“Whatever it is, Major, just say it. I already know it isn’t good news. I saw you talking to that boy. I saw your face.” She held herself rigid, her hands gripping the arms of the chair, her knuckles white. Her voice lowered. “Just tell me.”
Remy gave a slight nod then poured her a small draught of whiskey. He pushed the glass across the desk and waited until she picked it up and took a sip. “The Brenna Rose is lost. She never made it to the rendezvous point. There are reports she was ambushed and sank.” He said it bluntly, as if saying the words that way could ease some of the pain.
Color drained from her face, leaving her cheeks pale. Sudden tears made her glorious eyes shine. Shock and sadness changed their color to a deep indigo, not the violet of anger he saw more often.
“I am sorry about your steamboat.”
She gasped and every muscle in her body tensed. “Do you think me so callous and mercenary, Major, that I have only a care for my steamer?” Her eyes narrowed. “You are wrong.”
He could see her struggle for composure.
“I was thinking of the mothers and fathers who have lost their sons.” She took a deep breath and continued, “Of the wives and loved ones they’re leaving behind. It doesn’t matter what color uniforms they wore—they were just boys. Most of them weren’t old enough to shave.”
Her voice cracked with emotion, and though her eyes glowed with tears, she did not cry as one would expect. Or perhaps she just would not cry in front of him. “Captain Ames’s daughter will never know what a wonderful, brave man her father was.” She rose from her seat as stiff as an old woman and stumbled before she grasped the back of the chair as if it were an anchor, the only thing keeping her from collapsing to the floor.
“I won’t deny I am devastated by the loss of the Brenna Rose, but…” She stopped speaking, as if unable to continue. The muscles of her throat moved as she swallowed—hard—several times and swiped at her eyes, which remained on him.
No, Captain Davenport couldn’t have been more wrong. Despite his intimations, Shaelyn hadn’t done this. Seeing the pain on her face, hearing it in her voice, Remy knew, without a doubt, she wasn’t responsible.
She’d always been honest. Despite her pranks, which, he realized, were only aimed at him, she’d never done anything harmful. It simply wasn’t in her to spy. Or to tamper with her steamboats.
He didn’t know what to do. She needed solace, as did he, but would she swallow her pride and allow that from him? At this moment, would she allow that from anyone? Stubbornness alone, it seemed, kept her standing upright, although her hands still gripped the back of the chair for support.
“If that is all, Major?”
Whether she accepted his comfort and concern or not, he would offer it just the same. He needed to—not only to ease her sadness, but to ease some of his own. He rose from his seat and limped around the desk, for once forgetting the cane that was so much a part of him. “No, that is not all,” he said as he swept her into his arms and wrapped them tight around her. There was nothing sexual in either his embrace or his intention. He simply needed to hold her.
Shaelyn didn’t fight him, didn’t struggle to escape his embrace. She sank against him, her arms snaking around his waist, head resting against his chest, accepting what he offered without so much as a whimper. She did not cry, not even then, but he could feel how stiffly she held herself, willing herself not to give into the tears she needed to shed.
How long they stood there in each other’s arms, he didn’t know, nor did he care. Whatever comfort he offered her, she returned.
“I am sorry about the Brenna Rose.”
She nodded against his uniform and sniffed. “She was just a steamer, Major, made of wood and paint, not flesh and blood like all those boys. I may have lost her, but I have not lost my memories.” Her voice cracked with the emotion she couldn’t quite hide as she pulled away from him. “I need to tell Mama.”
Knowing how difficult the task had been for him, he sympathized with the anguish reflected on her face. Remy pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and gently blotted the wetness from the corners of her eyes, then handed her the square of pressed cotton. “Would you like me—”
“Thank you for the offer, Major, but no, I will tell her. It’s not the first time I’ve had to share bad news with her, nor is it the first steamer I’ve lost.” She let out a long sigh. “I am grateful the news wasn’t about Ian. I don’t think I could have borne that.”
She left the room as silently as she had entered, walking slowly as if headed toward the gallows. She did not turn and look back at him, or change her mind and ask for his help in explaining to Brenna what had happened.
Shaelyn Cavanaugh was a remarkable woman. She truly was.
Chapter 11
Flour. Sugar. Molasses. Coffee. Stubborn. Strong. Spirited. Beautiful.
Remy blinked and tried to focus. He looked at the words he had written and grimaced, embarrassed by the turn his thoughts had taken. What had started as a list of needed provisions had turned into an accounting of Shaelyn’s attributes. Actually, the list could pertain to Brenna as well. The good lady had taken the loss of the Brenna Rose as well as her daughter had. No hysterics, no accusations, no tears—just a calm acceptance and a prayer for the men and their families.
He shook his head, scratched out the words with a quick flourish of his pen, then thought better of it and scrunched the paper into a ball. He tossed the wad into the fireplace, where it quickly disappeared in a flash of flames, and started the list again. This time, with concentration and a dogged determination, he was able to complete it without writing down another one of Shaelyn’s charms. With one task complete, he started on another that was much more pleasant…his weekly letter to his parents.
“Good morning, Major.”
He looked up from the correspondence on the desk and smiled. General Ewell Sumner stood in the study’s doorway, the medals on his uniform gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the window. Remy rose quickly to his feet and saluted, though the stiffness and throbbing pain in his leg reminded him he’d sat too long once again.
“I was at Rosalie and couldn’t resist the opportunity to drop in on you as well, my boy.” He returned the salute with a grin. A big man, not only in height but in breadth as well, General Sumner lumbered into the room as if he owned it and tossed his coat over a chair. He glanced around at the fine furnishings as he approached the desk and nodded with appreciation. He gestured for Remy to sit. “Nice home. How are you faring? How is your leg?”
“Fine, sir. Thank you for asking.”
“I have a vested interest in that leg.” The general took a seat in a comfortable leather chair pulled close to the desk, crossed his legs, and adjusted the sharp crease in his trousers. “You almost lost it on my account. Have I told you how grateful I am? I’d be standing before St. Peter’s Pearly Gates, begging to be let in, if you hadn’t thrown yourself in front of that bullet.”
A blush spread over Remy’s face. “It was my pleasure to serve you, sir.”
He meant every word. General Sumner had been his instructor at West Point. Over the years, they had grown very fond of each other. When the opportunity arose for Remy to join the general’s regiment, Remy considered the appointment an honor.
The general snorted. “Like hell, Remy. You could have lost your life with your actions. I’m just an old warhorse. My life isn’t worth that much.”
“I disagree with you, sir. And what’s more, I would do it again. Without question.” He grinned, catching the warm glow of pleasure in the older gentleman’s light brown eyes. “And I’m certain your lovely wife would disagree with you as well.”
“She misses me. I don’t know why, but she does.”
“She’s a good woman, sir.” And indeed, she was. Honor Sumner personified everything genteel and soft and sweet of her gender, but beneath all that, she had a backbone of steel. Ewell may have been a general and led men into battle, but it was Honor who led him
. Remy remembered many an evening he’d spent with the general and his wife, lingering over coffee after dinner, discussing the politics of the day. Honor had her opinions and wasn’t afraid to share them. Much like Shaelyn, although he rather doubted Honor would pour molasses in anyone’s boots.
“That she is,” General Sumner said as he rose from his seat, grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and patted the pockets. Remy thought he looked for his ever-present cigars, but something within the fabric thumped instead. A wide grin crossed the general’s face as he pulled out a leather case and flipped it open. Within the box, on a bed of velvet, lay a Congressional Medal of Honor.
“She so wanted to be here when I gave you this, but wasn’t able to join us.” He blushed beneath the hair on his face. “Normally, this would have been presented to you in front of your men, with all the glorious ceremony receiving this entails, but knowing how much you hate a public display, I asked for the honor.” Gratitude gleamed in the older man’s eyes as his chest puffed out. He stood taller, back ramrod straight. “This gives me great pride, Remy, and I can think of no one who deserves it more. Congratulations, son.” He extended the case with one hand and offered to shake with the other.
Shocked, his heart pounding a little too fast, Remy stood, grabbed the older man’s hand, and shook. He looked at the medal in its bed of velvet. Though proud to receive it, he didn’t think he deserved it. The general, apparently, thought he did. He took a breath. “Thank you, sir. I know this was all your doing.”
The general shrugged and cleared his throat. “It was the least I could do. You did save my life.” He took his seat once more, crossed his long legs, and let out a long sigh. “From horses to steamers.” He laughed. “Do you miss being in the front lines, scouting ahead on Soldier Boy? Do you miss the bullets shrieking past your head? The thunder of the cannons?”
“Honestly, sir? No, I don’t miss it. I do, however, miss being under your leadership. You are an excellent commander but you’ve taught me well, and I thank you for that.” He slipped the leather case into a drawer then folded his hands atop the desk.
“I never would have helped you get this assignment if I didn’t have complete faith in you.”
High praise coming from General Sumner; however, after losing the Brenna Rose, Remy didn’t think he deserved the general’s praise, nor the medal in the drawer. “I suppose you’ve heard.”
Sumner inclined his head. “About the Brenna Rose? Yes, I’ve heard. Damn shame losing all those men.” He studied Remy, his eyes narrowing as he tilted his head to the side. “I hope you’re not blaming yourself. I don’t think it could have been prevented.”
Remy said nothing. He could have argued the point. If he had been better prepared, perhaps those men could have been saved. If he had sent scouts ahead, the Brenna Rose might not be sitting at the bottom of the Mississippi, a watery coffin for her passengers.
“Do you know who is responsible?”
“I have my suspicions, General, but those suspicions won’t help the men who lost their lives needlessly. Most of them were so young, they’d just begun to live.” He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “In answer to your question, though—I believe it was the Gray Ghost and his band of rebels.”
“Bastard,” Sumner exclaimed as he smoothed his fingers along his mustache, an action Remy had seen many times before and one that signaled the general’s concern. “I wish to hell I knew who he was. Where he came from. Where he hides when he’s not sinking our boats, destroying our rails, or stealing our supplies.”
“As do I, General.” Remy sighed, forcing his own frustration with this unseen enemy to dissipate with his breath. “Perhaps he will make a mistake and show himself—” He didn’t finish the thought, asking instead, “Would you like some coffee?”
The general shook his head. “You know my tastes run a little stronger than coffee.”
“Ah, I have just the thing for you, sir.” He turned in his seat, pulled open the door of the cabinet behind him, and withdrew a half-full bottle. The general’s eyes lit up when he saw the silver and black label.
“Harte’s Private Reserve Whiskey,” he said, his voice filled with surprised pleasure. “I didn’t know the admiral was still in business.”
“Of course. It would take more than a war for my father to close down the distillery. The admiral,” he said, referring to the man General Sumner knew well, “is already thinking about expanding when the war ends.”
He poured the amber liquid into glasses and handed it to the general. “See if that won’t soothe your parched throat.” He put the bottle on the desk, within the general’s reach. “I found four cases in the cellar. Apparently, the owner of this home enjoyed Harte’s Private Reserve and kept plenty on hand.”
“Oh, that’s smooth,” Sumner said after he took a sip and lingered over the taste in his mouth. After a moment, he cleared his throat. Uncrossing his legs, he leaned closer to the desk, his hand still clutching the cut crystal glass. “I had several reasons for seeing you, Remy, most importantly, I wanted to know how you were faring and personally give you your medal, but I also have an assignment for you, other than what you’re already doing.”
“Of course, sir. I am more than happy to do as you ask.”
“I’m sure you’ve heard I’ve given up my command.”
Remy nodded. The news had saddened him, but he understood the reasons. After the ambush and coming so close to losing his life, Sumner wanted nothing more to do with battlefields or bloodshed.
“I’m trying to work on an exchange of prisoners. Theirs for ours.” He took a long drink of the whiskey and sighed. “You’re aware of the deplorable conditions men are suffering in our prison camps. On both sides.” Sadness tinged his voice. “I’d like to, if nothing else, ease a bit of that, perhaps enable these men to go home, especially those who are ill. I’d like your advice, Remy. And your help.”
Remy said nothing, for he understood both the situation and the kind of man General Sumner was. He’d never been battle hungry. Instead, he promoted peace and understanding, even when it seemed impossible, and he remained, as always, humane. Remy often wondered why this compassionate and gentle man joined the military and how he became a widely respected, brilliant officer.
They spent the next hour going over details and how best to utilize the Cavanaugh steamboats to accomplish more than one goal. By the time the bottle of whiskey was gone, several plans were put in place and the general stood and stretched.
Remy stood as well, limped around the desk, and grabbed the general’s coat from the back of the chair. He held it up, allowing Sumner to slip his arms into the sleeves.
“Major, it’s been a pleasure, as always.”
“Thank you, General, for everything. It’s been wonderful to see you.” He could have said more, but Ewell Sumner, as compassionate as he was, grew uncomfortable with shows of appreciation and sentiment.
The general pulled on his gloves as Remy ushered him into the hallway then he turned and whispered in a conspiratorial manner, “So tell me about this Shae Cavanaugh.”
“Would you like to meet her? I’m sure she’s around here somewhere. Or perhaps she’s down on one of her steamers. Believe it or not, she has consented to maintain her boats for us, despite who we are.”
“Is that wise, Remy?”
“Truthfully, sir, it was the wisest thing I could have done. Miss Cavanaugh—Shae—loves her boats. Of that, I have no doubt. She’d never do anything to hurt them in any way.” Sunlight streamed in through the long, rectangular windows on either side of the front door, the glass sparkling, and if he wasn’t mistaken, he could smell the distinct tang of vinegar in the air, which made him believe Shaelyn had just cleaned these windows. “I could find her if you’ll give me a moment.”
“Perhaps another time.” The general waved away the offer. “I was just curious about her, that’s all. The officers at Rosalie regaled me with some funny stories, but I must admit, I’m not su
re if I believe them. It seems Miss Cavanaugh is quite the spirited lass. A handful, as it were.”
“That she is, sir.” Remy opened the front door and accompanied Sumner down the stairs, his cane tapping on the stone steps. The general’s horse waited at the bottom of the staircase, reins tied to a post.
“Hmm, reminds me a bit of my Honor, being a handful and all.” He chuckled, and for a moment his face took on a pinkish hue beneath the whiskers. “Did she really pour molasses in your boots?”
“Yes, sir, she did,” Remy replied with a grin.
Sumner burst out in laughter. “Personally, I’d rather fight the enemy I know.” He climbed into the saddle with the ease of many years practice. “Good luck to you, son.”
“Thank you, General.” Remy handed him the reins. “I think I need all the luck I can get.” He grinned as he saluted.
“I’ll be in touch.” The general returned the salute then kneed his mount’s sides.
Remy stood in the driveway and waited until the general disappeared from view before he went into the house, his mind not only on the exchange of prisoners they had discussed, but also on the loss of the Brenna Rose…and Shaelyn Cavanaugh. In truth, she was never far from his thoughts.
• • •
Shaelyn finished packing Captain Ames’s belongings in the trunk she remembered him pushing across the marble tiles of her hallway. How long ago it all seemed. How quickly she’d become fond of the officers living in her home. She bit her lip in order to keep her emotions at bay and closed the lid. In tribute to the gentle man who was no longer with them, she said a silent prayer as she tugged his trunk into the hallway.
She’d already done the same for Captain Falstead’s possessions.
She hadn’t been asked to perform this particular task. She’d taken it on herself as a kindness, and though the chore was painful for her, she could only imagine how much worse it would have been for Remy. After he had held her and offered comfort when the Brenna Rose was lost, it was the least she could do for him.
Mischief and Magnolias Page 12
