The Colonel's Lady

by Laura Frantz

  “I’m not sick,” Roxanna said, though she felt it.

  Bella’s sharp eyes remained on her face. “I guess Dovie told you ’bout Graham.”

  Roxanna nodded. “I think she’s trying to do a little matchmaking.”

  “Law, least we agree ’bout that. You need to be married and have you a husband and a lap baby and all the rest. But you can forget ’bout Graham. He’s still grievin’, and he ain’t the caliber of the colonel nohow. It’s McLinn who needs to wed you and bed you and give you that baby—”

  “Bella!”

  “And,” she said with vehemence, “it’s you who needs to open your eyes to the truth and let ’im.” A slow, satisfied smile settled over Bella’s face. “There ain’t a problem with either one of you that a whole lot of lovin’ can’t cure.”

  Roxanna took a measured breath and tried to steady her voice. “Colonel McLinn is far above my humble station. He has never declared his love for me and he never will. I’m merely a distraction in a fort full of men. Besides, the army is going to war in the middle ground soon, as you well know. That’s hardly conducive to marrying and having babies.”

  “Oh, but it is,” Bella breathed. “The stone house is beggin’ for a weddin’ and honeymoon. It would be a fine send-off for a soldier, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t ask you,” Roxanna said with sudden spark. Setting her cup aside, she looked Bella straight in the eye, finding anger far preferable to tears. “I want you to put down any such nonsense. And if you hear the like, try to stop it. Colonel McLinn is under tremendous strain preparing for this campaign. I’ll not add to it and neither should you.”

  All the levity left Bella’s face. Roxanna looked away, hardly believing she was defending Cass.

  Folding her arms, Bella drawled quietly, “McLinn ain’t the onliest one under strain. You won’t hardly eat or talk here lately. What’s come over you?”

  Feeling all thumbs, Roxanna got up and began putting the tea things away, afraid Bella would notice the missing thistle cup. “’Tis the same as it’s ever been. I’m homeless and husbandless. My family—what little I have left—is an ocean away. I have but my scrivener’s pay, and I can’t leave this place. The British and Indians are nearly at our door. Can you blame me for not being hungry or talkative?”

  With a sage look, Bella’s eyes swept over her. “Naw, but I think your trouble goes deeper.”

  With that, she got up and went out. Roxanna nearly went after her to apologize for speaking so harshly, but weariness stopped her at the door. Daylight was dwindling, and she looked past the men playing ball to the house on the hill.

  Oh, Lord, You ask too much of me. Please provide a way of escape. I cannot bear the burden of being here any longer.

  “Miss Rowan?”

  Roxanna exited blockhouse headquarters and stepped into the path of a sturdy-looking man in fatigue dress. She had seen him before but hadn’t paid him any particular mind. Now she looked at him—truly looked at him—for the first time, a tremor of self-consciousness sweeping through her.

  “The name’s Greer, Miss Rowan. Graham Greer. I was hoping to see the colonel.”

  She tried to smile, remembering Dovie’s plea. “Colonel McLinn is outside fort walls on maneuvers with his men.” Truly, she’d hardly seen him the last fortnight or so. She studiously avoided him—and he seemed to be avoiding her, though she knew the coming campaign consumed all his energies. When he was within fort walls, he was always surrounded by his officers.

  His hazel eyes registered uncertainty. “Since tomorrow is the Sabbath, I thought I might hold a service, see if anyone wants to come.”

  Her beleaguered heart warmed to the unexpected words. She stepped out from under the cool eave into the spring sunlight. “A Sabbath service sounds fine.”

  “Thought I’d better ask the colonel first.”

  “I doubt he’d mind,” she ventured, not caring if he did. “It might be good for morale, especially in light of the coming campaign. And with so many of the men ill of late . . .”

  He turned his tricorn hat absently in his hands. “The worst of the fever seems to be over. Mayhap a Sabbath service would be a fitting way to give thanks.”

  The humbleness in his tone touched her, and she smiled for the first time in days. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

  “Aye, say, ten o’clock. Beneath the big elm.”

  28

  A finer Sabbath morning Cass had never seen. The elms and oaks surrounding the stone house rustled like a spring symphony and cast lacy patterns of light upon the ground. Both sky and river shared the same azure hue, and all looked lush and peaceful, almost perfect—so at odds with his present predicament. From one open casement window, he could see a few men milling about the fort’s parade ground in the early morning light.

  The day before, he’d issued a few passes to the regulars for fishing or visiting sweethearts at Smitty’s Fort, but most preferred to keep to their quarters and read or sleep. He’d been drilling them hard of late, and he didn’t blame them. Much to their glee, the night before he’d allotted an extra gill of rum to every man, as much to ease their aching muscles as to assuage his conscience at driving them so.

  Jehu Herkimer had brought him the first gill, and he felt almost foolish refusing. The look on the officer’s face was almost comical, his surprise was so great. “Saving yourself for the better brandy, eh, Colonel?”

  But Cass said nothing in reply, one thought skittering across his conscience. Saving myself for Roxie Rowan. Not a drop of liquor had passed his lips since the night he’d kissed her. He had only to recall the exquisite sweetness of holding her to dispel any desire to drink again. Yet he couldn’t deny the lure of it, guilt-ridden as he was. He wanted something to dull his pain, to take away the everlasting sting of what he’d done to her.

  Now, looking down at the fort’s confines, he could make out her unmistakable form crossing the parade ground. The combination of sapphire silk and lace was hard to miss, but it was the direction she was headed that was even more arresting. Under the lone shade tree of the fort—a sturdy if aging elm near the quartermaster’s—Graham Greer waited at a makeshift podium that was actually a barrel, his head bent over an open book.

  A Bible, Cass guessed, in preparation for the morning’s service. His uneasiness kindled as he watched her sink onto the crude log bench nearest Greer, her skirts swirling in graceful lines along the dusty ground. Though a respectful distance was between them, Cass felt a fierce protectiveness rise up inside him. What had she to do with Graham Greer?

  No sooner had the question gained a foothold than he knew the answer. Rumor was that Greer was smitten. Realizing it firsthand made what Cass was about to do all the easier.

  It was a bit past ten o’clock when Cass came down the hill. Only a half dozen or so men had moved toward the elm to sit on the makeshift seats for the service. Cass took a back bench well behind Roxanna, the rising sun beating down with summerlike intensity on his coat, making his neck bead with sweat. She had no inkling he was near, though he found it hard to look away from the gentle slope of her shoulders beneath the rich fabric of her gown and the little wayward wisps of hair spiraling free of its pins beneath her straw hat.

  No sooner had he sat down than a good dozen of his men—all officers—appeared. He kept his eyes forward as if unaware of them, somewhat amused that his presence was more of a draw than Greer’s preaching. The Herkimer brothers sat on either side of him, and then Micajah Hale took the bench alongside Patrick Stewart. In a few more moments, as if someone had rung a bell, came Johnny with Dovie and—could it be?—the rest of the Redstone women. Even little Abby.

  Perhaps a Sabbath service was in order, then. He’d not graced one since he’d accompanied Washington to chapel in Virginia prior to his being sent west. At Truro Parish, where Washington served as vestryman and warden, there had been fine upholstered pews and finer music. Here there was not so much as a single prayer book, and his hands felt strangely e
mpty. As empty as his soul. The admission cut him, left him feeling as vulnerable and exposed as a soldier with a broken musket.

  He fastened his eyes on Roxie’s still figure, his thoughts adrift. A conversation they’d had weeks before returned to him, gnawing at the edges of his mind just as it had ever since they’d spoken. She’d worn the same blue dress then. Perhaps that is why he thought of it now. As was her habit, she’d been sitting on a bench under her cabin eave that sunny Sabbath afternoon, Bible open on her lap, Abby beside her. She was unaware of him, but her softly spoken words seemed so arresting he couldn’t simply pass.

  “Who is among you that feareth the Lord . . . that walketh in darkness, and hath no light? Let him trust in the name of the Lord, and stay upon his God.”

  He made a move forward, and she looked up at him. He was struck by the poignancy of her expression. A telling wetness lined her lashes, brought about by the reading, he guessed, or some internal battle he couldn’t see. Concerned, he sat down on the bench beside her as Abby scampered away.

  “Isaiah?” he said, looking at the page.

  She simply nodded, returning to the text, her handkerchief clutched in one hand.

  “I’ve not read that particular Scripture,” he told her. “Not that I remember.”

  “I’ve not either, till now.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  She looked at him, surprise in her eyes. “Honestly?” When he nodded, she said, “I’ve been thinking of being hemmed in here, in this fort. And I believe this is simply a dark place where God, in His providence, has placed me.”

  “You don’t feel forsaken, then?”

  “Forsaken?” She hesitated, and he sensed her struggle for the right thought. “Sometimes I feel I’m walking in a sort of darkness, as the Scripture says. But now I see I must simply trust Him, keep my eyes on Him, and have faith that all will come right.”

  He looked out over the empty parade ground with something akin to loathing, and his own misgivings seemed to make a mockery of her heartfelt words. “And do you believe that God has called me here, to this fort, to have the same trust and faith, given my own situation?”

  She turned her face to him. “Why should your being here—or your response—be any different than my own?”

  “Because I lack your faith, Miss Rowan. Because Providence has indeed abandoned me. Because I feel as a somewhat superstitious Irishman and soldier that I’ve been brought here to die.” Though he hadn’t meant to speak harshly, he had, and he saw fresh tears glinting in her eyes.

  “Is God not your commanding officer, Colonel McLinn?”

  “In a sense.”

  “In every sense?”

  He smiled thinly and looked down at the ground. “And as such, He can issue an order and do as He pleases with me, is that it?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  He had no memory of what he’d said in response or the walk across the parade ground in the Sabbath stillness to headquarters. But her words followed him then and now, demanding an answer.

  When, he wondered again, had he allowed himself the freedom to doubt God’s eternal love and faithfulness? At what point had he discarded the faith he’d held close since childhood? Was God not a part of his life here . . . Richard Rowan’s death . . . Roxie’s coming? Despite all the turmoil, hadn’t he felt a renewed sense of God’s presence of late? Especially since he’d confessed to Roxie about her father?

  Still, he was unsure of the task before him. She hadn’t forgiven him, and it turned him more tense, making what he was about to do all the harder. Was he obeying what he felt the Lord was asking of him this day? Or simply letting his own lovesick heart skew his reason?

  He watched as Greer thumbed through his Bible, his fair face a hearty red from so many eyes upon him, perhaps. But when he spoke, it was with a confidence gained from familiarity with the book he held in his hands. Cass thought it fitting that he read from Exodus about Joshua, given the coming campaign.

  Though he’d come this morning to set an example, he hadn’t expected to find much that would hold his interest, given his agonized thoughts, or at least divert it from the woman who was in his line of sight, completely still, her head bent as if drinking in every word. His admiration for her strengthened in that still instant. Despite the press of present circumstances, the pain and perplexity of the moment, she kept on. Steadfastly. Unswervingly.

  Bravely . . . if broken.

  Roxanna felt herself sliding toward sleep on the sun-drenched bench. It wasn’t that Graham Greer’s preaching was lacking. She was simply weary from too many sleepless nights and now succumbed to the warmth and wind of a Kentucke May, the leaves of the lone tree high above rustling like angels sharing secrets. Fortunately, the brim of her straw hat with its lace veil hid her half-shut eyes.

  When the benediction was given, she roused herself and said a few words to Dovie before coming fully alert. Behind her, just rising from the back bench, was Cass. The sight brought a sharp pang. She’d not expected him at a Sabbath service. Standing head and shoulders above the knot of officers around him, he seemed about to turn away. She lowered her eyes to collect her lace mitts from the bench before looking up again, acutely aware that he was moving toward her—and every eye was upon them.

  “Might I have a word with you, Miss Rowan?”

  Resistance rose up inside her. But what was she to say? “All right,” she murmured, moving into the shade of the elm.

  “Not here. Outside fort walls. A walk, if you will.”

  Her lips parted in surprise. Under any other circumstances, a walk was a pleasant enough prospect, but venturing beyond fort walls might prove a hair-raising experience. Her bullet-ridden hat flashed to mind, and she gave him a slightly stiff smile. “Does your scalp mean so little to you, Colonel McLinn?”

  He glanced skyward, but back to her again. “I’ve already petitioned Providence and invoked divine protection, ye ken.”

  She almost said no, but took his proffered arm instead, looking around for the guard. She felt no small inkling of alarm when she realized he’d dismissed them. The dust rose in little clouds beneath their feet as they exited through the sally port into a golden afternoon. Her pulse began a wild, untamed ticking in her throat and wrist. She didn’t know if it was the heat or his bold invitation that turned her breathless.

  Not one word did he utter as they walked up the hill. Weary, a bit too warm, she found herself wishing he would take her into the coolness of the house, then steeled herself against the memory of what had happened there. As they skirted the west wall and passed into the orchard, they were soon lost to view in the heavily leafed trees. Here apples and cherries had been planted so thick they held the promise of hope and permanence.

  He seemed to be scrutinizing the outlying edges of the woods that grew in a green tangle beyond the fruit trees. Was he nervous without a guard? She certainly was, and relief flooded her when he went no further. There he stopped and looked down at her, and she realized in a little heart-catching rush that he meant something more than another apology.

  His voice was husky, his lilt molasses-rich. “Roxie, I’m not a man who wastes words, so I’ll just say it plain.”

  When she didn’t look at him, he brought her chin up with his hand. Despite her most formidable intentions, the tender gesture turned her to jelly. His face held such an appealing earnestness—and her heart was so sore—she didn’t think she could bear being alone with him like this . . .

  “I’ve brought you up here to ask you to be my wife. To share my name and my life—come what may.”

  For a moment she felt the wind might push her over. All her senses seemed to scatter.

  A proposal? Was he . . . jesting? Nay, he was not, and his raw honesty—his audacity—seemed to shatter her resistance. Frantic, she fought to stay grounded and took a step away from him.

  “You ask for my hand? On the heels of your confession?” The words reeled out of her, blunt and unforgiving. “Do you honestly think I
could conscience being wed to the man who killed my father?”

  His eyes darkened with pain. “I’d hoped you would forgive me in time. Your father was like a father to me. I would have willingly—gladly—died in his stead. But there’s no undoing what’s been done. I’ll live with the regret of it till my dying day. I’m asking you to look to the future—”

  “Future?” She spat out the word in disgust. “What future?”

  “Our future.”

  “We have no future. Why would you even ask—”

  “Why?” He took her gently by the shoulders. “Because my head and heart are so full of you I can think of little else. Not the coming campaign. Not the enemy within fort walls. Not even Liam McLinn.”

  She stiffened and tried to pull away. “Even if my father was still alive, there are too many other things at play. You are, by your own admission, lonely—”

  “Lonely, aye, and lovesick—and a great many other things on account of your coming.”

  She shook her head, groping for excuses. “Circumstances might make me attractive to you here, but put me in a room full of colonial belles and you’d not notice me at all. I’m . . .”

  “You’re what, Roxie? Plain? Not genteel enough? Unintelligent? A bit lame?”

  “For a man of your standing, yes.”

  A flash of exasperation rode his features. “I suppose your next argument will be that I ask for your hand because I’m beholden to your father on account of his dying wish—because I took his life. Or that I dishonored you by kissing you like I did, and as an officer and a gentleman I’m duty-bound to make things right.”

  “Yes, ’tis all those things—and more.” Heat stung her cheeks, but her voice stayed firm. “We see things so differently, you and I. Too differently to allow for any lasting happiness. Our way of looking at the world—”