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Soldier in Her Lap
Copyright © 2014 by Haley Whitehall
ISBN: 978-1-61333-675-5
Cover art by Tibbs Designs
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC
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Soldier in Her Lap
By
Haley Whitehall
Chapter One
Clark Springs, Georgia
July 31, 1864
Under the shade of a sprawling oak, Sophia watched her friend Charlotte ride away with her new husband Thomas in a rented buggy. They weren’t going very far since he only had two days furlough from his regiment. But that didn’t matter. At the hotel in town, they’d further seal their future together as man and wife.
Sophia’s heart clenched. Why couldn’t it be her getting married instead? She didn’t have any feelings for Thomas; she just wanted to escape her papa’s grasp. During the wedding, she had forgotten about her miserable life for a few blissful moments. Her best friend’s marriage illuminated her own pitiful existence. Charlotte was two years younger than Sophia. She was eighteen, and yet she’d married first.
“Miss Carpenter,” Albert Penn said in a cordial voice.
Startled, Sophia gasped and pressed a hand to her chest. There were very few young men at the wedding party since so many had joined the Confederate Army. She hadn’t expected any of those present to bother talking to her.
Mr. Penn stood awkwardly. A horse riding accident in his boyhood days had mangled his left leg thus saving him from the rebel ranks. “I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to surprise you. You must have been in deep thought.”
Sophia relaxed. “I was.” Short and round, with strawberry blond hair and a smattering of freckles, Mr. Penn wasn’t the most attractive man. But of course, the dashing gentlemen like Thomas never paid her much mind. Did one of the other girls tell Mr. Penn to talk to her?
“Yes, Mr. Penn?” she asked.
The man smiled. “May I get you any refreshments?”
“A glass of punch would be nice. Thank you.”
Mr. Penn nodded. “I will be right back and then maybe we can talk?” His voice sounded hopeful.
Sophia’s mouth turned as dry as week-old bread. Being unable to speak, she merely nodded. Mr. Penn was the first man to show interest in her in a long time. She did not want to ruin her rare opportunity.
Mr. Penn limped over to the refreshment table and she tried to relax. He wouldn’t bite. “Enjoying the party?” Mr. Penn returned, handing her a glass of punch.
Sophia took a dainty sip. “I am now.”
“I’m glad. You know you intrigue me, Miss Carpenter.”
“I do?” There was nothing special about her. The yellow dress she wore had its own beauty, but she didn’t consider herself beautiful. Even when clean, her dark brown hair looked dull. At least she had ringlets. Not tall or well endowed, she was just plain—plain like her mama. “And what intrigues you, Mr. Penn?”
“You are so mysterious. You don’t chatter like the other girls,” he said, indicating the table with the most popular ladies in town.
Sophia laughed. She’d never thought Papa keeping her from social events would ever work in her favor. “I never know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything at all,” Mr. Penn said, meeting her gaze. “Your crystal clear eyes can speak for you.”
A lump rose in her throat and her stomach fluttered. How sweet!
“Mr. Penn,” Mr. Bonner, his partner at the munitions factory, interrupted. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I will be going home soon, and I was hoping to discuss a little business with you first.”
Mr. Penn sighed. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry I had forgotten.”
“Got a little distracted?” Mr. Bonner said and then laughed softly.
“Perhaps another time. Farewell, Miss Carpenter,” Mr. Penn said, and limped away.
Why had Mr. Bonner teased him for being distracted with her? That laugh didn’t sound all friendly.
She groaned, unable to hold back her frustration. Why did business have to get in the way of her special moment?
Sophia struggled to keep up her cheerful façade. Her chest felt hollow where her heart should be. It would always be hollow until a man touched it, claimed it. Papa didn’t care for her the way a father should. Would she spend the rest of her life alone?
If Papa had his way, she’d never get married and she’d turn into an old spinster staying at their poor excuse of a farm to take care of him. Treated her like a slave, he did. Same way he’d treated her mama until the woman died. The doctor’s report had said influenza, but Sophia knew Papa had killed her—worked her to death while he stayed in the house and drank whiskey.
A woman wasn’t built to plow fields all day in the hot sun, keep house, and raise a daughter at the same time. But she did just everything she could to put food on the table for her family and make up for Papa’s shortcomings. And he had a bushelfull. In all her life, Sophia couldn’t recall Papa ever lifting a finger to do an honest day’s work.
Mr. Rawlins joined her under the oak tree. His black reverend’s clothes made him look distinguished and, unfortunately, instantly respectable in the eyes of the people of Clark Springs. “I rescued you from that man just in the nick of time.”
“Rescued me?” Sophia asked, trying to keep her voice level and polite, but a biting edge invaded. “I didn’t realize I needed rescuing.”
Mr. Rawlins offered a tight smile—too smug for his own good. “I reminded Mr. Bonner of his important business. Why do you think your papa allowed you to attend the wedding? I agreed to keep an eye on you. I wouldn’t let the devil drag his daughter away from righteousness.”
“What?” Out of all the underhanded…. Her thoughts went to some very unladylike places. If the reverend knew her choice of words, she’d get a thrashing.
Bile bubbled in her gut, and the punch threatened to revolt. She gritted her teeth, the temperature of her blood rising by the second. Hopefully, if the guests noticed her flush, they’d think the summer heat had caused it.
Her insides burned and sucked the moisture out of her mouth. “Yes, you are right,” Sophia squeaked in a small voice.
“That’s why I am looking out for you,” Mr. Rawlins said. “Satan tempts us all, but especially the young.”
Her breath caught in her lungs and they squeezed together, forcing it out. She should have known there would be a catch when Papa agreed to let her attend the wedding. Normally, he tried to shelter her from social events. Didn’t want men’s lustful eyes feeling her up, he’d say.
She covered her mouth, pretending to yawn, and grunted. Papa just didn’t want to risk the chance she’d run away with some man and leave him to fend for himself.
The wind picked up and she folded her arms. Clouds rushed in and covered the summer sun. Thankful for the shade, she groaned when the sky opened up and poured down. The oak tree provided some cover, but not nearly enough. Rain drenched her bonnet, her dress, and her skin.
Mr. Rawlins offered her his arm. “May I escort you home, Miss Carpenter?” he asked. “We best hurry before the road washes out.”
Sophia nodded and placed her hand on his arm. Touching him revolted her, but she’d walked here. A ride home would be appreciated. “Will you tell Papa about Mr. Penn?” she asked, getting into the carriage.
Mr. Rawlins shook his head. “I see no need.”
Thank goodness for the small blessing. Sophia exhaled a long breath. She wouldn’t be relentlessly questioned and chastised needlessly.
***
Sophia stared at the farmhouse. The small house, in desperate need of repairs, looked nearly uninhabitable. A stranger to these parts might even think it deserted. At least it continued to stand around them and the roof only leaked a little. It could be worse.
She opened the door and tentatively stepped inside. Looking around, she didn’t see Papa. Maybe she could sneak up to her room. Picking up the sides of her dress, she hurried up the stairs.
“Sophia!” Papa bellowed.
She stopped in her tracks and gripped the railing. Darn. Of course, he’d catch me. “Yes?” she said, turning around.
“I’m hungry. Get down here and start supper.”
“Yes, Papa. As soon as I get out of my Sunday dress.”
She rushed to her room and peeled off her wet clothing and changed into her plain muslin working dress. Downstairs, she mopped up the puddles of water with some old rags and set buckets in three places on the sitting room floor to catch the rain. Time to make another poor excuse of a meal. Entering the kitchen, she put on her apron and started a fire in the stove.
Their lack of money didn’t provide much choice of what to cook. She settled with making cornbread, mashed potatoes, and sliced an array of fresh vegetables. After dishing up Papa’s meal, she made a plate for herself and set them on the table along with silverware and glasses of water. Then she called, “Supper’s ready.”
Papa ambled in, sat, and stretched his legs under the table. His long face full of black whiskers looked downright mean tonight. He stared at the plate. “Where’s the meat? How is a body supposed to live without meat?”
“We don’t have any meat, Papa,” Sophia said, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Why not?”
The walls of her stomach squeezed together. Did he expect her to go hunting, too? “The rabbit snares came up empty the past couple days and we have no livestock. We already butchered every one down to the last stringy chicken.”
“Don’t sass me, girl.” He reached across the table and slapped her face. “We could always eat Nell.”
Her cheek stung and she inhaled sharply. Tears burned her eyes and she blinked them away. “We are not going to eat the old horse and I’m sure she wouldn’t taste very good.”
He waved his fork in the air. “We might just have to test your theory.”
Picking up his plate along with her own, she carried them back to the stove. “If you don’t want to eat what I fixed, you can go hungry,” she said. Setting his plate down, she began eating her own while standing and looking out the large kitchen window.
“Now listen here, girl,” Papa said. “You better start showing me some respect.”
Sophia rolled her eyes. He didn’t know the first thing about respect. “You can go hunting if you want meat. You still have your musket, Papa.” Or did he expect God to deliver meat to their house to keep them fed?
“I’ll go hunting as soon as I feel better,” Papa said.
Sophia shook her head. Every other word out of his mouth was a lie. Hunting was work, so he’d find a way reason why he couldn’t go. “You haven’t sold your musket yet for booze,” she muttered under her breath. Considering they didn’t have much left to hock, that might be next.
Papa let out an animalistic grunt. “Bring my plate back.”
Sophia handed him his plate and then returned to looking out the window. If only I could escape, get far away from here.
“You going to come back to the table?” Papa asked.
“No. Not after you hit me.”
“That? That was nothing.”
Sophia touched her cheek, her flesh still warm from the sting. She didn’t have to see her reflection to know it had turned red. “Last time you hit me, you promised never to do it again,” she said.
“I’m sorry. I’m feeling poorly.”
You’re always feeling poorly. The excuse soured her stomach. Mr. Rawlins—she would not disgrace the Bible by giving him the title of reverend—preached a father had the right to beat his children and even his wife. She’d read every word written in the Bible and learned it was all hogwash like everything else he preached.
When she’d called her papa on it, he’d beaten her with his belt and then called Reverend Rawlins over to preach to her and get the foolishness out of her head.
Papa hadn’t had enough to drink today—probably had a heck of a headache. If she wasn’t there to cook for him, he’d try living off liquid corn.
She cooked and cleaned and worked the garden, and checked the traps hoping to get enough food to keep them alive.
The cornbread disintegrated in her mouth, but she kept chewing. If she didn’t run away or find a man to help her, she’d die on this dirt farm, just like Mama.
She knew she shouldn’t goad him, but his actions had fanned her anger past the point of reason. “I’m going to get me a man,” she said.
Papa burst out laughing, a deep, mocking rumble. Her head snapped around to him and she saw he’d opened up one of his jugs. Raising it to his lips, he took a long pull, swallowed, then laughed some more.
“You find a man? Girl, there ain’t no men around here. They’re all off fighting the Yankees. And I made sure the men left in town know to stay away from you.”
Stay away from me because you won’t allow me any callers. He’d shot at the last man who’d tried.
“The only way you’re going to get a husband is if a man lands in your lap.”
Her bosom weighed heavy with sorrow and despair. When she was a little girl, her mama had often told her the story of Cinderella. Said if she worked really hard like Cinderella, she’d be rewarded with her Prince Charming.
How many years of hard labor and abuse did she have to take? She closed her eyes and prayed for a man to come to her. Lord, I need a husband to land in my lap.
Chapter Two
Lucas lay in the ambulance wagon with a bunch of other wounded Confederate soldiers. The stench of blood and death hung heavy in the air. In the cramped quarters, he felt the world closing in on him. He dragged breath into his lungs, trying to relax, but the need for space remained strong.
The wagon went over some ruts and several of the soldiers groaned. The jostling hurt like hell, aggravating their wounds. Lucas pushed himself to a sitting position with his legs stretched out. The bandages he’d wrapped around his right leg seemed to have stopped the bleeding. By the
time they got to the hospital, would it be infected? Living the rest of his life with a peg leg would be a fate almost as bad as death.
An older, black-haired man grabbed his bloody stomach and let out a rattling gasp; eyes glassy, he turned still.
“Roll him out,” one of the other soldiers ordered.
Lucas watched as a stout Irishman pushed the corpse unceremoniously out of the wagon.
The futility of it all hit him hard, punching his gut. The South didn’t have a prayer of winning this war, and yet Jefferson Davis wouldn’t agree to surrender or talks of peace. The bloody politician expected them to fight until every last Confederate soldier had found his grave.
Well, Lucas wasn’t going to stick around until that happened. He glanced at his wounded comrades. They were in much worse shape than he. Although his leg pained him enough, he’d almost forgotten about the musket ball grazing his scalp. The sudden movement brought on a headache.
The sawbones might take one look at him, patch him up, and send him back to the front lines. He didn’t want that, and he refused to die for a cause that had nothing to do with him. This was a rich man’s war, but the low-down scum of a government had enacted a draft and he’d been snared and taken away from his horse farm.
This was his chance to get out.
The wagon slowed to cross a bridge which swayed under the weight and the wheels creaked as they turned over the aged planks.
He scooted to the end of the wagon and dangled his legs over the edge. Glancing to the side, he watched the river racing underneath. The dark water looked more ominous than inviting. Taking his brother’s dare, he’d jumped off cliffs higher than this in his childhood. No chickening out now.
“What are you doing, Private Grady?” his corporal asked, a rough edge to his voice.
Lucas jumped. His wounded leg, unable to support his weight, crumpled, and he fell onto the wooden planks. Pain shot to his feet and he moaned.
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