Forsaken Dreams

by Marylu Tyndall

  “And your mother?”

  “Died when I was twelve.” That much was true. The words still stung as if it happened yesterday. She pressed a finger on the locket hidden beneath her bodice and tugged on the chain to pull it out. “My mother,” she said, opening it to reveal the portrait and the lock of hair that were all she had left of the woman who had meant the world to her.

  Leaning forward until she felt his body heat, Blake studied the picture. “She’s beautiful.” His eyes shifted to the lock of hair attached to the inside of the lid. “And your hair is the same color.”

  Eliza swept back a tear. “Thank you. My father gave the locket to me on my sixteenth birthday.” She snapped it shut and allowed it to dangle down the front of her gown. “I haven’t taken it off since.” Her life had changed drastically the day her mother died. “After Mother’s passing, Father became quite obsessed with my safety. Barely let me out of his sight.” Smothered her was more like it.

  “Odd that he allowed you to run off to the front lines as a nurse.”

  Eliza realized her mistake too late as skepticism flickered across his face. “I fear when I get something in my mind, it is hard to stop me.” She gave a nervous giggle. Oh how she hated bending the truth to this man.

  He smiled. His gray eyes studied hers. The air between them heated, and Eliza swallowed at his intense perusal. He was so close, she could smell him, hear his breath, see the pulse throbbing in his taut neck. “And your husband. May I ask what happened to him?”

  “Killed in action.” She wouldn’t tell him for which side. Could never tell him. The past few days, she’d harbored a small hope that perhaps he wouldn’t fault her for her marriage, that perhaps they had a chance at building on what was obviously a strong mutual attraction and admiration, but after hearing his rage at Yankees and everyone associated with them, that hope was crushed. She pressed down the folds of her skirt and took a step back, if only to break the spell he cast on her. Regardless of the way this man made her feel, regardless of her admiration for him, there could never be anything between them. Ever. She would be his friend. Help him with his condition if he allowed her. That was it.

  Blake took her hand in his. His warm strength folded around her fingers, and she hadn’t the will to pull away. “I’m sure he was a hero. What is his name?”

  CHAPTER 10

  Eliza bit her lip, trying to think of a name, any name but the one the colonel asked of her. But in her fear, her mind became a vacant hole with only one name filling it: Brigadier General Stanton Watts, commander of the 106th Harrisburg brigade—Union army. So loud did it ring in her thoughts, she feared it would slip past her lips and her guise would crumble, leaving her an enemy to all on board the ship.

  But God took pity on her yet again in the form of a knock on the door and the cheery face of James, who eyed their locked hands with upraised brows and a slight smile. “Ah, you’re on your feet, Colonel. The captain wishes to speak to you. If you’re up to it.”

  The colonel released her hands, cleared his throat, and took a step back. “The frigate?”

  “Gone. Along with half of our weapons, a good portion of our rice and fresh produce, and all of our pigs.”

  “The passengers and crew?” The colonel grabbed his coat.

  “All present and accounted for. Thank God.” The doctor scratched his chin. “However did you elude them? They seemed quite intent on finding any Rebel officers on board.”

  The colonel and Eliza shared a glance and a smile that caused a tingle all the way down to her toes. “It would seem I had a guardian angel,” he said, his eyes remaining on hers as if held there by some invisible force. Finally, he cleared his throat, thanked her for the tea, and sped out the door. Without his masculine presence, the cabin grew large and cold. And it felt less safe somehow.

  Picking up his cup, she ran her fingers over the brim where his lips had been, remembering his pain, the agony in his voice when he spoke of his family. All of them gone. Lord, why? How could You allow so much suffering? It was too much to bear. Too much for one man. No wonder he hated the Yankees. And anyone associated with them. Which meant her, of course. No, even if her past was never revealed, it would be unjust, even cruel to befriend him, let alone consider anything beyond friendship. She must put the colonel out of her thoughts.

  Setting the cup on the tray, she began to tidy up the cabin when a knock on the open door turned her around to see Magnolia, an anxious look on her face.

  “Magnolia. You startled me. Are you ill?” Eliza started toward her, only then noticing that the young woman’s hands trembled.

  Pressing down her skirts, Magnolia floated into the cabin, her sapphire-blue eyes skittering over the sideboard containing medicines and surgical implements. “It’s my nerves, Eliza,” she said in that accentuated Southern drawl that was as sweet as warm molasses. “I cannot seem to relax.”

  “Understandable.” Eliza studied the young woman as she squeezed her own skirts through the narrow space between table and bulkhead. “It was a most harrowing day. I trust you’ve not been in a battle at sea before.”

  This drew a smile from Magnolia as she shook her head, sending flaxen curls bouncing over her neck. “I was wondering if you had something to soothe my nerves.” Her gaze sped to the medical cabinet once again before her face crumpled. “I simply cannot tolerate another moment on this ship.”

  “You don’t have seasickness, do you?” Eliza took her hand in hers.

  “No.” She tugged from Eliza’s grasp and plopped down in the chair. Then dropping her face into her hands, she began to sob.

  Eliza knelt before her. “Oh dear, there’s no need to cry. Everything will be all right. The Union ship is gone, and we are on our way to our new home.” Evidenced by the flap of sails above and the increasing purl of the sea against the hull.

  “It’s not that.” Magnolia raised her gaze to Eliza, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I want to go home!” Her pout turned into a scowl as a streak of defiance scored her eyes. “I’m engaged to marry Samuel Wimberly.” She swiped the remaining moisture from her face and raised her chin. “He’s a prominent lawyer from Atlanta. Why, he was even an adviser to President Jefferson Smith.”

  Eliza flinched. No doubt he knew her father, then, both being solicitors and both working with the president. But she could never mention the connection. “I’m sure he’s a wonderful man.” Eliza handed her a handkerchief.

  “Of course he is. And he adores me.” She sniffed and drew the handkerchief to her nose. “We were supposed to wed before this horrendous war began, but then Samuel thought it best to delay the ceremony until the hostilities were over.” Another tear wound its way down her creamy cheek. “And now my parents have dragged me away from everything. From Samuel, from our home, from …” She hesitated, looking perplexed. “Well, from simply everything!” She gazed down at her pink petticoat peeking from behind cream-colored skirts fringed in Spanish lace. “Look at me. I’m a mess! I look like a street urchin. Or so Daddy told me this morning.”

  Eliza didn’t know whether to feel sorry for the lady or chastise her for her spoiled attitude. She could find no flaw in the woman’s appearance. In fact, she could pass for any Southern lady ready to receive guests for afternoon tea. Still, it had not escaped Eliza’s attention that Mr. Scott rarely had a kind word for his daughter. Though Eliza’s own father had been stern, he’d never berated her. And never in public. What would it be like to grow up with a father like Magnolia’s? And then to be dragged away from her entire world, and worse, the man she loved? The poor girl. “I’m sure your parents are doing what is best for you. No doubt your plantation was ruined as many were by the Northerners.”

  Magnolia looked down, hesitating. “We could have stayed and recovered our losses. But Daddy was so angry—angrier than I’ve ever seen him—at the Yankees. He’s been that way ever since my brother Allen was killed at Chancellorsville. He said we needed to get as far away from them as we could and start over. But I d
on’t want to start over.” She began to whine again, an ear-shattering whine that set Eliza’s nerves on edge. She poured the girl a cup of tea, hoping it would keep her mouth—and vocal chords—quiet.

  Thanking Eliza, she took it, but her hands shook so violently, tea spilled over the edge. “Don’t you have something for my nerves?” Blue eyes that held a deviant twinkle gazed at Eliza. “You do look so familiar to me.”

  Ignoring her, Eliza grabbed the cup to settle it. “This is chamomile tea. I know it’s cold, but it will help calm you.”

  Magnolia bit her lip. “Mercy me, I was hoping for something a bit stronger.”

  Eliza cocked her head. Shaking hands, nervous twitch at the corner of her mouth, desperation in her striking eyes—Eliza had seen those symptoms before. But never in a lady. Nor one of such high breeding. Eliza wondered if her parents knew. “I have nothing stronger. But never fear, the trembling will subside in a few days.”

  Magnolia set the tea down, spilling it on the table, then stormed to her feet. “I don’t know what you are referring to! Oh why did I ever come to you? You’re merely a war nurse.”

  Yet the girl made no move to leave. Instead, she clasped her hands together and glanced toward the medicines.

  Eliza wanted to be angry at her, but she looked so pathetic and sad. “I’m sorry, Magnolia. I wish I could help you.” She laid a hand on her arm. “Believe me, your discomfort will pass.”

  Magnolia huffed, assessing Eliza as if she were a wayward servant. But then something flickered in her eyes before they narrowed into malicious slits. “I do remember you now.”

  Eliza’s heart cinched. Turning away, she mopped up the spilled tea. “I fear you are mistaken. We have never met.”

  “No. You’re Seth Randal’s daughter. Your aunt and uncle are acquainted with my parents. They run that fancy hotel in Marietta.… What was the name? Oh yes, the Randal Inn.”

  A chill bit Eliza. “I’m sorry, but you have the wrong lady.”

  “No, I never forget a face. But your name isn’t Eliza Crawford.…” Magnolia laid a shaky finger on her chin before her eyes lit up with malevolent glee. “Ah yes, Flora. Miss Flora Randal, isn’t it? Your father knows my Samuel.”

  Eliza’s blood ran cold. “I know no one by that name.” She picked up the teacup and placed it on the tray, fiddling with the spoons so as not to show that her insides had twisted into a hopeless knot. She hadn’t heard her given name in a long time. Five years to be exact. Not since she had married Stanton. Not since her father had told her Flora Randal was dead to him.

  Suddenly, memories of Magnolia flooded her. Two years before the war, Eliza’s aunt and uncle had hosted a party at their hotel for some passing dignitaries. The Scotts had been invited because of their familial relation to the governor of Georgia, who was also in attendance. Though Eliza had not met Magnolia’s parents, she and Magnolia had exchanged brief pleasantries. At the time, they had both been girls just coming of age, Magnolia only sixteen and Eliza a year younger. Though Magnolia had changed quite a bit in seven years, Eliza remembered envying her for the way all the men in the hotel had fawned over her. And in the midst of the festivities, she had commented thus to Magnolia. A morbid realization now crawled up Eliza’s throat. It was after that playful admission that Magnolia, in what was surely a kind gesture, had introduced Eliza to Stanton, an acquaintance of the family’s.

  Magnolia gasped and drew a hand to her mouth. “Mercy me! You married Stanton Watts!”

  “Shhh.” Dashing to the door, Eliza shut it then leaned back against the wood. “Please, Magnolia.” Her tone and eyes pleaded with the young woman to keep her secret, but Magnolia only chuckled in return.

  “Oh my. The wife of a Yankee general right here in the middle of all these angry Rebels! It is simply too much!”

  “That was a long time ago. My husband is dead. I spent the last three years nursing Rebel soldiers on the battlefield.” Eliza felt all hope draining from her.

  “Never fear. I will keep your little secret, Mrs. Crawford.” Magnolia adjusted her flowing skirts as a coy smile flitted upon her lips. “If you will do me just one little ole favor.”

  Eliza narrowed her eyes.

  “I believe you do have something that would ease my nerves, after all, do you not?”

  “You are blackmailing me?”

  She pouted. “That’s such a nasty word. Let’s just say we have an understanding.”

  Forcing down her anger, Eliza brushed past Magnolia, opened the drawer of the desk, and pulled out a half-empty bottle of rum.

  The smile Magnolia offered her could have brightened the darkest cave. Greedily, she snagged the bottle from Eliza’s hand like a child after candy.

  “That isn’t good for you, Magnolia. It will ruin your health and your life.”

  She pressed the bottle against her chest as if it were the most precious thing in the world. “I don’t care. I need it.”

  Eliza should grab it back from her and shatter it on the deck. She was a nurse, after all. It was her job to look out for the health of others. But what choice did she have? “You know what will happen to me if you tell the others.”

  A flicker of concern, dare Eliza say, even care, appeared on the girl’s face. “I shan’t say a word.” Hiding the rum in the folds of her skirt, she flung open the door. “As long as you continue to treat my nerves.”

  “That is the only bottle I have.”

  “Well, I suppose you’ll have to find more, won’t you?” She gave Eliza the sweetest smile before sashaying away, flinging the words over her shoulder, “Thank you Mrs. Crawford. You’ve been most helpful.”

  When the younger woman was gone, Eliza’s legs gave out. She leaned on the operating table. Her fate—her very life—was now in the hands of a spoiled, pompous tosspot.

  Blake hobbled across the deck of the New Hope, drawing in a breath of the briny air. The sun reigned over the seas from its position high in the sky, its bright golden robes fluttering over ship and water. Hammering drew his gaze to a group of sailors working to repair the foremast rigging and the rents in the bulwarks. Yesterday Blake had assisted in plugging up the hole in the hull above the waterline. Thankfully all minor repairs. The frigate’s attack could have been so much worse.

  Sailors stopped to glance his way, as did Mr. Graves, who puffed on his cigar on the foredeck, along with a group of passengers sitting atop crates, eating their morning biscuits. Whispers sizzled past his ears from behind upraised hands. He knew they spoke about his episode. Shame doused him as he made his way toward the railing. He’d wanted so much to present himself as a strong leader to this group. But he had already failed.

  If only the nightmares would stop, maybe the blackouts would as well. He gripped the railing and gazed at the azure sea, sparkling like a bed of dancing diamonds. A hearty breeze spun around him, cooling the sweat on the back of his neck. Every mile south brought them warmer weather and heavier air.

  He nodded at Captain Barclay, who stood by the binnacle, and the man returned his greeting. They’d developed a mutual respect for each other these past days. More than once the captain had thanked Blake for his help manning the guns and commanding the crew during the chase. And more than once, Blake had thanked him and his men for not giving away his identity.

  Scanning the deck, he found Sarah sitting atop a crate, her skirts spread around her, instructing a group of children at her feet, their sweet laughter a compliment to the creak of the ship and rush of water that had become so familiar to Blake’s ears.

  Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins, the young farmers, stood behind their daughter, Henrietta, as she listened intently to the story Sarah was telling. The freed slave woman’s children stood at a distance, their feet itching to join the other young ones, but Delia’s firm hand on each shoulder kept them in place. That and the scowl on Mr. Scott’s face as he leaned against the railing beside his wife and daughter. On Miss Magnolia’s other side, Dodd attempted to engage her in conversation, but from the young la
dy’s pursed lips and raised nose, Blake doubted the ex-lawman was gaining any ground.

  Mr. Lewis, the carpenter, seemed already three sheets to the wind as he clung to the capstan, rolling with each sway of the ship. Parson Bailey strolled around the deck with James, their heads bent in conversation, no doubt regarding some deep theological argument. A call from above shifted Blake’s glance to the sailors working the sails. Barefooted, they skittered across the yards as if they preferred balancing on a teetering strip of wood to walking on dry land. The first mate stood on the deck beneath them, shouting up orders. Beside him, Moses, the freed slave, assisted a group of sailors in carrying a barrel of water on deck for the passengers.

  They plunked it down beside Hayden, who was polishing the brass fitting atop the foredeck railing. Yesterday Blake had seen him scrub the deck and assist sailors hauling lines. Despite his intrusion on their voyage, the man did not shy from hard work. He’d also proven himself brave and competent during their battle with the Union frigate. In fact, the man had charmed his way so far into everyone’s graces that the suspicious circumstances that brought him on board seemed all but forgotten. If he decided to stay on with them in Brazil, Blake could use another strong man to help lead the colony.

  Yet still no sign of Mrs. Crawford—Eliza. Her Christian name floated through his mind, longing to appear on his lips, longing for the familiarity it would signify between them. Perhaps all the excitement from yesterday kept her in bed. Or perhaps she was avoiding him. Yes, perhaps he’d been too forward, too open with his thoughts and sentiments. And he’d gone and frightened her away. He couldn’t blame her. What would any woman want with a lame man who was obviously going mad?

  Speaking of mad, Mr. Graves’s dark, piercing eyes assessed Blake from afar. Dressed in his usual black suit, and with his equally black hair, whiskers, and mustache, the man presented a rather somber figure. Spooky was more like it. Yet that impression haled more from his attitude, the way he stood at a distance and stared at people—like he was staring at Blake now—as if he could read his thoughts. A frisson of unease settled in Blake’s gut. Mr. Graves smiled, and Blake tore his gaze away. No sense in offering the man any encouragement.