by Martha Hix
“Be glad to get home. Gut hurts. Gonna get Anty to mix me up a batch of soda water.”
Antoinette, the only light in Lawrence’s life. Always he’d showered her with music and voice lessons, along with the gewgaws of society. That was the only way to keep her from running away and getting married off. She had designs that way.
“Won’t have my money wasted, I won’t,” he muttered, recalling all the pennies that necessity had forced him to pinch. “She’s mine for good.” Niece or not.
“You do a lot of that, talking to yourself?”
“Shud up.”
The lieutenant opened a book of poems and started to read.
“Helluva state,” Lawrence growled. “My Antie wanting to leave me. And La Dee Dah contradicting my orders.”
The lieutenant turned a page of Mr. Whittier’s In War Time. “What did La Dee Dah do to you?”
“Screwed up ever’thing, that’s what.”
Worse than corned beef, it ate at Lawrence, the collection of notices sent by a bunch of blabbermouth housewives with nothing better to do than squander their men’s money on expensive telegrams.
“Spent near on a year, saving Union money, but what thanks did I get from the big boys? Got my ass eat out by the Commissioner of Prisons, that’s what.”
“Over what?”
Lawrence thought about giving the whole story, but didn’t. He didn’t want any of the specifics floating around, possibly to end up at the War Department. “That pretty-boy major was supposed to follow my orders, but nooo. He let that Marshall baggage turn the place upside down.”
“What sort of orders?”
“Saving-money orders, that’s what.” Lawrence’s sour stomach rose to his throat. “Ain’t no sin in what the two of them done, so says Washington.”
“Yet you got called on the carpet for it ... ?”
“That right. Had to lie to my superiors, had to say I approved of the measures taken by Pretty Boy and some old battle-ax.” He tossed his cigar down, ground it out with a heel. “Had to keep the brass happy. Kept me from being called afore Congress to explain my ’inhumanity’ at not spending tax dollars.”
The train rumbled around a curve, and brown eyes showed sympathy to Lawrence. “It’s a shame when a commander—you are a commander, aren’t you?—can’t deal with his men as he sees fit.”
“I don’t like being shamed.” He took another gulp of liquor, cursed its burn, then wiped his forearm across his mouth. “ ’Specially over a snot-face West Pointer pretty boy.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Make him suffer.”
“That will make you feel better, I should imagine.”
“Damn shootin’ it will. I’ve hated that bastard since the day he rode up, a fancy stallion prancing beneath him. He was wearing a new uniform, custom-made down in Memphis. La-dee-dah.”
Lawrence could afford no fancy uniforms, his money having gone to education and to pamper Antoinette. He wouldn’t even have a decent house to live in if it hadn’t been there already and the Army hadn’t let him use it.
“Thinks he’s too good for the island,” Rose groused, jealous. “It’s a shit-hole assignment, I’ll grant, but if anybody gets off the island, why can’t it be me? Why can’t I get orders to the battlefields, where I can make general?”
The lieutenant closed the book. “Sounds like you got double crossed, but your nemesis is getting transferred.”
“That’s it exactly.”
One of O’Brien’s school chums from the Point had called on U.S. Grant, newly appointed General in Chief of the Armies of the United States. The hoity-toity Stewart Lewis, a colonel under Grant, wanted his buddy for a campaign into the southern states.
Nobody asked for Roscoe Lawrence.
“I’d say it’s too late to mete out suffering,” the lieutenant surmised aloud.
“I don’t think so. I’m getting back a day early. Figure on a surprise attack.” Enjoy your last minutes of freedom, O’Brien. “I ain’t packing no empty gun, neither.”
“Figuring to shoot him?”
“Hell, no. He ain’t worth the gunpowder.” Lawrence reached into his coat pocket and waved a telegram. “This here is my ammo. It caught up with me ’fore I left Chicago. From a boyo that works in my household. The brass don’t know, but Pretty Boy’s been fiddling around with that shadowy old battle-ax.”
“The plot sickens.”
With a nod Lawrence said more than he should. “She ain’t what she seems. She ain’t no nurse with the Commission.”
“Sounds suspicious.”
“The biddy’s deeds may have impressed the nibs, but it’s a criminal offense to impersonate one of those Commission hags. You seen any of them? Dogs, man, dogs. Woof, woof!”
“You reckon she’s Confederate?”
“Nawsir.” Lawrence suspected rebellion. But he couldn’t swallow the idea that one of Jeff Davis’s own had bridged the prison fence. That would be the worst embarrassment to admit. “Them Reb doxies ain’t got it in ’em for what she done. All’s they know howda do is bill and coo and suck on mint juleps. Southern belles, bah! ’Sides, India Marshall is old as time itself, from what I hear.”
“Strange. Young man, way older woman.”
“You got that right, boyo. Pretty Boy can have his pick of twats. But he chose some hag. Ain’t it amazing?”
“Your tattler might have it wrong. Or the woman might not be as old as she’d have people think.”
That hadn’t occurred to Lawrence.
“What’s she charged with?” asked his seat mate.
“Nothing yet. But I’m after her ass. She ain’t legal. Way I see it, she got colluded with. La Dee Dah, he’s gonna pay. He ain’t under Grant’s command yet. They both gonna suffer.” Lawrence lifted overstuffed fingers. “By these hands.”
“How?”
“I ain’t figured that out yet. But if he’s porking the old gal, she’ll want a payback. Women always do. Ain’t nothing free in this life, ’specially twat.”
“Hmm.” The russet-topped lieutenant put a forefinger to his upper lip. “You know, I’ve got an idea. Want to hear it?”
“Do twat stink? Do bears sleep in the woods? Do a magic lamp have a genie?”
Shoulders hunching, the lieutenant leaned toward Lawrence. In cool, clear terms he outlined his ideas, ending with: “Hold off sending them away for at least a day or two.”
“You know, you ain’t bad, for a second lieuie,” said Roscoe at the idea’s crown. He cackled, his tobacco-stained teeth baring in glee. “I’m gonna do it.”
The lieutenant got as comfortable as a man could get in a train seat, giving no notice to the prairie of northern Illinois that whizzed by.
“You sleeping?” Lawrence asked.
Arms crossed over his chest, the lieutenant opened a brown eye. “That’s what I had in mind.”
“Didn’t catch your name . . .”
“Didn’t give it.”
“I got a niece with fancy stationery. Might want to send you one of those la-dee-dah thank you notes. What’s your name!”
“It’s . . . Jones. I’m known by Jones.” He turned his head. “Forget the gratitude. I’m just doing my job.”
That struck Lawrence as kind of peculiar, but he wouldn’t pursue it. “You and me, we ain’t a coupla drawing-room dandies. I’m Roscoe. What’s your given name?”
“Jon Marc.”
Thirteen
Connor tried to mask his bowlegged gait as he hobbled into the foyer. “... you’ll have to work with me,” he overheard India saying. What was going on?
While surprised to see his aunties and the foreigner in Opal Lawrence’s drawing room—of all the times for a visit, why did they pick now?—he had eyes only for India.
His first urge? To beg a second chance, or at least another stolen moment with her. Not a good idea.
His gaze lingered on the gray wig and ash-powdered bespectacled face, seeing the beauty beneath, yet he
had to wonder why she was draped like a tart on the fainting couch.
Why hadn’t she left yet?
Why was nothing ever easy with her?
“Work with you for what?” he asked, dreading her answer.
A set of neglected aunties wouldn’t allow India to answer. While she shoved to a seated position, the O’Brien ladies shot from their seats and pounced upon Connor, trying to make up for months of separation in the space of a few seconds by smothering him with kisses, hugs, and familial worries.
“Dearest, what happened to your nose?” Tessa fretted.
“Those are gin blossoms. You’ve been drinking to excess.” Phoebe’s thin lips twisted. “Wait. Did you get in a fistfight? Your eyes are blackening.”
Jinnings cocked his bald head. “You got a war wound?”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Connor answered dryly.
It was a good thing no one asked about his gait.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed that it hadn’t escaped India. She looked him up and down, centering on his injured groin, and if ever a woman had sympathy for a man’s misfortune and concern about its source, that woman was now.
Good. She wasn’t indifferent to his plight.
Bad. With trouble on the horizon, taking flight would be the only way out for her, and a clean break would be the better good-bye.
“Have a seat, ladies.” He pulled away from his kin.
Tessa took her place by her foreign suitor and a sleeping Amelia, Phoebe descending to the rocker again.
Connor walked—slowly—to the sofa India occupied. Not doing a good job of covering his wince, he sat down. The aunties and Jinnings peered at him, but he couldn’t give them too much thought. He noted a slice of tawny skin, revealed by smudging.
“India, are you still planning to leave?”
She stared downward. Her whisper held the verbal disguise as she answered with her own question. “Do you want me to stay?”
“Yes. No. You can’t leave today. Track troubles.”
How could he encapsulate the past two hours without saying too much in front of the visitors? There would be trouble on the train itself should word reach the engineer that a woman posing as a member of the Sanitary Commission had boarded in Rock Island town. She had been found out.
“India, you and I have things to discuss. Alone.”
Soot-bedecked eyes looked up at him. “Later?”
“Sooner than later.”
“Are you all right?” she asked worriedly.
How could he, in the audience of silent aunties and Jinnings, let India know the scope of their troubles? Zeke Pays hadn’t lied. Doot Smith’s telegram had reached Washington. Nevertheless, just this morning, Connor had been on the receiving end of a telegram from Roscoe Lawrence. He was after scalps.
Zeke Pays spilling bourbon on Marshall’s pardon had been for the best, since the last thing Connor O’Brien needed was to double his insubordination. In chains he couldn’t aid India.
Following Dimpled Darling’s telegraphed orders, on the other hand, posed yet another dilemma.
He decided to deal with that predicament after dealing with the visitors. He turned to his mute aunties, who watched him closely. “Where is my brother?” There was but one person he’d trust with getting India away from Rock Island, and that person was Burke O’Brien. “Why isn’t he with you?”
“We left Burke in Burlington,” Eugene answered.
Phoebe took over. “Burke wants to wait there awhile, until the ice finishes melting. Naturally, Tessa was anxious to finish our journey, so we came up by train.” She proceeded to confirm the report of north-south track problems.
No train headed south, no brother in close proximity. Bad news. He asked India, “How are you at sitting a horse?”
“You needn’t act so very avid to get rid of me,” she whispered, “but, yes, I can ride.”
“You’re being rude, Nephew. We haven’t seen you for months, and you ignore us.”
“My apologies, Aunt Phoebe.”
While aunts were at him to take care of priorities, he could slow down. It would take a while for Lawrence to arrive.
Connor settled his back against the wall, tamping down his worries related to the war zone of Rock Island and studying the expressions of those around him. They were up to no good. “What were you talking about when I walked in?”
Tessa fluttered her fingers. “Magic? We don’t know what you mean.”
“I didn’t say anything about magic.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Ringlets bounced, not unlike springs. “There’s no such thing as magic, and you know it.”
“I know it. But do you?”
During a couple of leaves from the Army, Connor overheard enough of Tessa’s whisperings to Jinnings to figure out she believed in sorcery, which had gotten women in Salem burned at the stake for less. Add that to her obviously vague answer—
“What are you up to, Aunt Tessa?”
“Meddling.”
“Sister!” The meddler whitened. “I’ll do my own answering.”
Phoebe, unrepentant, squared her shoulders. “Wants you settled, lad, and has her ideas. Furthermore, she’s certain your bride-to-be showed up on your last birthday.”
Good God! He’d met India on his birthday.
“It all has to do with wizardry,” his sensible aunt added.
Peculiar. And Connor wasn’t thinking about necromancy. No one in his family had ever tried to match him up with a wife. It was as if, in the aftermath of Georgia Morgan, they wanted nary an O’Brien to wed.
“Tell Tessa it isn’t so.” Phoebe stood. “Tell her.”
“Isn’t so.” He lowered his voice, hating to remind India about their last argument, but some things had to be said. “If the Army wanted me to have a wife, they’d have issued one.”
“I kn-knew he’d fight us.” Tessa began to cry, rivulets of tears coursing down her doughy cheeks.
Jinnings put a consoling arm around her.
Taking India’s beautiful slender fingers, Connor muttered, “My apologies. This is a helluva time for the likes of this.”
She laid her free hand over his wrist. “Connor, forces may be beyond our control.”
“You will marry Miss India Marshall.”
Every head in the room turned to Jinnings and his announcement. He barreled to his feet, arms crossing over his chest. Resolute was Eugene Jinnings.
Connor’s collar got tight. He wouldn’t have India hurt by his family, nor by an auxiliary member of the clan. “Stay out of our business, Jinnings. All of you, stay out of it.”
“Impossible.” The foreigner shook his head. “It is deemed you will marry this woman, and marry her you will.”
Fearing for how she took all this, Connor studied India. She didn’t appear upset. Serene fit her mien.
She smiled at him, then set to explaining her version of these shenanigans. “Don’t be upset. Mr. Jinnings means no harm. Matter of fact, he and your aunts want only the best for you.”
“Tessa thinks Eugene can perform magic,” Phoebe piped up.
“How could you? Sister, you promised to keep mum.”
“I lied.” Phoebe pointed her aquiline nose at Connor. “I don’t know what Eugene told you about himself, but he claims his home was once a magic lamp—have you ever heard anything so absurd? Silly Tessa thinks he can grant favors. I think he ought to be arrested for stealing my sister’s good sense.”
Throwing herself deeper into Eugene’s arm, Tessa wailed, “This is going all wrong.”
Her hand leaving Connor’s wrist, India leaned to squeeze reassurance into Tessa’s forearm. “Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. You haven’t done anything awful, seeking a wife for your nephew. What’s the crime in wishing upon a magic lamp? And your nephew could do worse than me. I bake with butter, and you did say I remind you of your sainted mother.”
Tessa blew her nose on Eugene’s handkerchief before hiccuping and turning her regard to In
dia. “But . . . but—”
“The major and I are destined for each other. Let’s try to make the best of it.”
She, by damn, had whistled in the dark last night. Marriage was on her mind. Connor might be ready to continue their relationship, somewhere down the line, but he hadn’t changed his mind about marriage.
Marriage? She’d be lucky to get out of this war alive.
As for himself, he hadn’t felt this cornered since the Confederates had surrounded his battalion on the first day of the Gettysburg campaign. “I cannot believe that four adults are childish enough to give one iota of credence to necromancy.”
“Three,” Phoebe corrected. “Don’t lump me with them.”
“What’s wrong with believing in the mystical?” India asked, her normal voice surfacing for one question.
He got in her face. “You’re deranged, like they are.”
“I want to meet Antoinette Lawrence.” Tessa wrung her hands. “She’s the one for Connor.”
“Never in a million years,” he muttered.
“Sister, you heard Miss Marshall say the Lawrence girl is interested in Burke.”
“Hush, Phoebe.”
“Interested in Burke?” Connor got the impression he’d missed something, somewhere. Something? A lot of things. “What’s Burke got to do with this?”
“Never you mind.” Tessa turned to Jinnings. “Genie, undo the spell. Right now. I won’t have my nephew married to an elderly lady, even if she is as fine as Mother, or as good a cook as Jon Marc. I just won’t have it.”
India straightened on the fainting couch. “You shouldn’t make snap judgments. I may be perfect for your nephew.”
“Undo the spell, Genie.”
“It is too late, my lady. You had but three wishes.”
India smiled. “You never know. I may turn out to be as perfect for your nephew as Badroulboudour was for Aladdin.”
Connor prayed she was joking. He, himself, was choking. A marriage-minded outlaw and a pair of crazed visitors spouting the phantasmagoria of fairy tale—when Rock Island would soon turn to a battleground of real trouble? Unreal!
“Are you wearing a wig?”
