Patricia Rice

by Wayward Angel

  "Thou must have been hit in the head last night," she said scornfully. "Self-pity does not become thee. If thou wishes to stay, stay. The stitches in thy side should not be stretched until the wound begins to heal. Thou hast lost a great deal of blood and should rest. If thou canst not stay in thy father's house, then take mine. Jackson will be glad of the company."

  Pace returned his hat to his head and his eyes focused on the horizon while he considered the offer. Dora all but held her breath as he scanned the rolling hills and barren trees. This was his home. She knew he loved it if he loved nothing else. She prayed love was a stronger emotion than anger.

  "There are others I would say farewell to before I go," he finally responded. "I would not put you out of your home, though. Do you not use the farmhouse yourself?"

  Dora gave a prayer of thanks before saying, "It is not safe for a woman alone. I stay with thy mother. I pay Jackson to stay and feed the animals. He had almost enough to buy his freedom if the tobacco had not burned. We are hoping for better next year."

  Pace eased himself from his horse, favoring his injured side as he did so. When he stood beside her, he still leaned against the saddle for support. He studied her face before concentrating his attention on hanging onto the horse and walking. "Tell Jackson to save his money. When the war is over, he'll be free without paying a cent for his freedom. He can use his savings to buy land."

  Dora contemplated such a strange world where black men could buy land, then shook her head. "I cannot see thy father or his friends selling land to a black man. I cannot see Jackson living at peace with such neighbors. There is a woman he would marry, but she is not free, either, so he refuses to marry her for fear their children will one day be sold away from them. There is hate deep inside him, and he is surrounded by hate. I cannot see how it will work. War cannot change men's hearts."

  "Their hearts may not change, but their laws must. You know as well as I do that it cannot go on like this forever. Once, there might have been a chance for peaceful change, but narrow minds prevented that chance and it's lost now. The war will not go away soon. When it ends, Jackson will be a free man. He just must believe that a while longer. He is more fortunate than others. He can wait."

  "The girl last night?" she asked quietly.

  She felt Pace give her a quick glance, but her bonnet concealed her expression. He returned to looking straight ahead. "Her owner was from New Orleans. She meant to return her there. If she didn't leave now, she would never have another chance. She has just turned old enough to be sold to a brothel."

  Dora cringed at such a fate. She had experienced having little freedom of choice, but she could not imagine having no choice at all, especially when the assigned fate was so ... She could not think of a word bad enough to describe the child's intended destiny.

  "Violence is not the answer, but I cannot think what is," she finally admitted. "People are so very blind." She hadn't meant for the bitterness to show in her words, but the edge was there.

  "Not all people are blind," Pace reminded her. "There are many others who believe as we do. I wish you would stay with your friends across the river. I thank you for your bravery last night, but it was a foolish risk to take."

  The simple compliment on her bravery warmed her, even though she knew the truth of her cowardice. Biting her bottom lip, Dora shook her head. "I am of no use over there. I am needed here, so here I will stay."

  They came in sight of the shabby farmhouse. There hadn't been funds for whitewash this past spring. Jackson and David had done what they could to mend the fences and barn roof, but they had other lives outside of this one and could spare little of their time for mending. The crops came first. And they were lost.

  She could see Pace scanning the deterioration and forced her tongue to ask, "Wilt thou stay? It is not what thou art accustomed to."

  Unexpectedly, he reached for her hand and clasped her slender fingers in the largeness of his. "It looks like heaven to me. Isn't that where angels come from?"

  Dora laughed and accompanied him down the lane. She hadn't laughed in a long time. It felt good. His hand around hers felt good.

  She wouldn't think of anything else but the moment.

  * * *

  Lord Beaumont sat stiffly in the desk chair of his study, perusing a crude sheet of stationery. He had one hand on the prayer book beside him, whether in preparation to opening it or in a gesture of prayer was not evident. The door opening to admit his son Gareth interrupted his concentration.

  "You cannot still be considering sending for the chit?" the tall young man asked in incredulity, seating himself without invitation in one of the high-backed leather chairs.

  Grayer now but no less handsome than in his earlier years, the earl tapped his fingers indecisively on the cheap paper. "If it is truly her, I have an obligation to rescue her from those heathens. Alexandra is my daughter, my flesh and blood. I have had an investigator searching for her for years, and here she is served to me without request. God's hand is in this."

  Gareth scowled. "Human hands are in this. Someone seeks to profit by a large reward. There is no proof that the chit is really Alexandra. There is no proof that she even survived except for the word of one of those pious old goats. Alexandra is dead. We all know it. Someone has obviously just found Matilda's old papers. They've set this all up, waited until they found someone the proper age and coloring, and now they're meaning to collect."

  The earl kneaded his forehead with indecision. "I will send someone to investigate. I cannot ignore the possibility that she is alive."

  Gareth slumped in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "There is a bloody civil war going on over there! At least wait until the bloodshed's done. It's not as if you've got the wealth to share. The damned funds crash saw to that."

  The earl didn't seem to be listening. His gaze had drifted to the mullioned window where a faint ray of sun peeked out from behind the heavy barrier of clouds. His fingers continued tapping against the ragged letter. He heard his son. His mind accepted the truth of what was said. It wasn't his mind to which he listened.

  Chapter 7

  I hate and love. You ask, perhaps, how that can be?

  I know not, but I feel the agony.

  ~ Catullus, Poems (1st c. b.c.)

  May 1862

  Stricken, Dora stared at David, still unbelieving. "But thou canst not, David. War is the worst form of violence. Peaceable solutions must be found. Thou canst not become a soldier."

  David smiled at her sadly from beneath the broad brim of his low-crowned hat. "Dost thou think I have not heard all the arguments? I must follow my own Light, Dora, and it tells me I must stand beside my beliefs. Slavery must end. Can we measure one wrong against another, decide which is the greater sin, slavery or war? If I do not fight, I am allowing slavery to continue."

  Dora tightened her lips. "That is specious nonsense, David. It is no better than Charlie saying he's taking that provost's position for our own good. A wrong is a wrong no matter how thou dost justify it. I know full well Charlie benefits from that position, just as thou intendeth to get away from the store and thy parents by going off to war. Do not give me fairy tales as an excuse."

  Anger tinged David's reply. "If I speak in fairy tales, then I am not the only one. Who dost thou think to fool by living in the big house even when thou hath been offered other homes? Hadst thou taken the Elders' offer, they would have approved our marriage by now, and we could be living together on thy farm. What reason canst thou give for refusing their commands?"

  "I need no reason! I am needed here. I would be a burden there. If thou didst truly wish to marry me, thou wouldst go against the Elders' rule as thou art doing now. Thy only interest in me is that dratted farm. Go off to war, then. Spill blood upon thy hands. Just do not think thou canst come home again and find everything still the same."

  Dora picked up her basket and marched down the lane, turning her back on the frock-coated man standing beside his old horse. Sh
e heard him call her name, but tears streaked her cheeks, and she would not let him see them. She didn't even know if they were tears of self-pity, loss, or fear. She just knew she felt this great gaping emptiness, and only terror rushed in to fill it. Always, there had been this emptiness. She should be used to it by now. But each departure ripped the fabric of her existence a little wider.

  She was sobbing and half-running by the time she reached the front yard of the big house. This wouldn't do. She would allow no one to see her pain. She must remain invisible. It was her only protection.

  Stumbling to a halt beneath one of the big oaks, Dora wiped her face against her sleeve and took a deep breath. She shouldn't have left David like that. She should have been calm and gracious and applauded his noble actions. She had not behaved well at all. But considering she had wanted to stamp her feet and pound his chest and rage at the stupidity of men, perhaps she had found some kind of compromise by just bursting into tears.

  If she could pull herself together, she could escape to her room and wash her face and work back into her usual routine. She had learned to wall off unfortunate emotions many long years ago. It took a little time to seal them off completely, but the sooner she began, the sooner it would be done. David was out of her life. She knew that as certainly as she knew that leaves grew on trees. She had left other lives behind and survived.

  The sound of a commotion in the back distracted Dora from her bleak thoughts. Following the noise, she trailed up the carriage drive, past the stables and kitchens, back toward the slave quarters. Screams and wails and raging voices told her the scene wouldn't be a pleasant one, and she had no business interfering. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered much at the moment.

  "Marster Pace done tol' me I could! He tol' me he needed a boy. He tol' me them soldiers needs strong arms. I gots strong arms! I don' wanna be no houseboy no more."

  The crack of a whip and a scream followed this outpouring of righteous rage. Dora hurried her steps. The only one who wielded a whip around here was Pace's father, and he didn't know when to stop.

  "Damn you! You'll do what I tell you or I'll beat the tar out of your senseless hide. Do you know what happens to runaway niggers down in town? You ain't seein' half of what you'll get if those slave catchers find you!" The whip whined again.

  In all probability, Carlson was correct. The slave catchers generally tied their victims up before beating them. Carlson preferred working out his rage by chasing them down. Dora didn't find much consolation in that difference. She cringed as she watched the whip lash through the young boy's shirt. Blood welled in the gash left behind.

  She recognized the boy as one who once served as Pace's manservant. The Union army didn't discourage Kentuckians from bringing their slaves with them, but Pace had left his behind. She wondered what had prompted the boy to join him now.

  The screaming and arguing continued as Dora joined the circle of frightened black faces. Despite their relative isolation, word of the outside world traveled like wildfire through the slave quarters. They knew the Union soldiers didn't discourage runaways. They knew if they could find a federal regiment, they would find protection. But they were miles from Louisville and the nearest troops, and they feared what could happen between here and there. So far, none had been desperate enough to make the attempt. Until now, apparently.

  The boy whimpered on the ground as Carlson repeatedly swung the whip. His aim was off as much as on, but blood streamed from cuts on the boy's back and arms. Dora walked through the crowd and into the inner circle and bent over the child to examine his wounds. Her action effectively halted the progress of the whip.

  The mask of hypocrisy always amazed her. Her bonnet and long skirt gave her a protection denied to any man. The fact that Carlson considered her a guest gave her even greater protection. No respectable gentleman would ever strike a woman, and to strike a guest was doubly reprehensible. That didn't mean Carlson wouldn't, but he managed to restrain himself in public.

  "What in hell do you think you're doing, girl?" he cried in fury.

  "The boy's arm needs suturing. He'll not have the use of it for a week as it is." Dora turned to one of the women in the crowd. "Fetch my bag, wilt thou?"

  "Dammit, Dora! I'm not done with him yet. Get out of my way. I'm teaching him a lesson he'll never forget." The whip cracked menacingly near but hit only dirt.

  Dora ignored him and looked to one of the men. "Help me get him back to his bed. I'll need soap and warm water."

  When the slaves hesitated to follow her command, she glanced up and saw Charlie hurrying down the steps from the house. Charlie represented another problem entirely. She didn't feel any relief when she saw Josie hurrying behind as fast as her unwieldy pregnancy would allow. Gentle Josie had developed a shrew's tongue these last months.

  "What in hell's goin' on out here?" Charlie demanded as he strode up. Thirty-plus years and too much alcohol had softened his large frame, but he was still a powerful man. He glared down at Dora stooped in the dust, then turned a questioning gaze on his father.

  "Just get the blasted girl out of my way so I can finish what I was doing," Carlson answered irritably. His temper was formidable when aroused, but died just as quickly. He'd already lost interest in the whipping, but his pride needed salvaging.

  When Charlie moved to do as told, Josie caught his arm.

  "You keep your hands off her! Dora, get that poor boy out of here."

  Dora felt fear well up through the emptiness, just as it had all those long years ago. She wanted to run and hide and pretend this wasn't happening, but she knew better than to pray for help. What followed wouldn't be pretty. She had seen it once too many times. Charlie didn't like being thwarted. He didn't appreciate Josie's opinion on the treatment of servants. And he most certainly didn't like having their disagreements broadcast in public.

  Shivering, Dora stood up and dusted herself off, distracting Charlie from the violence forming in his clenched fist. "I thought the boy belonged to Pace," she said, forcing him to look at her and away from Josie. "I merely wanted to see that he wasn't damaged. Pardon my intrusion if I was wrong."

  "It doesn't matter who he belongs to!" Josie cried. "You can't treat him like that. He's just a boy."

  Dora cringed as Charlie swung his arm, carelessly shoving his wife out of the way. A gentleman might not strike a lady, but a wife belonged to a husband to do with as he wished. Another lesson Dora had learned a long time ago. She grabbed Josie's arm as, unbalanced, she staggered backward, but Josie had gone beyond reasoning now. Unlike Dora's mother, Josie hadn't learned to keep quiet. Recklessness replaced her usual timidity.

  She pummeled her small fist into her husband's massive arm. "You push me around one more time like that again, you bully, and I'm going home to Mother! You can't treat me like one of your slaves. Pace warned me about you and I didn't listen! I'm listening now. You'll live to regret the day—"

  Bringing Pace into this was not the wisest idea. With a growl of fury, Charlie swung around and slapped Josie full across the mouth. She gasped and fell backward into Dora's arms while the servants looked on, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

  "And I'll not have a nagging bitch for wife! Get the hell out of my sight before I take the whip to you too." He grabbed the whip from his father's hand and turned to apply it on the boy, but his intended victim had had the sense to crawl out of range. One of the older men now half-carried him back through the quarters. That left only Josie to take his anger.

  Dora placed herself between the shocked and trembling Josie and her irate husband while Carlson attempted to soothe his son. With whispered words, Dora got Josie moving in the direction of the house. By all rights, she should go after the boy to sew up his more serious wounds, but Josie was helpless in her pregnancy. Memories of her own mother's helplessness haunted her. If her mother had had friends to protect her, she might be alive today. It seemed wisest to see Josie safe first.

  "I'm going home," Josie wept as Dora led her up the back step
s. "Pace was right, I don't belong here. I thought he was a gentleman!" she wailed brokenly as they entered the house.

  Dora assumed the last "he" meant Charlie, but anyone foolish enough to assume Charlie was a gentleman didn't deserve an answer. As far as that mattered, the word "gentleman" had become outmoded. If ever such a creature existed, it was extinct now.

  "He's your husband. Thou canst not leave. Thou must learn to work around him," Dora suggested as they started down the hall toward the stairs. Heaven only knew, she had experience enough to know that leaving didn't solve the problem. Charlie would just go after Josie and beat her senseless. Wives didn't have any more rights than slaves; they just usually didn't end up in jail when they ran away.

  "I'll tell Pace. Pace will know what to do," Josie said, straightening her shoulders and pulling from Dora's hold.

  Dora groaned inwardly at this stupidity. Maybe smacking Josie was the right idea. Someone should knock a little sense into her spoiled little head. In some ways, Josie and Charlie were two of a kind. "What dost thou think Pace can do? Thou art married to his brother. Dost thou wish him to shoot Charlie? Thou dost carry a child. Pace can't take thee with him, even if thou wished to live in a tent and travel from battlefield to battlefield. This is his home, remember? He has nowhere else to take thee. Just what dost thou think he can do? Wave a magic wand?"

  Josie grabbed her skirts and stalked up the broad staircase. "You're just jealous because Pace doesn't know you're alive. He'll make Charlie stop hitting me." She turned triumphantly and looked down at Dora. "You didn't even know Pace was back in town, did you? Well, he is. And before he goes, he'll make Charlie pay for what he did."

  Dora didn't follow her any farther. The gap inside her grew a little more empty, and she took the black bag the silent servant handed her without question, turning back the way she came. Pace was home. She should have known it. The world exploded in chaos all around her. Who else but Pace could be the cause?