Taken slightly aback, Lizzie stared up at him, aware of Tempy watching too. “And what would that one thing be?”
“You gotta teach me too.”
“Be careful, Captain Jones. Your next move could be your last.”
Roland smiled at the warning in Colonel McGavock’s voice, but only because he had yet to learn the man’s tell—that subconscious gesture that revealed what a person was thinking without their realizing they were giving away their thoughts. Some people blinked more often, or shifted in their seats, pursed their lips, or rubbed their jaws. He knew his own tell. Had become aware of it while playing poker behind the mercantile as a lad. Correction: while losing numerous hands of poker as a lad. He’d asked the fellow who’d beaten him so soundly at the game what his secret to winning was. The older boy had simply narrowed his eyes and stared.
Roland maintained the colonel’s gaze, acutely aware of his own facial features and of all the soldiers gathered around them watching.
“No problem, Colonel. You don’t have me in check yet, sir.”
It was McGavock’s turn to smile.
Roland studied the few remaining pieces on the wooden chess set and board that sat balanced on a footstool between them. And the colonel, seated in the Windsor chair by the hearth, seemed to be doing the same. This was their third game in two days—with one win chalked up for each of them—and the gatherings had quickly become an event.
After mentally moving every piece on the board—twice—Roland looked up. “I believe we have a stalemate, Colonel.”
“You’re certain about that, Captain?”
Not nearly as certain now, Roland looked back and tried for a third time to envision the possible moves remaining to him—and again found none. Then he gradually became aware of the colonel’s grin and shook his head.
“Correction, Colonel. I know we have a stalemate, sir.”
McGavock held out his left hand. “Well played, Captain Jones.”
Roland accepted the praise as a couple of the fellows behind him patted him on the back. “Excellent game to you too, sir. Thank you for the pleasure.”
McGavock rose. “Tomorrow? Same time?”
“Thursdays are busy for me, sir, but I think I can fit you in. I’ll check my social calendar and let you know.”
McGavock laughed, as did others.
“Bring it right through here, Winder! But be careful. You too, Hattie!”
All attention shifted to Mrs. McGavock, who stood in the doorway of the bedroom, then to Winder, who walked in beaming—and carrying a little potted cedar tree all decorated with strung popcorn kernels and red ribbon. And bells, if the tinkling sound was any indication.
“Merry Christmas!” the boy shouted. “Even though it’s not Christmas yet!”
Mrs. McGavock waved Hattie on in. “The children have decorated a tree for every bedroom. Under Miss Clouston’s creative tutelage, of course.”
Lizzie and Tempy each entered, carrying decorated trees as well, the nuns following closely behind them, smiles wide. Lizzie’s gaze swept the room but only touched Roland’s briefly, which he’d come to expect since she’d delivered her apology—which he’d found most revealing. They’d spoken on several occasions since, though not at any length.
George entered last, bearing trays of something delicious smelling. Roland acknowledged him with a tilt of his head, grateful to have the man here, even though, per Dr. Phillips’s orders, they couldn’t begin a physical regimen yet. George’s presence made him feel less homesick somehow, especially with Christmas approaching. But the letters George had brought from his mother and sisters had only increased his burden. According to them, the estate had suffered greatly in recent months, possibly beyond repair. Food was growing increasingly scarce both for the family and relatives and for the remaining slaves who hadn’t fled.
So Roland had sent two wires. The first to his mother, instructing her to sell or barter the mahogany wardrobe and dresser along with the mahogany table and chairs—all the heirloom pieces, if necessary—in order to garner the staples they needed. The second wire he’d sent to Harvard Davis, the banker in Yalobusha County. He informed Davis that while he’d been wounded at the battle in Franklin, he was very much alive and would return home after convalescing. Roland chose to omit the part about the prison sentence that awaited. In his experience, men with whom one had financial dealings didn’t respond favorably when learning you were on your way to prison.
Thinking of home and of who was waiting there for him—as well as who was not—brought a stab of longing. Was it any wonder he had trouble sleeping at night?
“Captain Jones!”
Roland turned and spotted Winder coming straight for him, the boy’s small tree bouncing up and down in his arms as ribbons and bells liberated themselves from its branches.
“My tree’s for in here, Captain! I decorated it all by myself. Well, mostly anyway.”
“You did a fine job too, Winder. That’s a right handsome tree.”
Winder looked over his shoulder, then leaned close, mischief in his eyes. “Mama’s making you all somethin’ for Christmas, but I’m not supposed to say what it—”
“Winder!”
The boy looked back at his mother, whose expression said she knew her son only too well.
Mrs. McGavock’s eyebrows rose. “Do not share the secret, Winder. It’s for Christmas.”
“I wasn’t tellin’ him what it is, Mama. I was only tellin’ him somethin’s comin’.”
Winder turned back to him. “I wouldn’t like it much myself, but y’all might.”
Roland smiled. “Whatever it is, I’m sure we’ll all enjoy it. What are you hoping to get for Christmas this year?”
A smile stretched the boy’s face. “Some new marbles and a clockwork train. One that really moves all by itself!”
“That’s a fairly tall order.”
“I’ve been pretty good though.” Winder nodded. “’Cept for the other day when I broke Miss Clouston’s special hair comb.” The boy glanced back in Lizzie’s direction, then bowed his head. “I thought those little things that stick out would bend. But they don’t.”
Roland curbed a grin. “Well, maybe the next time you’re in town, you can buy her a new one.”
“That’s what Mama said.” A frown formed. “But I ain’t got no money, so I’m havin’ to do extra chores in the barn with Papa.”
Roland knew Lizzie would correct the boy’s grammar if she overheard him, but he didn’t have the heart. He remembered what extra chores in the barn in the dead of winter were like for a young boy.
“Want some of these, Captain Jones? Master Winder?” George bent down, tray of food in hand. “Miss Tempy calls ’em sausage and cheese and biscuits in a ball. But . . .” His voice dropped to a whisper. “They just look like balls o’ sausage to me, sir.”
Winder grabbed two and stuffed both of them into his mouth. Roland helped himself to a couple. And true enough, the little morsels tasted like a sausage and biscuit with cheese, only all rolled up together.
As Winder engaged George in conversation, Roland’s focus moved to the frosted windowpanes and the world beyond. As George had told him earlier, it was still bone-chillingly cold outside, the ground covered with a perfect sheet of ice while heavy fog blanketed the hills and valleys. Even now the wind moaned and howled, lonely and forlorn sounding, and Roland thought of his Confederate brothers hunkered down in trenches, likely hungry and near frozen to the bone somewhere outside Nashville. And before he could even form the words within himself, he felt a silent plea rising heavenward on their behalf. Little good it would do them, coming from him—he and the Almighty not being on the closest of terms. But he figured they needed all the prayers they could get.
According to what Colonel McGavock had heard earlier in the week, General Hood still aimed to take back the city, even with a third of his army dead or wounded.
Ever aware of Lizzie’s presence, Roland watched her as she conversed with Colonel McGavock and t
he soldiers. After a moment she looked in his direction. He caught her eye and smiled. She returned the same.
I believe I’m still growing accustomed to the idea.
Her words played over and over in his mind. Since when did a bride-to-be have to become “accustomed” to the idea of marrying the man she loved? And how many times had she referred to the second lieutenant as a “fine man”? Not that there was anything wrong with a bride believing her groom to be a fine man. One would hope that would always be the case. But it was the way Lizzie said it that made him question her feelings for the lieutenant. No, more than question. Made him doubt. Which was a dangerous combination for a man with only time on his hands and a fair amount of his heart already invested.
He’d never intentionally do anything to come between Lizzie and Lieutenant Townsend. But that didn’t mean that if the woman were to waver in her choice somewhere down the way—and if he learned to walk again and could save his family estate—he wouldn’t be there to take advantage of her change of heart. Then again, that possibility was flush with ifs, and he wasn’t too sure she would even consider someone like him.
She’d not said a word to him aloud about slavery, yet she’d made her stance on it resoundingly clear. And he was a slave owner. Of course, if the North won the war, slavery wouldn’t be a divisive factor for the two of them anymore. Slavery would be abolished—and he would become a pauper with nothing left to offer her. Only with a Confederate victory did he stand a chance of keeping his estate and a means of providing for a wife and family. So either way, he stood little to no chance of ever winning Lizzie’s affections. The truth of the realization barbed him.
“She reads it to us every night. The story has a mean man in it. And ghosts too!”
Roland looked beside him to see Winder perched on Lieutenant Shuler’s bedside.
Shuler, still practically a boy himself, looked across the room at Lizzie. “My mother used to read to us when we were kids. I miss that,” he added quietly.
Winder’s eyes went wide. “I bet Miss Clouston would read to you too!”
The hint of a smile shaded Shuler’s expression as he eyed the boy. “Do you think?”
Needing no further prodding, Winder darted back across the room toward Lizzie. Roland sat back and watched, already able to guess what was coming.
Winder yanked on Lizzie’s skirt, which immediately earned him a scolding look, then Lizzie knelt, eye level with him. Roland could well imagine the lesson the boy was getting on how to properly engage someone’s attention. Seconds later, as anticipated, Lizzie glanced beyond her young charge to Shuler, who sat in the bed looking decidedly more forlorn than a moment earlier, which was all part of the ploy.
Roland smiled to himself. Elizabeth Clouston didn’t stand a chance.
She crossed the room. A smile played at the corners of her mouth, saying she knew she was being set up, which only increased Roland’s enjoyment as the scene unfolded.
“So, Lieutenant Shuler, Master Winder tells me that you, too, enjoy being read to at night.”
“Yes, ma’am, I do. It’s long been one of my favorite pastimes. My mama used to read to me and my brothers and sisters.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Shuler nodded, a mischievous gleam lighting his eyes.
Roland was impressed. Young Shuler had missed his calling. He should’ve chosen the stage.
“And what is your favorite genre, Lieutenant?”
Roland waited, seeing the question on Shuler’s face.
“Your favorite kind of story, Lieutenant,” Lizzie added, not a hint of judgment in her tone.
“Oh, that.” A blush crept into his cheeks. “I’m mighty partial to stories about . . . mean men and ghosts.”
Lizzie’s smile went full bloom, and the blush on Shuler’s face fanned out.
“I’d be most happy to read that story to you, Lieutenant. And to all the other soldiers, if they’d be interested in hearing it.”
A chorus of enthusiastic “Yes, ma’ams” rose up, Roland’s among them.
As everyone returned to their conversations and their various rooms, Lizzie gradually looked Roland’s way. “Did you put Lieutenant Shuler up to this?” she whispered.
He shook his head. “No, ma’am. But I’ve always loved a good bedtime story.”
Her eyes sparkled, and he knew in that moment that even if the door to her heart never opened to him, he wanted her as his friend. He would accept that and make it enough. And he would determinedly set aside his feelings for her and move forward with his life. Something he’d had a lot of practice doing in recent months.
“Excuse me, gentlemen. And ladies.”
Roland heard Colonel McGavock’s voice in the hallway, and everyone fell silent.
“I’ve just received word that General Hood is expected to launch an attack on Nashville at any hour.”
CHAPTER 25
A smattering of enthusiastic whoops and hollers rose from a handful of soldiers following Colonel McGavock’s announcement, but the majority of the gathering remained silent. While Lizzie wasn’t shocked at the reactions from the four men—particularly Second Lieutenant Taylor and Private Smith, who seemed a rougher type—she certainly didn’t appreciate the outburst. From where she was standing, she could see Colonel McGavock in the hallway, and judging by his somber expression, neither did he. Nor Roland, close beside her, whose features were like stone.
“Let us be in prayer for the Army of Tennessee,” the colonel continued, “and for the Confederacy. But ultimately, let us petition God Almighty for his will to be done. Whatever that may be.”
Lizzie stared, hearing the solemnity in the colonel’s voice. She’d heard him pray for God’s will to be done many times through the years, but never in relation to the outcome of this war. Until this moment. Perhaps he, too, sensed the end was near and would not be the one he’d anticipated.
A deep-throated chortle sounded from the corner of Winder’s bedroom. “I’m prayin’ for God’s will, all right. But I already know it’s for the Federals to go straight to Hades. And I’m glad General Hood’s about to send them there.”
The silence that filled the house a moment earlier was nothing compared to the vacuum following Lieutenant Taylor’s comment. The air itself seemed to flee as Colonel McGavock’s expression hardened. Lizzie felt a shudder as he strode into Winder’s bedroom, his gaze appraising.
“Who made that comment?”
Taylor raised a forefinger, a smile curving his mouth. “That would be me . . . sir.”
Colonel McGavock crossed the room to stand before him. “Second Lieutenant Taylor, isn’t it?”
Taylor nodded. “That’s right, Colonel.”
“You’re remarkably offhanded, Lieutenant, in sharing your opinions.”
“As a soldier in the great Confederate Army, I figured I’m still allowed to have my own opinions.”
“As a soldier in the Confederate Army, you may hold whatever opinions you like. But while you are in my home, Lieutenant Taylor, you will refrain from using language like that in front of members of my household. You will also refrain from speaking in a manner that disparages and cheapens the deity of God Almighty. Have I made myself clear?”
Taylor glanced beside him at Smitty, another member of the unruly cohort whose countenance had gone noticeably paler. Same for the other men who’d cheered over the imminent attack on Nashville.
“Have I made myself clear, Lieutenant Taylor,” the colonel repeated.
Taylor’s smirk lost a degree of confidence. “Yes, sir. You have.”
“Good. Because the next time I hear such words issuing from your mouth, I will personally deliver you to the Federal prison in Nashville. Same for any other soldier here who speaks in such a manner. I can tolerate a great many things, but lack of respect for our Creator and his hand in our lives is not one of them. Especially from someone who is enjoying the bounty from my table and finding shelter in my family’s bedchambers.”
Colonel McGavock didn’t move. Simply continued to stare down at the man before him.
“Yes, sir,” Taylor finally responded, and it felt as though a tiny trickle of air had been let back into the room.
Colonel McGavock turned. “Gentlemen, my family and I will bid you a good evening. I hope you all rest well tonight.”
He gestured for Mrs. McGavock and the children to precede him, and Lizzie caught the furtive look Carrie McGavock sent her as she passed.
The sisters, who’d been silent yet watchful during the exchange, commenced helping the soldiers back to their respective rooms. George pitched in too, his strength alone a boon when it came to lifting the men who were still immobile. It had only been three days since he’d found her and Tempy in the kitchen having their first lesson, and Lizzie hadn’t seen him alone since. But his request still surprised her. It also worried her.
It was one thing to teach Tempy, with just the two of them knowing. But if word about what she was doing ever got back to Roland—and he learned she was teaching one of his slaves—she honestly didn’t know what he would do. But sooner or later, assuming that General Hood would be thwarted in his attempt to take back Nashville, Roland was going to have to come to grips with changes in his life. If she could aid him in any way in doing that, she wanted to. Not that he would welcome her help once he learned of her Northern-leaning opinions . . .
“Miss Clouston . . .”
Lizzie met the colonel on his way out.
“In light of the news we received tonight,” he said, “I believe it would be best to wait until another evening to begin the reading.”
“I agree completely, Colonel. I’ll come straightaway and see the children to bed.”
He shook his head. “There’s no rush. Mrs. McGavock and I are enjoying this time with them.” He glanced toward his family descending the staircase. “Even from the most horrible events, we know that ‘all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to his purpose.’”
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