The Dixie Widow

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Maybe you’ll run into Hale and Ezra,” Thad smiled. “Now, guess we’d better get down. I’m the victim of this party, you know!”

  They went down the stairs and found the house spilling over with guests. Davis had to be introduced to the Winslow boys, and he shook their hands soberly as if they had not met before.

  Afterward, he stayed in the background, which was not difficult, for the rooms were crowded. Long tables loaded with food and drinks flanked one side of the room, and the house servants dashed through the crowd, constantly carrying china dishes and cut crystal glasses. He saw the Chesnuts, and as usual Hood was there keeping his eye on the young woman he was courting.

  A small group of musicians took their station at the far end of the room, and soon the room was filled with sprightly music. Couples spun around the room, the gray uniforms of the soldiers serving as a foil for the brilliant colors of the women’s gowns.

  Davis stood beside the fireplace, watching the smooth dancing of the couples over the polished floors. The women looked like proud dolls scissored from colored paper, with hoopskirts as wide as the front door. They pointed their toes and flirted with their bright eyes, spinning around the room like flying feathers. To Davis it seemed they all had the same voice—lazy Southern voices, thick as honey.

  The men were the remnant of Southern gentry. He knew, though it did not cut his heart as it did others, that they were but a faint echo of what had been when Sumpter fell. Many like them—proud, handsome, daring—lay under the soil at Bull Run and Antietam, at Gettysburg, and half a hundred other spots of bloody ground.

  He watched as Belle went to stand beside her mother at the punch bowl. As always, she was wearing black. Even from where he stood, Davis could see that no other woman in the room was half so beautiful. Time and again an officer would approach her, ask for a dance, and receive only a smile and a shake of her head. Davis saw Beau Beauchamp approach her and say something. She hesitated, but shook her head again. He remained beside her, his face flushed, but eager.

  Finally Davis heard Sky’s voice calling for quiet, and looked up to see him standing with Thad and Pet. The music stopped, and the murmur of voices trailed off. “Welcome to Belle Maison, all of you!” Sky said. He bowed his head at the enthusiastic applause that followed his words, then held up his hand for quiet. “My wife and I have the pleasure of announcing the engagement of our daughter Patience to Lieutenant Thad-deus Novak of the Richmond Blades!”

  A deafening cheer erupted, and for some time the young couple was so overwhelmed with hearty congratulations that further speeches were impossible. Finally Sky got the floor long enough to say, “If every father were as proud of his daughter as I am, it would be a better world. I can’t think of a man in the world I would trust her to than the one who holds her hand. That’s my speech. Now let’s hear from you two!”

  Thad swallowed and looked around the room. “I’m getting the most beautiful and sweetest girl in the world!”

  Pet blushed at his words. She was wearing a pale blue gown of pure silk, with dark blue trimming at the bodice and around the skirt. A pair of sparking red rubies adorned her ear lobes, and a matched pendant hung around her neck. She was more beautiful than anyone had ever seen her. “I’m so happy!” she said. “I—I wish all you girls here could find a husband!”

  Laughter sprinkled through the room, and several men grinned at the young ladies, who pretended not to notice. The music began again and Davis went to congratulate the couple. For the next hour he watched the dancers until he felt as if he had done his duty. Passing out one of the doors leading to the large court on the east side of the house, he crossed the flagstones, headed for the back of the house, intending to enter that way.

  He was startled when a voice said, “You’re leaving early, Owen.”

  Turning quickly, he saw Belle standing in the shadows. Her black dress made her difficult to see, but her pale face glowed with the reflection of the full yellow moon rising over the trees.

  “We seem to spend a lot of time in the evenings on porches,” he said, coming close to her. “No swing on this one, though.”

  She leaned back against the house as though she were exhausted. “It’s so sad, isn’t it, Owen?”

  “Sad? The party?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why, I think Pet and Thad are having a wonderful time. She looks so beautiful.”

  “Yes—and so vulnerable!” Belle moved away from the wall, turned and gazed at the moon. “Next week he may be dead.”

  Davis fixed his eyes on her pale face, wondering at the sadness in her voice. “That’s true—but it’s always been true, Belle. It always will be. Every man and woman have to risk that. What did Bacon say? Oh yes: ‘He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune.’ ”

  She came closer to see his face better. “What does that mean, Owen?”

  “Why, if a man doesn’t have a wife, she can’t hurt him. He can’t lose her. But I’ve never liked the alternative.”

  “Not having anyone to love?”

  “That’s right. A man—or a woman—can get pretty badly cut up by someone they love. But the only other way is to be a hermit. Build a wall around yourself and say to everybody, ‘Keep out!’ ”

  She mulled that over—her expression changing from sadness to bitterness. “Some of us need walls!” she defended.

  “No, I don’t believe that.” He shook his head. “What most of us need to do is knock the walls down—not build them up.” The look of poignancy on her face touched his heart, and he asked, “Belle, what’s wrong? You hinted at it the other night, and now all this about walls.”

  She started to leave, but he caught her arm. She bit her lip, uncertain as to what to do—run or stay. She relaxed and moved to the railing. “Owen,” she began, “when you first came to the hospital, your spirit was almost as hurt as your body.”

  He blinked in surprise. “That’s right, Belle!”

  “You hated me, didn’t you?”

  “I—ah . . . !” He paused, realizing he couldn’t tell her the truth.

  “I think I know,” she went on quietly. “You heard about the time I was in Washington. It’s been in all the papers. Did you read about the trial?”

  “Yes, I did, but—”

  “Then you know what I did—that I prostituted myself.” She dropped her head and began to tremble. “Well, it was true—what the papers said I did. And I don’t blame anyone for hating me.” She lifted her eyes, soft with pain as she murmured, “You couldn’t despise me any more than I do myself, Owen.”

  “Belle—it’s not like you think!” he said, but he saw the self-loathing, and without a thought put his arms around her and drew her close. She was struggling to keep from weeping,

  her head pressed against his chest. “Belle, that’s not why I hated you. I was a fool! What you did was for your country. No man could ever fault you for that!”

  She drew back hastily. “No. You’re just being kind. No man would want me after what I’ve done. He could never forget!”

  Davis shook his head, but just as he was about to speak, footsteps sounded to their left. Both of them stepped back quickly. Davis began talking at once about the food. Belle was just able to wipe the tears from her face when Beau Beauchamp rounded the corner of the building. He saw them instantly and stopped dead.

  “Perhaps,” Davis went on, “it was those oysters, Miss Belle. I didn’t eat . . .” He paused, looked at Beauchamp, and said, “Oh, Captain—Miss Belle is not feeling well. She got so faint I thought the fresh air might revive her—but it’s probably something she ate.”

  Beauchamp looked perplexed, and would have spoken, but Belle broke in, “Beau, I feel—terrible. Would you please tell my mother I’m going to bed?”

  “Oh, I’ll do that,” Davis offered. “Perhaps you’d help her to her room?”

  Davis spun around and left, and Belle touched her handkerchief to her face again.

  “Are you very ill, Belle?�
�� Beauchamp inquired. “I can get Dr. Malone to have a look at you.”

  “No—I just want to lie down, Beau.”

  He escorted her to her room, and came back to speak with Rebekah.

  “Lieutenant Morgan told me,” she informed Beau. “I’ll go see her.”

  “She didn’t seem ill earlier,” Beauchamp commented.

  “I guess it was the food,” Davis replied. He moved away, but felt the eyes of the big officer follow him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE END OF THE MASQUERADE

  Davis pretended to be asleep when Thad entered the room that night. After the young man’s breathing grew slow, Davis reviewed the scene with Belle. He would be gone from Belle Maison within a matter of hours, and the fact that he would not see her again disturbed him. How could the deep bitterness he had held for the girl vanish so quickly and so completely? he wondered. He wrestled with this until he fell into a fitful sleep, leaving him more tired than when he’d gone to bed.

  He washed his face, dressed, and went downstairs to find a small crowd eating breakfast from the long tables in the ball room. Belle was not there, but Sky Winslow motioned him over. “Have something to eat, Morgan.”

  “Guess I could have something,” Davis said. He consumed a portion of bacon and eggs and two biscuits. As they ate, Winslow spoke of the future of Belle Maison. It was evident that the man’s heart was at the plantation, not in politics.

  When they had finished, Davis asked, “Do you know where Thad is this morning?”

  “He left to go to the stable, I think. Mare is about to drop her foal.”

  Sky moved across the room to speak to Colonel Barton, and Davis went outside. He headed toward the stables, where he found both Thad and Pet, along with Dooley Young.

  “You shore do look better than you did last time I saw you, Lieutenant!” Dooley exclaimed. “I never thought you’d make it to Richmond alive.”

  “Almost didn’t,” Davis replied.

  Dooley squinted at him, and bobbed his head in surprise. “Had it in my mind you was a smaller man—but I guess you was all shrunk up with the mullygrups.”

  Thad broke in quickly, “This mare is sired by Dooley’s best stallion. We figure to make a million dollars racing her colt—if he ever gets here.”

  “Mind if I hang around?” Davis asked.

  “Glad to have you,” Thad said, adding, “This mare is going to be slow, I reckon.”

  His words were prophetic, for by noon the mare still hadn’t delivered. When two o’clock came, Davis said with a significant glance at Thad, “Like to take a little ride, Thad. Think I might borrow a horse?”

  Thad nodded toward the bay gelding tied under a large oak.

  “Take mine, Lieutenant. He’s already saddled.”

  Davis hesitated, then nodded. “Thanks—for everything, Thad.”

  He swung into the saddle and rode toward the house. Tying the gelding to the hitching post, he started into the house, but stopped when Rebekah appeared at the side of the house and called his name.

  “What is it, Mrs. Winslow?”

  “I’ve got to talk with you. Come this way.”

  He followed her, mystified—and was even more confused when she walked to his room and entered. He followed, and she said, “Close the door.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  Rebekah looked at him and said quietly, “You’re not Owen Morgan.”

  Davis blinked, caught off guard. He was totally unprepared for such a possibility, and couldn’t think of a reply. His heart began to race. Finally he asked, “What makes you think that?”

  “Because I know who you really are.”

  “Who am I, then?” he asked steadily.

  “You’re Davis Winslow.” She spoke with an iron certainty, and he decided the masquerade was over.

  “How long have you known?” he asked, looking at her curiously, yet strangely without fear.

  “I’ve been uneasy about you for a long time, but I didn’t know who you were until today.”

  “How’d you find out?”

  “Last night you mentioned something about my sister Louise.”

  He nodded slowly as he recalled the incident. “You told me about her when I was here with my grandfather.”

  “Yes. When I finally figured out where I’d seen you, I went to your room to face you. I checked through your things—and I found this.”

  She removed something from her pocket and held it toward him. He took it and nodded. “I thought it would be safe to keep it. Looks as if I was wrong.” It was the small Testament his grandfather had given him. The inside page was inscribed to Davis Winslow and signed by his grandfather.

  He carefully put the Testament in his pocket and asked, “What are you going to do?”

  “Why did Thad bring you here?”

  He told her the story, concluding with, “I didn’t know what he was doing. When I woke up in Chimborazo, I couldn’t stand the thought of being in a Confederate hospital. But Thad saved my life. Thad and Belle.”

  “It’ll ruin Thad if you’re discovered.”

  “Yes, I know. That’s why I’m leaving right away.” He looked her full in the face. “Rebekah, you must believe me. I’d never do anything to hurt any of your family. I’ve got Thad’s horse outside. When you stopped me, I was on my way here to get my things.” He told her about the plan to make his way back to the North, and added, “I suppose someone will write asking about Owen Morgan—but all anyone here will know is that he boarded the train and left.”

  Rebekah’s eyes filled with tears. “Davis! I’ve been terrified!” She attempted a smile, partially succeeded, then stood examining him. “I—I thought all sorts of things.”

  “That I was a spy? I don’t wonder. But Thad will tell you all about it.” He hesitated. “I came here filled with hate, Rebekah, but it’s gone now. I don’t understand it myself, but it’s all gone.”

  “I’m glad, Davis,” she murmured, putting her arms around him. “Thank God! Thank God!”

  He held her, knowing she had been tormented by fear of the disaster he might bring to her family. Finally he said, “I’ve got to hurry, Rebekah. The train pulls out at five o’clock—and I’ve got to be on it.”

  “All right.” She stepped back and studied him silently. “Davis . . . I think you ought to tell Belle the truth before you go.”

  He stared at her. “Why?”

  “I can’t put it into words, but part of it has to do with your brother’s death. She still blames herself for that. She never talks about it, of course, but I think she’s so filled with guilt that it’s killing her. If you could tell her you forgive her for your brother’s death, I think it would help her get over it.”

  He shifted nervously. “It may backfire, you know. She could take me for a traitor and denounce me.”

  “That’s possible.” Rebekah’s eyes had a poignant plea. “It might mean your death if that happened, Davis.” She paused. “Perhaps you could write her?”

  “No,” he decided. “I want to tell her face-to-face.” He began to stuff his things hurriedly into his small bag. “I need to see her alone.”

  “All right, Davis. She’s sharing a room with Pet and another girl, but I’ll send her out to the spring house.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  He moved to pass her, but she caught him and looked up into his face, saying, “God go with you, Davis!”

  “And with you,” he said quietly, and left the room, slipping down the back way and around the house to the gelding. He strapped the small bag behind the saddle and led the horse to the spring house, which was behind the big house, off to the left under an elm tree.

  He tied the horse and paced back and forth, wondering desperately if he were doing the wise thing. Belle was a strange woman—at times impulsive and quite capable of turning him over to the military if she thought it was the thing to do. He knew that her love for the Confederacy was strong, had been strong enough to cause her to gi
ve up her life to preserve it.

  A movement caught his eye, and he turned to see her coming from the house. She hurried toward him, a question in her eyes. “Mother said I should see you, Owen. She says you have something to tell me.”

  He made up his mind, and knew there was no easy way to say it. Yet he paused, trying to find the right words.

  “What is it, Owen?” she urged, fear clutching her. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  He looked at her searchingly. “Belle, you’ve done more for me than any human being on this earth—except perhaps Thad Novak. You two saved my life—and now I think you may regret it.”

  Belle’s eyes opened in disbelief. “Owen! What are you talking about? You look so strange.” She put her hand on his arm. “Please, tell me what it is.”

  “All right. I’m not the man you think I am.” He watched carefully, looking for any indication she had been suspicious of him. He saw only confusion. Squaring his shoulders he dived in. “I was a prisoner in Libby, Belle.”

  “Libby!” she whispered, her lips tightening. “But—that’s impossible!”

  “Thad got me out of there, Belle. I was so near death I didn’t know much about it, but that’s what happened. He bribed a medical attendant, and they took me out in a coffin. So far as Libby prison is concerned, I’m dead and buried.”

  Belle touched her temple with an unsteady hand, and her voice rose as she asked, “But why would Thad do such a thing—for a Yankee?”

  Davis paused, then said tonelessly, “He did it because my brother saved his life, Belle.”

  His words seemed momentarily unintelligible to her, for she looked at him blankly. But as he watched, he saw the truth dawn—first in her eyes, then across her face as the enormity of it hit her. She cried out in unbelief, “No! No! It’s not so!”

  She was shaking all over, and he urged, “Belle, let me tell you all of it. Sit down.”

  Belle obeyed blindly. She sat motionless as he traced the story. He told her frankly how he had joined the Union Army out of blind hatred, and how even when he came to Chimborazo he had been little better. He told her how Lonnie’s death had affected him, and again how the hatred had left him.