It was all he could do to force the smile to stay on his lips. “Frankly, I’m not sure her parents would have allowed it had I tried. When I asked permission to write to her, her father made it quite clear he didn’t intend to encourage her to wait for me.”
No, he’d rather gotten that hard glint in his eye and said, “I like you, Phineas. I like your family. But Tybee?” And he’d shaken his head.
All a man was to Reginald Owens was what he owned.
But Delia was Owens’s soft spot, and he hadn’t been able to deny her request to correspond with Phin. For whatever reason, she favored him, it seemed. Of all those other men . . . He didn’t know why. And he wasn’t about to question it too much. She favored him, which meant there was some hope she wouldn’t already be married to someone else by the time he got home. So, he’d just have to make sure her affections stayed strong—hence the letters sent home every time he could manage it.
“Are you joking?” Spencer’s face appeared again, upside down and incredulous. “Why wouldn’t he approve of you? You’re . . . you’re a Southern paragon, man.”
“Hardly.” The word emerged on a laugh. “The Dunn holdings are rather modest compared to Owens’s. He owns two enormous plantations, plus the house in Savannah.”
Either Spencer looked a bit troubled by this, or Phin was just no good at reading upside-down expressions. His friend handed the photograph back. “Maybe you should have stayed close to home, then. Raised a regiment like all your friends and cousins. You’d probably still be stationed in Savannah, or near it, and could see her once in a while.”
“And miss the chance to share a narrow little room with all these fine sailors and marines?” Grinning, he swept an arm out, encompassing the rows of hammocks three high and running the length of the room. “Never.”
Gleason looked up from his repose across from him. “Spencer has a point. Seems to me you’d have been more inclined to stay in your own territory, with your slaves to do the work for you.”
The suggestion grated. He was one of the few sailors aboard who even owned slaves, which made the others look at him in a certain way. He’d never tried to explain that it wasn’t a situation his family particularly liked, but there was nothing they could do about it, aside from sell everything off. Georgia law no longer allowed a man to free his slaves.
“That’s not what I was looking for in a war experience.” Phin pulled out pen and paper. If they did land in Cuba, he’d have a whole packet of letters ready to post. “Frankly, I would have taken up the call for privateers if it had seemed logical. But with the blockade, my uncle advised against it. Considered becoming a runner, but my mother begged me not to, to join up instead. So, this was the best alternative.”
“Even though it pulled you away from your ladylove.”
Ladylove. He shook his head, his fingers penning her name with care. Bachelorhood had treated him well thus far. Free to sail wherever he pleased, to take his tour of Europe. Ma said he had itchy feet, which was true as not.
He hadn’t planned on giving all that up any time soon. Certainly not with the uncertainties of war upon them all. But then he’d seen Delia again that spring, and suddenly he was happy to keep his feet on the ground for a while and started wondering if she’d perhaps enjoy life on the island. Imagined how he could turn one of the parlors into a writing room for her. If he promised her endless paper and pens and ink and novels, maybe that would be enough to convince her to spend the rest of her life by his side.
“Forever,” she had said. Promised. And she was too much of a romantic to go back on that. He’d just have to convince her father it would be advantageous somehow. And with a little luck, the Sumter could help him in that. They’d all get a cut of any prize money they earned. If the war lasted long enough and the booty was big enough, maybe that would earn Owens’s respect. Maybe.
He traced a finger over Delia’s image, grinning at the ink stains that inevitably marked her fingers. Then he went back to the letter.
After finishing and putting his supplies away, Phin settled back in his hammock and closed his eyes. Orange flames seemed to lick at him; black smoke filled his nose. He shook it away. Spanish moss dripping from tall oak limbs, that’s what he would think of. The fragrance of magnolia blossoms, too sweet, too heady. Delia in his arms, her hair its own golden fire, her eyes as green as a lush field. Rosy lips parting, gleaming. Whispering.
“Don’t go.”
His breath caught in his throat, and he half turned toward the wall. Even in his daydreams, Delia surprised him. But he knew her. Knew that, when it came down to it, she was like any other Savannahian woman. She might miss him, and in that way not want him to go—which was fine by him. But she’d have no use for a man not willing to fight for his country. More, she wouldn’t want one who sat itching his bugbites in the trenches for a miserable year.
She wanted a hero.
And he intended to be one for her.
Chapter Three
Cordelia bolted upright in her bed, swiping at the perspiration trickling down her temple. Her nightdress clung to her, and her thin cotton sheet was tangled through her legs. What a terrible dream. Hissing flames and acres of water, darkness pressing in on every side. Then—what had it been? More water, a storm. Something bad, something dangerous. Pain, searing and throbbing. Then the gritty taste of sand in her mouth.
Silly—but then, the impressions were so intense. Taste, feel, sound . . . all well formed, vivid. Why, it could have been a pirate story. A shipwreck, perhaps. A desert island. Maybe—but no. That wasn’t right. Something else, something . . . maybe someone . . .
“Morning, Miss Delia.” The melodic voice sounded from the corner of the room.
Hearing it was no surprise, though hearing it so early made Cordelia plant her hands on her hips and frown. “Did you sleep in here again? Salina, let me talk to Daddy. Maybe he can have a word with Big Tom.”
Her maid—and dearest friend in the world—waved a hand and bent over one of Cordelia’s dresses, needle flashing in the morning sunlight. “Don’t you be fretting about me, Miss Delia. Don’t want no trouble, especially when you said I could sleep here anytime he gets too forward.”
Sighing, Cordelia sat on the bottom of her bed and studied her maid. A colorful turban wound round her head, but she happened to know it covered hair a few shades lighter than the midnight black of the rest of Salina’s family. Her skin, too, was a fairer brown, her features fine.
And beautiful. Beautiful enough to earn the attention of the male slaves, whether she wanted it or not. “You ought to marry, Salina. If you had a husband . . .”
Salina glanced up, her apple-cider colored eyes sparking with muted determination. “A fine idea, exceptin that your daddy done gave me to you and said I’d go with you when you marry. And I ain’t much for the thought of takin a husband only to leave him soon as Mr. Phin gets back.”
Phin. Usually the mere mention of his name made a grin spring to her lips and her cheeks flush with the memory of that stolen kiss in the garden. But just now those sensations of fire, darkness, and pain surged at the thought of him.
What if his ship had burned, sunk? What if he was hurt? Or . . . no, she wouldn’t even entertain the possibility of an or.
“You all right, Miss Delia?”
She shook her head, reached up to smooth away the golden locks that fell in her face. “I had a bad dream, and I think it might have been about Phin. Something with a ship burning, water everywhere. Pain.” She blinked and shook her head again, forced a smile. “My fears at work, no doubt.”
But Salina frowned and set the dress aside. “Was there sand, too, in the mouth? And the pain—in the leg?”
Though her heart gave a terrified thud, Cordelia inclined her head and beat back the panic. “Was I talking in my sleep?”
“I had me the same dream.” Salina abandoned her sewing entirely and came to sit beside Cordelia.
Mama would scold if she saw it, but they’d been frie
nds as long as Cordelia could remember. Long enough that she held out her hand and felt a breath of comfort when Salina took it between hers.
Though the difference in color was unmistakable, their hands were the same size. Same long fingers, same pronounced knuckles that Mama said looked prone to rheumatism, ones that would turn knobby and gnarled when she got old. “This is why we marry when we’re young,” she had said. “And still beautiful.”
Some things it was better to keep Mama from knowing, lest she dampen them with her dour predictions. Like this unbalanced friendship.
Cordelia squeezed Salina’s hand. “All the same? A ship, fire? Water and darkness? Pain and sand?”
Salina shivered. “The Lord must have sent it to us both, like as not so we’d pray for him. All that water—I don’t know how he can like it, Miss Delia, sure and I don’t. The spirits must surround them sailors day and night.”
Cordelia very nearly rolled her eyes. “Salina, you’re a Christian now. You ought to know better. The dead do not come back into the land of the living through water.” Though last year Cordelia had written a wonderful story speculating on what would happen if they did. Full of dark shadows and cold chills, the rotting smell from the rice and indigo fields . . . it had been one of her best stories and had given Ginny and Lacy nightmares for a week.
Mama had strictly forbidden her from ever writing such tales again, an order Cordelia had obeyed rather happily. She’d given herself nightmares for a week too.
“If water don’t give the dead a way to live, then what’s the point of baptism?” Brows arched in a way that would have earned the ire of the elder Owenses, Salina stood again and moved over to the door of Cordelia’s dressing room. “And if the pastor at Third African teaches it right, the graves done opened up when Jesus died, didn’t they? The dead went walkin.”
Cordelia grinned. “Ah, but there was no water mentioned in that story.”
Salina snorted a laugh and disappeared into the closet, emerging a moment later with Cordelia’s chemise, corset, and hoop. “We best get you ready. You’re going with your mama and Miss Lacy to that aid meetin, ain’t ya? Then there’s the picnic for the Fourth later. You’ll want to wear your new white dress with the blue sash for that, and I’ll have it ready for you.”
Some of the residual tension in her chest eased at that thought. Mama and Mrs. Young had promised her that she’d be allowed to plan a series of tableaux vivants to help raise funds for the war, and she knew just what she wanted to do. As a unique take on the usual portrayal of classical artwork, she would weave the living pictures together with a story she’d written. Considering how to pull that off was far more fun than thoughts of the picnic that Phin would definitely not be attending.
She stood and changed from her nightdress into her chemise, washed her face with water from the basin—water devoid of ghosts, she noted—and then hooked her corset, still tightly enough tied that Salina wouldn’t have to redo it. But as she stepped into the circle of petticoats waiting for her and her gaze settled on the rumpled pillows, her newly won ease fled.
“What do we pray for him, Salina?” She’d never gotten divine direction on anything before, so far as she knew. How was she to know what to do with it? The Owenses attended church solely as a matter of course. They certainly didn’t belong to that class of planters who looked down their noses at their neighbors for not being holy enough. She believed all that she had learned through the sermons, but . . .
Salina lifted the skirts into place. “Seems to me there either be danger brewin or danger done. So we ought to pray protection for him. Breathe in.”
Cordelia sucked air in, and Salina tied the petticoats in place. Under her breath the servant muttered, “And we ought to be grateful River done snuck a talisman into Mr. Phin’s bag.”
“River—Phin’s valet?” She tried to turn, but it was hard to manage with Salina working at her waist. “Why would he do that?”
“’Cause he cares about his master, that’s why.”
Cordelia opened her mouth but then decided against offering any response. The Negroes couldn’t be argued with when it came to the beliefs that had come with their forebears from West Africa. Daddy said their minds weren’t suited to reason. Cordelia could never agree with that, knowing Salina so well, but they sure were stubborn folk. Best to be grateful Salina had abandoned most of the ways of her conjurer aunt in favor of the Savior and leave it at that.
Salina took a step back. “I’ll fetch the dress.”
“Thank you.”
A few minutes later, her dress had been lowered into place and buttoned, and Salina had her curls arranged in perfect order. Cordelia flounced toward the door but then halted when her gaze snagged on her secretaire. She’d scribbled the end to a story last night before bed and itched to reread it now to see if it was as much fun in the light of day.
But if she didn’t come down to breakfast on time, Mama wouldn’t let her do the tableaux vivants.
She gathered the papers together and turned with an exaggerated plea on her face. “Salina, would you read this for me and tell me what you think?”
Salina pressed her lips together and glanced at the door. “I’ll try to get to it between my chores. Maybe once your mama’s away from the house. You know she said if she caught me reading again, she’d send me to the fields.”
“No she won’t. Daddy won’t let her. That’s why he gave you to me. And I need you to know how to read.” She set the story back down and grinned. “Be brutally honest and put a note by anything you think I should change.”
She left her maid with an amused look on her face and hurried downstairs to the breakfast room.
Lacy, early as always, sat in her usual seat, and Daddy at the head. Mama, thank the Lord above, hadn’t arrived yet. Cordelia took her chair and couldn’t help but miss her elder sister when she noted Ginny’s empty seat across from her. “Morning, Daddy. Lacy.”
Her father smiled, the light from the window gilding his silver hair. “Morning, Delie-Darlin. How’s my sunshine this morning?”
“Just fine.” She grinned at Lacy, then nodded toward Ginny’s abandoned chair. “Have we heard anything new from Ginny?”
“She’s well settled with the Worths at their home in the mountains and planning a visit to Twin Magnolias to see how everything fares,” he said, referencing the Owenses’ rice plantation. “Are you certain you girls wouldn’t like to accept her invitation to join them? You’ve never summered in Savannah before.”
Lacy’s chin went up, her blue eyes sparking. “We’ll not abandon the city in her hour of need, Daddy. Not without you and Mama.”
Daddy chuckled and glanced from Lacy to Cordelia. “Well, it’s still safe enough here, if a bit overrun with soldiers. Though I’ll warn you both again—the first case I hear of yellow fever, you’re leaving.”
“Yes, Daddy,” Cordelia murmured in unison with her little sister.
Mama glided in just then, dressed for their outing in indigo blue. “Morning, darlings. Cordelia, do you have your plans for the tableaux vivants ready? We must be at the Youngs’ promptly at ten.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“Good.” Mama studied Cordelia as she sat, examining each curl, ruffle, and fold. She nodded and turned to do the same with Lacy. “Lacy dear, do take off that ribbon. You may wear it to the picnic later, but not to an aid meeting.”
“Yes’m.” Lacy quickly untied the ribbon from around her neck, shooting a glance at Cordelia that conveyed amusement and frustration both.
Cordelia hid her grin behind the cup of coffee that had been waiting for her. She took a sip and let her mind wander to the fun of the tableaux they’d put on, to the picnic that afternoon. But then a cloud passed before the sun and cast a shadow on the table, and she couldn’t subdue the shudder that worked up her spine.
Where was Phin today? On a grand adventure, no doubt. Perhaps in some exotic port. Dining with a dignitary, convincing the locals of the nobility of their
cause. He could be helping revolutionize the design of a weapon that would scare all the Yankee ships out of the water.
Or he could be engaged in a heated battle, with cannon smoke filling the air and a watery grave yawning wide. Fleeing for his life, grabbed with every step by verdant overgrowth out to capture him, hold him until wild creatures could devour him.
She squeezed her eyes shut and hoped for the first time in her life that his day was dull and boring.
Never before had Phin beheld such quiet contemplation on the Fourth of July. He stood with Spence, Hudgins, and a dozen others along the rails, gaze latched on the two ships that had been mere specks on the horizon at daybreak and which the Sumter was now nearly upon.
Semmes strolled the length of the deck and stopped behind Phin and Hudgins. “Strange, isn’t it, gentlemen? To realize that on this day in 1776 our forefathers were all fighting together for the right to govern themselves, and that now we’re fighting our once-neighbors for that same right, again?”
Hudgins sighed and nodded.
Phin drew in a long breath. “A sad realization indeed, sir. Makes you wonder what has happened to the concept of freedom. The Yankees sure don’t recognize ours.”
“And now they call us rebels—just as the British once called us all. Yet they deny being tyrants.” Semmes shook his head and turned away. “Not the sort of Independence Day we are used to celebrating, to be sure. But we will win our right to celebrate our independence anew, make no mistake. And perhaps those two ships ahead of us will help with that most noble goal. Hudgins, you have the first of the prize crews again, and I want you with him, Dunn.”
“Yes, sir.” Phin saluted, smiled . . . and darted a glance at Spencer, who didn’t look so happy.
Then Hudgins turned their way with a grin. “Spencer—you’ll come again too. And . . . Davidson, let’s give you a chance this time.”
Dreams of Savannah Page 3