by Linda Swift
"I don’t wish to quarrel with you, Father," Philip said quietly. "Can’t we call a truce for tonight?"
"Yes, Father. I’m afraid we’re dealing with a man of immovable scruples here," Edward said lightly. "But, Christ, I wish he wasn’t such a zealot. Reminds me of my own dear Virginia. Which also reminds me that we should be joining the ladies in the drawing room." He flung his cigar into the fireplace and threw an arm around Philip’s shoulder. "Come on, don’t waste any more time with the men in the family when you have such a pretty young woman eager for your attention."
Philip cast one last glance at his father who stood with brows still drawn into a disapproving scowl. How had he found himself defending his role in the very cause he had come to detest? There was nothing that appealed to him more than the image of successful Oswego physician, but he had cast his lot with the Union Army by choice and he’d make the best of it.
After a brief interval of conversation, Helen Burke asked Philip to play the piano and with only the slightest urging by the others, Katherine was persuaded to sing. He had almost forgotten how lovely her contralto voice was and found in her flawless performance yet another reason for admiration. Her shapely bosom rose and fell with every breath and he lost himself again in the fantasy of making love to her.
"Philip?" She leaned closer to the keyboard and he caught the scent of heather that she wore. "Can you play ‘Ever Of Thee I Am Kindly Dreaming’ for our final number?"
He nodded and began playing the haunting melody. With eyes smiling intimately at him, Katherine sang the words. She was a most desirable woman, he admitted, and wondered if she knew that he dreamed of her when he was far away.
Edward and Virginia were the first to say their goodbyes, and when Thomas and Dorothea also prepared to take their leave, Philip hastily offered to see Katherine home. Thomas started to protest that the Kingsley house was on their way, but Dorothea interrupted.
"I’m sure Philip and Katherine have many things to talk about, so shall we say goodnight and be on our way?" She kissed Helen Burke, then William, and smiled at Katherine. "Don’t be late, or Mother will worry about you. I promised to get you home safely at an early hour."
"I’ll see that your promise is kept," Philip assured her as he bent to kiss Dorothea’s cheek.
When the elder Burkes had also said goodnight and retired to their room, Philip turned to Katherine. "Would you like to walk, or shall I have Parson order the carriage round?"
"Oh, walking would be much nicer. It’s such a lovely warm night."
Taking her hand, Philip tucked it in the bend of his elbow as they reached the steps of the front entrance. Except for the dim street lamps, darkness enveloped them as they walked slowly along the deserted streets.
"What is it really like, Philip, the war and going into battle, not knowing whether you’ll come out alive?"
Philip was silent a moment. "You don’t think about it at the time. It’s only afterward that you realize men were dying and that it could have been you."
"Thank God it wasn’t," Katherine told him fervently.
"You think of your life and the uncertain future," he went on. "And you wonder if you have a right to make plans, not knowing what will happen."
"The future is always uncertain, even disregarding war," she told him softly.
"Is it fair to ask a woman to share those uncertainties?"
The question hung in the air between them, with only their footfalls breaking the silence as Katherine considered the implication of what Philip was asking. "A woman who cares for a man is willing to take that risk," she told him with quiet determination.
Philip stopped, turned her toward him so that her face was lighted by the glow from the lamp above them. "And could you care for me that much, Katherine?"
"I do already," she answered simply.
He pulled her into his arms and lifted her face to his, breathing her scent of heather, then kissed her lips with slow deliberation. "And I care for you, my sweet Katherine. Would you be my wife when this is over and I come home to Oswego?"
"Oh, yes," she whispered, and met Philip’s lips for a long, deliberate kiss.
Feeling himself growing aroused by her warm reception, Philip gently put her away from him. She was obviously inexperienced, and he dared not compromise her innocence. "Come," his voice was thick with emotion. "I promised your sister I’d get you home safely and if we continue this, I won’t be able to keep my word." He took her hand and began walking again.
They walked in silence until they reached the Kingsley house which was one of the stately two-story dwellings that lined a street where Oswego’s prominent families lived. The wide front porch was furnished with wicker chairs and a chaise and Katherine gestured to them as she asked, "Would you like to sit for a while?"
He glanced at the darkened interior of the house, aware that the elder Kingsleys were asleep, and resisted the temptation with effort. "It’s late. I’d better not."
Philip opened his arms to enfold Katherine in one last kiss before he left, and she clung to him with such passionate fervor that he soon forgot his good intentions. His hands found her breasts of their own volition, and at her gasp of pleasure his touch became more intimate. His thumbs caressed the hard tips, and with a strangled sound, she opened her mouth to his thrusting tongue. He pressed her down onto the chaise and with one hand lifted her skirts and stroked her soft thighs, his deft motions closer and closer to the center of her womanhood. The heat of her passion was like a fire beneath the thin cotton of her undergarment and with great effort he restrained himself from removing this last barricade to her desirable body.
"Katherine," he said hoarsely, "we mustn’t do this."
For a moment, she appeared not to hear him or comprehend his warning. She seemed oblivious to the effect her passionate response was having on him, or she was past caring and he felt the responsibility to protect her from them both.
"Katherine," he said again in a voice tinged with desperation. "We—have—to—stop—now."
With a sigh of regret, he disengaged her arms from around his neck. "Goodnight, my sweet Katherine."
"Goodnight, Philip." She smoothed her skirts and stood.
He wavered at making some apology, but it seemed a travesty, so he touched her cheek lightly and said nothing before he turned to go.
Softly whistling as he walked home, Philip felt as if he could win the blasted war singlehandedly, so anxious was he to return to his passionate Katherine and consummate their wedding vows. He had come to know her through her frequent letters, but he had not really known the depth of her womanliness until tonight. His mind had been made up to propose to her in any case, but the fire between them left him no doubt his choice had been right.
• ♥ •
Chattanooga, September 1861
"Are you sure it is only colic?" Clarissa juggled the fretting baby in an effort to soothe him as she looked at Polly with uncertainty.
"He been fed and changed so what else could he want?" She gave her mistress a reassuring smile. "Now doan you worry no more, he’s one fine baby."
"But what causes him to cry so?" Clarissa persisted.
"Well, some babies cry because they hungry, but this one cain’t be."
"No," Clarissa glanced down at her bodice, wet stains oozing through the pads inside her camisole. She was feeding her son in spite of the protests of everyone, and she felt a surge of pride in her abundance of milk.
"Maybe he jes spoiled from gittin’ too much notice." Polly shook her head. "Seems like somebody in the nursery all the time."
"They are, for a fact," Clarissa agreed. "I’ll be glad when Lydia’s baby is born. Maybe it can share the attention and I’ll have Robert to myself some of the time."
"I wouldn’t be countin’ on that. Masta Josiah puts great store in his firstborn grandson."
"But the steel mill is taking most of his time these days." Clarissa sighed. "Who would have thought the war would go on for so long? It’s been
almost six months now and Malcolm expected the Federals to surrender after the battle at Bull Run."
"Clarissa, Clarissa!" Angeline came running into the nursery and stopped to catch her breath.
"What is it, Angeline?" Clarissa rocked her crying son back and forth harder in an attempt to quiet him.
"Mister Wakefield just came home with the news that General Grant’s forces have occupied Paducah."
"Paducah? But Kentucky is not part of the Confederacy!"
"They haven’t left the Union, it’s true, but they’ve men fighting for the South and Mister Wakefield says Kentucky is a vital stronghold for the Federals. Do you suppose Father and Matilda—"
"Mimosa Manor is a long way from Paducah. I’m sure they’re safe. And anyway, the plantations are vital, too. The troops have to be fed."
"I never thought of that." Angeline’s face brightened, then she looked distressed again. "But I came to tell you that we’re going to prepare Whitehaven for invaders."
"Invaders?" Now it was Clarissa who looked alarmed.
"We have to be ready. The Federals could march right on down to Chattanooga, Mister Wakefield says."
"Oh," Clarissa visibly relaxed. "I wouldn’t worry about that just yet. If they’re only in the Western part of Kentucky, the war should be over before they reach here."
"Just the same, I’d feel a lot better if our own armies weren’t fighting in faraway places like Maryland and Virginia."
"Well, here you are." Lydia stood in the doorway, her rotund shape bulging beneath the loose folds of her gown. "Didn’t I hear Father come in a few minutes ago?"
At Angeline’s nod, she went on. "I can’t imagine what could tear him away from the mill before dark but whatever it is, I’m grateful. I almost starve when we have such a late supper."
Angeline repeated the news and Lydia shrugged, her delicate features showing no emotion. "Oh, bother. It’s just like Father to get so excited about the occupation of a little one-horse town miles and miles away. There’s no chance the fighting will ever reach us here in the mountains. And besides, the war should be over any day now." She patted her stomach and smiled. "And I do hope Sylvester returns in time to see his heir the minute it arrives."
"Doan hold your breath on that," Polly mumbled in a low monotone as she took the now sleeping Robert and laid him in his cradle. "They’s things to settle before that happen."
Clarissa changed into a fresh pearl-colored grenadine gown and tucked her straggling locks of hair up before she joined the others downstairs. She thought about what Angeline had told her and wondered what preparations Josiah Wakefield would find necessary to make against the possible invasion of enemy forces. A feeling of dread caused her to shiver. She had heard what soldiers did to women when they invaded and captured a town. But surely that wasn’t what happened in a war between states in the same nation. Surely, she and Angeline and the others would be safe here.
She thought of Malcolm, whose letters had become less and less frequent. She knew she ought to be anxious for his return—and she was anxious for his safety—but to be honest, the return of her husband was something more to be dreaded than the possibility of invading forces from the North. What was she going to do when Malcolm came home? What could she do? They had made a bargain, and in order to provide for those she loved, there was nothing to be done except stay on at Whitehaven and keep up the pretense of being Malcolm’s wife.
And now, there was her son to consider, as well. Malcolm and his father would never let the child leave Whitehaven, and she would never leave without him. With a sigh of resignation, she went downstairs to join the others. She wouldn’t think about the future; the present held enough perils to keep her occupied, for now.
• ♥ •
"I'm glad you could come and stay with us for a while, Mary Jane," Lydia said as the four young ladies sat in the parlor of Whitehaven. "Life is so tedious during confinement."
"Life is tedious for all of us at the moment." Mary Jane sighed. "I had expected to be wed to Talmage long before now. If only this horrible war would end..."
"If President Davis would stop dragging his feet and force Beauregard to attack the Union Army I'm sure it would," Angeline said with firm conviction.
"Things will be even worse when winter comes," Lydia said dolefully. "Even when my lying-in period is over, there'll be no new gowns, no holiday balls with all our men at war. Why, it will hardly make any difference whether I get my figure back right away or not."
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the steady click of the knitting needles each moved in a steady rhythm. Then, Clarissa broke the silence.
"There ought to be something we could do besides this—to help the cause, I mean."
"Maybe we could be nurses, like the women who are serving the Union with Dorothea Dix," Angeline suggested.
"Don't be silly," Mary Jane told her. "I've heard they only accept volunteers who are at least thirty; none of us is old enough."
"Nor plain enough," Lydia said with a laugh, her glance taking in their stylish gowns in a rainbow of pastel colors. "Besides, no genteel Southern woman wants to tend wounded soldiers. And I should think, Clarissa, that taking care of little Robert would keep you busy. If you left the house for hours, you've have to engage a wet nurse." The last was said with a smirk.
"We wouldn't have to leave the house," Clarissa continued thoughtfully. "We could ask our friends to come to Whitehaven. We could gather lint and roll bandages here."
"The soldiers need uniforms," Angeline added. "And we already have a foot-treadle sewing machine that Polly uses."
"It would be fun to make something besides knitted socks." Mary Jane smoothed out a tangled skein of yarn as she spoke.
"We could meet every afternoon except Sunday." Clarissa's needles stilled as she visualized her plan. "We could cut and sew and when we had uniforms and bandages ready for shipping, we'd have Napoleon take them to the depot."
"I don't know," Mary Jane frowned, "if giving a slave that much responsibility is wise."
"Don't worry, none of our slaves would run away from Whitehaven," Lydia assured her.
"And maybe we could collect donations and food to send also," Angeline suggested.
"It's a pity we don't have an organization like the one that Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell set up in New York City," Clarissa mused. "But we'll just have to do what we can with our own Soldiers' Aid Society."
Polly appeared just then with tea and the talk turned to Lydia's approaching confinement. Clarissa continued to think of the plans she had set in motion. It would be satisfying to make a real contribution to the Confederate cause and it would give her something to occupy her mind besides the never- ending dread of Malcolm's inevitable return.
How shocked the Wakefields would be if they knew about the state of her marriage to the next heir to Whitehaven. But would they believe her if she dared to reveal Malcolm's sordid behavior? And even if they did, what could they do to change anything for her or her son? She prayed nightly for the war's end, but in her heart, she knew that it could only bring a worse disaster for her.
CHAPTER SIX
Shenandoah Valley, Virginia, March 1862
The roar of cannon, the crack of rifles, the clang of swords, and the pounding hooves of horses filled the early spring morning as clouds of bitter smoke darkened the blue sky. Wave after wave they came surging across the grassy battlefield, their lines zig-zagging back and forth in a deadly game of advance and retreat. And finally, the guns fell silent, replaced by the agonized screams of the wounded and dying.
It was then that Philip and Jeb McCallon began the task of gathering the human refuse of the battleground. A small creek ran through the field and it was lined with bodies, some whose blood ran freely into the water. Moving among the fallen men, they paid little attention to whether the blood-soaked coats were dark blue or gray, only to whether the battered victims were salvageable.
"Help me," a faint voice called out as Philip approached an
d he bent over the soldier for a closer look. A cut on the man's face bled profusely, and further examination of his body revealed a deep gash above the hip.
Saturating a cloth from the flask of alcohol he carried, Philip cleansed the tortured flesh as best he could, then bound the wounds with clean bandages as the soldier lay moaning. At least he was not lacking medical supplies since his appeal to his home town for contributions, Philip thought gratefully.
"Stretcher-bearers! This way!" He stood and motioned for two soldiers carrying a makeshift stretcher. "Take him to the field tent, and be quick."
It seemed like days instead of hours that Philip and Jeb stepped between the injured, dispensing cerate and morphine, selecting those who were candidates for amputation and sending them back behind the lines.
"Ay, God, this one's a sight," Jeb mumbled as he stared at a body mutilated by grapeshot.
"Come on, Private." Philip grabbed his aide's shoulder and turned him away from the gruesome corpse. "We've got to get back to the medical tent and try to save the poor devils we've sent for amputation."
"I swear I haven't the stomach for it, Captain. I should've joined the Navy."
"Brace yourself, McCallon. You can surely saw a limb to save a life."
They picked their way between the fallen soldiers, the acrid scent of gunpowder and blood mingling in their nostrils. No flags flew, no bands played now. Philip gritted his teeth and set his mouth in a hard line thinking of the job ahead. Manassas had been a skirmish. This was war.
In the field hospital, Philip and Jeb worked for hours alongside other medical personnel tending the battle casualties. Philip had become accustomed to the fact that the piles of severed limbs grew in proportion to the number treated but his anger at the sight of such carnage hadn't lessened.
"There," he said at last, throwing down his scalpel. "We're finished."
"Is there a Captain Burke in this tent?" A messenger stuck his head inside the flap and looked around just as Philip finished washing his soiled hands.
"I'm Captain Burke."
