“Whatever may happen in coming days,” the sheriff said, “you will be safe, Miss Libbie.”
Libbie dared a question. “Isn’t allowing an encampment here the equivalent of inviting a battle?”
Walker sounded like a schoolteacher drilling his less promising students as he said, “Our home is known far and wide as the finest house in the county, Elizabeth. It’s obvious that any commander in his right mind would want to procure the Grove as their headquarters. Our little hilltop is the perfect place from which to monitor river traffic, and control of the river is a key to securing the state for the Confederacy.” He paused. “Organizing a regiment is not just about defending our home. It’s also a strategic decision. The presence of the Guard here will ensure that our levee becomes a beacon to our brothers north of the river who wish to cross over and join in defending our way of life. The battle will come to us in due time, no matter what we do. I have taken precautions to assure that we are not only ready but also well defended.”
Half a dozen men galloped into view. Hitching their mounts near Sheriff Green’s, they headed for the house. The sheriff took his leave and went to greet them, but Walker lingered. “We’ll be convening in the library. Inform Annabelle that we will require a late supper for a dozen.” He paused. “And you might encourage her to enlist help. Tell her the next few weeks will be trying for us all. We must adapt. She’ll be cooking meals for at least a dozen extra men for the foreseeable future.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve discouraged the officers’ wives from joining us, but there may be occasions where I fail to get my way. Should that occur, I will expect you to welcome them in your usual gracious manner.”
Libbie could only nod. “Of course, Walker. I—I just—it’s a shock, that’s all.” He really did mean to transform Wildwood Grove into a military camp.
“I realize that what I am asking is not a simple thing, but in time you will be glad for your role in serving the Wildwood Guard.” He paused. Cleared his throat. “I know that you have strong feelings against Isham,” he said. “But I am asking that you set those aside for the good of the cause.”
Libbie frowned. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
Walker took a deep breath. “You have spurned his attentions in the past, but he is an officer in my regiment now, and it would be to your advantage to see that he has nothing to complain about while he is our guest.”
With a quick intake of breath, Libbie looked away. She was going to be sick. He couldn’t mean what she thought he meant.
Walker scolded mildly. “Just be cordial, Elizabeth. If he should ask you to take an evening stroll, accommodate the man. That’s all I ask. I know he has his failings, but he also has a great many friends in high places—friends who could be very helpful to us in the future.”
“What ‘future’ are you talking about?” She suspected she knew, but she wanted him to explain himself to her—for once—in no uncertain terms.
Walker sighed. “I suppose that’s my fault. I do have a habit of keeping you in the dark about my plans.” Sweeping his hat off his head, he raked his fingers through his graying hair. “When all is said and done, the people of our great state are going to want a leader who was at the heart of the action. Someone who showed himself to be a man of courage and purpose. A true son of the South who proved his loyalty by making sacrifices when sacrifice counted.” He paused. “I know that giving up your daily rides and some of the freedoms that you’ve enjoyed will be hard on you, but if you can be patient, you will share in the reward.” He smiled at her. “They are goin’ to love you in Jefferson City, Libbie.”
Libbie. Walker never called her that. He was, in fact, very careful not to use her childhood nickname. As to Jefferson City—mention of the state capital verified what Libbie suspected. The real reason behind Walker’s founding a regiment, making the sheriff an officer, and transforming Wildwood Grove had little to do with patriotic fervor. It was all intended to be a stepping-stone to the governor’s mansion.
Libbie barely managed to squelch an audible sigh. If Walker thought the idea of becoming the leading hostess in the state appealed to her—well. They’d never been close, but now it was even more obvious that her brother didn’t know her at all. The idea that he assumed she shared his political ambition made her feel lonelier than ever.
“You’ll be right there beside me.” Walker took her hand and drew it beneath his arm, holding it firmly in place as he said, “Now leave Pilot to Malachi and come inside.”
She couldn’t resist without creating a scene, and Libbie knew better than to do anything of the sort. As Walker led her up the path from the stable, past the garden and the ice house and, finally, to the edge of the porch that ran the entire length of the back of the house, he explained more about both his reasoning and his expectations.
“There is another reason I’m inviting the regiment onto our property. I haven’t wanted to frighten you, but with war comes lawlessness, and it is already on the rise. I have just this afternoon received word that someone has attacked one of the farms east of Littleton. Hearing about the destruction rained down upon the Malones has only strengthened my resolve to protect the Grove. And you.”
Malone. She knew that name. “Was anyone hurt?”
“Now, now.” Walker patted her hand. “I’m only telling you so that when volunteers begin to filter onto the place in coming days, you’ll be grateful for the brave men who have come to defend your home.”
“But—the Malones. Shouldn’t we help them?” Finally, she remembered. “Isn’t that family who owns the team of Belgians you tried to buy last year?”
Walker cleared his throat. “You do have an excellent memory when it comes to my failed business dealings, Elizabeth. The answer is yes, the Malones own a fine team of Belgians, and they declined my most generous offer to buy them. But I hold no grudge. As a matter of fact, I plan to offer our assistance, should it be required—and I assume it will be, since the Malone brothers have gone off and joined some Irish brigade forming in St. Louis.”
The Malone brothers. Libbie didn’t remember much about the younger brother beyond reddish hair and a nice smile. Jack Malone, on the other hand, was another matter entirely. A woman only had to see Jack Malone once to understand why his name was so often on Serena Ellerbe’s tongue. Libbie remembered broad shoulders, thick blond hair, blue eyes, and a smile—ah, yes. A smile to give a woman something to ponder on a dark night.
Libbie chose her next words carefully. “The Irish Brigade,” she said. “That’s not—”
“No,” Walker interrupted. “It isn’t the right side of things. But they are our neighbors, and just because Miss Malone’s brothers have made an ill-advised decision does not mean that we should tolerate lawlessness.”
He was saying the right words, but simmering resentment colored those words, and with a little shudder, Libbie changed the subject to less inflammatory topics. “I’m certain Miss Malone will appreciate your kindness,” she said, rushing to add, “and now I’ll leave you here and speak with Annabelle about the increased workload. I’m certain she’ll be able to make helpful suggestions about enlarging the house staff.”
Walker nodded. “Reassure her that there is no need to be afraid. Gallant men will keep us all safe.” He smiled and leaned closer, as if sharing a secret. “Annabelle doesn’t need to know this, but when you hear a steamboat whistle this evening, take it as proof of my keeping my promise to defend our home.” He winked. “A Mr. Henry is expected to disembark, long about sunset.”
Henry. Libbie had heard enough discussion of hunting rifles and dueling pistols and the like to know what that meant. She didn’t hide her surprise. “You’re smuggling arms past the Federals?”
Walker sniffed. “I am providing the means to protect my property.” He chucked her beneath the chin, thereby forcing her to look him in the eye. “There’s more than just Henrys to be unloaded, my dear. Plenty of sympathetic friends will be sending provisions for the men. Our little levee is
going to be busier than ever in coming days. But you, my dear, needn’t worry your little head about anything beyond managing the kitchen and entertaining the officers.” He kissed her on the cheek and headed inside.
Libbie stood for a moment, her mind reeling, her nerves jangled. She could not shake the image of bandits taking advantage of the absence of Miss Malone’s brothers. She hoped that nothing outrageous had been done to the poor woman who lived there. What was her name? Libbie remembered nothing beyond unusual height and a rather brusque manner that had on occasion made the woman the brunt of some very unkind words on the part of Serena Ellerbe. Maggie. That was it.
The last time she’d seen her was nearly a month ago at the mercantile, when she’d come to town with her brothers. Libbie recalled how Jack Malone’s sister had barely managed to hide her distaste that day as she watched Serena’s little drama play out. Given the chance to get to know her, Libbie thought she would probably like the tall, hardworking Irishwoman.
Chapter 4
The late afternoon sun had just dipped behind the trees as Maggie hauled on the reins to slow Babe and Banner to a brisk trot at the edge of town. She drove them up the main street of town, past Turner Hall and the newspaper office and finally to the Feenys’, where the doctor conducted a busy medical practice from a small frame building behind the family’s two-story brick home.
When the team pulled up alongside the Feenys’ back lawn, they were trembling, the white crust of their own sweat staining the harness, their breath coming hard. Maggie tied off the reins. Flinging herself down from the wagon seat, she charged across the yard and up the steps of the Feenys’ back porch to bang on the door. Sally, the Feenys’ Negro cook, came to the door. One look at Maggie, and she fetched the doctor.
“Bandits,” Maggie blustered. “Trying to take the team. Paddy wouldn’t let them—I was gone—” She babbled as she followed Dr. Feeny to the wagon, where he climbed up beside Paddy, running his hands down the unconscious man’s arms and legs, putting his palm to Paddy’s forehead, raising his eyelids to look for—what, Maggie didn’t know.
Sally and the doctor’s daughter, Bridget, had followed them to the wagon. The doctor spoke to the cook first, his tone sure, his voice calm. “Would you kindly fetch Dix? I need his help to transfer Mr. Devlin into the clinic.”
“I can do it,” Maggie said.
The doctor shook his head. “You’ve done enough for now. Try to calm yourself. Dix won’t be long.”
Maggie took hold of the edge of the wagon with both hands and, bowing her head, took a deep breath. And another. Sally had trotted across the grassy yard spanning the space between the residence and the clinic and ducked beneath a low trellis. She returned with her husband, a square-jawed, broad-shouldered freedman.
Expecting Kerry-boy’s hackles to rise at the sight of the hulking stranger, Maggie was about to speak peace to the dog when, to her surprise, the wolfhound rose and, tail wagging, thrust his head Dix’s way for what was obviously an expected pat. Dix swept a beefy palm across Kerry-boy’s head while he took instruction from Dr. Feeny, who’d retrieved a canvas litter from his office while Sally fetched Dix.
Together, the men climbed into the wagon bed, unrolling the litter between Paddy and the wagon seat. With Dix on one side of the quilt where Paddy lay and Dr. Feeny on the other, the men slid the patient, pallet and all, onto the litter.
Sally ran ahead to the clinic and opened doors for the men, while Maggie and Bridget followed. Once inside, as if waking from a dream, Maggie remembered the team. “I’ve got to tend the horses,” she said. “Paddy would never forgive me if I didn’t see to cooling them down and—”
“I’ll see to it, Miss Maggie.” Dix’s rumbling voice reminded Maggie of distant thunder.
“Dix is good with horses,” Sally offered.
“I’ll walk ’em out, cool ’em down, see they watered and fed proper—so as not to have any chilblains and such.” He smiled. “I know them horses. Mr. Devlin, he spoil ’em something terrible. So will I. Give ’em a nice molasses mash after they settle down. They be ready to take you home when the time comes, none the worse for the run.”
“Thank you,” Maggie said. Grateful for the support when Kerry-boy pressed against her, she put her hand on the dog’s head, suddenly aware of the fact that she was trembling again, and this time she could not stop.
“You best be sittin’ down now,” Sally said. Taking Maggie’s arm, she guided her to a chair by the door. “Don’t you worry for the team, Miss Maggie. Dix knows what he doin’ with horses. I’m goin’ get you a glass of lemonade and maybe”—she looked to Bridget for agreement—“maybe a tiny bit of somethin’ stronger?” Bridget nodded. “Bet this old monster you call a dog wouldn’t mind a little somethin’, neither,” Sally said.
“I’d give him the best cut of meat in the smokehouse if I could.” Maggie stroked Kerry-boy’s side. “You’re a good boy, Kerry. A very good boy.” The dog chuffed softly and nuzzled her hand, but when Sally left and called him to follow her, he did so willingly.
When Sally came back bearing a tray with a pitcher of lemonade, two glasses, and, Lord bless her, a decanter of raspberry cordial and two small glasses, Maggie gulped the lemonade like a woman who’d been wandering a desert for days.
Bridget poured raspberry cordial. Maggie took a sip, and then decided she preferred the lemonade. For a few minutes more, the two young women sat quietly, sipping lemonade and occasionally glancing toward the next room, where Dr. Feeny attended Paddy Devlin.
Presently, Maggie took a deep breath and set her glass back on the tray. “Thank you for waiting with me,” she said to Bridget. “I thought—well”—she laughed an embarrassed little laugh—“for a moment there, I thought I might faint.”
Libbie was halfway across the backyard to the kitchen when the door opened and a skinny, dark-skinned child emerged. He’d just opened his mouth to greet Libbie when the cook’s voice filtered out the door. “… and don’t you be telling me they’s no more peaches in the fruit cellar. I saw at least half a dozen quarts myself jus’ las’ week.”
“Hello, Cooper,” Libbie said.
“Afternoon, Miss Libbie,” the child said, and scampered off toward the fruit cellar. Libbie crossed the yard and stepped inside the door of the brick kitchen that took up the entire ground floor of a fourteen-foot-square, two-story building behind the dining room. Both stories connected to the house by only a breezeway, and both admitted servants to the house via back doors, one leading directly into the dining room, the other leading into a second-story combination closet and storage room and, from there, into the upstairs hall and the bedrooms. Annabelle, the cook, and Malachi shared half the space above the kitchen. Another couple, Walker’s man, Robert, and his wife, Betty, the only housemaid, occupied the other half. Cooper was Robert and Betty’s only child.
Libbie stepped into the kitchen, where Annabelle was standing at a table, kneading a massive pile of dough. “Mr. Blair has formed a regiment or a company or—well, I don’t really know which, but he’s calling it the Wildwood Guard, and he’s invited them to camp here at the Grove. He’s just informed me that several officers will be our guests for some time to come.” She paused. “He says provisions are to be delivered by way of the river. Still, it’s going to mean a lot of work. Is there someone you might want to bring up from the quarters? I’d think you’d want at least two more to help with all the extra cooking and housekeeping.”
Annabelle brushed a strand of gray hair back off her forehead with the back of one large hand, then went back to kneading as she talked. “Where the new ones gonna sleep? We got to share the upstairs?”
Libbie hadn’t thought about it and said so. “Mr. Blair only just told me about it all. Do you have any ideas?” Annabelle looked out the kitchen window toward the small brick building near the garden. Libbie nodded. “Of course. That should work. I’ll ask Malachi to move the old spinning wheel and such into the other room next to the loom.” She paused. “Wi
ll you be asking anyone with a baby? The old nanny rocker is in the attic. I could have that brought down.”
Annabelle shrugged. “Can’t say yes or no, Miss Libbie. I be thinkin’ on it and let you know. Need to see what Betty thinks ’bout housemaids. If you gonna be presiding over meals every day, you gonna need extra help, too.” Libbie had always resisted the idea of a personal servant. Annabelle knew about it and spoke to it now. “I knows you never wanted your own personal slave since old Mariah died, but the truth is, if Betty don’t have to worry over lacing up corsets and pressing lace collars and such, she’d have considerable more time for housework. She’ll be needin’ it, too, with all those gentlemens staying here. Her sister got a girl, name of Ora Lee. I think she might do.”
Mariah had raised Libbie and survived the cholera in Tennessee only to die here at Wildwood Grove only a few weeks after they arrived. To this day, a framed photograph of the beloved nanny holding a nearly bald baby Elizabeth held a place of honor on Libbie’s dressing table. No one could possibly replace Mariah. On the other hand, it was wrong to make Betty suffer just because Libbie felt that way.
“Tell me about Ora Lee,” she said.
“She’d have to learn about the silks and all, but Betty can teach her everything she needs to know.” Annabelle punched the dough with extra force as she said, “She’s a good girl. Works hard. You bring her up to the house, that girl gonna be so grateful, you will have the loyalest slave you ever had.”
“Well, I’ll certainly consider it,” Libbie said. “But I’ll need to consult Mr. James. He’s not going to appreciate my plundering the row to shore up things here at the house.”
Annabelle slapped the dough again. Punched it. Tore off a hunk and began to shape it. “I don’t want to cause trouble for nobody, Miss Libbie, but Mr. James might not give a good report if he thinks he’ll lose Ora Lee.” She cleared her throat. “She growing into a real beautiful woman.”
Daughter of the Regiment Page 4