Had she? Would she?
“And what is the young lady of the hour doing hiding in the hallway?”
At her father’s smiling voice, Cordelia turned to face him and forced aside thoughts of Salina. He looked handsome tonight in his buff coat and trousers, and there was no mistaking the pride on his face.
It did her heart good to see it. She looped her hand through his arm. “I was just waiting for Sassy is all, Daddy. It went well, didn’t it?”
“You are a true sensation. You and Lacy lit up the stage.” He leaned over and pressed an affectionate kiss to her forehead. When he pulled away, a grin twitched at his lips. “But I could have sworn I saw a certain young officer cousin of yours follow you out here.”
“Oh.” The heat that surged to her cheeks was more from frustration than anything, but she doubted her father would realize that. “He . . . he just . . . you don’t need to worry about that, Daddy. I have no interest in Julius.”
The last thing she expected was the frown that creased her father’s brow. “And why is that, Delie-Darlin? I realize you’d set your affections on Phin, but Julius is a fine young man. I know he favors you, and his court bears considering.”
“Daddy.” Him too? She didn’t dare pull her arm away, but she averted her face. She couldn’t help it. “I don’t . . . I can’t . . . I don’t like Julius, he—well, the way he looks at me—”
“Nonsense.” Though soft and gentle, the single word made it clear he wouldn’t stand for her disparaging the young man he’d apparently taken a shine to. “He’s from a good family, well bred. If you see something in him you don’t like, it’s just that talented imagination of yours at work. No doubt it’s in cahoots with your heart, which won’t let you think of anyone else just yet. But, darlin’—”
His large, familiar hand took her chin and turned her face back to his. She found his eyes, bright and blue, looking at her pleadingly as he sighed. “We can’t make decisions that affect the rest of our lives based on the emotions of youth. The Dunns are a good family, Phin a fine young man—but Julius would be the better match. If we combined his plantation and Belle Acres, the two of you would become the largest landowners in the county.”
Delia was shaking her head long before he finished. “I don’t care about any of that, Daddy. If you do, then—then give Belle Acres as Lacy’s dowry instead of mine and—”
“I’ll hear no such nonsense.” That stubborn look entered his eyes, the one he so rarely gave her but which she’d seen often enough in his dealings with others. “We decided years ago who would get what, and everyone knows it. I’ll not abide the talk that would spring up if I were to change it all now. No, Delia, Belle Acres is yours. You can’t just shuffle the responsibility that comes with that onto your sister because you fancy a man who’s likely never to return.”
“He will.” Her fingers dug into his arm a second before she caught herself.
Daddy’s head moved in a sorrowful, slow shake. “I don’t think he will. I was willing to grant him leave to court you—against my better judgment, since you favor him so—but when the Dunns received that news from Willametta’s brother, I made a few inquiries, hoping someone somewhere would have spotted the ship he was on. But the Cuba has vanished . . . and there were reports of a storm in the vicinity that night.”
Try as she might to hold her tears back by will, blink as she might to clear them away, they still blurred her vision. “I can’t give up on him, Daddy. I can’t.” Her voice came out as little more than a murmur. “And I can’t accept another man’s court just because you like where his property is.”
Daddy thumbed away the droplets that had just spilled onto her cheeks. “I have a bad feeling about this war, sunshine.”
Must he make things even worse? “You said it would be over in a few months.”
His sober expression didn’t shift. “The Yankees are already on the coast, on the islands. The main army is advancing through Virginia. I want to see you safe.”
“I am safe. They wouldn’t dare come to Savannah, not with all the soldiers stationed here.”
He pursed his lips, lowered his hand. “Atlanta would be better.”
Her chin rose of its own accord. He would never tolerate defiance, but Daddy admired strength. “I will not flee in fear. That isn’t the kind of person you raised me to be.”
That earned her only a hint of a smile, quickly washed away by sobriety. “If you married Julius, you wouldn’t be fleeing there for refuge. You’d be taking a place in its society. Your mother and Lacy could go with you then without argument.”
A hand seemed to vise around her chest. “Daddy, please don’t ask this of me. I love Phin. I promised him I’d wait.”
“But for how long?”
A shudder overtook her. Phin’s words, Phin’s question, right before the fiddle had struck up at the barbeque. She could still see the hope in his eyes, the ardor, the admiration.
But Daddy’s gaze held only cold, hard reality. Expectation. Logic. He wouldn’t like the answer she’d given. But it wouldn’t be held back from her lips. “Forever.”
Her father sighed. “I can’t let you do that, sunshine. I can’t let you throw your life away and sully the family name in so doing. Even if you set aside the wisdom of joining your fortunes to Julius’s, you know well your mother won’t let Lacy marry until you do. Do you want to ruin her chances for happiness as well?”
“That isn’t fair.” Did he even hear the rusty squeak of her voice? Her throat felt so tight. “Younger daughters marry first all the time—”
He rested his hands upon her shoulders and stared deep into her eyes. “Cordelia.” He never called her that, never. It was always Delia, Delie-Darlin, sunshine. “You will do what must be done.”
“Daddy—”
“Hush now. You may wait for Phin until September. I think that more than reasonable, and it’s more than my better judgment wants to allow. I’m granting it only because it’s you. If he’s alive, we’ll hear something by then. But if we do not, then you will accept Julius’s suit at that time. Am I understood?”
She forced a swallow. “Lacy would never forgive it.”
“You let me worry about Lacy.” He dropped his hands and took her elbow, turned her toward the crowd of people.
Her breath balled up in her chest. Let him worry about Lacy? Hadn’t he just foisted the responsibility for her happiness upon Cordelia? Well, she would do right by her sister, by her family. But that meant honoring the commitment she’d already made. And perhaps steering Lacy away from Julius, too, if he were as much a jackanapes as he had played tonight.
They walked a few steps, and then Daddy looked down at her with an arched brow. “You didn’t answer me. Am I understood, Cordelia?”
She always thought of herself with her full name, so why did hearing it from his lips make her want to cringe? But she wouldn’t show it. She would be strong, brave. Like any good princess locked away in her tower, waiting for the knight to return as promised. She gave him the smile he most liked and tilted her face so her curls brushed her cheek. “You’re understood. Father.”
Chapter Twelve
AUGUST 7, 1861
Something was different. Something had changed. It took Phin a long moment to realize it was the light filtering through the moth-eaten curtains on the windows.
Light. Vision.
His eyes were open. How long had he struggled to raise the lids? Forever, it seemed. Days, weeks, months, years—time had lost all meaning as he tried and failed, over and over, to will his body into obedience. And now, without even trying, his eyes were open. He saw the dust motes sparkling in the shafts of sunlight. He saw the patterns of brilliance and shadow play upon the walls, the floor. A reflection of water danced on the ceiling. And there, the bowl of it the sunshine had found.
The room was small. Bare. Poor. But it was the most blessed sight he could ever recall seeing, with the exception, perhaps, of the love gleaming in Delia’s eyes.
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nbsp; Vision. Sweet, sweet vision. He blinked to clear the grime from his eyes and lifted a hand to rub at them. Lifted a hand! It moved, without pain, without feeling like a lead ball. It just . . . just moved, and rubbed, and then held itself in front of his nose while he stared at it, in awe of its obedience.
“I’m alive.” He wasn’t so sure he had been before, not really. His mind had functioned, yes. Sometimes. Enough to listen, enough to think, enough to hate the fact that he couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, couldn’t do. But he hadn’t really been. Not like this, alive again. How far dare he push it?
Well, he had to try more than merely rubbing his eyes. Drawing in a deep breath first, he wiggled his toes and, when that worked, pushed up on his elbows. The earth didn’t spin, which seemed like a good sign. Though even from that small action, his arms ached.
The door swung open, and a flood of precious sunlight leapt into the room. Silhouetted against it, a giant ducked his head and entered, unable to fully straighten his neck again once inside. He hummed as he entered, setting a sloshing pail upon the floor.
“Luther.” The word escaped his lips so easily, with neither a squeak nor a moan. For the first time in however long it had been since they took the Cuba, he felt like smiling.
The man’s eyes went wide, and he jerked back up so fast he knocked his head against the ceiling. “Phineas! You’re awake!”
He nodded and pushed himself up another few inches. “How long has it been? A week? Two, perhaps?”
Luther crossed the room in two long strides and sat down on the rickety chair beside Phin’s bed. Its rustle and creak was as familiar as a lullaby. “A month, Phineas. A month and a few odd days since you first washed ashore. You’ve come to a few times, here and there, but not for weeks now. I was beginning to fear you never would.”
“Me too.” He made no protest when Luther reached for a new-looking pillow and put it behind him, then helped him find a comfortable position against it. He was now upright enough to see but reposed enough that his muscles sighed in relief. He shook his head. How had an entire month gone by? And what had happened in all that time? Where were his crew, his ship? Did they all think him dead, either from the bullet or the fall overboard? Undoubtedly.
The bullet—his leg. Had they . . . ? He reached down, patted the limb. Its scream of pain at the contact assured him it was still in place as much as the feel of it under his hand did.
“Still there,” Luther said on a chuckle. “Dr. Santiago considered amputation, but he was convinced you wouldn’t recover from it if we tried, given how weak you’ve been. We’ve avoided gangrene, praise be to the Lord, but it doesn’t seem to be healing as quickly as it should. Santiago warned me it would be difficult to get it to set correctly.”
Yes, of course. He knew all that. Had heard the conversations, though some of them had been in Spanish. Dr. Santiago’s voice had been the soft, doleful one, his Spanish words melodious. Not like that other one.
“Here. Drink.”
Phin reached for the tin cup full of water, though Luther’s meaty hand didn’t release it entirely. Probably wise. Still, he could direct it to his own lips. Tip at his own rate. Drink without a dribble, then hand it back. “I think I’m hungry.”
A deep laugh rumbled from Luther’s throat. “Praise be to God for that! I’ve got nothing but broth in you since you arrived. Would you care for some fruit? I’d just prepared a plate.”
“Yes. Thank you.” A moment later, a platter of pineapple, oranges, mango, and bananas had his mouth watering. He selected a slice of mango and relished the juice upon his tongue, then looked back up into Luther’s placid face. “Why did you not give up on me? Turn me over to . . . the dark one.”
Luther arched a brow.
Phin shook his head. “Not his color, his . . . I don’t know. Whenever he was here, I just thought of him as being dark as the night. His name was Ros-something.”
“Rosario.” Luther grunted. “You have the right of him, to be sure. I wouldn’t turn my worst enemy over to that man.”
The mango went down smoothly, so Phin next chose a slice of pineapple. “Am I not that?”
Luther’s next grunt sounded amused. “No. Perhaps I thought so, when first I realized what you are. But now that I know who you are . . .”
“Who I am.” Strange, that phrase had never before made him question it himself. “You know that, do you?”
When Luther smiled, his teeth gleamed white as the moon. “You talk in your sleep—or your delirium, as the case may be.”
Phin cleared his throat and studied the bright yellow fruit in his fingers. “I suspect I ought to be embarrassed.”
“You said nothing of which you need be ashamed.” Leaning forward, Luther braced his forearms against his legs and clasped his hands loosely. “It’s good to hear you speaking coherently though. To see you awake.”
Phin swallowed the last of the pineapple and reached for a banana. His fingers fumbled over the stem, couldn’t get it to break so he could peel it. Blasted weak hands. He had to clench his teeth when Luther took it from him and accomplished in a single second what he couldn’t manage at all.
It chafed, this needing help for the smallest task. He had never in his life relied on his servants to do what he was capable of doing himself, yet here he was, relying on this man. Who wasn’t even one of his servants, obligated to help. No, he was entirely reliant upon and indebted to a freeman who had greeted him with scorn.
Yet Luther’s face contained none of the pride now that Phin remembered seeing when first he landed here. And so he didn’t mind saying, “Thank you, Luther,” as he accepted the fruit back again.
The giant’s eyes gleamed. “You’ve learned some manners in this past month, I see.”
“I’ve learned something. Not quite sure what.” He held the banana a long moment, waiting for his arms not to feel so heavy. “I need to get word to my family.”
Luther nodded. “I have paper and pen I can fetch. Or if you’re not feeling up to writing it yourself, you can dictate it to me.”
For a long moment, Phin could only stare. Of course Luther was educated—he was aware of him having read chapter upon chapter, book upon book to him over the last month, recalled the mentions of Cambridge and his church. Still. In Savannah, blacks were absolutely forbidden from learning to read or write. They weren’t even allowed to hold a job in a printer’s office, lest they pick it up. Some still knew, of course—River included. But it was something to hide, to do in secret, not to offer freely.
Phin shook his head. “We can try, but I have my doubts a letter would reach them, what with the blockade all along the coast. Is there a telegraph office nearby? If I could at least get word to my uncle’s contacts in Cienfuegos . . .”
Now Luther shook his bald head. “It would take me two days to get to and back from the nearest telegraph office, and the Cuban lines are terrible. Messages have no guarantee of making it through. I would be willing to try, but every time I start down the drive, Rosario’s servants make for the cottage. I don’t know if he intends to take you to the Big House or throw you out, and I haven’t been willing to risk finding out. I haven’t ventured farther than the well in weeks.”
“Not worth the risk, then. Especially since I have no way of knowing if my uncle will even make port in Cuba again any time soon.” Phin took a bite of his banana. “What of the doctor? Could he help us?”
“Perhaps, had you asked a week ago. But he had to travel to Villa Clara Province to be with his daughter during her confinement.” With a sigh, Luther straightened again and passed a hand over his scalp. “I’m afraid we are without allies just now.”
The banana stuck in his throat. No allies? No surprise, in a world where loyalties shifted like the wind. But he had to get word to his family somehow. At the very least, they would be wondering where he was, whether he was well. And if Semmes had sent them a letter, then they would think him lost. Dead.
They would be mourning him. Father, Mother,
Sassy—they’d be trying to say good-bye, to grieve him so that they might move on with their lives.
And Delia. He squeezed his eyes shut and drew in a long breath. If they’d been told he was dead, then Delia . . . he hadn’t even proposed. He had given her no promise, no legitimate reason to wait. Her family would give her only so much time to grieve before they’d begin ushering the other young gentlemen her way.
No. He wouldn’t lose her, not because of this. He opened his eyes and met Luther’s gaze. Determination would have to shore him up where strength failed him. “Let’s try the letters. But God willing, before we know if they got there, we’ll be on our way ourselves. As soon as I can walk.”
Luther shook his head. “That might take a while, Phineas.”
Given how it had hurt even to touch his leg, he cringed at the mere thought of trying to stand. But it must be done. It was the only way to get his life back. “We’ll take it slowly, move a bit more each day. And it’ll give us time to come up with a plan. Think of the best way through the blockade.”
“Ah.” With a wide grin, Luther reached down and pulled something from under the bed. A roll of paper, which he unfurled to reveal a map of Cuba, the Caribbean, and the Confederate States. “I’ve been gathering all the news that makes its way here. From what I can tell, the blockade is cinching ever tighter along here.” He traced a finger down the coasts of the Carolinas, Georgia, all the way into Florida. “Runners are still making it through, but it gets riskier by the week. I think a better idea may be to head this way.”
Phin nodded when Luther tapped Florida’s Gulf Coast. “General Scott’s ‘anaconda’ won’t be so tight there, you’re right. If we find a ship headed for Cedar Key, we can take the train inland, and then up to Savannah.”
Luther’s brows arched. “There’s rail the whole way?”
“Most of it, at least. I know there’s a line from Savannah down to Troupville. Another from Cedar Key that heads northeast and connects with a line due west from Jacksonville, at Baldwin. I think they were building a connector line from that westbound rail to the one in Georgia. It ought to be completed by now.”
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