Whispers of War

by Naomi Finley

  As we made our descent, he asked, “Are you happy, my darling?”

  I smiled at the guests filtering into the foyer from the parlor. “Why do you ask?”

  “I haven’t seen you glow quite like tonight in some time.”

  “Perhaps I’m feeling loved.”

  A light chuckle came from him. “Is that all I have to do to make you smile?”

  “It isn’t just the gown. At least for the next few hours, we can put business and pressures aside. If the evening must be spent admiring you from across the room, I’ll enjoy it. I find I’m the happiest when you’re near.”

  At the bottom of the stairs, he spun me around and tipped me back, placing a light kiss on my lips for all to see before pulling me upright. Flustered, my heart racing, I felt my cheeks warm. He winked as murmurs of delight—and a few of judgment—rose around us at his disregard for proper etiquette in public.

  “Good evening.” He looked around at our guests with a courteous smile.

  Peering up at him, I felt my love overflow. He was my security. My hope.

  As guests pulled us away, I shared in small, polite conversations until a blond in a silver gown who stood off to the side, observing the people around her, caught my eye. “Will you all excuse me? There’s someone I must speak to.”

  I wove between guests toward the blond woman, and as I approached, her face brightened. “I’m pleased you decided to come,” I said.

  “Mrs. Armstrong, it’s a pleasure. You look stunning.” Philippa Buxton’s smile reflected in her blue eyes.

  Soon after her arrival from England, Isabella had invited me over to formally introduce us. A private conversation between Isabella and I had included her plan to persuade her friend to attend the banquet in hopes Ben would make an appearance.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Please, you can call me Willow.”

  “Yes, let’s forgo formalities, as I much prefer Pippa to Miss Buxton anyway. Much too stuffy for my liking.” I recalled from our first meeting how she’d put me at ease almost right away. She had a calmness about her, and self-assurance.

  As a servant carrying a tray of champagne walked by, I stopped him and retrieved two glasses. Handing her one, I moved to stand beside her as the band changed songs and couples began to dance. I overheard some ladies next to us whispering.

  “Who is she? Sounds like an English accent to me.”

  “I heard she was staying with the Barlows. I wonder why the Armstrongs would invite her?” another said.

  “From what I hear, she isn’t married and therefore isn’t guilty of the sins of the Barlows.”

  “But doesn’t she condone it by befriending them?”

  “Clearly, the Armstrongs had the good judgment not to invite the Barlows. Can you imagine them mingling with decent Christian folks? My condolences go out to the Armstrongs. Dealing with the Barlows as neighbors is one thing, but having to live with the guilt over Mr. Armstrong’s part in bringing such ghastly concerns to us all is another. Why, Mr. Armstrong must be beside himself with regret for selling out to nigger-lovers. The last thing we need is abolitionists living amongst us.”

  I bristled, keeping my back to the ladies. Pippa surreptitiously placed a reassuring hand on my wrist. I wondered if anything in life riled her. Taking a lesson from a proper lady, not the gossips of Charleston, I released a weighted sigh, attempting to shake off the naysayers.

  Whitney’s voice carried from the entrance to the parlor, drawing my attention. Looking especially striking in the dove-gray dress she’d worn on her wedding day, she was conversing with Julia and Lucille. Julia, always a delight and exuding cheerful energy, laughed and carried on the chatter while Whitney tried to get a word in edgewise. Lucille glowered at Whitney, the distaste at her presence evident on a face that could be attractive if it wasn’t for her personality.

  Whitney’s eyes met mine, and she exchanged a few words with the ladies before leaving them to head our way. She took a full look at Pippa. “Good evening.”

  “Whitney, I’d like you to meet Pippa. She is joining us from England.”

  “You don’t say?” Whitney said.

  “Whitney is married to Knox Tucker, a good friend of my husband’s. Her sister Kimie helps us here in the quarters and at the plantation hospital.”

  “She has the stomach for nursing. That’s admirable.” Pippa’s dewy flesh paled. “The sight of blood makes me squeamish.”

  I felt a twinge of disappointment as I considered Ben’s profession. What would it mean for my hopes that she’d be the one to sweep him off his feet? “Ben—my uncle—is our doctor. He speaks highly of Kimie.”

  Whitney moved out of the way as a dancing couple jabbed her from behind. “She’s quite taken with him as well.”

  “A courtship in the making?” Pippa asked.

  “Oh, no,” Whitney and I said together.

  “My sister is way too young for Mr. Hendricks.”

  “An older gentleman, this uncle of yours?”

  “No, Kimie is Whitney’s younger sister.” I pointed to Kimie in the arms of Wyatt Harris as he swung her around the dance floor, her cheeks rosy from exertion, and a look of distress on her face.

  “I see,” Pippa said. “Quite a pretty little thing. Is the young man her beau?”

  “Hardly,” Whitney said with a snort that had Pippa looking at her with shock, but then a small smile escaped as she considered her, intrigued. I recollected my similar befuddlement upon meeting Whitney for the first time, and how I’d been drawn to her unrefined ways.

  Whitney continued, “Although he’d like nothing more, he has a reputation with the ladies. My sister shows no interest in him, so it makes him try that much harder. But her ambitions go much deeper than Wyatt Harris. She’s eager to learn from a doctor as highly sought after as Mr. Hendricks.” A gleam shone in her eyes as she looked from me to Pippa. “The ladies of Charleston would love to snare him, but so far, none has caught his eye.”

  “Perhaps he is happy with bachelorhood.” Pippa took a sip of her champagne. “Not everyone is meant to marry.”

  Whitney stood taller and took a second gander at Pippa, as though her words had sung to her soul. “You aren’t married?”

  “No,” Pippa said. “Life never granted me the opportunity.”

  “Have you ever been in love?” I recalled the stable boy she’d run away with, only to have cholera take him. I pondered on the similarity between Ben and Pippa’s love stories, the passion and commitment to love that forced them to make unthinkable choices. She’d given up her title and family. He’d given up my mother and his child, so no reproach befell us. Were there two people more deserving of a chance at happiness?

  “Oh, I was in love once, but it was a long time ago.” I appreciated her willingness to be forthright over something that’d caused her immense pain. “Because of that love, I’ve always longed to find love again, but as I said, life hasn’t given me the opportunity.”

  “I guess I will continue to be the anomaly,” Whitney said with a shrug. “Marriage is something I never sought.”

  Pippa’s brow pleated. “You aren’t in love with your husband?”

  Whitney studied Knox, where he stood a few feet away. He chuckled and clapped an elderly gentleman on the back, causing him to cough and choke on his drink. “Like friendships, there are many types of love. Of course I love him, but marriage was never a dream of mine. I aspired to be like my Aunt Em. To travel the world and make money of my own, to not be defined by a man.”

  Again, a look of intrigue flickered on Pippa’s face. “Such women are definitely an oddity.”

  “I’m all right with being different.” Whitney picked at the cuff of her glove.

  “I, for one, admire that Whitney doesn’t care what society thinks, and that she stands up for what she believes in.”

  “A true friendship.” Pippa smiled warmly.

  Across the room, Mary Grace was in her position by the punch bowl. Ben stood in front of her as she fill
ed a glass and held it out for him. “If you will excuse me, I will be right back.” I left them and hurried over to Ben before someone pulled him away.

  He turned as I approached, and a broad smile spread across his face. “My darling.” He kissed each of my cheeks.

  “I have someone you must meet,” I said, pulling him back the way I’d come.

  “Who?” he said, moving reluctantly. “This isn’t another one of your schemes, is it?”

  “This person is a friend of the Barlows.” I avoided using “she” to keep him from retreating.

  “Oh?” he said.

  Pippa and Whitney saw us coming. I noticed how Pippa’s gaze slid past me to Ben. Her eyes widened, and a hand went to her throat. A smile danced in my heart.

  “Pippa, I’d like you to meet my uncle, Benjamin Hendricks.”

  “H-how do you do?” Ben said politely, but his hand squeezed my elbow. I knew I’d get an earful later, but I believed Philippa Buxton was worth his rebuke.

  “Quite fine.” Pippa held out a hand. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Your niece and Mrs. Tucker were just telling me what an accomplished doctor you are in these parts.”

  “I’m sure they did.” Ben winced, aware he’d been set up. “How long do you plan to be in South Carolina?”

  “Until spring,” she said.

  I spoke to Whitney with my eyes, and she nodded minutely and said, “Willow, can I speak to you privately on a matter I’ve meant to discuss with you?”

  “Oh, well, yes. If you two will excuse us.” I hurried away before either of them could stop us.

  In the crowded corridor, I gripped Whitney’s forearm and giggled. “We’re going to be in trouble for this.”

  Tucking against the wall, we peeked around the corner to spy on Pippa and Ben. “Well, you may, but I’ll be long gone. I’m all for helping a friend in need, but I don’t understand why you insist on him finding someone. It may be as he said, he’s comfortable with being alone and married to his practice.”

  “Nonsense.” I glared up at her as she hovered above me. “Most men are unaware of what they want.”

  “Says who?”

  “Every woman that has ever persuaded a man and won in the end.”

  “Are you referring to Bowden and yourself? If so, your union worked out for the both of you, but it doesn’t mean it’s for everyone.”

  I waved a hand to silence her while taking in the smile on Ben’s face as Pippa chatted and laughed.

  “Mission accomplished, I see,” Bowden said behind us.

  We jumped, and I smacked my head on Whitney’s chin. She cursed under her breath, lifting fingers to rub the area. My heart thumped faster as we whirled to face him. He stood with an arched brow.

  “I-I—” I said.

  “No mission on my part,” Whitney said.

  I glowered at her. Clearing my throat, I moved to his side to slip my arm through his bent elbow. “Can’t you see I was right? Look how well they are getting on.” I nodded toward the pair.

  “Don’t seek my help when he comes looking to reprimand you when this evening is over,” Bowden said, and he and Whitney shared a look of camaraderie.

  “You two are impossible!” I said. “What’s wrong in wanting him to find happiness?”

  “Nothing. But let him decide what makes him happy.”

  “I second that,” Whitney said.

  Annoyed at Whitney and Bowden’s joining forces, I turned to focus on Ben and Pippa and found them engaged in what appeared to be a more serious conversation. I presumed those moments were minutes more than Ben had given a woman in some time.

  We’d see who was laughing when I proved to be right! I stormed off to get some fresh air.

  New York, 1859

  Reuben, alias Oliver Evans

  THE MONOTONOUS SOUND OF MY brother as he droned on and on grated at me. The offensive, yet familiar, odor of sweat and ale that I associated with him permeated the study of the townhouse I’d purchased under the alias Oliver Evans. Leaning back, I peered across the desk at Rufus, lending an ear to his chatter while focusing on his shirt, where a beating heart lay just behind a ribcage. I imagined the sound of the vital organ—thump, thump, thump. Then the scraping of a blade as it peeled back the flesh and sawed away the bone, exposing the throbbing organ within. My chest heaved as I imagined severing each artery, one by one.

  In the hallway, the grandfather clock struck noon, and I shook my head free of the enthralling vision. I struck a match and lit the cigar clenched between my teeth, inhaling deeply before releasing a satisfying cloud in his direction. “Are you sure your plan will work?”

  Rufus’s intoxicated eyes gleamed as he regarded me from beneath his wide-brimmed hat he never removed—it concealed the mark of the masked men of Charleston. “The man knows what is at risk. He will do as he is told to clear his debts, or his wife will pay the consequences.”

  “One would think, with your distaste for the South, you would have had your fill of Negresses,” I said dryly. “Who’s to say he won’t get to Charleston and run straight to the authorities? Your neck may not be on the line, but do remember I am a wanted man.”

  “You forget, brother, in your raving, you revealed my involvement in the Hendricks woman’s death. If someone were to discover I’m alive, I would swing from a noose next to you,” he said. “The nigger doesn’t know you’re a wanted man. You saw to that.” Bubbles of saliva pooled in the corner of his mouth as he waved a hand at our surroundings. “Your brilliance in this last escapade of yours worked quite nicely. Reckon it’s time I took a lesson from my little brother.”

  I studied the pathetic waste of flesh before me. As a child, I’d trembled at the sight of him, aware that he took great pleasure in torturing me. But as a man, I saw the frailty of his existence.

  Kill him now. The constant humming in my head howled with the appetite for torture and suffering. It had been months since I’d felt the glorious rush from ending a life. My gaze held his throat, and I contemplated the crunching sound his windpipe would make as it collapsed beneath my fingers. The thumping in my chest sped up, and euphoria blanketed me. No! I dropped my gaze. His time would come, but for now, there was a bigger plan in motion.

  Together we’d take care of Bowden and Willow Armstrong, and only then would Rufus get what he deserved. When my brother least expected it, I would make the last move and end his miserable life. There was but one person I hated more than the Armstrongs, and he sat before me. A man assumed dead in the Barry fire some years ago couldn’t be murdered, and certainly wouldn’t be missed. Yes, killing my brother would be the easiest of my tasks.

  Until that day came, I savored an agenda vastly more satisfying. My chest rose and fell with ecstasy as I envisioned Livingston and Hendricks Enterprises lying in ruins. Death would come, and I’d paint my body in a river of blood. Glory would be mine.

  “Our informant says Armstrong visits the auctions regularly. And once the time is right, and the man is in place, I will see to the rest,” I said as Rufus lifted the whiskey bottle on the edge of the desk to fill his glass.

  The sour taste of revulsion coated my mouth. Like our old man, he’d become a drunk, which only spoke to the weakness that lay within him. No substance or person would have power over me. I had castrated the craving embedded in the McCoy men for booze and women.

  Rufus grinned. “It will give me enormous satisfaction to look into that nigger-lover Willow Armstrong’s eyes when her niggers lay slaughtered, and her beloved Livingston is no more. And revisiting the delicacy of her handmaiden’s body is something I’ve dreamed about for too long.” He squirmed in his chair, appearing aroused.

  A noise outside the door silenced our discussion, and I gestured for Rufus to check it out. He walked with weightless footfalls to the door and threw it open. He glanced up and down the corridor before turning back to me with a shrug and closing the door. “Ain’t nobody there.” He strode back to his seat and plopped down.

  “Ever
y move needs to be precisely planned out.”

  “It will be,” he said.

  “I thought I’d done that before, and she outwitted me. I won’t allow it to happen again.”

  “Very well,” he said. “We will do this your way, but remember the slave girl Mary Grace is mine.”

  My stomach convulsed at the notion of bedding a Negro. Memories of my childhood rose in my mind. From my prison in the shed, I’d heard the cries of the darkies Pa and Rufus had brought to our homestead. Later they’d release me to bury the women’s battered corpses. I didn’t like the coloreds any more than they had, but I would never lie with one. Whereas Pa and Rufus had found pleasure in victimizing the weak, I’d found gratification in taking down the strong.

  I recalled the day Rufus had thrown open the door of the shed, carrying a plate of food…

  He gasps and lifts a wrist to his nose to block out the smell of my feces and urine as he stands over me. “She insists I bring the dog his food.”

  Mother. I yearn for her gentle touch.

  Chained to the floor, I crouch with my knees drawn up to my chest, shivering from the cold, stomach burning with hunger and my tongue thick and dry from thirst. I eye the food.

  He glances at the plate and laughs. “Is this what you want?”

  “Please,” I beg.

  Grinning, he drops the plate, and its contents scatter on the ground. I scramble to grab the food and shove a handful into my mouth, the grit of dirt and the pungent taste of my waste coating my palate. Then warm liquid splatters me in the face. Using the back of my hand, I wipe the burning moisture from my eyes and look up at him. His glee nearly euphoric, he urinates on me, then every morsel of food to humiliate me.

  The memory fed my hatred. He must die! the voice shrieked.

  Amelie

  THE CONVERSATION INSIDE THE ROOM ceased. Hearing footsteps, I quietly ducked into the next room and pressed myself against the wall, my heart pounding in my ears.