But a week ago, Salina had pulled Delia into the kitchen one night when her parents were out, had sat down beside her and told her her murruh’s story, there in front of the others. Cordelia had jotted down notes during the tale, listening intently, but her heart breaking a little more with every sentence. She had quietly thanked her sister for the trust she’d put in her, gone back up to her room, and written long into the night.
She hadn’t dared venture to the kitchen again without being invited, but she’d given the story to Salina, and she had apparently read it to the others. A day later, Old Moses had been the first to ask if she might like to hear the story of his grandmother, who had made the trip from Africa, and of his daddy, who had toiled in the rice fields and tried, once, to run away. He’d said nothing of himself, but through those stories of his family, she had learned more about his heart and soul than she ever had through the decades of living here in the same house.
At his invitation, she’d ventured to the kitchen again to read the stories to the others. And since then, others had been seeking her out. They all had stories. Stories she was humbled and blessed to be entrusted with the telling of.
Stories of heartbreak and injustice, sometimes. Stories of love and family, always. Stories of redemption and sacrifice, more often than not. Stories of . . . humanity. Stories that had changed her as she heard them, as she wrote them. Stories that made her wonder if that’s what stories were meant to do.
Her eyes fluttered shut. She’d never thought of the slaves as property, not like some did. But had she ever really paused to understand them as people? And that went not just for the servants in her own house, but for everyone outside the circle of those she loved. It was so easy to pass them by without a care. So easy to look no further than her own concerns. So easy to forget that they, too, were people with hearts just like her own. People affected by the decisions of others. Of men like her father.
Of her? Did she have a prayer of swaying anyone, ever?
“Cordelia! Are you still up here?”
She jumped at her mother’s voice, doing a quick check of her hands to make sure they weren’t covered in wet ink.
No—only dry ink, which she’d have no hope of scrubbing off entirely now. Perhaps Mama wouldn’t fuss overmuch, given that it was Christmas.
A girl could dream.
“Coming, Mama!” She gathered the pages of her story and tapped them into a neat stack, though that meant Mama opened her door before she could reach it.
She looked tired. Worry had dug permanent lines into her face, and even her hair seemed to have lost a bit of its golden luster. Was it the war that had aged her? The worry over their family? Ginny and Lacy being gone?
Was it Cordelia?
She made sure to give her mother a warm smile as she hurried over to her. Despite the fact that they didn’t see eye to eye on much, she never had any doubt that Mama loved her. It seemed a good day to remember that. “I hope I haven’t kept anyone waiting.”
“Not yet.” Mama glanced down to her hands, her eagle eyes settling on the ink stains for a split second. Then she, too, mustered a smile. “Not that there are many you’d be able to keep waiting even if you were late. It is a sad collection of guests we’ll host this year.”
“I know.” All month Mama had been bemoaning how quiet it would be this Christmas. No relatives coming to visit, two-thirds of her daughters away, and precious few friends left in the city. But those who were still here were joining them for dinner. The Youngs, much to her dismay. The Dunns—even Phin, which offset her irritation over Annaleigh. Julius and a few of his closest friends, which was as unfortunate as the first. And their pastor and his wife, since few of their flock remained. “But those who are coming will appreciate your hospitality all the more, Mama. You’ve managed to bring a festive light to a dreary time.”
Mama actually patted her arm in thanks and led her out into the hallway. “And you have a story to entertain us with later, correct?”
“I just finished it. Would you . . . would you read through it first? I haven’t had time yet.”
Mama blinked at her in surprise. She never invited her to read her stories, though Mama usually insisted on it, if she meant to share them with anyone. Perhaps the willing offering was what made her face soften. “Of course, Delie-Darlin. We’ll go sit by the fire, and I’ll read over it.”
“That sounds lovely.”
And may have been, had there not been voices at the door when they got to the bottom of the stairs. Cordelia buttoned her lips against a groan when she realized it was Julius speaking to Old Moses, here a full thirty minutes earlier than he should have been. There was no hope of avoiding him either. He was already looking their way, a smile on his face.
She murmured a Merry Christmas in response to his usual flattery of a greeting and glanced over at her mother. Mama was glancing at her, too, her eyes begging Cordelia to be welcoming. Practically shouting, It’s Christmas. Can’t you forget for one day that you dislike him so much?
A sigh built up in her chest. Why, why couldn’t her parents give up this hope?
“I am sorry to arrive so early,” Julius was saying, “but I was hoping to convince Delia to join me for a stroll around the gardens.”
Mama’s eyes widened just a fraction, her message clear. Say yes.
She could decline. Make an excuse. Go into the parlor with her parents as she planned. But her mother wouldn’t now be happily reading her story—she’d be fuming at her stubbornness. And Daddy would see the strife and get that pinched look about his mouth that seemed to prevail lately any time he looked at her. And by the time the Youngs and Dunns arrived, it would be abundantly clear that while it might be Christmas, it wasn’t exactly merry in the Owens house.
No. Better that she endure a bit of un-merriment rather than ruin the day for everyone. She held out the pages to her mother and smiled. “A breath of fresh air sounds like just the thing. Do I need a wrap?”
Julius blinked in surprise at her quick acquiescence but recovered quickly, giving her the confident smile she detested. “I’d say it’s around sixty degrees.”
She was wearing one of her heaviest dresses, so she ought to be fine. “Well then. Shall we?”
Mama beamed at them and promised to have Cordelia’s story read by the time they came back inside.
Cordelia led the way to the door that let out into the garden—pretending not to notice the arm Julius crooked for her. She would be polite for Mama’s sake, but she would not encourage him. When she stepped outside, she found the sunshine weak, the clouds many, and the wind a bit chillier than she’d expected. A good excuse to keep the walk short. “Have you had any word from home lately? Holiday wishes, perhaps?”
Julius kept pace beside her as she turned toward the dormant flower beds. “I had a letter from my mother just a few days ago, as a matter of fact. She was very glad to know that I’d be passing Christmas with your family.”
Since she couldn’t exactly agree with the sentiment honestly, she simply hummed and reached to urge a stray shoot of wisteria into its lattice. The gardens had been a bit on the wild side since Big Tom left.
She frowned as the stalk resisted her. Where was he now? Was he all right? She never knew him well, but she suddenly remembered the way she’d seen him looking at Salina. He, too, was a person with yearnings and dreams. A person who chased them far away from here. Had he found them? She whispered a silent prayer for him, wherever he was.
“Delia.” Julius’s hand brushed over her back, making her jump. She spun to find him closer than she’d like, his gaze intent upon her. “I have a question I’d like to ask you. A gift we could give your parents and mine this Christmas, if you’ll but entertain the notion.”
Oh no. No, not today. He had to know she’d refuse if he asked her to marry him, so why would he even bother? Why was he drawing out a small jewelry box, lowering to a knee?
“Julius, please. Please stop.” Her heart beat frantically, but not in t
he way she’d imagined it would at her first proposal. No, it was supposed to be Phin kneeling before her, a happy yes bubbling up inside her, not this panic.
But it was Julius, and he opened the box to reveal an antique emerald ring. “My mother sent this to me, along with her letter. I know you still favor Dunn—but hear me out, darlin. I can provide for you, for your whole family, when they have to leave Savannah. Dunn can’t do that. His lands are already in the hands of the Yankees; they’ll be decimated, and the Dunns will be ruined financially. Marry me and you’ll have safety. You’ll have the luxury to which you’re accustomed. You and your parents and your sisters, too, if it comes to it.”
Her throat went tight. Clever man—he knew well a financial appeal wouldn’t move her, but to appeal to her sense of responsibility to her family . . . “And what else do you offer, Julius?” Her voice sounded strange in her ears. Cold and brittle, like it might shatter on the paving stones at her feet.
He frowned. “My devotion, of course. Is that what you mean? You have to know how I feel about you.”
“I don’t, actually. I know you like my dowry. I know you think me beautiful. But you always seem rather irritated when I mention the books I’m reading or the stories I’m writing. You never pay any heed to my opinions.”
“You’re being ridiculous, darlin.” But he closed the box again and stood.
“Am I?” She lifted her chin. “And what about fidelity—would you promise that? That you would remain faithful to me always?”
“Of course I would promise it.” His eyes sparked with that dark gleam that always ignited a flame of fear in her heart.
He would promise it, yes. But she wouldn’t believe the words for a second. “I saw how you looked at my maid that day before the tableaux.”
His laugh was dry. “You would refuse my suit because of one stray look? Darlin, I barely knew you then.”
He didn’t even bother denying it, she couldn’t help but note. “Exactly my point. And do stop with the ‘darlin’ nonsense.” She took a purposeful step away. “I don’t mean to be unkind on Christmas, of all days, but I have no intention of ever changing my mind, so you might as well give up.”
“I don’t think so.” His fingers closed around her arm. Not too tightly, but still. “Your father and I have an understanding, Cordelia. You don’t want to disappoint him, I know you don’t. This is the best thing for our families. The best thing for you. You think that slave-loving coward could make you happy?”
She jerked her arm free. “How dare you speak so!” As if it was a crime to seek the best for one’s servants? To see them as people, to want to help them reunite with their families?
“It’s the plain truth. Phineas Dunn has spent more time looking for that slave’s wife than seeing after his own affairs. And his father is probably a Yankee collaborator—it’s no coincidence he was on Tybee when the Yankees arrived.”
“Now you’re just being absurd. Of course it was a coincidence!”
“If he wasn’t working with them, then how did he manage to slip back into Savannah, hmm?”
Cordelia nearly rolled her eyes. “With the help of a pilot.”
“All the pilots are slaves—slaves who have turned mighty fast to the Yankees. So why would they help him?”
“I suppose because his people are loyal to him. Because the Dunns care about the men and women who serve them.”
He leaned closer, towering over her. “Phineas Dunn is no better. He spends more time with his slaves than the gentlemen left in the city. Even the ones who had always been his friends are talking about how he doesn’t appreciate his own kind anymore. How he’s admitted he’s too cowardly to ever serve with them again. Seems he thinks the coloreds are the only ones worthy of his attention these days—so it’s no wonder he isn’t paying any mind to you. Probably more likely to woo that maid of yours that you’re so worried about. Maybe that’s why his valet is always lurking around her. Maybe he’s setting up trysts for him and—”
Before she could even think about what she was doing, her hand shot out and collided with his face. Partly for Phin, partly for Salina, partly just to make him shut his venom-spewing mouth. “How dare you insult the decency of good people.”
He laughed and took a step back, not even lifting a hand to his cheek. “He’s the one you can’t trust, darlin. You’ll see that one of these days. I just hope, for your sake, it’s not too late when you do.” He pivoted on his heel and walked back toward the door, whistling a Christmas carol as he went.
His cheek wasn’t even pink where she’d struck him, blast it all. She curled her hand into a fist, thinking maybe she ought to have struck him that way instead. Or stomped on his toes or kicked him or spat in his face.
He had some nerve, saying what he did. So what if Phin preferred the company of River and Monty? She certainly couldn’t blame him for that. She preferred Salina’s, after all. She spun away, stomped through the garden toward her favorite bench under the live oak. There was no way she could go back in yet, not with this fury pumping through her. Her parents would see it in a heartbeat.
The cold of the wrought iron didn’t make it through her skirt and petticoats, but when she leaned back, it certainly cut through her bodice, making her shiver. No matter. Better a chill than Julius James. How could he possibly believe he’d ever convince her to marry him? He understood her so very little.
The wind picked up, deepening the chill. She’d bear it a few more minutes before she gave up though. Let it cool her temper.
“Delia?”
“Phin?” His voice brought her back to her feet, the cold forgotten. She hadn’t heard his voice or seen him in so long. But there he was, stepping into view much as he’d done at the barbeque last May. Except this time his smile was deeper, more solemn. And he held a package in one hand, a cane in the other. She rushed toward him, the joy of seeing him, actually seeing him, nearly bringing a sob to her throat. “Phin.”
He held out his arms, and she couldn’t refuse the invitation. No, she could only soak in the warmth as they closed about her, breathe in the scent of citrus that clung to him, relish the sound of his heart thumping under her ear.
This was home. It didn’t matter if his plantation was lost. It didn’t matter if Savannah would be. It didn’t matter whether he went to war again or stayed home—wherever he was, that was where her heart would be. Why couldn’t Daddy just bless this?
“Merry Christmas.” It was the only thing she could think to say through the bittersweet joy.
Phin pressed his lips to the top of her head. “Merry Christmas. Old Moses said you were out here. Suited me fine. I brought you something.”
She could feel the package against her back. And didn’t care a whit what was in it. “You did. You. I can’t put words to how glad I am to see you.”
“My Delia, at a loss for words?” He shifted, urged her to move so she could look up at him. He was grinning down at her. “Though I do know what you mean. I feel like it’s been a century. I’ve missed you so.” He shifted again, moving one arm around to come between them. The package in its festive wrapping appeared under her nose. “But I did want you to open this while we have some privacy.”
Certainly not jewelry, though if he were to offer anything with a question of forever, she’d agree before he could even finish the request.
He wouldn’t though. Not without Daddy’s permission.
She took the package and let him nudge her back toward the bench, waiting until he’d sat before she untied the ribbon and folded away the paper. The cover of a book met her gaze. And beneath it, another—and another. Her eyes went wide. “Great Expectations—all three volumes! Wherever did you find it?” While he laughed, she flipped through volume one. “I’d read the first installments of the serial last spring but hadn’t been able to get my hands on the rest. Oh, I’ve been dying to know what becomes of Pip!”
“I assumed as much.” Phin snuggled in closer to her side than he would have dared had the
ir parents been out here. “I found it in Cedar Key and thought of you. I didn’t imagine issues of All the Year Round had made it through the blockade.”
“No indeed. A later one did, but I couldn’t bear to read part five when I hadn’t read two through four.” She closed the cover, traced a finger along the embossing. “Cedar Key. You’ve saved it all this time for Christmas?”
He breathed a laugh. “Well, I would have gladly given it to you earlier, had I thought your father would allow it. I didn’t imagine he could object too much today.”
“You’re a wise man.” More, one who knew her so well. She ran a hand over the cover of volume one, relishing the feel of it. Imagining the hours of story-feasting within.
“There’s more.” He tapped the paper below the books.
No, not the paper—cloth that the paper hadn’t totally uncovered yet. She lifted the books and drew in a breath at the beauty that met her gaze. Jet beads caught what little light escaped the clouds gathering overhead, contrasting brilliantly with the ivory silk of the Maltese lace. She let her fingers take in the feel for a long moment before pulling out the shawl. Then, of course, wrapped it around her shoulders. “Phin, it’s stunning.”
And intimate. No one but her family had ever given her an article of clothing before, and Mama would no doubt have something to say about it now. But she didn’t care. Every time she wore it, she’d imagine his arms around her. “I have something for you, too, but it’s inside.”
“I don’t need anything but this. Time with you.” His fingers covered hers. Then a spark of mischief entered his eyes. “Well. Maybe one more thing . . .”
She met his lips without a qualm, savoring each second of contact. But all too soon he pulled away, leaving her sighing. “That is certainly not your gift from me, Phineas Dunn—that was every bit as much for me as from me. No, I put quite a few hours into what’s waiting in the parlor for you.”
Dreams of Savannah Page 28