Ashes in the Wind

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  Immediately his manner changed from one of piqued annoyance to that of ingratiating servitude. “May I help you, madam.”

  “Sir, I was informed I might seek assistance from you.” The voice was silky smooth and so soft and fluid it fairly sent shivers down his spine.

  “Of course, madam.” He rose and hurriedly sought a chair for his comely guest, then resumed his own seat. “And what may I do for you this morning?”

  Alaina carefully lifted the veil and managed an expression of helplessness. There was a need to exercise great care lest she give away her identity. The clerk forgot all matters of importance as he gazed directly into those gray translucent depths.

  “My father passed away, sir, and left me a small inheritance.” She affected a most genteel drawl. “I have been considering moving away from New Orleans, perhaps to some outlying district, perhaps even upriver, and I wonder if there might be some properties soon to be sold that would be appropriate for a widow of limited means. I do have to be careful with my money, for it is the very last that I have. You must understand, I can’t afford anything too expensive.” She smiled engagingly. “Now I’m wondering if you know of a place, say north of here, that is to be sold? I heard some talk about a deserted plantation almost clear to Alexandria. It seemed like it was on a river. I do love the river, don’t you? Any river.”

  “Oh, yes—yes, surely, madam.” He nodded eagerly. Clearing his throat, he took on a manner of importance. “Now, let me see.” He sorted through a sheaf of papers. “There was a place that came available not too long ago, but you wouldn’t want that one.”

  “My goodness, sir, why not?” She fluttered her lashes, appearing innocently confused. “Is something wrong with it?”

  “Why, no! But it belonged to the family of that woman renegade, Alaina MacGaren.”

  A surge of excitement raced through her, and she had to wait a moment before she could speak calmly. “I wonder how much a place like that would sell for. Is it terribly expensive?”

  “Oh, not really, madam,” the man chuckled. This sweet young thing could use all the assistance he could offer. Why, she was barely twenty, at the outside, and in these cruel times, a woman would do well to depend on a strong man. “This one is being put up by the Yankees for auction, and the minimum they’re asking is only five thousand dollars. Uh, Yankee dollars.”

  Alaina gulped and her hopes shriveled into despair. Only five thousand Union dollars! At that rate and considering her salary from the hospital, she just might be able to afford the hitching post.

  “This place is going on sealed bids, and the closing date is, let me see—April—April twelfth, ma’m. The results will be posted at all banks in Union-held territory around this area.”

  “My goodness.” Alaina let the dismay sound in her voice. “I don’t think I can afford that. Is there anything cheaper perhaps?”

  The teller’s face fell somewhat. “No, ma’m, nothing at all. The rest are to be auctioned, and you’d have to take your chances there.”

  “I will have to talk this over with my uncle,” Alaina murmured as she rose on trembling limbs. She gave a weak smile. “Thank you for your assistance, sir.”

  Feeling sick at heart, Alaina moved away from the man’s desk. The sum of money was so far above her means it seemed like a dream. In fact, the only person she knew who might possibly have that much money was Cole Latimer, and she could think of no way to even broach the subject to him.

  Eager to be away and think, Alaina stepped from the bank and was too engrossed in her dilemma to notice the man who moved to block her path until she was abruptly halted by his presence close in front of her. Glancing up in surprise, she found herself staring into Jacques DuBonné’s black, shining eyes.

  “Mademoiselle!” He swept a low bow as he spoke, then when he straightened a smile flashed rakishly across his swarthy face. He had at last found the young widow he had been searching for. “We meet again!”

  With pointed brevity, Alaina lowered her veil and stepped aside to pass on her way, but the man moved quickly into her path again.

  “Your pardon, mademoiselle.” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “I dare not let you escape again. The last time, I find no trace of you. It was as if you drop from thees earth.”

  Alaina fixed the man with a dispassionate stare. “I cannot imagine your cause in looking for me, sir, but it seems you have wasted your time. I do not know you, nor do I wish to correct that condition. Now, if you will let me pass—”

  “Ma chérie!” Jacques was quick to argue. “Can you not guess that I am enamour with you? Now that I find you again, I be most stubborn to free you until I get the promise of your company. Perhaps this evening—”

  “Don’t be absurd! Can you not see that I wear the dress of a widow? Your invitation is quite improper, sir, and if you do not let me pass, I will most definitely scream.” The boldness of this wiry, little man was beginning to wear on her temper. She tried to brush past him, but found her arm firmly seized.

  “Thees is too public a place to discuss such things of delicacy, ma chérie. I have my carriage and my man across the street. I will take you wherever you wish to go, and we may have a bit of privacy on the way.”

  Jacques lifted his hand and gestured to the black who sat atop the elaborate landau. At the Frenchman’s signal, the servant slapped the reins and began to ease nearer.

  “You presume far too much, sir! I do not offer my company to strange men.” Alaina had had quite enough of the man’s obstinate impositions and was most anxious to be on her way. Several passersby had paused to stare, and if it was not unsettling to Jacques, it most definitely was to her. She jerked her arm from his grasp and fixed him with a cold, silver glare that pierced the veil. “Stand aside.”

  “Come, ma petite. Do not be difficult,” he laughed, offhandedly dismissing her protests. Among his entourage of doxies, most had capered prettily for a few coins, and never having been associated with a lady, he had no concept of a gentleman’s way of courtship. He savagely used women for his own egotistical whims and, when he tired of them, thrust them aside in disgust. This widow whet his interest, and he was not to be denied. He slipped an arm familiarly about the slim waist and began to draw her with him toward the carriage. “I will take you for a ride in my grand carriage, then we can—Aaaagh!”

  This last was torn from his throat as the sharp, dainty heel came down full force on his instep. He jerked his pained foot away from her and caught her arm again, but only briefly. He staggered back, his ears ringing from the sharp slap carried to him by the flat of Alaina’s slender hand. He had not guessed such strength could come from one so small. But this was enough! His own rage clouded his judgment. No wench abused Jacques DuBonné! He found his balance and stepped forward to grasp her roughly, intending to repay her well for his smarting face.

  In the next moment, a gasp was wrenched from the man as he was seized roughly by the scruff of the neck and lifted back with enough force to spill the hat from his head. The small man clawed for his stiletto. But the hand at the nape of his neck blocked his access to it, and Jacques suddenly felt the slim blade pressing between his own shoulder blades as the coat was twisted backward. He knew the well-honed edge and feared that the thin blade might snap or taste his blood. His toes barely brushed the sidewalk, and held rigid, he could not twist to see who it was who held him.

  The huge black halted the landau and, bracing his arms to jump down, made to join the fray. But he froze as the gaping bore of a Remington .44 came around to stare with singular intensity at his broad chest. Slowly, carefully, the black resettled himself in the driver’s seat.

  Cole Latimer set the gaudily garbed man to his feet with a shove. “It seems, Monsieur DuBonné,” he drawled leisurely as his blue eyes took on a flinty hue, “that I ever find you assaulting women or children.”

  Jacques straightened his coat with a jerk and retrieved his hat. Dusting it off with his cuff, he fixed Cole with a baneful glare. “You
have interfered with me thrice, Capitaine Docteur.” He placed his hat jauntily on his dark head. “I am not one to overlook such a debt for long.”

  Cole let the hammer down easily and slid the pistol into the holster, deliberately leaving the flap open. He tipped his hat to the black-clad woman. “Are you all right, madam?”

  The face was barely visible behind its heavy veil. An almost imperceptible nod answered him.

  “Do you wish to press for redress from this man?”

  The bonneted head slowly indicated a negative.

  “Then I shall assume this affair over and done with.”

  Alaina chanced a reply. “You have my undying gratitude, Captain.”

  The low, velvet soft voice stirred something in Cole’s memory, but he had no time to dwell on it, for Jacques sneered, “Have a care, Capitaine Docteur, I am not used to interference. The next time, it will be different.”

  Cole pressed the flap of his holster shut. “And you, Monsieur DuBonné, you take care of yourself. It has been my experience that bullet wounds are much more difficult to repair than saber cuts.”

  Jacques gave a derisive snort, then glanced around. “I think, monsieur, we have both lost the cause.” He pointed down the street toward the fleeing figure of the trim widow. Cole watched her disappear around a corner and missed the quick gesture Jacques made to a tall, thin man who had emerged from a building across the street. The fellow returned a quick nod, then hurried after the departing widow.

  Casually, Jacques strolled to his waiting carriage and gazed back to the Federal officer. “Good-day, Capitaine Docteur Latimer. Another time perhaps.”

  Cole touched the brim of his hat. “Perhaps.”

  The carriage swung about, and Cole frowned. His moment of conversation with the widow had been far too brief. Like Jacques, he wanted to know more about her. And that voice! Something about it was like sharply pungent smoke drifting through his head, elusive as the very wind. But somewhere he had heard it before, and he would not be satisfied until it came to him just where.

  Alaina slipped into the Craighugh house, unaware that she had been followed by a man who would later report to DuBonné that the widow lived in the same house where the Federal doctor was known to reside. This information was thoroughly confusing to the Cajun and thwarted any plans he might have had to seize her. But even more baffling was the fact that she was not seen leaving the house again, though the tall man spied upon it for several weeks thereafter.

  Lifting her skirts, Alaina hurried up the stairs, only to be confronted at the landing by Roberta. Despite the late afternoon hour, the woman still wore a nightgown and wrapper.

  “Where have you been in that garb?” the older cousin demanded sharply.

  Alaina brushed past her, slipping off the bonnet. “I went to the bank to ask them about Briar Hill.”

  “You what!” Roberta screeched and stormed into the bedroom after Alaina. “You endanger us all for that pitiful farm? How dare you!”

  The younger woman whirled, and her eyes darkened into pools of stormy gray. “ ‘That pitiful farm,’ darling,” she said in a low, flat tone, “was my home. It is the place my family labored to build. In its soil rest the weary bones of my mother. When you speak of it to me, it will be best to use a more reverent tone lest some terrible fate befall you.”

  “You dare threaten me! Were it not for you, we’d have no cause to worry now. You ought to be careful that we don’t turn you out.”

  “If not for me, darling, you’d never have wed precious Cole,” Alaina bitingly reminded her. “Isn’t that worth some danger?”

  The glaring heat from the dark eyes was enough to convey that Roberta resented the harsh jarring of her memory. “Someday Cole and I will be gone from here.”

  Alaina turned away and spoke over her shoulder as she pushed off a dainty slipper. “That Mrs. Mortimer who was here yesterday when I came from work—I overheard you talking to her about Washington. Is that where you’re planning to take Cole?”

  Roberta smiled smugly. “You do have big ears, darling.”

  “When you entertain Yankees in the house, I have to keep my ears open.” The corners of Alaina’s mouth lifted briefly in a substitute smile as she faced the woman. “Call it self-preservation.”

  “Mrs. Mortimer is the wife of a Union officer,” Roberta corrected.

  “As I said, a Yankee.”

  “She’s going to talk to her husband about sending Cole to Washington. Perhaps he’ll even be on the President’s personal staff. He has the intelligence—”

  “My! My! You sure are ambitious for him. Have you talked it over with him?”

  “There’s no need right now. He’ll be informed soon enough.”

  “How good of you. No doubt he’ll be forever indebted to you for helping his career along.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic,” Roberta snapped. “I’m doing it for his own good. At least, it’s more than what you would have done for him had you been able to carry out your schemes to take him for yourself. The best you could have given him was a passel of brats to hang on to his coattails.”

  “You’re right,” Alaina agreed, flinging up her hands dramatically. “As always!”

  Chapter 16

  THE captive city on the Mississippi reflected the fortunes of the Confederacy and, to the chagrin of the occupying troops, the misfortunes of the Union. Last September had found the city cheering when the news of the Union collapse at Chickamauga came, and October found the citizenry almost arrogant in the hope of rescue when Lee crossed the Rapidan on his way north again. November opened, and Lee went into winter quarters at the same spot he had departed a month earlier. The city grew silent and its people sullen, then Grant sent Bragg’s army fleeing south from Chattanooga, and Longstreet failed to crack the Union front at Knoxville. New Orleans gave up its dream of early reunion with the Southern cause.

  Christmas and the beginning of the new year had been dreary and celebrated only in the privacy of homes, if at all. The year grew darker still in the second month as Sherman raided deep into Mississippi while the eastern armies still lay dormant. The Yankee frigate Housatonic was sunk by the small submersible Hunley, and though the deed was meager in import, it was great in heroism, and thus was seized upon for its brightness. The news of the Confederate success at Olustee, Florida, was overshadowed when the Yankees appointed, as Governor of Louisiana, one G. Michael Hahn who, though a native, was an ardent anti-secessionist.

  Now the winds of March came as if to dry the land and make it firm for the boots of marching soldiers. The fifth of the month dawned brash and breezy, and this Saturday had been chosen to embrace the inauguration of the new governor. When the ceremonies were completed in front of massed Union troops in Lafayette Square, the ensuing celebration awed the citizens of the city with its unbridled extravagance.

  A chorus of a thousand men had been assembled, and their voices were raised in a full rendition of the “Anvil Chorus” with all the bands of the army in accompaniment and hundreds of cannon fired in unison by electrical devices. All the churches had been ordered to ring their bells, and the din was magnificent, if somewhat tuneless.

  It was earlier in the morning when Alaina settled herself near the kitchen hearth while Dulcie prepared her a plate of grits and sausages. The bright flames danced around the bottom of a black kettle that hung over the fire, sending bubbles rolling over the surface of the water that filled it.

  “Ain’t he later’n usual?” Alaina asked, nodding toward the pantry door.

  Dulcie came to the table to set the plate down and confided in a low whisper. “Mistah Cole’s gotta work late tonight, and Miz Roberta ain’t hardly gib dat man a bit o’ peace since he got up. The Yankees is gettin’ demselves all duded up to celebrate dat traitor being ‘lected gov’nor, and she wants Mistah Cole to take her to dat highfalutin ball Gen’ral Banks is givin’ tonight. Now dat she and Mistah Cole’s movin’ to Washin’ton, Miz Roberta got it in her head she’s one o’ dem Yankees.
She had Jedediah fetch her over a Miz Bank’s house jes’ yestahday, while you and Mistah Cole was at de hospital. An’ she come back a-ravin’ over dat woman’s genteel manners.”

  Alaina snorted in derision and stirred melting butter into the steaming grits. Dulcie set her massive arms akimbo and frowned sharply as she watched the girl sprinkle a heaping spoon of sugar over the cooked hominy. “Dat’s de way dem Yankees eat grits, chile! Doan yo’ go turnin’ yo’self inta one o’ dem critters, too!”

  “Dulcie?” Cole called from the pantry where he had gone to bathe.

  “Yassuh, Mistah Cole?” The black woman sauntered nearer the door.

  “Ask Jedediah to bring that water in here now, if it’s hot.”

  “Jedediah ain’t here, Mistah Cole. Miz Carter, down the road, was ailin’, and she ask Mistah Angus if Jedediah could fetch her to da doctor.”

  “I thought I heard Al. Is he out there?”

  Dulcie exchanged an apprehensive look with Alaina who had straightened in her chair with sudden alert attention.

  “Yassuh,” the black servant answered slowly. “Mistah Al’s sitting right heah.”

  “Then have him bring the water in. This bath is freezing.”

  Alaina’s distress showed in her smudged face and widened eyes. After a brief moment, she collected enough of her wits to call back, “Ya wants it, bluebelly, come get it yerself. I got a day o’ totin’ water ahead o’ me widout starting now.”

  “Al!” Cole’s bark came with the sharp edge of anger. “Get that water in here now!”

  Alaina threw down her fork and railed at the door. “I ain’t fetchin’ it, bluebelly!”