Andrea crossed her arms and shook her head in disgust. “Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves. Such is the price of sin.”
Hunter did not respond and his face lost all signs of playfulness. All was quiet, save the gentle rustling of the wind in the newborn leaves of the trees. Then he spoke softly, but not gently. “We will not allow the destiny of our state to be placed in the hands of an irresponsible Republic who knows nothing of our Southern culture.”
“Southern culture? By that I suppose you mean the continuation of a system that promotes free labor.”
A heavy silence ensued, as thick and perceptible as the scent of honeysuckle in the air. Never before had their bantering touched on the sensitive matter of slavery. But the ugly topic hung between them now like an indefinable barrier.
“The South did not make war in defense of slavery.” Hunter’s voice grew strained. “Less than one man in a thousand in the army has any property interest in the institution.”
Andrea seemed to come to the conclusion that arguing would do little good. “I know you are convinced of the righteousness of your Cause, Major, but I believe your convictions are misguided. Can you not see the soil of Virginia is soaking in the blood of your misplaced patriotic devotion?”
Hunter leaned back and crossed his arms, pondering the fact that he admired her spirit despite the fact that she remained determined to be his enemy. He sighed with exasperation. “Someday, Miss Evans, I hope I can get you to see my point of view.”
“Major, I already see your point of view. I simply don’t agree with it.”
Hunter shook his head in feigned dismay. He knew she could not be induced to yield a point when she thought she was right … and she pretty much always thought she was right.
“Miss Evans, in the end we believe in the same things, preservation of constitutional liberties and the right of self-government. I desire peace as much as you do. But we won’t purchase it at the price of the honor and the interests of Virginia.”
They were both quiet: she staring at the sky, he gazing at her. “I suppose we’ve solved one thing tonight. “We both follow the dictates of our conscience.”
Andrea looked up at him sharply, as if she understood where he was taking the conversation. “As for the dictates of my conscience, do not fear, I have my reasons.”
“Your father?” Hunter saw her wince before her gaze locked in on his.
Eyes that were sometimes the color of emeralds turned dark as a thunderhead. “What know you of my father?”
“You … spoke of him in your fever.”
Andrea blinked repeatedly, then looked away. “It is ancient history.”
“But the scars cannot be so easily forgotten.” Her eyes darted up to meet his again. “Doc told me,” he explained.
Andrea stood and turned away, leaning heavily on the chair, obviously shaken at the thought that he was peeling away the layers of her past. Hunter could see her chest heaving as she appeared to reflect on the pain and horror of her childhood. It was hard for him to imagine a child living through the trials and anguish she must have endured; harder still to conceive the strength and resilience that grew from it.
“You needn’t talk about it. I don’t wish to revive unwelcome memories.”
Andrea took a deep breath and gazed up at the stars. “It was a long time ago.” She shrugged as if it meant nothing to her now. “I placed myself between my father’s whip and a slave thinking it would stop him.” Her voice trembled at the memory. “But clearly, it did not.”
Hunter closed his eyes, imagining the scene. “The sacrifice was worth the cost I hope.”
“It did no good.” Andrea turned back to him. “He sold the slave, a boy of eight, the next day. And his mother . . .” She swallowed hard as if the words would choke her. “His mother hung herself that night.”
She said it matter-of-factly, but the pain in her voice was unmistakable. When Hunter looked into her dry, staring eyes, he saw more sadness than a thousand tears could hold. He understood now why hostility and vengeance were a part of her soul, recognized that her impervious nature was a veil to cover the inner turmoil. All this, because she carried on her narrow shoulders the burden of two lives for which she could in no way be responsible.
Gone was the rebellious, defiant spirit to which he was so accustomed. Before him stood an innocent, fragile child, whose only companions had been anguish and torment.
Hunter watched her head rise another notch, as if rejecting the memories that consumed her. For a brief moment, he had glimpsed the pain behind the mask, but the curtain descended again as she stared out at the night. At least he had learned another slice of truth from her past. She had apparently inherited her beautiful eyes from her mother; the grief and anger in them from her father.
“I’m sorry,” she said, taking a deep breath and looking down. “No one knows about that. I don’t know why I told you.”
“Those people … like your father,” Hunter said, his brow creased at her distress. “They are not the ones fighting this war.”
“But they are the ones it’s being fought for!” Her cheeks turned red with passion.
Hunter sighed, knowing it would be useless to argue. His words of conciliation were not going to change her emotional animosity toward the South. He stood beside her in silence, his shadow touching hers as the moon continued its dazzling slide across the horizon.
“Hawthorne looks beautiful in the moonlight,” Andrea said at length. “Did you command the heavens to produce such a display tonight, Major?”
Hunter looked skyward at the moon behind her head, and shrugged. “I’m home now. My control over the celestial bodies was completed hours ago.”
“I think I shall always remember this night when I see a full moon.” Closing her eyes, she opened her hand to the night air and brought it toward her, closing it as her fingers touched her heart.
“What are you doing?”
She looked up at his gaze of confusion. “Saving the moment.” She closed her eyes again and smiled. “I close my eyes, feel the breeze on my face.” She paused and inhaled deeply. “I smell that honeysuckle right below us, envision the horses grazing in a pasture flooded by moonlight … Then I catch it all in my hand and save it forever in my heart.” She brought her closed hand once again to her heart.
The sound of thundering hooves interrupted the conversation. A group of horses came into view, galloping in the path of a moonbeam before disappearing over a hill. Hunter watched Andrea stare out into the darkness, her face taking on a wistful, radiant look at the scene before her.
“You are so blessed to have a home in paradise,” she whispered.
“It gives me great pleasure to know you enjoy Hawthorne. Where do you call home?”
Andrea looked genuinely surprised at the question and fell silent for a moment. “I … well …before the war, I lived with my cousin Catherine.”
“Well, what about after the war? You have to have someplace to call home. Certainly you’ve thought about marriage, a home of your own.”
Andrea laughed that soft, infectious laugh he loved to hear. “I have no intention of bowing to a man’s authority, Major. Why should I expect one to bow to mine?”
“You may have a point there.” He winked to show her he was joking.
“And what of you?” She gazed skyward again. “You will marry again? Or have you given up on love?”
He gazed at her, contemplating the question. “I’ve not thought about it in quite those terms. Let’s just say I’ve given up on the thought of perpetual and everlasting companionship.”
She smiled at his attempt to evade the question. “I suppose I’m lucky to have never known companionship. I don’t know what it is, so I cannot miss it.”
Hunter frowned at her rationale. “You’re much too young to think of going through life alone.”
“I’m nineteen. Almost anyway. Old enough to know that trusting a man enough to marry him would require more coura
ge than is within me.
Hunter blinked. “Almost? You told me a year ago you were nineteen!”
“I did not wish you to think me a child,” she said, shrugging.
He stared at her as he thought back. Then she was only seventeen while eluding him. Just a youth … yet possessing the cunning, courage and commitment of someone much advanced in age. Woman or child? She could scarcely be considered one or the other, yet possessed distinctive elements of both.
He reflected on her earlier statement. “It does not require courage to love someone and marry.”
“I didn’t say I could not love a man, nor do I doubt the divinity of the institution. I said I could not trust one. I told you before, Major, it is not in my nature.” Her gaze turned skyward. “Trust is an ability that I have lost or has died or was left out of me at birth.”
“You can’t go through life without trusting.”
“Trusting. Needing. They are one and the same. I prefer to rely on myself, depend on no one, and expect nothing in return.”
The pain in her voice startled him. “You can’t allow your past to dictate your future.”
“You speak from sympathy?” Andrea looked as if she yearned for him to impart some magical insight upon her.
“I believe I speak from experience.”
He watched her gaze slowly drift away to somewhere over his shoulder, then her eyes grew wide with amazement.
“Major,” she said, pointing behind him, “I fear the sun is rising.”
As if on cue, a cock crowed. Hunter turned so see the first pearly glimmers of light slicing through the darkness. In the far, far distance, the jagged shapes of trees emerged against the slightest patch of pink.
They had talked all night.
“I apologize for keeping you up.” Andrea’s eyes remained focused on the sunrise. “It wasn’t my intention, truly. The hours fled so swiftly …” She drew her attention away from the spectacle for a moment to meet his gaze. “But I thank you for the discussion. It was quite … stimulating.”
Hunter knew she meant the remark sincerely and smiled, then wondered why her words had elicited such a response. He generally found conversations with women nothing less than tedious, yet he had just conversed the night away with one. He sighed at his own confusion.
When he looked back around, the sky had taken on the impression of an artist’s masterpiece, with swirls of deep pink and lavender floating in stratified layers of lacy wonder. He felt he was witnessing a miracle, and knew he had never seen the dawning of a new day arrive with such splendor.
But as magical as the vista in front of him appeared, the beauty that stood beside him was also not without effect. She stood so near he felt her dressing gown touch his leg, and he tensed at the contact.
“I believe I shall never see its equal.” Andrea’s voice was soft as they stood in the lingering glow of dawn, sharing the spectacle before them.
Hunter studied her, thinking he should perhaps admit aloud that the glorious beauty of the sun in the painted heavens was nothing compared to the one who stood beside him watching its appearance.
“I’m sure you wish to get some sleep, Commander.” Andrea casually reached for the support of his arm. When she looked up, her eyes met his and lingered for the breadth of a heartbeat—long enough for Hunter to get the impression he had just witnessed a miracle that had nothing to do with the dawning of a new day.
He smiled again, dazed, remembering his weariness of a few hours ago that had vanished at the sight of her. Dismissing his confused thoughts, he helped her back to her room.
“Good night, Miss Evans,” he said, bowing.
“You mean, good morning, Major.” She smiled broadly.
He smiled too, but the smile quickly faded. “I stand corrected. Good morning, Miss Evans.”
After closing the French doors behind him, Hunter could not resist one more contemplative glance to the East. Something had awakened in him with the dawning of this new day. Something vague—yet something so distinct, he knew he would never look at sunrises or full moons the same again.
Chapter 37
“Even God cannot change the past.”
– Aristotle
Andrea lifted her eyes from a book to gaze at the rays of soft sunlight drenching the lawn in a rich golden blanket. She heard the front door close, then the familiar sound of Hunter’s spurs clanking across the porch. Seemingly unaware of her presence, he leaned one shoulder against the ionic column and gazed meditatively over the gorgeous panorama of the valley he owned.
Andrea could not draw her eyes away from the indomitable figure. With one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee, the other stuffed indifferently in his pocket, his image suggested little of the intrepid character she knew so well. Dressed casually, without his Confederate coat, he seemed tranquil and relaxed. Yet his large muscular frame, with his strong, tan forearms and powerfully built legs, showed evidence of his ability to put up a fight.
She lowered her eyes to her book, then lifted them once again. He was striking, she mused, irresistibly masculine and, she had to admit, very appealing. Tall, broad-shouldered, and vigorous, he was the incarnation of force and strength. A fearless soldier, he was likewise respected by others as a gracious and gallant gentleman, creating a puzzling veil of mystery that made him all the more captivating.
Andrea cocked her head and scrutinized him. Most officers dressed flamboyantly. Hunter, on the other hand, always wore a uniform that displayed nothing but hard usage. She could not help yielding him the tribute of admiration, for he was almost impossible to dislike.
Almost.
Andrea looked away as her thoughts began to disturb her, and a sigh involuntarily escaped her lips.
“Oh, there you are.” Hunter turned around.
He moved toward her with a brilliant smile, revealing a hidden handsomeness all the more enchanting. Placing his cup down on the table opposite her, he took a seat. Andrea detected an uncharacteristic twinkle in his eye and tried to decipher its cause.
* * *
“I forgot to mention that I had a chat with some fellows from South Carolina last week,” Hunter said as if simply making conversation.
Andrea lifted her gaze and then lowered it again, but otherwise did not respond.
“Yes, the Charleston area to be exact.” Hunter noticed that his houseguest stared at the book in her hands, but her eyes did not move, a hint to him that her thoughts were not on the words. “Maybe you know the area? Something-Crossroads, I think they said.”
Andrea closed her book and looked up at him with questioning eyes.
“Anyway, they can’t recall any Evans from the area,” he continued, “but they do know about this chap Charles Monroe”—Hunter emphasized the last name—“who, oddly enough, was married to an Evans—of Virginia.”
Andrea swallowed hard, but for the most part, her impassive face revealed nothing.
“Anyway, this Charles Monroe owns half of South Carolina.” He swept his arms to show the magnitude. “A place called MontRose.”
Hunter knew with certainty he had struck a chord now. Despite her best efforts to maintain an appearance of indifference, his young houseguest appeared troubled.
“I’d be somewhat surprised if you hadn’t heard of it with your knowledge of horseflesh. It’s quite a reputable breeding establishment. In fact,” he laughed, “can you believe Fleetson’s dam was bred at MontRose? You remember Fleet, don’t you?”
Andrea stared straight ahead, but the color blossoming in her cheeks revealed that she recalled, not only Fleet, but most likely his dam Lady Fleet, one of the plantation’s most blooded broodmares.
“Yes,” he continued, not giving her time to answer, “my grandfather dealt with Charles Monroe quite extensively apparently.”
“This is really a very nice story, Major.” Andrea stood. “But I fear I do not see what it has to do with me.”
“Oh, wait.” Hunter took her by the hand. “I haven’t gotten to the best part. I
do insist.” He plopped her down in the chair next to him and stared at her musingly as he took a leisurely sip of coffee. “Anyway, according to these men, this Charles had a daughter, an only child, an heiress to all his wealth and power.” Again, he spread his hands to show the magnitude.
“How nice.” Andrea sounded bored, but she stared mournfully out over the pastures while her fingers fumbled nervously with the pages of her book.
“But instead of being content with all that fortune, do you know what she did?”
“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“She ran away,” he said bluntly. “At a very young age, I’m told.”
Andrea stood to leave again. “Heavens, I was so hoping your story would have a happy ending. Now I really must go talk to Izzie.”
Hunter took her arm and guided her back to her seat with compelling force. Leaning forward with brows drawn together, he whispered, “That’s not the worst of it.”
“You don’t say?” Andrea settled in the chair as if annoyed, but her quick glance toward heaven did not escape Hunter’s searching eyes.
“Oh, yes, I do say. She disappeared the same day that all the outbuildings and warehouses on the estate burned to the ground. Of course, everyone believes she set the fires. Cost her father a fortune.”
Andrea put her hand to her mouth as if dismayed. “Why the little demon. How dare she?”
“My thoughts exactly.” Hunter nodded in agreement. “They told me other stories that I scarcely know if I should believe.”
“Truly? I hope you don’t care to share them.”
He chuckled. “Oh, yes, there is one I must tell you.”
He leaned back to get comfortable and gazed at Andrea. Her eyes were upon him, but their shaded depths revealed nothing except a sort of melancholy detachment.
“It seems this Mr. Monroe was losing slaves, almost regularly, for a year or so before the daughter left. It was suspected at the time, and later confirmed, that the child was giving them clothes, food, what have you, and sending them on their way.”
“That’s not much of a story,” Andrea said, looking him in the eye. “That sounds like the mindless tongue-wagging of neighbors and the abstract speculation of gossips.”
Shades of Gray: A Novel of the Civil War in Virginia Page 29