Lori Austin

by When Morning Comes

  In Boston, Seth had hoped to find solace. Instead, the loud city noises, the shouts, the startling bangs and bumps had made him more nervous than ever before. He was always waiting for the next cannon blast, even though he knew there would be none, and when something did blare unexpectedly, Seth was thrown back to a time he prayed to forget.

  How could he assume the mantle of leadership his father had left behind? How could he marry a socialite wife and propagate the family name as his mother expected when he never knew if he might lose his mind in the middle of an important meeting or a simple embrace?

  He had no idea. But for the moment he was at peace. He wasn’t waiting for the next loud noise, expecting the next disaster. Therefore, when it happened, he wasn’t prepared at all.

  The distinct snick of a shotgun echoed loudly through the silent night.

  Two

  Gabriella Fontaine kept the shotgun aimed at the man on the horse.

  “You better turn around and get, mister, or I’ll shoot you right here and bury you over there.”

  “I’m looking for the Elliot farm.”

  Ella’s eyes narrowed. Yankee. Carpetbagger. Damn. She should shoot him. But then she would have to bury him as she’d threatened, and she just didn’t have the time.

  As if to emphasize the point, the baby started howling in the house. Poor thing. She was hungry. Every time Ella picked her up she clawed at her shirt, needing something Ella couldn’t give her. The cow was dry; the goat pert near. Ella was at the end of her tether. And now this.

  A carpetbagger sneaking down the lane after dark. She really, really wanted to shoot him.

  “You can’t have this farm, Mr. Carpetbagger. It belongs to some fool Yankee major.”

  A man Ella never expected to see. No rich Union boy would come all the way down here and take responsibility for a failing farm and—

  “I’m not a carpetbagger,” he murmured.

  His voice was the most annoying she’d ever heard. Even when he spoke soft, like now, the words were harsh, flat, just plain strange. Oh, how Ella missed the rolling tones of a Southern man. But they were all dead and gone.

  “If you aren’t a carpetbagger, then who are you?” she demanded.

  “I guess I must be that fool Yankee major you were talking about.”

  She couldn’t see his face, but she heard the amusement in his damnable voice. Ella was of a mind to show him how well she could shoot this shotgun, but that would scare the baby, who was shrieking loud enough to raise the dead already.

  Peering through the shadows, she took stock of his weapons and sighed. He wore Army Colts at his hips and carried a Spencer rifle in the saddle holster. She could probably blow a pretty big hole in him, but he still might shoot her back. She couldn’t do that to the children.

  “How do I know you’re who you say you are?”

  “I have the letter from the solicitor right here.”

  A pale glow of parchment hovered in the shadow of the moonlight, and she sighed. With great reluctance, Ella lowered the gun. “You’d best come to the house. I need to pick up that baby before she hurts herself.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Would you like to ride?”

  Ella shot him a withering glare, then tossed her head. “I’d sooner crawl, Major.”

  To his credit, he said nothing in return. He even got off the horse and led it along, like a gentleman would, rather than ride while she walked, which was what she’d expect of a Yankee.

  With him closer and the moon so bright, she could make out his features. He was handsome enough, for the enemy, tall and broad, with a certain gait and gentle hands on the reins of his horse. Ella forced herself to look away.

  “You know my name, ma’am, but you have me at a loss for yours.”

  “Gabriella Fontaine,” she answered shortly. “I live on the next farm east. Georgina and I have been friends since we were children. I’ve been taking care of the—the—”

  Unexpectedly, tears filled her eyes and she choked. She missed her friend something awful—as much as she missed her mother, her father, her brother, and her fiancé. All dead because of men like him.

  “The baby,” he finished, seemingly oblivious to her heartache. “Is it—um, I mean he? Or she?”

  Ella refused to scrub at her eyes and let him know of her weakness. Instead she cleared her throat and soldiered on.

  “She is named after me. But we call her Gaby.”

  The wails grew louder as they ambled down the lane. “I can hear why.”

  Defensiveness rose in Ella. “She can’t help it. She’s hungry.”

  “Feed her.”

  “With what, Major? Are you hiding a wet nurse in your saddlebags?”

  He coughed, shuffled his feet. He was no doubt blushing at her gauche reference to the realities of life. Men. They were no damned good at anything but killing each other.

  “You said ‘we,’” he blurted.

  “What?”

  “‘We call her Gaby.’” They reached the house, quiet except for the squalls of the baby. He tossed his reins over the porch rail. “Who else is here?”

  Ella gaped. Could he be serious? The expression on his face said he was.

  “What did your letter say?” she demanded.

  “That Mrs. Elliot had died and I was to take care of the child and the farm.”

  “Child?”

  “Yes.”

  Ella didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “You’d better come with me.”

  She led him inside. The farmhouse was large, airy, intact—one of the few left so in the region. Winchester had changed hands seventy times during the war. The fields were charred, the population devastated. No family had emerged unscathed.

  The Elliots were no different. Even though their house still stood, the inside had been ransacked. There was little left to sell. The animals, but for two, were gone. The crops that weren’t hauled away had smoldered.

  Ella retrieved one of their last stubs of candle wax. She could find her way through the house just fine. But she didn’t want a Yankee, friend of Henry or not, behind her in the dark. Besides, she had something to show him, and she wanted to see his face when she did.

  While she lit the candle, the major stood in the hall, glancing right and left, taking in the bullet holes, the missing paintings, the lack of furniture. He made no comment. What was there to say? He’d no doubt done his share of pillaging while he wore the Union blue.

  After removing his hat, brand new from the looks of it, just like his suit and boots, he set the thing on the sole chair that remained in the hall. His hair was as dark as a crow’s wing, long at the collar and over his ears, as if he hadn’t had time for a trim before he’d begun his journey. The lack of a barber made him appear younger than the lines on his face implied.

  Ella led the way upstairs. At the first room, she handed him the candle, stepped inside and scooped the sweaty baby into her arms.

  Gaby had worked herself into fine form. After tugging on Ella’s bodice a moment, she went limp with exhaustion. In her sleep the child hiccuped, trying to catch the breath she’d lost by screaming.

  Even though the baby appeared at rest, Ella knew better than to put her back in bed. Gaby would only wake right up and start screaming again as soon as her tiny blond head touched the mattress.

  “Is this what you wanted to show me?”

  “Shh,” Ella admonished.

  He had the grace to look sheepish. He didn’t look that way for long.

  Ella stepped inside the next bedroom. When he continued to stand like a lump in the hallway, she beckoned. He joined her and she lifted her hand to indicate that he should raise his. The warm, wavering light of the candle filled the room, illuminating two tiny forms on corn shuck mattresses.

  “Elizabeth”—she pointed to the nearest lump—“is two years old.”

  The baby fussed, and Ella shifted so that she rested against her shoulder. Sometimes having her aching belly pressed to Ella’s body helped Gaby’s dispo
sition. Sometimes.

  “Delia,” she continued, indicating the lump on the bed closest to the window, “is three. Henry and Georgina made the most of those quick visits home between battles.”

  Without waiting for the major to speak, Ella sailed past him and into the hall. He followed her meekly to the next room. There, two tousled blond heads shared a single mattress.

  “Joshua is seven,” she said. “Cal’s the oldest at twelve. Georgina lost two babies between Joshua and Delia, and there was another sister born between the boys, but she died of a fever when she was three. Georgina couldn’t bear to think about another baby for a while after that.”

  Ella smiled softly. She loved every one of these children as if they were her own—perhaps because she might never have any of her own.

  Her smile faded and she preceded the major out of the room, then turned to face him. He appeared shell-shocked. Good.

  “Five?” he whispered. “There are five of them?”

  “You didn’t know.”

  Though her words weren’t a question, he answered anyway. “No.” He shook his head, then repeated, “No.”

  “Henry never mentioned them?”

  “What?” He blinked and at last recovered from the blow. “No, we haven’t corresponded since we left West Point.”

  Ella frowned. Why on earth would Henry leave the care of his children to a man he hadn’t spoken to in over twelve years and a Yankee at that?

  Because Henry was a fool. Even if the major had once been someone to trust, the war could have ruined him as easily as it had ruined so many others. Though he obviously had money and could feed, clothe, and house them all, she didn’t want him here. From the panicky, trapped expression on his face, he didn’t want to be here, either.

  “Never mind,” she said. “You can just run along home now. I can handle everything. Don’t worry your head anymore about us.”

  He had been staring into the boys’ room, but at her words he turned that gaze on her. His eyes were blue, very light against the sun-bronzed shade of his face. Were the shadows from the flickering candle or the past?

  Ella stiffened. What did she care about his shadows or his past? They all had their problems. Hers was getting rid of him.

  “You think I’m going to just up and leave?”

  She shrugged. “You thought there was one child. You didn’t know about the other four. No one would blame you.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial level. “No one would even know.”

  His eyes, already cool with shadows, became icy with contempt. “I’d blame me, Miss Fontaine, and I would know.”

  Ella’s heart began to beat faster. He wasn’t going to leave. The baby, as if sensing her agitation, wriggled and mewed. Absently Ella patted Gaby’s back while her mind scrambled for a solution.

  If he stayed, she couldn’t. Live in a house with a Yankee? What would folks say?

  She knew what they’d say. She’d never be able to hold up her head in Winchester again. Not that she had any hope of marriage or family. Even if there were any eligible men left alive, which one would want to take on the burden of five children who weren’t even hers? But, husband or not, she had to live in Winchester. She had nowhere else to go.

  “You can head on back to your place in the morning, Miss Fontaine.” He lowered his head in a formal dismissal that made Ella grit her teeth. “I’m sure you’ve neglected your duties since taking up mine.”

  She had no duties to neglect, no one to go home to. But she wasn’t going to tell him that.

  The candle flickered, dancing with the shadows in the hall. As if in answer to a prayer, an idea bloomed, so wonderful, so devious, so perfect, she smiled.

  The major blinked and stared, which made Ella pause. She’d forgotten how it felt to dazzle a man. That he could be dazzled when she stood before him in a four-year-old gown, her feet bare and baby spit on her shoulder, told Ella one thing—Yankee women had to be dog ugly and fashion foolish.

  “You’re so right, Major. I’ve let my place go something awful. In the morning, I’ll just be on my way home.”

  She’d leave, all right. But she wouldn’t stay away. She didn’t trust any Yankee as far as she could spit, and she certainly wouldn’t trust this one alone with her children.

  Ella left Major Torrance in the hall and returned to the baby’s room, her smile widening on the way. She wouldn’t have to do anything to get rid of him. There were five experts just waiting to do it for her.

  Three

  Seth was dragged from sleep by the thud of muted marching as the sun spread light and warmth across his face. At first he thought he was back at war, his men trotting off to die as he lay sleeping.

  He leaped from the bed, forgetting it was merely a rough mattress placed on the floor of the room where Georgina Elliot had died. Misjudging the distance, he stumbled and smacked his knee against the wall. Cursing, he yanked open the door.

  Four curious, yet hostile, pairs of brown eyes met his. The explanation for his marching dream stood in the hall in various states of undress—the little girls still in their nightdresses, the younger boy in pants but no shirt. The elder boy had both. None of them possessed shoes, which explained the muted nature of the marching.

  “Uh, hello,” he began.

  “Ella says you’re our new keeper.” The oldest boy—Cal, Seth recalled—spoke for them all. “But I’m here t’ tell ya, we don’t need none.”

  Seth winced at the child’s choice of words. One of his first duties would be to hire a governess. The Elliot children, as well as many others in the area, no doubt, had had their educations sadly neglected. He doubted schooling was high on the list of priorities when food was at a premium. But now that he was here, that would change.

  He studied Cal. The boy studied him.

  “I’m sure you don’t need a keeper,” Seth allowed.

  “No nanny, nor governess neither. Not that you look like one.”

  Well, thank goodness for small favors.

  The wail of the baby made all of the children flinch. Without further comment they turned tail and ran, thundering down the stairs with all the grace of wounded buffalo.

  Figuring Ella would get the baby, Seth stepped into his room and quickly dressed in another of the new suits his mother had bought for him. When he’d returned from the war thinner at the waist and broader at the shoulders, none of his old clothes had fit, which gave his mother leave to order more new clothes than he’d ever need and twice as many as he’d ever want.

  Seth scowled at the array he’d hung in the small armoire last night. His mother had planned for him to attend business meetings, balls, and other nonsense. So his selection of dark frock coats and morning jackets were woefully out of place on this tiny farm at the base of the Shenandoah Valley, but he had nothing else.

  The baby continued to howl. Seth could bear the noise no longer and strode down the hall to her room. Ella was nowhere in sight.

  Odd. She’d seemed very attached to the baby last night. Watching her hold the child had touched Seth as he couldn’t recall being touched before. What would it be like to be held in someone’s arms as if you were cherished and adored unconditionally?

  Seth had never experienced such love. He wouldn’t experience it with Ella Fontaine, either. She loathed him.

  Not that he blamed her. He was sure she had her reasons, reasons he probably did not want to hear. Women like Ella loved with their whole hearts, which meant they hated with their whole hearts, too.

  It was his misfortune to be drawn to her. Not Ella’s fault that the generous curves outlined by the sheen of the moon had haunted him, making him dream of something other than death for a change. How long had it been since he’d had a woman? He couldn’t recall, which was the only reason he’d found himself imagining things he had no business imagining.

  The crying continued and Seth glanced into the baby’s crib—such as it was—an old apple crate fashioned into a tiny bed. Gaby saw him and increased the volume of h
er wails. He was reminded of certain battles when the Rebels howled so loudly the Union lines trembled. He’d never heard anything like the Rebel yell—until now.

  “Uh—um. Shh.” He patted her head. She stopped wailing, squinted at him, then drew in a long, deep breath.

  “Uh-oh,” Seth murmured.

  She released that breath on a shriek of such fury the house seemed to rattle. Without thought, Seth scooped Gaby into his arms, as he’d seen Ella do the night before, and settled her against his shoulder.

  She was soaked from tip to toe. The scent of urine wafted over his face, even as warmth seeped through his new jacket and into his clean shirt. But she stopped crying, so Seth was loathe to peel her away.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  The baby merely snuggled closer, rubbing her wet body all over the front of his clothes.

  “You gotta change ’er, then feed ’er.”

  Seth spun around to find Cal leaning in the doorway. The kid was too skinny, his pants too short. His long, thin feet were dirty. He appeared both younger and older than twelve, perched between a boy and a man. Seth was surprised Cal hadn’t run off to war. Nearly everyone else had.

  “Where’s Ella?” he asked.

  “Gone.”

  “Gone?” Seth repeated, dumbly.

  “Yeah. She said you sent her on home.” The boy’s lips tightened mulishly. “Said we should mind you and our manners.”

  From his expression, Cal didn’t plan on doing either one.

  “You know how to change her?”

  “Do. But won’t. You wanna be our keeper so bad, be it.”

  “Why do you keep calling me your keeper?”

  “That’s what Ella said.”

  Unease pricked at Seth’s spine. Why would Ella call him a keeper, as if the children were animals? He didn’t like that one bit.

  “I’m your guardian,” he said. “Your father and I were friends, and he wanted me to take care of you. Didn’t he ever mention Seth Torrance?”

  “All the time.”

  Seth smiled gently. “He trusted me. Can’t you?”

  “Nope. Just ’cause Pa trusted the enemy don’t mean I have to. We don’t need you. We don’t want you.”