LAVENDER BLUE (historical romance)
Page 26
She looked down at her dirt-stained britches and broken, scuffed boots. “Hardly a lady, Colonel.”
Laughing, he swept his hat from his head and ran his fingers through his mussed hair. “I’m sure there’ll be some commendation from President Jefferson for your meritorious deeds, Miss—?”
“Lavender Blue,” General Morgan smiled coldly. “Our government would delight in making her acquaintance.”
Jeanette shivered with the malice that laced his voice.
“So I see,” Ford said slowly. Then he slapped the table and laughed again. “Oh, this is too good! Can you imagine, General Morgan, what effect this will have on your reputation?”
Before Morgan could reply, Trinidad appeared in the doorway. His guarded gaze went to Jeanette. “Yes?” Ford asked.
The old man beckoned to his mistress with a gnarled finger. “Excuse me, Colonel Ford,” she said. “My overseer.”
Ford nodded his head, and she followed Trinidad into the ranchhouse’s shabby parlor. Wordlessly he handed her the newspaper. “A bunch of them were thrown from a passing steamer. The passengers—they were shouting and crying.”
Puzzled, she looked from the old monkey face to the crumpled newspaper. The paper, dated five weeks earlier, rattled between her hands as she scanned the headlines: LEE SURRENDERS TO GRANT AT APPOMATTOX.”
All her dreams—all the South’s dreams—of victory were shattered. But a worse realization followed. The captors were now the captured. As soon as she turned this over to Ford, the Federal prisoners would be released. Morgan would be her jailer!
“We leave now?” Trinidad whispered, making it more of a statement than a question. Like her, he knew it would be sheer foolishness on her part to remain. Imprisonment, a hangman’s noose, a firing squad—such fates awaited traitors. And Morgan would certainly label her a traitor.
“Eet’s not too late to get away,” Trinidad pleaded.
Lee had not run. There was such a thing as honor. Yet paralyzing fear twisted like a coiled serpent in her belly.
“Sobrina, let us go, now! You weel rot as deed Senor Armand!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Brilliant sunshine warmed the old abode walls of Fort Brown, and mockingbirds and kildees warbled notes of summer’s balmy promise. The only occupant in the cell of Fort Brown’s jail stared through the small cell window, her vision blurred from a succession of sleepless nights. Her fingers curled around the iron bars. Outside a wagon rolled onto the parade grounds. On its bed was a coffin. When Morgan read Jeanette her death warrant, holding her responsible for the death of 111 men at Palmito Hill alone, she had calmly requested a tight, metallic coffin and asked that it be placed near where she was to be shot. She sighed. Still possessing a woman’s vanity, she wanted as few to view her corpse as possible.
She had counted on a fair trial. But the military proceedings had been more like a Spanish Inquisition: She had been kept in irons during the entire trial. General Morgan’s testimony, along with that of other staunch Union sympathizers in Brownsville, had been damaging. As final proof Morgan had presented the Oath of Allegiance to the Federal Government that she had signed—“and violated,” he finished, pointing an accusatory finger at her as the Holy Office must have pointed at the heretic.
Watching the soldiers unload the coffin, it seemed to her a dream—that it was not possible that within the day she would cease to breathe, cease to live. An appeal was put forth by a number of Brownsville’s citizens who had been loyal to the Confederacy—among them, surprisingly, Annabel’s father, Judge Goddard, and Elizabeth Crabbe. But as yet President Johnson had not responded. And Jeanette knew that one female spy had already been hanged for aiding in the assassination of Lincoln. She had little hope.
Despite her resolve to face the ordeal bravely, she turned from the cell window and began to vomit all over her bunk’s moldy mattress. In the past week she had eaten little, and her stomach at last contracted in dry heaves. One hand anchored in the mattress to hold her up. Weakly she wiped her mouth with the back of her other hand. Not now. She couldn’t turn weak now. She could be no less valiant than the common soldier who had faced death day after hideous day.
But, dear God, she was scared. As usual, fear stirred in her that uncontrollable urge to wet her pants.
“Aawwk! Sacré tonnerre! Lavender Blue. Aawwk!”
Incredulous, Jeanette pushed herself erect. Slowly she turned. Next to her posted guard stood one of the most disreputable men she had ever glimpsed. A black eye patch hid one eye, and the other drooped with a leer. Tobacco spittle drooled from the comer of his mouth. A slovenly beard, also stained with tobacco juice, graced his slack jaw. Stringy hair slid over his forehead. Dirt begrimed his bare feet, and his trousers were held up by an even dirtier rope.
But, impossibly, Washington perched on his shoulder. Had the man ransacked Columbia? She knew it was happening all over the South without any kind of law yet established.
“This here greaser built yer coffin, ma’am,” the guard said in a most respectful manner. His boyish face, still shadowed with peach fuzz, wore an apologetic look, as if it were his fault she was to be shot at sunset. “The general okayed yer inspection of it and all.”
She nodded dumbly. Such a macabre thing to do—inspect one’s own coffin! She would much rather have had her last words with Trinidad and Tia Juana and Annabel and Claudia, who had come from Tampico, but they all had been turned away. Morgan had derisively offered the services of a priest. She had refused. There was nothing to repent for; she would not change her life—no, that was not quite right. She would not have scorned Cristobal’s love.
Suddenly her gaze switched from the guard to the coffinmaker. The oaf had the nerve to wink lasciviously at her. A laugh started in her stomach and rumbled upward, and she had to fight it back. “Let me see the coffin,” she said with the straightest face she could muster.
The guard bent to place the key in the lock, and at that moment the butt of the coffinmaker’s pistol thunked against the soldier’s head. Cristobal swooped up the soldier’s hat and jammed it on Jeanette’s head. “Let’s go!” he said and grabbed her arm, yanking her over the sprawled soldier.
Excitement sang in her veins again. At any moment they both could be shot—her back felt terribly exposed. Yet she was no longer afraid. To die fighting—no, to die living, that was all she asked.
She clambered up on the wagon seat beside Cristobal. Washington called out from his precarious perch on Cristobal’s shoulder, “Help!” Cristobal looked down at her and grinned. That was all the courage she needed.
Still, her heartbeat accelerated as the wagon approached the gate. Would the guards remember that only one man had come through on the wagon? When Cristobal reined in the team at the gate, she saw two men talking to the guards. In their hands were pads and pencils. Reporters! One reporter turned to Cristobal and asked, “You the coffinmaker? What did the woman look like? Pretty as they say?’’
Cristobal spit over the side of the wagon. “Ugly as an old hag, señor.”
Caught up in the prestige of being interviewed, the guard carelessly waved them past, and all of Jeanette’s pent-up laughter burst out. Tears rolled from her eyes, and she knew she was close to hysteria. Cristobal’s large hand closed comfortably over hers. “I’m all right,” she hiccoughed. “I guess it’s just the letdown—after all the years of pretense and fighting. And now the South is no more.” The last was uttered on a sigh.
“You still don’t understand, do you, Jen?” Cristobal said, but there was a tenderness in his voice. And there on Levee Street with people coming and going and despite the urgency to flee town, he turned to her and caught her chin with his hand, forcing her to look up into his warm brown eyes.
“It was never the South you were fighting for. You were fighting for pure pleasure, my dear girl. You’ve always enjoyed the challenge of conflict.”
She searched his face—and searched her mind—and she knew in that instant that what he sai
d was true. “But it’s over now,” she moaned.
“Oh, no,” he chuckled. “We’ve still got a war to fight in Mexico. And after that, Jen, we’ll find another war somewhere else. If nowhere else, I’m sure there’ll always be just enough conflict between the two of us to make life challenging!”
“Why—how did you know to come?”
“Trinidad. He and Felix searched half of Mexico for me. The entire Cervantes family is at our camp now. Great Juaristas they’ll make.”
He took her face between his two hands and lowered his lips over hers, kissing her as thoroughly as the Frenchman ever did. The thought dimly occurred to her that he had not asked her if she loved him or wanted to come with him. He was that sure of her—had always been that sure of her. Then she forgot all else in the pure joy of the realization that she had found her complement in life. She had found her mate. A man who tempted her spirit of independence as it had never been tempted before.
And she let her kiss relay that knowledge, her arms coming up around Cristobal’s neck, her body pressed close to his, seeking also her physical complement.
Washington chose that moment to tug at her hat’s brim, and her hat and braid tumbled free. Still Cristobal did not release her. Both were oblivious to the passersby who stopped to stare at the passionate couple.
“Aawwk!” cooed Washington. “Rape!”
T H E E N D
Author's Note
Lavender Blue was inspired by the delightful novel, The Scarlet Pimpernel, which I read as a young girl. I was transfixed by its daring-do and enchanted by its passion, which doubtlessly inspired my love of the romantic novels. Stories such as these are about the courageous women of every era and area who dare defy convention and flout public opinion for causes they believe worthwhile.
The last battle of the Civil War, fought at Palmito Hill near Brownsville, Texas, occurred more than a month after Lee’s surrender to Grant at Appomattox, and the captors ironically became the captured.
I must thank Rita Smith of the Hobbs Public Library and Dan Hamill for their assistance.
—Parris Afton Bonds New Mexico, 1982
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
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KINGDOM COME
Parris Afton Bonds is the mother of five sons and the author of more than thirty-five published novels. She is the co-founder of and first vice president of Romance Writers of America. Declared by ABC’s Nightline as one of three best-selling authors of romantic fiction, the award winning Parris Afton Bonds has been interviewed by such luminaries as Charlie Rose and featured in major newspapers and magazines as well as published in more than a dozen languages. She donates her time to teaching creative writing to both grade school children and female inmates. The Parris Award was established in her name by the Southwest Writers Workshop to honor a published writer who has given outstandingly of time and talent to other writers. Prestigious recipients of the Parris Award include Tony Hillerman and the Pulitzer nominee Norman Zollinger.
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PARRIS*AFTON*BONDS
DEEP * PURPLE
Published by Paradise Publishing
Copyright 2013 by Parris Afton, Inc.
All Rights Reserved
Cover artwork by Telltale Book Covers
This is a work of fiction and a product of the author’s imagination. No part of this novel may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away.
The author is grateful for permission to reprint excerpts from the following:
“I Want You” by Arthur L. Gillom, found in The Family Book of Best-Loved Poems, edited by David L. George, published by Doubleday & Co, Inc., © 1952 by Doubleday & Co., Inc. Reprinted by permission of Doubleday & Co., Inc. and Copeland and Lamm, Inc.
“It’s Been A long, Long Time,” lyrics by Sammy Cahn, music by Jule Styne. © 1945 Morley Music Co. © renewed 1973 by Morley Music Co. International Copyright Secured. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission.
“You Made Me Love You (I Didn’t
Want To Do It),” lyric by Joe McCarthy, music by James V. Monaco. © 1913 Broadway Music Corp. © renewed 1941 by Edwin H. Morris & Company, a Division of MPL Communications, Inc., and Broadway Music Corp. International Copyright Secured. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission.
Want You
I want you when the shades of eve are falling
And purpling shadows drift across the land;
When sleepy birds to loving mates are calling—
I want the soothing softness of your hand.
I want you when in dreams I still remember
The lingering of your kiss—for old times’ sake—
With all your gentle ways, so sweetly tender,
I want you in the morning when I wake.
I want you when my soul is thrilled with passion;
I want you when I’m weary and depressed;
I want you when in lazy, slumberous fashion
My senses need the heaven of your breast.
I want you, dear, through every changing season;
I want you with a tear or with a smile;
I want you more than any rhyme or reason—
I want you, want you, want you—all the while.
Arthur L. Gillom
As a child, a young girl with coltish legs and dusky skin, I spent many anxious hours prowling the low desert and the craggy foothills of southeastern Arizona's Huachuca Mountains— anxious hours not just because I was trespassing on the forbidden Cristo Rey land grant but also because I was searching among the rocks and cactus-stubbled dunes for the Ghost Lady, hoping and praying I could get a glimpse of her and at the same time scared to death that I really would.