This Time Forever

by Linda Swift

  The upper hallway was long with many doors opening off it on both sides. Lydia was just coming out of the first one.

  "How nice to see you, Clarissa." Her smile was like winter sunlight—bright and cold. "I wasn’t sure you’d come, since you’re so devoted to your nursing duties."

  "Captain Burke was willing to spare me a few days," Clarissa said in a neutral voice.

  "And how is the handsome surgeon?" Lydia raised one eyebrow meaningfully.

  "Working tirelessly to save our Confederate soldiers," Clarissa said evenly. "Many owe their lives to his surgical skill."

  "How touching," Lydia gave her a cursory glance. "And you look rather exhausted, too. Are you sure the work isn’t too much for you?"

  "I’m fine."

  "Put her things in Robert’s room for now, Polly. Dear Malcolm is still asleep, and we wouldn’t want to disturb him."

  "Tha’s where I was goin’," Polly muttered darkly as Lydia swept past them and Clarissa continued down the hall.

  Another door opened, and Lydia’s maid stepped into their path, then moved back to let them pass. Clarissa glanced at her as she went by and saw the quadroon’s sly smile. And even before she became aware of the Confederate coat that Ruane held in her arms, Clarissa knew whose room she’d left. A wave of revulsion swept over her and she resisted the urge to turn back and tell Napoleon to take her with him when he returned to Whitehaven. She thought of Philip Burke’s curt reminder of her wifely duty. Well, damn him, she was here, and she’d be the dutiful wife if it killed her.

  Clarissa entered her son’s room and crossed to the oval mirror above the dresser. She did look awful, but she could change that.

  "Polly, please fetch hot water. I want a bath and then you can wash and curl my hair. And I’ve brought my plum silk gown. I suppose I should be in mourning for Father, but I haven’t anything black, and with the war, it would be unpatriotic to buy material for new clothes."

  "It shore would, Missa." Polly nodded, then spoke to Robert. "You stay with your mama now and I’ll be back with the watah right away."

  Closing the door behind her, Polly walked faster and caught up with Napoleon in the hallway. "Maybe Missa’ll take me and Masta Robert back with her when she goes. Then we could be together in the daytime," she said softly.

  "I’d druther be with you at night," he whispered back with a meaningful grin.

  "Oh, you." She reached out a hand to swat him playfully and he grabbed it and pulled her close enough for a quick kiss.

  "Did you hear what she said? About the woman who give her slaves their freedom?"

  "I heard."

  "Well, maybe that woman’d hide me if I was to run away."

  "I wouldn’t be countin’ on it."

  "She would if you come with me."

  "Don’t you be thinking on that." Polly shook her head.

  "You know I think on it all the time. And I’m gonna do it, too, when things is right." They had reached the bottom of the stairs as they spoke, and he glanced around. Seeing no one, he stole another kiss.

  "You be careful now." With a worried frown, she watched him go before she turned toward the kitchen to carry out the orders of her mistress.

  • ♥ •

  It was mid-afternoon before Malcolm came downstairs to join the ladies who were having tea in the drawing room. Clarissa forced herself to smile when he appeared in the doorway, but no one noticed her efforts because all eyes were on the man who stood preening before them, resplendent in his gray coat with its newly polished buttons.

  "Good afternoon, ladies." His gaze swept the room, stopped when it met Clarissa’s. "Ah, I see my lovely wife has arrived." He came forward and kissed her cheek when she rose to greet him. "You’re looking well, my dear. Nursing seems to have agreed with you..."Clarissa nodded and felt her cheeks flame as his eyes raked her up and down before he went on,"...however impulsive your behavior may have been. But now that I’m here, we’ll see an end to your misguided efforts."

  She pressed her lips together and willed herself not to respond. It could be discussed later in privacy, and he would see that she was making a worthwhile contribution to the war.

  "Please join us, Malcolm," Florence implored as she picked up her knitting and patted the empty place beside her on the sofa.

  "Yes, do," Lydia and the others added.

  Swaggering to the indicated seat, Malcolm also kissed his mother’s cheek and accepted the cup of tea offered by his sister.

  "Tell us about the people in the East, Malcolm," Jane Forsythe implored. "Are they faring well?"

  "Much worse than here, Aunt Jane," he told her as he dropped lumps of sugar into his tea. "There’s been an outbreak of smallpox in Columbia. And supplies are scarce, especially in the cities. In Charleston, flour is selling for sixty-five dollars a barrel."

  "My heavens," Mary Townsend looked stricken, "We have cousins there, but I had no idea."

  "Many of the slaves have deserted," he went on, "and there’s few left for raising crops."

  "And that’s why he’s here," Lydia added. "Our president himself has sent Colonel Malcolm on a mission to convince plantation owners in this area that we must supply more cotton and produce."

  Sounds of admiration and agreement followed her words as Malcolm stirred his tea with a self-satisfied smile. "And there’s another reason, Lydia." He took a sip from his cup, then leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. "Jeff Davis is concerned about all the complaints against General Bragg and he sent me to get firsthand information on the problem."

  Mary Jane nodded. "We’ve heard rumors that he might be replaced."

  Malcolm smiled smugly. "Perhaps so." He placed his cup on the table, and rose. "But you’ll have to excuse me now. I want to spend some time with my son. Are you coming, Clarissa?"

  "Of course." She also stood and made her apologies to the other women.

  Florence watched them leave the room, then spoke softly as she resumed her knitting, "Thank God Malcolm is here. I’m sure he’ll talk some sense into that stubborn wife of his."

  "It’s too late to stop the rumors, Mother," Lydia said regretfully. "She’s already disgraced us staying on at Whitehaven with a houseful of men and a Yankee prisoner."

  Jane Forsythe nodded. "And the reputation of my own dear Nathan’s fiancée has been tainted by that foolishness as well."

  "I think it was a brave thing to do," Mary Jane said and as her mother fixed her with a disapproving frown, added softly, "but not for a lady."

  "It is such a pity those two aren’t more like you, Mary Jane." Florence gave the young woman an approving smile, then sighed. "Good breeding is so important and we know very little about their background."

  • ♥ •

  Dinner that evening was a festive affair, with Malcolm telling exaggerated stories of Confederate conquests and answering questions about the welfare of his brother and cousin. The three men had continued to fight in the same battles until Malcolm's recent special assignment and when he returned, he would rejoin them near Richmond where the Army of Northern Virginia was now gathered.

  While Malcolm and his father shared after dinner cigars and bourbon, Clarissa chatted with the ladies over demitasse, her apprehension increasing with every passing minute. Soon she would be alone with her husband and he would expect them to be intimate. The thought filled her with dread.

  The men emerged from the library and Lydia played for them, including all the current patriotic songs which they joined in singing with fervor. Then Malcolm stood and bade them all goodnight and looked toward his wife expectantly.

  Clarissa kissed her mother-in-law's cheek and went to say goodnight to Josiah, who embraced her affectionately.

  "Having your husband home at this sad time is nothing short of a miracle, my dear," he said in a low voice. "God has met your needs."

  Following Malcolm up the stairs, Clarissa paused beside the threshold to the room he was occupying. He bowed facetiously and motioned her inside, closing the door
with a loud thud that reverberated like a cannon in Clarissa's head. His arm shot out and pulled her to him, then with his other hand he grabbed her neck, forcing her head back to receive his wet kiss. Even as Clarissa tried to respond, his hand found her breast and squeezed it roughly until she flinched in pain. Taking her sudden movement as eagerness for what he was doing to her, he increased the pressure and pushed her backward toward the bed.

  "Missed it, haven't you?" He groped with her long skirt and crinolines, finally managing to get beneath them with his hand, then jerked off her undergarment and roughly probed the private space between her thighs. "Well, you're ready for me, aren't you?"

  With one hand he opened his trousers and guided his swollen member between her legs. "This what you want?" He laughed and drove into her and found his release with a few quick, hard strokes, then rolled away, panting.

  When he could speak, he snarled, "Now go to your own room and let me rest."

  "But I thought—" Clarissa began.

  "You're to sleep in Robert's room. And don't disturb me until I come down tomorrow."

  Without another word, Clarissa retrieved her pantalets and gratefully slipped out of the room. She wanted to be with her son, but she had not imagined that it would be possible. If this was all Malcolm required of her, she could endure the few minutes it took for him to satisfy himself with her body.

  Opening Robert's door, she tip-toed in softly, trying not to wake the sleeping child and Polly who lay on a cot at the foot of his bed. Robert slept on, but the slave whispered her name in the darkness.

  "Missa? That you?"

  "Yes, Polly. But go back to sleep. I can get undressed alone."

  "No, Missa. I'll help." She sat up, rubbed her eyes. "But if you goin' to sleep here, could I please go out to the slave quarters for the rest of the night?"

  Startled, Clarissa agreed before she thought to ask why. But later, lying in the high bed with her arm around her sleeping child, she wondered if Polly had gone to be with Napoleon. Surely, even a slave wouldn't want the kind of intimacy she had just endured. She thought of Philip Burke and the night before. Was it possible that Polly had that with Napoleon instead?

  • ♥ •

  Chattanooga, February 1863

  Philip sat smoking in a wooden rocker beside the library fireplace. He often brought the chair from wherever Angeline had left it after reading to one of the soldiers during the quiet afternoons and relaxed for a while before he went to sleep. Tonight he had been sitting longer than usual, deep in thoughts of Clarissa.

  He'd spent the night before tossing and turning as he agonized over what had happened between them and tried to decide how to avoid it happening again. It was his duty as an officer and a gentleman to protect her in spite of the fact that they were on opposite sides of the present conflict. She was wed to another man and he had promised his name to another woman, so there could never be anything between them except this strong attraction he was certain now they both felt.

  At least he'd been spared the awkwardness of facing her all morning when Josiah Wakefield appeared with the news about her husband being at Fleur-de-Lis. So why had he dismissed her so curtly to join him there? Was it because it filled him with such agony to think of her lush body in Malcolm Wakefield's embrace? To imagine her husband doing all the things he fantasized doing to excite and please her? And if this were true, what did it say about his feelings for the woman he had promised to marry? He tried to visualize Katherine Kingsley but only a blur filled his mind. How could he spend the rest of his life with someone else when a golden-haired goddess with warm brown eyes filled his heart and soul with such longing?

  "Captain?" the guard broke into his thoughts. "There's someone at the door to see you."

  Pulling on his shirt, he followed the man into the hallway, made his way around the crowded cots. "Yes?"

  Two Union soldiers stood outside, supporting a sagging body between them.

  "Captain Burke?" The heavy brogue made him think of Jeb McCallon.

  "I'm Captain Burke."

  "Good evening to you, sir. It's Private Fagan and Private Donovan of The Orphan Brigade, sir, and this one in the middle is our Lieutenant Devon O'Conner."

  "What do you want, gentlemen?"

  "It's yer services we be seeking, sir. They told us at the other house they've no room for Bluecoats, but our lieutenant is in a bad way, sir, and we heard ye was a Bluecoat yerself and if ye dinna help him, we've nowhere else to turn." The soldier drew a deep breath after his long speech.

  "Get him inside," Philip told them.

  "What is it?" Angeline appeared at the top of the stairs in her dressing gown and the two soldiers looked up and almost dropped their comrade. "I heard voices."

  "A wounded soldier," Philip told her. "You can go back to bed. I'll take care of it."

  "No," she answered and tying her dressing gown closer, she came downstairs. "My sister isn't here so I'll help you."

  "The men can do it," he nodded to the bedraggled pair who stood, still mesmerized by the golden-haired vision in front of them.

  "Nay, sir, but if the lass can do it, we'd best be on our way. We've been paroled and if we dinna get out of this place crawling with the Rebel vermin—no offense, ma'am—we're dead meat come morning."

  Philip took one look at the pleading faces and knew he couldn't in good conscience hold them when every minute counted for their safety. "Very well." He nodded to Angeline, then told the men, “Bring the lieutenant in here and then be on your way."

  The Irishman's wounds were festered, and he was feverish and in severe pain, but he bore it stoically as Philip probed and scraped and stitched. He missed the able assistance of Clarissa during the long ordeal, but Angeline made up in effort for what she lacked in skill.

  When they had finished, she lingered to bathe the soldier's face with cool water as Philip washed up the instruments.

  "Will he live?" she whispered.

  "Perhaps. There's nothing more to be done. It's up to God now."

  "Then I'll stay with him and pray," she said resolutely.

  "You need your rest. I'll leave him here and watch him through the night."

  "You need yours more than I, Captain Burke," she pulled the rocker closer to the operating table, "so just lie down on your pallet and go to sleep and I'll sit here and doze."

  Philip grinned at her with resignation. "Your sister isn't the only one in the Giles family who inherited a stubborn streak, is she?"

  "We're just dedicated to our work, Captain, like all good nurses ought to be."

  Philip let himself down slowly onto his bedroll and with the sound of Angeline's soft voice singing hymns soon drifted into a troubled sleep. He dreamed of Clarissa writhing in his arms, but when he possessed her luscious body she became Katherine, and he woke with the desolate knowledge that the substitute would never be enough, that a man who'd breathed the scent of roses could never again be satisfied with heather.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Chattanooga, March 1863

  "I declare it's a miracle how much better you're walking now," Angeline told the soldier who hobbled along the brick walk beside her.

  "And God sent an angel to perform it, for sure," he answered with the musical lilt that she never tired of hearing. "I'd have been dead by now without your tender care."

  "Oh, it wasn't me who saved you, Devon. It was the skillful work of Captain Burke."

  "Aye, and I'm not taking any of the credit from him, darlin' but it was your sweet voice that brought me back from the darkness."

  Angeline blushed at the term of endearment. "I...don't think you should call me that, Devon."

  "I keep forgettin’." He brushed back an unruly lock of russet hair. "It's just a habit of the Irish, you know. I mean no disrespect."

  "I know. And I don't mind, truly. But I'm not sure my sister would approve, and she'll be coming back any day now."

  "Aye, yes. Clarissa."

  "I think you'd better call her Mrs. Wakefield
."

  Ignoring the advice, he asked, "Is this Clarissa as beautiful as you? But no, she couldn't be, of course."

  "People say we could be twins, except for our eyes. Hers are brown."

  They had reached the vine-covered gazebo as they talked, and Angeline stopped. "Would you like to rest your leg a bit?"

  When he nodded, they went inside and sat down. The day was warm for early March and the bright sunlight gave a vivid hue to the jonquils blooming along the walks and the grass pushing through the soft brown earth.

  Angeline took off her bonnet and placed it on the bench. "I love the spring. Hear those birds singing? And smell the wisteria? I think the robins are building a nest up there."

  Devon laughed. "It's the time for birds to be courting and raising a family, luv." He looked wistful. "And for people, too. Only, we're fighting and killing instead."

  "How I wish this war would be over," Angeline said. "It's hard for me to believe that brothers are fighting brothers. And I don't even know who's right anymore."

  "Nor do I, Angeline." Devon looked solemn. "I only know I can't fight for slavery and that's why I'm wearing blue. But then, my family and those like us never owned any slaves. Maybe we'd see it different if we had."

  Angeline looked puzzled. "How did your family raise their crops, then?"

  Devon took a deep breath. "In the hills of Appalachia where we live, there are no plantations. Just little farms where people live in crude cabins perched on the hillsides and struggle to grow enough to feed their families."

  "Oh," Angeline said softly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

  "I wanted to tell you, sweet Angel. Because we're not only separated by gray and blue, but rich and poor. It's these differences that have made me certain I can never hope to have what my heart wants."

  "But my family was poor, too," Angeline protested. "It's the Wakefields who are rich, and I live with them only because of my sister's marriage to Malcolm."

  "And you know I've had no schooling. I can't even read or write more than my name."