Scarlet Leaves

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Scarlet Leaves Page 25

by Sonya Birmingham


  The next week, Taggart turned about in his desk chair and stared at Silky, astonishment touching his face. "You told him what?"

  She heaved a great sigh, wishing there were some way to soften the news. The Lord knew it had taken her three days just to get up the courage to broach the subject with him. "I told him that he could visit me herep-perhaps he could, that is."

  Taggart stood, his eyes shimmering with amazement. "But why? Why did you do such a thing?" he asked in an irritated tone. "Don't you realize the problems that could cause?"

  Silky turned, offended by his manner. With crossed arms she moved to the window, watching late-afternoon sun sparkle over a line of ambulances that rattled past Capitol Square. "I couldn't help it," she explained, clutching her arms tightly. "He penned me in a corner. I just told him yes, perhaps, and he jumped on it right away." She whirled about, widening her eyes. "I think he suspects we're not cousins, anyway. I think he knows we're ... we're what we are. If I'd given him a hard no, he'd have known for sure."

  Taggart lit a cheroot and tossed the match on a tray. "Do you know who the man iswhat he is?" he inquired, a stem edge to his voice.

  "He's an officer, of course ... from New Orleans. He told me he came from a fine old Louisiana family," she answered with a spark of defiance.

  "Fine Louisiana family, indeed," Taggart snorted, jamming the cigar in his mouth. "He works directly for General Winder, the provost Marshal of Richmond."

  Silky stared at him, wishing there weren't so many military terms she didn't understand. "What does that mean?" she asked softly, her tense emotions barely in check.

  He shot her a dark look. "That means a great deal indeed. Besides issuing passes and listening to the complaints of citizens, it means he has the power to make seizures without the benefit of habeas corpus. He can arrest civilians and military personnel alike without a warrant and imprison them without a charge preferred."

  It crossed Silky's mind that if Taggart was a good Confederate as he claimed, that shouldn't bother him, but in the heat of their conversation she let the observation slide. With a toss of her hair, she shrugged her shoulders negligently. "I understand he has a lot of power, but I don't understand why you're so bothered about it."

  "I'm bothered," Taggart stated, leisurely walking to her, "because Fouche isn't liked by his fellow officers." Distaste tightened his features. "Many of them feel he's not only a perfumed peacock but a bounder as well." He put his hands about her shoulders, his expression softening. "I don't like you associating with such a man.''

  Silky resented his proprietary air, especially since he'd given her so little attention himself lately. But the spark of jealousy in his eyes did provide her with the first measure of emotional comfort she'd felt in a long time. "I don't think I can totally avoid him," she admitted tentatively. "If he tells everyone what we really are it might hurt your work. People would suspect something was wrong and start to ask questions."

  Taggart stared at her, grudgingly admitting to himself that she was right. He'd presented Silky as his cousin. For all of Richmond to know they were not would be disastrous for their social life and, more importantly raise doubts about his extended leave and pose the dangerous question of what he was doing here in the first place. He should have known, he thought, perturbed at himself for not planning ahead. He should have chosen some innocuous, calf-eyed swain to pay polite court to Silky, someone who would have presented no problem for either of them. There he had made a mistake, he decided. He'd also failed to tell Silky that one of Fouche's other duties was arresting Yankee spies. But that aside, her safety was utmost in his mind, and he had a bad feeling about the man. In fact, the thought of him touching her made his skin crawl.

  Silky studied his troubled eyes, wondering what was going on in his head. From the look of things, she'd certainly touched a tender nerve with the subject of Fouche. She had known he wouldn't be pleased, but she hadn't expected this.

  He walked to the windows, chomping on his cigar. "All right," he drawled in a flat, resigned tone. He turned about and looked at her sharply. "If he presses you, accept one invitation onlyperhaps a buggy ride in the park in broad daylight, with Delcie along as a chaperon." His eyes flared. ''If he does one thing out of line tell me immediately. And look for ways to discourage him. Tell him you're busy. Make up anything that comes to your head; just hold him at arm's length. And above all, don't encourage him."

  Silky felt as if she were being lectured by a stern father or an elder brother. Maybe that was the way it should be, since Taggart had been treating her more like a sister lately than a lover. She considered telling him that she thought Fouche was amusing, much more entertaining than Taggart had been lately, but she had the grace to hold her tongue.

  Taggart gave her a grave look. "I have serious doubts about this manserious indeed." The tension grew thicker by the second, and just then a mantel clock chimed the hour, claiming his reluctant attention. "I'm sorry." He sighed, walking back to the desk and plucking his jacket from the back of the chair. "I have an appointment, and I must go."

  Disappointment spiraled through Silky. He was leaving again, leaving her alone when they'd hardly spoken all day except for this depressing conversation about Fouche. He'd promised her dinner tonight; then he was going to take her dancing. She suddenly remembered how much fun she'd had when he'd first taught her to waltz. How they'd laughed and enjoyed each other's company. How wonderful it had felt to be held in his arms, knowing that feeling of warm security would later be replaced by heart-pounding passion. But the way he was treating her now wasn't fairit just wasn't fair at all!

  "We were going to dinner," she exclaimed, finally losing her temper, which after weeks of tension had snapped like a frazzled cord. "Yesterday you said you'd take me dancing, too. You promised me." Her words hung heavily in the quiet room.

  A deep frown streaked across his brow. "Something has come up since then," he said, unfastening his hot eyes from her and glancing at the clock once more. He regarded her with a stormy countenance. "I have important business to take care of. Can't you see that?"

  Stung by his reply, she tossed back her hair. She'd tried to be a lady, tried to ignore her doubts and fears about their relationship, but she just couldn't do it any longer. "I think I'm beginning to see a lot of things now," she exclaimed, her voice breaking miserably. She walked to him and clung to his arms, her vision blurring with tears. "I'm beginning to see you have a reason for being so busy, and I think that reason wears a skirt."

  Surprise flooded his eyes, surprise that Silky read as incriminating guilt.

  "I can't talk about this now," he replied with a stony expression.

  Frantic, Silky blurted out, "Do you realize how long its been since we made love?" Her throat went dry with fear and desperation. "I-It's been more than six weeks now."

  He looked at her coolly. "I see you've been keeping score. That only proves you have more time than I."

  He walked to the threshold and she called after him, "Taggart, please tell me what's wrong." She trembled with emotion. "You've met another woman, haven't you?"

  His hand on the doorknob, he threw her a keen glance that left her desolate. "Don't wait up, as it will be late when I return," he announced in an impersonal tone. With that, he strode out and closed the door behind him.

  Silky stood quietly for a moment, then sat down in an easy chair, tortured by dozens of doubts and fears. Despite her efforts to return their relationship to the wonderful days they'd enjoyed in the mountains and when they'd first arrived in Richmond, Taggart was growing tired of her. Her worst fear had materialized, for every day since Burton Harrison's party he'd returned to the hotel smelling of gardenia perfume. At first she hadn't been able to place the scent because it was foreign to the Blue Ridge, but after visiting a Richmond florist, she'd finally been able to identify it. She'd noticed that scent on someone, too, but try as she might, she just couldn't remember who.

  She laid her head on the soft chair and shut her
eyes, overcome with depression. She was losing him, she thought, pain slicing through her. He was slipping through her fingers like water from a cupped hand. That was why he never made love to her anymore. That was why he looked for reasons to stay away from her. And that was why he'd made no commitment when she confessed her love for him. Deep in her soul, she already knew he was involved with another womana woman who wore gardenia perfume.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Captain Fouche flashed Silky a bright smile, his eyes gleaming with admiration. "You look lovely, chérie, absolutely lovely. I do believe you rival the belles of Paris." She gave him her hand, then stepped back so he could get a better look at her new ensemble, a maroon day dress, worn with black mesh fingerless mitts, a saucy bonnet awash in black and maroon feathers, and a dainty ruffled parasol. "No," he corrected himself, kissing her hand and drawing her to his side once more, "On second thought, you put them to shame."

  With an inward flush of pleasure at his flowery compliment, she took his arm as they strolled through the park, their footsteps crunching over the twisting gravel path. March had finally come to the city, and with it the first burst of spring. The winter had been cold and dreary, but with a little sun the fertile Southern soil had produced early tulips, crocuses, and cowslips, whose blossoms nodded in the light breeze. Already a host of tender chartreuse leaves frosted the gnarled oaks, and soon there would be a glory of trailing jasmine along the iron fence and the heavy scent of magnolia blossoms on the air.

  Fouche extended his white-gloved hand toward an old bench under an embowering tree. Behind the tree, in the center of the park, a huge three-tiered fountain splashed and splattered, making soft trickling sounds to soothe the nerves. "Perhaps you're getting tired. Shall we rest awhile?" he suggested gallantly. He whipped out a handkerchief and brushed off the bench, flicking away a few damp leaves that might stain her new gown.

  With a sense of lingering guilt, Silky sat down, watching afternoon light dance over the brass buttons on the Creole's colorful uniform. A warm smile on his lips, he took off his military hat and claimed a place beside her, his face glowing with adoration.

  How often she'd refused this man's invitations! she thought nervously. But today, when Fouche had arrived at the Spotswood, begging her to join him for a meal and a drive, she'd been so lonely, so depressed, so hungry for a bit of company, she'd finally accepted, even though Delcie was not there to act as a chaperon.

  During lunch Fouche kept pouring wine into her glass despite her protests, and she had to admit she felt a little giddy, but it was so good to be out of the hotel with a companionable friend. Perhaps she'd acted foolishly, but how she reveled in the moist breeze upon her face and the sound of the warbling birds flitting through the trees. Why, the day was so light and fresh, she could almost pretend she was home.

  Fouche's questioning eyes roamed over her. "What are you thinking about, chérie?"

  She twirled her parasol, her spirits lifting. "I was thinking about the Blue Ridge and how I'd like to be there fight now, with spring bursting loose over the mountains. The pussy willows will be out already," she told him, remembering the feel of the slick buds between her fingertips, "and pretty soon the dogwoods will billow out over the hollows like white clouds, perfuming the air with the sweetest scent God ever made."

  Fouche offered her a look as soft as the air about them.

  "You miss your home very much, don't you?"

  "Oh yes, this is the prettiest time of the year in the mountains, except fall," she replied, recalling the season of scarlet leaves when she'd first met Taggart.

  A tender smile gathered in the Creole's eyes. "New Orleans is gorgeous in the spring. I wish I could show you Belle Carin. By next month it will be a riot of color."

  She noted his nostalgic expression, feeling more comfortable with him all the time. Taggart had said he was a dangerous man, that he abused his power, that he was disliked by his fellow officersbut today he'd sensed her nerves were frazzled with worry and he'd been kind and agreeable. In fact, he'd gone out of his way to entertain her, to amuse her, to make her laugh. He'd done all the things Taggart didn't seem to be interested in now. Could such a man be all bad?

  Fouche fell silent for a while, and there was only the rustle of the breeze in the trees; then be took her hand in his. Rings glittered on his fingers, some set with rubies, others with garnets and sparkling diamonds. It amused her to see a man with so many rings, but somehow it made her like him even better, for she realized he loved pretty things. There was no harm in loving pretty things.

  "There will be a ball next week at the American Hotel. Will you go with me?" he asked softly, his dark eyes gentle and pleading.

  Regret surged through her that she must reject him yet again. Why should she hurt him when he'd always been kind and gracious toward her? "No, I'm afraid not," she demurred, trying to let him down as gently as possible. "My cousin and I have already made plans and"

  "This cousin of yours keeps you very busy, does he not?" Fouche interrupted, his face suddenly hardening. He glanced at the sparkling pond, then back at her. "Mon Dieu, every time I see the man he has a scowl on his face."

  Silky turned her head, wondering how she might sidestep the delicate situation. "He has a lot on his mind. He's so busy and"

  "Busy doing what? He's on extended leave, is he not? How could a man with such leisure be so busy?" He turned her face to his, searching her eyes. "Is there anything you would like to tell me, anything about your friendship that I should know?"

  Surprise leaped within her. She detected a spark of something besides concern in his expression, and a tremor, delicate as wind-ruffled water, passed through her. Desperately, she tried to compose an acceptable reply. "No, of course not. I"

  He trailed his warm fingers over her cheek. "It's just that your eyes are so sad, chérie. What has put that sadness in your eyes?"

  For some reason she couldn't understand, Silky felt a tremendous urge to unburden herself to this charming young man. Perhaps it was because she'd had too much wine, perhaps it was because he was supplying in abundance what Taggart was not, perhaps it was because she was so utterly desperate, afraid of losing the man she loved to another woman. "I'm just lonely, I suppose," she finally answered, twisting the cords of her reticule between her fingers. "My cousin is away so much." She sighed thoughtfully. "We used to talk and laugh and play cards, and he used to go with me to visit Daniel."

  Fouche's eyes glimmered with interest. "Where does he go now?"

  "Various places," she murmured, gazing at the velvety park and remembering her graduation day, when she and Taggart had come here together. She felt a sudden loneliness and tears welled in her eyes. She grazed her fingertips over her temple. She was so light-headed, so trembly inside, she felt as if she might fly to pieces with nervousness.

  "But where?" Fouche pressed, his voice rising and becoming insistent.

  Silky regarded him, sensing he was a man used to getting what he wanted, including the answers to his questions. But his questions were becoming intrusive and personal, too personal to answer. "N-No, I can't tell you," she murmured, her hand trembling ever so slightly.

  "But why?" He laughed, moving closer to her side, and putting one arm about her.

  "I-I just can't," she replied. She noticed his eyes had taken on a hard, brittle sheen.

  His jewels flashing, he clasped her arm, pressing his fingers into it. "You must tell me. Where does he go?" His strong face was set in cold resolve, demanding an answer. "Where does he go, leaving you alone and sad so much?"

  Silky's depression over Taggart's rejection had drained her spirit to such a low ebb, she scarcely had the will to evade him. Suddenly all the hurt and resentment she'd ever felt toward him came rushing forth in a great tide of emotion, completely overpowering her and, not believing her ears, she heard herself whisper, "Petersburg. He goes to Petersburg."

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, a tear ran down her cheek, for she realized she
'd betrayed Taggart by revealing their special secret. Why had she done such a thing? she berated herself. It was just that Fouche had been so pressing, so demanding, that somehow he'd forced the words from her lips.

  Feeling so miserable she wanted to die, she pulled a handkerchief from the top of her reticule and dabbed at her eyes. If only she hadn't come, if only she hadn't let Fouche force all the wine on her!

  The Creole studied her shrewdly. "Taggart is not your cousin, is he?" he prodded, not wanting to let up now that he'd broken down her defenses with his insistent questions. "He is your cher ami, n'est-ce pas?"

  Silky rose, her heart hammering wildly. She didn't have to understand French to know what he was asking. She'd relaxed her guard and revealed one secret; now he was asking her the most personal question of all, trying to see into her very soul.

  She walked away a few steps, trying to conceal her expression. If he didn't know the truth already, he surely would when he looked into her eyes. She pressed her lips together, vowing she'd never admit she and Taggart had been lovers, and if she had her way, would be again. But even then, she knew all was lost, for her silence was as good as an admission. If she could only shrug the question aside and lie stoutly, but somehow, about this important matter she could not lie.

  Fouche turned her about, holding both of her arms. For a moment it was as if his mask of congeniality had slipped, revealing a flame of lust in his eyes. It was then she suddenly realized he was jealous of Taggart in the way only one animal could be jealous of another. And although she'd said not a word about their personal life, she was sure he understood their relationship. It was written plain and clear in his dark, envious eyes that now gleamed like onyx.

 

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