Honor's Fury

by Fiona Harrowe

  She peered through the gloom. The room was ventilated by a long, narrow window set just above ground level, letting in a diffused and feeble light. Amélie could see nothing except vague outlines and Babette’s shadowed figure. The air smelled of damp earth, of rotting apples and potatoes, and—God in heaven!—tobacco smoke.

  Mr. Baxter, descending with the match, sniffed loudly. “Do you ladies use tobacco?”

  “Why, no.” Amélie had the presence to giggle. “It must be our servant, Sadie. She will sneak down here to take a few puffs on her corncob. If I’ve told her once I’ve told her a thousand times that I frown on such a practice.”

  When the candle was relit Amélie glanced nervously around. The little lobsterman was not there! Perhaps he was hiding behind the sacks of potatoes lined against the wall or among the clay flowerpots in the corner. He had not gone through the swinging doors for the padlock was firmly in place.

  Mr. Baxter took the candle from Amélie and set it on a keg. Then he went to the sacks arranged against the wall. Pulling each away he scribbled something on his pad, a pretense at his inventory taking that set Amélie’s teeth on edge. They all knew why he was there. Why not simply search as he had been sent to do? She rubbed the palms of her clammy hands along the sides of her gown. As each sack came away her heart pounded anew, expecting to see Avery Booth exposed. But it never happened. He wasn’t there. Where had he gone? How? He couldn’t have vanished into thin air.

  Amélie glanced across at her sister. Babette stood very still, a frozen figure in a wide-hooped skirt of dark-blue kersey. Her eyes were fixed in terror on a man’s pipe and the lobsterman’s crumpled Confederate forage cap beside it, sitting out openly on the preserve shelf.

  Mr. Baxter, busy with his potato sacks, hadn’t seen the telltale objects yet. Amélie moved noislessly across the earthen floor, scooped up the pipe and cap, and stuffed them up her sleeve, a long, full one, tight at the wrist. The pipe was still warm and for a few nerve-wracking moments she feared it wasn’t completely out and that a burning ember might put her sleeve on fire. But the pipe, though it seared her skin, gradually grew cooler.

  In the meanwhile Mr. Baxter went from the potato sacks to the apples, then to the shelves. When he had finished he gave one last penetrating look around.

  “Ladies, shall we proceed upstairs?”

  “You go ahead,” Babette said, her easy air restored. “I’ve promised Sadie I would bring her some apples for a pie she’s to bake for supper. Won’t you stay and have some with us, Mr. Baxter?”

  He eyed her suspiciously. “Thank you, no.” Leaving the candle for Babette he mounted the stairs with Amélie behind. As they went through the dining room to the parlor Amélie glanced out the window that overlooked the garden. Two men stood there, one lounging on the cellar doors, the other against the fence. Mr. Baxter’s henchmen! So even if Avery Booth had managed to escape he would have been instantly apprehended. But what had happened to him?

  Mr. Baxter went on, hastily scribbling on his pad, opening closet and cupboard doors. Amélie, exasperated, inwardly fuming, followed him from room to room. When he got down on his knees in her bedroom to look under her bed, her temper flared.

  “One would think,” she said icily as Mr. Baxter brushed his trousered knees, “that you were conducting a search instead of an inventory. For a search, you know, you must have a warrant.”

  “I'm a lawyer,” he replied. “There is no need to remind me of points of law. I am merely carrying out Mrs. Randall’s wishes.”

  “Well, then, the next time you decide to check the furnishings would you kindly have Mrs. Randall inform me in advance?”

  She escorted him to the front door and saw him out, never so happy to see the back of a caller in her life.

  Babette spoke from the cellar door. “Is he gone?”

  “Yes, thank God.”

  Together they went into the parlor, Amélie sinking down on the sofa with an audible sigh. “I could do with a cup of tea.”

  “I for one need something stronger,” Babette said. “Brandy. I’ll fetch it.”

  The brandy brought and poured, they clinked glasses.

  “To us!” Babette toasted.

  “Amen!” Amélie agreed, lifting the glass to her lips with a trembling hand. “Tell me,” she said after a moment. “Whatever happened to Avery Booth?”

  A mischievous twinkle came into Babette’s blue eyes. “I hid him.”

  “But where?”

  “Can’t you guess? Why, under my skirts.”

  “Babette!” Amélie was horrified. “Babette, you didn’t!”

  “I had to do something. I didn’t want Avery shot, nor did I want to go to prison. I always knew those clumsy hoop skirts were made for something besides turning us into walking balloons. Could you tell?”

  “Why, no. Oh, Babette!”

  They looked at one another, then broke into laughter.

  Chapter

  ❖ 10 ❖

  two days later avery booth was gone, having left as his predecessor did, in working man’s disguise, his clothes delivered by the same pair of nuns.

  From Sister Beatrice Amélie learned that Mr. Baxter’s visit was indeed one of many similar searches made for escaped prisoners or contraband arms throughout the city.

  “You can’t know how valuable your help is,” Sister Beatrice went on to say. “Every soldier returned to our Fighting armies is one more to the good. We are not like the North, you know, who can call on a teeming population, thousands of immigrants who are willing to pick up a rifle for a few dollars in pay. We have only our patriots.”

  “I would go myself if I could,” Amélie said, meaning it.

  “I’m sure of it.” Sister Beatrice gave her a long-toothed smile. “For the present, however, since your house might be watched we won’t ask you to harbor any more prisoners. Just go on leading normal lives. Join a sewing circle, preferably one that has Unionist sympathizers. Be neutral. And—I hate to say this—but don’t try to contact your husband, Mrs. Warner. Or you, Miss Townsend, your fiancé.”

  For Amélie being unable to write to Thaddeus was the hardest part. Though there was only the barest chance of her letters reaching him (she herself hadn’t received word from Thaddeus in six months) it was enough to give her the illusion of correspondence, in page after page of closely packed script she had poured her heart out, her sorrow at their son’s death, her love, her wish for his safe return, and plans for the future when they would have more children. But what were a few letters compared to the needs of Maryland—and the South? To give up writing was little enough.

  Babette, who liked to receive but hated to write letters, took the ban lightly. It was the waiting she minded. She hated the sewing circle they joined, yawning audibly as they sat over their needlework, tapping her toe impatiently, making a botch of her quilting pieces. Coming home from one of those lengthy sessions she would pour herself a stiff brandy. Then propping her feet up on a footstool, skirts askew in a most unladylike manner, she would mimic Mrs. Hysop’s lisp or Miss Farnsdale’s nasal whine with such accuracy that Amélie would laugh in spite of herself. Babette had heard the rumor that a few Southern women were secretly smuggling their gold jewelry to President Davis in Richmond. Babette wanted to be part of the scheme—not to give up her own rings and baubles but to act as a courier. It would be the height of adventure to carry a shipment of gold concealed in her bosom right under the noses of the Yankees.

  But no one came to enlist Babette in a clandestine errand. Instead it was Amélie who was charged with a service. In early March Sister Beatrice, accompanied by the pale Sister Irene, came to her with a request.

  “Do you know the Mortons of Annapolis?” Sister Beatrice asked.

  “Jason and Alice Morton? Not very well. We were overnight guests, my parents and I, some years ago.”

  “That’s enough of a connection. They are giving a large party to observe their thirtieth anniversary next week. I should like you to attend.”


  “The Mortons are with us?”

  “I’m not exactly sure. They have a son fighting with a Union regiment. But Mrs. Morton’s brother is with General George Stuart, who, as you know, is a Maryland Confederate. So you see they are a divided family. But they themselves are not important. It is one of their guests, a Mrs. Allan Trumble, who will be of most interest to you. She has a list of what we call safe houses, places along the eastern shore and down the southern peninsula that will harbor escaped prisoners or pass along Confederate mail and information.” She paused. “I must add that this little venture is not without peril. As I’ve indicated, we are not sure of the Mortons and there will be Union people there. You may refuse to go if you wish.”

  “I wouldn’t think of refusing.”

  “Good. Your invitation will come from Mrs. Morton’s sister-in-law, the one whose husband is with General Stuart. Good luck, my dear.”

  The Mortons lived several miles from Annapolis on a large estate overlooking the Chesapeake Bay. Their house was of red brick with a Corinthian portico on the south front. The lawns and gardens, although still in winter retreat, had enough evergreen shrubbery to give a proper setting to its handsome arcades and connecting pavilions. Amélie was greeted by Mrs. Morton with true Southern courtesy—the embrace, the kiss, the “My dear, how nice to see you again”—although Amélie was certain Mrs. Morton had no memory of Amélie’s long-ago visit and in fact had no idea who she was. Mrs. Trumble, she was told by the servant who showed her to her room, had not yet arrived.

  At supper that night she learned that several officers from the Naval Academy, now in Union hands, would attend the party to be given the following night. Later when she overheard someone mention a Major Fowler she assumed he would be among them. What he was doing in Annapolis she couldn’t guess but she did not want to see him again, here least of all. She told herself she dreaded meeting him because he might suspect the real reason for her visit. But deep inside she knew her dread stemmed from the effect he had on her: a disintegration of self-control she would condemn in anyone else. He made her feel weak and she did not like the feeling. For a short period she contemplated bolting, returning to Baltimore without accomplishing her mission, but she knew if she did she would loathe herself even more. Fortunately she learned from a gossipy guest who ticked off the names of the invited Yankee officers that Damon Fowler had not been included.

  The next morning Amélie, at loose ends, accepted an offer to go riding with Mrs. Morton’s daughter. The saddled horses had been brought out to the front stoop and Amélie had mounted when a buggy drove up, carrying a bevy of young Morton cousins from the country.

  “Oh, dear,’’ Amélie’s riding companion groaned. “I can’t leave now. But why don’t you go on without me, Mrs. Warner? Please do. It’s a lovely day and it would be a shame to spoil your outing.”

  “Thank you, I believe I will.”

  The brisk March wind ruffled the veil of Amélie’s tall hat as she took a trail through a wooded section. In a few minutes she came out into a meadow flooded with wan sunshine and rustling with dry grass. A wide stream, dotted with rocks, shallow but running swiftly, ran across the path. She had started to ford it when she saw a horseman dressed in Yankee blue approaching.

  Even at a distance she recognized Damon Fowler, handsome, booted, and spurred, sitting his spirited black horse with practiced ease.

  If Abe Lincoln himself had appeared riding Satan’s steed Amélie could not have been more disconcerted.

  She pulled her mount up sharply, intending to turn about, but the movement had been too abrupt and the horse reared. Clutching futilely at her side saddle, she slipped, then fell with a splashing jolt into the icy stream, her head grazing a boulder.

  The pain and shockingly cold water took her breath away. Stunned, she floundered and gasped. Before she could recover Damon had dismounted and was lifting her out in his arms.

  “We do meet in the oddest places, Mrs. Warner.” Shaking uncontrollably, she ground her chattering teeth in exasperation. “P—please p—put me down.”

  “You’re sopping wet. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “P—perfectly. I haven’t far to ride. Please . . .”

  But he was carrying her to the other side. “There’s a farmhouse close by where you can dry your clothes.”

  “P—put me down.”

  “Do you want to catch your death?”

  “Put me down!”

  When he did so her knees buckled and she nearly fell. He grasped her arm firmly. “Can you stand a moment while I fetch the horses?”

  She nodded mutely. In Damon’s arms she had been fairly protected against the icy March wind but now she could feel its cutting edge as it tore at her drenched riding skirt, slicing cruelly to the bone. She was cold, cold, cold. Nor did her water-filled boots help. As she curled and uncurled her toes trying to get some feeling in them she had the illusion her feet were slowly turning into blocks of ice.

  Damon returned with the two horses. When he lifted Amélie into the saddle she had to suppress a groan. Her backside felt like one massive bruise. And her head . . . “Can you hang on, Amélie?”

  Again she nodded.

  The farmhouse was around a bend in the road, a two-story building with a pitched roof and a massive chimney at either end. Amélie by now was too frozen and too miserable to care where he took her. All she could think of was getting inside out of the cold.

  A woman wearing a sack apron over a gray cotton dress came to the door. When Amélie heard Damon say, “My wife has had a bad fall,” a spurt of resentment momentarily revived her. My wife—how dare he! She opened her mouth to protest but a blast of chill wind took the words from her, throwing her into a spasm of shivers.

  She was still shaking as Damon carried her into the house. The woman, plump and doughy faced, hovered nervously.

  “Upstairs, sir—the front bedroom’s got a hearth. I’ll get a fire going.’’

  Damon carried Amélie up the stairs. The room was cheerful, with chintz at the paned windows and on the spool-turned four-poster. A fire quickly lit dispelled the chill.

  “Can you please get us some hot tea?’’ Damon asked.

  “Yes, sir. It shan't take but a minute. Shall I help the missues? Well, then, here’s a clean flannel gown.’’ She got it out of the chest.

  Damon lowered Amélie into a chair and undid her boots. Somewhere in the back of her mind she thought to protest but her teeth were clicking like castanets. When his hands went up her legs under her skirt to unfasten her stockings, she did manage a weak, “No . . .’’ But her mind and will seemed glazed over with a wretched paralysis. Without quite realizing how it happened, she found herself in bed under the covers wearing the flannel gown. Damon was raising her head, urging her to have a sip of tea. She was still cold; she would never get warm, never. The tea, laced with rum, burned fiercely for a minute or two, then she began shuddering again.

  She heard the rustle of clothes and then he was sliding into bed, gathering her into his arms, the heat of his naked flesh subduing, calming her spasms.

  “Delayed shock,’’ he mumbled into her hair.

  Amélie clung to him as if to a solid source of warmth that was slowly bringing life back into her frozen, trembling limbs. His maleness and vitality were so comforting, stirring a langorous, dreamlike sensuality. Divorced from reality, light-headed with the effects of her fall and the rum, she was scarcely conscious of a situation that would have shocked and repelled her were she herself. But she was not, she was another woman, one that wanted Damon closer to feel his muscular hardness next to her bare skin. And when he lifted the gown past her head and tossed it quickly aside, she moaned softly, her arms going round his neck. His lips on her lips tasting of rum and desire sent another kind of shudder through her body.

  She took his tongue hungrily, the hot moistness more potent than liquor. His hands were stroking her, slowly, with an erotic pressure, but when he touched her buttocks, she flinched
. Intuitively he shifted his caress to her curved flanks, pressing her loins into his swollen manhood. They did not speak for there was no need. Everything seemed to be happening in a trance, even the blood flowing through her veins again. He was strong, masterful, commanding her body to respond, and she became his willing slave.

  Lying face to face, his mouth on hers, he threw his leg over her hip. Easing one hand between her thighs he placed the other in the small of her back, pushing her down. When he entered her the muscles of her soft interior convulsed, holding him there in a lustful grip that made him groan.

  “You hedonist,” he whispered.

  And now he thrust slowly, slowly, the heat rose to her face again, a rapturous heat that warmed more than the rum-laced tea. She pressed her hands to his bristly-furred chest and felt the strong beat of his heart beneath the rib cage, every vibrant throb charging her pulses. In her ecstasy she felt as though he had brought her back from shadow to sun, from dark to light. His movements became more urgent and she heard herself gasping hoarsely, each deft, strong stroke evoking a rhythmic undulation of her hips. Moments later her hands clutched his arms convulsively as she felt herself on the brink of a great discovery, revealed finally in a flash that shook her from toe to crown, again, and again. And again.

  A deep drowsiness swept over her relaxed limbs. She buried her face in his chest and slept.

  When Amélie awoke the bleak March sun had angled across the foot of the bed. She rose on one elbow, dazed, disoriented. Looking down at Damon, who slept with an arm crooked under his dark, tousled head, she felt an overwhelming tenderness, and bending, kissed him lightly on the forehead. He stirred.