The Better Angels: Hearts Touched by Fire, Book 4

by Gina Danna

  It was the warmth of his gaze as he watched her traipse back and forth across the room that finally grabbed her attention. Inhaling deeply, she realized what she must do.

  “As to the packing,” she started. “We’re leaving here. I’m on furlough for a fortnight. We will work on your rehabilitation, but not here.”

  His shoulders straightened and he sat upright more sternly. “I take it you mean to send me back to prison.”

  She frowned. “Where did you get that idea from? In reality, no, we are heading north, to New York.”

  There. She said it. It was done. She was doomed.

  Chapter 19

  “Get hold of all the food you can…Cut haversacks from dead men. Steal them from infantrymen if you can. Let your aim be to secure food and food and still more food, and keep yours eyes open for tobacco…Fill your canteen at every stream we cross and wherever you get a chance elsewhere.”

  —Advice given to new Union privates during Grant’s maneuvers against Lee, May 3, 1864.

  Next day

  * * *

  Francois hobbled awkwardly along the train car. He’d be damned if he’d be stuck lying down any longer. A man had to prove he was in charge of his own being, but his heel claimed otherwise. It’d taken all night, with it elevated and wrapped tightly, for the swelling to decrease and for it to stop burning like a torch. Of course, he’d spent most of the night berating himself for pushing it so hard, but dammit, he was tired of being unable to fend for himself. Plus, his nurse, or doctor, whatever she was, had tired of him. Perhaps claiming she was his wife had been the straw that broke her gentility, but he had no choice. He understood women like Mrs. Turner. A lady living with a man who was not a relation, condemned her to being a whore, regardless of what she claimed.

  Another step forward, him leaning on the brass handle of the cane supporting him, he stumbled into the seat with a heavy sigh.

  “So how does it feel?”

  He glanced across at his keeper. Ada took the seat cattycornered from him. For this journey north, she’d donned different attire than what he normally saw her in. Since he’d known her, she’d worn dark dresses, no crinoline and no adornments, her mane pulled back and tight. But today, she wore a rose calico dress with the wide pagoda sleeves, sheer white under sleeves with her cage crinoline on. While her dark blond hair was pulled back, curled tendrils fought to remain free, framing her face in a golden hue. The straw bonnet, all decorated in rose ribbon and cream flowers screamed lady, as did the drop pearls that adorned her ears. Even her dark grey coat added to her aura. She was beautiful and it took his breath away.

  She raised one of her brows at his lack of response. The elegance of that expression took him by surprise. This woman, who fought to help the wounded, often fighting against the wave of men trying to put her ‘back in her place’ like the home front, had a solid, determined look. This one across from him now was virtually a complete opposite in that she not only looked like a lady, her movements refined and sophisticated. It took him a moment to grasp they were the same woman.

  “Better. Sore but manageable,” he finally squeaked out.

  “Good.” She settled back in her seat, withdrew her fan from her reticule and stared out the window as she started to fan herself.

  It was that moment he saw his reflection in the window and it wasn’t good. His hair was long, that he’d realized, but not seeing himself in a looking glass, he didn’t realize just how unruly it had become. A shadow from his whiskers darkened his face. He ran his fingers over his jawbone, feeling the stubble and inwardly snarled. He looked as if she’d woken him up and dragged him here, which, in some respects, was true, but the reality was, he was a patient who had fought infection and pain with no regard for his appearance. That almost made him laugh, because if nothing else, Francois Fontaine had always made himself look as immaculate as possible. And now? He shook his head.

  “I need a razor,” he announced, still eyeing his appearance.

  Ada whipped her attention back to him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I look like white trash. No wonder you despise me,” he drawled softly.

  Her jawline twitched. “I don’t despise you. I just disagree with your lifestyle.”

  “So for that, you let me look like a vagabond.”

  “How dare you! I, I,” she stammered. “I don’t have those tools in my reserve.”

  “You have a straight razor. I saw it. When we get there, I will have use of it.”

  Her lips contorted. “It’s not made for your whiskers.”

  That made him laugh. “By God, woman, yes, it is. Granted, Southern whiskers might be stronger than any Yankee—”

  “Hush.” She glanced around. “We don’t need you to start a battle here, on the train.” She settled back, a smile hinting at her lips. “You are on a Yankee train, after all.”

  It was her smile that took his breath away, making her words more of a whisper. But it did sink in and he returned her grin, though his was a bit more chagrinned, and he sat back, dropping the hat she’d given him over his eyes. He’d sleep. It was the only way to beat this battle with her. Though he hadn’t lost. He’d have that razor and soon.

  It was the longest train ride of her life. Ada had to keep from clenching her armrest as the miles slowly rolled by. First off, she’d hadn’t dressed up in years, or so it seemed. She’d spent the last two years, barging her way into the army hospitals, adhering to their rules, which included mundane dresses. She wasn’t sure she’d fit into her traveling clothes and was pleasantly pleased when she could cinch herself up fine. In fact, the waist on this dress was a tad too big.

  The next obstacle had been to get him up and dressed and out the door successfully. His ankle swelling had dissipated, and she had to note how frigid wrappings were beneficial. Granted, most of the time, the army had no ice or cold water with Southern temperatures heating it too fast, but it was worth recording. With the three-inch straight piece of wood she’d pulled from the fireplace, she managed to get his injured foot into the boot, stabilize it with the wood and with ties, make a make-shift support with which, along with the use of the cane, he’d done very well.

  Yet his remarks on his looks did strike home with her. He did look a mite ill-kempt. His analogy of white trash was perhaps a bit overdone, though she believed she could understand. Her straight razor was for medical aid, though she doubted his whiskers would ruin it, plus he could sharpen it on her leather strap for that, easier than she could. The hair, though, she mulled over. Perhaps a visit to the barber would be in order. It could be the best treatment as she was well aware that patients often improved if they felt better about themselves.

  Her insides tightened. She recalled his looks when he’d arrived last month. He was handsome, even with the dirt from fighting all over him, mixed with the black streak across his jawline from the black powder. She’d seen that too many times, along with the blacked gums too. Add to that the weeks of tending to him, seeing him minus clothes. As a doctor, she’d trained herself to focus, but the memory of his trim, muscular figure now revisited her. For a planter, he was very much solid, his abdomen lined, along with his shoulders, arms and legs, with muscles, the type that formed from days of riding and maneuvering in the saddle. The recollection made her heart skip a beat and a fire burn inside her. She fanned herself harder, trying to push those thoughts away. She was spoken for, she reminded herself. But even memories of Richard were faint next to the image of Francois in her head.

  Irritated, she wanted to be far away from him, only to find herself more like his private physician. A personal doctor to a slave-owner. Anger boiled deep, making her hands fist even though she stared out the window at the passing scenery. This needed to change. Two weeks. She’d have him walking and independent by then, or she’d turn him back over to the Federal authorities, her own reputation shredded.

  It was that focus that drove her once they made it to New York City. She managed to get him up from slumber and moving,
her inner self-arguing that sleep helped in his recovery and her rude awakening was uncalled for, but then, they had to exit, so she shushed the inner voice up. Hailing the first carriage, she directed it to Sweet Briar and prayed.

  Francois had not been to New York in years, but it hadn’t changed. Way too crowded, too many horses, too much smoke from the factories, the type that made breathing hard and seeing more difficult. When they’d made it off the train, the congestion made him gag and he’d almost suggested they get back on and ride it further north, to Albany or Rochester, but his lady-doctor walked ahead of him, hailing a carriage. That rubbed his dignity, for he was the gentleman and it was his duty to call do so, but then again, considering the circumstances, he couldn’t complain. The sight of policemen along the busy street easily reminded him that he was a runaway rebel, one whose capture would easily propel a policeman’s career forward.

  He found if he kept a steady pace, slow but even, using the cane in stride with the injured foot, he could manage well. Not fast, but moving. She had a carriage waiting by the time he’d caught up. The driver didn’t move off his box to assist him climbing into the vehicle, so Francois swallowed the cussword on his tongue, threw the cane into the carriage and used both hands to haul himself up. Ada leaned forward off the seat, a concerned frown on her face.

  “Can I help?”

  He looked up at her and bit back a chuckle. Could she help him? In her current mode of dress that would be difficult, though even in a nurse outfit, she’d never really been able to pull his weight up. Without the use of that leg, he didn’t doubt he weighed twice his weight.

  “No, I’m fine,” he mumbled, hauling his body upward.

  He sat across from her, and noticed as the carriage rolled, she wouldn’t look at him. That annoyed him. The growing feeling that he was a nuisance to her stirred in his gut. Made the driving urge to get mobile again surge through him. He knew New York, he had means to get out of here and, as they passed more and more storefronts with glaring signs of enlisting for the Union and Federal flags, a coldness gripped him, the like he hadn’t felt before. He’d gone to war to forget Emma. The cause was irrelevant to him. His broken heart drove him. But now, the alienation of these northerners was seeping into him and for the first time, he needed to get out of here and return to the sunny South.

  The carriage continued, the lull of the steady pace making him sleepy. He snapped his eyes back open. Being in this state, in this condition, was not one that he should fall asleep in. Heaven only knew what she’d do then. Perhaps drop him at a local sheriff’s office, as a prisoner of war? He glared out the windows, trying to ignore gazing in her direction. It was obvious to him she hadn’t taken her eyes off the scenery, so he’d do the same. Besides, to watch her was making his skin itch. She was too pretty to be so immersed in a war that was bloody and full of sights no woman should ever be subjected to. Half of him wanted to save her from the torment, but a voice deep inside countered she wanted to be there, to help the wounded. He shifted in his seat, the odd feeling that he was one of those types she wanted to help, yet he knew his side disgusted her, putting him in a precarious spot.

  Yes, he needed to find a way to maneuver better and leave her, to return to his people.

  That wayward thought, of his people, made him chuckle. And as much as he tried to contain it, the merriment was audible, enough it caught her attention with a questionable glare. That made him laugh again.

  “Do you ever laugh, my dear?”

  Her lips pursed and she returned to looking out the window.

  “Of course, I laugh.”

  “You do realize, in all the time I’ve know you, I’ve only seen you smile once. It’s a very pretty smile. You should practice it more often.”

  This time, her brows inched high. “I’m a doctor. What I see most of the time is nothing to be jovial about.”

  “Oh, that, I don’t deny, even from my own perspective. But, perhaps, it might lighten your heavy load and make us poor souls, so damaged, feel better.”

  She growled.

  “Like now. We are here, in New York, and it is the holidays. Granted, I’m still mending, but maybe, a little lightheartedness might be the medicine to help a poor soul like me.” When she didn’t turn, he added, “Think about it.”

  The twitch in her jawline made him smile. He’d hit home. Good.

  The carriage wheels slowed to a halt. With that, she jumped, adjusting her hat and coat.

  “We are here.”

  He glanced out the window on her side. Here was a rather large brick mansion with a white-pillared front of a three-storied residence. Sweet Briar, as she called it, was anything but warm. The design and surroundings pointed toward money. This was where they were to be, to help him recover on her leave? Baffled, he grabbed his cane and hissed as the pain streaked up his leg.

  How the hell was he ever to get out of here?

  Chapter 20

  “I can’t spare this man. He fights.”

  —Abraham Lincoln stated in reference to Grant.

  James stood stoic, his gaze on the couple who’d just arrived at Sweet Briar. The girl he recognized, and it was helpful that he’d received the letter indicating her arrival. She appeared in good form, dressed in a neat travel gown, even if it was a bit dated—a notice only a man like himself, with managing a large wealthy estate, would notice. There were lines and shadows on her face that indicated a long, tiresome trip.

  A limping man who followed her. He looked more like one of those useless men the butler found in the market square. Soldiers from the war sent home with injuries incapacitating them, mixed with the pickpockets and drunks that loitered the area. It took every ounce of years of service to his employer to keep his expression bland and unreadable when inside, James wanted to roll his eyes.

  “Miss Lorrance, welcome to Sweet Briar.” James motioned to the doorman to take her cloak and the man’s coat.

  She gave him a smile. “Thank you, James. How nice of you to remember me.”

  “Master Leonard notified me you’d be arriving, so we are prepared.”

  “Is Will here?”

  “No, madam. He told me to let you know he’ll arrive before the end of your stay.”

  She looked momentarily perturbed but inhaled, steeling her shoulders. James inwardly grinned. He’d always liked Miss Lorrance. He’d always felt she’d be a good match for Master Will…With a deep inner sigh, he threw that wayward thought aside.

  “Did he tell you I’d be bringing a…” she paused. “A guest?”

  James’s gaze narrowed. Before he spoke, the man jumped right in.

  “Perhaps in our hasty departure, he didn’t include it.” He gave the butler a look. “Francois Fontaine, a distant cousin, twice removed.”

  James bit back the snort. The slight southern drawl with a French curl would indeed make this individual distant to anyone the butler knew.

  “Of course, sir,” he acknowledged, then turned his attention back onto the girl. “Maid Katie will be at your disposal, Miss Lorrance. I’ll have one of the footmen assigned to your cousin. Your rooms are on the second floor. They are ready for you and I’ll have baths drawn. Supper will be in an hour, if that is convenient enough for you. I’ve no doubt your travels during this busy time have been tiresome. If you’d like me to send trays up, I’ll be more than happy to do so.”

  “No, no thank you. I appreciate the gesture. We’ll refresh and be in the dining room at the appointed time.”

  “Yes, madam.” He motioned for the maid who stood at the stairs to take them up. And as they moved that way, James mentally washed his hands of them. Cousin indeed. Trouble was more like it. It wouldn’t surprise him if the man wasn’t really a Confederate…

  Francois hobbled down the hall, behind Ada and the maid. He knew Ada was exhausted but, as was her character he decided, she’d want a formal dinner. Probably the first real meal they’d had in a long time, though he beat her on long time. The boarding house in Washington had
meals but he was mostly confined to the room. Here, he’d have to manage the stairs as he was more determined than before to regain his ability to walk.

  The first door they stopped before, the maid motioned to him.

  “This is your room, sir.”

  Ada eyed him as he ambled past her. “You take your time. If you are not able to attend, I’ll have a tray sent up.”

  He snorted. “And I’ll do the same if you fail to arrive.”

  “Rather bold coming from you.” Her tone was low but very sharp. She stopped herself, he’d bet, from saying ‘secesh’ at the end, which made him want to chuckle.

  “Look, we’re both beyond patience. Let’s freshen up and I’ll see you down there.” He blew her a kiss and heard her hiss as he slipped into the room, taking a silent glee at her reaction. He knew he shouldn’t bait her, after all she had helped him keep his foot from those butchers who’d cut it off, but something deep inside him couldn’t help it.

  The room was definitely a masculine room. Paneled walls, large four-poster bed with pineapples on the top, a decoration that made him smile, reminding him of home. The fire was burning and a metal tub sat in front of it. The servant who stood near came right up to him.

  “My name is Bradley, sir. I’m here to assist you. Where,” he looked past him. “I’m sure your baggage will be here shortly.”

  Francois laughed. “I believe there’s a carpetbag. Nothing to worry yourself over.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir. I’ll need to prepare your clothes for your stay.”

  Francois frowned. He knew he had another set of drawers and shirtsleeves with a pair of stockings. Ada had scrounged for another set of trousers for him and a shirt but he had only the waistcoat he’d worn for duty and his frock coat was replaced with some drab black piece she’d found in the hospital. It was ill-fitting but he wore it.