by Aileen Fish
“I thought dessert would be nice before the fire.” She spoke shyly. “Jillian and I labored over sweet potato pie. It’s still warm.”
“Delicious,” he said, unable to take his eyes from her lips. How plain he’d thought her that day she’d stormed his shop. How wrong he’d been. Her eyes flashing at her belief of his injustice to Trudy.
She cared. He could see it in her hands when they mended his socks. Her voice, when she spoke firmly, telling Trudy it was time for bed.
A future splayed before him, warmed him.
She was no Anne. No beautiful debutante. Yet, there was a deeper, inner beauty that shined, from her eyes, her smile. He could grow to love this woman. Kiss that pointed, determined chin. Strong forehead. Push his fingers through that unruly hair that brandished brilliant depths of light.
“The pie?”
John blinked, and felt the heat crawl up his neck, certain his fantasies were plainly displayed for all to see. “Of course,” he said. “Where shall I set the tray?” He glanced over at Trudy. Those large eyes, watching him, mouth turned down.
Elizabeth cleared a spot on a sturdy chest.
The room fell into an uncomfortable silence.
Elizabeth turned to him. “Is something wrong?”
“Of course not,” he said lightly. “Shall we eat?”
They ate in silence, and after a time, John ventured to breach the awkwardness. “Trudy, have you shown Elizabeth any of your drawings?”
Her bottom lip poked out and he thought she wouldn’t answer, but she surprised him. “No.”
“You draw?” Elizabeth glanced up, then her nose crinkled endearingly. “I couldn’t draw a straight line to save my life.”
“Anyone can draw a straight line,” Trudy huffed.
Elizabeth rose from her seat went to his daughter, crouching down beside her. “May I see?”
John let out a small stream of air, relieved as some of the tension fell away.
“These are remarkable,” she breathed.
Trudy’s blush had him restraining from jumping up and wrapping Elizabeth in his arms. “She’s incredibly talented,” he said, pride swelling his chest. “I hadn’t any idea of the depths of that talent until she began visiting me at the shop.”
Elizabeth turned a startled gaze on him. “How...nice.” She looked at Trudy. “You’ve been visiting your father?”
He grinned. “Every day, for almost two weeks now.” Was this how a normal couple behaved? Little pockets of arguments surrounded by smooth times of calm? Except for separate sleeping quarters, perhaps. And he was working on a plan to modify that. God, he wanted to kiss his wife.
Elizabeth stood and shook out her skirts. “I believe it’s time for bed, Miss Gertrude.”
In Trudy-form, she shot Elizabeth a scowl, even opened her mouth to object, he’d wager, but a second later clamped her lips together. She rose, and moved before him. “Good night, Papa.”
Touched, he lifted his arms. Her drawing pad fell to the floor and she threw herself at him. He squeezed her to his chest, reveled in the small, yet strong arms wound tightly about his neck. “Sleep well, child.” He kissed the top of her head with hair that smelled fruit-like and unidentifiable. He set her on her feet.
As the latch clicked into place on behind her, John’s gaze swung to Elizabeth. “Thank you,” he said.
Her eyes met his, startled. “For what?”
And that’s what he loved—appreciated about Elizabeth. She handled a situation that could have evolved into a dramatic stand-off with matter-of-fact ‘this is how it is’ aplomb. Anne would have screeched at the injustice of an ungrateful child. Or tossed her drawings on the fire in a fit of jealousy. Had she lived, he couldn’t begin to imagine Anne ever mastering the skills Elizabeth had just displayed.
His leg pained him, but with his eyes pinning Elizabeth’s, he limped to her. Took her slender hand in his and lifted it to his lips. He was reminded of how they stood before the minister, just two weeks ago. Her eyes that day, filled with apprehension. Yet, tonight, gazing back into his they looked...soft, wanting.
Chapter 8
The next morning, Elizabeth rose early, as she had every day since learning Trudy had dismissed her obligations in going to the church. Shock did not describe her surprise in learning of father and daughter’s time together. The fact made her smile.
The problem as Elizabeth saw it was not having known in the first place. Trudy hadn’t shared the fact that she and her father were visiting every day. Begging the question—what else was the little imp doing Elizabeth didn’t know about?
She let out a sigh, determined not to take issue with this particular point. Nothing but good could come of Trudy spending time with her father. And right now, she just needed to see Trudy off to school, then make certain she paid her retribution to the church with her promised visit.
Elizabeth had no desire in facing Bernadette’s condescension a second time. She set the tea kettle on the fire, then put together a store of rations for Trudy to eat throughout the day. Her day was much too long.
The door to the kitchen banged against the wall. Elizabeth calmly turned, biting back a burst of laughter or an inappropriate oath at the sight before her. “Gertrude, you will not leave this house without putting a brush through your hair. And we shall have a talk about your duty in going to the chapel as was previously arranged.” She turned back to the stove and stirred the porridge. “Please bring your school bag on your way back in. Breakfast is just about ready.”
With a snarl, Trudy stomped from the room.
Jillian stood at the sink, washing dishes. Her quiet laughter filled the room. “Mrs. Williams, you sure have a way with Trudy.”
Elizabeth didn’t see it, but compressed a smile, regardless. Trudy was behaving admirably. Not a single outrageous antic had been reported since the wedding. Elizabeth wasn’t fool enough to believe life was perfect, but she had reason to hope. “I think it may be safe to venture out today, Jillian. Trudy seems to have curbed her rebellion. For the moment at least.”
This time the kitchen door opened, this time, ominously soft.
Bearing up, Elizabeth turned.
Fury emanated from the eight-year-old, though her hair was indeed nicely tied back with a blue ribbon at the base of her nape. There was no doubt she’d heard Elizabeth’s comment from the other side of the door.
Guilt churned in Elizabeth’s stomach. She snatched a bowl from the baker’s rack and faced her, realizing she’d spoken too glibly. For all Trudy’s tough veneer, Elizabeth should have been the first one to recognize the depth of her sensitivity. She looked so small standing there, holding her school bag in knuckles white with her grip. “Your breakfast is ready.”
“You aren’t allowed to call me that.”
Elizabeth flinched from the venom spewing from her. “I’m sorry.”
“I hate you. I’ll go see Mrs. Babbage like I was supposed to. You’re ugly and she’s pretty.” Tears shimmered in her eyes, then fell. “She’ll probly listen to what I say too. I wish Papa had married her.” She spun and ran out. Her footsteps echoed through the house until the front door smashed against the frame like a gunshot.
The hush in the house grew oppressive until Elizabeth thought she would choke. Her fingers felt numb. The porridge spoon clattered to the floor and she jolted as if she’d been struck. “She’s right. That was thoughtless of me.”
“Mrs. Williams, you are the closest thing to a mother that child has seen in her short life.” Jillian led her to a chair at the table and patted her on the shoulder. She bent down and picked up the spoon. “You’ll see. Tomorrow she’ll have forgotten all about this little episode.”
“Thank you for saying so, Jillian.” Elizabeth knew it would never be so simple between her and Trudy—Gertrude. It wouldn’t do to forget. She swiped a hand over her face and breathed deep. No since crying over what couldn’t be changed. “There’s supplies we need from Millicent’s. I’ll be going into town.”
>
“Yes, ma’am.”
~*~
“Dammit, John, the information is getting out there somehow.” Nigel’s explosion hit the walls and rattled the windows, and John was right there with him. “We were lucky enough in cracking the rebels’ code so we could alert Meade to Lee’s movement, but another hit like that will set us back.”
“I want to know how two of Meade’s corps had been sent to relieve the siege at Chattanooga.”
“You and me, both,” Nigel said darkly. He paced the small space and John felt a surge of envy at his easy stride.
John glanced out the window and his pulse pounded a little harder as his wife, in her drab brown cloak, disappeared into Millicent’s General Store.
~*~
“Good afternoon, Miss Millicent. That wind is mighty fierce today.”
“So the little heathen ain’t done you in yet.” She cackled. A rusty, grated sound that rivaled scraping a tin can against a chalked board. A sound that ripped through Elizabeth.
Her jaw tightened. “I need a sack of flour, beans, and sugar.” She spoke briskly, having no desire to loiter in the elderly woman’s presence any longer than necessary. She consulted her list.
Just then the door blew open, sending her list sailing through the air.
“Oh, my. Will spring never arrive?”
A tall, stern woman had entered, her mousy brown hair in disarray, hat clutched in her hand. Sharp angled cheekbones, pointed chin, and pale skin were offset by intelligent blue eyes. Eyes that landed on Elizabeth.
“Oh, you must be the new Mrs. Williams. I’m Miss Jolson. The schoolmistress.”
Ah. “Yes, I’m Mrs. Williams.” Elizabeth shook her thin, chilled hand and smiled.
“How is Gertrude? I received your note saying she’s been quite ill since the wedding.”
Smile frozen in place, Elizabeth nodded. “Much better.”
“I’m a bit concerned at her missing so much schooling. The child is wild and unruly and she is falling miserably behind.”
Embarrassed, and at a loss for words, Elizabeth bit back her shock. Trudy hadn’t been to school for two weeks? “I’m sorry. I fear Gertrude is having trouble adjusting to her new situation?” An understatement.
Miss Jolson sniffed her disdain. “It is quite obvious to me, she has no interest in any schoolwork other than her art.”
The urge to slap the woman had Elizabeth squeezing her hand into a fist. “There is such a thing as compassion. Surely, you can see how talented my stepdaughter is.”
“Art will get her nowhere. Not to mention her notoriety for her rebellious antics.”
A snort sounded from behind the counter. Miss Millicent.
Anger, pure and hot, spiked Elizabeth’s blood. It didn’t matter that what they said was true. Trudy was still a child. A child whose father’s indifference stung her young heart. “Miss Jolson,” she said coolly. “You are a teacher. Shouldn’t you show an unfortunate child a little more compassion?”
“I have fifteen students, Mrs. Williams. Every one of those other children are just as affected by the war in some fashion or another.”
“But her mother—”
“Her mother chose to die.”
“What a horrid thing to say,” she bit out. “No one chooses to die.”
The smug look on her face sent a chill up Elizabeth’s spine. “Of course, they do. What would you call self-inflicted knife wounds to the wrist?” She lifted her chin and skirted by. “Good day, Mrs. Williams. I hope to see Gertrude in school very soon.”
Elizabeth’s hand flew to her chest. John had some questions to answer. The first of which, why Trudy lied about being in school each day, she thought, marching to the door. And leaving Elizabeth to learn about his late wife in such a manner...it was abominable.
Once outside in the bitter wind, she found the steps to the shop blocked by a handsome gray. “How are you, fella? I suppose my husband has company.”
He snickered softly, tossing his head.
The normalcy of his response calmed her. She moved around the horse and opened the door softly, not wishing to disturb John, choosing to wait quietly in a corner while he finished up his conversation with his guest.
“The problem is, if there is another breach as dangerous as the last one, they’ll come after you. You know what that means?”
“Of course, I know what it means,” he snapped
“Everything you hold dear—and by everything, I mean every one—will be considered suspect. There have been rebels spotted in the area.”
Elizabeth’s stomach dipped into a flutter of fear.
John exploded. “Oh, for God’s sake. I have an eight-year-old child, and a wife. A young wife. Females.”
Elizabeth didn’t know whether to be thrilled or indignant at John’s outburst. But it mattered not. She was terrified by the words charging through the air. She settled deeper into the corner.
The shop went quiet. “What is that?” the stranger demanded.
“What is what?”
“I heard something.” A head full of dark curly hair appeared around the doorjamb.
Elizabeth rose from her perch, resisted putting her chilled hands to her heated face. “Good afternoon.”
“Ah. Mrs. Williams, I presume.” He moved forward with all the grace of an aristocrat. He was tall. Taller than her husband, with a strong jawline and, if he chose to smile, she knew it would be a devastating curl of his lips. Still, there was something about him that made her uncomfortable. His eyes. A startling blue, that were watchful. As if they could see right through her.
“Elizabeth? Here?” John shifted into view. “What are you doing?” It was a sharp demand. Nothing of the encouraging confidences she experienced of their shared evenings.
“I-I needed to speak with y-you.” Her voice shook.
The tall man stepped forward and bowed elegantly from the waist. “Forgive, my friend for his appalling manners. I’m Nigel Kilgore. Your husband and I served under McDowell.” And then he turned that smile on her, showing straight, white teeth. A smile that did not quite reach his watchful eyes. She couldn’t help thinking of a hungry wolf advancing upon his weakened prey.
“I shall be home soon, Elizabeth. We can talk then.”
She flinched at the acerbic bite. “Of course. I’m sorry to have interrupted.” Soundly put in her place, she clutched her cloak at the neck and walked stiffly out the door.
Chapter 9
“Nicely played, my friend.”
John scrubbed a palm over his face. Wasn’t that the truth? How much ruder could he have been? Not much, considering Elizabeth’s swift exit. But the admiration in her eyes when Nigel displayed his Philadelphia roots in all his privileged glory was like a dagger twisted in his gut.
Perhaps, he’d misjudged his wife. Maybe she resembled Anne’s flirting demeanor more than he’d realized. He made his way to the worn, uncomfortable settee in front of the windows and sat; ran his hand over the ache in his thigh. “Look,” he said to Nigel. “Just nose around. See if you can get a handle on who is jeopardizing our efforts.”
Nigel smirked. “Certainly.” A second later he shifted to all seriousness. “Watch your back, my friend.” He snatched his hat off the table Trudy used when visiting, and planted it on his head. “I’ll be in touch.”
John watched him step outside and leap upon his horse with an ease that was not without envy. His thoughts moved back to his wife. That was the first time she’d come by his shop since presenting Trudy and the pretty blue ribbon she’d filched. Guilt gnawed him. Her mission must have been important. He moved back to the work table, determined to complete the Carolina coastline.
Jealous of Nigel and his wife. Ridiculous. Neither were of the mind to run to the other. Anne had been a spoiled child, and war hadn’t stopped her from her incessant need of attention and of throwing her tantrums. Elizabeth did not deserve his accusations, and certainly not without finding out what she needed first. He would make it up to her toni
ght.
~*~
Stunned, and a little hurt, Elizabeth managed to get outside the shop, dignity intact. She stood there a moment unsure what to do, where to go, feeling as if she’d been tossed aside like a sack of feed.
Trudy’s deceptions, her father’s callus rejections. All ran together, forming a sludge of hurt and resentment deep inside. But the frigid air helped clear her mind and Mr. Kilgore’s words seeped in. Information was missing. There was a spy in the area. Rebels.
The cold penetrated through to her bones. “Papa.” A visible steam of breath rose with the one word. She’d confront her father. He must know something, considering how he’d forced her into cooking for the enemy. She stepped down from the porch, and struck out on foot, anger still heating her blood, snow up to her ankles. It was but four blocks to Papa’s. John could see the carriage home.
She marched with a renewed sense of purpose. She would show that…that stony husband of hers just what she was made of. The Victorian façade of her new home came into view fifteen minutes later. An artic trepidation iced any shred of warmth within. She glanced back at the past two blocks she’d walked. Visibility had lessened. Her resolve was weakening, tempting her to hide within John’s home and pretend she’d never heard their silly conversation. But how could she live with herself, knowing her father might be a...a traitor? Archibald’s sallow features appeared in her mind, his words… “I won’t even watch,” he’d said. Well, she’d play things smart this time around and find a weapon of some sort.
It would take but a moment. From the front entry hall she could hear Jillian fussing about in the kitchen, more like singing to herself. Elizabeth slipped in the parlor on stealthy feet. A quick search lauded nothing viable for defending herself against the likes of Archibald and his friends. She darted up the stairs and turned slowly. Only the slightest tinge of guilt breached her conscience until she recalled John’s words “they’re females.”
