He nodded. “I want it to be true. I want to believe you’re innocent – and that a woman like you could possibly want a man like me, because I’m not sorry either.”
“A man like . . . ?” She pulled her chemise over her head. “What do you mean, a man like you? What woman wouldn’t want a man who’s kind to children, brave, and true to his beliefs?”
“Aren’t I the same fellow you called Captain Judas?” Ben said with a laugh. Without waiting for an answer, he shook his head. “But that wasn’t what I meant. I was thinking more of this.”
He laid his palm upon his left knee to indicate the vacancy below it.
Charlotte shrugged. “I’ve never been terribly fond of dancing anyway. And with that possible exception, I can’t see how it matters.”
“You’re very kind.” His voice told her that he didn’t quite believe her.
“Kindness has nothing to do with it,” Charlotte told him. “As I’ve come to know you, I’ve seen that you’re not about to let this injury – this loss - destroy you. Any woman with half a brain knows that life is full of all sorts of losses. The measure of a man, of what his future holds, is in how he responds to them.”
Ben looked at her intently. “You aren’t at all the woman the others take you for.”
His recognition of that fact, she realized, was part of why she loved him.
Loved him?
She shuddered at the thought that had stolen up on her and wondered, was it true? Or did she only tell herself that to excuse what she’d just done?
Or to convince herself she had no choice except to flee again.
While we seek mirth and beauty and music light and gay, There are frail forms fainting at the door;
Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say,
Oh, hard times come again no more.
-- from “Hard Times, Come Again No More,”
by Stephen C. Foster
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tuesday, July 1, 1862
Something cold and damp pressed into the side of Charlotte’s head. She roused sufficiently to try to push away the unpleasantness, but the something only snuffled and licked at her right hand.
Honeybee had wandered out of the room where Alexander slept to find her. With a groan, Charlotte forced open her eyes, then sat up in the bed in order to keep herself from being drowned in kisses. Pinkish-gray light filtered through the curtains to highlight the pup’s enthusiastic wriggling.
“Let’s get you outside before you disgrace yourself again.” Though Charlotte knew it was important to get the puppy outdoors quickly, she felt as if both her mind and her body had mired in deep mud.
As her gaze skimmed the rumpled clothing she’d worn upstairs last night, a bolt of memory shocked her to her senses. Ben . . . undressing her last night . . . then touching her as no one had before, making love to her so gently that even now her body was succumbing to the echoes of sensation.
She forced herself to look away from the discarded garments and shuddered. After a moment’s hesitation, she began dressing hurriedly in the fresh clothing she had packed in her valise. It seemed important to look different this morning, to distance herself from the woman she had been last night, the one who had abandoned her senses to a pleasure that could only serve to bring her pain.
Yet looking different was no simple task for a woman who had brought with her only a second skirt and waist of black to mark her mourning. The puppy’s whining forced Charlotte to shave steps from a proper lady’s preparations, so that when she trotted down the steps, her feet remained bare and her tangled hair bounced about her shoulders.
On the lower floor, she peeked into the parlor. Her heart constricted at the sight of Ben Chandler sprawled upon the sofa, one arm thrown across his eyes to block the light. She could not help but smile at the thought of how much his abandon resembled that of Alexander, who remained asleep upstairs. She fought an urge to kiss the man, one borne of a very different impulse than those that moved her toward her son.
Honeybee attempted to dart past, no doubt intent on rousing Ben as well. Panic needled Charlotte at the thought of facing him so soon, so she grabbed the pup’s brown leather collar and hauled her through the fractured back door.
The rain had ended, leaving behind it myriad puddles. Each one reflected dawn-tinted light, so that the farmyard appeared dotted with iridescent scales. At least until the mastiff pup splashed through the illusion with paws as big as hooves.
Movement caught Charlotte’s eye: a white chicken scratching in the mud outside the barn door. She thought of eggs, and her stomach growled in answer. Hunger tempted her to look in the barn one final time to see where the crafty hen might have hidden treasures.
Cool mud squeezed between her toes as she picked her way across the farmyard, but she found she didn’t mind the feeling. How many years had it been, she wondered, since she’d felt damp grass and wet sand beneath her soles? Had she been as young as Alexander when her feet had been imprisoned within tight leather cells? She wondered, too, if her encounter with Ben Chandler had reopened a closed gateway inside her, one that had long kept her from enjoying too many sensations.
Before she reached the barn door, she saw it was ajar. Charlotte stopped in her tracks as a prickling feeling crawled around her stomach. Hadn’t she watched Ben secure the door last night before they’d gone inside? Surely, they wouldn’t have left it open with last night’s wind and rain.
Maybe Ben had come outside to check the horses earlier and neglected to drop the latch on his way back to the house. Surely, that was all. As if on cue, Charlotte heard a soft nicker, probably Zephyr’s. The old mare would be looking for her breakfast, too.
Leaving the puppy to her outdoor explorations, Charlotte pulled the door open wider and stepped into the dimness of the barn. As her vision adjusted to the weak light, she made out both Zephyr and Ben’s gray gelding, who stood peering out at her from their stalls.
A movement from the shadows made her jump.
“It’s all right, Charlotte,” a familiar voice said.
She wheeled toward it. “Michael?”
He stepped out of the darkness and looked her over critically. “I swear, little sister, every time I see you, you look more of a disgrace.”
Despite his quiet words, his smile conveyed fondness. He reached out to smooth her tousled hair.
She stepped out of his reach. “I’m not Alexander. I’m not a child at all.”
Charlotte’s reflexive withdrawal surprised her. She had come here to await Michael’s “rescue,” hadn’t she? And certainly, she and Alexander would still need him. She warned herself to put aside her resentment for the ordeal her brother had convinced her to take part in. He hadn’t forced her, after all. It had been her shame and guilt that did.
Outside, the sun’s edge must have ascended above the ridge of trees. A shaft of golden light fell across Michael’s face to gild his intense expression. “No, you aren’t. No child could have done the job you did. You’re making a difference, Charlotte. You may yet turn the tide. Our father would be proud of you. He would be honored that you’ve taken up the cause he died defending.”
Charlotte warned herself not to allow Michael’s words to move her, but she could not prevent the warm rush of pleasure at his statement. Was she another puppy, to roll over at a word of praise? She swore not to allow him to beguile her.
“I’m finished with it,” she said. “I can’t risk this anymore. Alexander’s getting caught up in the lies, and I won’t --”
“Whose animal is this?” Michael interrupted to gesture toward the tall gray horse.
“Captain Chandler’s – one of the Yankee officers.”
“You stole an Army mount? Are you insane?”
“Please listen,” Charlotte told him. “He found us here last night. He says he means to take us back. I think he knows about the messages. They’ve already arrested Mrs. Perkins.”
“Oh, really?” Michael’s fingertips cares
sed a gun that he had strapped to his right side. Though he wore no uniform, the weapon reminded Charlotte that he was committed to the killing of invaders. And Ben Chandler, who had loved her so tenderly last night, was nothing to him but another Yankee.
“I’m nearly certain I convinced him otherwise,” Charlotte added quickly. She wanted no more bloodshed; she only wanted to walk away from this in peace. In particular, she must not allow violence to flare between two men she cared for deeply. She wondered if she could take Alexander from the house without alerting Ben, if she could possibly leave with the child and her brother without rousing him.
“Just how did you convince him, Sister?” Michael’s green eyes blazed with an unspoken accusation.
Her heart beat faster, but she refused to drop her gaze. Michael wouldn’t know about last night; he couldn’t. “First you praise me, and now you insinuate that I’m behaving like a – like a . . .”
She couldn’t bring herself to say the word, could barely bring herself to think it. Even though, inside her, something whispered, Yes, of course. You used the only weapon you had to distract Ben . . . you whored yourself to throw him off your trail.
Tears burned for release, but Michael embraced her before the first of them could fall. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean that. It’s only that I never want you – taken advantage of – again.”
His words reminded her how badly his friend’s betrayal had hurt him. If Michael ever learned the whole of it, that Edgar hadn’t just misled but forced himself upon her, Charlotte knew he would be devastated. She sometimes wished that she could burn away the rage and shame the way she’d burned away the place where she’d been ruined.
Ben’s words of the night past whispered in her ear. “You have no call to feel ashamed.”
Her mind filled with his handsome face, with the wonder in his expression: as if she were a princess, as if she were the answer to his prayers. She wanted to believe what she’d seen written in his eyes. She wanted to believe she had not used him the way she had used the others, that the emotions she had felt had all been true.
“Are you sure you convinced him of your innocence?”
She shook her head. “I can’t be certain, but I hope --”
“So do I,” Michael told her, “because I need you to go back with him.”
“No. I can’t. I won’t do this anymore.” She felt panic rising like a deadly tide. After what she had shared with Ben last night, how could she return to that house of lies and hope to keep her head above the water?
“I would never ask you if it weren’t important. But General Branard coordinates the Federals’ plans to take the western rivers – the whole thrust of their campaign. No one else has achieved the sort of access you have, and there’s absolutely no way to replace you.”
“Don’t you understand? I’ve spun so many lies, they’re catching at my every movement. And Ben – Captain Chandler – tells me men have died because of what he believes I’ve done.”
“You imagined wars are fought without men dying?” he demanded.
“Of course not. But I won’t be the one to blame.”
“Would you rather be the one to blame when more Southern men die, men like Papa? That’s what will happen if we’re cut off from the intelligence you send us. You’ll be saving Yankees and killing Southern soldiers, maybe even me. Anyone could die.”
She shook her head. Always before, she’d given in to his schemes. But this time, there was far too much at stake. “Men die in wars. You’ve said that. But not one more will be killed on account of my deception.”
Michael’s jaw tightened, and he began to pace. It occurred to Charlotte that her refusal was not only frustrating him, but surprising him as well. The young schoolmaster had been blessed with more than his share of the famous Randolph charm. So much so that even family members had to struggle to stand against his will. What would he do now, when persuasion failed to move her on a point that clearly meant so much to him?
When he stopped pacing to stare at her, Charlotte felt her knees begin to tremble.
“So you’ve grown fond of the truth, Charlotte?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “Have you shared this revelation with anyone else in the family? With Alexander, perhaps?”
When Charlotte swallowed, she felt her throat constrict.
“Maybe Alexander would like to hear some truth,” Michael continued. “Maybe I should tell him I don’t feel inclined to share my inheritance with your bastard.”
Charlotte’s fear evaporated in the heat of sudden rage. She took two steps before she slapped at her brother – but Michael caught her hand before it struck.
“Let go of me,” she growled, tears of anger streaming down her face.
“I’ll release you when you listen to reason. You’re going to go back, Charlotte. You’re going to go back to save lives. If you don’t, so help me God, I will tell him. I’ll tell him everything.”
“I’ll never forgive you for using me like this. I’ll never forgive you for the blood you’re putting on my hands. And Papa wouldn’t either. You know – you know very well he loved Alexander like his own.”
“You still don’t understand.” Michael’s expression reflected more sadness than hostility. “I’m trying to save lives. You may never know how many you’ve saved already. And I’m trying – maybe for the first time – to be the man our father meant for me to be. Please, Charlotte. Please listen.”
She turned away from him. If Michael carried through his threat, would Alexander ever feel that he could trust in her again? She shuddered at the thought and said, “I can’t believe that you would really hurt my son.”
Michael sighed. “I’m sorry, Charlotte, but you’re going to have to. I wish it could be simpler. I wish we could somehow go back to the day I convinced you to return home to the Yankees. I’d undo the whole scheme if I could – keep both you and Alexander out of all this. But it’s done now, and I – the Confederacy – need you more than ever.”
“Have you lost your mind, Michael?” Charlotte asked him before she shook her head. She wheeled around to meet his gaze. “Does the cause mean more to you than your own family? Or are you only trying to make peace with a dead man?”
Michael didn’t answer. Instead, he told her, “If I take you and Alexander with me, I can’t risk us being followed. I’ll have no choice but to kill the man inside. More blood, Charlotte. More blood on your hands.”
Charlotte bowed her throbbing head. She knew then that he would do it: destroy Alexander’s innocence, murder Ben Chandler, anything he must to remove the Yankees from his home state. Anything to defend the right of some men to own others. Michael had lost sight of every other goal.
“I’ll do it,” she said softly, “to the very best of my ability. But there will be a cost. I will no longer call myself your sister.”
“I hope someday you’ll see I’m right, that I’m only helping to protect our way of life. Perhaps that day, you’ll be able to take pride in what you did to aid me.”
She shook her head. “Never. I’ll never feel anything but heartsick about this.”
He bent to kiss her forehead. When he straightened, she thought she saw tears gleaming in his eyes. “You might not forgive me, but I hope at least you’ll pray for me.”
She searched his face for evil but found only his conviction. Cruel as he had been, she knew he believed that he was right.
“I’ll pray for many things,” she told him. “But you’ll always be among them. I’ll pray God will forgive you for your sins.”
Age does not make us childish, as they say.
It only finds us true children still.
-- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,
from Faust
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
McMahon’s news could wait for a few minutes, General Hank Branard decided. First he needed to gather everyone involved. With the exception of Ben Chandler, who was still out chasing the Randolphs, Branard had summoned all the possi
bilities to gather outside his library office this morning, where they would soon be waiting. Hampered by distaste for the confrontation he meant to provoke, he’d already put off this meeting far too long.
Five years ago he would have set aside his feelings and acted faster. He would have ferreted out the informant before the guilty party had the chance to cover up his tracks. He reluctantly admitted that Gideon Williams might be correct in his bald-faced assessment. Branard was no longer the same man he’d once been.
Tillie carried in a tray of coffee and set it on his desk. As she scanned the room, he thought how her blue eyes were still the most beautiful he’d ever seen – and the only part of her that still resembled the young woman he had fallen in love with so very long ago. Time and circumstance had hardened her so that now he had to dig deep to see the remnants of that laughing girl.
Yet he still knew where to find her. He hadn’t lost that knowledge yet.
Tillie laid a work-roughened hand along the side of his face. “You need shavin’.” The bluntness of her words was tempered by a tone reserved for intimates.
He rubbed his other cheek and was startled to find she was correct. He swore, hating the misting of the present, the way today’s concerns lost precedence to the innumerable details of the past. And what a past he’d had. What a past they’d had together. He could still recall that first time, that time he’d met her in the orchard: how she’d looked at him and smiled, how she’d felt when he had kissed her, how she’d sighed when he had laid her on the grass and taken off her . . .
“I’m gonna shave you ‘fore your meetin’. Major Williams ain’t here yet anyhow.” As usual, Tillie told instead of asking, as she’d done with increasing frequency since the confusion had set in. The others didn’t understand that she was taking care of him. But they didn’t have his memories; they didn’t know – could never know – how it had been for him and Tillie, how it was still, at least inside his heart.
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