After another brief round of celebration with her mother and the household staff, Emily sought the privacy of her room to read the rest of Jovie’s letter. She cried afresh as she opened it, leaving round, smeary blotches in the ink.
I am more grieved for the wounded who lived than for those who knew the quick kiss of death. Our medical staff was unprepared for the number of casualties they received. I was called upon to help remove the disabled from the field and witnessed some of the primitive attempts at treatment. I am wholly convinced that a field hospital is equally as dangerous as the battlefield.
Even in peace, our camps are flooded with disease. Measles, mumps, typhoid, yellow fever, dysentery—they often take out a third of a regiment. The doctors are helpless against it. It makes me wonder what secrets might be discovered if one were to dedicate himself to the application of science in the field of medicine. I am intrigued by the possibilities and should like to have the opportunity to study further in this direction when I return to school.
In the meantime, I am being well versed in the art of destruction. You would not believe the desolation an army leaves in its wake—lives, buildings, landscapes, all obliterated. We are currently uprooting miles of railroad lines, lighting huge bonfires of cross ties and contorting the metal in their heat. I am starved for creativity, for the production of something pure, something beautiful. In your next letter, please describe for me fully your latest work of art. I would like to see it in my mind here among the wreckage of war. As ever, you are my sanity in a world that has lost all reason.
I remain ever yours,
Jovie
Emily crumpled the letter against her chest. Relief spread across her entire body, leaving her trembling and weepy. Jovie’s enlistment wasn’t even half over. How could she possibly go on like this for another nine months, waiting, never knowing?
But good news is a rapid restorative. Her tears soon evaporated, taking with them the blackness that had tinted the past ten days. She was knocking her head against the clouds as she stood on the front balcony that afternoon trying to decide if a view of the harbor would make a worthy subject for her next painting. The horizon was partially obscured by the rooflines of her neighbors’ homes, but patches of blue water peeked between the buildings. The effect was a deeply textured panorama.
“Excuse me, miss,” came a voice from the street. “Would you know where I could find an escort for the Freemasons’ ball?”
She squealed. “Thad!” In less time than it would take for him to repeat his question, she had flown down the stairs and into his arms.
“This is the reception I was hoping for!” He laughed. “I should go away more often.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” she admonished, drawing apart. “You caught me at a wonderful moment. We just received word that Jack and Jovie are both alive and unhurt.” She looked upward and spun in a circle. “If I felt any lighter, I believe I could fly!”
“They were at Manassas?” he asked, some of his levity tempered.
She nodded her head.
He puffed out a sharp breath. “Then I suppose I can understand your exuberance. But,” he added, “I was hoping some of it was for me.”
She held up thumb and forefinger, spaced an inch apart. “Maybe a tiny bit.”
He laughed. The sun sparkled against white teeth and cast his dimple as a pinpoint of shadow. Golly, he was good-looking. “Come inside. Mother will be thrilled to see you. Mother!”
Marie stepped from her sunroom with a quilt square still in her hand. “Thaddeus! How nice of you to stop by. Have you just arrived back in the city?”
“Last night.”
“Your parents, they are well?”
“Yes, ma’am. And quite happy their prodigal son finally came home for a holiday. I’m afraid I’ve neglected them for some time.”
“I hope you had a lovely visit. Can I persuade you to stay for dinner? This big house gets rather dreary with just the two of us.”
Thad glanced at Emily. “I’d like that very much.”
“Very well. Frederick,” she called to a nearby footman, “inform Betsy that we’ll be having one extra for dinner tonight.”
Marie returned to her quilting, and Emily tugged Thad out to the piazza. The air was thick with the fragrance of honeysuckle that rambled up the side of the railing and transformed the garden wall into an emerald curtain. They leaned against support posts and talked idly of Jack and Jovie, Ella Wood, Lune, and her father. “Did you see your sisters while you were in Savannah?” she asked, shifting the conversation to his interests.
“My sisters?”
“You mentioned them once, but you never say much about them.”
“Probably because they’re the last thing I’m thinking about when I’m with you. I’ve missed you, you know.”
She waved his comment away. “You’ve been gone less than two months. We spent more time apart during the school year.”
“I still missed you.”
“You were probably too busy to even think of me.”
His lips parted with amusement. “Why are you trying to talk me out of my feelings? I missed you,” he emphasized. “And I want to make up for lost time. Would you like to accompany me to the ball this Saturday, or must I beg at the next balcony?”
The dance hadn’t appealed to Emily when her aunt first suggested it, but now she felt so light, so free, she could skip across the roofline without fear of falling. With Thad there, her enthusiasm increased dramatically. “I will speak with my mother about it. I’m certain either she or my aunt will serve as chaperone.”
Thad’s face brightened. “You’ll go? Without any objections?”
She nodded and favored him with a smile that reached all the way to her heart.
Happy wonder filled his face as he ran a finger lightly down her cheek. “I’ve no doubt you’ll be the belle of the ball.”
His kiss was as light and gentle as the ocean breeze. She closed her eyes and let it blow across her skin. She realized how much she had missed him, too, and how long she had wanted to respond to him with a simple yes.
He broke away with that cocky grin that seemed to challenge the world to do its worst. She laughed, intoxicated by the sheer joy of living, and pulled his face down for a longer, deeper kiss.
The invitation was the first of many. Emily passed August and September in a haze of euphoria, thumbing her nose at the war, now that her brother and Jovie were safe, and filling her schedule with every garden party, beach picnic, theater production, and ball she could manage. So many activities left little time to fret about the next battle. Instead, she luxuriated in the sparkle and thrill of Thad’s presence and in the intensity he brought to her spirit. Her schedule slowed only when his fall school term began.
Her friendship with Abigail also bloomed. Each week, they whiled away hours in easy conversations over games, books, or knitting needles. It was different than time spent with Sophia. Abigail possessed a sweeter temperament and a much broader range of interests. Her company drew out an infection of loneliness Emily hardly knew she possessed and applied a healing salve.
One afternoon late in September, when the summer season was winding down, Dr. Malone strolled into his parlor and presented a new distraction. “Emily, have you ever contracted the measles?”
“Yes, sir. When I was seven.”
His eyelids dropped to half-mast, screening his faraway thoughts. “Would you care to accompany Abigail and me on an errand of mercy?”
She glanced up curiously. “What do you mean?”
“There was an outbreak of measles at the jailhouse last week, among the war prisoners, and I’ve been asked to oversee the care of the patients. There’s not much any of us can do; time and rest are the only cure. But Abigail accompanied me last time and her presence had an overwhelmingly positive effect. Far better than anything I could prescribe. She just talked to the men, wrote letters, read a poem or two, and acted as a general restorative for their spirits. There are twen
ty patients but few in the city with sympathy to spare for Yankees. Your help would be a kindness.”
Emily stiffened. These were enemy soldiers he was talking about, the very forces she feared could infiltrate her state and destroy Ella Wood. Some of them might even have taken shots at Jack and Jovie. “Why do you want my help? I’m terrible at making conversation.”
“Abigail said you spent time in the North. I thought you might feel at ease with them.”
“It isn’t difficult,” Abigail added. “I think they’re just homesick. They appreciate it so much.”
“I wouldn’t have to do anything…unpleasant…would I?”
“If you’re talking about nursing duties, then no,” the doctor answered. “There are orderlies for those tasks.”
Still Emily hesitated. “I’m not sure I could get permission.”
“I’ll talk to your mother. Abigail often accompanies me on my rounds. I would be in the room with you at all times, and there’s no danger to you if you’ve already had the disease.”
She reluctantly agreed, assuming her mother would never consent to the arrangement. Her father certainly would not have, but he’d just returned to Columbia after spending an uncomfortable week with them. Marie trusted the doctor implicitly and gave her approval after minimal discussion.
Perhaps it was a fair trade. She’d prefer an hour among indifferent enemies to another week suffering the barrage of cold looks and explosive outbursts from a very personal one. Still, she was harboring some mild resentment toward her mother when Dr. Malone arrived in his carriage the next day to fetch her. How would she ever manage to think up enough dialogue to spread among a room full of strangers? She stuffed her handbag with a backup plan, just in case—paper and pencils. It had worked before.
The jail was tucked away on Magazine Street in a section of the city Emily rarely visited. In fact, a new stone building now shared the square. Built in the same Gothic style as the jailhouse, it resembled a medieval castle with its pair of crenulated turrets. “What’s that?” she asked.
“The workhouse,” Dr. Malone answered.
Emily was admiring the unusual architecture as they rounded the corner and passed the open front doors. Just then a shriek of misery shattered the still air. The horse tossed its head, and Emily nearly lost her seat in alarm. “Good night!” she burst out. “What the devil was that?”
Dr. Malone peered at her closely. “You’re not familiar with the workhouse?”
“I’ve never seen it before. What are they doing in there?”
“Punishing slaves.”
Emily craned her neck to gape in horror at the building falling behind them. What could produce such a sound? The shriek came again, distant, faded, trapped behind stone. It completely unnerved her.
Abigail put a hand on her arm. “Father,” she protested. “Must you be so pragmatic? It’s clearly upset her.”
Dr. Malone shrugged. “If her family owns slaves, she should be fully aware of all aspects of the institution.”
Too soon they were entering the jail and being ushered to a room lined with sickbeds. Some of the men lay miserably under their blankets, coughing, sweating, their eyes bright with fever. Others reclined more comfortably. But every face was flushed with the telltale red rash. Combined with the hellish cry still echoing in Emily’s head, they made her breath grow rapid and her hands shake.
Abigail attempted to set her at ease. “Relax. They won’t hurt you.” She glided easily to the first bed, sitting beside the patient when her father had finished his examination. “Congratulations, Mr. Beatty,” she said. “You look much improved. How do you feel?”
“Just fine now that you’re here, Miss Malone.” The fading red dots bunched on his cheeks like freckles when he smiled, making him look boyish, though Emily guessed he was over twenty.
Abigail turned to Emily, who was shifting from foot to foot in the aisle behind her. “Mr. Solomon Beatty, this is my friend, Miss Emily Preston. She’s come to pay you a visit, but I think she’s suffering from a touch of anxiety. Do you think you could set her at ease while I slide over to visit with Mr. Evanston?”
“I’ll certainly do my best, miss.”
Emily inched onto the chair Abigail vacated and smiled stiffly at the man reclining in the bed. “Hello.”
He looked at her quizzically. “You do seem ill at ease. Is it my attractive polka-dotted complexion or our luxurious reception hall? I asked, you see, but they wouldn’t let us use the parlor.”
Her lip twitched. “I’m not very good at this.”
“Yankees don’t bite, you know. At least, they haven’t let the ones that do into the ranks yet. You’re quite safe.”
She gnawed at her lip.
He tried again. “So if you’re not much for conversation, what are you good at?”
“Painting.”
“Ah, see, you have me there. I can’t even whitewash a fence. Did you bring your paints with you?”
“No.” She felt foolish now. Nobody in the sick ward would want a sketch of himself looking like a Dalmatian. “Just a pencil.”
“Well then, Miss Emily Preston, a pencil is better than nothing. Will you draw me something to send home to my mother as proof that I’m alive and on the mend?”
She lifted her eyebrows. “Are you sure?”
“Certainly. And while you sketch, I’ll tell you about my mother.”
She did smile then. “Fair enough.”
She laid out the image quickly, capturing his features with bold, broad strokes, but it was enough time to hear not only of his mother, but his father, his twin brothers, a kid sister, and the sweetheart he left behind. His words flowed with the crisp, precise accent she remembered from Detroit, and she began to relax.
When his profile stared back at her from the page, she was satisfied to see his easygoing humor represented in the curl of his lip and the squint of his eye. She minimized the number of red splotches on his face.
“Well, there now!” he exclaimed when she turned it around for him to view. “You’ve convinced me. I believe you really can paint. Now it’s your turn to talk while I draw you.”
Her lips parted, then she laughed and handed over her sheaf of paper.
“I can’t promise the same quality,” he admitted, arranging the papers on his lap so she could not watch him work. “But I’ll listen as attentively.”
“Okay.” And suddenly, she was enjoying herself. She told him of her parents, her brother, Ella Wood, Chantilly, and Lune.
“Any beaus?”
She shook her head. “Nothing official.”
“Anybody in the war?”
She sobered. “My brother. And my friend Jovie.”
“Jovie,” he repeated. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone by that name.” He handed back the paper and pencils. “I hope they both return to you intact.”
She spun the paper and laughed at the giant smiling circle face. Beneath it he had written, “Thank you, Emily Preston. Your smile exceeds my talent. Share it.”
“Think you’ve got a few more portraits in you?” he asked.
“I think so.”
“Travis,” he called to the man across the center aisle. “Got an artist here. I think she can even make your ugly mug look respectable.”
“Send her over,” Travis called back in the same Yankee twang.
“Thank you,” she said to Solomon Beatty. He had somehow reversed their roles, offering comfort and support to her. As she traversed the room—sketching faces, pouring water, squeezing hands, writing letters—she was reminded that the enemy, the boys with their guns aimed south, weren’t that different than the boys they were shooting at.
25
That evening, Emily retired before the sun. Lizzie helped her into her nightclothes then pulled the draperies half shut, dimming the light but allowing the free passage of air. “Thank you, Lizzie,” she mumbled, rolling under a light blanket. At last the weather had scaled summer’s apex and begun to slide down the cool
er backside.
“Miss Emily?” Lizzie paused in the doorway.
“Hmmmm?” she was already half asleep.
“I was jus’ wonderin’ if you regret teachin’ me to read.”
Read! She hadn’t tutored Lizzie in weeks. “Oh no! Lizzie, I’m so sorry!” She leaped from the bed, dragged her maid into the room, and closed the door. “I’ve been so busy that our lessons completely slipped my mind.”
“You tired, Miss Emily. I been practicin’ on my own when you away.”
“I’m no more tired than you. Look at your belly!” How long had it been since she’d really talked to Lizzie or paid her any notice at all? Some friend she’d turned out to be. Once Thad returned to town, she’d jumped into one activity after another with hardly a thought for her maid.
“I jus’ thought, after our walk by de market…”
“Nonsense. Of course I want you to read. Everyone should have the ability to improve their mind.”
“I won’ have much opportunity.”
“I’ll make sure you have the opportunity. Bring the book and climb up next to me.”
They had moved on to a collection of children’s tales by Theodore Thinker titled Stories by Jack Mason, the Old Sailor. But as Lizzie read about the North Sea and polar bears, whales, and Egypt, Emily pondered just how difficult it would be for her maid to advance when simply being literate was a crime. Apart from her own involvement, it would never happen.
Lizzie finished the book and laid it aside.
“You are progressing so quickly, I’m going to have to find something more challenging,” Emily praised. “Perhaps one of my early history or science texts.” She had no doubt Lizzie possessed the intelligence to grasp the concepts.
“Do you have any books about…Africa?”
“No, but I’m fairly certain Jack has some. He was quite enthusiastic about Taylor and Stanley and the other English explorers making inroads into the continent a few years ago. Is that where your interests lie?”
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