Pressing her lips together to hold back the smile, Salina inched closer to River. She’d heard of brawls breaking out in the streets between soldiers, and while she figured Mr. Phin was above such nonsense, she didn’t have the same confidence bout that low-down lout across from him, no sir.
For now, though, Mr. Julius just paused, then let out a laugh that sounded far from amused. He glanced to Monty. “Fine man you’ve got there. Yours?”
Mr. Phin held that cane of his so tight, it looked as though it might snap right in two. “Mm.”
“Interested in selling? I’ve a need for a good-sized Negro at my plantation outside Atlanta. Though of course I’d likely have to refugee him to keep him from being assigned to the trenches.”
Mr. Phin’s nostrils flared. “I’m afraid he isn’t for sale, Lieutenant. And even if he were, I wouldn’t sell him to you for all the gold in the Confederacy.”
He took a step forward, eyes blazing. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
Mr. Phin stared the snake down without so much as a flinch. “I know your kind, Lieutenant James, and you make a mockery of the honor you pretend to.”
Mr. Julius lunged, arm moving, but Salina couldn’t be sure what he intended to do. Attack Mr. Phin with a fist? Pull a weapon? Not that it mattered. Quick as lightning, River pulled her backward and Monty jumped forward, intercepting Mr. Julius’s hand before it could do more than meet with empty air.
The beast struggled to pull free of what looked like an iron grasp before giving up and putting on that cloak of false dignity again. As if anyone would believe it real after seeing the rage that mottled his face two seconds earlier. “I see what kind of man you are, too, relying on your slaves to defend you.”
Mr. Phin looked downright amused. “You pierce me through.”
Trying and failing once more to pull free, Mr. Julius snarled, “Tell your dog to unhand me.”
“Soon as you promise to keep your distance from Delia.”
“Or what?”
Oh, she hoped Mr. Phin let Monty wipe that nasty look of superiority from the jackal’s face! But he just grinned. “Oh, I don’t know. I think I’d let Delia devise the or. She has the richer imagination.”
Though he growled again, something flashed across Mr. Julius’s face. Not quite resignation, but acknowledgment anyhow. Enough to make it clear he wasn’t going to fight about it, not here and now. Monty let go his arm, and he spun away, tossing over his shoulder, “This isn’t over, Dunn.”
Mr. Phin sighed. “No, I didn’t imagine it was.”
Salina became aware of the fact that River’s arm encircled her waist, and that she had tucked herself into his side like it was the most natural place in the world for her to seek refuge. For half a moment she let herself enjoy the warmth of it, the security she hadn’t felt since the last time she’d been held, before Murruh got sick and passed on. Then she pulled away, careful to keep the smile she sent him grateful but nothing more.
His returning wink, though, seemed to say he’d enjoyed it every bit as much as she did. And he caught her fingers in his before she could retreat more than a few inches, nodding toward Mr. Phin and Monty.
Mr. Phin had turned to the giant fella—where’d he come by such a man, anyway?—with a frown. “Thank you, Monty. Though I could have handled him myself.”
The man-mountain just raised his brows and sent a pointed look at the cane.
“Exactly.” Mr. Phin lifted it. “It comes equipped with a blade inside, if I have need of it.”
Now the big man folded his arms over his chest.
Mr. Phin sighed. “All right, so it may have been difficult to parry a blow without its support for my leg. Hence why I thank you—that and the fact that you obviously enjoy such intimidation, you who claim to be a herald of the gospel and its message of peace.”
A grin seemed to be pulling at the big man’s mouth, though he got it under control in the next instant. Could he speak into the master’s mind or something? How did the two manage to communicate in such a fashion?
Mr. Phin turned away with a roll of his eyes. “Yes, yes, I know. ‘I came not to send peace, but a sword.’” He narrowed his gaze on Salina, which made her glad River still had her fingers after all. “Could you please help me figure out why the devil Mr. Owens has encouraged that scoundrel to court his daughter?”
Her shoulders relaxed . . . then kept on going down, all the way to a slump. “Apparently his plantation outside Atlanta is real close to Belle Acres, that the missus brought to the marriage. Together they’d own half the county or some such. Plus, Mr. Julius hides that side of himself well enough in Mass Owens’s company.”
“Hmm.” He lifted his cane and pointed up the street with it. “Come, we’ll see you home. The buggy is just up there.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he’d already started forward. Left her little choice but to follow with River. Monty stuck close to Mr. Phin’s elbow, his gaze patrolling the streets.
Though after only a few steps, the master halted again and spun, irritation mixing with the pain on his features. “He must just be willfully blind, which I find inexcusable. That he would push her toward him, when she has obviously objected to it. And push you along with her—how can he not know what he’ll be sentencing you to with a man like that?”
Again her mouth fell open, though she had no ready reply this time. The only thought she had a hope of wrapping her tongue around was a question she’d never dare ask, no way, no how.
Still, she couldn’t help but wonder. Why would he get so upset about it? She weren’t nothing to him.
He didn’t seem to note her lack of reply, just shook his head. “He obviously has no issues with the practice in general, but one would think he’d want better for his daughter than he forced upon her mother.”
A squeak of protest came from her throat before she could stop it with the hand that flew to her mouth. “You know?”
His gaze fell on her like it might a child caught trying to pilfer a cookie with his mammy still a few feet away. “Do you really fancy it a secret? You bear more than a passing resemblance to the other girls, especially Delia. Same height, same build, same eye shape, same chin. By the deuce, you even have the same fingers.”
She tightened them now around River’s. “Don’t say nothing, sir, please. Mass Owens, he wouldn’t take too kindly to any whispers bout it. Especially since . . .”
His brows lifted. “Since what?”
Her breath came out in a whoosh. “Since Miss Delia done figured it out. You know how she loves her daddy—and no question she’s always been his favorite. But since it came out a coupla weeks ago, they been scarcely speaking. She been—”
She buttoned her lips against any more words. Kind as the Dunns were known to be to their slaves, he was still a master. And if he knew Miss Delia had been thinking thoughts of freedom for her, he might reconsider a match. And endangering Miss Delia’s chance at a happily-ever-after with the man she loved was the last thing Salina meant to do.
She cleared her throat. “She been real upset. Specially since it was the same day she heard about you getting shot. Been little more than a shadow since—though I reckon that’ll change, now you’re home.”
Mr. Phin sighed. “Assuming her father lets it change, you mean. I have a suspicion that his ambitions for creating the biggest plantation in Georgia may outweigh his desire to indulge Cordelia’s affections.”
She had a suspicion he was right. But she wasn’t going to speak such words—never knew when by the speaking of a thing you might make it true. And that was one sentence she didn’t never want to see become reality.
Phin swirled the brandy around in his snifter, more mesmerized by the smooth motion of rich color than desirous of its taste. Cigar smoke teased his nose, but he had declined Father’s offer of one of those entirely. The scent had taken him immediately back to Cuba, brought Rosario’s voice echoing into his mind.
Not what he wanted to dwell
on. That planter, at least, was out of his life. He just had to figure out how to meld back into the ones whose company he kept now.
“I’m at a loss, I confess it.” Reginald Owens puffed on his cigar, then blew out a ring of smoke. “If I don’t refugee my field hands, they’ll all be sent to dig trenches, and heaven only knows if any will return. But all the neighbors who have attempted to send them inland, away from the government’s grasp, have had rebellion on their hands.”
Father took a slow sip of his brandy. “No great surprise. Family, community, is everything to them. When you break them up, not just immediate families but also extended ones . . .”
“I know.” Owens massaged his brow, but in spite of the action, Phin didn’t sense concern so much as annoyance. Frustration. “President Davis has tied our hands. We seceded so no one could dictate to us how to run our lives and our plantations, and what does he do? Demand we send our troops to Virginia and our slaves to dig, as if we haven’t those plantations to run in spite of the war.”
Father sighed and stared into his snifter. He said nothing, but Phin knew what he was thinking. He hadn’t been a proponent of secession at all, had maintained that there must be a better solution. But he’d also stuck by Georgia and his neighbors—and hadn’t wanted his concerns to be proven right.
Owens breathed a laugh and motioned toward Phin with his cigar. “One would think it would be enough that we send off our sons. Will they reassign you, do you think?”
His hand splayed over his leg. “The doctor sent his recommendation to the navy that I be discharged, on the basis that my year’s term of service will be over long before I regain function of the leg—if ever I do. He recommended amputation, even at this point.” The limb pulsed its rebuttal. “I refused that, of course, and intend to prove him wrong on his dire predictions in general.”
“That eager to rejoin the ranks, are you?” Owens chuckled. “Back to the navy, or will you stay on land this time?”
“I . . . don’t know.” Didn’t want to think about it, couldn’t think about it. When the doctor had said those words—amputate and never walk unaided—it was like something had petrified within him. All his assumptions about his future, all his immediate goals had sunk into the swamp of reality.
The navy wouldn’t want him. He’d be a liability to any troops he could raise. Spencer’s betrayal had rendered him useless, forgotten.
And he hardly regretted it. Because he was none too sure he could stand shoulder to shoulder with his neighbor again and trust him not to run him through with a bayonet.
The furrow in Father’s brow made him wonder if he could read Phin’s mind as easily as Luther did. “You need not rush into any decisions, at least. You will have time to rest. Recover. Pray about what you ought to do next.”
“Assuming the bill to institute a draft next spring doesn’t pass.” Owens puffed again on his cigar.
“Draft?” Phin straightened in his chair, setting his brandy aside. “There has never been a draft in North America. You can’t mean to tell me that—”
“Leave it to our esteemed leaders in Richmond to be the first.”
Father’s nod echoed Owens’s prediction. “I suspect it will pass. Enthusiasm is waning already. Men are deserting and fleeing to the Yankee lines by the score. At this rate, there won’t be an army to fight if ever a large battle comes our way.”
A cramp seized his leg, one that didn’t ease by merely stretching it out. Phin pushed himself up, hoping it would relax with a bit of movement. Or perhaps it was the walk through the city that morning that had caused it. “I cannot say I am surprised to learn that the men turn tail and run when they realize war isn’t all glory and prizes.” He halted by the window, looked out over the darkened garden.
“Not all glory, no, but there’s still honor in defending one’s home.” Father’s voice was both soft and firm. “Whether that be in digging a trench or sailing the high seas.”
“Honor.” Phin gripped the head of his cane and leaned into the windowsill. “I used to think it innate in a Southern gentleman. Now I wonder if it exists at all.”
A glass thudded against wood. “You may want to be careful sharing such an opinion in society, Phineas.”
“He was betrayed, Owens. By a friend. Society will have to excuse him his questions.”
Owens sucked in a breath. “A friend? The Yankees didn’t just regain the upper hand?”
Phin turned his face back toward the older men. Neither, so far as he could see, had changed in the months he had been gone. Yet neither looked the same to his eyes. Father had always been so constant—it just hadn’t mattered when the seas were flat. And Owens had always been so absorbed with his own concerns, his own ways, sailing his own course. But before he’d left, Phin had been hopeful that Delia’s desires would sway him toward allowing a union, had hoped he could prove himself. Now, having learned of Julius James and Owens’s obvious ambitions there, he was none too optimistic. Not given how the man had brought up James no fewer than half a dozen times during dinner.
Maybe that was what made him feel so heavy. Not just the remembered betrayal, but the knowledge that even when someone wanted to remain steady, like Delia, life didn’t always leave her that choice.
“Betrayed, yes.” His voice sounded harsh, flat, to his own ears. “By my closest friend—an honorable man, or so I thought.” He snorted, turned back to the window. “Though who am I to say? Can a man lose honor through one action? Gain it again as easily? Is it as fickle as the rest of the world?”
Father cleared his throat. “Phin was a bit struck by all the changes in the city, you understand. When he left in May, it was still a hub of social life.”
“And now it’s a hub of militia and vigilantes, I know.” Finally, Owens sounded concerned. “My wife refuses to leave so long as I stay—and I’m not ready to leave yet. My family helped found this town over a hundred years ago.”
And the Owenses hadn’t let anyone forget it in the century since.
Phin winced at his thoughts and forced a more pleasant expression onto his face. Then noted both men had ground out the nubs of their cigars. “Are we ready to rejoin the ladies?”
Father stood, eyes agleam. “A bit eager, are you?”
Owens cleared his throat. “Of course he is. Every young gentleman in Savannah is eager to see my Delia. I know I can scarcely keep Julius away from the house. It’s a wonder his regiment even recognizes him.” He chuckled at his own joke, though he was the only one.
The mere mention of Delia conjured up her image as she’d been at supper a half hour before. Directly across from him, curls shining like gold in the candlelight, roses flushing her cheeks, unlike last night. Beautiful enough to make his pulse quicken at the first glance of her. Whimsical enough to make him smile when his lips felt disinclined.
Simply Delia enough to make him wonder what words had been born from the fresh ink stains on her fingers. And pray they hadn’t been about him. Better a sultan, a prince, a half-mad inventor—anything but a version of Phin that she’d no doubt paint the hero.
To her father, he offered a small smile. “She’s always had a string of admirers. Delia is all things lovely and good.”
Owens headed for the door, though slowly enough for Phin to keep pace. He wore the proud grin of a doting daddy, which nearly made Phin regret his choleric thoughts. Nearly. “She is that, isn’t she? My sunshine. Fortunate is the man who will claim her as a wife someday.”
His knuckles tightened around his cane. He’d been about to say last night that he’d marry her in an instant, as soon as it could be arranged, before Owens had interrupted. But clearly this wasn’t a hint that Phin should ask his permission. It was instead a warning that it was a fortune he’d already decided should go to another.
And Phin had no idea how to convince him otherwise. Unless . . . “Indeed. And you can be sure, sir, that I appreciate your daughter for more than her lovely face—or even her stellar family connections.” It was a
s close as he could bring himself to come to talking about her dowry. “It’s her heart that gave me the strength to come home again. Her imagination. Her spirit. The things that make her Delia.”
Just as he’d hoped, Owens’s smile went even softer. As Salina had said that morning, there’d never been any doubt who was his favorite daughter.
Now came the risky part. Phin swallowed and said, “I’m not so sure this Lieutenant James fellow shares that appreciation and devotion though.”
Owens’s expression froze, hardened. “You’re hardly unbiased, son.”
“Even so.” Phin hobbled through the door. “My opinion of him sank quite low after I saw him threatening Delia’s maid today at the parade grounds.”
Owens halted, eyes going wide and flinty. “Threatening how?”
Ah, so he did care. At least a little. Whether it was enough to make a difference remained to be seen. Phin glanced behind them, where Father had paused a few paces away, cloaked curiosity on his face, then back to Owens, with a shrug he hoped looked casual. “I wasn’t close enough to hear what he said to her, but the poor girl seemed scared out of her mind—and no wonder, the way he had her backed into that pole. Looked ready to swallow her whole. I sent River rushing to her rescue.”
The smile Owens dredged up looked false and pinched. “I can’t imagine he was all that forward on a public street in broad daylight.”
“Forward enough to make me wonder what he might have done under cover of darkness. I know his kind.” Question was, was Owens in the same category of men? “He may keep his hands off so long as she’s your property and he’s courting your daughter, but if he succeeds in wooing Delia, if he were to marry her, if she brought the girl with her . . .”
Owens’s hand fisted.
Phin tamped down a smile. “Not that that’s any concern of yours, of course. Except I know Delia loves her maid, and if she were to discover her husband had—well, I hate to think how that would dim her sparkle. Don’t know if she’d want to kill him or just . . . determine never to let him out of her sight.”
Father let out a warning breath from behind them. Owens froze for a long moment, then tipped his lips up. “I do appreciate your concern for the happiness of my household. And out of a similar interest, son, let me caution you to watch how you speak to folks. Tempers are hot and nerves stretched these days, and if you’re not careful, you’ll find yourself called out.”
Dreams of Savannah Page 24