Honor's Fury

by Fiona Harrowe

  Amélie’s heart turned over. “Kentucky? But Mr. Fowler is from Massachusetts.’’

  “Elsie said it had to be Babette. Here, I’ll read from her letter ‘. . . a redheaded woman from Anne Arundel County and a dark Yankee. It could only be our Babette Townsend. They’re staying on a horse farm with people called McIntyre. It’s said that Babette is not well, but I can’t seem to find out what ails her. There are hints of some dark, mysterious tragedy, but again no one can tell me more.’’

  Mrs. Price folded the letter, sliding it back in the envelope. “That’s the gist of it.’’

  “Well,” said Mary Warner, clearing her throat. “It might be nothing more than gossip.’’

  “But how can we be sure?’’ Amélie asked, disturbed. Tragedy, illness—what could it mean?

  “Babette would write home if she were in trouble,’’ Mary said.

  “She might,’’ Amélie replied. “But then mail is so unreliable. We ought to see for ourselves.’’

  Mary sighed. “I don’t think you could get your mother to Lexington, considering how much she’s against your sister’s marriage.’’

  “Then I’ll have to go alone.’’

  The last thing Amélie wanted was to start out on another journey. During this past month she had struggled for and finally managed to attain a measure of calm. Slowly recouping her strength, she was beginning to feel whole again. Fiery dreams of battlefield gore were fading; the ache had gone from her bones. The terrible guilt she felt at her father’s death, the niggling belief that she had led Royce on unfairly, the torturing regret concerning Damon, were slowly becoming less anguishing. And now this. The idea of packing, of boarding a train, of subsequent hours of jolting monotony, the long waits in obscure, dusty, flypapered stations brought back the old sense of fatigue and despair. Her whole being revolted against it.

  But how could she turn her back on her sister? Whatever Babette had done she was still bonded to Amélie by blood. The child, too. She couldn’t remain here at Bancroft puttering away at the roses, thinking of her own well-being, knowing that Babette and the boy might need her, that they might be ill.

  Amélie did not need anyone to remind her of her duty. The principle was as much a part of her as her narrow waist and proud carriage. The internal debate was academic. She knew from the moment Mrs. Price read her letter that she had no choice but to go to Kentucky.

  Her mother, as predicted, refused to have anything to do with Amélie’s plan to find Babette.

  The expected, timeworn adage was quoted: “She made her bed, let her lie in it.’’ Then relenting a little at the look on Amélie’s face she added, “If her husband is a brute, of course she should leave him and come home to Maryland.’’

  So Amélie made the journey—rocking, jerking, halting, sometimes detouring because of blown up tracks or destroyed bridges—with only her thoughts for company. In Lexington her first place of inquiry was the local military headquarters where the Union army (bitterly referred to by the natives as the Occupation Forces) was still quartered. Yes, she was told by the officer in charge, Colonel Fowler had been demobilized there. But he had no idea where he had gone. Nor did anyone else. Fowler had left no forwarding address.

  Amélie, following up on the information in Mrs. Price’s letter, went to the sheriffs office and asked for directions to the McIntyre farm. The sheriff was at a loss until he consulted an old codger lounging on the veranda.

  “Mae ain’t there,’’ the old man said, moving his chaw of tobacco from one cheek to the other. “Sold the place and moved on. Had to. He was a Yankee lover.’’ Here he spat. “Folks hereabouts don’t take kindly to that. Made life techy for him.”

  “Was the person who bought the farm a Colonel Fowler?”

  “Nope.” He spat again. “Man by the name of John Jones. Paid cash they say. Don’t know much about him, ‘cept he’s got one eye.”

  John Jones. Was it an alias? The sketchy description didn’t fit but it could be a Damon who had lost an eye in the last days of the war. And if it wasn’t him, perhaps this Mr. Jones might be able to give her a clue as to where Damon and Babette had gone.

  “Can you tell me how to reach the McIntyre farm?” Amélie asked.

  “Sure. If you give me paper and pencil, I’ll draw you a map.”

  Amélie had been advised not to travel in a conveyance as the road leading to the farm was too rough for wheels. So she hired a horse at the local stable, a sway-back mount who went at a slow, deliberate walk no matter how much urging Amélie gave it. Resigning herself to its patient plodding, she rode out of Lexington, down the highway through bluegrass horse country famous for its racing thoroughbreds. Passing stone-fenced paddocks where slender-legged stallions and sleek brood mares grazed on rolling green fields, she could understand, in part, why Damon might want to settle here. He loved horses. Perhaps he had thought of breeding them as a full time occupation. The houses along the way all looked substantial, some of them palatial, set back on velvety lawns, shaded by ancient trees. An air of prosperity, so unlike the war-devastated scenes she had witnessed on her journey, hung over the countryside, and it encouraged her to think that all might be well.

  Following her directions she soon found the road that led to Yoland Dell, the turnoff the old codger had mentioned. Tulip trees rose high above her as she guided the horse down a slippery slope dotted with purple asters and pink catch fly. A stream gurgled at the bottom and the horse cautiously picked its way across. On the other side, ascending, she came to a wire fence.

  MCINTYRE FARM—NO TRESPASSING!!!

  She dismounted and after much tinkering and yanking opened the gate. Leading her horse through she shoved the obdurate gate to. Somewhere in the distance she could hear dogs barking. In the saddle once more, she followed a narrow track between unpruned hedges of red-haw hung with green berries. The barking grew louder. A few moments later two spotted coach dogs emerged from a gap in the hedge, snarling and yelping, drawing back on their haunches as if to spring. The horse, apparently accustomed to combative canines, seemed unperturbed. It went on in its slow, ambling walk, accompanied by the dogs who raged and leapt but kept their distance from the nag’s iron shod hooves.

  The hedge gave way to sycamores and dogwood, lacing their branches over the trail as it wound across a small dip and rose again. Amélie, peering through the trees, could see very little and she was wondering how far it was to the house when a shot rang out. The ricocheting sound sent a flock of birds upward in a panic-stricken whir of wings. Amélie, her heart beating erratically, her mouth dry, yanked the horse to an abrupt halt.

  A man carrying a breached rifle in the crook of his arm strode out from the trees. He was tall, lean, bearded, the patch over one eye giving his frown a menacing ferociousness. Neither the beard, the patch, the frown, nor the scar on his cheek, however, could hide his identity.

  Chapter

  ❖ 25 ❖

  “You read my sign?” the livid scar on Damon Fowler’s right cheek pulsed with anger.

  “Yes.” Amélie swallowed nervously, the old weakness coming over her at the sight of him.

  Damon barked a command to the still snarling dogs and they came to his side, sinking down on their paws, their tongues lolling with the rise and fall of their panting. “What is it you want, Mrs. Warner?”

  She flinched at his cold formality. “I’ve come to see Babette.”

  He gave her an icy stare. “She isn’t here.”

  “Not . . .” She swallowed again, trying to ease her dry throat. “What happened? She—she’s not dead?”

  “Dead? Babette?” His laugh was mirthless, unsettling. “She’s alive, alive and well. Yes, very much so. She eloped with her former lover, Willie Harper. He wrote her from Five Points and she went running.”

  It took Amélie a few moments to absorb this startling news. “Eloped? When?”

  “Does it matter? A month ago. Couldn’t bear my scarred face, she said. My one eye bothered her. Didn't want Toby,
our boy, even if I had chosen to give him to her.”

  “She went without the child?” Amélie was shocked.

  “Yes.”

  “But...” She searched for words. Babette’s desertion, though surprising, was not completely unexpected under the circumstances. Babette had never been able to tolerate mutilation, disease, or physical imperfection. She must have found Damon’s one-eyed, scarred visage unbearable. Then when Willie had reappeared and beckoned, she had just gone off. That would be like Babette, impulsively pursuing her own selfish comfort and pleasure. But what Amélie could not comprehend was Babette abandoning her son. It was inexplicable, shameful. It went against the laws of nature. How could a mother give up her child? Even a cat remained with its young while they still needed her.

  “I wonder that it surprises you,” Damon said, cynicism apparent in his voice.

  Biting her lip, Amélie only half heard the jibe as her mind probed, asking if Babette could have really done such a thing.

  “Why are you here?” Damon demanded abruptly. “Did you come to see Babette or was it to rescue her from my clutches? Or perhaps you came to claim the boy. Well, you can’t have him.”

  Amélie from her height in the saddle looked down at Damon. Dressed in drill trousers stuffed into riding boots and a dark coat, handsome despite his scarred face, he retained his old, annoying arrogance. Suddenly a hot, swift current of resentment ran through her veins.

  “You didn’t prevent Babette from taking the child?”

  “I didn’t have the opportunity to,” he said flatly. “She just went. Selfish to the last. Not giving a damn.”

  “You never did care much for Babette, did you?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Then why did you take up with her? Why did you marry her?” Amélie demanded.

  “Why?” His voice grated harshly. “Weakness—a blasted, stupid sense of chivalry. She knew I didn’t love her, but she would throw herself at me. And I’m no saint, never pretended to be. You had left without a single word of explanation, refused to see me. Ran off to Missouri, or wherever. And Babette was there. Fool that I was, I took what was offered. When she said she was in the family way I married her to give our child a name. Though you can be sure I had doubts I was the father until I saw little Toby.”

  “How dare you imply that about my sister? How dare . . .?”

  His look silenced her. Her protest had been made out of habit. Still defending Babette, still protecting her. Damon knew Babette’s weakness for men as well as Amélie did.

  “Now that she’s gone, good riddance,” Damon said bitterly. “I shan’t have the least trouble divorcing her, a woman who has deserted husband and child. Then I can put Babette and the whole damned Townsend clan down as a bad memory.”

  “I’m sorry—” Amélie began.

  “Sorry?” he interrupted vehemently. “Why should you be sorry? You don’t think for a moment that I’m begging for sympathy, do you? I'm glad she left, the little bitch, glad. I’m grateful to her for only one thing. My son.”

  The horse moved, stretching its neck to nibble from the lower limbs of a hobble bush.

  “Can I see him?” Amélie asked.

  Damon contemplated her coldly with his one eye. “There would be no point to it.”

  She suppressed the quick anger that rose again to her tongue. “But he is my nephew. I’ve come a long way— and it would be cruel to refuse. I just want to see him.”

  “It’s not to my liking,” he said shortly, shifting the rifle to his other arm.

  “I won’t make a fuss, I promise you.”

  He seemed to be mulling that over.

  “Just to see him,” she repeated urgently.

  He gave her a piercing look. “Very well. But let's make it brief, shall we? The briefer the better. This track will take you to the house. I’ll cut through the woods.”

  When she emerged from the trees she skirted a low stone wall that enclosed a grassy meadow in which several horses grazed. On the far side of the meadow stood the house, half brick, half gray slate, as if the builder had not quite made up his mind which he preferred.

  Damon arrived a few minutes later. He whistled and a young Negro came running from an outbuilding.

  “Moses, take Mrs. Warner’s horse and give it an armful of hay.” Turning to Amélie he said, “Come inside.”

  He did not help her dismount. His rudeness, she knew, was deliberate. He didn’t want her here and was hoping that by being churlish she would leave as soon as she had seen the child.

  She followed him through the door into a dim, very small entryway, dark and smelling of boiled greens. A staircase with a worn carpet led to the upper floor.

  “Wait in the parlor,” he instructed. “I’ll see if Toby’s awake.”

  She went into the room he indicated. It was a cheerless place, dusty and not very clean. Furnished with overstuffed divans and heavy dark tables, it reminded her of the parlor at the Woodsons’ farm. She tried to imagine Babette living in this room and couldn’t. She sat down on a fiddleback chair and waited. The house had a stillness about it she found depressing. Not even the tick of a clock. The ormolu on the mantel had stopped at 1:30. She wondered who cleaned the house, who cooked (obviously from the odor someone did), who took care of the child.

  Restless, impatient, she got up and went into the entry hail, staring at the staircase, straining to hear. There was the murmur of voices, the cry of a baby, footsteps. She slipped back into the parlor.

  She heard Damon’s heavy boots on the stairs and a few moments later he entered carrying the child upright, his cheek nestled against Damon’s thick black hair.

  “Toby,” Damon said, his harsh features softening, “this is your Aunt Amélie. Say hello.”

  Toby turned his head and stared at Amélie out of large hazel eyes. His hair, a melding of Damon’s black and Babette’s red-gold, was a deep russet. The shape of the face, the way his hair grew, were Damon’s.

  “Hello, Toby.” Amélie's lips trembled into a smile.

  The child broke into a happy grin and waving his hands cried, “Mama!” mistaking her for Babette.

  It completely undid her. Her throat tight with emotion she stretched out her arms and Damon, somewhat reluctantly, gave Toby over to her. The boy was heavy, warm, the cheek she kissed soft as a peach. She turned from Damon so that he could not see the held back tears.

  “He—oh, he’s . . .” Overcome, she sat down with him on a rocker, hugging him close to her, his little arms clinging to her neck.

  Damon said nothing, but stood lounging against a wall, hands in his pockets, a sarcastic twist to his lips.

  “How could Babette ever have left you?” she said to the child.

  “Yes. How could she?” Damon repeated. “Seems to run in the family, doesn’t it?”

  Amélie ignored his taunt "and began to talk to the child. “Such a handsome boy and so good. Did you know you had an Aunt Amélie?”

  She did not look up when she heard Damon leave the room. She covered Toby’s face with kisses, unashamed now of her feelings, her joy. “Can you talk, darlin’?” she coaxed him into saying a few phrases.

  Presently Toby began to fret. At this point a black woman entered the room. “Toby gettin’ fussy?” she asked, taking him from Amélie.

  “A little. It must be feeding time. And he’s wet.”

  “Yes’m, Miss . . .”

  “Amélie.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Ten month. Big foh his age, ain’t he? Smart, too. Less see yo’ stand, Toby.” She put him down where he could grasp the leg of a table. “Take a few steps foh yo’ Maisie. C’mon, c’mon. There—yo’ does it.” She swept the child up in her arms.

  After they left Amélie looked out the window and saw the sun sinking behind the trees. It would be an hour before sunset; if she hurried she might be back in Lexington by dark. But she didn’t want to go. Her time with Toby had been pitifully short. Oh, if only she could take him back
to Maryland with her, if only she could keep him! But she knew it was useless to think of it. Damon had said he would never let the child go and she believed him. Seeing them together she realized that it was love, rather than spite or revenge, that made Damon so adamant in his resolve to keep his son.

  Damon returned. “You’ll be wanting to start for town,” he said perfunctorily. “I’ll have Moses bring your horse around.”

  Amélie took the bull by the horns. “I was hoping you would ask me to stay.”

  “It didn’t enter my mind.”

  “I would like to. Give me at least a day with Toby. I can’t have him, I may never see him again.” She hated to beg. And she hated Damon for making begging expedient. But she couldn’t face the idea of returning to Baltimore when she and Toby had barely become acquainted. She wanted to hold him again, to talk, to play with him, to tell him how much she loved him even if the child might not understand. “I’m sure you can put me up without much trouble to yourself,” she added, trying not to sound vexed.

  “You were only to look at Toby, then go.”

  “Yes, but I had no idea he was such an entrancing child. He—oh, Damon, what harm could it do?”

  He gave her a long, searching look. “You haven’t got some devious scheme up your sleeve, have you?”

  “None. I swear.”

  He shrugged. “All right. I’ll have Maisie show you to a room.”

  Amélie was called to supper at six. In the dining room an old oaken table, scratched and unpolished, without a tablecloth or place mats, was laid for two. Maisie, tongue between her teeth, served a thin soup followed by chicken and dumplings and overcooked collards swimming in grease.

  It was an awkward, strained meal. Clearly unhappy with her presence, Damon spoke little, the long silences between him and Amélie pregnant with resentment.

  After one of those silences, Amélie, made bold by irritation, asked, “How did you lose your eye?” She didn’t care if she were rebuffed. To her surprise, however, he answered her question.