“Not at all, Cousin.” Though her tone was as sweet as the mistress could wish it, Salina still detected the tension that Miss Delia was trying to keep hidden. “We’re glad to have you in Savannah. Why, Lacy—”
“I was speaking of you, not your sister.” Mr. Julius stepped closer—too close, but what could Salina do to help? “Delightful as she is, you are the elder—”
“And spoken for.” Miss Delia took another step away. Much as she could manage, anyway, with his hand still gripping her elbow. “I do hope you’ll forgive me if I’ve seemed a bit distracted in your company. It’s only that my mind is so often on Phin.”
He released her, but so slowly that it was obvious he wasn’t convinced. “Hmm. I wonder that you’d have such loyalty to a man who was fool enough to leave without marrying you.”
“A situation that will be remedied as soon as he returns, I assure you.” Smiling, Miss Delia stepped clear of him. “Do enjoy your lemonade, Julius. Now, excuse me—Lacy and I must be fitted for our costumes.”
Miss Delia motioned for Salina, though she wished she’d been allowed to stay unmoving behind her. Soon as she stepped forward, Mr. Julius’s gaze swept over her, from turban to sandals. She didn’t much like the light she detected in his eyes, but it weren’t exactly unexpected. How many times had her murruh whispered into her ear, “I wish you weren’t so pretty, baby girl. No good never came from a slave girl being so pretty”? But then he shifted to watch Miss Delia glide away, and that gleam didn’t change, not one little bit. And it should have—that was a lady he was watching with such a predatory gaze, not a maid who’d been raised to keep a keen eye out for such a look so she could do her best to avoid it. What was the point of social standing if it didn’t come with a bit of respect to protect you?
She darted after Miss Delia, drawing near once they were in the hall. “I don’t like that Mr. Julius. He don’t look at you like he should.”
Miss Delia’s smile wobbled a bit before sticking in place. “Nonsense. He just hasn’t yet fully realized how preferable Lacy is. But don’t worry.” In a move that would have sent the mistress into a faint, Miss Delia reached over and gripped Salina’s hand—there, in the hall, in plain sight of anyone who might walk by. “When Phin comes home, no one will question anymore.”
Salina gave those lovely ivory fingers a squeeze, then pulled her hand away before they both landed square into trouble. Why didn’t her sister ever consider such things? She sure hoped Miss Delia was right about the cousin. But couldn’t help but fear she was wrong. That Mr. Julius had a plantation near the one the missus had brought to the marriage, didn’t he? Which meant that Mass Owens would find him a fine match for the daughter who’d inherit it.
And that daughter wasn’t Lacy. It was Cordelia.
Cordelia tossed the red scarf over her shoulder and struck her pose. Then struck it again upon remembering that she needed Annaleigh’s pose, not the one she had perfected before the mirror in the preceding week.
She glanced toward Annaleigh, who stood, as always, in the center of the room. Where she completely failed to capture the spirit of the painting they were embodying. Oh, she would be the ruination of the entire tableaux, but there was nothing Cordelia could do about it. Not without losing five key models who had places in each of them.
Look at her, her smile smug and hateful. And why did her little cousins do her bidding in all things? If it were only Annaleigh in danger of quitting, Delia may just risk offending her and shoving her back into her original roles. Kicking and screaming, if necessary.
But no. This wasn’t about the tableaux themselves. It was about raising funds for the Confederacy, for the men out there fighting. For Phin. Why, Daddy said the efforts of the ladies in Savannah put food in the soldiers’ mouths, boots on their feet, and weapons in their hands.
Annaleigh hardly mattered at all when pitted against such a cause.
At least the costuming had come together. Cordelia glanced around at the other girls, all arrayed in redone dresses borrowed from their attics. The simple styles of the early part of the century worked perfectly for the paintings of ancient scenes and battles she had selected.
And despite what Annaleigh said, everyone else seemed impressed by the story she had written to draw the works of art together. No one else had implied there was anything lacking. Or unsuitable.
But what if they were thinking it? What if they had laughed over her story when they were in the spare chambers, changing into their costumes? What if all of Savannah laughed? Or, worse, thought it somehow indecent?
Cordelia’s arm slipped down a notch. At least until Mama shot a hard glance at her, pointed at her lazy arm. She raised it again and glanced at the other mothers and officers draped over the furniture around the room. All the girls had been excited to have a small audience to practice in front of.
Though, for her part, Cordelia would have been happy for it to be limited to their families and not include all these men.
At least Julius kept his gaze mostly on Lacy, where it belonged.
Mostly.
Their narrator read through the first bit of the story, her voice sure and melodious. Cordelia had definitely made a sound choice in selecting Maybelle Gregory to do the reading. Once that portion was complete, Maybelle paused to signal the change of tableau.
The girls did a quick but graceful switch. Most of them moved off to the side to make room for the second group, and the servants went to work quickly altering the accessories of their costumes to prepare them for the next painting represented. A moved sash here, different color shawl there, quick let-down of hair.
Maybelle was halfway through the second installment of the story when the drawing room doors banged open and a servant boy charged in, breathless. “Mrs. Dunn! Mrs. Dunn! This just come.” He waved a folded paper in the air, one that bore the mark of Savannah’s telegraph office.
All motion in the room ground to a halt. Except for Willametta Dunn, who stood and, like a statue, held out an arm.
Her servant hurried forward to place the paper in her hand, nearly tripping over Julius’s extended feet in the process. “With the mister away, I rushed here fast as I could, ma’am. The delivery boy say it be real important.”
The sound of a quickly drawn-in breath reached her ears. Sassy, just behind her. Cordelia slid backward and put her arm around her friend. Tried to still the trembling that began in her stomach and coursed outward.
“It can’t be Phin,” Sassy murmured as she gripped Cordelia’s hand. “It can’t be. He isn’t on the front lines, isn’t really fighting. It’s probably a business matter for Daddy. Mama will scold Lyle for bursting in here, and that will be that.”
Cordelia nodded. Hoped. Wanted to believe Sassy was right.
Mrs. Dunn flipped the folded paper open. As her eyes moved back and forth, her lips pressed into a thin line. She drew in a long breath. Then another—or tried to. Somehow Cordelia wasn’t surprised when the lady’s face washed pale and her eyes rolled back.
“Mama!” Sassy shrieked and rushed toward her mother, even as Mama and Julius both jumped to be of assistance. Young Lyle managed to break his mistress’s fall somewhat but made no protest when Julius took over the task of supporting her.
For a long moment, Cordelia felt suspended, as though she were watching a play unfold, a drama that had been written out and rehearsed. Not real, surely not real. Just a play.
But when Mama waved her ever-present vial of smelling salts under Willametta’s nose, the lady came to just long enough to exclaim, “Phin!” before swooning again.
Cordelia’s feet acted before she realized she’d told them to, propelling her over the floor to the gathering. She stopped and crouched down beside Sassy, who was lifting her mother’s hand.
“Read it to me, Delia,” her friend bade in a murmur as tears coursed down her cheeks.
Her hand shook as she took the telegram that Sassy had slipped from her mother’s fingers. As if drawn by a magnet, her gaze
went straight to the two most important words.
Phin . . . lost.
She cleared the emotion squeezing her throat shut, determined not to need those nasty smelling salts waved under her nose. “It’s from your Uncle Beau, Sassy. It says, ‘Been in Cienfuegos. Sumter arrived with prizes, Phin not on board. On prize crew of ship that has been lost. Hope ship will arrive soon but all fear the worst. Pray.’”
The worst. Cordelia lowered the paper, but her eyes remained focused where it had been. Lost. They all feared. But what was the worst? That the ship sank, Phin along with it? That he had been taken prisoner and would be handed over to the Yankee courts? What might they do to him, if that were true? Did Yankees believe in torture?
“No. No, no, no.” Sassy squeezed her eyes shut and gripped her mother’s hand with what looked like bruising strength. “Not Phin, it can’t be. Uncle Beau must be mistaken. Phin can’t be . . . missing.”
So she wasn’t the only one, then, for whom the not-knowing felt as terrifying as certain loss.
Cordelia put her arm around her friend again and let her eyes slide closed.
Darkness. Tossing waves, searing pain. Sand in the mouth, under the fingers. Desperation. Agony.
Were they real, those dreams? Sent from heaven like Salina said, so that they would know to pray—perhaps even how to pray? Were such things possible outside the pages of a book?
“He’s all right.” She whispered the words, as much for her benefit as Sassy’s. “The ship he’s on must have simply encountered a delay. They’ll arrive where they should any day now, and Phin will rejoin his crew.”
Julius cleared his throat. “Well now, I don’t mean to discourage. But the Sumter won’t long wait in port, I’m sure. Lord willing, your brother will indeed make his way there, Miss Dunn. But even if so, he and the rest of the prize crew will likely then have to find their own way home, where they can check in with the admiralty and get new instructions. Seems as though his tenure on the Sumter is at an end either way.”
Cordelia opened her eyes so she could glare at him. “Not particularly inspiring information, Cousin, given how difficult it will be to make it past the blockade.”
The lift of Julius’s brow screamed a challenge. “I am only offering reality, my dear.”
“Reality? What use is that?”
“Cordelia!” Mama’s admonition came out on a horrified gasp.
Cordelia bit her lip to keep from saying anything else that would earn her censure. To be sure, she hadn’t meant to let that slip out. And given the whispers she heard coursing around the room, she wished she could draw the words back in.
Willametta’s lashes fluttered open, her eyes glassy. “Phin. My darling boy.”
Sassy’s breath caught on a sob, so Cordelia took it upon herself to lean closer to the woman she would someday call Mother. “He’s all right, Mrs. Dunn. I know it. He is.”
The lady’s hazel eyes, just like Phin’s, focused on Cordelia’s face. Was that pity within them? No, it couldn’t be. Just fear and grief. “He is lost.”
“Off adventuring, no doubt, since the opportunity presented itself.” Maybe her grin wobbled, but she pasted it on. “You know how Phin loves his adventures.”
“He does, at that.” Willametta looked as though she may say more. So much swirled through her eyes that Cordelia couldn’t hope to decode—thoughts and wishes and regrets. But after a moment, the woman shook her head and looked to her daughter. “We had better hurry home, Sassy, and get word to your father on the plantation. He’ll want to know.”
“Yes, of course.” But Sassy glanced with watery eyes to Cordelia. “Might Delia come with us? I mean, unless you need to oversee the rest of the rehearsal.”
At Mama’s nod of permission, Cordelia offered a smile. “Of course I’ll come. You needn’t even ask.”
She couldn’t have said what all happened in the next minutes. A flurry of activity as the crowd surged upon the Dunns with their promises of prayers, a general push toward the door. But somehow or another, Julius ended up at her elbow.
“Hope may flame eternal, Delie-Darlin, but you must face facts at some point.” His voice was low, no more than a murmur. And sounded like curses to her ears. “Your young man could very well be gone.”
Her answer was to stride away with steps too large to be ladylike.
Even so, she couldn’t outpace the roiling darkness of fear.
Chapter Ten
Seven long days had dragged by since his charge had last awoken. Luther sat in his usual spot in the too-small chair by the too-small cot, with the too-dim light from the lamp shining upon the most precious belonging he had on this side of the Atlantic.
The Bible felt like home in his hands. Its worn leather cover had earned each crease and fold and scuff honestly, by continual use. He had thumbed through the pages so often that most of the gold leaf on the edges had come off. This book had gone through Cambridge with him, had been the volume he placed on the pulpit when he gave his first sermon. Its words were familiar, dear.
Yet, they barely dulled the edge of the knife he still felt so acutely in his side. Eva, his Eva. He needed her, missed her in ways words couldn’t say. His beautiful hart, with her natural grace and vigor. She had come to England unschooled, untrained in anything but how to keep a master’s house. But he had taken one look into her endless gray eyes and had known there was more to her than that.
So, so much more.
“Delia! Delia, no. Delia.”
Luther sighed and picked up the dampened cloth, blotted Phineas’s forehead with it. “It’s all right, Phineas. Delia is all right. You’ll go home to her soon.”
The thrashing eased, though only the Lord above knew if Luther’s words had any effect or if it was pure coincidence. He splayed a hand over the pages open upon his leg. Eva had always marveled at how, when he did that, the page disappeared entirely. Her delicate little hands couldn’t cover half the surface.
And she had been so quick with her words when she first saw him do it, though her English had still been rough. “The Scripture you read on Sunday said we ought to hide the Word within our hearts—you said nothing about hiding it under our hands.”
Luther’s lips tugged up at the memory of the sparkle in her eye. He had known that very day that she was the one the Lord had ordained to be his wife. His companion, through all the trials. Working beside him, toiling in the dirty streets of London, ministering to others—many of whom were fugitives from America’s South.
God Almighty, let someone be caring for her now, as she has cared so well and so long for others. As I care even now for this stranger.
Though the stranger had become less of one over the nearly two weeks he had lain on Luther’s cot. He was seldom awake and hadn’t been coherent since that night ten days ago, but his mumblings revealed more about the man than his conversation had. Luther felt almost guilty at all the private thoughts that spilled from the boy’s lips.
His love for the girl named Delia.
His fear he was disappointing his parents.
His respect for his commander, Semmes.
His anger at a man named Spencer, who had been a friend but had betrayed him—all of them—on the Sumter.
He had learned names, of both places and people. Some dear, some seemingly despised. Even a description, now and then, as if he were reciting it for some reason, and exaggerating it besides.
A picture had begun to emerge. A picture of a young man with a lot to live for.
But fever raged through his body, and Dr. Santiago said pneumonia had settled into his lungs. Whenever they tried to lower his dosage of morphine, he would be out of his mind with pain.
Luther still couldn’t fathom how the lad had managed to keep afloat over all the miles from the Isle of Pines to his beach. It was a miracle, nothing less. God’s doing. He must have set a quick current to carry Phin and his life-saving piece of wood so far in so short a time.
And if it were truly a miracle that he l
ived at all, surely that meant healing would not elude them forever.
“Father in Heaven,” he prayed softly, but loud enough that it might slice through the cloud of Phineas’s mind, “place your hand on young Phineas. Heal him, Lord, by the power of the blood of Christ Jesus, who has died so that we might live. Let this young man stand again, walk again. Go home again to the family he misses so much.”
He opened his eyes and would have sworn the shadows shifted at the edges of the room. His imagination, in all likelihood. Or the swaying of the tropical foliage outside his window. Still, it made his nostrils flare. He looked down to the page his Bible was open to and began to read where he had left off earlier.
“‘Bless the LORD, O my soul: and all that is within me, bless his holy name. Bless the LORD, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits: who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases; who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies.’”
A hard knock sent the door rattling so forcefully, Luther was afraid it would fall from its makeshift hinges. He stood, Bible closed around his finger. But he didn’t so much as take a step before the plank door swung wide.
A man far more despicable than any Confederate soldier filled the space.
Luther straightened his neck until his scalp pressed against the ceiling. “Rosario.”
“Bromley.” Hatred gleamed in the man’s coal-black eyes. “I told you one month, no? You are still here.”
“My deepest apologies. I assure you, I do not want to be, and I will be glad to find a room in the nearest town, just as soon as my . . . guest is well enough.”
“Your guest? ¿Invitado?” He took another step into the room, gaze on the bed, and sneered. “Who is this?”
Luther crossed his arms over his chest, Bible now tucked against him. If a wall he must be, then so be it. “A planter’s son, injured and marooned. Santiago has been caring for him.”
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