Blood Moon (Ella Wood, 2)

by Michelle Isenhoff

  “Have you ever wanted to visit your brothers?”

  “When I could stay here and wash Mr. Portman’s stockings?”

  “Don’t you miss them?”

  Missouri nodded. “Yeah, I do. But they have lives of their own now. Following them around the map isn’t going to help me any. I’m saving my money.”

  “For what? What do you want?”

  “Well, I’m too old to start teaching school. And I don’t figure I’m governess material. Farming is too hard. I don’t want to work in a mill. I reckon if an eligible fella doesn’t happen along, I’m going to buy me a boardinghouse. I’ve already got a good sum saved from the sale of the farm.”

  “That sounds like a safe and reliable income.” Emily drew out the magazine she wanted.

  “Put that away,” Missouri demanded. “Don’t you find it morbid, going back again and again to scenes from the battle that claimed your brother’s life?”

  “This isn’t Antietam.” Emily shoved the January issue under her roommate’s nose. The cover showed the joyous faces of soldiers receiving Christmas boxes in camp, her favorite Homer picture, rendered in the artist’s distinctive style. “I’m submitting some of my work, and I’ve been trying to emulate this technique.”

  “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Emily pulled her portfolio from the bottom desk drawer. Summer had been so busy—first the military hospital, then her illness, then the flurry of leaving home—that she hadn’t sent in any of her pictures since receiving the rejection letter last spring. Now she spread out a collection of her recent works.

  Missouri immediately grabbed the image of the slave woman hoeing her garden. “You should send this one. It’s beautiful. So sad and noble. And timely, what with all the excitement over Lincoln’s proclamation.”

  It was Emily’s favorite, a solid, high-contrast piece that delivered a distinctive emotional punch. After so many months, however, her eye picked out a flaw in the woman’s proportions. A minor detail, masked by the overall power of the piece. “I’ll send it,” she said, setting it aside. She was being too critical.

  Missouri picked up a sketch of a bandage-rolling tea Emily had attended with Sophia. “I think you should include this one, too. The women could be from either side. And that one’s interesting.” She pointed to a recent piece Emily had sketched of recovering veterans being helped aboard train cars for their journey home.

  Emily placed them with the hoeing woman.

  Then Missouri pulled a face from the pile. “Who is this?”

  Jovie’s features stared back at her. It was the imperfect image she had sketched from memory on the train to Sophia’s. “A friend.”

  “That’s not your fiancé.”

  Emily shook her head. She hadn’t told Missouri about Thad’s treachery. “A neighbor.”

  “Why is it so wrinkled?”

  Emily smiled. “He made me angry.”

  Missouri set it aside and picked up another one, studying it intently. “Is this him again?”

  Emily’s smile faded. “Yes.” She had labored over that one the evening Jovie had walked away from Maple Ridge. Loss, sadness, and uncertainty had all transferred to the page as clearly as if she’d written a diary entry. She had filed the image in her portfolio and never looked at it again. She’d had a future with Thad to anticipate. Now her choice brought a bitter taste to her mouth. She snatched Jovie’s picture away and tucked it back in the drawer—beside the still-unopened letters he had written.

  “Not your fiancé,” Missouri restated.

  “No.” Emily again opened the latest issue of Harper’s Weekly, showing her the picture of Antietam. “Just a friend. But I don’t like to think of him out there in this.”

  Missouri rubbed a consoling hand up and down Emily’s arm.

  Emily stared at the upside-down picture without seeing it. “Missouri, Jovie was at Bull Run last year. So was my brother. With your husband. What if—?” The question was too terrible to vocalize.

  Missouri was quiet a long time. Then her voice came softly. “Let’s not fight that battle again here.”

  ***

  The days leading up to Thad’s visit passed far too quickly. Emily tried all sorts of ways to stretch out each one, to make it last indefinitely. Her past-due work helped draw out the hours, but time proved most uncooperative. Eventually, she caught up on all her schoolwork. The sun set every evening and rose again the next morning. And the day of Thad’s visit arrived.

  That afternoon, Emily could think of no excuse to linger among the classrooms. But instead of walking home to face the confrontation she knew she must initiate, Emily chose to visit the Exhibition.

  The atmosphere in the Great Hall was festive, with sunbeams slanting through two stories of windows and illuminating the animated crowds. Its expanse echoed with the celebration of human achievement. Emily strolled the aisles, taking in the wide assortment of articles on display: leather goods, perfumes, jewelry, glassware and earthenware, fabrics and clothing, agricultural machinery, meats and cheeses, needlework, carved furniture, musical instruments, mining tools, coaches, spices, tobacco, and wines. The variety was overwhelming. If it could be crafted in America, it was on display somewhere in the vast hall.

  An ensemble of woodwinds began playing near the center of the room, their music winding about the spectators like a long silk ribbon. Emily sampled a cracker spread with soft cheese and gravitated toward the fine arts displays where she met a few of the visiting artists and discussed with them the array of mediums represented. Her favorites included a sculpture of a cavalry officer on horseback, an oil painting of three little girls playing hopscotch in pastel dresses, and an intricate lace pattern of mums that matched the flower gardens in Mrs. Calkins’ front yard. Premiums would be awarded to the winners tomorrow, the last night of the Exhibition. Perhaps she would wander through again to see if any of her choices claimed honors.

  After a thorough investigation of the hall, Emily planted herself in a corner and began sketching the scene, her recent submission to Harper’s Weekly fresh in her mind. She was unprepared when, twenty minutes later, a man’s voice called her name. “Miss Preston?”

  Craning her neck to see who had addressed her, she spotted a uniformed soldier approaching. The man was young and handsome, with a full beard obscuring a fuller smile. He walked with a pronounced limp.

  “May I ask how you know my name?” she asked with her pencil raised.

  The man snapped his heels together and bowed, sweeping the cap from his head. “Forgive me. Of course you wouldn’t recognize me. I’m Solomon Beatty.”

  The name jostled no memories.

  “You once sketched an image of my questionable countenance when I was recovering from measles in a prison in Charleston, South Carolina. You were hunched over a sheaf of papers then, too. That’s how I recognized you.”

  “And you recalled my name from more than a year ago?” Emily’s voice lifted in wonder. “You have an excellent memory, sir.”

  “Ah, see, I could never forget the name attached to such a beautiful smile.” He grinned. “And you signed the bottom corner of my portrait, which my mother framed and hung in her parlor. I read it again when I was home on leave. You may recall the picture I drew for you, as well.”

  Now she remembered the young man who had set her at ease that first uncomfortable day in the prisoner of war hospital. She laughed. “It was a round, smiling face.”

  “Indeed. Do you still have it?”

  “I’m afraid I do not.”

  “Alas,” he said, frowning with mock dismay, “the measure of my talent.”

  “That was long ago and far away. What has brought you here, Mr. Beatty?” she asked, resuming work on the view before her.

  He pulled up another chair and watched her pencil skate over the page. “I was exchanged a few weeks after I left your care and eventually found myself in Tennessee, where I promptly contracted camp fever. After that, I took a bullet through my kneecap. Ev
entually, someone decided that if they could not keep me out of the hospital, they’d put me to work in one. I was made a medical orderly for Dr. William Pyle.”

  “Are you stationed here in the city?” Federal troops had occupied Baltimore since the massacre in the earliest weeks of the war. Emily saw them often during her afternoon walks.

  “No, Dr. Pyle is attached to the Army of the Potomac. I did have a hand in moving the wounded out of your Great Hall in time for the Exhibition, but I’m here now merely to relay messages. I thought I’d take in the festivities before I return to the encampment tomorrow.”

  “Then this is a chance meeting.”

  “A lucky chance.”

  She eyed him carefully, very conscious of his blue uniform. “Your family, are they well?” She recalled that he had shared details about them a year ago.

  “As well as ever. And yours?”

  She hesitated. Couldn’t he see the color of her dress? “They’re fine,” she lied. Then, gathering her things, she flashed him a polite smile. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Beatty, but I really must be going. If you’ll excuse me.”

  He leaped from his chair and followed her into the hallway. “Wait. Miss Preston, could I buy you a cup of coffee?”

  “I believe that would be most improper.”

  He kept pace with her on the stairway and maneuvered his body between her and the outer door. “Then may I walk you home?”

  She stopped, perturbed with his persistence. “Mr. Beatty—”

  “Please? I’m not asking you to marry me. Just a friendly conversation before I leave tomorrow and you never see me again.”

  It was the conversation part she most wanted to avoid. But after a moment’s consideration, she consented. She was already on her way to one confrontation. She didn’t need two in one night. “All right.”

  He smiled at his good fortune and held the door open for her. “You’re a student at the school, I gather?” He took her bag and offered his arm.

  “It’s my first year, yes.”

  “How do you like it?”

  “Apart from the fact that it’s in the middle of enemy territory,” she reminded him, “I like it just fine.”

  “Yes, I suppose there is that.” He brightened again quickly. “Whenever I faced a difficult situation such as yours, my mother would always tell me to keep my head down. It’s good advice. I’d also recommend you keep your kneecaps covered.”

  She bit back a smile, appreciating the way he steered the conversation into safer territory. As they swept up the roadway, he spoke merrily of his sister, of his seventeen-year-old twin brothers, and the New York farm where they’d grown up. He was a witty companion, hardly requiring Emily to say a word. It gave her another reluctant glimpse of the people on the other side of the battlefield.

  She halted when she reached the last corner and caught sight of a blond figure seated on the front porch. Already, there would be too many curious eyes watching her business from behind curtains; she didn’t want to involve Solomon, as well. “That is my boardinghouse just ahead,” she said, indicating the building with a nod. She took back her valise and mustered a smile. “Thank you for walking me home, Mr. Beatty. I am truly pleased to find that you are well.”

  He bowed over her hand. “It’s been my pleasure.”

  She left him without a backward glance, her eyes focused solely on the man awaiting her. She climbed the steps and took a deep breath. “Hello, Thad.”

  20

  Seeing his familiar smile sent shock waves through her system. Half of her wanted to disregard everything Jeremiah had said and give herself over to his embrace. For nearly two years, he had been her world, her solace, her future. And she thought she’d been his.

  “Happy birthday.” He brought a single red rose from behind his back.

  She figured the date in her head. She’d turned eighteen three days ago. “Thank you,” she said, taking the flower.

  “Baltimore agrees with you. You look far healthier than when we parted.”

  “I feel quite strong, thank you.”

  He hugged her tightly and planted a kiss on her forehead. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut against the familiar planes of his body.

  “Who was your friend?” he asked. “Have you been consorting with the enemy?”

  The question was spoken lightly, but there was an undercurrent beneath the words. Was his jealousy feigned? Had he ever felt anything for her, or had she always been a means to an end?

  The questions pried her tongue loose. She pulled away. “Thad, we need to talk.”

  “Emily, what’s wrong? That man—” He regarded her more closely. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

  “That man is a mere acquaintance.” She turned her back on him, and the weight in her heart pulled her down into a nearby deck chair. “I’m not hiding any secrets. I’ve been candid with you from the first time we spoke. Which, I believe, is more honesty than I can attribute to you.”

  He was the picture of innocent confusion. “You’re not making any sense.”

  “Aren’t I?” He was a skilled actor. She had to give him that.

  He stepped forward, his eyes earnest now, and took one of her hands. “Emily, I love you. Have I ever given you any reason to doubt me?”

  “No, you’ve been careful. Very careful. But not quite careful enough.”

  He suddenly noticed her naked finger. “Where’s your ring?”

  “I sent it back to the man you won it from in poker.” At least she intended to. She had already written to Dr. Malone to see if he might track down Tom Fink’s regiment through the hospital records. She simply awaited his reply.

  “Is that what this is about?” Thad relaxed. He almost smiled. “All right, I confess. The ring was not my grandmother’s.” He moved around to the chair beside her, keeping her hand folded in his. “I’m not a wealthy man. I had no means to procure a ring of that value. So when fortune smiled on me, rather than pawn it so I could purchase a ring worth half as much, I tucked it away, hoping someday you’d give me reason to make it our family heirloom.” He raised her hand to his lips. “If it matters that much to you, I’ll purchase any ring you desire.”

  She pulled her hand away and stood, twirling the rose stem absently between thumb and forefinger. “What about hiring the thugs who kidnapped me at my birthday party?”

  He was too astonished to even attempt a denial. “How did you find out?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  He shrugged, recovering with a sheepish grin. “What can I say? It’s true. Jovie had talked you up for so long that I wanted to meet you. When I got an invitation, I jumped on it. I figured Jovie was already worlds ahead of me, so if you proved to be everything he said, I wanted to up my chances. You were never in any real danger.”

  “I didn’t know that. You scared me to death.”

  “It was stupid. I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Really stupid.”

  “Really stupid,” he repeated. Then he smirked. “But I did get the girl.”

  “You had the girl.”

  “Emily,” he said warily. “You can’t mean you’d throw away two years because of one moment of immaturity. I’d like to think I’ve grown up some since then.”

  “No, not because of that one moment.” She regarded him coldly. “I know who you are, Thad. Or should I say Jonathan? I know that these entire two years have been based on nothing but lies.”

  He looked away and cleared his throat. When he met her eyes again, his expression was strained. “You’re right. I deceived you. I gave you a false name. And I tried to tip the scales in my favor. I’ve wished a thousand times I could do it over properly, because somewhere between there and here, I fell in love with you.”

  Her expression didn’t change.

  He walked across the porch and propped his hands against the rail. His gaze trailed the ground. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I couldn’t climb out of the hole I had dug. I hoped that when you fo
und out, if you found out, we’d already be married, so you’d have to let me prove my affections.”

  “And take over legal ownership of Ella Wood when my father died,” she added with disgust.

  “None of that matters to me.” He dared to meet her eyes, his face a mask of quiet agony. “Didn’t I encourage you when you were ready to give up? Wasn’t I the one who said you never had to return to Charleston if you didn’t want to? Emily, I could run away to the western wilderness with only the shirt on my back and I would be a happy man, if only you went with me.”

  The pain etched into his features tore at Emily’s sympathy. Could he be telling the truth? But there was still the matter of Lizzie. “Thad, you raped my maid. There’s nothing you could ever say that would make that right.”

  He opened his mouth to protest. Then his shoulders sagged and his expression melted into defeat. He looked older, haggard. He could have made an argument that would have acquitted him in any court of law. She was a Negro. A slave. Property. But he did not. Instead, he slumped into a chair, his posture telling her that he knew she had won—it was a victory that carried no joy—and then he began to weep.

  Grief that overwhelms a man, that diminishes him to a choking, sobbing wreck, is a difficult spectacle to witness. It ripped Emily’s heart and shredded her will. She took a step toward him, then another. Despite his duplicity, she still longed to return to him, to comfort him, to close her eyes to reality. She tossed the rose to the deck. It took tremendous strength to leave him.

  As soon as the door closed behind her, Emily found herself facing Lucy’s smug grin. “Trouble in Camelot?”

  Angela was eyeing Thad appreciatively out the parlor window. “I wouldn’t mind offering him a little hospitality, even if he is a Reb.”

  Anna said nothing, simply turned away with a look of barest sympathy.

  There was no way Emily was going to let Lucy see her cry. She drilled the girl with a hard look of contempt before flying upstairs to her room. Doubts followed her the whole way. Did Thad love her? Were his regrets in earnest? He had encouraged her to stay the course after her encounter with Peggy Sue. He seemed so contrite. Was there hope that he might yet change?