He began pacing again, while Andrea followed his every motion with her eyes. “This was your strategy all along, I suppose. Admit it! You saw me merely as an advantage to your cause!”
Andrea lowered her head at his accusations. His words slid through her like a bayonet, painful and deadly, twisting deep in quivering flesh, impaling her like a blade of agony.
Hunter stood surveying her features. “I trusted you,” he said, his voice raspy and barely above a whisper. “I trusted you, and you deceived me.”
Andrea remained silent, refusing to increase his wrath by speaking, even though she felt her very life draining away.
Hunter backed away and threw his hands in the air. “Our disagreement had nothing to do with my Command. It was between us. Not my men!”
“You will not allow me the honor of an explanation?”
“Honor?” Hunter choked. Such was the disdain in his tone that Andrea’s legs suddenly felt incapable of supporting her and she sat down numbly on the bed.
He laughed at the action. “Well, then, go ahead if you have something to say.”
Andrea forced herself to meet his gaze. “It appears you have it all figured out, Colonel.”
“Yes, I have it all figured out! I value knowing how to put two and two together with confidence in the result of the addition!”
Andrea had no defense against his words, nor the tone in which he spoke them. Nothing in her past had prepared her for this. “What proof do you have that I’m guilty of this offense?”
“I have all the proof I need.” He whirled around to face her. “Your deceit, your cunning, and your guile are sufficient proof of your character for me.”
Andrea maintained a dignified silence, enduring his probing, pitiless stare without flinching.
“Dare you deny that Justus was ridden last night and returned in the not-so-distant past?”
Andrea gave a faint reply while staring at her feet. “No, sir.”
“Dare you deny you studied my map?”
Andrea looked up in surprise, and then eyed him in silent contemplation, an action Hunter apparently took as a confession. “No,” she said exhaling, “but I—”
“And still you are denying it?”
Andrea trembled from the great battle taking place inside. “If you believe I did it, what good would it do for me to deny it?”
“Blast it, Andrea. I trusted you!” He stared at her intently, seemingly waiting for her to admit her betrayal, or deny her involvement, or beg for his mercy or forgiveness.
Only with the greatest effort did Andrea manage her voice. “Sir, I do not believe you know the meaning of the word.”
“Do not tell me what I don’t know!” He stood right in front of her, his breath coming in uneven gasps. “How could you do this to me?”
There was such torment in his words Andrea looked up and gazed into his unblinking eyes. The merciless glare was gone, but the despair lingering there was so pathetic, her heart picked up its pace. She lowered her eyes to his heaving chest, contemplating the necessity of telling the truth. She swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and slowly lifted her gaze to meet his. “Alex—”
“Enough!” He held up his arms as if to shield himself from her words, his name on her lips seeming to open a new wound. He took on a look of impatient intolerance and his seething anger revived.
The solid floor began to tremble beneath Andrea now, and hopelessness to consume her. “Colonel Hunter, I believe you will regret—”
“The only thing I regret, Miss Evans,” he said in a cruel, malicious voice, looking at her with dreadful calm, “is a promise I made to my brother—and ever having met you.”
Andrea stared at his lips, forcing herself to comprehend that the words she heard were the same ones he had actually spoken. Words. She had laughed at their power. Now his almost felled her. This final stab had caught her unaware and pierced all the deeper because of the willingness with which she had exposed her vulnerable heart.
She raised her eyes to meet his like a convicted criminal receiving a death sentence from a judge. “You wish me to leave?” She heard her own voice speak, rather dim and far away, while feeling herself sinking fast in an abyss of unknown depth.
With his hand on the doorknob, Hunter paused. “I not only wish it, Miss Evans, I order it. And I recommend you proceed swiftly before I change my mind—and my capacity for leniency.”
He shot her a look of disgust. “And I hope to your God you have sense enough to head North.”
There was no disguising the threat inferred. He would show no mercy should they ever meet again. Andrea stood silent as the door slammed closed, uttering no words of protest. She could not find the words to speak, nor find the breath to speak them. She grabbed the bedpost for support and closed her eyes, trying to block out the sound of his boots stomping down the stairs. She jumped when his library door slammed shut with thunderous finality below.
She had been willing to leave, but not like this. How could she leave when she did not know if she could move? Andrea raised her head and cast her eyes around the room she had grown to know as home.
How ironic. I shall leave just as I arrived: suffering, miserable, and hopeless.
Chapter 53
“Tis my reward for dearest victory won,
I did that love undo – to be myself undone!”
– Polyeucte by Pierre Corneille
Not even waiting to put her feet in the stirrups Andrea pushed Justus into a gallop and ran away from Hawthorne. She barely saw the house as it flew by, a streak of white followed by a splash of green. The bridge appeared as a blur, then all was sun and shadow.
Andrea eventually looked back, but by then Hawthorne was not to be seen. How far she had ridden or how long she had been riding she did not know. She had been unconscious of everything around her, numb. But now she realized it was useless to push Justus so hard. The memories would pursue her no matter how far she went or how fast she rode.
Bending down and patting her heaving horse, Andrea tried to console herself. She knew she was well enough to leave—had been for some weeks now. It had only been a matter of time. Yet his words continued to resound in her brain, buzzing and vibrating like angry hornets trapped within the crevices of her skull, stinging her over and over with venomous force. “The only thing I regret …”
Andrea inhaled deeply to clear her mind, and gasped at a sudden stabbing pain that struck her like an explosion. Clutching her chest, she looked down, expecting to see blood. Dear Lord, what is happening? Her legs began to tremble, followed by more tightening in her chest that made breathing difficult. She spread her hand flat upon her bosom and felt her heart laboring against her fingers. Something in there was torn. Broken. Something had ruptured or shattered, and its shards were even now piercing the very core of her being.
Dismounting shakily, Andrea put her shoulder against a large tree trunk and sucked in deep gasping breaths. Closing her eyes in agony, she felt again the sting of Hunter’s words. The pain bent her in two and dropped her to her knees.
She began to cry then, softly at first, just a low moan, like someone who is unfamiliar with the act of weeping. But the moan swelled and grew until it became a gut-wrenching wail that sounded more like a desperately wounded animal than anything of human origin.
Andrea gulped for air as decades of unshed tears poured forth in a great surge of pain and loss. She cried for her country and her enemy, for Daniel and her past. And then she cried because she was crying and because she was hurt and confused and alone.
When she was done, she lay quietly, and listened to a world that was intensely, painfully still.
Opening her swollen lids, Andrea took in the scene around her. Justus stood beside her amid the funereal shadows of a setting sun. He nudged her gently with his nose and she laid her cheek against his soft muzzle. “It’s just us again,” she whispered.
After mounting and reluctantly heading north, Andrea halted at the sound of a low rumble of thunder in
the distance. Glancing up at the clear sky, she turned back toward the sound. Slowly, almost hesitantly, a smile grew upon her face. The din was not thunder. There was no storm. It was the familiar, rolling, earth-shattering throb of cannon fire.
Justus pawed the ground, eager for her to make up her mind.
Andrea’s decision came like a lightning flash. For once, it was not a decision made of vengeance, nor even from hate. Retaliation and revenge had drained from her along with hope and trust. With a look of grim determination on her face, she turned her horse’s head toward the sound of war.
And went forward to face the music.
* * *
Hunter stepped out into the bright sunlight, squinting and grabbing his head at the horrific thudding the endeavor produced. The liquor he had consumed the previous night had done little to deaden the ache in his heart, and much to cause the pain and misery he now endured.
Opening his eyes, he watched a speck in the distance turn into a rider cantering up the drive with a large gray horse in tow at his side. He blinked in disbelief when he recognized John Paul and Zeus.
“Here you go, ol’ chap!” John Paul tried to bring the powerful stallion under control, though it practically wrenched him from the saddle.
Hunter remained speechless.
“Did Miss Andrea not tell you? She convinced me to sell you this beast, though I don’t know quite how or why.” John Paul stared at Hunter curiously. “I hope you don’t mind, I took the liberty of telling her it was your birthday. Today is the day is it not?”
Without waiting for an answer, John Paul reached into his coat pocket with great difficulty and pulled out some papers. “Got the bill of sale right here. Quite a little negotiator she is. Wouldn’t go a penny higher than what you last offered me, though I insisted his value has increased substantially since then.”
Hunter continued to stand silently, blinking like an owl in sunlight. The fact it was his birthday had completely slipped his mind. What he had said to Andrea after she returned from being with John Paul had not. He remembered distinctly the moment of callousness that had started the chain of events that left his world crumbling.
John Paul’s gaze flicked over Hunter’s unshaven face and puffy red eyes. “It appears you started celebrating the big day a little early.”
“She bought him?” Hunter murmured, his mind beginning to catch up to what had been said moments previous.
“Well, she signed the bill of sale on your behalf,” John Paul responded. “Insisted her word and your honor were sufficient to close the deal.” He paused a moment. “She’s a bit of a funny female if you ask me. A little standoffish … though she seems to have warmed up to you quite nicely, judging from the way I had to listen to her constantly singing your praises.”
He looked Hunter up and down in such a way that indicated he could not fathom a woman choosing the Colonel over himself. “Here, take him, he’s all yours.”
Hunter descended the last two steps and grabbed the skittish horse.
“Will you announce me to Miss Evans?” John Paul dismounted and brushed the dust from his suit. “Perhaps now that she’s had time to reflect, she realizes who is the better man.”
He grinned at Hunter’s blank stare and patted him on the shoulder. “You can’t blame a man for trying, Alex. As you have made no claim on her, it’s my duty to make her realize she’s much too charming to spend her life being unnoticed by you.”
Before Hunter could answer, Victoria walked out the door. “John Paul, how nice to see you!”
“Victoria, I was just asking about you!” John Paul gave Hunter a sly smile and a wink, before greeting her with a hug and disappearing into the house.
Hunter stood in the middle of the drive, holding the horse he had only dreamed of owning, the lineage of which he knew would transform Hawthorne into the legendary breeding establishment his grandfather had envisioned. There was no elation as he gazed at the prancing animal. He saw only a world falling apart around him, and felt a crushing weight of loss and loneliness that threatened to overcome him.
Dazed, he walked to the barn and handed the horse over to Zach. Anxious to ride away from the memories, he began saddling Dixie in the paddock himself, but paused at the sound of a wagon racing down from the main house at breakneck speed.
“What have you done to Miss Andrea?”
Hunter winced at the sight of Mrs. Fox looking like a ruffled hen. “Andrea and I were to meet today. The servants told me she is no longer here. What have you done to her?”
Hunter turned to his horse and continued to tighten the girth. “As you know, Mrs. Fox, Miss Evans was here to recover from an injury. She has recovered—and she has thus departed.”
“You did not make her leave.” Her tone was not questioning, but the statement seemed to demand an answer nonetheless.
“It was … a … mutual decision.” Hunter talked into his saddle, pretending to adjust his stirrups. He guessed it was mutual. She hadn’t really argued. Hadn’t protested.
“Where did she go?”
“I do not know her intentions. She had a habit of confiding only in herself.”
The widow shook her head. “She would not just leave without saying goodbye.”
“Apparently she would,” Hunter answered bluntly, preparing to mount.
“I hope it wasn’t because of you, Alexander Hunter.” Emma picked up her own reins. “That girl respected you, admired you. And it wasn’t for your money or your charm, I assure you.”
Hunter spun around. “She said that?”
“She didn’t need to say it. I saw it every time she looked at you. Why, she well nigh worshiped you.”
“I think perhaps you saw what you wanted to see, not what was really there.” Hunter mounted stiffly, though he tried to appear calm. “Miss Evans did her best to endure her time at Hawthorne, nothing more. She made it quite clear to me she would rather be anywhere but in my company.”
The widow leaned forward and pointed her finger. “You may be well respected within military circles,” she said, staring so deeply into Hunter’s eyes that he almost flinched. “But you, sir, are a darned fool!”
Slapping the reins, she left him without a backward glance.
Chapter 54
“Look back at man’s struggle for freedom,
Trace his present day strength to its source,
And you’ll find that his pathway to glory
Is strewn with the bones of the horse.”
– Anonymous
A cold front had moved in overnight, sending Andrea deeper under the single blanket she had managed to scavenge from the trail. The action was futile, as she knew it would be. Yet shivering kept her from sleeping and not sleeping kept her from dreaming.
Andrea stared glassy-eyed with fatigue at the darkness above her. Although the first shards of light had not yet illuminated the eastern sky, an over-anxious bird had started its morning ritual overhead. She took a deep breath and listened to the music she had been anticipating for hours. Its chorus was blissful to her ears. She had made it through another night.
Soon the sun would spread its glorious rays, and she would no longer have to fear the heart-wrenching scenes that caused her to wake during the night in a feverish sweat, those scenes from a nightmare that had made her wake every night since her departure from Hawthorne.
Although she tried to push it from her mind, the dream replayed itself, even now before her open eyes. She saw herself walking side by side with Alex through the meadow by the stream. At a steep incline that appeared out of nowhere, the landscape changed from colorful and distinct to foggy and gray. Still, as happens in dreams, Andrea saw herself smiling and pulling her way up the rocky hill, even as the ground at her feet began to crumble.
Andrea squeezed her eyes closed in an effort to stop the vision, but it continued in vivid detail. She watched herself reach up through the fog in an attempt to grab Hunter’s strong hand, but what she found in her grasp was never his hand at all. It
was always the cold, steel barrel of his gun, its muzzle staring her in the face.
What came next tore her heart apart in both sleep and waking hours.
“Let go, Andrea.” His voice was always pitiless in its tone.
“You deceived me. Let go.” He cocked the gun. “Or I will make you.”
As if watching the scene from a distance, Andrea saw herself look into the barrel of the gun, then at her hand wrapped around its steel shaft, then straight up into Hunter’s savage eyes.
And then she let go.
In her dream, she would fall endlessly through time and space, yet never hit bottom or die. She simply awoke, sweating and crying and gasping for breath, and praying fervently, and as never before, that today God would take mercy upon her and make it her last on earth.
Andrea shivered a final time, more from the memory of her dream than the chill, and rose when the faintest promise of a new day broke through the darkness. The frosty nights had been hard on her, the cold air finding little resistance in blasting its way through her empty heart. Having grown accustomed to a warm bed, she now found the hard ground acutely painful.
When it grew a little lighter, Andrea took an overgrown path up the side of a hill to get her bearings and the layout of the land. Dismounting and securing Justus to a tree, she crept along the ground, keeping to the shadows of a small ridge. She was not prepared for the great panorama that opened before her at its peak, and felt a surge of adrenalin pulse through her body.
Below lay the white tents of the enemy, thousands of campfires reflecting eerily off the glass-like waters of the river. Men and horses, mere shadows in the early morning light, appeared to be scurrying to and fro, preparing for a major action. A long gray blur, already in motion behind them, portended something of dreadful significance.
From her position, Andrea continued to study the scene. Why would they leave their fires burning if they were moving out? She held her breath and listened. The distinct sound of a large army on the move assaulted her ears.
Shades of Gray: A Novel of the Civil War in Virginia Page 41
