by Linda Swift
Angeline lay huddled in a large tester bed, shoulders jerking with each convulsive gasp. "There, there, Angel," Clarissa used the term of endearment their mother had called her as a small child in an effort to comfort her. "I've brought Captain Burke to give you something to help you sleep."
Philip stepped closer and bent to take Angeline's pulse. Then he motioned for Clarissa to pour water from the pitcher on the nearby washstand into a glass and added a few drops from the vial.
"Miss Giles, I want you to sit up for a moment," he slipped a hand behind her back and raised her as he spoke, "and drink this." He tilted the glass to her lips and she took a few sips. "Fine, now just a little more," he encouraged. She drained the glass, then he lowered her back against the pillows.
"Oh, sister, why did he have to die?" she wailed, looking at Clarissa.
"Shhh," Clarissa said softly. "He's with our mother now. Just lie still and you'll soon be asleep."
Philip stood at one side of the bed while Clarissa faced him from the other, each holding one of Angeline's hands until her eyes closed and her breathing became measured.
"She'll be out for the night," Philip said quietly, and Clarissa pulled the covers over her sister's arms and turned the lamp wick low.
Outside the bedroom, Clarissa hesitated, knowing what she was about to do wasn't proper, then took a quick breath and asked, "Would you like some brandy, Captain Burke?"
Startled by her offer, Philip attempted to mask his surprise as he answered, "That would be very kind of you, Mrs. Wakefield."
"Please, won't you sit down?" Clarissa motioned toward the brocade settee with a small table in front of it. And as he seated himself, she opened the liquor cabinet which had been moved to the temporary sitting room and took two snifters from its shelves. With unsteady hands, she poured a small amount in each glass and gave one to Philip, then sat in a high-backed chair facing him.
"Your sister should be better in the morning. It always helps to vent your grief."
"I suppose so."
"Had your father been ill for long?" Philip asked after a short silence.
"No, it was pneumonia that caused his...death." The word was hard to say, harder yet to comprehend. She lifted her glass and took a tentative sip, and the fiery liquid burned a slow trail down her throat.
"I see." Philip studied his glass. "And your mother? Did she die when you were very young?"
Clarissa's face softened into a wistful smile. "I was six when she died, and I still remember her well, but Angeline can barely remember her at all." She sighed. "My mother died giving birth to our brother, Lawton, so he never knew her."
"That must have been hard—growing up without a mother."
"We stayed on at Mimosa Manor and the servants took care of us for a while. Our father was desolate with grief." Now, Clarissa seemed to be speaking to herself, oblivious to her listener. "He began drinking to blot out the guilt he felt, I suppose, that our mother had died birthing his child. And then, the gambling followed, until there was nothing left except the shell of a plantation and a man." She looked at her drink with distaste, but took another long swallow.
"But you spoke of a step-mother?" Philip prodded gently.
"Yes...Matilda. She was the Quaker woman who came to teach us. She'd been a teacher at the Female Academy in Clarksville, and through some misunderstanding, she left and needed a home. So my father made a bargain with her." She smiled, remembering. "But I think he got more than he bargained for. Matilda set about to reform him and make ladies and a gentleman of his children."
"From my observation, I'd say she succeeded," Philip commented.
"With the children, perhaps. But the plantation was never the way it had been when my mother was alive because my father suffered liver ailments and wasn't well enough to oversee the cotton crops and earn enough to restore Magnolia Manor to its former glory."
"And where is Magnolia Manor?" Philip asked with interest.
"Oh, how silly of me. I should have told you in the beginning. It's in Kentucky a few miles above the Tennessee border."
"Perhaps we marched through your father's fields en route to Chattanooga," Philip said thoughtfully.
"Perhaps."
"And when did you come to Chattanooga?" Philip asked.
"Just before the war." Clarissa stood suddenly and crossed to the liquor cabinet, then returned with the decanter of brandy. "Would you like more of this?"
"Yes, thank you." Philip held his glass, drinking in her scent of roses, while she poured a generous measure and refilled her own, then put it on the table. "I've not tasted anything so fine since I left Oswego." He took another swallow and sighed with appreciation.
"And that was—"
"Just after Bull Run," Philip said quietly.
She studied the man who was even more handsome since he'd shaved off his scraggly beard leaving only a neatly clipped black mustache. "Do you miss your home, Captain?"
"Yes, very much."
"How long have you been a..." She hesitated, and he supplied the word.
"Prisoner? Almost a year now." He lifted his glass and took a long swallow.
"Do you ever wonder if the cause is worth the fight? The Negroes seem to me quite happy with their lives."
"Some, perhaps. But no man has the right to own another."
"That's what Matilda used to say. But still, I'm shocked that she'd go so far as to free the slaves my father owned."
"Your step-mother did that?" Philip looked surprised.
Clarissa nodded. "She told us in her letter."
They sat in silence, savoring the brandy, suddenly aware of the tension that had grown between them as they talked. Working together in the library, they were focused of necessity on the patients but now, away from the hospital sights and sounds they grew uneasy in each other's presence.
"It would ease your pain if you could cry," Philip said after an uncomfortable silence.
"I think I'd rather get drunk," Clarissa said with a self-deprecating smile. "Isn't that the brave thing to do?" She reached for the brandy again, and he made a move to stop her. She jerked the decanter toward her and its contents sloshed onto the bodice of her blue moiré dress, leaving it soaked with brown liquid.
"I'm so sorry."
She stood up quickly and he was on his feet, handkerchief in hand to mop at the stains. When they collided, he reached to steady her and apologized again.
Clarissa looked into deep blue eyes, so close she was almost touching the thick black lashes that framed them, and the room started to spin. She parted her lips to say it was her fault, but he was lowering his mouth to hers and the words got lost in the vortex of sensations that swirled around them.
She averted her face and his warm lips touched her jaw line, then moved to her throat, as his hand lifted her chin and held her face captive, allowing him to complete what he had intended to do. The kiss was long and deep and when he withdrew his mouth from hers he cupped her head and guided it against his shoulder. Pressed against him, she felt the pounding of his heart that matched her own. And without even knowing that she had been a homeless wanderer, Clarissa suddenly knew that she had come home.
"Clarissa," he whispered her name in the awed silence, "I've wanted to do that since the first time I saw you."
Feeling a sense of joy at his confession, she lifted her face to him again.
"Are you angry with me, Clarissa?" he asked softly.
"No, Captain Burke," she whispered.
"My name is Philip," he said. "Say my name."
She hesitated, then said the given name she had never spoken aloud until this moment, caressing the syllables on her tongue.
He crushed her closer and took her lips again, kissing her until they were both breathless. His hands stroked her body, boldly brushing the sides of her breasts, making her ache for his touch. A slow warmth began deep inside her and spread until it became a trembling desire at the juncture of her thighs and her body moved of its own volition to press against hi
s arousal.
Philip appeased his thirst for her with long deep kisses, drinking his fill from her soft moist lips. Then sated, he gently pushed her from him and gave his attention to unfastening the tiny buttons of her bodice while she stood trembling, weak with desire. At last, he completed the task and bent his head to kiss the enticing valley visible between the thrusting peaks hidden by her lace-trimmed chemise and she moaned softly. Emboldened, he untied the bow that held it together, pushed the material aside, and took one taut tip in his mouth. She called out his name and grasped his head with her hand, forcing herself deeper into his mouth. Laving one breast and then the other with his flicking tongue, he cupped her buttocks with his hands and pulled her against his pulsing desire, and she gasped his name again and again.
He guided her onto the settee, and mindless with passion, bent to lift her skirt.
"Burke, are you up there?" the guard called from the bottom of the stairs.
It took a moment for the question to penetrate Philip's awareness and the guard called again. "Burke? Are you there? I thought I heard a noise."
Philip jerked into an upright position. "Yes, Private. I'm giving Mrs. Wakefield a sedative. I'll be down shortly."
Clarissa, her eyes dazed, sat up slowly and looked about her as if waking from a dream. Then glancing down, she saw her gaping dress and gave a cry of alarm.
"It's all right," Philip assured her softly.
She began to cry, long shuddering sobs that shook her body and she clasped her arms tightly and bent over in a paroxysm of pain.
Philip put his arms around her and pulled her up, then whispered. "Shhh, the guard will hear you." He looked around him. "Which room is yours?" He followed her glance. "That one? I'll help you to bed."
Holding her with one arm, he pushed the covers back and eased her onto the bed. Tucking her in, he continued to speak soft words to comfort her. "It's all right. Cry now. Get it all out of your system, and then you'll begin to heal."
When she had quieted, he slipped out of the room and went downstairs, cursing himself for what he had almost done. Clarissa Wakefield was a married woman. A Confederate soldier's wife. She had a child. How could he have put his needs ahead of her good name? Was he a disgrace to his own family's name, to his profession, and to the Union Army? God help him, she had seemed eager and willing for his attentions. The woman was drunk, his conscience reminded him. And she was numbed with grief. Maybe if he was lucky, she'd think it was all a dream when she awoke tomorrow. Part of him hoped so, but another part wanted her to remember every passionate look and word and touch that had passed between them.
He made his way downstairs and without conscious intention, went to the piano and began to play. A long time later, when his emotions had quieted, he went to bed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Chattanooga, February 1863
Clarissa awoke at first light of dawn, not remembering why she was wearing her day dress. Then it all came back to her—the news about her father, drinking too much brandy, and compromising her reputation with Philip Burke. She had behaved like a common prostitute, welcoming his kisses and...more. Her face flamed at the thought of what might have happened if the guard hadn't interrupted when he had.
She sat up and her head pounded. Walking unsteadily to the washstand, Clarissa surveyed her unkempt appearance in the mirror above it and grimaced. Brown stains of brandy had left the unbuttoned bodice of her dress sticky and stiff, proof that the debauchery had actually happened, in case she was inclined to dismiss it as a nightmare.
Splashing cold water on her cheeks, she agonized over facing Captain Burke this morning, and wondered how on earth she could go on working with him as though nothing had happened between them. But that was exactly what she must do in order to preserve what was left of her reputation. It was true she had behaved wantonly, but perhaps he would consider the circumstances—her grief and foolish attempt to drown her sorrow in drink—and forget last night if she made sure never to give him further reason to doubt that she was a lady. And she must have given him some reason to imagine that she would be receptive to his advances, or else he wouldn't have risked making any. After all, he was a prisoner here and one word from her and Josiah Wakefield would have him up on charges!
Selecting a gray poplin dress, Clarissa pulled her hair into a tight knot on the back of her head, jabbed a few pins in it, and surveyed herself with grim satisfaction. It should be obvious now to Captain Burke that she was not a loose woman who invited flirtations.
Angeline was still sleeping, and she decided not to wake her before she went downstairs. Preparing herself for the inevitable meeting with Captain Burke, she didn't notice her father-in-law engrossed in conversation with him until she reached the lower hallway. For a moment, she imagined that Josiah Wakefield knew about last night and had come to send the captain away, and her heart lurched in panic. But just at that moment, Josiah raised his head and saw her, and came toward her with open arms.
"Clarissa, my dear." He enfolded her warmly. "Captain Burke has just told me about your father. I'm so very sorry."
She nodded, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes.
"But I have some good news for you this morning." He released her, and she saw that the captain had come to stand just behind him. She felt the color rise in her face as she nodded in response to his greeting.
"Your husband is on a mission for our president and has come home for a brief stay."
She took a step backward and her hand went to her throat. "Malcolm is...here?"
"Not here, but at Fleur-de-Lis. He arrived late last night from—" He glanced at Philip Burke and checked himself from giving revealing information, "…from his journey."
Josiah smiled at her with affection, waiting for her reaction. She could feel Philip's intent gaze riveted on her also and struggled to make an appropriate response.
"How...wonderful."
"And I knew you'd be anxious to see him at the earliest possible moment, so I've come to take you to Rossville. Napoleon will drop me at the mill, of course, and then drive you there."
"But the hospital..." she indicated the patients lying on cots in the hallway and the adjoining rooms. "Perhaps I should wait and go back with you and Napoleon this evening."
"Nonsense, my dear. Captain Burke can do without your help for a few days." He looked to Philip for confirmation.
"Certainly, sir." Philip met her eyes for a moment, but she couldn't read his thoughts. "Mrs. Wakefield is a fine assistant, but I can manage without her under the present circumstances."
"But there are so few to feed the soldiers and change their bandages and my sister may not be able to help today." A note of quiet desperation crept into her voice at the thought of leaving immediately to see Malcolm.
"Your first duty is to your husband, Mrs. Wakefield. We'll manage," Philip assured her and turned away in a gesture of dismissal.
He seemed almost glad of the excuse to be rid of her! And the nerve of him, reminding her of her obligation as a married woman. Well, she didn't need reminding by a Yankee prisoner who had tried to take advantage of her in a weak moment. She turned to her father-in-law and mustered a smile. "I'll get my things packed and wake my sister to tell her the news." She turned toward the steps. "I'll only be a minute."
• ♥ •
Rossville, February 1863
The ride to Fleur-de-Lis was bitter cold and Clarissa, wrapped in a brown velvet cloak and matching bonnet sat huddled in the corner of the carriage, trying to prepare herself for a reunion she hadn’t expected to face until the end of the war. Perhaps Malcolm had changed from his experiences on the battlefield and she would find herself feeling differently toward him, but she wouldn’t count on that.
Clarissa thought of her father. So much had happened since she’d heard the news about his passing that she hadn’t really dealt with the sorrow she felt. Tears spilled down her face and she wiped at them with her gloved hand. Maybe Philip Burke was right,
and crying would help, but she couldn’t afford the luxury of giving vent to her misery right now.
Passing beyond Rossville they were soon nearing the plantation and she thought about seeing her little son again and her spirits lifted. It had been almost two months since Robert had left Whitehaven and she missed him terribly. She wondered if he had grown and if he missed her, too.
Entering the gates of Fleur-de-Lis, they drove between the long rows of elms whose bare branches formed a canopy above them and turned into the drive that circled the front of the mansion. Then, Napoleon was holding the carriage door open and she stepped down and went inside.
Polly and Robert were the first to greet her.
"There she is, honey chile. You mama done come like I tole you she would."
"Mama." The child ran forward, and Clarissa caught him up in her arms and covered his face with kisses.
"Did you miss me, sweetheart? Have you been good? My, how you’ve grown."
Finally, she put him down and hugged her servant.
Polly studied her intently. "You look plumb worn out, Missa."
"Oh, Polly, there’s something I have to tell you. We had a letter from Matilda yesterday and our father has passed away."
Polly closed her eyes and looked heavenward. "God rest his soul."
"And Lawton has joined the Union forces under General Thomas."
"Don’t that beat all." Polly shook her head. "Now what do you reckon Miz Matilda gonna do?"
"Well, for one thing, she’s already let all the slaves go free." A fleeting look of joy crossed Polly’s face, quickly replaced by regret. It had been foolish of her not to realize that Polly’s life would have been affected by Matilda’s impulsive act. "I guess that means...if we were still at Mimosa Manor, you’d be free now."
"Don’t matter none." Polly didn’t meet her eyes. "Now you’d best go on upstairs and let me help you settle in before Masta Malcolm and the others wake up, Missa."
Clarissa motioned for Napoleon, who had been standing silently behind them, to bring the portmanteau. Then holding Robert’s hand, she led the way up the staircase.
