The spokes turned within her mind, but they never took her far from the aching fear that in carrying out Michael’s plan, she had gone too far. Her reputation, thanks to Mrs. Martin’s ceaseless gossip, had been questionable enough before. Now the Randolphs’ friends and neighbors must see her as, at best, a traitor for consorting with the enemy. At worst, they would believe her no better than a Yankee whore. Next fall, when Alexander started school, would he be bullied, maybe beaten for her sins? Would he grow to hate her for the choices she had made?
Straightening her spine, Charlotte wiped her eyes. She’d have her entire life to question the right and wrong of her decision. But she had only an hour to code the information she’d been given before the laundress returned with clean linens.
If she meant to play the role of spy, she must do her best – if only so she could finish it as quickly as possible.
o0o
With grim determination, Ben completed the task of attaching his artificial leg. As he adjusted his pant leg, a terrific cramping in the muscle of his left calf prompted him to grasp it with one hand. But instead of pliant flesh, his fingers massaged unyielding wood.
Once more he’d been fooled by the painful illusion that his leg did not end at the knee. The impulses were worse at night, when he sometimes felt as if something were twisting off his left foot. But when he tried to clutch it, to straighten out his ankle, his hands clamped down on emptiness, and he awakened with a start.
Six weeks earlier, he would have swallowed morphine to blur the jagged edges of his loss. Even now, nights tempted him to seek out the soothing drug. But the cane Ben used was crutch enough; he sensed that the painkiller dulled not only his discomfort but his senses. If he could not be whole of body, he must at least keep his mind intact. God knew it might prove all that he had left.
Before this war began, he’d planned on expanding his ranch and beginning his own family. He’d even thought of marrying Mattie Carlson, the pretty neighbor widow who had invited him into her bed when it suited her. But Mattie had told him she’d never welcome back a man “fool enough to fight for niggers,” as she put it. With her blunt words, his feelings for her sputtered out like campfires extinguished by the rain.
He’d realized then that Mattie had been the expedient choice and not the right one, but there were other women in the world. A memory rose unbidden: Charlotte, so lovely in the moonlight that he could not stop himself from kissing her.
And she’d allowed it. More than allowed it but welcomed his kisses, his embrace. The recollection of her sweetness banished the last vestiges of Mattie from his mind and made him ache with a hunger that demanded satisfaction, an all-consuming need that had him –
Losing his damned mind.
Ben shook his head, as if shaking off a nightmare. Whatever Charlotte Randolph wanted from him had not one damned thing to do with wedded bliss or even kisses on a sultry summer night. Her smiles and her comments since then seemed to imply a host of possibilities, but he wrote them off as empty promises. A beauty like her could never be attracted to a man crippled in the fight for union, a man now hampered in his ability to earn a decent living. A man whose scars sent children screaming from the room.
He winced, more in memory of Alexander’s reaction than from the ache induced by standing on the artificial leg. Glancing down, he realized that the falseness of the limb inside its boot must not have been apparent to the child. Were others fooled as well? Or did adult perception pierce through his disguise and find it ludicrous, pathetic?
Ben swore, thinking that the only thing worse than a lame man was one who wallowed in self-pity. Or, worse yet, self-delusion.
He would have to keep his mind sharp if he meant to determine exactly what it was that Charlotte Randolph thought to gain with her pretense of affection. And the only way to find out would be by doing some manipulating of his own.
o0o
Alexander peered down from the loft’s edge, wondering when Charlotte would call back Lieutenant McMahon and tell him it had all been a mistake. But she didn’t do that. Instead she stood crying for a couple of minutes before hurrying outside, where he heard her footsteps heading toward the house.
He tried to tell himself that Charlotte hadn’t meant it when she’d told the Yankee she would marry him. He kept waiting for her to laugh, the way she always did when she was joking with Michael, but instead she’d let that bluebelly kiss her right on the lips.
Alexander felt like throwing up to think about that Yankee kissing on his sister. It was bad enough the hungry way the soldiers sometimes looked at her, bad enough when the one with the fat mustache gave him a whole dollar to go play outside when she was sewing in the sitting room. (Alexander especially hated that bluebelly, Lieutenant Snyder, because – dollar or no dollar – the man always called him Alfred.) Now, however, Charlotte had gone and said she’d marry one of the dirty thieves who stole their house. The way she liked to order Alexander around, he figured she might try to drag him north and make him be a Yankee, too.
After all the things he’d heard his papa say about the Yankees, Alexander would be roasted over a pit before he’d join up with them. He’d fight to the death for Tennessee and old Jeff Davis, just the way his father and his brother would.
Thinking of his family, Alexander felt the knot inside his belly tighten. Papa would be mad enough to spit tacks if he heard what Charlotte did. Maybe he’d even come home to put a stop to it.
Alexander would like to tell, but he didn’t know where Papa was. Charlotte had explained that their father couldn’t say too much because he was afraid the Yanks might steal his letters. Besides, they hadn’t heard from him for a long time.
Maybe, Alexander thought, his big brother would come straighten things out. After all, they had just seen him at Aunt Lila’s farm. Could be he was still there, or close enough that their cousins or his aunt would know where to find him.
Alexander knew one way to find out.
As he gathered his soldiers and tucked them into his pockets, he wondered how much bigger Daisy’s puppies were by now.
o0o
As had long been her habit, Charlotte met Mrs. Perkins on the back steps to collect the household laundry. Charlotte was too nervous to speak; but then, Nellie Perkins never stopped to chat, as she once had with the late Mrs. Randolph. Instead, the heavy-jowled white woman usually regarded Charlotte with a look that straddled the border between curiosity and contempt, a clear indication that Mrs. Perkins had heard the rumors floating about the neighborhood.
Today, however, the woman’s brown eyes looked somber, and the bleakness of her countenance bespoke sorrow as she set the basket on the top step. When Charlotte, mindful of the coded note tucked between the bills, paid her, Mrs. Perkins grasped her hand.
“If I was you, I’d check those linens ‘fore I put ‘em up,” the laundress muttered before releasing her. “Might be a stain in there I missed.”
What was wrong? Charlotte felt desperate to ask what news the laundress brought, but apparently, Mrs. Perkins could not – or would not - tell her now. Stiffly, Charlotte nodded to the woman, noting how Mrs. Perkins’ wiry gray hair had escaped its bun to form a frizzly cloud around her ears.
Mrs. Perkins disappeared around the mansion’s corner, and Charlotte was left with the terrible suspicion that something had just happened that would forever change her life. She flinched as, near the chestnut tree, a blue jay cawed and swooped at Polly. Keeping low to the ground, the cat slunk toward the stable.
After checking to see that no soldiers were loitering about the yard, Charlotte dug into the basket until she found a folded note. She thought of taking it upstairs with her into the nursery, but she could not bear the delay, nor did she wish for anyone to see her with the paper. So instead she tripped lightly down the stairs and hurried toward the side porch, which was partially hidden from view by the screen of thick shrubs bordering Mrs. Martin’s yard. As she walked, she unfolded the single page with trembling hands.
The hope died with swift-approaching footsteps. Ben Chandler limped toward her, his progress barely slowed by the three steps leading from the porch. One look at his stern face convinced her that he had not come to tell her he had changed his mind about their kiss.
“What were you reading, Miss Randolph?” he demanded.
His gaze latched onto her chest so fiercely that Charlotte felt as if the hidden paper might burst into flame. He had seen it, she was certain, but worse yet, she imagined he saw other secrets written on her heart.
When he looked up into her face, a second realization followed: The reaction that his kiss had sparked had not been a spell cast by the moon’s glow. In spite of her fear, she could not help remembering how solid he had felt when he had held her and how her senses blazed to life when his lips covered hers.
He shifted his cane and stepped closer, his gray eyes reflecting what Charlotte would swear was his own memory of desire. But when Ben placed his right hand on her shoulder, his grip was too firm for a caress. Only then did Charlotte realize she had not answered him.
“Nothing,” she said. Inwardly, she cursed the rising note of tension that underscored the word.
“Charlotte?”
The morning’s stickiness closed in upon her, and his fingers felt like glowing coals through the thin fabric of her day dress. Her cheeks burned, and she fought the urge to turn and run.
Yet she did neither, even though she could not be certain whether he would shake her or lean forward to claim another kiss. Nor could she decide which of the two would be more dangerous.
“Don’t lie to me,” he warned. “I watched you from inside the house. You took a letter from the basket, and I saw you unfolding it while you walked this way.”
She stepped back then, to level her own accusation. “Who are you to spy on me like some peeping Tom?”
He regarded her for several seconds, his frown doing little to disguise the longing in his eyes. Charlotte understood that the hunger Ben Chandler warred with bore little resemblance to Jonathan Snyder’s need to own her or Delaney McMahon’s boyish infatuation. Ben wanted to do far more than kiss her, and the thought brought back a memory of his hardness pressed against her hip in the moment before she had pulled away. Her stomach seemed to drop out from beneath her at the thought.
But she also sensed that nothing she could say or do would convince this man to put aside his duty or the question he had asked. He was not a man she could manipulate at will.
“The truth, Charlotte,” he demanded. “And the paper, if you please, before I lose my patience and take it from you.”
His threat vanquished every flicker of temptation. The thought of him – or any man – touching her so intimately made Charlotte want to shriek with rage and fear. Determined to maintain some sense of control, she glared at him and said, “Try that, sir, and you may lose more than your patience.”
“Something tells me that this time, you’re hiding more than Alexander’s toy or your recorder,” Ben said. “So hand it over – now.”
She glanced beyond him and then toward the porch.
“If you’re looking for a white knight, you should know that General Branard’s upstairs resting,” Ben said. “Both lieutenants are off attending other duties, so there’s no one here for you to trick into another rescue.”
She continued staring holes in him, all the while wondering if he would really carry through his threat. Belatedly, she realized she should have told him that she was hiding a love letter from her late fiancé, but she sensed their standoff had already gone too far for that to work now. Besides, if he carried out his threat to take the letter, another lie would make her appear even more complicit.
“Last chance,” he warned.
She could see he did not want to use force, but she could not be certain he would not. Despite his handicap, he was a large and powerfully built man, a man whose strength could quickly overwhelm her.
Reluctantly, she dipped two fingers between her breasts and retrieved the folded note. And prayed to God that the fact it was not coded meant it was nothing serious.
o0o
As Ben opened the paper, he hoped to hell that he was wrong about its content. He didn’t want to believe that the same young woman he ached to touch could be exchanging information with the enemy. He didn’t want to be faced with the necessity of arresting her or meting out some sort of punishment.
But as he skimmed the message, he abruptly changed his mind. A charge of spying might prove less painful than the news he had just read.
“You haven’t seen this yet,” he ventured. Not a question but a statement, for though her body’s stiffness indicated nervousness, he saw no other emotion.
She held up her head proudly. “I was rudely interrupted.”
“Yes, you were. I’m sorry, Charlotte. So sorry for troubling you about thi --”
“What is it?” She grabbed for the note, her green eyes already glistening with tears.
He wondered what it was in his expression that had given him away. Certainly not victory, for he felt defeated by her loss.
He saw her gaze sweep across the few words, saw the way her color drained away. “Oh, dear God,” she said, her head shaking with denial, “Not Papa. This cannot – this cannot – be true.”
She would have fallen to her knees had he not grasped her elbows and pulled her close against him. He wrapped his arms around her, overwhelmed by the desire to protect her that he’d felt from the first.
The impulse redoubled beneath wave after wave of memory. He felt buffeted backward to his fifteenth summer, to that blazing August day that pushed him forever beyond the brink of manhood.
Charlotte stared up at him, her eyes shimmering with moisture. “Tell me that they make mistakes, that the bodies are confused sometimes, that my – that my father isn’t -”
She could not say the hardest word yet, and Ben could not offer those she wished to hear. Her father had not died in some massive battle, such as Shiloh or Fort Donelson, where Ben had lost his leg. Instead, Franklin Randolph had accidentally surprised a lone Union scout, and the two had shot and killed each other. Under such circumstances, the men he had led would not mistake their colonel for any other soldier.
Even so, he could not be the one to tell her, for he was too sickened by the memories of his own denial.
“It’s going to be all right,” he whispered, his palm rubbing gentle circles between the stiffness of her shoulders. He realized she would not believe him, that her pain and confusion would seem as endless as the prairies to the west. But it was something he needed to tell her, something his mother had said to soothe him, in spite of her own grief.
Some part of Ben wondered about the method of the note’s delivery. Though the Union now occupied the city, any message reporting the death of a citizen’s family member would be allowed to pass through the lines. Perhaps the sender had for some reason wished to keep news of the man’s death a secret from the enemy. The way in which the note was sent, along with the lack of information regarding the location of the body, made Ben suspect that whoever sent it had known this house was occupied.
But how? Before he could begin to puzzle out that mystery, Charlotte jerked away from him. Rage warred with the pain in her green eyes.
“Are you happy, Captain Judas?” she hissed, her face a mask of tears. “You and your precious Yankees have not only murdered a good man, you’ve taken everything he ever worked for: his home, his boatworks – all of it! How could you be part of this? How could you turn your back on your countrymen to -”
Thinking that no words could be sufficient, Ben reached for her again. Before he could touch her, however, she slapped him. He heard the sharp crack, like a bra
nch snapping, before he felt the sting.
“That won’t help,” he told her. “I know right now it feels right, but I promise you that it won’t change a thing.”
“How – how would you know?” she said, her voice breaking with her sobs. “How would you – would you know anything?”
“Because I lost my father in the same way, or near enough, when I was fifteen. Back in ‘Forty-seven, against the Mexicans. He died fighting for his country, fighting because he believed that if he didn’t, Santa Anna would come back to reclaim Texas.” He could almost hear his father talking with Sam Houston on the front porch, could almost hear the deep conviction in his voice.
Remembering, Ben added, “My father worked all through my childhood to get our republic annexed by the United States after we broke free of Mexico. All he ever wanted was for Texas to remain part of the Union.”
“That’s why, isn’t it?” Her voice trembled, as if her outburst had left her exhausted. “That’s why you’re fighting with the Yankees, isn’t it? Because your – because your father died. Like – mine.”
She collapsed against him then, making no protest when he wrapped his arms around her and stroked her soft, gold hair, which soon slid free of its chignon. And though Ben did not answer her, did not speak further on the reasons he’d come north with a small group of loyal Texans, he thought about how good it felt to know she understood.
Even so, he did not dare ask himself why her approval mattered.
o0o
Alexander concentrated on keeping out of the way of passing carriages and riders as he walked along the narrow street. It seemed busier than usual, but the traffic was not his only worry. That giant bully, Henry Dean, had already chased him half a block. Would have knocked him down, too, except Alexander had peppered the nine-year-old with a few stones from his pocket. Whenever Alexander planned to walk past Henry, he made sure to be prepared.
But Alexander couldn’t be sure he was prepared for the kind of bad things that might be waiting beyond his neighborhood. Now that he had left the avenue with its big, familiar houses, he wasn’t even exactly sure he was walking the right way. He wished Charlotte was here to help him, but then he remembered his sister was the reason he had come alone.
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