The Valiant Hearts Romance Collection

by Kristin Billerbeck

  At last they were in the carriage and headed toward Hickory Manor. Laird unclamped his tight lips and said, “You made a fool of yourself tonight, Jeremiah. Only a simpleton attends a birthday celebration empty-handed. Not that the girl needed anything from you. She appeared perfectly satisfied with your mother and sister’s gift. And, of course, her book about Lincoln.” He spat out the name like a morsel of spoiled food.

  Jinny clutched her brother’s arm, but Isobel sat up straight. “It is not my son who played the fool, Mr. Cunningham. No gentleman transgresses the laws of hospitality as you did tonight.” Her stinging words fell like ice pellets.

  Jere waited for the inevitable explosion. Stopping an unpleasant conversation was one thing. A slur against Father’s conduct was far more serious. The blood of proud Scottish chiefs flowed in his veins, and his greatest vanity lay in being considered every inch a gentleman.

  “How dare you speak so to me?” Laird inquired in a deadly voice.

  She didn’t give an inch. “I dare because I must. No man should be allowed to act in such a manner. We shall continue this discussion in private.”

  Jinny was right. For better or worse—and all indications pointed to the latter—the worm had turned. For the second time that day, Jere Cunningham wanted to stand up and cheer.

  2 Negro spiritual, chorus

  3 Harriet Beecher Stowe (1851–52)

  Chapter 5

  Hickory Hill, Virginia April 12, 1861

  Lucy Danielson fingered the collar of the simple dark cotton dress she wore when assisting her father. Her hands dropped to the towering stack of sun-dried sheets and towels fresh from washing in strong soap and boiling water. Her mind far away, Lucy automatically began folding them and stowing them away in the storage area adjoining her father’s examining room.

  She looked out the open window, rejoicing in the warm April day. How long ago her disastrous fifteenth birthday celebration seemed! “‘Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning,’” she softly quoted. “Psalm 30:5.”

  Her hands stilled. A small smile tugged at her lips. Joy hadn’t come on the morning of October 26 as she had expected. All day she waited for Jere Cunningham to keep his promise and bring her gift. She had almost given up on him when he and Ebony dashed into the Danielson yard in the late afternoon. Storm clouds darkened his blue eyes as he stepped inside the front door. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t get here any sooner.” Lucy suspected from the firm set of Jere’s lips and jaw that there had been another altercation with his father, perhaps concerning a certain red-haired Danielson girl. She was incensed. Why must Laird Cunningham be so set against her? So what if she didn’t have wealth and lands? Wasn’t a heart full of love enough? She felt a blush begin at her collar and move upward, so she quickly led Jere into the small sitting room. “It’s all right. I’m just glad you came.” In an attempt to erase the anger in his face, she planted her hands on her hips and demanded, “All right, Jeremiah Marcus, Jerabone, Markabone, Napoleon Bonaparte Cunningham, where’s my present?”

  Her tactic worked. Jere threw his head back and snickered loudly. “Aren’t you ever going to forget that?”

  “No one in Hickory Hill except your father is ever going to forget it,” she taunted. “I never did understand how he kept from hearing about it.” She bit her lip. She actually did know. Village sympathies had always lain with son, not father. In addition, few people cared or were brave enough to risk the lord of the manor’s wrath by reporting Jere’s shortcomings.

  Lucy returned to her attack. “The idea! Telling the brand-new schoolmaster your name was Jeremiah Marcus, Jerabone, Markabone, Napoleon Bonaparte Cunningham on the very first day he walked into the classroom and took roll.”

  Jere’s eyes gleamed with memories and mischief. “Don’t scold. I was only ten. Besides, I couldn’t resist testing the new schoolmaster.”

  “You didn’t even try to resist,” she accused. “It’s a wonder he didn’t punish you severely.”

  “He was a good scout.” Jere chuckled, the last shreds of trouble disappearing from his face. “He just stood there all solemn and tall until everyone stopped laughing. Then he quietly said, ‘That’s an awfully long name, Jeremiah. Do you mind being called something shorter?’” Jere grinned sheepishly. “No one moved a muscle. I felt like crawling under a table but managed to mumble, ‘Call me Jere, please.’

  “The teacher’s mouth twitched. ‘Very well,’ he said. Then he grinned and began laughing. The whole room joined in.” Jere smiled at the memory. In an apparent burst of high spirits, he grabbed Lucy’s hands and whirled her around the entryway.

  “Stop stalling,” she told him after she caught her breath from the wild dance and could speak again. She pulled her hands free and scowled, knowing her uptilted lips spoiled any attempt at sternness. “I want my present. Now.”

  Jere folded his arms across his chest. His eyes sparkled with the ten-year-old mischief that had prompted the schoolroom incident. “Really, Miss Danielson, your curiosity is mighty unbecoming for a proper young lady.”

  “So when have I ever been a proper young lady?” she asked.

  He gave her a dazzling smile. “You were last night. Surely Roxy and Dr. Luke told you that, as well as your mirror. ‘Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest …?’” He bowed from the waist in a grandiloquent manner.

  Lucy’s heart bounced at the open admiration in his gaze when he straightened up. “Thank you ever so much, kind sir.” She spread her green-checked gingham skirts and curtseyed low in imitation of a coy Southern belle. “I do declare, sir. I remember a certain gentleman promising that same proper young lady a present.” Lucy fluttered her eyelashes. Ugh. How could her girlfriends bear to act so? It made her feel like a ninny.

  Jere threw his hands into the air. “I surrender. Sit down and I’ll bring it in.”

  He strode out and returned a few minutes later carrying a good-sized package, which he carefully deposited in her lap.

  Lucy touched it with an exploring finger. “It’s heavy.” She took off the outer wrappings and revealed a box. She opened it and found more wrappings. Another box. “What is this? A treasure hunt?”

  “You might say so.” Jere chortled. A suspicious glance showed he was thoroughly enjoying her bewilderment.

  Lucy continued removing wrapping and boxes until, “A brick?” she said disbelievingly. “You gave me a brick for my birthday?” She stared at the heavy, offensive object lying offcenter in the bottom of the last box.

  “You mean you don’t like my present?” Jere laughed until tears rolled. “You could at least be polite and pretend.”

  Lucy cocked her head to one side and silently surveyed his oh-so-innocent face. Did the silly brick hold a special significance? Was it his way of hinting that someday they would build a home together, using the brick for a cornerstone? The thought sent another rush of blood to her already overheated cheeks. “Is it … does it … I mean, is there a reason for giving me a brick?” she finally asked in a very small voice.

  He lifted one eyebrow. “Oh, yes. A very special reason.”

  Lucy couldn’t move. My stars. Is Jere about to declare his intentions? Again? If he does, what shall I do? What should I say? Heroines in novels faint at such moments, but I can’t imagine myself swooning.

  She was spared the painful decision of how to answer when after a long pause Jere told her, “The brick is actually camouflage for your real present.”

  Lucy didn’t know whether to be glad or relieved. The strange new feelings of the night before suffered a setback and mild disappointment, but part of her didn’t want things to change between them. “There’s nothing else in the box.”

  “Oh, but there is. Reach to the very bottom, alongside the brick,” he said in a voice that showed he was as excited as she. Lucy obeyed and took out a hard something swathed in more paper. She discarded the final wrappings and a small box appeared. Lucy hesitated, heart pounding. The box was just large enough to ho
ld a ring. Lucy swallowed. Now what? Please, God, help me not to make a fool of myself, she prayed.

  “Open it, Lucy,” Jere whispered.

  With trembling fingers, she followed directions. The contents of the box made her gasp. A small brooch lay on a nest of soft cotton. Not a jeweled or antique brooch, but one far more precious to Lucy—a tiny lamp hammered from metal and burnished to a soft glow. The pin was a miniature replica of the lamp carried by Florence Nightingale that Lucy had seen in pictures. She picked it up and held it in the palm of her hand. “Oh, Jere!” Tears spilled. “How could you ever find such a perfect gift?”

  “I didn’t find it. I made it for you.” His intense blue gaze never left her face. “I’ve been working on it for months, whenever I could steal a few minutes from chores at Hickory Manor. My friend, the blacksmith, taught me how and kept my secret.” He cleared his throat. A slight uncertainty crept into his face.

  “The blacksmith says I crafted it so well, it will last forever. You can pass it down to our—your children and grandchildren.” Color crept up to the golden brown hair across his forehead.

  Lucy knew that if she didn’t do something, anything, she would burst into tears of joy and be unable to tell Jere why. She quickly pinned the brooch just above her heart and impulsively sprang from her chair. A few steps took her to Jere. She threw her arms around him, rose to the tips of her soft-soled slippers, and kissed him. Then, with a gasp at her brazen action, she darted into the entryway, unceremoniously leaving her astounded guest frozen to the spot.

  A flash of red and the call of a cardinal to his mate just outside the open window rudely interrupted Lucy’s woolgathering. Her face burned, as it did each time she remembered the kiss. Her fingers stole again to her collar and gently stroked the tiny lamp’s smooth surface. She had worn the brooch day and night since the day she received it.

  Lucy chuckled to herself. The kiss wasn’t all she remembered about that fateful afternoon. Or the lamp pin. Jere’s dumbfounded expression when she kissed him never failed to bring a smile to her heart and lips. Thank goodness Jere was gentleman enough not to remind her of how forward she had been! She knew he hadn’t forgotten the incident, any more than she could forget. His just-biding-my-time expression and occasional comment that sixteen was a good age for a girl to become betrothed, preferably to someone a few years older, made clear his love for her, without pledging vows of eternal devotion. The love that hadn’t changed since he was a boy of six.

  “I’m the one who has changed, God,” she whispered. “I feel years older than I was just six months ago. If Jere brings me a ring on my next birthday and Daddy Doc agrees, I’ll be the happiest girl who ever lived. You’ve blessed me so much. Help me be worthy of Jere and a good mother to his children.”

  She hesitated, wanting to cling to the sunny moment, knowing only too well that shadows and perhaps darkness lurked just around the next bend in life’s road. “Father, so much has happened in such a short time that sometimes I feel the world has gone crazy.”

  When had the fog of anxiety first begun to cloud her normally bright skies? Lucy thought back to her birthday dinner. Laird Cunningham had all but accused Mammy Roxy and Jackson Way of being part of some dark and devious plot. To do what, Lucy had no idea. Escape? Hardly, when they were free to leave any time they chose. Slaves, including some on neighboring plantations, might use the song “Steal Away” as a signal. Not Mammy. When she sang about the Lord calling her and a trumpet sounding in her soul, she expressed the deep faith she had passed on to her charge in good measure. The words, I ain’t got long to stay here, reflected her yearning for heaven and the family who had been so cruelly torn from her and Jackson Way long ago.

  The seeds of depression planted in Lucy’s heart that birthday evening had been temporarily overshadowed by the gift of the lamp pin. Yet they sprouted alarmingly on November 6, when Abraham Lincoln won the presidency of the United States. Consternation sped through Hickory Hill. Talk of Virginia leaving the Union intensified, especially after South Carolina actually seceded. A month later, Alabama, Florida, Georgia, Louisiana, and Mississippi followed suit.

  The flames of independence flared even higher when the six states sent representatives to Montgomery, Alabama, in February. There they formed the Confederate States of America and elected Mississippian Jefferson Davis as their president. Two days before Lincoln was inaugurated in March, Texas became part of the Confederacy.

  In his inaugural address, Lincoln wisely omitted any mention of threatening immediate force against the South. However, he firmly stated that the Union would stand forever. He would use the nation’s full power to hold federal possessions in the South. This infuriated many. Virginia teetered on the edge of secession.

  The tenth state to be admitted to the Union was greatly divided on whether to remain with the Union or join the Confederacy. So was Hickory Hill. Secession became such an issue between families and friends that many “done chose up sides and are about to start throwin’ rocks at each other,” as Jackson Way put it.

  Lucy and her father kept their opinions to themselves. “I’m a physician, not a politician,” Dr. Luke protested, when pressed by warring factions. “God put me here to patch up folks. He gave me Lucy to help. We have a full-time job, just doing what we’re meant to do.”

  Yet just the night before, the troubled doctor had privately confessed to his daughter, “I don’t know how much longer Virginia will remain neutral. We have hotheads on both sides.” A somber hue marred his usually cheerful countenance. “It’s like the sword of Damocles, suspended over our heads and hanging by a single hair. It won’t take much to break the hair and free the sword. I fear what will happen when it comes plunging down.”

  Lucy suddenly felt cold, even though sunlight streamed in the window as brightly as ever. A long time ago, she’d heard a granny-woman say she felt like something was walking across her grave. Lucy hadn’t understood what the woman meant. Now she did. If the sword fell, it could destroy all she held dear.

  A few hours later, her worst fears were realized.

  Chapter 6

  Footsteps in the entryway outside the cozy sitting room where Lucy sat reading took her away from King Arthur’s court and into the present. She raised her head and frowned. The steps sounded shambling, not sure and crisp, like Daddy Doc’s firm stride. Was something wrong with him?

  The door flew open. Lucy jumped to her feet as her father reeled into the room, blond hair awry, face whiter than the sheets and towels Lucy had folded earlier. A tornado of dread swept through her. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

  “Sick at heart.” Pain contorted his face and dulled the blue of his eyes to gray. Lucy recognized the look from times she had seen her father give the best of his skills in an attempt to save a life, only to face defeat in the end.

  Her father dropped heavily into a chair. He stared straight at Lucy, but she felt he wasn’t really seeing her. “Word just came. The Confederate forces have fired on Fort Sumter, the federal military post in the Charleston, South Carolina, harbor.”

  Lucy felt herself stiffen. “What does it mean?”

  A glazed look further dulled his eyes. “War. Misery, suffering, needless death. North against South. Brother against brother. Friend against friend. God help us all—and forgive the sins that have led to this terrible thing!”

  His outburst shocked Lucy to the core. Even in critical situations, she had never heard him speak so. “Why?” she cried. “There must be a way to stop it.”

  “The time for that is past. It ended with the firing of the first shot.”

  Horrified by the hopelessness in his voice, a sob rose to Lucy’s lips and escaped. She blindly fled to her father, who opened his arms and encircled her. She felt the peace of his embrace—along with something else: his need to receive comfort, not just give it. “God won’t allow war to come,” she faltered, desperately trying to reassure herself as well as her father but knowing how unconvincing she sounded. “He doesn’
t want people killing each other.”

  The arms about her tightened. “No, Lucy. He doesn’t. Yet men choose to take control instead of leaving the world in His hands. God gave us agency. When we make terrible choices, He stands aside and lets us suffer the consequences.”

  “Sometimes He intervenes.”

  “Yes.” Dr. Luke held her away from him and looked down into her wet eyes. “We can pray this will be one of those times.” His lips thinned to a straight line. “It’s hard enough fighting ignorance and superstition and sickness. If war comes, we will be forced to tend hundreds of victims of man’s folly.”

  “You don’t think war will come to Hickory Hill!” Lucy freed herself and slid to her knees in front of his chair. “It can’t. It just can’t,” she brokenly protested. “Our valley is so peaceful.” She put her hands over her ears, vainly attempting to silence the imagined sound of cannons, the cries for help from the wounded.

  Dr. Luke gently removed her hands and cradled them in his own. “I’m terribly afraid today’s action by South Carolina will inflame Virginians to the point of secession,” Dr. Luke told her. “The worst thing is, both North and South believe they have a cause worth fighting for, even dying.”

  “Who cares about causes?” Lucy flared. “We are all part of the same country. How can a cause be important enough to make us go to war against ourselves?” She anxiously searched her father’s face for help in understanding the precarious position into which the country she loved had fallen.

  “Many wonder the same thing,” her father said. Some of the blue returned to his eyes, but none of their usual sparkle. “It is a dangerous thing when both sides believe they are right. That is what’s happening now. The North is committed to freeing the slaves and preserving the Union. The South will fight to maintain a way of life begun by those who pioneered and won their lands through suffering and hardship. Only God knows how or when it will end.”