven’t had the time to replace that volume after the bullet destroyed it.”
Annie rose and swept toward the bookshelf. “Let me give you one.” She pulled out a book and turned to him. “In thanks for bringing the surgeon.”
“I will borrow it, Miss Sinclair, while we are in Virginia.”
Their eyes met.
“Annie,” she said softly, unbelieving. “You may call me Annie.”
Embarrassed, she fled to her chair.
Thomas looked down at the book, suddenly nervous himself, and flipped through it. “Ah,” he said after a few moments, “now here’s a poem I’ve thought of a great deal recently.”
“Yes?” Annie reached for safe dialogue.
“Which one?”
“‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci.’” He grinned and hesitantly added, “I hope after tonight it will not seem so fitting to my life.”
Annie laughed in spite of herself. He was witty, this Thomas Walker. Keats’ poem, “The Beautiful Woman Without Mercy,” was about a knight suffering unrequited love.
“Would you like me to read?” he asked.
It had been months and months since her family had sat in the parlor to read aloud together. It used to be a favorite evening pastime before the war. That and charades and singing together round the piano. She missed those happy hours dreadfully. She nodded.
He read:
“I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.”
He looked up at her hopefully, and Annie felt herself blush horribly. What was happening?
“Ever since I saw you,” he whispered, “I’ve been haunted. I…”
“Miss Sinclair?” The doctor entered the parlor.
Annie nearly knocked over the chair as she stood, she was so flustered.
“I’m afraid I have bad news.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
August 1, 1863
Hickory Heights
It had been the worst possible news.
“Her heart is failing,” the doctor said quietly.
“In fact, I am stunned that she is still alive. She can’t last much longer. I am terribly sorry. I can tell she is a great lady. She was quite worried that I might be disappointed in myself that I could not mend her.”
Annie had tried to smile in thanks. But she couldn’t. She did manage to say: “That is very like Mother. She always worries about everyone else first. Her heart may be failing, but it is probably the largest heart in Virginia.”
That had been three weeks ago. Thomas had visited many times since then, bringing fresh foods, medicine for Miriam’s headaches, lemons to prevent rickets and strengthen her body. He seemed to refuse to believe the doctor’s diagnosis. Several times, Miriam had asked to be taken downstairs to the porch to sit in the sunshine. There, she could see the hills and breathe in the breezes. Mercifully, the July weather was unusually mild. Twice she had been outside when he arrived, so Thomas could politely sit and talk with her.
Miriam had remembered him instantly, even though she drifted in and out of wakefulness. She wanted to hear of his mother—what she was like, what he liked best about her. She wanted to hear the story of his mother’s joy at his homecoming.
Thomas told her. He described his home, his school, his town, and his friends. Annie heard as he told, and came to know who he was and how he could be so kind. She began to trust that he was as he seemed. The war stayed away for those weeks, and she could forget that he was the enemy. His concern opened her soul.
One morning before
dawn, Aunt May called softly to her. “Miss Annie, honey, your mother is asking for you and Jamie.”
No. Not today. Annie shot up from bed and woke her brother.
He was with Miriam for a long time. When he left, he was crying. Annie reached out to touch him, but he shrugged her off.
“Annie, darling?” a weak voice called.
Annie settled herself in the chair next to Miriam’s bed. She took her hand, so cool, so pale, so thin now, that hand that had held up Annie so often when she was little. Her own hand was hot and sweaty, showing her panic.
Miriam squeezed it. “Don’t be afraid for me, darling. I saw the angels this morning, calling me. I saw your brothers. I know it’s time now.”
Annie’s head dropped to their hands. “Don’t leave me, Mother, please don’t.”
“Oh, darling,” Miriam murmured. “I can’t fight any longer. I am sorry.” She stopped talking to breathe, each intake of air a short gasp and struggle.
Annie lifted her head and waited.
“Annie, I need you to take care of Jamie. He asked me such questions this morning.” Miriam’s eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t know that I had failed him so. How could he not know I love him?”
Annie fought off her own questions about past favoritisms and hurts. Miriam was dying in front of her. She couldn’t burden her mother with her own insecurities now. It was time for her to help her mother as Miriam had helped Annie throughout her life. “Jamie knows, Mother. He’s just a hothead sometimes. And whatever you give him, he seems to need more. He’ll…he’ll grow out of it, Mother.”
Miriam nodded. “I love you, Annie, dearly. You know that, don’t you? You’re my only daughter. You’re precious.” Her eyes drifted closed.
Annie held fast to that hand. Don’t say good-bye yet, Mother. Not yet. I’m not ready.
Miriam’s eyes shot open. Annie could tell Miriam was using all her strength now. “Annie, darling. I know that Laurence was hurt. But I didn’t see him with his brothers this morning in my dream. I know he lives, somewhere. I know it. Take faith in that, Annie. He’ll come home. Tell Laurence…tell him to find a happy life after this war. Tell him for me?”
Annie nodded. “Yes, Mother,” she said, a sob slipping out with it.
“There, there, my darling,” Miriam whispered.
“You, too, Annie. I’m so glad that we never completely tamed you. You’ll need that now. Take all that courage and fire, and that beautiful rebellious heart of yours, and be happy. For me?”
Annie nodded again.
“Remember…” Miriam trailed off, forced herself awake, to breathe, and then finished: “Remember that it doesn’t matter where someone comes from, but where that person is going. Your father knew that about me.”
Her eyes drifted shut. “Annie?”
“Yes, Mother?”
“Help me say the Lord’s Prayer.” Her voice was distant, tiny.
Annie stammered, “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name….”
Before she finished, Miriam was gone.
A mockingbird sang throughout Miriam’s burial. Annie tried to focus on the minister and his prayers, but the bird distracted her. It was a hot, wilting August day. No other birds sang. No bees flew or buzzed. They were all hiding in the trees and bushes from the sweltering sun. And yet this mockingbird sat in the cherry tree beside the family cemetery and warbled song after song, as if it were April and he were showing off to find a mate, joyous in the new life spring was bringing.
Inwardly, a bittersweet belief grew in Annie. If any soul could do it, Miriam could send a bird to tell Annie that she was all right, even happy where she was. Annie made herself believe that it was a final embrace, a final reassurance from her mother. If she could believe that bird and his concert was indeed a sign from Miriam, Annie could somehow make it through the rest of that mournful day. She believed and survived.
The comfort the mockingbird had somehow provided her helped Annie withstand the next week, too, when a letter arrived. It was from Laurence, but written by Sam. It was addressed to Miriam, for, of course, Laurence did not know that she was gone.
Annie held it in her hands a long time before she could open it. She looked at the handwriting, simple, clean, childlike. Miriam had taught Sam to read and write. She wondered briefly how Sam would react to the news of Miriam’s death. He was always so quiet and brief in his speech. And yet, she knew his loyalty ran deep. The letter would bring that fact home hard.
What was inside it? It couldn’t be good if Sam had had to write it for Laurence. Why couldn’t he write himself? The cellar inside her head where she had trapped all her fears about her brother’s safety flew open, and terror seized her. Hands shaking, she undid the stiff envelope.
Dearest Mother, I trust you are resting and recuperating. I have thought often in recent weeks of your well-being and of your care for all of us when we were sick. I hope you know how grateful I have always been for it. I know, too, my sweet mother, how devastated you were when scarlet fever took Father and my brothers. I have been watching many surgeons and nurses work. They lose many patients, perhaps because they can’t wrap them in the gentle love in which you always blanketed us. You must forgive yourself, Mother, for not being able to save them. If you could not, no one could. God wanted them back and that was all. I have tried to say this to you before, but you must believe it. I know this for a fact now. My eyes have shown me.
Annie had to stop reading and wipe her tears. Laurence had realized, then, when he left for Gettysburg, that Miriam was dying. He was saying his good-byes to her. Oh, if only Mother had been able to see this letter before dying. Annie took a deep breath and kept reading.
I know because I am in a hospital now. Sam is penning this for me. I don’t want you to worry. I am fine. I am just a little unsteady as of yet. Sam keeps a close watch on me and insists I am given the best of everything. He is quite the guardian.
I don’t want to relate much about the Battle of Gettysburg, Mother. It was a terrible thing. So much death. I was hurt in the final battle of the final day. Bad luck. Afterward, General Lee had to withdraw or surrender. He could not give up and render the sacrifice of all those boys worthless. So he left those of us who were hurt and could not walk or ride. I know he made that decision with regret. But he had no choice.
I was captured by a very agreeable set of bluecoats and taken to a Union field hospital. They have treated me very well. Right now I am at a place called Camp Letterman. I am told that I will soon be transferred to a permanent hospital, perhaps in Washington, which would be a wonderful thing, not too far from home. From there I am not sure what will happen. I hope to be paroled. In any case, my dearest Mother, please do not worry. I am safe. I am no longer in danger’s way. I am grateful to be alive. Your devoted son.
Annie worried about the terseness of the wording. It was unlike Laurence. But perhaps he was tailoring it to suit Sam’s writing and spelling abilities. She turned the final page, and as she did a small folded paper dropped out.
It was from Sam to her.
Miss Annie:
I best let you know how it is with Mister Laurence. He don’t want Missus Miriam to know, but you needs to before he get home. They will parole him because he is bad hurt. He lost his arm, Miss Annie. It was all broken up during that saber charge. The doctors said they couldn’t fix it, it was busted so bad. They said something called gang-grene would poison him if they didn’t take it off. They tried to run me off, Miss Annie, but I would not leave him. I stayed with him in the rain, him in so much pain, I thought sure he die. Mister Laurence is a brave man, Miss Annie. Men were screaming and throwing fits all around him. He did not say a word. But I could tell from his eyes it hurt something fierce. He didn’t say a word, neither, when they put him on the table to saw into him.
The Federals are fixing to send Mister Laurence on a train to Washington now. They say I can’t go with him. They say their military trains ain’t for darkies. They say I am free so go
on now and make my own way. I told them I was already free and I wanted to stay with Mister Laurence to make sure he all right. They still say I can’t. Then they jabbed their bayonets at me and yelled, “Git.”
So I fix to come home, Miss Annie. Please tell Rachel. I have to walk through Pennsylvania and Maryland, so it may take time. That’s how it is.
Miss Annie, I know you set a store on that horse of yours. She was hurt, cut up pretty good. But she stayed right beside Mister Laurence after he fell. That’s how I find him in all those bodies. I saw her. When they carried Mister Laurence to the hospital, the Feds took her. I will try to find out what happened to her before I set off walking.
Sincerely, Sam.
Annie dropped the letter. She could hardly breathe. It felt as if her ribs might crack open from the heaviness of her heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
September 30, 1863
Hickory Heights
“I thought the children would like her.”
Annie held up a china baby doll. Its eyes closed when she laid it flat, opened when she held it upright. It wore a little yellow bonnet and dress. “It’s darling, Major,” said Annie. “You are too kind.”
“Thomas,” he corrected her.
“Thomas,” Annie repeated shyly. She called to Colleen and Sally.
Colleen squealed at the sight of it. She’d never had a doll made of anything other than cornhusks or rags.
Sally looked at it solemnly and asked, “Is she real?”
“No, child,” Thomas answered with a laugh. “But you can pretend.”
Sally cocked her head. “Is she a Rebel baby or a Yankee baby?”
“Sally!” Annie gasped.
“It’s all right. I don’t mind. Which do you think, Sally?”
“Well…” The little girl thought, looking at the doll hard. “She’s pretty, so she must be a Rebel. No Yankee is pretty, ’cepting you.” She grabbed the doll, clutched it to her chest, and ran away.
Annie, Between the States Page 23