LoverforRansom

by Debra Glass

  “Welcome to Byrne’s End,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion.

  “All this is…is yours?” Cathleen couldn’t stop staring. Throughout the South, she’d seen barren landscapes where both armies had denuded the land of trees for firewood. She’d seen the shells of once grand homes and barns left in charred ruins. Everywhere, the scent of lumber filled the air where businesses and houses were being rebuilt.

  But this place looked unscathed by the war.

  As the wagon neared, she noticed the whitewash on the columns flaked near the top. Here and there, a shutter hung by one hinge. A few stumps littered the front lawn, but for the most part, Byrne’s End looked like something out of a novel.

  Realizing this was to be her home for an indeterminable amount of time, Cathleen gulped. This grand house made her feel even more like a poor, half-blind Yankee girl, coming so far from home to find work.

  Before the wagon lumbered to a stop, Mr. Byrne hopped down.

  The wagon passed the side entrance and his forehead furrowed. “Whoa, Charles?”

  “Whoa!” Charles stood and pulled on the reins with all his might but the horse trudged on.

  Waving his arms, Byrne broke into a run. “Whoa! Whoa, Blaze!”

  Panic blossomed in Cathleen’s breast and spread like wildfire. Even though the horse had never increased his speed, runaway horse went through her mind and she bounded off the back of the wagon, tripping over her skirts and rolling on the dusty driveway.

  Pain shot through her hands and knees. A coppery taste filled her mouth and she realized she’d bitten her lip.

  Her glasses had toppled off her lap and she searched frantically for them.

  All her terror had been in vain. Mr. Byrne had easily caught up with and stopped the horse. He raced back to where Cathleen sat, legs sprawled ignominiously, her petticoat peeping from beneath her skirt, which hovered halfway up her calves to expose her well-worn boots.

  Her cheeks flamed as a shocked group of people rushed outside.

  “Miss Ryan, there was no need for that,” he said. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  She flashed him a look of self-reproach. “I’ve lost my glasses, as well as my pride.”

  “Old Blaze wouldn’t have gone far.” He pressed Cathleen’s spectacles into her hand before he bent and lifted her off the ground to brush the road dust from her skirt.

  She darted back, not in disgust, but because his too intimate touch sparked strange, unwanted feelings inside her that vied for prominence with the disgrace of meeting her new employers in such a humiliating way.

  “Did you hurt yourself?” he asked, his voice lower.

  She shook her head. “No.” She wanted to cry. She wished the earth would swallow her up.

  “Oh heavens, Miss Ryan!” a woman cried. “Are you all right? Ransom Byrne, what did you do to her?”

  Cathleen straightened and turned to face a woman who had to be, by all accounts, Mr. Byrne’s mother. She looked to be a female version of her son, with black hair and those same light eyes that scanned Cathleen in search of broken bones.

  “I panicked,” Cathleen said.

  “Ransom,” the mother scolded. “You had no business making her ride on the back.”

  He shrugged.

  “Really, it wasn’t his fault,” Cathleen said, dusting her palms and then offering to shake Mrs. Byrne’s hand.

  Mrs. Byrne looked from Cathleen’s hand to her son and then back before she gingerly took it, squeezed softly then released it. “I hope your journey south was not too treacherous.”

  “Not until the very end,” Cathleen said.

  “Aunt Chloe,” Mrs. Byrne turned to the elderly black woman standing on the side porch, “will you ask Jim and Jeff to bring in Miss Ryan’s trunk?”

  Lips set purposefully, Aunt Chloe crossed her arms over her ample bosom and jerked her kerchief-covered head in the direction of two burly men Cathleen assumed were the aforementioned Jim and Jeff. They eyed her curiously as they manhandled the trunk off the wagon and took it around back.

  “Ransom will be staying in the office and you can have his room. It’s right next to Jenny’s,” Mrs. Byrne said, slipping her arm through Cathleen’s and guiding her toward the entrance.

  “I wouldn’t want to impose…” Cathleen turned to apologize to Mr. Byrne but he was strolling toward the stable.

  “Now, don’t you worry yourself about him. He’s already moved his things. You come inside. I’d like to introduce you to Jenny.”

  * * * * *

  Ransom gave little Charles a wave as the boy led the horse and wagon toward the barn where the workhorses were stabled. Doubtless, Charles would be thrilled when his father returned. Morris Hunt had taken Byrne’s End’s prized horses west when guerillas from both armies had threatened to press the animals into service.

  Now that at least the semblance of order had been restored, Morris and Ransom’s father, Daniel, were on their way home.

  Ransom didn’t look forward to getting back into the routine of breeding the South’s finest trotters. He’d loved and admired the noble horse before the war, but having faced death atop his own mount, Asteroid, on a daily basis, Ransom possessed a totally new respect for the animals.

  And yet, he’d lost his passion for breeding and racing.

  The war, it seemed, had torn all their lives apart. Rebuilding some aspects would only take time. Other facets could never be repaired. Jenny’s eyesight, for one.

  As Ransom strode toward the stable, he realized he was shaking. That infernal Yankee gal had rattled him to the core. He glanced over his shoulder as she ascended the steps to the side entrance portico. What an opinionated little mite! A shudder traversed his spine as he recalled how she’d so foolishly flung herself off the back of the wagon. What on earth had she been thinking?

  At first he’d feared she’d been hurt. When he’d seen that she wasn’t, he’d immediately questioned her ability to teach his sister. She’d seemed so…sensible up until then.

  His shook his head.

  Her appearance certainly gave one the impression she tended to be more scholarly than flighty. He’d never laid eyes on a plainer creature in his life. With those black glasses and her equally black hair swept back in that severe knot at the nape of her neck, she looked like something out of a gothic novel. Without the glasses—he raised an eyebrow—or the dress, she might be what some considered comely. He chuckled at the thought of the prim teacher shucked down to her chemise. In truth, her figure was pleasing enough and her features even and free of blemishes…so it didn’t make sense to him that she would purposefully try to make herself appear so austere.

  She almost reminded him of the Amish women thirty miles south in Ethridge.

  And yet, she’d blushed mightily at the mishap and before, had been quick to relate her distrust of horses. He rubbed his jaw. Perhaps she was just a city girl after all.

  Hopefully, the brash Yankee would have the know-how to get Jenny out of her despondency. It killed Ransom to see her so broken. Jenny’s sadness mirrored his own self-loathing. He could live with hating himself, but not with seeing Jenny so miserable.

  He had no one to blame but himself. Nor would he ever forgive himself for bringing home the disease that had killed his grandfather and blinded his sister.

  Even though no one stated it aloud, he knew they all held him responsible.

  Not a day passed when he didn’t wish he could take back that stormy night when his men had delivered him to Byrne’s End on the brink of death. If he’d had any sense about him, he would have begged them to let him die in the woods.

  Truth be told, a piece of him had died during those years of killing and fearing being killed. But nothing had ravaged him the way watching his beloved grandfather fade away had—or standing by helpless as Jenny lingered on the precipice for days.

  When the fever had subsided, her sight was gone.

  Tragedy had befallen his family all because of him.

  E
verything—possessions, health, life, even dignity—could all be stripped away in one swipe. And while his grandfather lay cold in the grave and Jenny had been doomed to a life of darkness, he walked and breathed unscathed.

  At least physically.

  Inside, he was wrecked. Shattered.

  Unworthy of his family’s love and support. The most compassionate thing he could do was leave this place so they’d never have to look upon his face again. He wondered if they hated him as much as he hated himself.

  A muscle in his jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth. Before the war, he believed he’d take his father’s place as a breeder. He’d dreamed of studying law and pursuing a political career.

  Not anymore.

  Once the farm was back in order, he resolved to leave Byrne’s End. Maybe he’d go west. He hadn’t decided. All he knew was that he wouldn’t force his presence on his family one minute longer than necessary. They had to hate him for the suffering he’d brought.

  The stable had already grown shadowy and when he opened the door, a few horses raised their heads to blow and snort. He breathed in the familiar scent of leather, of horseflesh and hay.

  Asteroid raised his red head and let out a rumbling whinny. Ransom stroked the old veteran’s velvety face. “As soon as Jenny’s well enough, we’ll leave this place, boy,” Ransom said and laid his forehead against the horse’s.

  Chapter Two

  Mrs. Byrne chattered on and Cathleen nodded, but she could hardly focus on anything except the cavernous rooms. Paintings of ancestors, children and horses decorated the walls. Massive mirrors in heavy gilt frames hung over mantles, tilted from their tops to reflect the rooms. Twin parlors graced one side of the house, separated by soaring pocket doors. Thick rugs reached unendingly across heart-of-pine floors.

  Servants scurried to set the long expanse of dining room table.

  A wide stairway dominated the center of the house, reaching skyward toward a landing and then branching off into two sections leading to the second floor. The last rays of sunlight filtered in through the panes of an arched window. One hand on the balustrade and the other gathering up the hem of her skirt, Mrs. Byrne mounted the stairs. “We are just so thrilled that you agreed to come to Byrne’s End. We’ve all been at a loss and have no one really to whom we can reach out. There’s so much tragedy in the South, as you well know.”

  Cathleen nodded as she climbed the stairs alongside Mrs. Byrne.

  “Nearly every family is in mourning,” Mrs. Byrne said, shaking her head. The woman seemed to be riddled with nervous energy and looked as if she’d never been still a moment in her life. “I see you, yourself, are wearing mourning.”

  “My brother was killed in the fighting.”

  Mrs. Byrne stopped. Her eyes widened. “Oh dear, I am so sorry. Not by a Tennessee boy, I hope.”

  Not that it would have mattered. Dead was dead. “No. Arthur fell at Fort Wagner. He was an officer with the 54th Massachusetts.” Cathleen looked for any sign of recognition in the woman’s eyes. The 54th had been one of the first troops made up of black soldiers, even though the Secretary of War, Edwin Stanton, had decreed that only white men could serve on the officer staff. Massachusetts Governor John Andrew had himself appointed Arthur, comprising the officers from prominent abolitionists.

  Arthur had served proudly and had died a valiant death, charging the impenetrable South Carolina fort alongside his commanding officer, Robert Gould Shaw. Both had perished on the parapet and had been buried with their fallen men.

  Mrs. Byrne sighed her relief. A hint of liquor tainted her breath. Cathleen tried not to appear taken aback. Surely it was medicine…

  But when Mrs. Byrne hiccupped, Cathleen knew better. Dear Lord, what had she gotten herself into?

  “Oh, excuse me,” Mrs. Byrne said. “I don’t know what that war accomplished except taking a good many lives.”

  Cathleen wanted to state that the war preserved the Union and emancipated the slaves, a cause which she’d campaigned to further.

  “Ransom rode in Biffle’s cavalry.” Mrs. Byrne smiled proudly. “Did he tell you?”

  “He did not,” Cathleen said as Mrs. Byrne teetered across the wide expanse of the upstairs hall.

  Cathleen recognized her trunk in the center of one of the bedrooms flanking the hall. The upstairs was much the same as the downstairs, with enormous rooms and towering ceilings. Gracefully carved crown moulding gleamed white against the garish gold wallpaper. The doors on either side of the upstairs balconies and in both front and back had been thrown open to draw in a breeze.

  Mrs. Byrne entered the front bedroom. “Jenny?”

  “Go away.”

  Mr. Byrne had warned her, but Cathleen had not been prepared for so prickly an introduction to her new charge.

  “Now, Jenny, don’t you be rude,” Mrs. Byrne scolded. “Your teacher, Miss Ryan, is here.”

  Cathleen slipped her glasses in the pocket of her skirt as she hesitated at the door.

  Jenny sat on her unmade bed, her back to the door. Her long blonde hair hung in unkempt tangles. Her frock was untidy. Clothes lay scattered across the floor and several drawers on the dresser gaped open, their contents spilling over the sides.

  Mrs. Byrne made an unsuccessful attempt at straightening the dresser. “She won’t allow anyone in to clean.”

  Cathleen had seen the blind become despondent and depressed. But she’d never seen anyone this unresponsive.

  When Cathleen drew nearer, Jenny made a clumsy effort to scramble away.

  “I don’t need a teacher,” she said, her tone laced with spite. “Leave me be.”

  “I’ve been blind too,” Cathleen said softly. “I know what you’re going through.”

  Jenny snorted and twisted away. “You’ve come a long way for nothing.”

  * * * * *

  A bell somewhere outside tolled and Cathleen heard little Charles’ voice. “Quittin’ time! Supper!”

  She packed the undergarments she’d brought along in the drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe before pouring water from the pitcher into the basin and washing her face and hands.

  Her stomach rumbled. It’d been awhile since she’d eaten and though most of the Southern fare was not to her taste, she looked forward to whatever they saw fit to serve.

  After tidying her hair, she stepped into the hallway, nearly running into a servant carrying a tray laden with food and a glass of milk. She nodded, setting aflutter the ties to the white kerchief secured around her hair. “Evenin’, ma’am,” the round-faced girl said as she continued down the hall.

  “Good evening,” Cathleen said but stopped walking when she realized the meal was destined for Jenny. “Excuse me. Is that plate intended for Miss Byrne?”

  “Yes ma’am,” the girl said, her doe-like brown eyes rounding. Her cinnamon-colored skin gleamed, doubtless from her tenure in a hot kitchen. “Miss Jenny always takes her meals in her room.”

  “She’s not allowed to dine with the family downstairs?” Cathleen didn’t want to jump to conclusions.

  “Oh, she’s allowed,” the girl said. “She don’t want to. She wants her food brung to her.”

  “That’s unacceptable.”

  “But—”

  Cathleen smiled. “It’s all right, Miss…”

  The girl preened and grinned. “Oh, I ain’t no miss or nothin’. My name’s America but everybody calls me Merry. You can too if you want.”

  “That’s lovely, Merry,” Cathleen said. “I’m Miss Byrne’s teacher, Miss Ryan. And if you don’t mind, I would appreciate it if you’d take Miss Byrne’s food to the table and tell them we’ll be down for supper.”

  Merry looked uncertain. “Miss Jenny ain’t gon’ be happy ’bout that.”

  “I’ll take care of Miss Jenny.”

  “Aw’ right, then,” Merry said and shook her head as she turned around and started down the stairs.

  At that moment, Jenny appeared in the doorway. She groped her way two steps into t
he hall. “Merry! Don’t you take that food downstairs!”

  Merry stopped, twisted and started back up the steps.

  Cathleen blew out a breath. She hadn’t anticipated a battle of wills. Her hands found her hips. “Take it to the dining room please, Merry.”

  For a moment, Merry looked indecisive then she turned and headed down the stairs.

  Jenny would not submit. “I’ll tell Aunt Chloe on you!”

  At that, Merry stopped, turned and ascended the stairs. “I’m sorry, Miss Ryan. Aunt Chloe would take a hickory switch to me.”

  Cathleen wasn’t about to give in. “I’ll take that,” she said and forcibly removed the tray from Merry’s hands.

  “She done gone and took it from me!” Merry cried to Jenny. “I’m sorry.”

  Jenny began shrieking insults. Still apologizing, Merry covered her ears and ran. Exasperated, Cathleen placed the tray on a side table across the hall.

  “Calm down,” she said to Jenny.

  “I won’t! You can go straight back up North! I don’t want you here,” Jenny said. The child was spitting mad. Her uncombed hair and unseeing eyes made her look wild. Her head twisted in the direction of any noise.

  “There’s no need for this nonsense,” Cathleen said and crossed her arms over her chest. “Let me help you brush your hair and we’ll go downstairs together.”

  “You can go to the devil.”

  “Jenny Byrne!” Cathleen scolded. “That is uncalled for and unbecoming of a girl as pretty as you.”

  Jenny jerked her chin in Cathleen’s direction before bolting clumsily back into her room. Cathleen started toward her but the girl slammed the door shut and turned the key in the lock.

  Cathleen rattled the knob to no avail. “Unlock this door. Don’t be silly.”

  “Go away.”

  Cathleen knew how to solve this. “You’ll not get one bite until you brush your hair, tidy your clothes and come downstairs to eat with the rest of your family like a civilized human being.”

  No answer came from within.

  Cathleen sat on the velvet-upholstered settee in the hall and waited.

  “Everything all right up there?” Mr. Byrne called as he climbed the stairs.