“That’s all, Miss Lanford.
He watched her turn and leave the room, relieved that he had managed a truce without destroying her pride or breaking her spirit. He frowned slightly as the door closed behind her, remembering the way she had stood beside him the night before, cool, calm, without a trace of emotion, and the way she had fought him at the pond, that morning. Drayton thought most women as transparent as glass these days, but Ambrosia intrigued him and attracted him more than any woman had since. . .
The memory of another woman of years past, a woman he had loved and lost, sharpened in his mind. Her eyes had been a brighter green, her hair dark and fine. It had been a long time since he had remembered the way that woman had smiled, or the way she had felt in his arms. A long time since the hurt had come to the fore. He vented a sigh and shook off the memories, suddenly aware of the dangers of playing this game of cat-and-mouse with a woman like Ambrosia. She had the power to make him remember far too many things he wanted desperately to forget.
Chapter 5
The soft golden rays of morning sun poured insistently through the bedroom windowpanes, stirring Ambrosia reluctantly from a troubled sleep. She forced her eyes to open, sighing at the day’s bright yellow light, drawing comfort from the sight that she had not found in slumber. Wearily she rose from the bed and shuddered as her feet touched the floor, rekindling the dreams that had haunted her all through the night. She’d been running and running, trying to warn her father of the terrible danger at Heritage. She had stood at a window, watching him ride proud and erect in his splendid gray uniform up the long, curving drive, his mouth lifting slightly as the slaves gathered about him, cheering and welcoming him home. And then, suddenly, came a terrible explosion. A hundred guns firing at once until the wonderful, proud vision burst into thousands of charred, bloody pieces of flesh. Ambrosia did not know whether or not she had screamed aloud in terror, but twice she bolted upright from a deep sleep, an icy sweat covering her skin. For long moments the explosion had echoed in her head. And with it the agonizing sight of her father’s body, horribly mutilated beyond recognition.
Ambrosia clenched her teeth against a wave of nausea that filled her stomach. She could not allow herself to dwell on the nightmare now, no matter how very real it had seemed. It was too important to concentrate on the here and now. Jackson Lanford would not be coming home, but his daughter would never let sorrow or fear interfere with what had to be done. She lifted her eyes proudly to face the reflection in the looking glass, searching until the familiar gleam of determination met her. She was ready then to face the day.
The long list of chores and duties began to fall into place as she descended the stairs, mentally trying to arrange an orderly schedule. The Yankees would be wanting their breakfast; the ground would be dry enough for turning; if she and Andrew and Sally could force the old mule Nemesis out of her stall and get her behind a plow...
Breakfast proceeded much as the morning before, ex cept that Ambrosia kept her eyes carefully away from the Yankee’s. It was only when the major was leaving the dining room that Ambrosia realized that she would need his permission to work in the fields and so reluctantly stopped him. “Major Rambert?”
He turned inquiringly and she could feel the color fading from her face as she met his eyes. “I will need your permission to spend the morning away from the house.’’ The words came in a rush, but she somehow managed to survive the self-consciousness during the next few moments while he questioned her about exactly where she would be and what work would be done. Apparently she answered the inquiries to his satisfaction, and permission was granted.
Ambrosia took eagerly to the taxing, physical tasks that lay before her, glad for the momentary escape the work offered her troubled mind. The sun rose bright and hot in the sky as she and Andrew and Sally took turns guiding the plow or yanking persuasively on Nemesis’s bridle to keep her proceeding on a straight path. The work was hard and tiring for the body but pure refreshment for Ambrosia’s soul. In another few weeks it would be time for planting. And the seedlings would grow strong and green in the fertile soil, in spite of war and death. And by the time the harvest came, General Lee and his Confederate Army would have driven the Yankees far from the South. Ambrosia’s blistered palms grasped the worn plow handles more firmly as her feet stumbled determinedly on the freshly turned ground. Her green eyes caught sight of the manor house as she made to begin a new row, and she paused for a moment to lift her head with pride. The house her father built still echoed the greatness of yesterday. As long as it stood it was easy for her to believe that someday, everything would be as it once had been. She only had to be strong enough, brave enough to hold on to what was left of the dream.
Ambrosia was so tired by dinner time that she could hardly taste the fare Sheba set before her, or care that the Yankees had eaten the same thing an hour before. She was surprised when Sheba told her that the major wanted to see her, and in spite of her weariness she felt a cold dread building inside. The remainder of her dinner was left untouched on her plate as she rose, tucking a loose strand of her hair into the knot at the nape of her neck, trying to force the light furrows of fatigue from her brow. She hesitated before entering the parlor to square her shoulders and hold her head high, to hide the anxiety she felt at the prospect of facing him again. When she entered the room, Ambrosia found the major bent low beside Corporal Laird. He acknowledged her with a brief glance, then continued prodding the swollen area about the gash in the corporal’s abdomen and blotting the yellowish drainage which oozed from the wound. Ambrosia hesitated, still wondering why he had sent for her since his gesture had not been an angry one. She watched him work at cleansing the wound, marveling again at his skilled, precise movements. A moment later she went to get the healing box from the parlor table, then knelt be side him, not at all sure he would welcome her interference. She removed a small jar from the box and opened it, her hand trembling a little as she offered it to him. “This will help heal the infection,” she said as matter of-factly as she could manage.
Drayton paused to lift inquiring eyes, studying her face for several moments before he accepted the jar of salve. Scooping a small amount on his fingertip, he tested the consistency and the smell, guessing at its con tents. “It’s a mixture of brown sugar and honey and a bit of tallow,” Ambrosia informed him coldly, angered that he did not trust her word, though admittedly he had good reason not to. “I’ve seen it work on worse wounds. Mammy used to swear by it.”
Drayton hesitated, searching her green eyes for another long moment before he moved to apply the salve to the infected area. Laird’s eyelids fluttered heavily and he mumbled something unintelligible as Drayton used the last of a long strip of linen to rewrap the wound. The corporal quieted when Drayton tucked a blanket about his shoulders and settled him on his makeshift pallet. Ambrosia came to her feet when the major did, her eyes wary, her stance cautious. “You sent for me?”
“I am in need of more bandages,” he told her in an authoritative tone. ‘’And your assistance, if you are willing,” he added more gently.
Ambrosia was surprised and pleased by his request. She gave a brief nod, then went to get the linens which had been laundered the day before, and returned to help him rebandage Laird’s leg wounds. The thigh was swollen and very much inflamed, but there was no strong odor to indicate gangrene. Ambrosia watched with satisfaction as Drayton applied the salve she had recommended to these wounds as well. Without a word he finished with Laird and moved on to the young blond soldier.
It was not really necessary to examine the boy’s wounds, for a single look at the unnatural brightness of his cheeks in an otherwise grayish countenance, and at the constant, aimless movement of his head told Ambrosia more than she wanted to know. Drayton stared at the bandage for a moment, then lowered the scissors and replaced the blanket. There was no sense in putting the boy through any more agony, though he was probably beyond any awar
eness of pain by this time. Drayton’s face hardened as he felt the boy’s brow and went through the motions of caring for him as if there were reason to hope. He had known that this would probably happen, even as he had wielded the knife. But he had had no choice; he had been forced to gamble with full awareness that either way, Jamie would probably lose his life. He was hardly more than a child, Drayton thought bitterly as a helpless frustration broke free inside him. A doctor’s skill and knowledge had not been enough to save his life.
Ambrosia’s frown deepened as she stared at the young soldier’s face. Jamie, one of the men had called him. He was only a boy, much too young to die. And he was so much like Ledger with his youthful face and blond hair.
She closed her eyes and shook her head. She did not want to think of Ledger now.
Her eyes slid to the major’s face. “I’ll get some cool water. I’ve seen a sponging bring down a fever,” she told him hopefully, her eyes searching his face for some encouragement.
Drayton withdrew his hand from Jamie’s brow and evenly met her eyes. “Sometimes it does,” he said softly. “But this time it won’t.”
She felt her lower lip tremble as their eyes locked, the hard truth in his quiet words striking her full force. This boy was going to die. Thousands of other Yankee soldiers had died too, and Ambrosia herself had wished death on thousands more. But they had been nameless, faceless Yankees, while this one had a name and a face and a child’s head of curly blond hair.
“When we’ve finished, you can sponge his brow,” she heard Drayton saw in a low, gentle voice. “It might give him some relief from the pain. We have nothing else for him.”
Ambrosia swallowed hard and did not move at first when Drayton rose and went on to the Rebel soldier who had fought him on the table. Slowly, wearily she followed.
The Rebel’s leg was draining well, but the man had bled much more than the others and still showed no sign of regaining consciousness. Drayton glanced toward Ambrosia as she knelt beside him. “This one will benefit from a cool sponging as well, and perhaps a sip of water later on.” Drayton turned abruptly to snipping away the soiled bandage, applying the salve and binding it tightly with clean strips of linen which Ambrosia efficiently supplied. When he had almost finished, he watched her leave to fetch a basin of water and return to press a cool compress to the young blond soldier’s brow. It was only then that Drayton noticed her hands.
They were lovely hands, small and delicately boned with long, tapering fingers. But the tender flesh had been cut and blistered, her palms scraped raw by the hours she had spent behind a plow. Drayton’s eyes lingered on those hands, then rose to study the eyes that had so often reminded him of a panther’s-cool, cunning, and dangerous. But there was only compassion in those eyes now, a compassion that touched Drayton deeply.
Ambrosia held back a sigh of anguish as her fingers brushed at a soft blond curl that had fallen across the dying boy’s forehead. He was quiet now, and perhaps more comfortable. There was so very little she could do for him. She closed her eyes for a moment, then struggled to her feet, feeling a new heaviness in her limbs and a lightness in her head. She swayed, and would have fallen if Drayton’s arms had not been there to steady her. “It’s been a long day,’’ he said softly. He was noticing for the first time the shadows beneath her eyes and the unconscious lines of fatigue that pulled at her brow. ‘’I’II finish here now. Thank you for your help.’’
Ambrosia willed herself to straighten and was extremely grateful that Drayton released her when she did
so. It took a great deal of effort just to make the proper exit from the parlor, and even more to mount the stairs without stumbling. She knew, somehow, that his eyes remained on her until she was out of sight.
Once in her room, Ambrosia dropped into bed without even shedding her clothing. She fell immediately into an exhausted sleep.
For a long time after she left him, Drayton continued the work Ambrosia had begun, sponging the feverish men and periodically offering them small sips of water. When they were all sleeping peacefully, he spread a blanket on the floor near Laird and did his best to catch a few moments of sleep himself.
It seemed to Drayton that he had scarcely closed his eyes when a sound in the hall made him snap to attention. In a single movement, he rolled and lifted himself on his forearm, his revolver cocked and aimed at the doorway. A moment later he relaxed, letting out his breath and lowering his gun. It was Crawford. The layers of heaviest sleep cleared from his head as Crawford approached him. His expression was grim.
“I’ve spotted fires, Major. About five, maybe seven miles from here.’’ Drayton glanced at him hopefully, but Crawford shook his head. “They ain’t campfires, Major.”
Major Rambert rose and quickly checked Laird and the others, making sure that the prisoners were both bound securely and sound asleep. Then he followed Crawford up the stairs, all the way to the tiny, winding steps that led to the cupola. Once in the cupola he took up the field glasses, but they were unnecessary to see what Crawford had reported. Huge tongues of flame leapt bright and orange against the velvet blackness of the night. Drayton let out a pensive breath and slowly faced. Crawford.
“Kilpatrick,” Crawford guessed, naming the worst of all Union scavengers. General Kilpatrick was Sherman’s right-hand man, a leader who blatantly and triumphantly encouraged his soldiers to steal or destroy everything that lay in their path.
“Either him or a few of his close friends,” Drayton answered as he lifted the glasses and took a second look, hoping for a glimpse of something more than shadows and flame and billowing smoke. But the night was moon less and otherwise pitch-black. He gnawed at his lower lip, wondering just how long it would take them to reach Heritage.
“I figure them here by tomorrow noon,” Crawford said, mirroring his thoughts. “They’ll probably have a wagon, so’s we can transport the wounded.”
Drayton vented a sigh and leaned heavily against the sill, his fingers kneading at the tension beneath his brow. “Get some rest, Crawford. I’ll take the watch.”
Crawford gave a grateful nod and eagerly headed for the stairs.
“Crawford?”
He turned, lifting an inquiring brow. “Keep a close eye on Laird.”
Crawford gave a short nod, then hurried down the stairs.
For some time after he’d left, Drayton stared numbly at the fires which roared uncontrollably in the distance. Crawford was right. They would be able to transport the wounded. By tomorrow noon Laird and Clark and the Rebel prisoner would likely be on their way to an army surgeon’s care, and Drayton’s responsibilities as a doctor would be finished. Tomorrow at noon he could go back to being a soldier and put to rest the memories that haunted him these past days. He ought to feel relieved. But a part of him screamed in outrage against the rest of what would happen, once that kind of soldier arrived at Heritage. And a part of him could not but wonder what would happen to them-to the loyal blacks who lovingly called this place home, and more especially, what would happen to her. She did not have the good sense not to defy them, and they were not accustomed to meeting resistance. He let out a lengthy breath and shook his head, certain that she would fight them, and just as certain that they would destroy her without a second thought. And though he really didn’t understand why, he couldn’t bear to see it happen. He lifted the field glasses one last time, trying to think of some way he could prevent it.
It was still a few hours before daylight when Drayton left the cupola and quietly descended the stairs to the parlor. Crawford was snoring loudly when he entered the room and continued to do so as Drayton strode slowly past him, silently making his way to Josiah’s side. The black man started violently when Drayton clamped a hand over his mouth and slipped an arm about his rib cage. After a few moments of fitful struggling, Josiah settled down and Drayton gradually released his hold. Drayton drew a knife from his belt and sliced through the he
avy rope bonds at Josiah’s feet, leaving his hands bound behind him. With a jerk of his head, Drayton directed the black to the hall, then got up and led the way through the maze of sleeping men. Josiah eyed him suspiciously and considered making a ruckus, then thought again. Something made him more curious than frightened, and he wanted to know why Major Rambert would set him free quietly, in the middle of the night, when he had only been taken prisoner the day before. He followed Rambert out of the parlor, then through the front door and onto the porch. The air was cool and moist, but it smelled strongly of smoke, and the smell made Josiah wary about following the major too far from the house. He stopped, intending to go no farther. A glance at the major told him he would find no argument.
Major Rambert leaned his weight against the porch rail as he silently considered the shadowed land which spread before him in the darkness of the night. He seemed deep in his own thoughts for a time, then abruptly he turned and met Josiah’s eyes. “I need to talk with you, Josiah.”
‘’I’m lis’nin’, suh.” Josiah’s eyes were steadfast on Rambert’s.
“Have you ever heard of Kilpatrick’s cavalry?”
The black gave a short, mirthless laugh. “I’ve a lot more ‘n heard of them, Major. I’ve seen a few of the places they foraged. Ain’t nothin’ left of nothin’ ‘cept smoke and ash.”
Rambert nodded, then turned away to brace his hands on the ornate iron rail which was in sore need of paint. “They’ll be paying a visit here, Josiah.”
“That what we’re smellin’?” The major nodded.
Josiah’s voice betrayed his concern. “When?” Drayton turned to meet the dark brown eyes. “Soon. Tomorrow morning... maybe noon.”
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