Honor's Fury

by Fiona Harrowe

  When he entered her the shock sent her soaring, the world splintering into shards of glittering glass. Her nails dug into his muscled back as he thrust again and again, until with a soft cry he gathered her in his arms in a final spasmodic movement. They lay entwined, his maleness still large, still inside, their breaths mingling in the aftermath of passion. Never had she felt such oneness with another, never so complete. It was as if they were two halves of a whole who, having wandered a barren landscape in time, had finally found themselves together once more.

  “I love you,” he said, brushing the tangled hair from her damp forehead. “I love you,” he repeated, echoing her own thoughts, her feelings too deep for words.

  They were lying side by side now, her golden head nestled under his chin, his arm clasping her bare shoulder. Amélie felt a tranquillity she had never thought to feel again. They were silent, listening to their own measured breathing, to the gusts of wind and the sting of sleet at the window. She didn’t want to think about getting up, putting on her clothes, going back into the world, a reality that posed questions with no answers. She wanted to stay forever within the circle of Damon’s protective arms. She wanted this peace and happiness to go on and on.

  The lamp winked and went out. A door slammed along the corridor; there was the tramp of heavy boots. Someone was playing a piano below. It was grossly out of tune and its tinny keys thumped out a clumsy version of “Camptown Races.'’ A drunken baritone took it up.

  “Camptown races five miles long, dooda, dooda. . . .”

  Amélie’s lids grew heavy and she slept. He woke her some time later and made love to her again, tenderly, adroitly, his touch kindling her anew, his sensuous mouth and hands exciting her hunger, her need. Sated, replete, she nestled close to him, tears of happiness wet on her cheeks.

  He stroked her hair. “There’s so much about you I don’t know, so much I want to learn. Were you a pretty little girl?’’

  “Very. And you must have been a handsome boy.’’

  “Not at all. Ugly.’’

  They laughed together, the laughter of shared intimacy.

  It was still dark when the loud rumble of a carriage passing by outside wakened Amélie. She got up, easing herself out of bed so as not to rouse Damon. In sleep he looked troubled, his darkly handsome face turned in profile, a fierce frown between his eyes. She wondered of what he was dreaming. Of her? Of Shiloh?

  She got dressed and as she buttoned her bodice the thought of returning through the wet predawn streets to the Emorys’ house filled her again with an unwillingness to leave. But she must. For the first time since Damon had taken her in his arms, her life outside this red-portiered room intruded. What was to become of them? How would they overcome the obstacles that separated them? The war loomed large, terrifying. And they were on opposite sides. How could they resolve their differences?

  But she felt that somehow they would. All that mattered was that he loved her and she loved him. Surely two people who shared such happiness, who could look into each other’s eyes and smile with such complete understanding, could not be kept apart.

  Fully clothed now, she moved to a small table that stood against one wall to search for paper and pencil to write Damon a note. He apparently used it as a desk for it was strewn with papers and maps. Loose change and his Colt revolver lay next to an ink pot. Wondering what time it was, she looked for a watch and finally found one in the inside pocket of his tunic, hanging on a nearby chair.

  It was a gold watch on a chain, the sort that most men carried. Further inspection, however, revealed the initials T.A.W.

  T.A.W.?

  A sudden compression tightened Amélie’s lungs. She opened the case and there on the inside read the inscription she had feared to find: faithful to honor unto death

  It was the Warners' motto, brought over from England well before the Revolutionary War.

  faithful to honor unto death to Thaddeus from his father

  And then she knew that everything that had happened in that room—every look, every word, every kiss and caress—had been a lie.

  Chapter

  ❖ 17 ❖

  She held the telltale watch in her trembling hand, feeling as though the walls were crumbling about her. It was simply too monstrous to be believed.

  All the time Damon was making love to her Thaddeus’s watch had ticked away in his pocket. If he had come by it innocently, he would have told her about it at once. His silence condemned him. He had simply taken the watch from Thaddeus’s corpse.

  Devastated, she placed the watch on the table, her hand brushing against the chill steel of the Colt. The blue-black barrel glinted sinisterly in the dim light. She stared at it as if mesmerized, her hand slowly going to it, curling around the icy handle.

  She turned her head. Damon was still asleep, one arm flung out along the pillow she had just deserted. A fierce, sickening loathing rose in her chest. I hate him, she thought. I hate him for his lies, for his false smile, for his avowal of innocence. I despise him. He’s killed Thaddeus. And denied it. Liar, liar, liar! she wanted to scream. She thought of the night that had just ended, how she had given herself to this monster, this hypocrite, gone to him freely with such ardor, and was shamed. Would she never learn that this man was deceitful, that his protestations of love were false?

  Her hand tightened on the gun and in a blinding flash of rage she thought to kill him, avenging herself and Thaddeus in a burst of gunfire.

  But as she picked up the gun, her hand shook so badly she had to put it down. Her knees felt weak and she leaned against the desk, taking a deep breath to steady herself. She couldn’t. She couldn’t kill a defenseless man no matter what he had done. She hated him but she couldn’t murder him in cold blood. Perhaps he would die in battle. She hoped so, he didn’t deserve to live.

  The sky was paling in the east as she left the hotel and hurried toward the Emorys’ house. Gradually the heavens lightened to a pearly gray tinged with the rosy glow of the rising sun. But the thoughts that ran through her head were anything but rosy. Her long, torturous journey had been in vain. She hadn’t found Thaddeus; she would never bring him home. He was lying somewhere in an unmarked grave, buried like a stray dog, alone and forgotten. She had failed Thaddeus. What made her failure even more terrible was that she had betrayed her husband’s memory. She had gone to bed with his assassin, a reprobate who could stoop low enough to steal the gold watch from his victim. She had copulated with him, moaning and writhing with pleasure under his possessive, lustful body like a slut, a prostitute.

  God! How could she? How could she?

  The house with curtains drawn and shutters closed was dark and frigid as an underground cave. Amélie shivered as she climbed the stairs. Soon Bessie would arrive and light the stoves and warmth would creep through the rooms. But Amélie felt that no amount of heat could thaw the freezing cold that clogged her chest. If I could only cry, she thought, weep, sob, rage, anything to relieve the glacial pressure on my heart. But the tears remained unshed, a frosty burning behind her eyes.

  In the bedroom Babette, curled up like a kitten, her red-gold hair done up in rag curls, slept peacefully. Babette, the hedonist, Amélie thought wryly. Sisters in more ways than one, aren’t we?

  Wearing a flannel nightgown, Amélie crawled beneath the covers, rubbing her icy feet together. She lay wide awake, waiting for the others to rise, her mind going round and round. She didn’t know what to do, where to go. Home, she supposed, back to Maryland, back across Union lines by boat and train, back through the battle-torn country, a journey long, tedious, and dangerous. Perhaps she ought to spend the winter in Nashville? She still had adequate funds but her supply could not last indefinitely and she knew of no way to replenish it. She had written to her parents before leaving Baltimore and several times since but had never stayed long enough in one place to receive an answer. If she should run out of money it would be unrealistic to count on negotiable cash from Waxwing reaching her through a postal system in
disarray. Yet she had to come to some decision about her future. But not now, not at this dark moment. She was certain of only one thing. She would never see Damon Fowler again. She would die first.

  An hour later, dressed, she went downstairs and found Bessie in the kitchen.

  “If a Colonel Fowler comes to ask for me, say I am not in. And Bessie, tell him that he will not be received no matter how many times he calls.’’

  Damon rang the Emory bell shortly before noon. Amélie, upstairs in the bedroom, heard his voice in the hall below. He spoke to Bessie. Then she heard Babette say, “Oh, but Colonel . . .’’ Amélie couldn’t catch the rest. From behind the curtains she watched Damon descend the steps and mount his horse, a tall figure in a dark blue military cape. She shrank back as he turned his face to look up. Had he seen her? Well—what if he had? I don’t care! she told herself vehemently, I don’t care! I hate him. He must know by now how much I hate him.

  “Why wouldn’t you see Damon Fowler?’’ Babette asked.

  “Because he lied to me about Thaddeus.’’

  “Are you sure?’’

  “I’m positive he conspired with Captain McFarland to change Thaddeus’s name and birthplace to Theodore Warder of Alabama in the records.’’

  “But—’’

  “There’s nothing more to discuss,’’ Amélie said with finality. She did not want to speak of the watch or how she had discovered it. The whole episode had been too degrading.

  That night Kate Emory and her three children joined the family for supper. A small, diminutive woman with a plain, heart-shaped face, she had dark brown hair drawn back under a net into a thick coil that seemed far too heavy for her slender neck. Yet she bore it and her recent bereavement with a straight spine and unbowed head. She had a sweet smile that she used often and a calm, serene air that reached out and touched Amélie in her turmoil.

  “Yes,” she said in answer to Nancy Emory’s question, “I’ve quite made up my mind. I’m going home as soon as I can arrange transportation.’’ Home was Saint Louis, Missouri, where Kate’s parents had fled after their farm in Vernon County had been burned by Kansas Border Ruffians.

  “But my dear,’’ Nancy Emory said, “travel is difficult and with the children even more so.’’ She looked at the boys, Gerald and William, ten and eleven respectively, and Anna, a little girl of two. “I do wish you could get someone to go with you.’’

  “It would help. But I can’t think of who.’’

  Why not me? Amélie thought, then quickly rejected the idea as foolish. Whatever would she do in Saint Louis? It was miles and miles further west in the opposite direction from Maryland. Yet the thought of returning to Baltimore where little Charles had died, where she had been put under house arrest and had spent so many hours waiting, depressed her. Nor did she feel nostalgic toward Arbormalle or Waxwing where she had loved Thaddeus so briefly as his wife before he went off to war. Yet she couldn't stay in Nashville. She shrank from the possibility of coming upon Damon Fowler. She didn’t want to see him, to be near him. She had to put distance between them to feel safe.

  Well then, why not Saint Louis?

  She made up her mind that week as she was having tea with Kate Emory.

  “I admire you for the brave way you carry your grief,” Amélie remarked, accepting a cup of tea from Kate.

  “Goodness! I’m not in the least brave. And to be perfectly candid, I’m not grieving.” She threw Amélie a rueful smile. “Does that shock you?”

  “Well—yes,” she answered truthfully, remembering her own reaction to widowhood.

  “I didn’t love my husband, Mrs. Warner,” she said, passing Amélie a plate of Scottish fancies made with half as much sugar as called for because of the shortage.

  “Call me Amélie, please.”

  “Then you shall call me Kate. No, I didn’t love my husband. It was my mother who persuaded me to marry Joseph Emory. I was twenty-two on my way to spinster-hood, having no other suitors. Mama thought I ought not to refuse.” She touched a lace-edged napkin to her lips. “Quite honestly I think I would have been happier if I had never married at all.”

  To Amélie this was a novel, if not startling, statement. She and Babette had been brought up to believe spinster-hood was a calamity.

  “Not that I wish to disparage Mr. Emory,” Kate hastened to add. “He had his fine points, I suppose. He was a good provider, sober, religious. But he had his faults, too. For one, we did not share the same political views.”

  Amélie’s heart leapt at that. “Without seeming too bold may I ask if your sympathies are—”

  “With the South,” Kate finished for her. “And you, Amélie, your husband wasn’t fighting with the Union, was he?”

  “No.”

  “I guessed as much. Then we’re both of the same mind.” She leaned over and put her hand over Amélie’s. “Why don’t you and your sister come to Saint Louis with me? It would be doing me a great favor. And I would love to have you both visit for as long as you cared to stay.”

  Amélie hesitated only a moment. “Thank you, Kate, I believe we will.”

  But Babette wouldn’t hear of it. “I’m tired of traveling. I want to stay here. Besides I’ve grown fond of Freddie.”

  “Oh? And has Frederick Geyser grown fond of you?” She gave her sister a penetrating look. “I mean fond enough to propose marriage. You know he’s been a bachelor for a good many years.”

  “He’ s as much as said he’s tired of being single. That he’d like a family of his own.”

  “What about Willie?”

  “Willie.” Babette grew pensive for a few moments. “Perhaps he’s forgotten about me.”

  Amélie tried her best to persuade Babette to change her mind but there was no moving her. She was determined to remain in Nashville, certain she would be able to coax Freddie to the altar.

  Amélie, after speaking to the Emorys, who promised to look after Babette, finally agreed to leave without her.

  “If things don’t work out, Babette, this is where I’ll be.” Amélie pressed Kate’s Saint Louis address into her sister’s hand. She already had given her half the gold in her money belt. “You must write and tell me how you are. And, Babette, if you need me, for whatever reason, I’ll come and fetch you.”

  Babette returned Amélie’s kiss, hugging her tightly. Never in her whole life had she been separated from her sister for more than a few days. It was a little frightening to think of staying behind. Was she doing the right thing? True, she had many friends, made them easily, but it wasn’t the same. Amélie was blood kin, closer to her than their mother. She was a voice that could soothe away hurt and disappointment, a refuge she could run to when others turned against her.

  On the other hand she couldn’t cling to Amélie forever. If she went to Saint Louis she’d miss her chance with Freddie. He said he loved her—or at least had hinted at it. With a little persuasion she knew she could get him to declare himself and then she would accept. Of course she preferred Willie. But she hadn’t heard from him in ages; perhaps he was dead. It saddened her to think that he might be. She liked Willie. But a girl had to be practical if she wanted a husband. Freddie was rich and kind and devoted. His age was not in his favor, but people said older men cherished their young wives. She longed to be cherished.

  Babette brushed a tear away with the back of her hand. “The next time we meet, Amélie, I shall be Mrs. Frederick Geyser. You’ll see.’’

  Kate, her three children, and Amélie arrived in Saint Louis on a snowy day a week before Christmas. Kate’s family, the Shelbys, lived in a large frame house on Cass Avenue. The house was already overcrowded with relatives from the western counties of Missouri where guerrilla warfare between opposing factions had left whole sections a wasteland. Quantrill on the Confederate side and Jennison on the Union, each with their gang of cutthroats, had made unauthorized raids upon those they considered their enemies. The inhabitants caught in between could do nothing but flee.

  The
Shelbys took in as many as they could. Mrs. Shelby was a sharp-faced woman with a lashing tongue who had borne ten children, only five of whom were now living. Although Kate had written warning her mother that she was coming home, Mrs. Shelby was surprised to see her.

  “I thought you would have stayed with your husband’s people.”

  “No, Mama. I wanted to come home. I'm not the biblical Ruth.”

  “I can see that.”

  Later Kate explained her mother’s cold reception to Amélie. “She’s been through too much to have feelings. The home that she and Papa had worked for all their married lives was put to the torch by free-state raiders. She lost three babies to sickness and more recently two sons at Vicksburg. Any other woman would have broken, but not Mama.”

  It didn’t take long for Amélie to discover that the Shelbys were deeply involved in smuggling contraband to General Price in the south. Missouri had been a slave state before the war. But after Saint Louis and Jefferson City had been commandeered by United States troops the state had aligned itself with the Union. Divisions between Northern and Southern sympathizers—as in Maryland and Tennessee—ran deep.

  The Shelbys, by virtue of their name alone, were suspect. General Shelby, though no relation, was a Confederate cavalryman who, together with General Price, continued to harass the Federalists. The house was sometimes watched. On occasion, a member of the family felt certain of being followed. But in spite of the hazards the Shelbys, using caution and good sense, went on with their work.

  They had all taken the oath of allegiance without a qualm. As Mrs. Shelby put it, “I kept my fingers crossed while I swallowed their pill. I’d swear a pack of lies on a Bible if I could do the Yankees some harm.”

  Amélie, though not asked to put her name to an oath, felt bound to offer her help. Kate as a matter of course was expected to.