Scarlet Leaves

by Sonya Birmingham

  "Now tell me what has happened," he advised, easing her into a chair. "It must have been something dreadful. I can see it in your face. Perhaps I can help."

  "No, I can'tI ... " Silky stammered, clutching the arms of her chair.

  Fouche sat down beside her, his face tightening with impatience. "Mon Dieu, what has happened?" he insisted, his voice now tinged with restless irritation. "Must I beg you for an answer?"

  Lordamercy, he was doing it again, Silky thought, feeling herself weakening under his persuasive manner. Then, pulling in a deep breath, she vowed she wouldn't make the same mistake twice. He might have tricked her once, she decided, strengthening her will against him, but she wouldn't let it happen againever!

  Fouche clasped her hand, caressing it with his thumb. "You've had a terrible shock, chérie. You need a bit of cheering up. Let me take you out this morning. We'll ride in the park, then eat a fine meal." He held her shoulders lightly, sweeping an intimate gaze over her. "I insist we go out for a bit of fun. You should be with someone who cares about you."

  Silky was so distraught about Caroline, she feared she might burst into tears right in the lobby of the Spotswood and disgrace herself forever. But she dredged up all her courage, finally managing to speak. "No ... thank you. Not today, Captain. I don't feel like it."

  With that, she rose and, briefly glancing at the Creole's stunned face, walked toward the staircase, her legs trembling beneath her. As she hurried up the steps, all she could think of was the envelope Caroline had given Taggart. What in heaven's name did it contain?

  At eight o'clock that evening, Silky paced about her room, her pulse racing as she waited for Taggart to return so she could confront him about Caroline Willmott. All day the lovely lady's face had flashed before her, reminding her that she and Taggart had reached the point where they must resolve their problems. But how could they with so much tension between them? Anger and worry flickered inside her like smoldering kindling ready to burst into flame.

  When she heard him enter his room her heart pounded, but, raising her chin, she walked across the floor. At the threshold, she saw him standing before an open wardrobe, his back toward her as he hung up his fine wool jacket. Hearing her footsteps, he turned and swept a speculative gaze over her. "Silky. What's wrong?" he asked, appraising her thoughtfully. Concern softened his eyes. "I've never seen you look so pale. Are you ill?"

  She moved silently halfway across the room, pausing by a tall-backed Queen Anne chair. "No, I'm not ill," she answered, her voice hoarse with tension, "but I am sicksick of all the secrets that stand between us." Guilt trickled through her as she realized she was keeping a secret herself, but Fouche had tricked her into giving him information, while Taggart was making a willful decision to be with Caroline. Feeling justified in her anger, she straightened her back and held her ground.

  Taggart's eyes faltered over her, and in them she spied a spark of regret that gave her hope. "All right," he replied evenly, apparently realizing he'd have to discuss the situation. "Things have been building up between us for quite a while now. Come on. Out with it. Tell me what's on your mind."

  Silky marshaled her courage. "If you really want to know," she slowly began, steeling her resolve with every word, "I will." Her mouth went dry, and for a moment she thought she might not be able to speak. "This morning, I saw you at ... at Caroline Willmott's."

  Surprise flashed over Taggart's face. "You followed me?" he asked incredulously.

  Silky met his accusing eyes. "Yes, I did. It was Delcie's idea, but I could have stopped her if I'd really wanted to. I didn't want to. I wanted to see where you were going."

  Taggart blew out his breath, then, shoving his hands into his pockets, began pacing, a frown streaking his brow.

  "Are you in love with her?" Silky queried, letting her gaze follow him about the room.

  He paused and stared at her, astonishment touching his face. "No, of course not. I'm surprised you'd think so," he answered, his clipped tone slightly caustic.

  Silky decided she might as well spill out all her anxious thoughts. Still, an unaccustomed pain squeezed about her heart and she clenched the chair back, steadying her trembling hand. "What else could I think?" she answered in a strained voice. "You come in at all hours of the night, and it seems we have little to say to each other anymore."

  His eyes gleamed with troubled emotion. "That's the nature of my work. You know I can't keep you informed of my every move. We've talked of this in the mountains and in Charlottesville."

  An unwelcome blush heated Silky's cheeks. "I know it was wrong of me to follow you, but I had to know where you were spending so much time." She walked to him, her thoughts running together like wet paint as she struggled to express them. "I know I'm not a Southern lady like Caroline Willmott," she admitted. She lightly clasped his arms, wishing she were more articulate. "Why, she has social graces that put me to shame." A passionate sadness tightened her throat and she swallowed hard to steady her courage. "Are you through with me? Do you want me to go back to the mountains?"

  Taggart realized he'd hurt Silky yet again, for her misty eyes spoke with an eloquence he could not deny. Now that she knew about Caroline, he must soothe her feelings but somehow also preserve her innocence. He took her trembling body in his arms, trying to ignore its warmth and softness. "No, I don't want you to go back to the mountains," he answered, noting tears sparkling on her lashes. "I want you to stay right here."

  A wounded look came over her features. "What about Caroline Willmott? Can you tell me you'll stop seeing her?"

  Taggart groaned inwardly, wondering how he could ease her mind without revealing his true relationship with the woman. Perhaps the truthbut not all of itwould be the best solution. "No, I can't tell you that." He eased Silky away a bit, holding her doubtful gaze. "Don't you remember I'm going over the books for the Chimborazo Benevolent Committee? Because of that, I frequently have business with her."

  A frown knitted her smooth brow. "Yes, a lot of business, I'd say. I know you've been at her house, not once or twice this month for committee work, but almost every day this week. I noticed her perfume on your clothesI can smell it this very minute!"

  He eyed her stricken face, searching for words to extricate himself from the delicate situation. "Yes, we're planning a benefit dinner for the hospital," he countered, knowing the event actually was scheduled to happen. "Other members have been there, too. To coordinate such a large affair takes a great deal of work."

  Silky stared at him, looking as if she only half believed him. "I saw her give you an envelope this morning," she commented in an accusing tone. "Is exchanging love letters part of your business with her'?"

  Taggart suddenly saw a way out of his troubles and smiled, trying to lighten the moment. Actually he and Caroline had been talking about new developments along the linebut these facts weren't for Silky's ears. Caroline's afterthought as he was leaving would provide his much needed excuse, he realized, wanting to settle this dispute before he left for Petersburg again.

  "I'm glad you mentioned that," he answered in a comforting voice. Silky's eyes shone with curiosity. "Stand right where you are," he ordered, caressing her pale face. He went to his desk, then brought the envelope to her. "Here," he offered with a smile, placing it in her hand. "Go onopen it."

  Silky stared at the creamy square resting in her hand, wanting to open it, yet afraid it would contain something that would destroy her life. She regarded him once more and his smile broadened, silently urging her to obey him. With quaking hands, she ripped into the envelope and pulled out a check for a thousand dollars signed by Caroline Willmott. The check was made out to Chimborazo Military Hospital. The notation on the bottom simply said For medicine.

  Taggart retrieved the check, then took her in his arms, beaming down at her with those gorgeous eyes that always made her feel warm and flustered. ''Caroline knew I would be stopping by the hospital soon, so she asked me if I would deliver the check to Dr. Cooke." He brushed back
Silky's hair, his face glowing with goodwill. "As I said, my business with her concerns raising money for the hospital. I haven't mentioned everything we were doing, because as far as our relationship is concerned, it seemed of no real importance. Yes, she is an attractive lady," he admitted, nodding his head, "but no temptation to me in the least."

  Silky blushed hotly. How embarrassed she was! She'd followed Taggart like a sneak and accused him of carrying on with another woman when he'd just been conducting business, as he so often said. And after all the bad thoughts she'd had about Caroline Willmott, the lady had donated money to the hospital where her brother was getting well.

  She assessed Taggart and considered mentioning their absent lovemaking yet again, but her common sense told her this particular moment just wasn't appropriate. He'd already quelled her fears about Caroline, and it seemed things were getting better between them. Once everything else was straightened out between them, the problem of their love life would just naturally fall into place, she told herself, looping her arms about his neck.

  Taggart looked down at her with twinkling eyes, caressing her tense shoulders as he spoke. "Now get your bonnet, Fancy Pants, and let me take you out to dinner."

  Silky melted against his hard chest, convincing herself that her blunder with Fouche would cause no problems and simply dismissing it. How wonderful it was to be in Taggart's company once more! she thought, a thrill of joy surging though her. Just when she'd thought everything was the darkest, it seemed the sun had come out again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Although he usually came to look at Confederate fortifications, a few days later Taggart rode one mile east of Petersburg to view Fort Stedman, a Union stronghold he'd heard rumblings about during his poker games with the officers in the American Hotel.

  Now at ten o'clock in the morning he found himself in a Confederate trench, looking across a no-man' s-land of rough ground and sharpened stakes at the earthwork fort, its embankments reinforced with sandbags and huge wicker baskets of stones. A big square box of a place, it stood out in the morning sun, bayonets glittering in the rifle pits before it.

  A lanky Reb sergeant stood beside him explaining the fine points of trench warfare. "We don't really start fightin' so you'd know it till dark," the sergeant drawled in a heavy Georgia accent, pushing back his battered kepi cap. "Things get right interestin' then," he added with a toothy grin. "We yell out at the Yanks, 'Y'all take cover'; then we start shootin' mortar shells that light up the sky like broad daylight."

  Taggart studied his lean, sunburned face. "Has it done any good?"

  The sergeant laughed. "Not a bit. The Yanks and us have been here nine months shootin' at each other only two hundred yards apart and it ain't changed a damned thing."

  Taggart smiled, then put binoculars to his eyes to get a closer look at Fort Stedman. It was surrounded on the front and sides by spiky entanglements of abatis, but he noticed the rear of the fort was completely unprotected. Not liking what he was seeing, he also noted the fort's walls were in poor repair, inviting a Reb attack. Undoubtedly he had to alert the Union that this Federal fort, so dangerously close to the Confederate forces, was the weakest spot in its line. "Let's walk to the west," Taggart ordered, moving on, so he could get a look at Fort Stedman from a different position.

  As he and the sergeant made their way about the noisy Confederate soldiers, some talking, some playing cards, the scent of mud and closely packed bodies flowed over him. Here the men had scarcely enough food to keep body and soul together, while from City Point, the Union forces received everything they could want: endless ammunition, warm clothing, good rations, and even freshly baked bread. Sitting back in their plenty and lulled with a false sense of security, he guessed the Union had not reckoned with the Rebs' fighting spirit. That was definitely a mistake. Having lived among them for so long now, he realized it was their strongest weapon.

  A half mile down the line, Taggart stopped and put the binoculars to his eyes once more to survey Fort Stedman's ragged walls from another perspective. "Looks like she's in damn poor repair," he commented gruffly, putting the binoculars away with a slap of his hand.

  The sergeant spewed a stream of tobacco juice to the side, then grinned, displaying a mouthful of stained teeth. "She is," he snorted, taking off his cap, then clapping it back on again to emphasize the remark. "The Yanks can't work on her. During the day we don't worry 'em much, unless we see 'em buildin' on the wallsthen we pick 'em off quick as lightnin'." His eyes kindled with satisfaction. "I think we got 'em half scared to death. I ain't seen nary a soul workin' on them walls for months."

  An uneasy feeling claimed Taggart's heart. From his experience at Shiloh, he knew the toughness of the Rebel forces, and the ferocity with which they struck, splitting the air with shrieking battle cries that chilled a man's blood. With several Reb officers hinting that something might soon happen concerning Fort Stedman, he was sure this was the point where Confederate troops would try to break through the Union line. Somehow he had to get this vital information to Grant.

  "We had us some party last night," the sergeant drawled on, breaking into his troubled thoughts. "We threw seventyfive shells at Fort Stedman, and they threw fifty-nine back at us."

  "Any casualties?"

  The sergeant shoved his hands on his hips and squinted toward the southwest. "Naw, but I heard they really got into it down the line. They climbed out of the trenches and got into some real fightin'." He swiped the back of his arm over his forehead. "Heard the Yanks cut us up real bad. They shipped a hunch of the wounded up to Chimborazo this mornin'."

  With a sinking feeling, Taggart stared at the man's weather-beaten face, remembering this was the morning Silky went to Chimborazo for her volunteer work.

  Taggart's train arrived in Richmond about seven o'clock. By the time he got back to the hotel it was almost eight, and as he strode up the stairs his thoughts centered on Silky, as they had during his long journey home. When he entered the room, lamplight illuminated scribbled papers littering his desk as well as the carpet around it. After taking off his hat and coat he smoothed out one of the crumpled sheets and found it to be part of a letter concerning a soldier's death.

  Already guessing what had happened while he was gone, he walked into Silky's shadowy chamber and found her on the settee in front of the hearth, her face thrown into stark relief by the burning logs. By the fire's dull glow, he saw bloodstains on the skirt of her lovely gown and noticed tendrils of hair had slipped from her French roll and hung limply about her shoulders. The rosy blush had drained from her cheeks, leaving her with the blank expression of someone who'd witnessed a horrible tragedy.

  He paused to light a lamp, and it was only then she turned, realizing he was there. She appeared so small and vulnerable, and projected such a forlorn air, he could have sworn she'd lost ten pounds since he'd seen her last. Yearning to see a spark of life in her empty eyes, he sat down beside her and searched her pale face. "You went to Chimborazo today, didn't you?" he asked, taking her cold hand and bringing it to his lips.

  "Y-Yes ... I did," she answered, her voice flat and thin. Her eyes clung to his as if trying to communicate something very important. "Dr. Cooke asked me to stay and help with the men who were brought up from Petersburg. Some of them were wounded so badlyI can't tell you how badly."

  He took her into his arms, wanting to reassure and comfort her. For a while he caressed her back; then he brushed his lips over the top of her head and gently rocked her back and forth, wishing he could have shielded her from what she'd experienced today. If he could only take away her pain, he thought, remembering some of the horrific battle scenes he'd witnessed, and understanding how she felt. She relaxed her trembling body against him as he stroked her soft hair, a great tenderness welling up within him. "Don't think of it any more, my darling," he advised quietly. "Put it out of your mind."

  She heaved a deep, shuddering sigh, and he moved back to wipe a tear from her cheek. She was so beautiful with the
firelight washing over her auburn hair, and there was something sweet and defenseless about her that touched his deepest feelings. "You've had a terrible shock and you need something to soothe your nerves," he announced, rising and walking to a console on the other side of the room. He poured two brandies, then returned and sat down beside her. "Here," he said, putting a glass into her cold hand. "Drink this. It will do you good."

  She sipped the brandy, glancing at him with a stricken expression. "I was trying to write a letter ... "

  "Yes, I saw."

  Tears shone in her eyes. "A boy died today. I sat with him and he asked me to write his parents." She took a swallow of the brandy and placed it aside. "He was only a boy, not a man, just a boy," she insisted, her voice husky with emotion. "Why, he wasn't any older than Charlie." Frustration tightened her features. ''I finally got something written, but I'm not happy with it. How do you tell someone their son has died a thousand miles away from home and among strangers?"

  Taggart had written similar letters himself and could empathize with her feelings. "He wasn't alonehe had you," he reminded her, skimming a finger under her chin. "Don't discount that."

  Her heavy lashes swept down. "He asked me to tell his folks that he died doing his duty. Did his duty include dying for the Confederacy before he'd even begun to live? Why, he'd probably never kissed a girl or owned a piece of good land, dark and rich and ready to be plowed." She looked up again, her lips trembling with anguish. "He was just a baby, but he's dead nowdead and cold as marble and ready for the grave. Is there no justice in the world at all? Why do things like this happen?"

  Taggart swallowed a large gulp of whiskey, feeling it burn its way to his stomach. Lord, how many boys had he seen killed in the war, boys scarcely man enough to stand up to the recoil of their rifles? There was no way he could explain the unspeakable madness, he thought, his own heart aching that Ned had been slain when, as she'd put it, he'd only begun to live. Lacking the appropriate words, all he could do was comfort her.