This is going to be more difficult—and more entertaining—than I thought.
He didn’t take more than a moment to glance around, but in that time he saw all he needed to see. The dining room table, covered in a lace cloth, seated twelve comfortably. Extra chairs lined one wall and a long sideboard sat across from it against another. The hutch stood empty—perhaps the fine china had been sold to put food on the table.
Shaelyn left and waited in the hall. Impatient, her foot tapped a beat on the marble floor. Remy grinned and slowed his pace to annoy her a bit more.
The ground floor of Magnolia House held a myriad of surprises, not the least of which was a billiard table in the game room and a fine piano in the music room. No artwork adorned the walls, but he noticed bright squares on the wallpaper where pictures had once hung. No carpets covered the floor, either, and the rhythmic tap of his cane seemed very loud, especially in the room he suspected was the formal parlor, which contained not a stick of furniture, not even a plant. Perhaps the furniture and paintings had been sold as well. Or bartered.
“This is a lovely home, Miss Cavanaugh.”
“Yes, and I’d like to keep it that way, Major. I would appreciate it if you and your men leave it exactly as you find it.” She led the way upstairs to the bedrooms at a quick step. Remy followed slowly, using his cane and the carved banister for support. After so many hours on horseback, his leg felt like a foreign appendage made of lead as he placed one foot in front of the other on the treads. Each time he put pressure on his leg, a fresh wave of pain shot through him. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Still, he endured, welcoming the burning rush. His circumstances, like so many others, could have been much worse and he could have died, several times, since the day he’d been shot.
Shaelyn waited at the top of the stairs, her fingers gripping the banister, knuckles white. He looked at her for a moment, saw how stiffly she stood, and forced himself to move faster. He had too much pride to show her his weakness.
When he reached the landing, he took a deep breath. He didn’t apologize, nor did he acknowledge her as his gaze swept the upstairs hallway.
There were six bedrooms in all on the second floor, some with adjoining sitting rooms, some without. All led out to the gallery, which encircled Magnolia House. He inspected each bedroom, mentally naming who would occupy which.
The manse more than met his expectations. His officers, those who had elected to stay with him and not somewhere else in Natchez, including the apartments over the Cavanaugh warehouse, would be quite comfortable here for the duration of their stay. The proximity to Union headquarters at Rosalie was perfect.
Between the last two bedrooms stood a closed door. Thinking it held linens and such, Remy opened it. A smile curved his lips.
“The bathroom,” Shaelyn said from behind him.
The small room contained a commode, a sink with brass spigots, and a large clawfoot bathtub. “Indoor plumbing,” he remarked with pleasure. He entered the room and faced the sink, then turned the tap and waved his finger beneath the flowing water. Steam rose to coat the mirror and he wondered if there was, perhaps, a copper tank somewhere in the house that kept water heated. It didn’t surprise him. Sean Cavanaugh owned steamboats. Surely he could devise something…or pay someone to devise something. Remy didn’t ask though. Instead, he wiped the steam away and caught his grinning reflection. And something else—a tile-floored structure in the corner of the room. “What is this?”
“We call it a rain bath.” Shaelyn moved into the room, opened the wooden door, and pulled the lever connected to the pipe leading up to a wide, round brass . . . thing. Water flowed onto the tile floor, like it sprinkled from the sky during a rainstorm, before she turned it off. “Instead of taking a bath, you can stand in here and let the water flow over you to get clean.”
He’d heard about them, but had never seen one. And couldn’t wait to try it. The structure gave a completely new way to keep clean, and after what he’d been through, cleanliness was something he valued. He said nothing more as she moved past him and stood by the door to the last room, her arms folded against her chest as she waited for him.
Remy poked his head through the doorway. He liked the stark simplicity of this room. The walls were papered in a soft white with sprigs of purple violets and green leaves. The draperies repeated the pattern. An intricately carved four-poster bed took up space between the French doors leading to the gallery. The bed looked inviting with its plump pillows slanting against the headboard.
“This will be my room.”
“But . . . but this is mine,” Shaelyn sputtered.
“No longer,” he said as he made his way down the hallway. “Have your possessions removed before dinner. Your mother’s also.”
“And where am I supposed to sleep?”
He turned and grinned at her, couldn’t help it. “You could stay with me.”
Her eyes widened and color stained her cheeks. She drew in her breath sharply. “How dare you even…suggest…such a thing!”
Remy shrugged. “It’s your choice.” The idea of her warming his bed brought a vivid image to his mind.
“I am not that sort of woman!” Her eyes flashed with pride.
He took pity on her and relented. She didn’t know him, didn’t know his sense of humor. She couldn’t have known he wasn’t like most men, who would have taken advantage of this kind of situation. “You may move into the servants’ quarters for the duration,” he said over his shoulder as he continued down the hall.
“I thought we had an agreement, Major. You said you’d try to make your stay as pleasant as possible.” She caught up with him and grabbed his arm, stopping his progress. Her eyes narrowed. “You said—”
“I know what I said, Miss Cavanaugh.” He looked at her small white hand on his arm and felt an infusion of warmth seep through his sleeve. Her touch ignited a fierce yearning in him. In another time and place—he didn’t allow himself to finish the thought. “I am allowing you and your mother to remain here, but make no mistake. I am in command. My orders will not be questioned. I don’t accept it from my men and I won’t accept it from you. Do I make myself clear?”
Shaelyn nodded and stepped back, releasing her grip on his arm.
“I’m glad we understand each other. We are in the middle of a war. We all must make sacrifices.”
“Yes, Major, we are in the middle of a war,” Shaelyn said, her voice strong with defiance, her body stiff and unyielding. “But your battle has just begun.”
She spun on her heel and sashayed down the stairs. Remy watched her, fascinated. “If it’s a battle you want, Miss Cavanaugh, it’s a battle you shall have.”
About the Author
Marie Patrick has always had a love affair with words and books, but it wasn’t until a trip to Arizona, where she now makes her home with her husband and her furry, four-legged “girl,” that she became inspired to write about the sometimes desolate, yet beautiful landscape. Her inspiration doesn’t just come from the Wild West, though. It comes from history itself. She is fascinated with pirates and men in uniform and lawmen with shiny badges. When not writing or researching her favorite topics, she can usually be found curled up with a good book. Marie loves to hear from her readers. Drop her a note at [email protected], or visit her website at www.mariepatrick.com.
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