Ben seethed, thinking how pitiful, how ludicrous the story would make him sound when it was repeated and expanded, as it surely would be. But he could stand humiliation. God knew he’d stood worse.
“This has nothing at all to do with my clumsiness,” he said, deliberately making light of the incident, “and everything to do with that sad tale of hers.”
General Branard sipped his coffee. “The war has spawned far sadder, I’m afraid, as wars always do. But that doesn’t mean we should harden ourselves against a little child and a lovely girl. It doesn’t . . .”
By now, Ben should have grown used to those moments when Hank Branard’s eyes clouded over and his words tapered into murmurs. His woolgathering seemed to have grown worse even in the short weeks Ben had spent as his advisor. Ben took a drink of his own coffee and waited to see if the haze would lift.
“Did you see that hair, Captain?” Branard’s voice trembled, as if he were even older than his seventy years. “My Emma’s hair was just that shade . . .”
“Emma?” Ben prompted. Branard had spoken of his wife, Althea, who awaited him back in Illinois. Was this Emma someone else, or more evidence of some sort of disintegration of the old man’s mind?
The focus returned to Branard’s blue eyes, and he cleared his throat. “My daughter. Our only girl. We lost her back in ‘Forty-two. Consumption.”
Ben wasn’t certain what to say, so he settled for, “I’m sorry.”
The general waved off the sentiment. “That was a long time ago. No need to relive it.”
Ben thought of bringing up Charlotte Randolph once again, but some instinct warned him off.
General Branard spoke again, sounding sharp as ever. “Don’t you worry about that Randolph girl,” he said. “We’ll treat her with courtesy and kindness but keep our guard up until we’re certain she’s no more than she appears to be. In addition, I’ll order carpenters to build a door to the third story, and we’ll block off the back staircase entirely. Sunday or not, I’ll insist it’s done today. I’ll explain to her that I mean to lock it at night to guard her honor, but that will also keep her and the boy from creeping about unsupervised while we’re asleep.”
Branard stared into Ben’s face and held his gaze in an unmistakable challenge. “Does that satisfy you, Captain? And more importantly, will it satisfy whoever sent you to keep watch over me?”
Everyone confesses that exertion which brings out all the powers of body and mind is the best thing for us; but most people do all they can to get rid of it, and as a general rule nobody does much more than circumstances drive them to do.
-- Harriet Beecher Stowe
CHAPTER THREE
“Will they go home now?” Alexander asked. “Will they go away, now that our trick is over?”
Charlotte’s heart sank. She should have realized that no six-year-old could understand what she was doing, not even one bright enough to have worked through the first two levels of Eclectic Readers.
She sat atop one of the two beds in the nursery and patted the mattress until Alexander moved beside her. His eyelids had the heavy look that suggested the events of last night and this morning had exhausted him.
“I’m afraid it might take a spell,” she explained as she removed his shoes. “They’ll want to try to trick us back first.”
“They will?”
Charlotte cleaned his face with a damp cloth, which she’d just rinsed at the washstand. The delay gave her a few moments to construct her answer. “They’re going to want to see who plays the best tricks, loyal Southerners or Yankee invaders.”
When she tried to move the washcloth to his neck, he squirmed away. “But they’re grown-up soldiers! How can we beat them?”
“Why, don’t you know? Every Southern man is worth a dozen Yankee hirelings. I’m sure I’m worth at least half that, and as smart as you are, I’ll bet you’d count for oh, maybe eight or so.” She ruffled his hair and kissed his forehead. “I believe we could outwit this bunch of scalawags with one hand apiece tied behind our backs. All you have to do is listen closely to what I say, and don’t tell them any different.”
He lay back against the pillow, his wheeled horse close beside him. When he smiled, she could tell it was for her sake, and tears welled up in her eyes.
The smile faded, and his brow wrinkled like an old man’s. “What if I say somethin’ wrong and make us lose?”
“No matter what happens, I imagine Papa and Michael will be very proud to hear how hard you’re trying.” She pulled the blanket to his shoulders. “They might even recommend you for a special medal on account of bravery.”
“Ain’t got no use for a medal.”
“Alexander,” she warned. Why couldn’t he mimic his family’s grammar instead of Mama Ruth’s?
“Well, I don’t. I don’t want nothin’ ‘cept one of Daisy’s pups.” His eyes closed as he spoke, and a real smile played about his lips.
He would dream of them, Charlotte realized, those squirming balls of fluff that she had not yet seen. In Alexander’s dreams, they would be old enough to run and play, old enough to cover him with kisses as he squealed with laughter. The grammar lessons and the warnings about keeping secrets could wait till later, she decided. For now, she wanted nothing more than to send him off to the escape of sleep.
She leaned close to him and whispered, “I promise you’ll have a puppy of your own soon.”
Alexander made no answer, and his breaths lengthened into the soft rhythm of sleep. Charlotte watched him until his features swam in the prism of her tears.
She’d been wrong to bring him into this situation, thoughtless and irresponsible. If she were fit to raise a child, she would have left him with Aunt Lila and her brood, to play hide and seek among the fruit trees and tumble happily among a half-dozen licking pups.
But even as the thought occurred, she realized she was wrong and the safety of the farm no more than an illusion. With Lila’s husband, Uncle Pete, also serving in the Confederate army, Charlotte’s aunt faced problems of her own. Soldiers from both armies had stolen livestock and raided her food stores. Although Lila and Pete’s family kept no slaves, most of their field hands had run off to join local home guard units. With only two old men to help protect the family and run the farm, Lila had confessed she was thinking of taking her children south to Mississippi, where her family owned a prosperous plantation.
Though Aunt Lila would have accepted Alexander without question, Charlotte worried about the reports of Union troops moving through that region, too. At least that was the reason she gave herself. Yet every time she tried to imagine Aunt Lila taking Alexander to Mississippi, where they might remain for months or even years, Charlotte felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. And what she found, in that dark pit of panic, was the truth.
No safe refuge existed where any of the Randolphs might wait out this conflict. Six years old or not, Alexander was at much as risk as Father or Michael . . . or Charlotte herself.
As she bent to kiss the sleeping child’s temple, Charlotte swore to herself that she would protect him by doing all she could to send every last accursed Yankee back north – or to hell.
o0o
Ben sat at the scarred desk that now squatted like an insult among the lavish furnishings of the house’s parlor. To anyone who bothered to look, he would appear to be scanning the stack of requisitions sent from other units in the region, but at the moment the columns of figures meant no more to him than hieroglyphics. He pulled out a cigar and fingered it absently for a quarter of an hour before he realized he hadn’t thought to light it.
What the hell had given him away to Branard? Ben had sent no reports to this point, so none could have been intercepted. He hadn’t even kept a written record of his observations for anyone to ferret out.
After he’d collected himself, Ben had managed, “I thought you’d made up your mind weeks ago that I was loyal to the cause. What on God’s green earth makes you think I’m some sort of spy now?”
/> Branard stared at him so long that Ben began to suspect he’d drifted off again. But when the old man finally answered, his voice was strong and clear. “I’m not talking about loyalty to the country, I’m talking loyalty to me. And as for evidence, it doesn’t take a Philadelphia lawyer to spot a man split down the middle.”
Branard had declined to answer any further questions, saying only, “When you write your report, Captain Chandler, you tell whoever the hell is out for my job that Abe Lincoln’s the fella that asked me to this hoedown. I’m not going home until he says it’s time.”
The general hadn’t raised his voice, but he’d stabbed the air with his index finger to emphasize his words. His face, too, reddened to contrast with his thick white hair and beard. Clearly, he believed someone who coveted Branard’s critical position had sent Ben.
It was just as well he thought that, Ben decided. If the old man guessed the truth, he’d likely expire on the spot.
After striking a match against the seam of his sleeve, Ben at last lit the cigar. As he smoked, he watched his exhalations unfurling slowly, dissolving into haze. And he could not help wondering if time was loosening the strands that made up the legend of Hank Branard, the elements that formed a once-great man.
Hell, if anyone was unraveling, maybe it was him and not the general. Sure, Branard sometimes seemed if not incompetent, unfocused. But stranger stories had surfaced regarding the behavior of other officers on both sides of this war. And didn’t the fact that he’d detected Ben’s conflict prove the old man was still sharp enough to lead?
From upstairs, a creak distracted him, followed by a faint thump that might have been a closing door. Since the other officers in Branard’s command were all out seeing to their duties, Ben supposed the Randolph girl – Charlotte, he remembered – or her brother had ventured downstairs to the second floor.
Curious, he pushed back the chair and rose. The two shouldn’t be here in the first place, and the idea of either of them – especially Charlotte – prowling around alone troubled him. Although most of General Branard’s sensitive documents had been taken into the library, several officers’ personal belongings, his own among them, were upstairs in the bedrooms.
Mindful of last night’s fall, Ben positioned his cane carefully as he negotiated the stairs. When the toe of his artificial foot caught beneath a step and nearly tripped him, he wondered if he would ever surmount his awkwardness.
At last, Ben reached the level floor of the upstairs hallway. His gaze swept the passage, moving past a series of open doorways, then settling on the room he’d been assigned. Clearly it had been a feminine bedroom. Charlotte’s, he was certain now. A memory assailed him - her slender figure above him on the stairs last night – and he felt his heartbeat race, his groin tighten in response.
Hellfire! He couldn’t think about her that way, couldn’t allow attraction to disarm his mind. Clearly, neither Branard nor Lieutenant “I’ll-Thrash-the-Devil-Out-of-Him” could manage a cool head around the girl. It was up to Ben to keep his wits about him.
A shadow shifted, leading Ben to cautiously move closer, until he could peer inside the room, where Charlotte was leaning over his open trunk. Her hand was stretched ahead of her, reaching for something he could not see.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
She jerked upright and spun toward him, at the same time drawing her right hand behind her back. Charlotte had fashioned her hair into a chignon with wispy tendrils loose to frame her face. She had changed into a different dress, too, one made of a delicate print fabric. The only thing that marred the image was the bruised cut beneath her eye – and the fact that she was clearly hiding something from his view.
When she didn’t answer, he closed to within two feet of her – near enough to see her trembling. Still, she held her ground.
“Show me what you’ve taken.” He spoke to her as harshly as he would any man in the hope that fear would prompt her to confess.
She sighed, then pulled out a slender rod -- a barrel pointed toward Ben’s legs. His hand shot forward, clamping her wrist with crushing force, swinging her aim clear of his body.
She cried out in alarm, and Ben felt a rush of heat when he realized the item was nothing but some sort of musical instrument. His knees loosened, and he could hear his own blood rushing in his ears. Just a simple pipe, and he’d nearly ripped her arm off.
“You aren’t taking Grandfather’s recorder. It’s all I have left of him.” Though she was shaking even harder, her words were adamant.
“I – I beg your pardon,” Ben said, releasing her. “I thought it was a gun, and – I don’t mean to lose another leg.”
“Ah. I understand now.” She rubbed her wrist with the fingers of her left hand.
He felt shame that he’d hurt her and, even worse, that he could not help watching her caress the bruised flesh or wondering how it would feel if her fingertips stroked him. Irritated with her effect on him, he shifted his weight briefly to his false leg and allowed a jolt of pain to return him to his senses. His instincts shouted that she was hiding something more important than a hollow length of wood.
“Why would you be looking for your whistle in here?” he asked her, gesturing toward his trunk. “I certainly didn’t stuff it between my frock coat and my trousers.”
Her color rose, and he realized that a Memphis belle would doubtless consider it indecent to mention trousers in her presence. But Ben couldn’t care less if his words shocked her. He wanted an explanation, and he wanted it now.
“First of all, it’s a recorder, not a whistle. And I assure you, I haven’t the slightest interest in any of your garments,” Charlotte insisted. “I accidentally left the recorder here last night. Its value is mostly sentimental, but I hope you’ll understand that you’re all strangers to me, and I --”
“Didn’t want it stolen,” he finished for her. “That’s reasonable enough, but it doesn’t explain why --”
Her gaze locked with his, and she lifted one blond brow. It was not a child’s gesture, but a woman’s silent query, asking him to be sensible enough to hear her out. Once again, he was struck by the idea that she was more than she appeared.
“More practically,” she continued, “I needed to retrieve my things – since you’ve appropriated my bedroom. And my brother left a few of his toys here.”
She nodded toward some feminine garments and a few miniature soldiers she had stacked atop the bed. Then she bent down and picked up a matching soldier from the floor beside Ben’s trunk.
She displayed the lead toy in her open palm. Its uniform appeared to have been recently repainted gray. “Do you see? It’s just a child’s plaything.”
“That’s a convenient explanation,” he told her, his voice little more than a low rumble. “But I’d wager half of Texas there’s more to it than that. More to it than any of the stories that you tell.”
He could almost feel the waves of hatred rolling toward him from green eyes almost catlike as they glared. He wondered for a moment if she would slap him, or even rake his face with slashing claws. But at the sound of footsteps, everything changed in an eye-blink. All color drained from her face and the tears began to fall.
“Please!” she cried out, pushing past him. “Please leave me alone!”
He looked after her, watching her flee toward the staircase that led to the third floor. Watching General Branard ascend the other set of steps. One look at the old man’s thunderous expression told Ben that the general had seen and heard everything that Charlotte Randolph meant for him to witness.
Even as he prepared to defend his actions to General Branard, Ben felt his assessment of her shrewdness rise another notch.
o0o
Before she reached the spacious nursery, Charlotte sagged into a hall chair. Her pulse hammered at her temples, and a line of portraits of dead relatives stared out accusations.
The Judas Officer knew that she was lying, and he would do all in his power to
convince the others he was right. She was nearly overcome with an urge to snatch up Alexander and run as far and fast as she could manage.
Yet Charlotte didn’t move because she couldn’t. She felt as if her hands and feet were carved from ice, and the cold was spreading quickly. Resentment stabbed through her with the realization that if she froze, there would be no one to help her and Alexander. No father and no brother, no Mama Ruth or anyone.
She could not afford the luxury of fainting. Neither could she scream or cry . . . or fail. Somewhere, she would have to find the courage and the strength, the way she had last night.
She turned her head to peer through the open nursery doorway. Not twenty feet from her, Alexander lay on his side, his fingers tangled in the corded mane of the carved horse. The gray and white cat, Polly, was curled comfortably against his back.
As Charlotte listened to Alexander’s quiet breathing, she found the peace she needed within the ebb and flow. Closing her eyes, she tried to slow her breaths to match the boy’s.
In the calm that followed, she heard voices rumbling up the stairs. Angry voices, unless she missed her guess. The conversation continued for several minutes, most of it unintelligible. She stood and edged closer to the top of the stairs. Finally, she recognized a few words, General Branard’s from the voice.
“. . . don’t care what you suspect. Unless you have proof – hard evidence – you’ll behave as a gentleman in her presence and in mine.”
Ben Chandler murmured some response, and Charlotte found herself hoping he’d said something unspeakably rude in reply, something that would prompt General Branard to send him far away. Eager to hear the general’s response, she leaned even closer.
She barely missed being caught eavesdropping. As soon as she realized the footsteps she heard were starting up the stairs, she raced into the nursery and gently closed its door.
At the sound of knocking, Polly leapt off Alexander’s bed and slipped inside a partly open cupboard. Charlotte wished uselessly that she could follow. Instead, she opened the door, her heart thumping even harder.
Innocent Deceptions Page 4
