“Santiago. Imbécil.” Rosario spat onto the dirt floor.
Luther didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking down at the newly made mud, nor of letting his disgust for the action show. “Unless you have some medical experience, Señor Rosario, he is the only physician for miles. I see no reason to complain about him.”
Rosario strode past Luther to survey Phineas. Noting, Luther was certain, the fine gold hilt of the sword that lay beside the bed. The exquisite embroidery on his uniform, the once-fine braid and epaulettes. He would see in a glance exactly what Luther himself had noticed—the young man came from wealth.
A sound that bore an uncanny resemblance to a growl came from Rosario’s throat. “I will send slaves with a litter. We will move him to the Big House for proper care.”
“No.” Not until the word was out of his mouth did Luther realize he had any intention of arguing. That he intended to be the one to see Phineas back to health, back onto his feet. “I have cared for him this long; I will continue to do so.”
Rosario spat out a Spanish something too rapid for Luther to follow. He caught only idiota.
A groan from the bed stole his attention before he could attempt to make more sense of the diatribe. Luther spun around to find Phineas’s eyes open, his breath coming in fast, panicked gasps. Luther dropped to his knees beside the bed and, when the young man tried to sit up, held him down with a gentle hand. “What is it, Phineas?”
His hazel eyes were glazed with fear. “Don’t . . . don’t let them take me. I don’t want to die. Don’t let me die. I don’t . . . don’t let them carry me off. Out of the water, I’m out of the water. Not gonna die, I’m not. You promised.”
Rosario shuffled behind him, and Luther glanced over his shoulder to see the man had taken a step back. “He is loco.”
“It’s only the fever.” Luther reached for the tin cup on the little table. “Don’t worry, Phineas. You’re not going to die. I promise. Here, drink.”
He drank, then relaxed against the pillow again. His eyes slid shut. “Spirits in the waters, they say. Always laughed—superstition. But they were right. It carried me off. Carried me right away toward Hades.”
“No, Phineas, it carried you to Cuba.” Luther quirked a brow toward the slowly retreating planter. “Which may seem like Hades often enough, but you’re still in the land of the living.”
Phineas’s hand landed on Luther’s arm, stealing his attention again. “You promised. Promised I won’t die.”
“I know I did. I intend to keep that promise.” Luther covered the lad’s pale, cool fingers long enough to give them an encouraging squeeze.
The door creaked open. “Keep him here. Stay with him.” Orders issued, Rosario retreated, his footsteps the next sound from that direction.
A shudder worked through Phineas, and his hand slid back to the mattress. “And I’ll keep mine. I’m a man of honor. I’ll help you. I will. Soon as I . . . I will.”
“I know you will, Phineas Dunn.” Luther sighed and settled his Bible on his knee again, rubbed a hand over his face. “I know you will. Just as soon as you can.”
Luther slid his eyes closed too. How long, Lord? How long?
When the houses turned from brick to wood, Cordelia shifted a bit on her seat. It wasn’t often she ventured past the fashionable areas of Savannah. Occasionally, of course, her eyes would set upon the wooden façades that denoted the shift from wealth to mere subsistence, but never in her life had she ventured into the bowels of Currytown. Mama preferred to focus her charitable works toward other sectors and only permitted her daughters to participate in the drawing-room portion of them. The stitching and sewing and embroidering. Not the delivering, no sir.
Willametta Dunn, however, looked undaunted as she sat in the partial shade of the buggy, en route to one of their slaves who had fallen ill. Sassy had declined joining them, but seeing the look of disappointment in Mrs. Dunn’s eyes at that, Cordelia had volunteered to accompany her.
It was, after all, a chance to spend some time with Phin’s mother. Win her favor. Convince her that Phin hadn’t made a poor choice by asking her to wait for him.
Beside her, the matron drew in a long breath. A frown creased her brows as she looked to the horizon, spurring Cordelia to follow suit. A plume of black smoke billowed in the distance.
Up her spine danced a chill of dread. One couldn’t grow up in Savannah without a healthy fear of the destruction fire could wreak in the city. “Are we headed that way?”
“No, praise the Lord.” Willametta motioned to the left even as the driver steered the carriage around a corner. “River rents a room yonder. The fire looks to be in Oglethorpe Ward somewhere. Probably Yamacraw.”
Cordelia nodded and, given the woman’s scrutiny, hoped the intense summer sun hadn’t burnt her face already. She had a bonnet on, of course, and the buggy provided some shade, but the sunlight still reflected off the sand of the streets.
“I do appreciate your joining me this morning, Delia.” Willametta’s smile was sad and strained, as it had been each day the past week. “It’s always so good to have company on a trip such as this, but Sassy cannot abide the slave quarters, neither in Savannah nor on the plantation.”
“Oh, I’m happy to come.” And why would Sassy mind the slave quarters on the plantation? Those she had visited before were tidy little cabins with carefully tended garden plots, squawking chickens, and oinking pigs. A veritable home within the larger home of their master’s. Quite cozy.
Though when she’d said as much one time, Salina had given her a strange look. A look that said maybe she hadn’t seen everything.
As for the slave quarters in Savannah, she knew well this side of town could get less than savory. Sassy’s reticence to travel here she could understand well enough, but Cordelia would be certain not to let any unpleasant thoughts show on her countenance. She would be the figure of grace, just like her companion.
Perhaps when she got home, if she had time before the tableaux tonight, she would pen a story about a philanthropic heroine who risked life and limb to rescue the downtrodden. Who, perhaps, even braved the smoke and flame of a town ablaze to save the life of a particularly precious beggar, perhaps even coming away disfigured—though of course whoever the hero turned out to be would love her all the more for the reason behind the scars.
Willametta’s hum brought her back to the present. “I’m sure Phin would appreciate it. River has always been so dear to him; they’ve been together since they were boys. Much like you and that mulatto girl of yours, I imagine.”
“Salina, yes. She’s a—” friend. But Cordelia could hardly say as much, not to anyone but Salina herself. “She’s a favorite. And when Phin comes home, he’ll certainly be glad to know River was well cared for.”
Willametta’s hazel eyes went damp. “It’s the uncertainty of his homecoming that has rendered poor River ill, I suspect.”
“We mustn’t think that way though. He’ll come home, I know he will.” Over the past week, Cordelia had perfected her brave smile, in spite of the fearsome images that would spring up in her imagination at odd moments. In spite of the dreams that woke her most nights, dreams of giant alligators snapping their jaws at him, of man-eating sharks circling him, of ogre-faced Yankees tossing him into the dankest of prisons with rats baring their teeth at him.
Willametta reached over and patted Cordelia’s hand. “I do appreciate your optimism, Delia dear. But the truth is, we can’t know if Phineas will ever come home. I’m proud of him for going, for joining the Cause, for . . . but I wish I knew. I just wish I knew, knew whether he was alive or dead. Do I hope, or do I resign myself?”
With a squeeze of Willametta’s fingers, Cordelia forced away the images of gators and sharks and Yankees and held tight to that smile. “We are nowhere near resignation, ma’am. Had your brother not happened to be in Cienfuegos, we wouldn’t even know of this missing ship—and if the navy hasn’t seen fit to contact you, they obviously don’t deem i
t worth worrying over yet. So of course we hope.”
The lady’s lips wobbled. “But it’s so hard to hope when there’s so much wonder. Don’t you wonder where he is, Delia?”
“Well, I . . .” Cordelia drew in a sharp breath and rolled back her shoulders. “Why, I’d wager he’s in the Everglades, down in Florida. There was a storm that night, you see, a terrible gale that whipped the ship off course and landed them there rather than in Cuba. It was a frightful night—the winds howling, the waves roaring—but the good sense of the crew landed them on a deserted stretch of beach. They all escaped injury except for the ship, which was beyond repair, given the resources at hand.”
A small smile emerged on Willametta’s mouth. “Wondering is an entirely different pastime for you, I think. You can turn it into something more than worry.”
Except for those moments when she still tasted sand in her mouth, felt that agony in her leg. “Sometimes.”
A nod from the older woman drew Cordelia’s attention to a row of clapboard housing. A few people walked along the street, scarcely casting a glance their way, but otherwise the place was empty. No doubt those who rented rooms here were all about their masters’ tasks.
When the buggy rocked to a halt in front of a building like every other, Willametta gathered her basket and her skirt. The moment the footman offered a hand, she put hers into it and descended. Was it eagerness to help, for a distraction, or was she determined to complete her task and get out of Currytown?
Cordelia followed her companion to the street level, unwilling to attribute any less-than-gracious motives to Phin’s mother. Once her feet were upon the packed sand, she smoothed out her skirt and drew in a long breath. Willametta was already making for the door, though she paused at the threshold to wait for Cordelia to catch up.
The doorway was narrow, so much so that their skirts both pressed to a bell as they went through and sprang back out once they were in the dark, odorous entryway. Cordelia followed the woman up a set of creaking stairs, the footman bringing up the rear.
After going halfway down a hallway, Willametta knocked upon a door. “River? It’s Mrs. Dunn.”
“Comin, ma’am. I’s a-comin.” A shuffling came from within, then the sound of a bolt sliding. The concerned face of Phin’s valet greeted them a moment later. “There be news?”
Willametta’s face went soft. “No, River, I just came to see how you were feeling.”
Relief filled his face. “Now, ma’am, you don’t need to bother yoself with me. I be back to work tomorra.”
“It wasn’t concern for your work ethic that brought us here, but rather for your health. May we come in?”
River only then looked beyond his mistress and spotted Cordelia. She offered him a small smile, but he made no response, not to her. Just directed his gaze back to Willametta, nodded, and opened the door wide.
The apartment was roughly the size of Cordelia’s bedchamber, and seemed to house at least four people, given the cots lined up against the wall. She could hardly imagine trying to live in such little space—but then, how often were the occupants even there? Only at night, in all likelihood.
River rubbed a hand over his close-cropped hair. “I feel a far sight more better now than I did this mawnin, ma’am. I real sorry I didn’t come in today—it jest . . . well, there ain’t nothin for me a do right now nohow, and I felt plumb sick after that dream I had last night.”
Had a chair been handy, Cordelia would have sunk right onto it at those words. Surely it wasn’t uncommon for any number of folks to have bad dreams when someone dear to them was missing. But still, the mention of it was enough to bring Cordelia’s back to her. All those imagined monsters, all those desperate feelings.
Willametta touched a hand to the young man’s shoulder in what looked to be a soothing, gentle gesture. “What kind of dream, River? Of Phin? A distressing one, I presume?”
River gave one quick jerk of his chin and turned his face toward the lone window in the place, which had a stunning view of the wall of the next building. “All shadows and daa’k, and some bad devil spirit speakin in tongues. But it was a-threatenin him, I could tell.”
Cordelia opened her mouth to question him, to ask if he’d had any other dreams of Phin—perhaps any similar to hers. But when she saw the sheen of moisture in Willametta’s eyes, she bit her tongue.
The lady sniffed, then raised her chin in an obvious effort to force composure upon herself. “I can certainly understand why that would upset you, and I don’t begrudge you the time to digest it. Especially since, as you say, there is little for you to do with Phin . . . away as he is.” She cleared her throat and wove her fingers together, resting them on her skirt. “But I daresay we will all fare better with busy hands. My husband and I have been talking of how to keep you occupied, and we both agree that you should act as bodyguard for Sassy. With so many soldiers about, I don’t feel comfortable letting her out of the house without an able-bodied male to accompany her.”
River rolled his shoulders back and gave another quick nod. “I be honored, ma’am. Until Mr. Phin come home.”
“Yes . . . until then.” Willametta pivoted on her heel, her skirt swishing and swaying. “If you are feeling up to it, you could begin tonight and escort us to the Pulaski House for the tableaux vivants.”
“Sho thing. I come round the house soon as I git cleaned up some.”
“Take your time, so long as you are there by supper.” Willametta paused with her hand on the knob. “And, River, I am glad you are not ill. But very sorry you were so disturbed by this dream of yours.”
In his gray eyes gleamed respect as he dipped his head. “I sho do appreciate you comin all the way out here, ma’am, to check on me. Yo good folk.”
“Well. It’s the least I can do.” Willametta blinked a few times and motioned at Cordelia. “Come along, Delia. I had better get you home so you can prepare for your tableaux.”
Well, that certainly hadn’t been so bad. She didn’t know why Mama forbade them to come here, or why Sassy had refused. Cordelia moved to meet her chaperone at the door, River close on her heels to open it for them.
He cleared his throat once his mistress was through. “Miss Delia, if’n you had yoself the fancy to tell Salina I say hello, I wouldn’t argue none.”
“I reckon I can manage that.” Her smile flashed, then faded. And Salina’s words to her after their bad dream found their way to her lips. “River . . . he has to be alive for someone to threaten him. There’s solace in that.”
“Less that water done swallow him up and ketch him to the spirit world, and it the devil hisself doin the threatenin.” River shook his head, his eyes focused on a spot above Cordelia’s head. “Got me a bad feelin bout all this.”
“He’s alive.” She kept her gaze steady on his face until he met it. “Believe that.”
He looked ready to express more doubt but then just nodded. “You best mind yo pace, Miss Delia. The missus is waitin.”
She turned, followed Willametta back down the rickety stairs and out into the sun that tried its best to blind her. Half expecting some form of chastisement for her exchange with the slave, Cordelia climbed into the buggy with the footman’s assistance and settled into her place.
But Mrs. Dunn said nothing. Not when she sat down, and not when the driver clicked up the horses. Not as they trundled back out of Currytown or even when they reentered the familiar part of the city with its terra cotta, sandstone, and bricks of gray, white, and red.
Not until they pulled up in front of the Owenses’ house did she finally turn to Cordelia and offer a hint of a smile. “Thank you for coming with me, Delia dear. Perhaps . . . perhaps next time you visit you can tell me what adventures Phin is finding in the Everglades.”
“I’d be happy to.” Cordelia settled her fingers briefly over Willametta’s hand. “I’ll see you tonight, Mrs. Dunn.”
The footman helped her down, and the front door swung open to receive her. Cordelia hurried into the
blessed coolness of home, her aim the library.
“There’s my sunshine.” Daddy stepped from his study with arms wide for an embrace. “And how are the Dunns today?”
Cordelia walked into her father’s arms and breathed in the comforting scent of pipe tobacco and sandalwood. “As well as can be hoped. Daddy?” She tilted her face up so she could see his. “Have we any books on the Everglades? I have some research to do.”
Chapter Eleven
Phin couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes, much as he tried. They were too heavy, just like his limbs. He felt as though someone had buried him under a whole season’s worth of rice, making it hard to breathe, impossible to move, difficult even to think.
But the pain was only a dull thud. The agony clawed only at the back of his consciousness now, a monstrous memory that he clamped down on, pushed aside.
His mind felt hazy, as if he’d spent too long letting it waste away. Images flashed, but none would settle long enough for him to focus on anything but the discomfort.
“He is moribundo.” That voice . . . he had heard it before but couldn’t remember what face might go with it. It was smooth. Smooth as oil and bitter as dandelion root.
A deep rumble sounded from beside and above him. “He is not dying.” Authority deepened the already-bass voice.
An image flashed. The man-giant. Frowning, sneering. Tending, soothing.
Luther.
Comfort trickled over Phin . . . then off him.
Another image caught hold. Another frown, cold eyes that fell short of apologetic. Another voice echoed in his mind. “Sorry, Phin. It’s nothing personal.”
A supposed friend, casting his lot with the enemy.
A supposed enemy, acting the part of a friend.
Could anyone in this world be trusted? Was there any honor to be had anymore?
Golden hair, eyes as green as hope ready to shoot forth. Lips still rosy from his kiss, a delicate form meant to be cherished. Delia, there was always Delia. She was waiting for him. She was home.
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