“But why? I’m doing fine. I lead a full life and am perfectly happy.”
“Are you?” A corner of his mouth pulled into a slight smile. “All during the war, when I was slogging through the mud in Tennessee, and God knows where else, thoughts of home were all that kept me going. In my head I carried a special memory of you. We were at a ball, the last one I ever attended if I remember right. You had ribbons and roses in your hair, and you were wearing that purple dress, the one with the puffy sleeves and big skirt.” He grinned. “You looked like you were floating in the thing, like a big, upside-down tulip.”
She smiled, remembering. “The purple velvet. I wore it only the once at the Debutante Cotillion, right before Fort Sumter happened and the war started.”
“You looked beautiful that night, and that’s the image I carried. At every ball, do you remember how the boys were after you? Charlie Sawyer, Tom Peterson, both Ackerman brothers. You had your pick.”
Her smile faded. “There’re gone now, all of them.”
“That’s my point, Belle. That damnable war wrecked your life as well as mine. Now here you sit, trying to convince yourself you’re blissfully happy when you’re not, and don’t tell me otherwise.”
She opened her mouth to protest but changed her mind. His words had struck deep in that secret part of herself where she hid her unceasing despair. In silence, she looked toward the ceiling, then finally back at her brother. “You know me too well, Bridge. I try not to think of the old days. What a silly, shallow little fool I was, nothing more on my mind than the next ball and who would fill my dance card. I simply assumed I’d marry and live happily ever after.”
“I think we all did. But why look back? All we really have is not yesterday, not tomorrow, but now.”
“I’ve adjusted. I thank God for my family. Harlan, Victoria, the children”—she placed an affectionate hand on his one arm—“even you, you grumpy old rascal. But that’s not… That doesn’t… What’s hardest for me now are those awful moments when I realize I will go through my life without someone special to love, without someone special who loves me. I’ll never have children of my own. I’ll never…” The words stuck in her throat. If she didn’t watch out, she’d start to cry, and she wouldn’t have that. Her problems were nothing compared to those of her doomed brother. She forced a laugh. “Look at me, feeling sorry for myself. Don’t worry, I’m happy. I feel needed. What would the children do without their auntie Belle?”
“They’d survive.” Bridger gazed into her eyes with a blazing intensity that surprised her. “To stay in the South is to rot away. There’s a man for you somewhere, but not here. You need the guts to go find him.”
Poor Bridger. He sincerely meant what he said but had no idea how totally impractical, how absolutely absurd he was sounding. “I’ll think about what you said. Meantime, will you promise you’ll come down for breakfast in the morning?”
“You can change the subject all you want, little sister, but if you want a life of your own, I suggest you answer that ad.”
* * * *
The next morning, Belle joined Harlan, Victoria, and the children for breakfast in the dining room. Bridger hadn’t appeared, which, she reflected, was just as well. Ordinarily Harlan, with his balding head and slight paunch, presented the perfect picture of a levelheaded businessman, but today he was on one of his rants. “Damn Yankees!” he raged between bites of his omelet.
“What have they done now?” Belle asked calmly. They’d been through this before.
“Kept us under their thumb is what they’ve done. Thanks to the carpetbaggers, our taxes get higher and the price of cotton sinks ever lower. After five years, we’re still under military rule. My God, haven’t we suffered enough?”
“Don’t remind us,” Victoria said. “Those terrible days are best forgotten.”
Belle heartily agreed. Living through the war was bad enough, but at the end, when General Sherman’s troops took Savannah, the nightmare began. At least the Union soldiers didn’t burn the city, like they’d done in Atlanta, but they wreaked their devastation just the same. They destroyed the railroads, digging up the rails, heating them over fires, wrapping them around tree trunks and telephone poles. “Sherman’s Neckties” they were laughingly called. The soldiers broke into homes and businesses and stole what they pleased. Worst of all, they blockaded the port and seized all the livestock and food from the local farms, leaving the population to starve. To this day, Belle could hardly look at a Union soldier without remembering those terrible days when they had nothing to eat. When Victoria’s children were crying, weak from hunger. When she feared they’d all starve to death, and they about did. “It’s hard to forget those days, Victoria. Whenever I see a blue uniform, the old fury rises inside me and I can hardly be polite.”
“I will hate the Yankees until the day I die,” Victoria exclaimed. “And General Sherman the most.” She picked up a bread basket. “More biscuits, Harlan? At least we’re not starving anymore.”
Her husband’s agreeable grunt told them his rant was over. Actually Belle could hardly blame him. He’d been rich before the war. Now, like nearly all Savannah’s merchants, he’d lost his fortune and was just squeezing by, constantly beset by rules, regulations, and new taxes decreed by the Northern-influenced state legislature.
Tommy spoke up. “Aunt Belle, are you taking us out today?”
“Indeed I am.” Belle looked at her sister. “I hope it’s all right. I promised I’d take the children to the riverfront. You know how Tommy likes to see the ships. Maybe there’ll be one coming in.”
Victoria smiled. “Of course. They do love to be with you, Belle. What would I do without you?”
How good to be wanted, and needed. Bridger meant well, but he failed to understand how thoroughly she’d adjusted to her new role in life. “It’s my pleasure, Victoria. You know how much I love the children, and you, too.”
The children finished their breakfast and were eager to leave. Belle shepherded them from the dining room, had them wash up, and was leading them to the stable when Amy, the little one, declared, “I forgot my doll. I left it in the dining room.”
Amy was hardly ever without her favorite doll. Belle turned back toward the house. “I’ll get it, sweetheart. You children go ahead. Tell Weldon to hitch up the buggy.”
Back in the house, Belle headed toward the dining room. She was almost there when she heard voices. Harlan and Victoria must be still there, no doubt lingering over another cup of coffee. She was about to enter when she was struck by the peculiar tone of Victoria’s voice, a stressed, near-desperate sound she’d never heard before. Belle never snooped, but something made her stop outside the door and listen.
“…it’s hopeless, Harlan. She’s stolen my children away from me. They’ll probably start calling her ‘Mother’ soon, and I’ll be left completely in the cold, just someone who happens to live in the same house.”
“That’s nonsense.” Harlan was using his most soothing voice. “You are their mother, Victoria. No one can ever take your place.”
“Ha! The other day when Amy cut her finger, who did she go running to? It wasn’t me, it was her wonderful aunt Belle, and that’s because my children love her the best now.”
“Then why don’t you talk to her? Seems to me that would be the most sensible solution. Just tell her to back off, don’t give the children so much attention.”
“I could never do that. Belle’s been wonderful to the children, and to us, too. I would never dream of hurting her feelings.”
“Then I don’t know what to tell you.”
“What can you say? There’s no solution. Belle will be with us for the rest of her life, and I’ll just have to live with the pain of knowing my children love her more than they love me. Oh, look, Amy forgot her doll. I’ll try to catch them before they leave.”
The scrape of chair legs told Belle she
’d soon be discovered. She darted away, barely making it to the stable before Victoria arrived, doll in hand. “I found Amy’s doll.” She smiled at Belle. “So sweet of you to do this. What would I do without you?”
Belle accepted the doll. She forced a smile, not easy considering her insides had turned numb and a dry sob burned in her throat. “Always my pleasure, Victoria. I feel the same. What would I do without you?”
Chapter 2
The North Maine Woods, 1870
Yancy McLeish lived deep in the woods. If he had his choice, he would never get farther than a mile or two from the log cabin that nestled amidst tall firs, pines, and cedars, overlooking the blue waters of Moose Lake. What with hunting, fishing, and trading with the local Indians, he could pretty much never leave, but he liked his coffee in the morning, a habit he’d picked up in the army. He liked sugar to sweeten it with, plus a few odd items he couldn’t grow, shoot, or hook on a line, so much as he hated to, there were times when he had to make the five-mile trek to town.
And besides that, he had to pick up his mail. As he rode into Jackman, towing his pack mule behind him, he didn’t look forward to his visit to the Jackman General Store and, in particular, Mrs. Louella Pierce, store clerk, postmistress, and persistent busybody. He’d be polite, like he always was, but had to brace himself for that moment when he walked into the store and she’d loudly declare, “There he is! One of our brave boys in blue! You’ve got mail, Captain McLeish.”
For one thing, the mail she sounded so excited about never amounted to much, nothing more than an occasional letter from one of his old army buddies who knew where he was, or maybe a catalog or two. For another, he wasn’t “Captain” anymore, nor was he wearing blue. After his discharge from the Union Army, he couldn’t get out of his uniform fast enough, couldn’t burn it fast enough. And brave? Anyone who managed to live through the hell of those so-called “heroic battles” didn’t give a damn about brave. They were grateful they’d survived the slaughter and happy to still be alive.
Yancy reached the store, tied his horse to a hitching post, took a deep breath, and walked inside.
“Ah, there’s Captain McLeish! Our brave boy in blue.”
Good God. “Hello, Mrs. Pierce. Just came to stock up on a few things. Pick up my mail.”
The round little woman with sharp blue eyes looked like she was chomping at the bit to tell him something. “I’ve been waiting for you to come in. Wait till you see.” She trotted to the mail counter at the back of the store, ducked behind it, and came up with a letter. “Look! It arrived a week ago. I thought you’d never come in. Mercy me, it’s clear from San Francisco.”
His heart jumped, but he didn’t let it show. “Is that so?” He gave a mildly interested shrug and reached for the letter. Without giving it a second glance, he stuck it in the buckskin pouch hanging from his belt. “Thanks, Mrs. Pierce. I’ll read it when I get home. I’ll be needing some supplies. Coffee to begin with…”
He wasn’t being spiteful and took no pleasure from the look of disappointment on the postmistress’s face. How could he explain he did everything alone now and wasn’t about to share his personal life with anybody? He’d learned a lot of things from the war, but the main thing he’d learned was if he didn’t let himself get involved with anyone, then he wouldn’t get hurt. Besides, he liked the solitude and no one giving him advice, telling him what to do.
When he left, he slipped out quietly, grateful Mrs. Pierce was busy helping another customer. He packed up the mule and had mounted his horse when she followed him out, bursting through the door and down the steps like her life depended on it. “Wait up, Captain. I wanted to talk to you. Did you know we have dances at the church every Saturday night?”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Well, you really should come sometime. We’ve got girls galore who’d love to meet a handsome hero like you.”
He wasn’t a hero, and handsome? She had to be joking. Years ago, Mother used to embarrass him when she bragged about how tall, lean, and good looking he was, how all the girls were attracted to him. Four hard years in the army took care of that. Now he was more like tall and gaunt, and when he looked in a mirror, two war-weary eyes that had seen too much looked back at him. “I’m not much for dancing, Mrs. Pierce.”
She beamed, all rosy cheeked and friendly. “Well, you keep us in mind now. If ever you want to meet a pretty girl, you know where to look.”
“I’ll do that.” He touched two fingers to the brim of his hat and rode away, leading the loaded pack mule behind him.
Only one person in the world could be writing him from San Francisco. He figured to wait till he got home to open the letter but hadn’t got a mile out of town before curiosity got the better of him. He reined in his horse, pulled the letter from the pouch, and examined it closely, front and back. Postmarked San Francisco. George Washington stamp in the corner. Fancy that. His brother had seen fit to spend three whole cents on him, and he couldn’t imagine why. He unfolded the letter. Of a heavy, quality parchment, it had a fancy gilt letterhead at the top. Good for old Ronald. He’d always wanted to be the biggest toad in the pond, and now it looked like he was.
Bank of the Golden Gate
From the Desk of the President
My Dear Brother,
Ever since you were discharged, I’ve been trying to find you. With the help of an agent from the Pinkerton Detective Agency, I finally tracked you down. I must confess, I was astounded when I learned of your present whereabouts. I’m aware of the many travails you went through during your time in the Union Army, but for the life of me I cannot imagine why you’ve taken to the woods. According to the agent, you’re living entirely alone with nothing but Indians and bears for company.
Did you know Mother has come to live with me? Lately she’s been ailing and longs to see you. She thinks, as do I, it’s high time you came out of the wilderness. My bank continues to prosper. Why not come to San Francisco and work for me? I have made a fortune and so could you.
Yours truly,
Your brother, Ronald J McLeish
At the sight of that signature, Yancy burst into laughter. I know who you are, Ronald. Just like him, though, a stickler for proper protocol, proper behavior, proper everything. When they were growing up, Ronnie was the good little boy, a parents’ joy, so well behaved he’d never been spanked. Whereas Yancy could still feel the sting of the birch rod on his backside, delivered by his fuming father. Why can’t you be more like your brother?
Yancy tucked the letter back in the pouch, flicked the reins, and touched his heels to the horse’s flanks. Father was gone now, but maybe, if he was looking down from heaven, he’d be thinking his unruly younger son turned out better than he figured. At least when the war started, he hadn’t hightailed it to California like Ronald did. At least he stood and fought for what he believed in. For four endless, agonizing years he’d stood and fought. Come to think of it, maybe Ronald was the smart one after all, getting himself rich in the Golden State while his brother dodged mini-balls, ate unspeakable grub, held dying comrades in his arms.
He hoped Mother was all right. She deserved the best, and if Ronald could give it to her, then fine. In fact, he wished his brother all the luck in the world. He wouldn’t be going to California, though. Not now, not ever. All he wanted was to live by himself in the wilderness, away from the world and all its suffering, until he died.
* * * *
Looking back, Belle couldn’t remember much about the excursion to the riverfront. She knew she’d done her best to act normal for the children’s sake but had gone around in kind of a daze, all numb inside, so shocked at Victoria’s words she could barely function. When they returned home, she pleaded a headache and retired to her room. That way, she wouldn’t have to go through a charade at dinner, pretending to be her usual cheerful self while hiding her anguish. Instead, she would visit Bridger. Only he
could understand the terrible hurt that kept welling within her.
He frowned when he saw her. “You look awful. What happened?”
“Oh, Bridge…” She sank to the chair by his bed and related how she’d accidentally overheard Victoria and her devastating words. “Of course, I had no idea she felt that way. If I had known…” She swallowed the sob that rose in her throat and threw up her hands in despair. “I’m so hurt. She should have told me. What am I going to do?”
Bridger handed her a handkerchief. “First off, you can blow your nose.”
With the trace of a smile, she did as she was told. “Then what do I do?”
“What do you think?”
“Nothing, I suppose. Victoria needn’t know I overheard. I’ll go on as before, only I won’t be so involved with the children. But I love them so much....” For a moment, she squeezed her eyes shut, on the verge of tears again. “I wish Mother were here.”
“Well, she’s not. If you want the truth, you’re better off without her.”
She stared at him amazed. “How could you say such a thing?”
“Don’t get me wrong.” He shoved himself up on the pillow, wincing as he did so. “She was a wonderful mother, best in the world, and I miss her more than you’ll ever know. But she ran your life, Belle. You never had to think for yourself. Mother had a rule for everything. All you had to do was follow along and you were fine.”
“Well, she’s gone now, and I’m thinking for myself.”
“No, you’re not. You’re still the little girl who follows Mama’s rules. Sorry. You should see the look on your face. It’s true, though. You still follow what she taught you. Be polite. Don’t hurt anyone’s feelings. Keep your opinions to yourself because you don’t want to offend anybody.” He tilted his head back and gave her a piercing gaze. “And always be aware of what other people think because that’s how you should live your life—according to what other people think about you.”
She stared at him wide eyed. “I’m absolutely mortified. Is that your opinion of me?”
Bay City Belle Page 2
