Central Park Rendezvous

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Just like their mother had done. A quality sorely lacking in Permelia. Sorrow dragged her to sit beside her sister, who drew her lips together in one of her perfectly adorable pouts.

  “Without Jackson’s help”—Annie thrust out her chin—“we wouldn’t have been able to keep our furniture, our gowns, and most of our things. Not to mention the occasional pig and rabbit he brings for supper.”

  Permelia touched her sister’s arm. “But it’s wrong to entertain his affections, Annie. Not only is he the enemy, but you’re engaged.”

  “I haven’t heard from William in over three years.” Annie waved a hand through the air. “For all I know, he is dead.”

  Permelia’s heart collapsed. “You shouldn’t say such a thing. You haven’t heard from him because you stopped writing to him.” She slid her hand into a pocket she’d sewed inside her skirts, where the hard shape of the coin brought her comfort—hope that he was still alive, though his last letter had been dated eight months ago.

  Annie’s eyes moistened. She lowered her chin. “It was this war. I couldn’t bear the thought of him on the battlefield.”

  “There, there.” Permelia flung her arm around her sister’s shoulders and drew her close. “It is, indeed, a hard thing to consider.” She knew that fear all too well for she had thought of nothing else for three years. What she couldn’t understand was how her sister could abandon the man she loved in his darkest hour. When he needed most to read her comforting, loving words. But Annie was different from Permelia. More sensitive to such brutalities.

  Drawing a handkerchief from her sleeve, Annie dabbed her eyes. “Why hasn’t Jackson come to call in over two days?”

  The quick shift of topic from William to Jackson made Permelia wonder who the tears were really for. “Now that the war is over, perhaps he’s gone home.” At least she hoped so. The Union soldier was all charm and good looks. A man who had taken advantage of Annie in her weakened condition.

  “How can you say that?” Shrugging from Permelia’s embrace, Annie rose and straightened out the braided ruffles of her gown. “He said he loves me. He said he would never leave me.”

  Though the words bristled over Permelia, she studied her sister, trying to understand. The war, the Union occupation of their town, both had taken so much from Annie. Including Colonel William Wolfe, a month before their wedding. No wonder Annie had rushed into the arms of the first man who offered her his protection and love. Yet…

  “Jackson shouldn’t say such things when you are betrothed to another.” Permelia held out a hand toward her sister. “Besides, never fear, I’m sure William will arrive any day now.”

  Annie swerved about, her hoop skirt nearly knocking over a porcelain vase on the table—one of the objects Mr. Jackson Steele had returned to them. “Everyone leaves me. Papa left me, then Samuel. Then William.”

  Rising, Permelia eased beside her sister and took her hand, swallowing down a burst of her own sorrow as she remembered the letter from President Davis announcing the death of her father at Cross Keys. And the one that followed informing them that their brother, Samuel, was listed as missing in action. They’d never heard from him again and could only assume the worst.

  “Then Mama last year.” Annie faced Permelia, her eyes swimming. “I cannot lose Jackson, too.”

  Permelia squeezed her sister’s hand. “Many have lost much during this war. Some their entire family and homes. We have each other. And God. He has taken good care of us.”

  “I have taken care of us.” Annie tugged her hand away. “By accepting Jackson’s courtship. Otherwise those Yankees would have stolen everything we had.”

  Permelia’s jaw tensed. “So I suppose my toiling in the fields every day is of no consequence?”

  Annie’s eyes softened, and she gave a gentle smile. “Don’t be cross, Permi.” Turning, she traversed the room then settled back on the sofa. Her smile faded beneath a heavy sigh. “Oh, what are we to do?”

  “We are doing fine. Thank goodness Papa left the plantation to us in the event we should lose both Samuel and Mama. Besides, we have Martha, Elijah, and Ruth to help.”

  “Slaves,” Annie said with contempt.

  “How can you say that?” Permelia took a seat beside her sister. “They are family now. This is their home, too. With Elijah’s help, we will plant tobacco like Papa did and start all over again.”

  “Us?” Annie’s face scrunched into a knot. “Women growing tobacco?”

  “Why not? Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be so independent? To run this plantation by ourselves and answer to no one?”

  “I hate this dull, old plantation. All I want is to get married.” Annie gazed out the window.

  Permelia studied her sister, wondering how they could be so different, wondering why she could so easily throw away a liberty that few women enjoyed. If their brother did not return, whoever Annie married would inherit all the land. Permelia had accepted that fact. But for now, she relished her freedom, relished being in charge of the plantation that had meant so much to her father—and now to her.

  “Ah, William,” Annie said dreamily. “So successful, so wealthy, and so handsome.”

  Permelia smiled. “And honorable and kind and good. He is still all those things, Annie. If God permitted him to live, he’ll be here soon to marry you.”

  “Do you really think so?” Annie’s eyes regained their sparkle.

  “Yes.” Though the thought both elated and pained Permelia. Elated her that William lived. Pained her that he would never be hers.

  “Then I shall marry him and live in New York, wealthy and happy and strolling the streets on the arm of the most handsome man in the city.” Annie sat up straight and spread her skirts around her. “He is handsome, isn’t he, Permelia?”

  “Yes, very.” Permelia’s face heated, and she turned away. Handsome indeed, but so much more than that.

  While her sister went on about all the cotillions, plays, and concerts she and William would attend, and the attention they would draw as they sauntered down The Boulevard in New York, Permelia returned to her spot at the window. Darkness settled over the Virginia landscape. A slight breeze stirred the hair dangling about her neck, bringing with it the scent of wild violet and moist fern. Pulling the coin from her pocket she caressed it lovingly—the coin William had given Annie in Central Park as a vow of their love the night the war had separated their families. Permelia had carried it on her person ever since Annie had tossed it out her window in a fit of rage. She brushed her fingers over the engraving on the back:

  “Love never fails. W.W. Central Park.”

  She prayed that was true. For if William ever came to claim his bride, Permelia would need all the power of her love for both William and Annie to keep her own heart from crumbling.

  William Wolfe nudged his weary horse down the path. Weary like him. Removing his cap, he wiped the sweat from his brow. His head throbbed, his back ached, and his legs cramped from riding for five days, stopping only long enough to sleep. He must see Annie. He couldn’t wait another day. Another minute. Even for a quick bath and shave in Williamsburg to remove the stench from his clothes. Besides, the condition of the town had spurred him onward: the crumbling buildings, whiskey-drinking loafers, and hundreds of graves dotting the churchyards. Not to mention the hate-filled looks of the citizens as he rode past in his Union uniform. He’d heard Williamsburg had been occupied by Union forces since early in the war. But what he hadn’t expected was that his fellow soldiers would have caused so much destruction. His only hope was that the pernicious Union arm had not stretched as far as the Shaw plantation, an hour outside of town.

  Darkness transformed the landscape into a battlefield of prickly monsters and sinister dwarfs. Or perhaps it was just his war-weary mind. William rubbed the back of his neck. An owl pealed a hoot, hoot from his right, sending a chill over his skin. He chuckled. He’d faced the enemy head-on in battle. Was he now afraid of the dark?

  Or perhaps exhaustion and excite
ment had befuddled his mind. Regardless of the late hour, he must see Annie. He must ensure her safety. He must know if she still loved him.

  And whether she would still love him after she saw his face.

  William swept fingers over the ripples of burned flesh on his right cheek. Though numb to the touch, the pain of molten iron lingered in an agonizing memory.

  He was no longer handsome. He was disfigured, a monster. Wounded on the outside and on the inside in a war that he could not wrap a shred of sense around. A war in which he’d seen thousands of his fellow Americans die.

  Ducking beneath a low-hanging branch, William released a heavy sigh and patted the bundle stuffed in his coat pocket. Dozens of letters from his beloved Annie. Letters that made him believe she would love him no matter what he looked like. Letters that had exposed a heart so pure, so loving, it astounded him that he’d not seen it in her before.

  Rounding a large oak, his eyes beheld the Shaw plantation house. Still standing! Three Greek-style columns guarded a wide front porch on the first and second levels. Moonlight dripped from the roof like silver rain, making it seem surreal—an ancient palace in another world. Yet the lantern light flickering from the parlor window and in one of the upstairs rooms spoke of an earthly reality. Of living, breathing people inside.

  William nudged his horse onward. “We’re almost there, fellow.”

  The beast begrudgingly complied, even heightening its pace as the gravel crunched beneath its hooves, mimicking the pounding of William’s heart. He halted before the house, slid from his saddle, straightened his coat, and slowly made his way up the stairs to stand before the door.

  He raised his hand to knock when he heard the distinct cock of a gun, a booted footfall, and the words in a female voice. “Stop right there or I’ll shoot you dead where you stand.”

  Chapter 2

  The musket shook in Permelia’s hand. The intruder turned his head in her direction, but she could not make out his face. What she could make out was that he was tall and muscular. And that he wore a Union uniform. All three things together portended disaster. She had spotted him from the window, sent a trembling Annie upstairs to rouse Elijah from his bed, then grabbed her gun and sneaked around the side of the house.

  “I said, don’t move. I know how to use this.”

  “I have no doubt of that, miss.” His voice was low and rich, like the soothing sound of a cello. Somewhere deep within her, it nipped a memory. A pleasant one, for her heart took up a rapid beat. He lifted his hands in the air, revealing the gleam of a saber hanging at his side.

  “Who are you, and what do you want?” Permelia demanded.

  “Miss Shaw?” He addressed her as if he were making a social call. “Is that you?”

  Again the voice eased over her like warm butter. She gulped, attempting to steady the musket. “And who, sir, are you?”

  Lowering his arms, he took a step toward her. Memories assailed her exhausted mind—memories of Union soldiers rampaging through her home, tossing everything they could find into sacks: jewelry, silverware, expensive vases and figurines, her father’s collection of East Indian tobacco. All accompanied by the sound of her mother wailing in the distance.

  And one soldier in particular who wasn’t satisfied with only objects. Whose eyes burned with lechery as he crept toward Permelia in her chamber.

  “It’s me, William.” William. The name echoed through the night air as if traveling through molasses. Permelia shook her head, corralling her terrifying thoughts.

  The soldier took another step toward her. No, not again! She must defend her family. Her sister, herself.

  She fired the musket.

  The crack split the dark sky. The man ducked. His horse neighed. Smoke filled the air, burning her nose, her mouth. Grabbing the gun, he ripped it from her hands. But instead of assaulting her, he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. He smelled of gunpowder and sweat and earth.

  “It’s all right, Miss Shaw. It’s me, William. You’re safe now.” The comforting words drifted upon that familiar voice, sparking hope within her. William? Against all propriety, she melted into him, never wanting the dream to end. For surely it must be a dream. The same one that had made her endless nights bearable these past years.

  But then he was gone. A whoosh of chilled air sent a shiver through her.

  “What you doin’ there!” Elijah shoved William back and leveled a pistol at his chest. Martha, ragged robe tossed over her nightdress, appeared in the doorway, lantern in hand, their twelve-year-old daughter, Ruth, behind her.

  William raised his hands again. “Whatever happened to southern hospitality?” He chuckled and a quizzical look came over Elijah’s face.

  Shaking off her stupor, Permelia charged forward. “It’s all right, Elijah.” She nudged his pistol aside. “It is Colonel William Wolfe, Annie’s fiancé.”

  “Then why did you shoot ‘im, miss?” Elijah studied William but did not release his firm grip on the weapon.

  “I was about to ask the same question,” William said, his tone playful.

  Permelia faced him, his expression still lost to her in the shadows. “I’m so sorry, Colonel Wolfe. I didn’t know it was you.”

  “Quite all right, Miss Shaw.” He lowered his hands. “I’ve grown used to being shot at.”

  “Well, I’ll be.” Martha held up her lantern and moved forward. “Annie’s fiancé. We thought you was dead.” The light crept over the porch and up his blue trousers, blinking off his saber, the three gold buttons on his cuff, and brightening the red sash about his waist.

  “I am happy to report otherwise.” William dipped his head.

  “Elijah, put down that gun,” Martha scolded.

  Recognition loosened the overseer’s features. “Good to see you, Colonel.” He lowered the weapon.

  Martha took another step forward. Light from the lantern slid over William’s steady jaw, regal nose, penetrating eyes, and glimmered off the epaulette on his shoulder.

  The breath caught in Permelia’s throat. She’d dreamed of him for so many nights, she could hardly believe he stood before her all flesh and man.

  But then Martha’s smile faded. Ruth turned away and retreated into the house. Elijah’s eyes widened.

  William raised a hand to his right cheek, hidden from Permelia’s view.

  “Let’s not stand here staring at the poor man. Do come in, Colonel.” Permelia swept past him, leading the way into the parlor. “Annie will be beyond herself with delight.”

  Delight that now spiraled through Permelia, igniting all her senses.

  Dragging off his hat, William stepped through the doorway. Elijah grabbed the musket and took a spot beside his wife, while Ruth clung to the shadows beyond the stairway. All three lowered their eyes to the floor. Something they hadn’t done since before Lincoln’s proclamation had freed them from their chains.

  Whatever was wrong with everyone?

  Closing the door, Permelia tried to settle her erratic breathing. William was alive! Not only alive but standing in her foyer. She studied him while his back was turned, trying to gain her composure. Light from an overhead chandelier cascaded over him, accentuating the war-honed muscles stretching the fabric of his coat. Hair the color of rich coffee grazed his stiff collar, curling at the tips.

  Why would her heart not settle? He came for Annie. Not for her. Taking a deep breath, Permelia moved to face him.

  The first thing she noticed was the depth of pain in his eyes. The second, that the right half of his face hung in shivered purple flesh. What was left of Permelia’s breath escaped her lungs. She stifled the gasp that tried to force its way to her lips. His jaw stiffened, and he looked down, fumbling with his hat.

  Permelia took a step toward him. His eyes met hers. Those brown eyes, deep and rich like the soil within a lush forest. The same eyes she remembered. Yet not the same. The haughtiness, the innocent exuberance, was gone, replaced by wisdom and deep sorrow. Her own eyes burned. For the agony
he must have endured. For the pain, the heartache.

  “Martha, would you please go get Annie,” Permelia said.

  “I’ll put some tea on.” Elijah grabbed Ruth and pulled her from the room as Martha headed upstairs.

  William attempted a smile. “You are not repulsed?”

  Permelia shook her head. “No. Of course not.” Shocked. Grieved. She wanted to tell him that he could never repulse her, but the words faltered on her lips. “I cannot imagine what you must have endured. How did it happen?”

  William shifted his boots over the marble floor. “An exploding cannon.”

  Permelia threw a hand to her mouth. “Oh my. When?”

  “Nearly nine months ago.”

  So that was why his letters had stopped. “When I—Annie didn’t hear from you, we feared the worst.”

  Miss Permelia’s eyes flooded with concern as she reached up to touch William’s face. He shrank away, uncomfortable. Yet she kept her eyes upon him. She did not run away in horror as so many others had done. That alone gave him hope. A hope that had stirred at the mention of Annie’s name. A hope that kept him rooted in place, willing to risk allowing her to see him in full light.

  And perhaps, dare he hope, to look at him in the same way her sister was doing right now. Not in pity but with concern, and something else that gave him pause. He shrugged it off when he heard light footfalls on the stairs. The swoosh of satin and the lacy bottom of a gown materialized. The steps increased. The gown bounced, and the angel appeared.

  His Annie.

  Hair like gold silk was pinned back from a face that rivaled perfection: alabaster skin, pink lips, luminous blue eyes. Curls danced over the nape of her neck with each graceful movement down the stairs. She raised her gaze to his. Her smile washed away. The flame in her eyes turned to ice. An ice that froze her in place. She drew a hand to her chest.

  William’s heart shriveled.

  “William?” Annie managed to breathe out in a halting sob.