Atlanta

by Sara Orwig

  She looked up at him, thinking he was being far more considerate than she had expected. She pulled his head down to kiss him, and he tightened his arms around her.

  He finally stepped away, his breathing ragged as he looked down at her bare breasts. “I’ll leave now, Claire. Otherwise I won’t be able to stop.”

  He turned and left the room, closing the door quietly. She stared after him, her emotions churning, her body primed and clamoring for more from him. Nights of exquisite torment? Nights of his kisses and caresses? Hours to spend with him again? The last filled her with joy—and then the thought of a baby, another beautiful child like Michael.

  She held her arms wide and swirled about, dazed, joyous, in love with Fortune. Slowly she lowered her arms and gazed at her reflection. Would it always be enough to have this much of him? Would it be enough without his love?

  Sunday he stayed home most of the day, going to the mill only in the middle of the afternoon. He brought papers home to sit at his desk in the back parlor and pore over them that night while she sewed and Michael read.

  When Michael had been tucked into bed and she came back downstairs, Fortune closed the door to the parlor and turned out one of the lamps, leaving only the one on his desk burning. He caught her wrist and sat on the sofa before pulling her onto his lap. Her muslin skirt and silk petticoat and crinoline rustled and billowed over his legs as her arm wound around his neck. She caught a soapy smell and the faint whiff of tobacco on his breath. One hand held her against him, and the other stroked her shoulder and arm, sending tingles spiraling from the slight touches.

  “Tomorrow evening I’ll take you to the Bell-Johnson Opera House to see Mrs. Jarley’s Wax Works.”

  “You don’t need to work?”

  “It can wait.”

  “I’ve never been to the theater,” she said, pleased. “Fortune, I had another letter from Papa. It’s a long letter if you want to read it, but he said they came through the war with his land and money, because he went to England to stay with a cousin during the last two years of the conflict. The house was burned and now he lives in my brother’s house. They still own the land, and my brother has rebuilt and has planted cotton again. I thought you’d be pleased to claim another Confederate in your family to weigh against your having fought with that terrible Sherman. My brother was a lieutenant in the Confederate Army.”

  “You can tell that to the ladies around here. Write and ask for a picture of him in his uniform. I’ll have one soon of Cal.”

  “That’s shameless!”

  He grinned and her heart turned over. She touched the corner of his mouth lightly. “You’re a very handsome man, and I love it when you smile. I would do anything for one of your smiles.”

  He chuckled, tightening his arm around her and burying his face against her throat to nuzzle her. “That’s not so, Claire. I know better. You’re a damned independent woman, and you’ll do exactly what you think is best.”

  She closed her eyes, conversation lost as his tongue flicked over her ear. During the day whenever he had passed her or been with her, he had touched her often, tiny brushes that he seemed to be unaware of doing, yet stirring a fiery longing in her.

  She turned her head and his mouth slanted over hers. His tongue thrust inside her mouth as he leaned her back on the sofa, and his hand went beneath her skirt and slid up her leg. In minutes he had the underdrawers peeled away, his hand going to the soft folds between her legs

  Claire shifted, feeling his arousal, wanting him to love her. His thumb pressed against her feminine bud. She gasped, clinging to him, her eyes closed tightly as her hips moved.

  “You like that, Claire,” he whispered, kissing her throat and ear, his hand increasing the pressure. She felt lost in a dizzying spiral, no longer able to think. Holding him tightly, she moved in a frenzy until he took her to a brink and over. She gasped and cried out, and he caught her up, his kiss hard and demanding, his hands fondling her breasts.

  Finally he set her on her feet and got up to pour a glass of brandy. “I have to go to bed,” he said roughly and tossed down the brandy. Striding from the room quickly, he left her, and she knew that he was about to lose his iron control.

  She wanted him in a manner she wouldn’t have dreamed possible only a month earlier. She wondered how long he would wait to possess her, because tonight he hadn’t acted as though he was going to be able to wait much longer at all.

  They went to the opera the next night and to a play the following night. He took her for a buggy ride around Atlanta in the evening, and as he nodded to people he knew, she wondered if his work was suffering from all the time and attention he was giving her. With a surge of love and gratitude she placed her hand on his knee.

  He turned his head to look down at her, and she drew a deep breath because there was no mistaking that he wanted her. Again that night when they were alone in her bedroom, he pulled her into his arms to love her, to take her to a brink that made her ache for him to complete his loving. And he shook with repressed desire as he released her, leaving her abruptly, his voice a husky rasp.

  She knew his control was wearing thin, and she was no longer able to sleep, her body in sweet torment while she lay awake long hours through the night.

  Friday morning she had promised Michael she would take him to town, so they left in the buggy with Badru driving. At the opera house and the theater, Fortune had introduced her to several people, and she nodded at familiar faces of ladies she met in passing as Badru drove along. He stopped first in front of the narrow two-story building with a sign over the door, M RICH’S DRY GOODS, and Badru and Michael waited while she went inside to select some material.

  While Badru waited with the buggy, she took Michael to the confectioner. After their purchase they stepped outside into the hot sunshine. “I have to go to the milliner,” she said, pointing at a shop across the street. Badru was only yards away, the buggy in front of the large general store. “Would you like to meet me in the general store?”

  “Yes, ma’am!” He was gone in a flash, running to the store and opening the door. She glanced at Badru, who was watching Michael. Crossing the wide street, she headed for the milliner, looking at more new buildings going up, wagons pulled by oxen hauling loads of bricks.

  She stepped into the small shop, a bell tinkling over the door. It was cooler inside. Samples of hats were displayed, and Claire walked over to a pretty green silk hat trimmed in ostrich feathers and silk ribbons. This is where she had thought she would be the rest of her life, running a millinery shop. She looked at the tall gray-haired woman coming toward her. Except for Fortune, this is what she would have been doing. Or singing in a saloon still.

  She purchased the green silk and left an order for a blue velvet. As she started back across the street, Badru saw her with the hat box and came to take it from her.

  “Mr. Michael is still in the store.”

  “Thank you, Badru. If you want to get out of the sun, I’m sure we’re all right. Go find yourself a cool drink.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

  A bell tinkled when she entered the store, which had rows of shelves, goods hanging on the walls and from hooks overhead.

  “Good morning, Mrs. O’Brien,” Edwin Northrop called cheerfully.

  She glanced at the tall auburn-haired man who owned the store. “Good morning.”

  “If I can be of help, let me know.” She nodded, moving down a long aisle, knowing Michael was at the back corner of the store where there were books for sale.

  “Good morning,” came a lilting voice, and she looked up to see Nellie Hollingsworth, a woman she had met at the opera house.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Hollingsworth.”

  “Call me Nellie. I know we’re going to be friends. And your Michael must meet my Josh. They’re the same age. Didn’t you say he’s six?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “I saw your husband and he said you’ll be having a party when his brother, Major O’Brien, comes to
town. He told me how the major was wounded at Shiloh.”

  “That’s right. We expect Caleb and Sophia in several weeks.”

  “He’s told us how the major’s wife stabbed a Yankee officer and had to flee Memphis for her life.”

  “Yes. You’ll meet them soon.”

  “We’ll see you Friday night at the Meadows’.”

  “See you then,” Claire said, amused that Fortune had not mentioned that he had been present for the burning of Atlanta. Claire purchased two new pans and a half-dozen utensils that she felt were badly needed in the kitchen. Fortune had furnished the house well, but he was lacking in knowledge about what was necessary in the kitchen.

  She listened as Mr. Northrop checked off her list and added up her bill. “If you’ll keep all these things, I’ll pick them up as I leave.”

  “Certainly, Mrs. O’Brien. Michael is buried in the books, eh?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Let him look. Not many youngsters are that interested. I’ll put all this on your bill.”

  “Thank you,” she said, turning away, still feeling amazed that she could buy whatever she wanted and put it on a bill to be sent to Fortune. Her new rose silk dress, made from the material he had bought for her in Baton Rouge, was ready, but she hadn’t worn it, waiting for a special occasion.

  She walked back to the far corner of the store, where Michael was engrossed in a book. One small corner held four shelves of books, and it was Michael’s favorite spot. She moved around looking at material, pans, and ointments, finally wandering back toward Michael.

  “A few more minutes,” he said, glancing at her and then returning to a book in his lap as he sat cross-legged on the floor. She nodded, walking along the aisle to look at thimbles. In her peripheral vision she saw another customer, and she glanced up as a man filled the aisle. Handsome with a wide jaw and gray streaking his brown hair, he stood gazing past her, his dark eyes on Michael. She knew she was facing Trevor Wenger.

  Chapter 18

  His gaze shifted, and his dark eyes bored into her. For a moment she was frozen with fear as she remembered all the years she had run from men sent by Wenger to find her. She had a compelling urge to grasp Michael’s hand and rush to the buggy and to Badru’s protection.

  “You’re Mr. Wenger, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. And you’re Claire O’Brien. I’m surprised he married you,” Wenger said softly.

  She shrugged. “We both love Michael.”

  He looked beyond her at Michael, and she remembered Fortune’s angry words, making her promise she would keep Michael from even speaking to Trevor Wenger. She studied the man before her as he looked at his grandson, seeing a look in his eyes that was unmistakably longing. The man was Michael’s grandfather, as much as a blood relative as Fortune. She debated whether to go or not. They were safe in the store, and Badru would come if she called. What harm would there be in letting grandfather and grandson at least meet?

  She stood in indecision only a moment longer. “Would you like to meet Michael?”

  “Yes, of course. I’d be grateful to you,” he answered politely, his gaze returning to Michael.

  She turned. “Michael, please come here.”

  “He looks like his father, not like his mother at all.”

  “He must have his mother’s and your dark eyes.”

  “Yes, he does,” Wenger said wistfully, his voice changing. Her fear of him began to lessen, seeing that he was entranced with Michael. “He’s a handsome lad.”

  Michael strolled toward them in a crisp linen shirt and black pants. He was a beautiful child, and she could understand Trevor Wenger’s longing to meet him.

  “Michael,” she said, placing her hand on his shoulder, “this is your grandfather, Mr. Wenger.”

  Michael blinked, gazing up solemnly while Trevor Wenger held out his hand.

  “Michael, I’ve waited such a long time to see you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Michael replied obediently, shaking Wenger’s hand.

  “You’re a fine lad. I want you to call me Grandfather.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No, none of that,” he said firmly. “I want to hear you say Grandfather.”

  “Yes, Grandfather,” Michael said in a subdued voice, glancing with uncertainty at Claire.

  “You’re six years old now, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. Grandfather.”

  “And you like books. It would please me to get you a book, Michael. Pick out the book you want, and I’ll see that it’s yours.”

  “Thank you,” Michael said politely and turned to go back and get a book. Wenger’s gaze followed him a moment, and then shifted to Claire.

  “Thank you for allowing me to talk to him. Would you ever bring him to visit me? I promise to let him go home with you.”

  Staring at the man who was blood kin to Michael, who had a right to see his grandson, and who was acting like a normal grandfather, Claire was caught between wanting to say yes and remembering her promise to Fortune.

  “I’ll have to give it thought,” she said quietly. “You almost cost us our lives.”

  “Never Michael’s. And now I regret that I had so little regard for the woman who was a mother to him in place of Marilee. I was wild to get my grandson back, and after all, you did run away with him and take him from me. But that’s all past now. I ask your forgiveness. I want to see my grandson. I would never hurt him.”

  “You know his father doesn’t want you to see him.”

  Dark eyes regarded her in a steady, impassive gaze, and she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “There’s bad blood between the two of us, and I doubt that will ever change. He took my daughter from me, and he feels I took his wife from him. But that has little to do with my feelings for my grandchild or my feelings toward you. He’s my only grandson, my blood kin. Please may I see him?”

  “I’ll have to give it some thought.”

  “Are you in this store often?”

  She shrugged. “Michael likes to look at the books, so we come maybe every week or two weeks.”

  “Then perhaps I can see him here again. But please consider allowing him to come to my house. You can bring that guard who rides with you. I won’t take Michael from you. I just want to get to know him. He’s the only family I have left.”

  “I cannot promise anything,” she said. She had promised Fortune and she wanted to abide by his wishes even though she felt they were misguided.

  “If your husband would stop to think about the boy’s welfare, he would see that I can introduce Michael into families that will never associate with a Yankee otherwise. I’m old Atlanta society. He shouldn’t hurt Michael because of our animosity.”

  Michael reappeared with a book, and Trevor Wenger held out his hand for it. He squeezed Michael’s shoulder. “I want you to come visit me sometime. I want to know you, Michael.”

  “Yes, Grandfather.”

  “That pleases me more than you can ever imagine. You’re a good boy, Michael. I’ll be going.” He looked at Claire. “Thank you for giving me this much opportunity.”

  He turned and left, a tall man striding toward the front of the store, looking as self-assured as Fortune.

  “Would you like to go see him, Michael?”

  When he didn’t answer, she looked down and he shrugged.

  “He’s your mother’s father.”

  He leaned forward suddenly, placing his arms around her waist. “You’re my mother!” he said, muffled against her. Feeling both a surge of love and a pang that she wasn’t his blood mother, she stroked his head.

  “We told you, Michael, you’ve had two mothers. Marilee and me. She loved you and I love you.”

  He pulled away, a frown on his brow and his lips clamped shut, and she was struck with the close resemblance to Fortune even in anger. “Papa doesn’t want me to talk to Mr. Wenger.”

  “I know he doesn’t, because he took your mother away from Papa.”

  “And that’s when she di
ed.”

  “Yes. But that wasn’t what your grandfather intended to have happen, because she was his child and he loved her. On this one thing, Michael, your father may be letting anger stand in his way of doing what is right.”

  Michael nodded, but she wasn’t certain he understood.

  “Am I going to see him?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it. I know your papa doesn’t want you to, but Mr. Wenger is your grandfather. You’re his blood relative and you’re very important to him. Maybe if you saw him first and then we told Papa, he would relent and see that your grandfather is not a bad man.”

  Michael looked down the long aisle, and she glanced around as Trevor Wenger looked back once more at Michael and then left the store.

  “Michael, let me think about this. Let’s not tell Papa that your grandfather bought the book for you until I’ve had time to think over what we should do and talk to Papa about it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She saw Badru enter the store and look for her, spotting her and approaching.

  “Mrs. O’Brien, are you all right?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I saw Mr. Wenger come out of the store.”

  “I know you did, but he left us alone.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Michael, go tell Mr. Northrop that we’re ready for our packages.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Michael said, hurrying toward the front. As soon as he was gone, she turned to Badru.

  “I want to think over what to do. I’d rather not disturb my husband about this encounter right now because he’s working night and day. Mr. Wenger didn’t cause any kind of trouble, so will you please say nothing about this to Mr. O’Brien?”

  “Yes, ma’am, if that’s what you want, but he told me to tell him if Mr. Wenger ever tried to talk to Michael.”

  “I don’t want my husband in a duel. The man didn’t do anything more than meet his grandson. Do you have children?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, a pained expression coming to his face. “My wife was killed by soldiers in the war, and her folks moved away with my two little boys.”