Dreams of Savannah

by Roseanna M. White

  A Spanish curse blistered the air. “He is loco, he is moribundo. I want him gone.”

  Phin’s tongue knotted around words he couldn’t make sense of long enough to spit them out. Words that wanted to affirm soundness of mind and body. Words made a mockery by his inability to grasp them.

  “Soon.” Such surety, such calm. Deep as the ocean that had swallowed Phin.

  The smooth voice lashed and spat, an unintelligible rhythm of consonants and vowels. Did the speaker question Luther’s declaration of “soon,” perhaps?

  Phin tried to work through his mind, add together impressions to guess at how long he had lain here already. But he had no way to gauge the passage of time. It had been only endless, fathomless pain. No days at all, only that one long, forever night.

  “Do cease your whining, Rosario. I have offered you payment for our tenure here, and you refused it, no doubt solely that you might try to lord over me. If you want to try to physically force us away, then be my guest.” The scraping of a chair over packed dirt grated, and a shadow fell over Phin’s face. “Please, I beg you, try.”

  A growl sounded, then the smack of a loosely hung door against a frame. After the blustery release of a sigh from above him, the chair creaked and groaned, and the warmth of sunlight bathed Phin’s face again.

  Something else in the room shifted, something not so easily defined. It wasn’t shadow and sunlight, or noise and silence. No, it seemed to have more to do with tension and relief. With a perception that had nothing to do with the senses.

  Whatever its source, he could now relax the fingers he hadn’t been aware he’d curled and draw in a long breath. Still, he couldn’t rid his heart of the feeling of an enemy lurking nearby. Not the man from the door, and certainly not Luther. But something, somewhere. Within him, perhaps, hidden in his own limbs. The source of the pain, of the lack of memory. This thing that wanted to devour him and send him to his death.

  Born of a bullet.

  Wrought by betrayal.

  Though the sunlight still heated him, a chill crept up his spine.

  A rustling came, delicate and familiar. Paper. Pages in a book—thin ones, thin as rice paper. Luther cleared his throat. “We were in Second Corinthians chapter nine, Phineas. Now, what was the verse before Rosario arrived . . . ?”

  Phin felt he should know the answer, though he wasn’t sure why. If he could only push aside the curtain of mist, he maybe could not only tell his caregiver the number of the verse, but recite where he had last read.

  Odd. He had never excelled at quoting Scripture.

  “Ah, here we are. Verse six. ‘But this I say, He which soweth sparingly shall reap also sparingly; and he which soweth bountifully shall reap also bountifully.’ I imagine a saying such as this would make sense to a planter, would it not? You reap what you sow.”

  His lips wanted to move, wanted to wrap themselves around the question.

  What had he sown that reaped betrayal? What had he done to deserve the fate he’d received? Nothing—he had always been a good friend, a good son, a good master.

  Hadn’t he?

  “‘Every man according as he purposeth in his heart, so let him give; not grudgingly, or of necessity: for God loveth a cheerful giver.’ Now, there is a difficult command. Would I help you so willingly if you could not help me?” A deep hum made the question sound even more private than the musing had, and even that had been spoken so lowly, so softly that Phin had to assume Luther thought him unable to hear. “I would have, though I likely would have made you think it grudgingly. Which no doubt says something about my character, that I make such use of the fear men hold me in because of the way the Lord fashioned my bodily shell.”

  Had he been able, Phin would have shaken his head. He’d never assumed that black men were incapable of intelligence, like some of his acquaintances did—but he’d also never expected to hear one speaking like this, musing on Scripture and philosophy in a way his own friends never even tried to do. Though suddenly he wasn’t sure if that said something about the nature of Luther or of his own choice in friends.

  “And what of you, Phineas Dunn? Were I not the one spooning broth past your lips and cleaning your wound, would you have offered me your aid?”

  The only response Phin could manage was a curling of his fingers—and his mind was so sluggish he had no idea what meaning he hoped to attach to the minute gesture. Would he have helped? His first response would certainly have leaned toward no. It was never a wise idea to interfere in the dealings of other masters and slaves.

  And yet, he and his family prided themselves on being different. They did not bed their slave women, as this Rosario apparently had. If one saved up the money to purchase his freedom, they did not withhold it—in the days when it was still legal to do so. Certainly they would never cheat a freed slave by claiming he was still in bondage and then ship him—or her—away from his family. Families not only ought to be but had to be preserved in order to guarantee a workable community. Had it been possible, his grandfather would have freed all their slaves upon his death, and that was a decision Father had fully supported until the law prohibited it.

  He had no qualms about calling this planter who didn’t want him here a villain—but in some ways he was more Phin’s brother than this towering black man. They shared a race, a way of life.

  But, heaven help him, nothing more. And if one’s peers did not insist upon justice, then who would?

  He would help, as he had promised. He would help. But was it only because Luther had secured the promise, only because it was a debt, because he had already received aid in return? Would he have sought that justice of his own volition?

  The sea seemed to toss around him again, black waves and white froth. The bed beneath him spun and dipped.

  Maybe he would have helped, maybe he would have acted.

  But suddenly he wasn’t so sure if maybe was enough.

  Applause thundered in Cordelia’s ears like the sweetest music in the world. Though she wasn’t on stage for this last tableau, it hardly mattered. She twisted the vivid material of her scarf before her and let the tide of anxiousness give way to elation.

  They loved it. They loved her creation. Her careful selections, her painstaking narration. Her choreography and design.

  Annaleigh fluttered and bowed as if she were the one to whom all honor was due, but Cordelia wasn’t about to let that affect her. Especially since everyone in the room must also be able to see the girl’s skin turning green as her monstrous nature burst forth and her nose sprouted three—no, five—unsightly warts.

  A wave of rustling came from the crowd, and when Cordelia peeked out she saw the audience stand. “Bless my soul.” She reached over and grabbed Sassy’s hand. “Is that more than politeness?”

  Her friend laughed and tugged her toward the stage. Cordelia nearly pulled away, until she realized that Maybelle had called them all out. She loosed the crumpled fabric she’d been clutching and glided from behind the curtain with Sassy and company, taking a place for herself beside Lacy.

  Maybelle stepped away from her podium and joined hands with one of the girls nearest her, and everyone else followed suit. Sandwiched between Lacy and Sassy, Cordelia gave their hands each a hearty squeeze and curtsied when everyone else did.

  That was apparently all the longer her friends could manage to keep from their families. They all but surged down the stairs and into the crowd in the next moment, no doubt eager to receive their due adulation.

  Cordelia lingered for a heartbeat, so long as Lacy and Sassy did. She had no desire to trip over the others thronging the steps off the stage, but neither did she want to draw attention to herself by staying up here too long.

  “It was perfectly executed, Delia.” Lacy linked their arms and beamed over at her. “And look at that crowd! We will have raised a sizable sum for the Confederacy here tonight.”

  Her heart seemed to rise up in her chest. But she ought not to feel pride for her own sake, merely for the
good people of Savannah who had supported the cause tonight, and the gracious young ladies who had been willing to bring her idea to life.

  “Let’s go down now, shall we?” Sassy led them into the crowd, and within seconds the milling Savannahians had come between them to congratulate each on her role.

  Cordelia thanked the elderly lady who had grasped her hands. When she looked for Lacy a moment later, she found her engaged with Julius, a happy flush to her cheeks as their cousin grinned down at her. He had tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and was leading her toward the refreshments.

  Excellent. When he had seen Lacy strike her last pose, the fallen victim of treachery, then no doubt a desire to protect and love her had swelled up inside him. Thank heavens Annaleigh the Dreadful had only insisted on taking Cordelia’s roles and hadn’t coveted Lacy’s.

  “One of the best tableaux I’ve seen.”

  Cordelia paused, trying not to be obvious as she looked to see who spoke. When she spotted Mrs. Gilmore talking with her esteemed husband, her pulse doubled.

  “Without question,” Mr. Gilmore replied. “Such a clever way of drawing them together. Miss Owens always did have a knack for storytelling, did she not?”

  “Oh indeed. Her mother goes forever on about her, and obviously for good reason.”

  Would it be terribly unladylike to squeal and bounce? Probably, given the company. And she certainly didn’t want to let the couple know she had heard them, as that would be terribly ungracious of her.

  Still, she had to tell someone that a leading family thought the tableaux so grand. Lacy was out of the question, so she turned to find Sassy.

  If she weren’t mistaken, Sassy’s skirt was the one swishing out the hallway that led to the necessary. Well, Cordelia would head that direction too and catch her friend upon her return.

  It took her a few minutes to slip through the crowd, and she made no attempt to keep the smile from her lips as she overheard praise upon praise. Even those who were usually snide, and from whom she expected to hear Annaleigh’s sentiments echoed, seemed pleased with the performance.

  When finally she gained the quiet of the hallway, Sassy was out of sight, but the silence was a welcome respite that allowed the evening to solidify in her mind.

  Everything had come together. The costumes had all been perfect, and she had loved seeing the pride in Salina’s eyes at their final fitting. Once they arrived at the Pulaski House, Cordelia had discovered that Annaleigh was nervous enough—and hence quiet—to be nearly tolerable. The house had been full, each change of tableau had gone smoothly, no one had tumbled off the stage . . . success tasted sweet indeed.

  But oh, how she wished Phin had been here to see it. Cordelia glanced around to make sure no one watched her and then indulged in a lean against the wall. Relaxed her posture, closed her eyes. Called up that handsome, beloved face. Hair the color of cypress. Eyes of honeyed hazel that inevitably sparked with amusement. That mouth of his, always quirking up in a crooked, mischievous grin.

  Where was he? How long before he found his way home, or at least until they heard from him? Lord, wherever he is, let him know I’m thinking of him. Praying for him. Waiting for him.

  “Has anyone ever told you how lovely you look with that wistful expression upon your face?”

  The words were right, but the voice was all wrong. Knots cinched tight in her stomach as her eyes flew open and beheld Julius standing a mere three feet away. His gaze was not so much on the face he had just complimented as on her figure. Oh, how she longed for her hoop to hide the shape of her hips and legs! However did her grandmother wear this simple style day in and day out without burning at the immodesty?

  She cleared her throat and straightened, squaring her shoulders and raising her chin. “Phin made mention of it, yes.” More or less. Perhaps. If she combined a few of his observations into one.

  “Hmm.” He edged closer, his expression now a combination of pity and . . . well, were she writing about it, she would have had to label it seduction. But she had no intention of calling it such now, given the circumstances. And the fact that it was she to whom he offered it and not her sister.

  “I realize, Delie-Darlin, that you’ll have to mourn him, even though your match was never official. I’m willing to be patient while you do that.”

  Had it been Lacy he crowded so, forcing her back until her spine pressed against the wall, perhaps it wouldn’t have had such a threatening overtone. Perhaps his lips’ turn would be called a smile instead of a smirk. Perhaps, when he reached out and touched his hand to her cheek, it would have been a welcome caress instead of a shocking advance.

  But she was not Lacy, and she had done nothing to invite such attention. Nothing. She had made it clear from their first meeting that she was spoken for already.

  Phin. Where was he when she needed him? Why could he not now come sweeping in and rescue her, like he had been ready to do in the garden with Thomas Bacon?

  She jerked from Julius’s hand and tried to dart away with some grace, but he planted a hand on the wall beside her to halt her. Of all the audacious—Cordelia huffed out a breath and narrowed her eyes. “Forgive me if I’ve done anything to mislead you about my affections, Cousin. Though I cannot think how, from my words and actions, you could possibly think me interested in a pursuit. I will not be mourning Phin because he is not dead. And so I will wait for him. Your patience is better applied to a willing recipient.”

  “And your loyalty is better applied to one who is here to appreciate it.” Fire snapped in his eyes. Not the smoldering gaze of one in love, but rather the dangerous spark of one ready to consume what wasn’t his. “One of these days you’ll admit what I knew from the moment I collided with you, Delia. You were meant to be mine.”

  How had she ever thought him a hero, even in someone else’s story? He was no warrior-king, fit to win the heart of the elusive princess. He was the cleverest kind of villain, the kind that made everyone think him a hero—a usurper.

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” Why would he not back away, give her room to breathe? “And I’ll thank you to remember you’re a gentleman and accept my decision with grace.”

  He leaned closer instead of taking a step back. Surely he wouldn’t try to kiss her, here in the hallway of the Pulaski House, with all of Savannah society milling a few feet away. He couldn’t possibly be that forward, could he?

  He seemed to be. Which meant that she may yet have the chance to prove her slap contained surprising strength.

  “There you be, Miss Delia.”

  At the intruding voice, Julius halted, swinging an irritated glance to the side. River stood a few feet away, an oblivious-looking smile upon his face, though she knew well he was not so mindless as he looked.

  “Go away, boy.”

  “Aw, now, I kin’t be doin that. I got me strict orders to stay close to Miss Sassy, and she be comin outta the necessary any second.” He offered a wide smile that likely didn’t fool Julius any more than it did her—and likely infuriated him even as it offered her profound relief. “Kin’t be leavin a pretty young lady unattended these days, after all, what with all the good-fo-nutt’n soldiers bout the town.”

  The insult finally succeeded in what insistence had failed at. Julius stepped away, hands in fists at his side. “Are you insulting the fine men of the Confederacy, boy?”

  River’s eyes went wide, as if only just realizing how that might sound to an officer. Did Julius see the craftiness? “Not the fine men, no suh. I jest talking bout all the po trash what flooded the city. The folks that ain’t got the manners and upbringin’ to know to listen when a lady say no.”

  “I know Sassy appreciates your protection, River.” And if Cordelia were a lady worth her salt, her unspoken And so do I would come through loud and clear through her eyes.

  Julius’s knuckles went white, and the vein at his temple pulsed. Then he slid back into calm, even smiling. “It’s good to know some slaves in these parts still know their
place and are willing to risk their lives for their masters.” He pivoted, jerked his head in a cool nod at Cordelia. “I’ll see you tomorrow at supper, Cousin. Wear that lovely pink dress again, won’t you?”

  Cordelia feared her mouth hung open like an abandoned gate. Had he threatened River? Was that what that was?

  And had he actually dared tell her what to wear? And, worse still, commanded her to don the least flattering dress in her chifforobe? Her fingers tangled in her scarf again. “That pompous . . . contemptible . . . villainous jackanapes.”

  River drew in a long breath. “You be careful round that there one now, Miss Delia. He bad folk—you can tell’um by the look in the eye.”

  Hadn’t Salina said much the same thing? A long breath blustered through her lips. “I’m beginning to see that. Thank you for stepping in when you did, River.”

  “Sho nuff, now, sho nuff. That’s what Mr. Phin would want me do. When he . . .” He paused, swallowed, drew in a quivering breath. “When he come back, you gwine be the new missus. So the way I figure it, I best be lookin out for you jest as sho as I look out for Miss Sassy.”

  Since she had no desire to let Phin’s valet see her with tears in her eyes, she blinked a few quick times. “I appreciate that more than I can say.”

  “You jest be sho and spend as much time with Miss Sassy as you kin, Miss Delia, so’s I kin do that for ya.” He nodded, held her gaze for half a moment, then looked beyond her. “I best git back. I see yo daddy comin.”

  “All right. Thank you again.” She smiled into his nod, turned halfway around before stopping. “Oh! River—I told Salina you said hello. She flushed a right pretty shade of pink.”

  “Done she?” He cleared his throat and fiddled with his sleeve. “Thanky for that, Miss Delia. Thanky much. I knows I ain’t no Big Tom, but . . .” He cleared his throat and spun away with one more muttered thank-you.

  Her smile turned to a grin, then faded. Why would he mention Big Tom like that? Salina didn’t welcome any advances the gardener made, and she definitely hadn’t made mention of him to the Dunn servants.