All the more reason for her not to tarry, she thought. Her only wish was to stay out of his way. She returned to the summer kitchen and ate the apple—and actually enjoyed it. Perhaps there was something to the lemon juice “cure.”
When the irons were hot enough, she began pressing her damp petticoats and chemises. From now on, when she did the wash, she’d have to find somewhere inside to hang them to dry. She did not want her underpinnings blowing in the breeze for Union soldiers to see.
She kept ironing, kept worrying about how she could get to Suzanne and how she could thwart Colonel Woodard. She could hear the buzz of insects at the open windows and the murmur of the soldiers still working on their pen. She hummed softly to herself to keep her thoughts from going in a direction she wouldn’t be able to endure.
It was so hot. If they hadn’t been in the yard, she would have done the ironing in the shaded walkway between the house and the summer kitchen. After a time she shed her pinafore and rolled up her sleeves. Then she took off her shoes and stockings, savoring the feel of her bare feet against the cool stone floor. Even so, she still had to wet her face and neck with cold water from time to time in order to stand the heat.
At one point, she looked up at a different sound. Colonel Woodard stood in the doorway.
“I’ve spoken to your father,” he said without prelude—something he did often, she was beginning to realize, as if it didn’t matter how he came to a particular point, only that his ultimate demand was met and with total compliance.
She didn’t say anything, partially because she had no idea what direction the conversation was taking and mostly because she was mortified that he would see her bare feet. She bent her knees slightly to make sure her skirts touched the ground.
“Your father agrees that it might not be expedient to allow you to go see about your friend under a pass. You will be escorted at his request.”
“I will speak to my father about it myself,” she said. She wasn’t about to take his word for anything.
“I believe he is resting now—”
“I will speak to him, anyway.”
“Fine,” he said, turning to go. “But put your shoes on.”
She could feel her face grow even hotter, and she stood there, her mortification giving way to absolute indignation. If the iron in her hand hadn’t been so heavy, she would have thrown it at him.
“Hurry it along, Miss Markham,” he said as he walked away. “The Army of the Republic waits for no one.”
She slammed the iron down—only to pick it up again because an arrogant Yankee colonel wasn’t worth a scorched sheet. She slung the iron onto the stovetop with a loud clang. Then she set about getting her shoes and socks and her pinafore back on, muttering under her breath all the while. When she straightened up, two soldiers were looking in the window, both of them grinning from ear to ear.
“Would you be needing anything, miss?” one of them asked innocently.
She needed a loaded pistol, but she didn’t say so. She ignored both of them and walked swiftly back into the house, her head held high.
Colonel Woodard and Perkins stood in the kitchen.
“Sergeant Major Perkins, tell Miss Markham where her father is,” Colonel Woodard said when he saw her.
“Mr. Markham is asleep on the daybed in his sitting room, miss,” Perkins replied dutifully. “He has had a bit to eat, and he has no complaints—except that he is tired and would like to rest now.”
Maria looked from one man to the other. She had every intention of speaking to her father herself.
“I’m leaving now, Miss Markham. You are still concerned about your friend?” the colonel asked when she headed for the back stairs.
She stopped, realizing that he was once again deliberately trying to provoke her. She closed her eyes for a moment in a monumental effort to keep her temper in check. She would not let him win.
“Yes,” she said, turning to look at him. “I am still concerned. I want to go see about her—if you please,” she added, though it nearly killed her to do it.
“Excellent—Perkins, you know what to do.”
“Yes, Sir!” Perkins said, hurrying away.
Maria moved to get her straw hat down from the peg by the back door, then she stood and waited for her instructions from the colonel and tried not to shred the brim.
“This way, Miss Markham,” Colonel Woodard said.
He went ahead of her into the center hallway. A number of Yankee officers stood around, and all of them stared as she passed. The colonel opened the front door for her—in what had to be purely a token gesture of courtesy on his part. No matter how it might appear on the surface, there was nothing civil about the man. But she had no doubt that her father had been fooled or that he had sanctioned her going.
A carriage sat in front of the house—the same one that had brought his belongings yesterday—and the colonel was going to win after all. She was suddenly overcome with consternation at the sight of it. She simply could not bear to be seen in public with this man two days in a row.
He was halfway to the street when he realized she was no longer trailing after him.
“What is it?” he asked, waiting for her to catch up.
She made no attempt to do so.
“I can’t,” she said, trying not to sound as hysterical as she felt. “My father would not want me to be seen about town with you like this.”
“He didn’t seem to mind yesterday when he sent you to the train station,” the colonel said. “That aside, I told you I had spoken with him. He feels that my escorting you personally to see about Mrs. Canfield is an excellent plan. I must go to my office, anyway. You can remain with Mrs. Canfield until I—or Perkins—can fetch you home again. Unless you prefer to stay here in the company of a bunch of…I’m ashamed to say, very poorly disciplined officers, who may or may not adhere to the letter of my direct orders and remember that they are gentlemen by military decree, if nothing else. Your choice, of course.”
“My choice? It is not my choice! You have me in a corner and you know it!”
“Yes,” he said agreeably. “Are you coming along or not?”
She was, and he knew that, too. She picked up her skirts and walked purposefully by him and climbed into the carriage, ignoring Perkins’s outstretched hand. She had already learned from yesterday’s buggy ride that Colonel Woodard would do whatever he pleased, and she moved into the far corner of the seat to keep him from parking himself on her pinafore and skirts.
But he made no attempt to sit beside her. He took the opposite seat instead and watched her closely—which was worse. Maria turned her head to keep him from looking directly into her eyes.
They rode down the shady street in silence. A pack of dogs, unmindful of the curfew, came bounding out from under a house to nip at the horses’ heels for a short distance.
“Your father tells me you and Mrs. Canfield have been friends since you were children,” Colonel Woodard said. “He said you used to name your pets after each other. I was particularly interested to hear that there was once a little red hen named ‘Maria Rose.’”
Maria glanced at him, fully aware that he was trying to annoy her again, but she didn’t say anything.
“I believe he mentioned ‘The Three Musketeers,’” the colonel continued. “But he didn’t say who the third one was.”
Maria made no reply to that, either. She was looking at the houses they rode past. There was someone sitting on nearly every porch, all of them watching, waiting to see what indignity would be inflicted upon them next, and all of them trying to decipher the meaning of Maria Markham’s letting herself be seen in the company of the new Yankee colonel.
Again.
“Have courage, Miss Markham,” he said.
“I have no reason to fear,” she said pointedly, and she might have meant it if they were not nearing the Kinnard house. Acacia Kinnard ran this town—at least when it came to social matters. Her husband was a man of property and influence—money�
�even in these hard times. And whenever she snubbed another woman, that woman’s social invitations ended.
“Maria!” Mrs. Kinnard called from her second-story porch. “Is the curfew lifted?”
“No, Mrs. Kinnard. I have permission to see about Suzanne Canfield.”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Kinnard said, obviously pleased. “Well done, Maria!”
“Would you like to visit with this lady a bit?” Colonel Woodard asked under his breath.
“Good heaven’s no,” Maria said in alarm. “I must see about Suzanne,” she added. Knowing Acacia Kinnard, she would want Maria to expand on her success and arrange for all the Kinnard family and friends to escape the curfew, as well.
“I do hope the Ladies’ Literary Society will be able to meet soon,” Mrs. Kinnard called as if on cue. “I so miss our readings. I was truly looking forward to hearing about the Scottish chiefs. Do you know when the curfew will be lifted, Maria?”
“No,” Maria answered, in spite of the fact that the question was by no means directed to her.
“Friday, ma’am,” Colonel Woodard said, taking the hint.
“Friday! Are you certain?”
“I am, ma’am. That is, if there are no further…incidents. We will return to the previous rules and curfew—10:00 p.m.”
“Excellent, Maria!” she called, as if Maria had been the one who made the announcement. “I believe the next meeting—Saturday—will be at your house.”
“No, I don’t think—” Maria began.
“Your house, Maria,” Mrs. Kinnard said firmly. “At the usual time. And I trust your father will want to join us. Gentlemen are always welcome.”
Maria tried to hide her exasperation and waved goodbye instead of answering. A Ladies’ Literary Society gathering was the absolute last thing she needed.
“I hope you are satisfied,” she said to the colonel.
“Being helpful always gives one a certain…satisfaction,” he said.
“You were not helpful, sir,” Maria assured him.
“I don’t believe it would be appropriate to continue the stricter curfew so that you don’t have to entertain the literary society.”
“You haven’t met the literary society,” Maria said, glancing in his direction. To her great surprise the man very nearly smiled.
The carriage turned onto Innes Street. There were still people on the porches, but none of them had Mrs. Kinnard’s audacity. Maria wondered idly how the Kinnards’ only daughter, Valentina, was doing in her quest for a Yankee officer husband—and if she knew that her mother had heard enough about the new colonel to have apparently switched quarries.
It would serve Woodard right. Let his new residence be overrun with Acacia Kinnard and her kind.
As they neared the Canfield house, Maria grew more and more anxious, so much so that she barely waited for the carriage to stop before she got out. The front door of the house stood open. She didn’t see the boys or Phelan.
Surely he hasn’t taken them somewhere, she thought. The last thing she wanted was for Colonel Woodard to find that Phelan was still ignoring the curfew.
“Wait, Miss Markham,” Colonel Woodard said. “You forgot this.”
She looked around. Perkins held out a basket. She made no attempt to take it.
“It’s only food, Miss Markham,” the colonel said.
“Phelan Canfield will not accept anything from you.”
“It isn’t from me. It’s from your father.”
“My father can’t afford to hand out food baskets.”
“Perhaps he’s come into some money.”
Maria nearly laughed. She didn’t believe him for an instant, but she came and got the basket—for Suzanne and the boys’ sakes.
“Thank you so much,” she said with as much sarcasm as she dared.
“It’s from your father,” he reminded her.
“For the escort then,” Maria said. “I believe you mean for having put you into a corner.”
“That is precisely what I mean.”
“In that case, you are most welcome, Miss Markham. I will see you later. Perkins!”
The carriage moved off, and Maria stood staring after it.
For Suzanne and the boys, she thought.
For the money.
Chapter Five
“Any trouble?”
Perkins took Max’s question as permission to enter and stepped inside the office. “The town’s pretty quiet, Sir. There’s been a development, though.”
Max looked up from the papers he’d been shuffling in spite of the pain in his hands. “What kind of development?”
“Phelan Canfield, Sir. Drunk and disorderly and breaking the curfew. He’s in jail.”
“Good,” Max said, going back to his papers. “What?” he asked after a moment because Perkins was still standing there.
“Well, Sir, he had his boys with him. I was wondering what you want done with them?”
Max looked at his orderly. He didn’t want anything done with them—but it was clear by the careful expression on Perkins’s face that that was neither here nor there.
“We can’t leave them at the jail, can we, Sir?” Perkins said to prod him along.
“I don’t see an alternative—with their mother not able to take care of them. Miss Markham’s father isn’t well. I don’t think she plans to stay there.”
“I sent word to Miss Markham, Sir—so Mrs. Canfield would know where her husband and the little boys got to. They was both pretty upset about it—”
“The man broke curfew.”
“No, Sir—it ain’t us they was upset with. It’s him—drinking again and what-not.”
Max didn’t ask what the “what-not” entailed. He drew a quiet breath. He had had a long day—but things were in better order now than they had been yesterday. His first act this morning had been to inaugurate a recognizable chain of command, and by doing so, he’d established once and for all that the perpetual party they had all enjoyed under Hatcher’s rule had come to an end.
Max had learned his military lessons from Richard Rush, who had commanded the Pennsylvania Sixth. Rush had been a West Pointer and did not abide military sloppiness of any kind in his subordinates. And neither would Max. He’d given all his officers jobs to do and not enough time to do them in. The results would be…interesting, more telling of the kind of staff he had than a month of observation.
At first impression, they seemed a mixed bunch. Some old veterans who didn’t quite know what to do with themselves in peacetime. Some too young to have participated in the actual war, but still looking for a lark. And some like Major De Graff, who wanted to chase Secessionist women around the furniture—and worse.
His mind went immediately to Maria Markham, the sight of her standing barefoot in the summer kitchen, all hot and sweaty, her sleeves rolled up above her elbows and her dark hair coming undone. She should have been anything but appealing, yet he had waited much longer than he should have before making his presence known. Everything about her at that instant had affected him—even the tune she was humming.
Bushes and Briars.
He recognized it easily. One of the Lancer corporals used to sing it all the time in camp and on the campaigns—Hazeltine had been his name. Benneville Hazeltine, dead now, killed in some skirmish the particulars of which Max could no longer remember. The song was a young girl’s lament about her lover’s long absence and her longing for him—and her fear that her “boldness” might offend him when they finally met again. Corporal Hazeltine had been able to wrap his voice around it in such a way that left the entire regiment unsettled.
Max wondered what Maria Markham knew about that—about boldness. Nothing, he imagined. And it was not his business to teach her. Or even his inclination. He was still incredulous that he had let himself find someone like her fetching. She was pleasing enough, he supposed, or would be, if she were properly turned out—his mother and sister, Kate, would know what to do with her. But she was hardly a beauty, and not to his
taste at all. He’d always preferred rosy-cheeked “maids of golden hair.” John Howe used to insist that the popular song, “Aura Lee,” had been written just for him. Whenever he looked at Maria Markham, he didn’t see a desirable woman. He saw something else entirely. It was as if he recognized her—as someone who had suffered deprivations, just as he had. And every time he looked into her eyes, he had the annoying sense that she understood things about their mutual trials and tribulations that he himself did not.
It was suddenly clear to him that he had been too serious for too long. He needed some kind of diversion—the kind he might have enjoyed with John Howe and the rest of the Lancer officers in the old days. A man’s diversion. An all-night game of high-stakes poker, free-flowing, aged whiskey and fine cigars.
And women. Accommodating women who knew their art and were nothing like…
Maria Markham.
She had been afraid of him today. Why? he wondered. True, he was in command of this town—and he’d gone out of his way to annoy her. But he’d done nothing to inspire the look she’d given him when she realized he was standing there in the doorway.
“Sir,” Perkins said, still prompting. “I’m thinking maybe them young’uns ought to be took over to the Markham house when we go. Maybe Miss Markham can just bring them on home with her—if you think you can stand it, that is, Sir.”
Max frowned. Could he stand it? He didn’t actually know. He’d never been in a household with children—at least not since he was one himself. Interrupted sleep wasn’t likely to be a problem. He never slept anyway. He was beginning to understand what Maria Markham meant by being put into a corner. Jail was indeed no place for the little boys, regardless of their father’s past allegiances or his current behavior, and the truth of the matter was that the children would disrupt the Markham household by their presence—or by their absence. He knew Maria Markham well enough to foresee that she wouldn’t rest a moment if she thought they were suffering—and subsequently, neither would he.
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