Dreams of Savannah

by Roseanna M. White

  Phin snorted a laugh and turned back toward the drawing room, where the ladies would be waiting. “You mean a friend may turn on me? Shoot me? Maybe even toss me in a handy body of water?” He strode forward, uneven but sure enough to make his point. “Cheers.”

  The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done. And there is no new thing under the sun.

  His lips twitched as he wondered what Luther would say if he realized his mind now provided Scripture to reinforce his cynicism. Nothing, probably—he’d be too busy trying not to laugh.

  But all musings, cynical or otherwise, were sucked dry when he stepped into the drawing room. There sat Delia, grinning with Sassy, totally oblivious to the way seeing her made him feel as though all the air had left the room, all the light had focused solely on her. To the way his chest went tight, his stomach knotted. To how much he wanted to gather her close, kiss her senseless. Hold on forever.

  Forever. She’d promised it. But she hadn’t realized at the time that her father could well overrule her. She hadn’t had any idea what could change in a few short months, let alone an eternity. Delia couldn’t have known that pretty, romantic words had no place in the kind of reality upon them now. That promising something didn’t necessarily make it so.

  “Well, I don’t care what you say, Delia, you’ll not convince me to go into Currytown, not even if I had a posse of Yankees at my back.” Sassy gave an exaggerated shudder.

  Currytown? Delia had gone into Currytown?

  Mother smiled. “We had an escort, Saphrona. We were perfectly safe.”

  “It was barely even an adventure,” Delia added with her usual grin.

  Phin swallowed, hard. Delia hadn’t yet learned the lesson that sometimes adventure was just the gate to crisis. And that no amount of paper and ink in the world could rewrite it into something good.

  “Still.” Sassy shuddered again.

  Delia laughed. Silver bells and sunlight, that’s what it put him in mind of. Tinkling and gleaming in a world of rumbling and shadows. With no idea that both could soon be consumed.

  She looked up, spotted him. Her smile was an arrow through his heart, an arrow with a cord attached to its fletching. Binding him to her. Connecting them, however it may hurt.

  Forever. He saw that in her oh-so-green eyes, saw both the promise and the impossibility of it. He wanted it, craved it, needed it—but how was he to acquire it? How could he cherish her as she deserved if her father stood in the way? How could he protect her from Julius James? More, how could he protect her from the shattering of all those pretty fancies that had always made her Delia—like that stories still had happy endings?

  That anyone still existed who could be deemed a hero?

  Somehow, through that same force that had molded him into someone other than Phin while he slept, he loved her now with an intensity that made his feelings in April nothing but an echo. But it wasn’t enough. Loving her didn’t make her his. He had to prove he deserved her.

  And that was something he didn’t know how to do anymore.

  Beyond her, outside in the garden, he saw the movement of shadowy figures. The one too tall to be anyone but Luther, the other too familiar to be anyone but River. They’d been out this evening trying to scare up information on Eva. Find something, anything, that could lead them to her.

  If it were one of Delia’s stories, they would have discovered something useful. A key clue. But sometimes answers couldn’t be found.

  He managed only a nod for her, then made his way to the window. Drawing in a long breath, he rested his forehead on the pane of glass, let it cool and soothe. Luther and River disappeared from view.

  Did Delia realize that sometimes the only people you could trust were the ones you could never admit were friends? Maybe. She had Salina, after all. But sharing that knowledge wouldn’t make a way for them either.

  She must have gotten up as he passed her, the swish of her skirts drowned in the laughter of their families. He didn’t hear her, didn’t see her. But he felt her approach like the tightening of a spring, and when she touched her fingers to his arm, it was a bolt of lightning.

  His eyes slid shut. Did Delia realize that lightning could destroy you?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Cordelia flipped through a few pages of the book in her hands as she meandered down the hallway, not exactly thrilled about her selection—but then, she only had so many choices, and she’d read them all. Twice. At least. New books, it seemed, weren’t the blockade runners’ top priority for some bizarre reason. Though if something new didn’t make it to Savannah soon, she’d be forced to resort to the only tomes in Daddy’s collection she hadn’t already braved—his economic books. Her face screwed up at the very thought of Adam Smith or the neighboring books in that shelf.

  “I thought I’d made myself perfectly clear.” Daddy’s voice sounded from the entryway, bringing her feet to a halt. Not because it was loud, but because it was harsh. “No more letters from him were to be given to Delia—they were to be given directly to me.”

  “Yessuh. Sorry, suh.” Old Moses? She couldn’t ever recall Daddy chiding him for anything. And about letters for her? She edged farther down the hall, careful to keep her skirts silent. “I plumb fo’get things sometimes. Ol’ mind ain’t what it used to be.”

  Her brows knit. His body may be creakier than it used to be, but never once had she thought Moses’s mind was slipping. She slid another step, bringing them into view.

  Daddy, visible to her in quarter profile, didn’t look particularly convinced by the excuse either. He smacked an envelope against his palm, lips twisting as if looking for the next words to speak.

  Delia’s eyes focused on the envelope. She recognized the size, the shape, the particular shade of paper—Phin. Her breath fisted in her chest. Of course he’d been speaking of letters from Phin; they were only ones she received from a “him.” And Old Moses had been slipping her the sweetest notes from him every day since he returned home nearly two weeks ago.

  But Daddy had forbidden it? Truly? Why?

  Never mind. She knew very well why, and it set her blood to simmering.

  Old Moses glanced up, his gaze brushing against hers but flitting back down to the floor quickly enough that it didn’t alert her father to her presence. He shuffled a foot, rolled his shoulders down in a show of regret. “I real sorry, suh.”

  Daddy huffed out a breath. “Don’t let me catch you doing it again.”

  Was it her imagination, or did the corners of Moses’s lips twitch up just a bit? “No, suh. You sho won’t.”

  Her father pivoted and strode off toward his study, never spotting Cordelia in the mouth of the hallway opposite. Which was just as well, because had he glanced her way he would have seen pure fury on her face, and it wouldn’t have won her any favors. She gripped the edges of the book in her hand and waited for the sound of his study door closing.

  Old Moses was already scuttling her way, a look on his wrinkled face she’d never seen before. One flinty with determination. “Don’t you worry none, Miss Delia,” he murmured as he drew even with her. “I just tell the Dunns’ boy to leave em with Fanny in the kitchen, to pass to Salina for you.”

  She opened her mouth but didn’t know what to say. How to thank him. Why would he go to such lengths for her, risking Daddy’s wrath? So in lieu of the right words, she reached out and settled a hand on his arm, giving it a squeeze.

  His smile made the questions riot in her mind again. What was his story? His family’s? What trials and joys and heartbreaks had brought him here, where he was willing to help her? Why had she never thought to ask him—or even to see the questions until now?

  She frowned at her own blindness. She had always seen Salina as a person, as a friend, and now as a sister. But so many other souls moved about this house, invisible to her. She hadn’t paused to think before of the lives they lived aside from her own. But they had their own stories, and they were t
he heroes in them.

  And in their stories, what role did she play? She’d always been so focused on being worthy of being a heroine. But in their stories, that wouldn’t be her role. It would be the exact opposite. She would be . . . would be a villain. Or a villain’s accomplice, anyway. A villain’s daughter.

  Old Moses stepped close. “You a’ight, Miss Delia? You look plumb pale.”

  She blinked away the questions for now and looked, really looked into his eyes. In the decades he’d lived, he’d seen changes in Georgia—changes that must have broken his heart as the laws governing slavery grew ever stricter. He had a wife working here, too, but their children had long ago been sold or shipped to the plantations. How could he and his wife serve here with anything but bitterness?

  One of these days she’d ask him for his story. Sit him down with a pad and pencil in hand. He spent much of the day sitting in the chair by the door, waiting for a knock to come. She’d just pull up another and sit beside him. Maybe tomorrow, even, while Mama and Daddy were out at lunch with friends. Why wait? He may not be comfortable telling her anything, but at least he’d know she cared enough to ask. “I’m all right, Moses. Thank you,” she finally whispered.

  He nodded, then continued toward the door. She focused her gaze on the opposite end of the hallway. Straightened her shoulders. Lifted her chin. Her father had something that belonged to her.

  Usually she would approach his study door with normal steps, knock, wait for permission to enter. Not today. She kept her steps silent and, rather than knocking, opened the door the moment she reached it.

  He started, though nothing as satisfying as guilt claimed his expression, despite the fact that he held Phin’s letter in his hand, opened and unfolded. “Cordelia.”

  She slammed the door behind her. “Enjoying your letter, Father?”

  He lowered it to his desk, eyes flashing. “I don’t know what—”

  “I heard you.” She folded her arms over her chest, book still held tight in one hand. “Though why you would renege on your permission for him to write to me—and not even bother informing either of us about this new decision—I cannot fathom.”

  He lifted a brow. “If you can’t understand it, then that itself speaks to the need for me to act on your behalf.”

  Would a proper heroine keep calm and collected or let loose the thunderclap of fury building in her soul? Oh, fiddle-faddle, what did it even matter? This wasn’t about a story—this was about her life. She surged forward a step and gripped the back of the chair across from her father’s desk with her free hand, resting her book upon it. “Have I ever disobeyed you? Have I been a troublesome daughter? Have I disappointed you in some way?”

  There had been no calculation in the questions, only desperation. But she could see them strike her father, soften him. The lines of his face eased, and he sighed. “Of course not. You know very well you’re the apple of my eye. Which is why I will do whatever it takes to achieve the best for you.”

  Her fingers dug into the leather upholstery. “The best for me—or for you? For your dreams of an empire? At least admit it, Daddy. This isn’t about Julius as a man, this is about Julius as a landowner.”

  “Well, of course that plays into it.” He set her letter down, eyes ablaze. “It’s my responsibility to consider all things—what will be best for our entire family for generations to come.”

  Her breath balled up. “You’d sacrifice me, then? For your dreams of expansion?”

  “Now you’re just being dramatic.” And he didn’t sound amused by it. He reached for a ledger and set it atop the letter from Phin. “It is hardly a sacrifice to encourage a match with a man who clearly adores you.”

  “Adores me?” How? How could he see only what he wanted to? She shook her head. “That implies some genuine fondness on his part. Never when he looks at me do I get the feeling he even likes me. He’s just a—a lion, seeking to devour.”

  “Now, Cordelia—”

  “He scares me.” She’d never admitted as much, even to herself. But there it was, the bald, naked truth. “I’ve seen his charm slip, and what hovers beneath is not pretty.”

  “You’re being absurd. I’ve spent more time with him than you, and I’ve never glimpsed anything of the sort.”

  “Because you don’t want to! And because you’ve never challenged him. But what if I’m right, Daddy?” A question that ought to make him rethink all his dreams, if he really loved her as much as he said. As much as she’d always believed. If he was really her father first, and then a Southern expansionist. “What if I marry him and he grows violent? Is that what you want for me?”

  No reaction, beyond his fingers going tight around the pen he’d picked up.

  She swallowed, forcing the next question out. The one that would bring up the subject she’d been avoiding with him for a month now. “Is that what you want for Salina? Can you trust him to respect both of your daughters, when I’m none too sure he’ll even respect one?”

  Daddy set the pen down with slow care. “Cordelia . . . this is a subject that goes well beyond your ken.”

  She shook her head. “I understand more than you give me credit for.”

  He looked up, met her gaze. She expected him to look away again, or even to dismiss her, but instead he kept his eyes locked on hers as he sucked in a long breath. “I’ve been waiting for you to demand a few answers. Why don’t you sit?”

  She didn’t want to—largely because he wanted her to, and new rebellion made her every inch of skin go prickly. But she rounded the chair and sat primly on its cushion, never taking her gaze from him. When after a long moment he said nothing, she decided that since she’d given up avoiding the subject, she may as well take it by the horns. “You’re not the man I thought you were.”

  He winced, looked away. His jaw worked for a moment before he opened his mouth. “I made a mistake. That’s all.”

  “A mistake.” He made it sound like one moment of passion—which would have been bad enough. But it didn’t match the stories Salina had whispered to her over the past few weeks. The times she remembered her murruh coming into their room, crying. The way she’d clutch her close, time after time, and whisper prayers for something better for her daughter. Prayers Salina hadn’t understood then but hadn’t been able to forget. “You took a mistress. No, you forced a woman to your bed. You, who raised us to believe God’s Word is truth and His commandments our law.”

  His face went red, though whether at her accusation or at merely hearing her say those words, she couldn’t have guessed. “I did not force—” He interrupted himself, squeezed his eyes shut. “This is an entirely inappropriate conversation.”

  “What’s inappropriate is the action that led to it.” She leaned forward, tapping a finger on her book for emphasis. “You raised me to expect more, Daddy—from myself, from you, from my future husband. And you can argue all you want about Salina’s mother, but the fact remains that she would not have dared argue with you. She was your slave. Your property. As is your own daughter now.”

  She sat up, blinking at the sudden burn of tears. She wouldn’t cry, not now. It would just give him an excuse to go on thinking her nothing but a scatterbrained, emotional woman unable to understand anything of import. “Maybe that’s all any of your daughters are to you. Bargaining pieces. Property. Chattle.”

  “Cordelia. How could you even say that?” He looked genuinely pierced by it.

  But how could he be? “She’s your daughter too. And she is your slave. There’s no arguing that point.”

  “It’s beyond my control.” He hunched forward, leaning his head onto his hand, elbow on his desk. “I couldn’t free her mother, I can’t free her. It’s the law.”

  “The law is wrong!”

  “Hush!” He looked around, as if expecting President Davis to come rushing out of the woodwork and accuse her of treason. “I’ll have no talk in my house that could be construed as abolitionist. The law is the law. End of discussion.”

>   But that was how they’d gotten here, wasn’t it? Having a conversation about how a man could end up owning his own child, in a state where a black man or woman was no longer allowed to be free under any circumstances, while war raged around them. Because when arguments were raised fifty years ago, a hundred years ago, they were shut down. Always shut down, because men like her father wouldn’t give up their dreams of vast plantations, their fortunes made on the backs of others.

  She stood. “I can’t change the law. I can’t change you. But I can promise you this, Father—I will not marry Julius James. I will not bring my sister into a house where she will be abused and mistreated and possibly even sold. I won’t.”

  He stood, too, and she expected a quick, hard rebuke for her impertinence. Instead, he said, “Why do you think I promised her to you instead of Lacy or Ginny? I know you’ll protect her. That you’d never sell her. I can’t say the same for them.” He leaned over the desk, closer to her. “But, Delia—this isn’t just about Salina. And it isn’t just about Julius either. I’m none too convinced Phineas Dunn is the man for you. He isn’t the same fellow he was when he left.”

  A chill skittered up her spine. “I can see that. But he’s a better one.”

  “Is he?” His eyes sparked. “I’ve been keeping a close eye on him, and he’s been asking an awful lot of questions about a certain black woman, trying to find her.”

  He’d been . . . what? She clutched her book to her chest. There must be an explanation for that. Not that he’d made any mention of it in all those letters he’d written her.

  “I’d hate for you to turn down a good man for fear of what he might do someday, for a man we have evidence is guilty of the same here and now.” He pulled the letter from under his ledger. Crumpled it. Tossed it in the wastebasket. “Forget Phineas Dunn, Cordelia. If you promise me you’ll do that, I’ll tell your mother to let you invite Sassy to her garden party tomorrow. I know you were angry with her for not.”