Cordelia watched the gown smooth into place in the mirror and sighed. Such lovely fabric, in such a flattering design. It really was a shame the color didn’t suit her well and that, if it had, Phin wasn’t here to see it.
When Salina’s face appeared beside her, eyes narrowed in scrutiny as she fussed and tugged, Cordelia grinned. “You know, I do believe it would look better on you, Sal. We ought to try it on you sometime.”
The maid’s eyes went wide in terror—and something even darker. “Don’t say that, Miss Delia! If your mama caught me in one of your gowns . . .”
“Oh, pooh. What could she possibly say if it was my idea?” Yet the darkness in Salina’s eyes took on a name.
Resentment.
Because Delia had what she couldn’t? But that had never come between them. What, then? She pursed her lips. Perhaps it was the reminder she resented. Or the fact that Delia would suggest something that could get her in trouble.
She sucked in a long breath. Was it cruel of her, even, to suggest Salina step for so brief a moment from her role? To remind her of those games they used to play, where a prince came to steal Salina away?
When they were children, she couldn’t quite fathom that one of her dearest friends was doomed to servitude forever. She’d thought surely, surely freedom waited on the horizon for her somehow. But reality told a very different tale than her own imagined ideas of justice. “I’m sorry, Salina. I shouldn’t jest so, now that we’re all grown up.”
Salina’s smile looked forced and a touch sad, but at least that flare of resentment subsided. “Ain’t your fault, Miss Delia. Your mama just don’t like me much is all, and I don’t want to do nothing to make her mad.”
“Nonsense. How in the world could Mama not like you? You’re sweet and smart and pretty.”
A strange look crossed Salina’s face, then flew away. In its place settled a determined mask of good humor that Cordelia knew from experience was as impenetrable as it was false. “Well now, if anyone be sweet and smart and pretty, it’s you, sure enough. What necklace will you wear?”
“Hmm.” She studied her reflection, giving up the argument solely because she knew she’d get nowhere with it. “I think perhaps I lent Lacy my pearls prematurely.”
“No matter, I know just the thing.” Salina turned to her jewelry box and came up with the delicate cameo that had been Great-Grandmama Penelope’s. “Wear this and you’ll be just like that Lucy in the story you wrote last month, the one who saved the whole kingdom by decoding those picture-words, all thanks to the number of curls engraved in her cameo.”
And how could Cordelia help but grin at that? “Perfect.”
Salina no sooner got it around her neck than the door opened and Mama came in. “Hurry, Cordelia. Julius just arrived, and we must repair to the Dunns’.”
“Coming, Mama.” She stepped away from Salina and twirled. “How do I look?”
Mama pursed her lips. “Why didn’t you wear the green and give Lacy the pink, if she wasn’t content with her own gowns? The other would have complemented you better. Not that this isn’t a lovely dress, mind you, but green brings out your eyes so very well.”
“As it does hers.” Cordelia tried on her sweetest smile, though it rarely worked any miracles on Mama. “She’s been begging to wear it, and I didn’t know how many other chances she’d have, what with more and more of our friends leaving the city.”
The way Mama opened her mouth and narrowed her eyes, Cordelia knew a lecture was coming. She would no doubt point out that if Lacy could find no other time to wear it, then when would Cordelia? And that as the elder daughter left unmarried, it was her responsibility to find a husband quick as she could. That she ought to know better than to try to sabotage herself. And did she really think Julius would be dissuaded by something like a dress? Men seldom noticed such details as color anyway.
But it was about the picture they made, and Lacy would make a glowing one, feeling as lovely as she did tonight. Which Mama was astute enough to realize.
She was also apparently astute enough to realize that making such arguments would take time they didn’t have. She closed her mouth again, set it in that way that said she all but bit her tongue in the interest of peace, and lifted her golden brows. “How very kind of you to lend your favorite new gown to Lacy. Now if you’re ready, darling, do come down and greet your cousin.”
“Yes, ma’am.” As soon as Mama’s back was turned, she winked at Salina, then pulled on her gloves, scooped up her fan, and exited her bedchamber.
Voices reached her ears from the parlor before she even arrived at the bottom of the wide staircase. Daddy’s laughter, and the deep baritone that belonged to Julius. Then the soft, higher giggle of Lacy. Mama, she saw a moment later, was just going in.
Cordelia took her time traversing the hallway, keeping her steps slow and giving undo attention to her posture. Long gone were the days of balancing books on her head—she didn’t really have to give any thought anymore to whether her spine was straight, her shoulders square, her chin up to that perfect angle. But focusing on it always made her measure her pace.
And she was in no great hurry to join the others. Instead, she kept to the wall so that she could peer into the parlor without being seen. Daddy and Julius both stood with snifters in hand, their attention on the females. As always, Daddy’s smile looked proud and warm as he glanced from Lacy to Mama.
Julius, though he bowed when the lady of the house entered, kept his gaze almost entirely on Lacy.
A smile bloomed on Cordelia’s lips. Excellent. The warrior-king had forgotten all about the lady-in-waiting now that the princess of the castle was before him. He would certainly prefer Lacy’s fair-as-the-moon skin. Her half-an-inch smaller waist. Her wide-eyed, guileless regard, the way she focused entirely on every word he spoke.
What man wouldn’t like such attentiveness from a pretty young woman? Julius would no doubt remember how absent-minded Cordelia had seemed to be at the Pulaski House and think Lacy the better-witted sister, by far. Anyone would.
Except Phin, of course, who knew to whence her imagination always flew and never begrudged her those flights of fancy.
She edged just a bit closer so she could hear what tale of Julius’s enthralled Lacy so thoroughly.
“We’ve had our share of problems, too, Mr. Owens. Especially at Christmas last year. Mother tried to talk Father out of giving alcohol to the slaves, but he feared the reaction if he didn’t. Turns out he should have heeded her warning—it’s always been raucous with the Negroes all drunk, but last year . . .” He paused, looked again at Lacy, sighed. “Well, let’s just say things got more out of hand than usual. Mother swore she would never again be on the plantation for the holidays.”
Cordelia indulged in a frown, since Mama wasn’t looking her way and so couldn’t admonish her about wrinkles. Were they having problems with their slaves on one or both of the plantations? Hopefully not Twin Magnolias, which Ginny would be folding into the Worth holdings now. She hated to think of her good-hearted sister being faced with that sort of trouble.
She eased forward another step, but apparently the tale was done. Just like that. No scintillating morsels, no sense of excitement or danger whatsoever. All Cordelia’s alarm came from that “too” at the beginning of his speech, and it was her own concern, not his. Yet there were the makings of a true tale of desperation in whatever had happened on his plantation at Christmas.
One no doubt unsuitable for Lacy’s ears, she would grant. Still, he could have hinted. Added a bit of inflection to his tone. A gesture to indicate it was more than an unfortunate fact seven months past.
Daddy sipped his drink and nodded. See there, he knew how to load a simple move with untold contemplation. He looked so very serious, so very sorrowful at the state of affairs. “I have often said the Negroes are like children—they need our guidance and care. And like children, when we allow it, they run rampant, until we check them and rebuke them.”
Well,
this was as good a time as any to make her entrance, before Daddy waxed verbose on how he ruled his slaves with a firm but fair hand. Cordelia had heard him and his friends debate the topic ad nauseam already. Full of feeling though he was, she had no great desire to hear the whole argument again. Especially since she’d made the mistake of indulging in a roll of her eyes once and had received a twenty-minute-long chastisement for the display, never mind that Salina was perfect proof that the color of her skin had no bearing at all on the state and strength of her mind.
Cordelia slid into view, her slippers silent and skirts a mere whisper, and stepped into the room. She headed for Mama but directed her smile to the company at large.
Daddy stepped over to her with a bright smile. “There’s my sunshine. Delie-Darlin. You met your cousin Julius already, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” She barely glanced Julius’s way, but it was enough to see that he smiled at her with too much warmth for comfort. Even as he stood so near Lacy, with her looking up at him as if he bejeweled the heavens with each shining star.
Were it possible, Cordelia would have straightened her spine even more. Perhaps cool distance would put him off where clicking fans and hunched shoulders hadn’t. Though in all likelihood, time would accomplish it on its own. She was still the first one he had met, and so he would feel a lingering attachment. But it would dissipate. The flame of Lacy’s adoration would burn it away like fog. Like chaff.
Or perhaps like gunpowder, given that flash of temper in Lacy’s eyes when Julius left her side and came over to take Cordelia’s hand. Oh bother. The last thing she wanted was her sister to be angry with her, and over a man Cordelia had no interest in.
“Cousin Cordelia.” Julius bent over her fingers, lingered three seconds too long. “You’re looking even lovelier tonight than yesterday, which I thought impossible.”
She enjoyed a good dose of flattery as much as the next lady, but she happened to know he was lying through his teeth. Yesterday’s pale blue day dress had, quite honestly, looked far better on her than this ornate pink evening gown. She kept her smile polite, reserved. “How nice to see you again, Julius.”
Her coolness seemed to have the desired effect. When he straightened, his eyes snapped in a different way, with acknowledgment. “Likewise.” He turned so that he could see Lacy again. “I just had the considerable pleasure of making your sister’s acquaintance. Had I any idea my Owens cousins were so charming, I would have journeyed to Savannah long ago.”
Lacy’s cheeks went pink, her lips curling into a happy-again smile.
Cordelia mentally nodded in satisfaction and decidedly ignored the clearing of Mama’s throat. Much preferred was Daddy’s oblivious smile. “You are a pretty picture tonight, Delia. I imagine you’ve been wishing your Phin were here, hmm?”
Oh, how she adored her father. She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and grinned up at him. “I had the same thought, I confess. When will this dreadful war be over, Daddy, so he can come home?”
A few months ago, he would always say, “Soon enough, darlin, just you wait and see. We’ll scare those Yankees back to the North in no time.”
Now he sighed and patted her hand. “We’ll get the best of them. Your tableaux vivants will no doubt be a big help with the revenue generated. I’ve been promised that we have the Pulaski House for it, so you see that your girls are organized, now.”
She bounced a little, let out a muted squeal of excitement. But at that particular moment the reaction was solely for his benefit. Where had his confidence gone? Why the quick change of subject?
Perhaps she ought to pay more attention to news of the war.
She hadn’t long to consider it, for a few moments later they were told their carriage was waiting and together went outside to find Julius’s horse alongside it. When he vaulted into the saddle, Lacy leaned close with a sweet little sigh. “He’s magnificent.”
Thankfully, her sister moved away too quickly for her to answer, accepting the footman’s help into the carriage. Cordelia eased forward a step to follow her but paused when a tingle raced over the nape of her neck.
A glance to her left proved that Julius had settled onto his mount and now watched them—or rather, Cordelia—intently. He offered a handsome half-smile, but it did nothing to warm her insides. Nothing to make the evening glow brighter. No, all it did was magnify the ache.
Directing her gaze to Mama’s back, Cordelia waited her turn to be assisted into the buggy. She missed Phin. How strange it was to long for someone so intensely, so completely, when his previous absences hadn’t had that effect. But then, things had changed between them. And he wasn’t off on holiday, touring Europe, or enjoying a business jaunt with his uncle. He was at war.
How did everyone else do it? They all had husbands and sons and fathers and brothers and beaux at war. Did they all feel this pang? This terrible dread, born of uncertainty?
But Phin couldn’t even send letters regularly, being at sea. Maybe that was why it hurt so much. She couldn’t know. And in the absence of knowing, she imagined.
A brown hand appeared under her nose, and she put her fingers into it, let the footman help her up. Settled on the seat beside Lacy. Oh, why couldn’t she be more like Ginny? Ginny never wasted time on imagined fears. She just had faith that the Lord would protect her Charlie and did what she could to assure the general welfare of the soldiers. According to the letter Mama had read last night, she and the other Worth ladies spent every spare moment organizing aid, knitting socks, embroidering sashes. Whatever they could to benefit the cause.
Daddy climbed in last and sat beside Mama. A moment later, the buggy rolled forward. All around them swirled the hot evening air, damp and somehow pulsing with the colors of the declining sun. Lacy opened her fan with a flick and waved it before her face, but Cordelia just gazed out the side—the one beside which Julius was not riding.
She supposed she could spend more time with a needle and thread. Produce something useful. Mama would be pleased if she would, especially if it meant giving her fingers time to lose the ink stains. Though she always wore gloves out of the house anyway, so she failed to see why it mattered so much if she had a bit of a callus on her middle finger and a blue-black tinge that couldn’t be scrubbed out of her cuticle.
And it wasn’t that she disliked sewing. She had immense respect for it. Why, just last month she had come up with a story about a seamstress whose meticulous work was single-handedly responsible for saving an entire orphanage of destitute children who were nearly trapped in a fire—the very day before a generous, handsome donor saved them all from the poorhouse.
The generous hero, of course, had hair that perfect shade of cypress. Hazel eyes. A mouth that could quirk up into the most charming smile in the world, one that was unafraid to be amused. And that turned so soft and intoxicating when he drew the heroine close. . . .
The Dunns’ house loomed before them, and the driver pulled the horses to a halt a goodly way from the doors. Every respectable family left in Savannah seemed to be here, half of them lining the drive in front of the Owenses’.
“What a lovely ball this is going to be!” Lacy fanned herself more vigorously as she surveyed the crowd. Her gaze lingered on the scores of men in uniform. The shades ranged from blues to grays, dependent on what regiment they belonged to and the wealth of those who paid for the commission.
Cordelia’s eyes were drawn to the ones adorned with gold braid and epaulettes, though each new one she found only made her want to sigh. Not Phin. Which she knew. But still, hope refused to wither completely.
Julius drew his horse to a halt directly beside her but said nothing. Perhaps he wanted to speak with Lacy but didn’t care to interrupt, given that she and Mama were talking, their attention out the opposite direction.
A fine idea, except that he seemed content to look at Cordelia rather than her sister.
Bother. How did one fight off a warrior-king?
Chapter Eight
Though the darkness shifted and ebbed, it wouldn’t go away. Try as he might, Phin couldn’t push his way through it, couldn’t find the light. His limbs felt like lead, his whole body seemed to ache and throb. His face burned hot, his hands cold.
He blinked a few times and drew in a long breath. And realized this darkness was night, not the endless pit in which he had been swimming for . . . eternity, it seemed. There, pale silver light illumined a window, absent glass. It crept a few feet across the floor—dirt?—before the night swallowed it. He could make out the outline of a table. A chair.
Insects buzzed and chirped, a cacophony that he must have been hearing for a long time. The sound seemed familiar somehow, though when he focused on it, it set his teeth on edge. A flex of his fingers told him he lay on a lumpy mattress covered in coarse cotton.
Where was he? He had no recollection of arriving in any hovel like this. No thought of where he could be, of how he got there. Of who had applied the binding that wouldn’t let him move his leg.
No, wait. Voices—he remembered voices.
“My son, attend to my words.”
Several voices, hadn’t there been? He had a feeling he had heard conversation. Debate, even. But mostly there had been the one voice. Deep enough to be memorable. Though he couldn’t place the memory.
“Incline thine ear unto my sayings.”
When he tried to gather together his thoughts, put some time frame on them, all he could dredge up was that disembodied voice. He had the feeling he had heard a lot of it. Hours, surely. Upon hours. Perhaps days. Beyond that . . .
“Let them not depart from thine eyes.”
British, the voice had been British. Which, again, seemed to hit upon a memory. What was it? He knew no one from England. There were Irish aplenty in Savannah, but—but he wasn’t in Savannah. The Sumter. The Cuba.
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