“He joined the Sixteenth New York Regiment,” Alice said, disbelief twisting the words. All color had drained from her face. “Signed up while he was in Albany. Can you believe that? He didn’t even ask me. He just did it.”
Caroline’s lips flattened into a thin, hard line. “Women ask permission from their husbands, dear, not the other way around.”
Hot moisture sprang to Charlotte’s eyes in sympathy as Alice choked on a sob.
Suddenly, the Civil War was not just a headline in the newspaper, a story from a distant land, neatly constrained to narrow columns of black-and-white typeface. With a single telegram, the war invaded their parlor and their lives. Now it was not just news. It was personal, in living color. And it was terrifying.
“When does he go?” Charlotte gently probed.
Blonde ringlets quivered as Alice shook her head. “I don’t know. He just said he’s coming home as planned but will be leaving again for training ‘soon.’ And what about me? I’ll be all alone in that big house with just the servants!”
“You know you can stay here as long as you like,” Caroline crooned.
“No,” said Alice resolutely, looking suddenly years older. “My place is at home.”
Not this time, thought Charlotte as she soothed her little sister. You’re coming with me. She knew better than to say it aloud just yet.
Once Alice was resting comfortably with a cup of tea, Charlotte made her way to the garden behind the house to clear her head. Dappled sunlight filtered through the trees and fell in a lacework pattern on the terraced garden. All the aromas of spring were sharpened in the rain-scrubbed air, lilac blossoms even more pungent than usual. Charlotte carefully perched on the cool stone bench and watched golden daffodils nod their heads in the breeze. Her hoop skirt formed a wide perimeter around her, as if to create a safe distance between her and the world.
When her gaze fell upon weeds crowding the tender shoots of Siberian irises, she felt an irresistible pull to pluck them out herself rather than wait for the gardener to do it. Kneeling on the ground, however, brought her no closer to her goal—yards of fabric and steel hoops were unavoidably in the way.
Bother this contraption! The only way to weed in a hoopskirt, Charlotte surmised, was to lie flat on her stomach and let the hoops flip the skirts straight up at a ridiculous ninety-degree angle to the ground. No, that wouldn’t do at all. With a quick glance around the stone wall–enclosed garden to confirm her privacy, she unfastened her skirt from her waist and bodice, stepped out of it and left it in a dejected pile next to the bench.
Unhindered at last, Charlotte knelt in her petticoats and buried her fingers in the soft, damp soil, relishing the musty smell and digging down deep to uproot the weeds that had taunted her a moment ago. She was so absorbed in her tiny patch of earth that she didn’t hear the French doors to the garden unlatch.
“Why, miss!” Jane gasped, quickly closing the door behind her. “What can you be thinking, down in the dirt, exposed like that for God and everybody!” She scurried to retrieve the discarded skirt.
Charlotte laughed. “It isn’t like you haven’t seen all of us in our petticoats before.”
“No, miss, true enough, but I’ll bet your gentleman caller hasn’t.”
Charlotte gasped. Thoughtlessly, she brushed a strand of hair off her cheek, smudging the porcelain complexion that was the envy of her peers. “Mr. Hastings! I completely forgot.” Charlotte stood, shook the dirt off her undergarments and allowed Jane to help her back into her skirt.
Rushing in from the garden, she ducked into the kitchen and scrubbed the evidence of her unladylike behavior from beneath her fingernails before approaching the tall, handsome visitor waiting in the front hall. One look at his tartan plaid trousers, dark green cravat, frock coat, and top hat told her he had a promenade in mind.
“Aha, so you’ve taken to painting, I see,” he teased.
Charlotte’s hands flew to her cheeks, still flushed from the cool May breeze. Indignation creased her face. She did not appreciate his innuendo that she used rouge—only women “on the town” painted their faces.
Mr. Hastings tilted his head and smiled down at her. “Oh, come now. No need to be cross. I think you look beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that I’d like to show you off on the Broadway Promenade today. What do you say?” His dark chocolate eyes captured hers, soft and inviting.
“Oh, my hair is a mess, I’ve been out in the garden,” she hedged.
“I thought of that.” Of course he had. His own jet-black hair was smoothly in place, smelling faintly of pomade, his mustache and goatee neatly groomed, as ever. “Would you do me the honor of wearing this?” He picked up a box she hadn’t noticed from the hall table.
“Why, Mr. Hastings—”
“Isn’t it time you called me Phineas?”
She cleared her throat. “Phineas. I can’t imagine what the occasion is.” Hesitantly, she accepted the box from him.
“As the petals are the glory of the rose, the right attire is the glory of a woman,” he said with a flourish.
Parting the tissue paper, Charlotte gently lifted out a pert straw hat trimmed with peacock plumes and a band of satin ribbon in a shocking shade of bright green.
“Well?” His voice was eager, expectant.
Charlotte skimmed a finger over the feathers. “It’s quite … bright, isn’t it?”
His low-pitched laughter rippled over her until she couldn’t help but join in. “Yes, indeed. These new aniline dyes are the latest rage. No one will miss us.”
That much was true. Charlotte managed a nod that she hoped appeared grateful, and excused herself to her dressing room to change into a deep indigo promenade gown with pagoda sleeves and a three-tiered skirt. She hoped it would tame down the peacock feathers in her hat.
Once on Broadway, Charlotte’s unlikely ensemble blended into an eclectic crowd. Coats and dresses of all patterns swarmed around Phineas and Charlotte, the crowd a blur of bright eyes, whiskers, spectacles, hats, bonnets, and caps. Dandies passed by with their hornlike mustaches, kid gloves, thin trouser legs, and patent leather shoes. Smartly dressed ladies in ribbons and silks stepped spritely out of shops, having done their part toward depleting their husbands’ bank accounts with the finest Parisian fashions.
The daily afternoon “promenade” on Broadway had the sound of a leisurely stroll about it, but it was impossible to maintain anything less than a brisk pace to keep from getting run over. The booming city’s major thoroughfare was a profusion of color and a stimulus of excitement. It was hustle, bustle, and squeeze, like a dance of faltering steps to the offbeat tune of thundering omnibuses and the din of a crowd in a hurry. Charlotte would have preferred a stroll in Central Park, if not for the quieter atmosphere, for the fresher air. The musky scent of Phineas’s cologne was soon overpowered, and she was sure her mother and sister would smell on her clothing the horse manure of Broadway when she arrived home.
Phineas, Charlotte could tell, relished being caught in the whirl. His countenance always brightened around luxury and opulence, and here on Broadway, both were displayed en masse in the storefronts lining the avenue. Places like Lord & Taylor and Brooks Brothers usually caught his eye, but today he paused in front of Tiffany & Company, gazing at the dazzling ladies’ jewelry displayed on black velvet, with a firm hold on Charlotte’s small, gloved hand.
“Phineas.” Charlotte tugged gently on his arm. “Did you hear me? I said I’m going to apply to be a nurse.”
He swiveled around to face her. “Pardon me?”
“Yes, a nurse. The W.C.A.R. means to train one hundred New York women to serve as nurses for the army—the army doesn’t have enough, you know—and I mean to be one of them.”
His brow furrowed. “But how would that look?”
“Patriotic,” she said, a little too quickly. “Dutiful. Benevolent. Respectable, too.”
“Just how would it be respectable to have women mixing with large masses of half-naked men?”
“Phineas, listen to me. The most respectable women—and men—of our class are behind this. Reverend Henry Bellows, Dr. Elisah Harris, Mrs. David Dudley Field, Mrs. Henry Baylis, Mrs. Cyrus Field, Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell … all of them.” When he still looked unconvinced, she continued. “The army is simply unprepared to handle the magnitude of what is about to unfold on the battlefields. Why not use women who are willing, able, and most eager to serve? Think of it this way. When a doctor or surgeon makes a house call, who takes care of the sick or wounded when the doctor leaves?” She paused. “The women do. The mothers, wives, sisters, sometimes even daughters receive instructions from the doctor or surgeon, clean and dress the wounds, administer the medicines. We are already nurses. This is just moving it to a different setting. Not every soldier’s mother or wife will be able to tend their own. Only a select few will fill that role—but we must have training. Do you see?”
“I don’t like it. I’m afraid most people won’t think about it in the same way. But if you insist on being stubborn about it …”
“It is what I want.” She pinned him with a determined look. She didn’t really need his permission.
Suddenly, a woman in a bright green gown, too low in the neckline for daytime wear, and with a bonnet pushed too far back on her head, sauntered past, leaving behind her a trail of lilac scent so thick Charlotte could taste it.
Charlotte followed Phineas’s gaze in time to see the woman look back over her shoulder and throw him a brazen wink and a smile as bold—and sickening—as the heavy fragrance in which she was drenched. Her cheeks were painted. In a flash, Phineas’s face flamed just as red, but playing around the corners of his mouth was just the hint of a smile.
* * *
We hope you enjoyed this excerpt from Wedded to War. For more from Moody Publishers in this genre and others, visit your favorite local or online bookseller.
You’ll also enjoy Widow of Gettysburg! Feel the struggles and hardships of the women living in Gettysburg during the battle and its aftermath.
Here’s what others are saying about Widow of Gettysburg:
“Amazing… Green gives a voice to the women and children of the Civil War and skillfully shares their struggles.” —RT Reviews, 4.5 out of 4.5 stars and named a TOP PICK
“A triumphant tale of identity and forgiveness. Through unforgettable characters, impeccable research, and an intricately woven plot, Jocelyn Green drew me in and didn’t let go. Do not miss this story!”—Sarah Sundin, author of With Every Letter
Click HERE to view trailer for Widow of Gettysburg.
Click HERE to view author Jocelyn Green discuss the Heroine Behind the Lines Series.
The Holloway Farm, Adams County, Pennsylvania
Friday, June 26, 1863
Shhhh. Someone’s coming.” Liberty Holloway cocked her head toward the window as the muffled rhythm of hoofbeats rose above the drumming rain. “Rebels?” The word sat, bitter, on her tongue as her fists sank deeper into the bread dough she’d been kneading. They had taken enough from her already, long before a single Confederate soldier had set foot in the North. Were they now here to raid her property as well?
“Traveler, looks like.” Bella Jamison wiped her hands on her flour-dusted apron and peered between the curtains without parting them. “Wet and hungry, I’ll wager. You know Black Horse Tavern and Inn down the road are full up right now, and you just hung that sign out by the road last week.”
Libbie exhaled, her pulse matching her fear. Though she was a grown woman of nineteen years, she had yet to tame her runaway imagination. But perhaps her hired help was right, and a traveler would be welcome, provided he could pay in greenbacks.
“Then again, we just can’t know for sure.” Bella backed away from the window, her coffee-with-cream complexion darkening in the shadows. “Rebels don’t always have proper uniforms, you know. I only see one on the road, but there could be more coming.”
Serves me right for not heeding Governor Curtin’s proclamation. Libbie pulled her hands from the sticky dough and went to the window herself. “If he doesn’t break into a gallop, we’ll have just enough time.”
Before the words had left her mouth, Bella had already moved the worktable away from the bricked-in fireplace and slid out several loose bricks. The cast-iron stove and oven served for their baking and cooking, but the summer kitchen’s walk-in fireplace still had its purpose. Together, they hurriedly filled the space to keep their stores out of sight: jars of molasses, peach and strawberry preserves, applesauce, tomatoes, and sacks of potatoes, onions, flour, and oats.
Drip. Drip. Drip. The leak in the corner marked time like a metronome as water dropped into a tin pie plate on the floor. Soon, all that was left was the freshly baked rye bread cooling on the sideboard, the abandoned lump of dough, and bunches of parsley and oregano hanging from the rafters to dry.
After replacing the bricks and the table in front of it, Liberty stole another glance out the window. “We can still hide the horses. Make haste.” Resolve pierced through her anxiety as she hung her apron on a wooden peg and stepped out into the rain with Bella close on her heels.
Hurrying into the barn, Libbie swished her skirts to scatter the clucking chickens in their path. The horses, Daisy and Romeo, twitched their tails as the women bridled them, then led them past the summer kitchen and into the great hall of the two-story stone farmhouse.
“We’ll be fine here.” Bella stroked Romeo’s withers to calm him. “Remember, you are the lady of this house. Stand your ground.”
“If it’s a Rebel—”
“I can take care of myself. Go.”
The hoofbeats grew louder outside. Liberty patted the thick, black braid that circled her head and hurried over to Major, the 140-pound Newfoundland sprawled on the rug inside the front door.
“Wake up, boy. Time to look menacing,” she said as she buried her hand in the scruff of his massive neck. Not that he could hear anything. “Come on, Major.” She hooked a finger under his collar and tugged. Groaning, he lumbered to his feet, yawned, and turned his head slightly to wink at her with his one good eye.
“Come, he’s almost here,” she whispered, and immediately regretted her choice of words. I could swear that dog can read lips! Major perked up and jumped at the door. “No, Major, not Levi.” She shook her head. “No Levi.”
Liberty led Major out onto the porch and pointed to the splitting wooden floorboards beside her. “Sit.” He obeyed. Wild roses the color of lemonade hugged the porch from all sides, lifting their faces to catch their drink. Their heady fragrance infused the air as a man on a gaunt horse rode up the lane to Libbie’s dooryard in no particular hurry, as if it weren’t raining at all, as if the shelter of a covered porch didn’t stand right in front of him. Feeling a pull on her skirt, she glanced down to find Major sitting sideways on one of his haunches, leaning against her leg. So much for my canine protector.
The stranger drew rein and dismounted his horse with graceful ease. A rain-soaked denim shirt and brown woolen trousers revealed a lean, muscular body, the kind that was used to work. A farmer perhaps? Carpenter? Or a soldier.
“You don’t look like a Rebel.” The words escaped her without thought.
So did Major. Before she could stop him, he ambled down the steps to the dooryard and slammed right into the man, stumbled back a little, then nuzzled his big furry black head under the man’s hand. Liberty sighed. Major’s sense of balance was lacking since he’d lost his eye.
The man bent to scratch Major behind the ears and on the white patch on his chest. “I take that as a compliment, ma’am.” His accent was Northern, a blessed relief. Straightening again, he doffed his felt hat and bowed slightly before appraising her with moss green eyes. Rain darkened his hair to the color of polished oak and coursed down his stubbled cheeks. He took a step forward. “Miss Liberty?”
“How did you—”
“The sign by the road. Liberty Inn.” He rubbed his horse’s nose before glancing u
p at her again. “I’m guessing you might be Miss Liberty?”
Liberty spun the thin gold band around her finger. “Yes.” She hoped he would not also guess how very new this venture was. She had three rooms ready for guests on the first floor of the farmhouse, each complete with quilts stitched by her own hand, but not one had yet been used.
“You’ve lost someone.” His voice was quiet, tentative, but for all the world, Liberty could not think why. Two years into the war, women in mourning were a common sight. She crossed her arms across the pleated waist of her faded black dress and wished she had at least worn her hoops under her skirt this morning. She never did while doing chores, they got in the way so much. But now, the way he looked at her, she felt practically naked without them. “You’ll forgive me if I ask you to kindly state your business, sir.” She caught Major’s eye and stabbed her finger at the porch floor again until the dog returned to her side.
He cleared his throat and offered a smile. “I’m a long way from home, and I sure could use a little hospitality.”
“Do you mean to say that you need a room?”
“I have neither time nor money for a room, but my bread basket’s been empty for quite a spell.” He laid a hand on his stomach. “Could you spare anything for me to eat?”
She sighed. Times were tight at Holloway Farm, but she’d never been very good at saying no, to anyone. “Your mount looks as though he could eat something too.” She led them both to the barn where the horse could eat hay and oats, then took the stranger into the summer kitchen. Twenty feet behind the house, this was the small outbuilding where she did most cooking, baking, preserving, and laundry during the hottest season of the year. It would serve to feed a stranger without allowing him into the house.
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