Annabelle placed her hand at the base of her throat. She’d never heard Peggy speak so crudely before. “Peggy! What a thing to say.”
“Humph. Got to be said. You ain’t slow, girl, and you ain’t sheltered no more, much as your papa wanted you to be. War’s done stole that from you. I won’t see no soldier steal anythin’ else.”
A cold chill raced down her spine. “I suppose I have no choice but to trust him. He seems to be a man bound by duty and honor, despite his strangeness. I will just have to be sure to be on guard and pray he holds to morals.”
Peggy crossed the room without a word. She found a lamp, lit it, and flipped open a trunk. Annabelle watched her rummage through the contents until she finally found an object and held it out in Annabelle’s direction.
“Where did you get that?” Annabelle gasped.
“It was my papa’s. You needs it now.”
Annabelle reached out and took the small weapon in her hand. It looked like a dagger of some sort, but not like any she’d seen Father have. The handle conformed to her hand, fitting as if it were made to go there. It was carved from wood and worn smooth. She pulled the blade free from a simple leather sheath. The short metal blade seemed as if it had come from another knife and had been fitted into the homemade handle.
Annabelle’s brow creased. Slaves were not supposed to have weapons. “Where did he get this?”
“He made it. Carved it with his own hands, he did. He took an old, broken scythe blade and worked it with a sharpening stone until he got it into that shape there. Momma made that leather sleeve for it.”
The pride in Peggy’s voice kept Annabelle from mentioning that if he had been found crafting weapons, he likely would have paid a steep price for it. What did that matter now? It was a family treasure to Peggy. Annabelle held the weapon back out to her. “I cannot take it from you.”
“Yes, you can. You got to have some protection, case you need it. I know you gonna take good care of it and bring it back to me.”
Annabelle wrapped Peggy in a brief hug. “I thank you.” She studied the odd weapon. “Where shall I conceal it?”
It took a bit of time, but they came up with some strings and a way to tie it around her waist and secure it between her skirt and petticoat, leaving only the tip of the handle sticking through the top and lying flat against her blouse. Even that could be fully hidden so long as she kept her medici belt over the top. She could then reach under the belt and pull the knife free if she needed it.
A stray thought wandered into her mind. At nearly twenty, she was past the age to be in a blouse, but she’d not had the time or material to fashion a proper bodice, so it would just have to do. Besides, she already looked young for her age.
Peggy looked at her with approval. “There. Ain’t no one gonna suspect you’s carrin’ that.”
“No. I don’t suppose they would.” She smoothed her skirts. “Thank you. I do feel more secure.”
Peggy held Annabelle’s face in her hands and offered a sad smile. “There now, you see? Old Peggy be watchin’ out for you no matter where you go.”
Tears burned in the back of Annabelle’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall. All she could do was nod.
“Now,” Peggy said, “you best be gettin’ on. I suspect it’ll be gettin’ light soon.”
After a brief hug, Annabelle emerged into the deep darkness and hurried around the house to the rear porch. Her heart hammered as she slipped inside and past Grandfather’s door. She found the lieutenant already waiting for her, dressed in his ragged uniform, which still bore resistant stains from his wounds.
“I thought I was to rouse you,” she whispered.
He stepped close and leaned near her ear, his hot breath scurrying across her skin. “I’d begun to think you’d changed your mind.”
“Against my own plan? Do not be absurd. Now, come, let’s be gone.”
He strode through the door and onto the rear porch, showing more strength than she thought him capable of. Surely he was now on his way to a full recovery. So long as he remained true to his honor, he might very well prove a decent escort for her mission.
She scooped up the pack she’d left on the stairs and made her way past the garden with Monroe on her heels. In the stable, she found old Homer strapped to the buckboard and standing exactly where she’d left him earlier that evening. She smiled and ran her fingers over his muzzle.
“Here, allow me,” Monroe said, sweeping the pack from her arm and putting it behind the driving seat. He offered his hand, and she stepped up into the wagon, settling on the hard bench and trying to remember what it was like to ride in a plush carriage.
Monroe slowly climbed in on the opposite side and sat a respectable distance from her. She reached for the reins, but his fingers closed over hers. “A lady should not drive.”
Annabelle stiffened. Just because Father had allowed her to drive the surrey a few times when it had been just the two of them didn’t mean it was proper to take the reins now. Thankfully, Monroe couldn’t see her blush in the dark. “I have driven before,” she huffed, pulling her hand away from his.
He frowned, his features only vaguely visible with the scant light coming through the open doors. Dawn would be coming soon. “It is not proper for a woman to drive a man.”
She withheld her protest. “Very well. You are correct. Now let’s get moving.”
He palmed the reins and with a gentle snap encouraged Homer forward. The old gelding, who’d probably dozed off, startled, and the buckboard lurched forward. Annabelle held tight to the side rail and found herself praying that she’d not just made a detrimental error.
As the wagon rolled down the drive, the unease in her chest loosened, and a tentative sense of determination dawned. She would not be a rug under which men would tread. She would not sit idly by while men determined her future.
Her fingers slid down the hidden dagger, its solid form bolstering her confidence. For once, she would be the one in control.
“So far, I believe he is right, and agree with him that, if a blow is to be struck, it should be an effective one, and one that will make a lasting mark.”
Dawn broke over the horizon, and Annabelle glanced over at Monroe in the dusky light. What would people in town think of her riding alone with a soldier? She hadn’t been off Rosswood in nearly two years. Grandfather had made any necessary trips to town, and even those had become scarce. Now that she thought on it, those two letters he’d taken to town to send to Uncle Michael had probably never gone to the post.
She clenched her jaw. How many people would even recognize her? She’d been to Lorman very few times, most of her interactions having been with families of neighboring plantations or during the months they’d spent at their home in Natchez. Only her friend Molly and the general store owner would probably know her. Who would think the girl in the patched skirt and stained blouse was the lady of Rosswood?
She sighed. Perhaps it was better that way. “Have you given thought to how we shall present ourselves to others?”
Monroe cut a sidelong glance at her. “Of what do you speak?”
“You certainly cannot think it is proper for an unmarried woman to be riding alongside a soldier without an escort.”
“I was under the assumption such things did not matter to you.” He clicked the reins to get Homer to quicken the pace. The poor beast could hardly maintain more than a trudge, and his ribs were showing through his shaggy coat. The winter had been no kinder to him than any of the rest of Rosswood.
“And what would cause you to assume such a thing?” Annabelle grumbled. He lifted his shoulders, his careless attitude grinding against her already battered emotions. She tried to stifle her annoyance. “Forgive me. Could you kindly explain to me, Lieutenant Monroe, what would cause you to determine I have no account for my reputation?” She fought to keep her tone light but likely failed.
He kept staring straight ahead, as if he needed the utmost concentration to stay on the deserted road
. He shivered as the cool wind buffeted his face and made his hair dance across his brow. The longer his answer took in coming, the more she felt the heat rising in her face.
“Well,” he finally said, “You served as a nurse for, I believe, quite some time.”
“That is true, mostly. I was more of an aid than a true nurse, but I did what I could,” she said, wondering what that had to do with their current topic of conversation.
“From my experience, a war nurse is exposed to all manner of things that would disrupt her delicate sensibilities.” He ran a sleeve across his brow.
She tilted her head. “Yes, I suppose, though I do not look at it that way. I believe that if there is a need that I can fulfill, then it is my responsibility to do so. Those men needed my care. Without it, many would have died.”
“Most did anyway.”
The words cut, exposing the wound that guilt had seared on her soul. She looked away, furiously blinking back tears she would not allow the liberty to spill. After several moments, he drew a long breath and sighed.
“Forgive me. My words were unkind. You are correct. Many were probably saved. I have just seen too many men—good men—find their deaths in this war. Too many died simply from poor conditions and lack of proper care.”
Annabelle gave a curt nod and said no more. There would be no explaining to him how much of her had drained out with the death of each man she could not save. She would never be able to get him to comprehend the toll it had taken on her, so there would be no point in trying. To men like him, her sacrifice was meaningless. They would forever see a woman as a weak vessel never capable enough to truly matter. Her toil meant little, her sacrifices were pitiable, and her tears—as Grandfather had pointed out—were the outward manifestation of a woman’s innate inability to control even herself, let alone the world around her. Why, she wondered, did she continue to give of herself when it did so little good?
Oh, Momma, forgive me. It grows ever harder to keep my promise.
The lieutenant cleared his throat, and she could feel his eyes on her. Annabelle refused to turn her head, keeping her gaze straight ahead on the lonely roadway surrounded by shaggy pines. The heat climbed up her neck and into her face, but she ignored that as well.
“Miss Ross?”
She forced a syrupy tone. “Yes, Lieutenant?”
“I meant no offense.”
“Very well.”
He sighed. “As to your original question, I assumed you would not be concerned with what people thought of our companionship, because any woman who could withstand the horrors of assisting with amputations, see men in their worst conditions, and even bury them herself….” His voice trailed off.
He knew about that? She cut her eyes to look at his stiff profile in the gathering light. He darted his gaze to hers, but she looked away again.
“Miss Ross, any woman who can do all those things is too strong to worry with petty propriety.”
She felt a flutter of pride and could not resist the smile that curved her lips. “I thank you, Lieutenant. However, I do think it might be prudent to come up with some other arrangement so that –”
Her words were cut short by a sudden gun blast. Homer stopped and threw up his head, jerking the buckboard to a halt. Monroe lurched to his feet, swaying slightly before he steadied himself. His hand settled on the scabbard at his side, and Annabelle’s fingers lay over the comforting presence of her own secret weapon.
“Look what we got here!”
The voice preceded a man who stepped through the tree cover and then positioned himself in the center of the road with his gun pointed straight at Homer. “This here road requires a toll, if you was wanting to pass through.”
“I’ll pay no toll to pass on a public road. I suggest you remove yourself,” Monroe said in a near growl.
Annabelle’s heart fluttered. They had nothing to give, save their own clothing and a few meager supplies they would not be able to do without. She narrowed her eyes at the scoundrel. His thin frame, tattered clothes, and the hint of fear that tightened his features betrayed his attempt to look threatening.
The man raised his gun higher and aimed it at the lieutenant’s chest. “Now look here, deserter, I ain’t got no problem shooting you right where you stand and taking what I need.”
Annabelle lurched to her feet. “Please, good sir. Do not harm my father. He was wounded in battle and is just now recovered.”
Monroe shot her a sharp look, but she hurried on before he could stop her. “All he wants is to return to service so he can put an end to those stinking Yanks.”
The man lowered his weapon slightly, and Annabelle took it as a good sign. She hurried on. “We don’t have much, just a little bread and some nuts, but we would gladly share it with you. You seem like a fine Southern gentleman, guarding this route from those horrible Feds.” She smiled sweetly at him, ignoring the trepidation rolling in her stomach. “That is what you’re doing, correct?”
He dropped the muzzle to the ground, confusion etching his brow. She slipped her hand through the crook of Monroe’s arm and felt him tense. She gave him an almost imperceptible squeeze, worrying at the heat seeping through his jacket.
The man on the road ran a hand over his scraggly beard and then straightened his shoulders. He frowned up at Monroe. “That true? You returning to duty?”
“I am. I’m traveling to catch a coach that will deliver me to my regiment, though I first had to see my daughter dropped off with my brother for safekeeping. After the Yanks burned our home, she has no one left to look after her.”
Annabelle drew her lower lip between her teeth and looked to the side.
“Aw, look, I didn’t mean to scare you folks.” The man scratched his head. “But, see, I got three girls of my own at home what’s looking to me to feed them. It’s right sorry what I’m doing here, but I ain’t been able to get any game in four days. I heard the wagon coming and, well….” He shrugged.
Annabelle pulled her arm from Monroe and scrambled down the side of the wagon. She pulled a loaf of bread from her pack and walked slowly to the man, who now seemed more pitiful than threatening.
“Miss Ross!” Monroe hissed as she passed by him.
She turned and gave him a smile, her eyes warning him against using her name. “Do not worry, Papa,” she said loud enough for the stranger to hear. “This man acted only out of care for his children. Surely we do not begrudge him that?”
Monroe scowled at her but said no more. She stepped up to the man and held out the loaf. “I am sorry, but this is all I can offer you.”
The man shook his head and reached for the bread. “I thank you, miss. You’re right kind offering to share with me, even after I threatened you.”
Annabelle shrugged. “The war has taken from us all. What little we have must be freely given, so that all may make it through.”
He bobbed his head. “You are too kind, miss.” With that, he turned and scurried away with his treasure.
Annabelle turned and beamed up at Monroe, but received only a harsh glare. “Return to the wagon, and let us be on our way.”
He looked a little too pale, his muscles too tense. Now would not be the time to celebrate her success at averting a fight. She hurried and returned to the wagon, studying his face as she climbed in. As soon as her bottom hit the plank seat, Monroe snapped the reins and startled Homer into a brisk trot. Annabelle righted herself after the sudden jolt and looked at Monroe. Sweat lined his brow despite the chill in the air.
“You do not look well.”
“Perhaps that is because you chose to act a fool.”
Annabelle gaped at him. “A fool? I evoked his sympathy and got us away for only the price of a loaf of bread, which he seemed to be in dire need of anyway. I count that a victory.”
“Deceitful,” he murmured.
“Well, perhaps a little, but it was what I had been trying to talk to you about.”
He scowled. “Leave it to a woman to operate on lies a
nd be the first to jump to deception to get her way.”
She bit back the retort on her tongue. Let him think what he would. She had been the one to protect them, and looking at Monroe’s face, it seemed a blessing she had. He did not look in the condition to be in a fight. “Perhaps you should stop for a moment and let me look at your wound.”
Monroe shook his head. “No. I want to get farther away from here.”
“But, I don’t think—”
“I said no,” he snapped.
She crossed her arms and said nothing more. The sun climbed higher in the cold sky, its rays giving barely enough warmth to chase the chill from her. As they continued on, the sway of the wagon and the twittering birds almost allowed her to imagine this was a pleasant ride to town to buy new hair ribbons with Father. If she closed her eyes, perhaps she could remember what it had felt like to ride with him on the padded seats of the carriage and listen to one of his tales of humor.
Suddenly Monroe’s weight swayed against her, and her eyes popped open. “Oh, my! Lieutenant, are you well?”
He shook himself as if struggling to stay awake. “I am fine.” He straightened his posture and stared ahead.
“I do not believe you are. Bring this wagon to a halt this instant. I fear your fever has returned.”
He ignored her. Aggravated, she snatched the reins from his hands, and he gave little protest. She tapped Homer but could not bring him to produce more than a slow trot. They continued along the road until she saw a break in the trees. She pulled a single rein to guide the horse off the road and onto an open field. There had once been a fence here, but it had broken in several places, leaving rotting logs scattered across the dry grass. The wagon lurched over them, and Annabelle backed the vehicle behind a screen of two towering magnolias, their branches hanging all the way to the ground and providing cover. As soon as the wagon came to a halt, Homer dropped his head to the dead grass and began to graze. She stared at Monroe. He didn’t look well at all.
The Liberator Series Box Set: Christian Historical Civil War Novels Page 6
