“I wanted out. Thought of nothing else all that night and up to the time I met Martin. I imagined a bullet in my back at any minute as I crept out of camp that night. Kept hoping it would come.” He shook his head. “When I met Martin, he was thin, painful thin. He was writing by the light of the moon filtering through a hole in the ceiling and wall. No lights because light meant we’d be detected. We talked for a long time.”
Theo lifted his head and stared her straight in the eye. “Seemed I wasn’t alone in wanting to desert. Martin said most everyone he knew had thought of it at one time or another. Even him. He even invited me to visit after the war was over. Said no matter if I was a fool Confederate, I’d still be welcome in his home.” Theo’s smile melted away as quickly as it appeared. “We agreed to meet again the next night, provided we were still engaged. I slipped off from the cabin first, but then I heard something behind me and hunkered down in some bushes. I saw Martin leave the cabin and heard footsteps right at my ear. A man passed by and then. . .I don’t know. There was a shot. And somehow I knew it was Martin that shot was meant for. The same man went by me again, and I caught a glimpse of him. I heard a low moan and knew it was Martin. When I went to him, he was already gone, Ellie. I promise you. There was nothing I could have done.”
Stunned by what he was implicating, Ellie raised her hands to her face, processing the information over and over. “He was murdered?”
“That’s not all. The man I heard, I saw. Just a glimpse, but I—” He put a hand to his brow and massaged the spot between his eyes.
Ellie chafed at the delay in what he was going to say. She opened her mouth to prompt him when he dropped his hand to his lap and met her gaze.
“The man looked a lot like your uncle Ross.”
sixteen
Ellie pressed her fingertips to her lips as the tension built in her neck and shoulders.
“I have no proof,” she heard Theo’s voice. “But when I saw him the other night, my impression was that I’d seen him before.”
Uncle Ross? Shoot Martin for no reason? A curl of doubt wound its way through her mind. It had been Uncle Ross who had delivered the news of Martin’s death. His letter assured her that he would oversee the burial. Even in her reply, asking that he bring Martin’s body back to Gettysburg, Uncle Ross had indicated it could not be done, and she had accepted his word as a certainty. She drew air into her lungs, determined to hear whatever else Theo had to say before drawing a conclusion. “You. . .went to him.”
Theo nodded. “As soon as I could. I knew his effects would be sent home to you under normal circumstances, but I feared the man would come back. Or that Martin’s body would be overlooked. I didn’t know what to do, so I took what I could.” His long fingers wrapped around the packet and held them out to her. “Papers. Letters and the one he was working on in the dark when I arrived. There are a few coins and a bit of money from his pockets, but nothing else.”
She accepted the papers, hands trembling. Her mind reeled from all she had heard and from the familiarity of the simple script on those three pages that had no envelope. Martin’s last words to her.
Theo got to his feet and moved away. She followed his movement with her eyes, knowing he was putting distance between them to give her privacy.
She ran her fingertip over the small stack of papers in her lap, almost afraid to see what Martin had written to her. He had been a well-spoken man, and his letters were full of details about the men rather than their maneuvers and upcoming plans for battle. As it should be. But she’d stopped receiving letters from him about a month before news of his death. She realized she now held those letters. He hadn’t stopped writing her but must have been holding the letters until he could post them.
She picked up the three sheets of loosely folded paper and her hands trembled. As she gently unfolded them, her eyes fell on the familiar handwriting, and she once again heard his voice and saw his smile in her mind’s eye.
My Dearest Ellie,
How I long to be home again. I am more convinced with each passing day that war is more terror and fear than victory and valor. It will take every day of my life to forget memories etched in my mind. I fear only heaven can take away the horror of this living hell. Your softness of spirit and carefree laughter keep me sane yet bring such a terrible longing for home that I fear I have, more than once, been tempted to leave without regard for punishment.
I hate the pitting of man against man. We are given little to eat and made to walk miles, under the extra weight of our packs. My bones ache with a tiredness I cannot name. Only when I see your smile or hear your laughter does my heart rest from it all, if only briefly.
I hope with the next letter you will send a likeness of yourself, so that your face won’t go blurry in my mind’s eye. I fear it will. Some days I think it already has and that the woman I perceive is only that of a long-ago memory, an angel who is there but just out of reach.
Tears welled in her eyes and she blinked, releasing them to stream down her cheeks. Oh, Martin.
❧
Theodore saw it coming. He had known the letter would stir her grief, but he wasn’t prepared for the heart-wrenching whimpers that emanated from her lone figure.
Unable to witness her grief without trying his best to quell it, he went out to the pasture to bring Libby back in. When Ellie didn’t react to their movements, Theo knew her world was narrowing to that spot of sorrow that no human could touch. How many times had he himself held a fallen comrade and felt that same isolating grief?
Her whimpers turned to something more. Deeper. As if her soul was shattering. He turned back to the board he had been sawing to fit against the others, but he was unable to block out her need. When he could stand it no longer, he laid the saw aside, bumping the sack of nails. They spilled at his feet, but he ignored them.
In a modicum of strides, he covered the distance separating them. “Ellie.” The shivering whimpers were building in volume. He cupped her elbows. “Ellie?”
For the time it took him to exhale, she quieted, her gaze focusing on his face. All the pain in her heart reflected in the stormy blue of her eyes. “He’s all gone,” she whispered, her voice soft and sad, like a small child whose beloved toy had been smashed to bits. Her eyes closed again, and she began to shake her head.
He felt drawn to her grief. Connected in a way he understood all too well, and not at all. His hands slid up her arms, and he pulled her toward him, tucking her head beneath his chin. Her hands clenched the folds of his shirt, and her tears flowed freely. He cupped the back of her head and rocked her gently within his embrace. Her breath coming in gasps, punctuated by mewls that turned him inside out and left him ragged with hurt.
Gradually her sobs gave way to gasping breaths then sniffles. He stroked her hair and felt her shift, releasing his shirt and running a hand under her nose. When she pulled back, he let her go, and an immediate chill filled the space she had occupied.
To give her time to further collect herself, he leaned to pick up the scattered sheets and envelopes and worked them back into a neat pile. He held them out to her, wishing he could see her face then felt the hand of guilt press against his conscience.
“I should have told you sooner. I. . .” He didn’t know what more to say. “Ellie. . .”
She hugged herself and lifted her gaze to his. A wan smile played on her lips. “I need to get back.”
“Let me go with you.”
Her smile became more brilliant. “That’s kind of you, but I need time. To think.” She took a step toward the barn door and turned. “I’ll expect you whenever you’ve finished.”
“I’ll be another couple of hours.” What else could he say? As much as he wanted to go after her, to erase the pain, he knew his presence was a reminder of what she no longer had.
But there was one thing he could give her. As he watched her disappear from his line of vision, he fully understood the folly of what he felt and the risk of expressing it now, while she still g
rieved for Martin.
He crossed to the doorway, the words on his tongue as he watched her mount the dappled gray from a boulder. His throat filled as he watched her leave. The lane was empty, and the evergreens blocked his view of the road. In the silence left by her departure, he breathed out what he had dared not say out loud. “I’m loving you, Ellie.”
seventeen
Rose said little as Ellie slid the plate onto the tray in front of her friend. Really, Rose had said little for the hour she’d been working on doing laundry and sprucing up her room.
And it suited Ellie fine. The last thing she wanted or needed was to be forced to carry on a conversation she didn’t have a heart for. She moved about in a comfortable haze of spent emotional exhaustion, doing the few tasks she knew needed to be done for Rose and baby Colin, in a rush to get back to her place for the evening.
Martha came by in the late afternoon to check on Rose.
When she came back down to the silent kitchen, Ellie made the statement they used as code. “Do you have to go out of town tonight?”
Martha didn’t smile, her sharp eyes acknowledging the secret message. “Got to work spreading my garden after sunset. No babies to deliver tonight.”
Ellie nodded and walked with Martha to the door, her tension over the slave transfer ebbed at the black woman’s reassuring message. “How is Rose, Martha?”
“She fine if she’ll stay put. Most want to get up and jump around right away, but you tell her to stay put.” Martha placed her hand on the garden gate and paused. “Any news from Dr. Selingrove?”
Ellie knew how much Rose’s husband meant to the black woman. “Not yet.”
If Martha felt disappointment, her expression did not show it. She merely gave a stiff nod and headed down the pathway.
Ellie headed inside to check on Rose one last time before leaving for the evening. Though she couldn’t see through Rose’s kitchen window if Uncle Ross’s horse was in the stable, she could see that the pasture was empty, and she hoped it meant he still had not returned. She opened the back door and cocked her head to listen for sounds that he had returned. Nothing.
In her kitchen, she checked the roasting chicken for doneness. Juices from the bird’s breast ran clear, and she returned it to the still-warm oven. Maybe she would have an appetite later but not now. Not even the jar of her favorite tomato chutney coaxed her appetite.
She snugged the dishcloth tighter around the bread and, with the mundane tasks finished, sat down at the table, only then letting her mind wander. She conjured the image of Martin at the table laughing over some inanity, but when she tried to bring his face into focus, it wouldn’t come and a new wave of sadness washed over her.
With leaden feet, she dragged herself up the stairs to the sanctity of their room. Her room. As it had been for the past seven months. Scooping up the stack of letters she had left on the bed earlier, she unfolded the three sheets and read again Martin’s last words to her. It would be so easy to discount Theo. She wanted to reject it, the idea of Martin being murdered. . .and by her uncle. So repelling. But what reason would Theo have to lie? Though he had deserted, the emotion he had expressed over the loss of Bud showed the mental strain the fighting had taken on him. Even Martin showed signs of that strain. And Uncle Ross. . .
Everything swirled in her mind. Deliberately, she ripped the end of one of the other envelopes, needing to know what else Martin had to say. The date was one week before the letter he had been working on the night he’d met Theo. She opened the other two envelopes, each dated a week previous to the other. She smiled. He had told her while on furlough that it sometimes took him a week to finish one letter, then he would send three or four of them all at once.
She found the one dated in April, three weeks before his reported death. As she read, she noticed that the tone matched that of the last one she had received. He was worried and tired. Though he tried to keep his tone light, his agitation showed. The next letter revealed the source of his frustration.
Your uncle Ross isn’t well liked, darling. He is cold to the men’s needs and seldom hesitates in carrying out extreme punishment for the mildest infraction.
He made no other mention of Uncle Ross. Ellie wondered if his assessment of punishment was from personal experience or what he had witnessed. The next letter seemed more desperate.
Punishment is ramping up. Talk of desertion is more common as are rumors that the captain is drinking. Most know my relationship to the man and withdraw from me. Yet Ross seems to show mercy to no man, regardless of relationship.
Most nights I lie awake thinking of you and our home. Perhaps we should think of moving out to the farm. The peace of that place speaks to my soul even now.
Ellie lay down and rested her head on her arms. Martin’s unhappiness colored his death in shades of cold gray, just as the idea of his being shot burned into her mind like a great black ball. She fought the weariness that pulled at her and closed her eyes with the promise that it would be for only a minute. Just enough time to pull herself together before Uncle Ross returned or Theo brought the wagon in.
❧
Theo leaned his head against the wall of the barn. He flexed his fingers, noting the bluish tint to the skin from where he had pinched them between two of the boards as he stacked the wagon full to conceal the new wood of the false bottom. At least his fingers weren’t broken, though the first joint on his middle finger was tighter and more painful than the others. Now all he had to do was get over to Ellie’s.
As the breeze filtered through the thick branches of the evergreens that screened him from the main house, he closed his eyes to drink in the solitude. Working with his hands had felt good. Even hearing Libby’s happy munching from the stall as he finished his project had given him a sense of home. How long had it been now? A year? Two? He’d requested a furlough several times, always denied.
But he didn’t want to think about the war, knowing what thin ice he treaded by allowing his thoughts to shift that direction. What was wrong with him? He didn’t understand his nightmares or why his hands shook so badly sometimes. And least of all, he couldn’t understand why it was so difficult for him to control the memories.
Frustrated, Theo pushed away from the barn wall and decided to walk around the property. Ellie had a jewel here, though the buildings, as she had suggested, showed some damage.
Where had he been during the battle in Gettysburg? Hunkered down in the woods of West Virgina most likely. Waiting. Biding his time. He’d known the general plan for the South to push north, and his desertion and plans to find Ellie made his position particularly precarious. He’d waited for almost a month to make a move, even finding work on a farm where the people had never asked him questions. Maybe when he left he would return there instead of going west.
The fields surrounding Ellie’s property remained unplowed for next year’s crops, and he wondered at the losses the farmers had endured. In the distance, he spotted a small building beside a pond. The springhouse. It would be the place Ellie planned to hide the runaways.
He was headed in that direction when movement caught his peripheral vision. He turned his head toward the fields on his left, expecting to see a bright-colored bird, but it was a man. Probably out looking for trinkets left behind by the warring troops. But the suddenness with which the man had appeared, unobserved by him, shook him, and he lost his desire to explore further.
With the sun dipping in the west, he turned back to the barn. His gaze went over the loaded wagon. Libby stuck her head out of her stall and whinnied at him. He stroked the animal’s nose. A bittersweet longing rose in him to be the young man he had been before the war. The carefree fellow who delighted in playing tricks on his newly wedded cousin and loved nothing more than breaking horses for the wealthier plantation owners to use as carriage horses. He’d known as soon as the war started and the destruction of the South began that things would never be the same.
Weariness pulled at him, but he resisted. Instead, he
hitched Libby to the wagon. He turned the wagon and headed out the drive and out onto the road leading back to Gettysburg.
He forced himself to concentrate on the bright red blotch flying through the air, a cardinal, and its less gloriously colored mate. A rabbit hopped off the road and into the field. Libby’s harness added a pleasant jangle to the air, and Theo pursed his lips to whistle a tune to match the rhythm of the horse’s hooves.
As Libby leaned harder into the harness to get up a gentle hill, Theo’s tune died. In the midst of another rise to his right, covered by trees, he could see at its edge a wagon. Two black men worked with shovels. Whether they dug around a knickknack they’d found or a body yet uninterred, Theo didn’t really want to know. He turned his head away and slapped the reins against Libby’s back to hurry her along.
He pulled up to Ellie’s as the sun skimmed the western horizon. Everything seemed still and quiet. He set the hand brake on the wagon and slipped to the ground. Libby knickered softly and arched her head, and he reached to run his hand over her velvet neck. Pain shot up his arm. He winced and studied the fingers of his right hand. The middle finger had swollen to twice its size, and the bluish bruise across his other fingers had become a ragged purple mark.
“Theo?”
He lifted his head, seeing Ellie standing on the back porch. He heard her repeat his name and the note of concern, and then, before he could focus again, he felt her hand on his arm.
“Why are you standing here?”
He stared into her eyes, concern pinching the place between her brows, and held out his hand for her inspection.
❧
Ellie felt a stab of anxiousness when she saw his fingers. “Oh!”
Promise of Time Page 8
