Southern Rapture

by Jennifer Blake

  "Let me speak plainly, love. You are not responsible for anything I have done or may do in the future."

  "But … if I could stop you?"

  "Try, by all means."

  "Now who's being arrogant!"

  He reached across the space between them to catch her hand. "Oh, I am. Will it serve?"

  Her annoyance faded, though she could be no less than honest as she answered, "I'm not sure."

  He heard the pain in her voice and wished with sudden savagery that he had the right to banish it. Or had at least exercised sufficient self-control not to put it there in the first place. His best instincts seemed to vanish when he was with her. Knowing the cause didn't help. Or give him confidence. There was only one thing to be done, now.

  "I'll say good-bye here. If I don't see you again—"

  The stifled sound that Lettie made was so soft that she did not think he could have heard it, and yet he paused for so long that she flushed, afraid he was trying to think of some way to take his leave without hurting her. Keeping her voice even with an effort, she said, "Yes, if?"

  "Forget," he said, his voice harsh. "Forget what happened between us. Never bring it to mind. Let it be as if it never took place."

  "And is that what you will do?"

  His grip on her hand tightened for an instant, then he raised it to his lips and pressed a kiss into her palm. Carefully, he placed it on her knee. When he answered, there was a trace of dry humor once more under the steel of his words. "No," he said, "but then I have no conscience."

  It was a lie; she knew it as she watched him ride away. She was less certain by the time she reached the stables at Splendora, and not sure at all when she was safe at last in her own bedchamber. She had thought he was worried about her, but his greatest concern might have been for himself. Forget, he had said, but was it because it was better for her that way or because she would have less to remember to tell the authorities?

  He was safe, if he only knew it. She could think of no way to approach Colonel Ward, or the sheriff for that matter, without telling him of how she had come by her information, how it was that she could describe the Thorn, if not accurately, at least more closely as to height and body build than most. That was something she had no wish, could not bear, in fact, to disclose to a living soul.

  The auctioning off of the Tyler place, Sally Anne's home, was held on a bright and hot morning near the end of June. The proceedings were to begin at ten. The crowd began to gather at sunup. By the time Aunt Em, Lettie, and Ranny with Lionel arrived at nine, there was no place before the house, on the drive, or along the edges of the road for a half mile in either direction to leave a wagon. It was just as well that they had walked.

  They joined the family—Samuel Tyler and his wife, Sally Anne and Peter, Sally Anne's sister and brother-in-law and their two small children—on the veranda. The women all wore black. Sally Anne's father, a man with a shock of white hair and thick gray brows who might have been leonine in appearance if he had not been so thin, sat staring into space and gripping the arms of his chair. He shook off his lethargy enough to rise to his feet when the ladies appeared and to shake hands with Ranny, gripping his shoulder. Mrs. Tyler, short and plump and with traces of blond still in her gray hair, gave Aunt Em a tight hug and, smiling gallantly through rising tears, thanked her for coming. Their voices were soft and subdued. Most of the women held handkerchiefs. Their visit had every appearance of a condolence call and served much the same purpose, that of support for the grief-stricken.

  A bottle of sherry was produced. "Damned locusts won't get this," Mr. Tyler said as he poured it out and passed it around. They sat sipping the mellow golden wine and talking of the weather, pretending not to hear the people tramping through the house behind them or to see those that straggled up the drive.

  They had descended like the locusts they were called, the carpetbaggers. They were the ones with the money these days. They swarmed in and out with their women, most of whom were of less than sterling virtue, on their arms. They turned up their noses at the horses as less than purebred stock, sneered at the carriages with their split-leather seats and glazed paint, and joked about the various uses that could be found for several hundred field hoes. They sat in the Sheraton chairs one after the other, looked at the bottoms of vases for markings, and flicked the crystal with their fingernails to make it ring. They wondered how in the world the high-ceilinged rooms were kept warm in the winter, while conceding that they were more comfortable than expected in the present warm spell, and disagreed about what it would cost to hire enough Negro maids to keep the place decently dusted. They made disparaging comments about the furnishings: on the state of the silk hangings, "Threadbare, positively rotten, and so faded you wouldn't think they had any color to begin with!"; the Queen Anne table and chairs, "Ugly bowlegged things, aren't they?"; and the coin silver tea service, "Hardly a scroll on it, too plain to be worth much." With notebooks in hand and pencils in their fists, busily figuring, they trailed out again to the front steps where the proceedings would be held.

  Lettie, hearing the broad and rather hard accents of the Northeast, was ashamed, not just of the ignorance displayed but of the lack of consideration. Anyone who came up the drive must know that the family was still in residence. The only conclusion to be drawn was that they knew and didn't care. To them anyone so poor, or with so little sharpness that they had lost their fortune down to the roof over their heads, could not matter.

  "Now you aren't to worry about a thing," Aunt Em was saying to her sister-in-law, Sally Anne's mother. "Everything is ready at Splendora. You and Samuel can have the middle bedroom, Sally Anne and Peter can move in with me, and the others can have the sleeping loft to themselves. We'll make out fine, and just think what fun we'll have, all being together?"

  "You are a dear, Em. It's terrible that we have to put you to so much trouble."

  "Nonsense! No trouble at all."

  It was a familiar exchange, one that had been repeated at least a dozen times in the past few days. Lettie paid little attention to it and so had time to notice Sally Anne's abrupt stillness as she sat staring down the drive. Turning her head swiftly in that direction, Lettie saw a man, wearing a blue uniform, on horseback. It was Thomas Ward.

  Lettie looked back at Sally Anne. The woman gave her a tired smile. "I never expected it of him. I suppose I should have, but I didn't."

  The colonel, as he neared the house, looked up. He removed his hat, tipping it as he leaned in a half bow from the saddle. Sally Anne looked away as if he was not there. Thomas's face tightened. Lettie deliberately lifted a hand to wave. She understood how Sally Anne must feel, but that did not keep her from wanting to shake the other woman. If Thomas Ward was there, it was not to take advantage of the Tylers' misfortune.

  Or was it?

  The auctioneer, banging his gavel and raising his voice in a self-satisfied shout, began the business of the day exactly on time. Lot after lot of items came under his hammer, starting with barrels of ropes and tools from the outbuildings, carrying on with the farm animals and furniture, and ending with barrels of china and books from the house. Every lot, every item, was bought by Colonel Thomas Ward. He was not troubled by the angry looks and snide remarks from the bidders around him. He did not look at Sally Anne or her family. He paid no attention, or so it seemed, to what he was buying or how much it cost.

  But he would not be outbid. Some tried it, only to go down in defeat. As the others saw what was happening, they began to drift away. By noon, the drive and the front yard had been cleared of carriages, wagons, and horses, and the lawn was empty. The auctioneer, taking his helpers and the colonel's hefty bank draft with him, had gone away. Thomas Ward was left in possession.

  He mounted the steps to the veranda where the family still sat. He removed his hat and gave a curt bow, then put the black felt headpiece under one arm and clasped his wrist with his other hand. He glanced at Lettie and seemed to take courage from the fact that she at least ackn
owledged his presence by looking at him.

  "I apologize," he said, "for that vulgar display. I didn't know how else to go about it."

  Sally Anne's father got to his feet at last, holding himself stiff and straight. "You were quite within your rights, sir. I congratulate you on an excellent purchase, and I assure you that we will be out of the house by nightfall."

  "Not on my account, I beg you. It's my hope that you will remain, all of you, as my guests."

  He had their attention now.

  "I beg your pardon?" Samuel Tyler threw his head back and looked down his nose with a fierce frown.

  "I have no intention of putting you out of your home. I only ask that you permit me to call now and then—on your daughter."

  Sally Anne came to her feet with her blue eyes, usually so serene, glittering with rage. "Colonel Ward, I take leave to inform you that though you have bought our home, you have not bought me!"

  Thomas looked at her with confusion and the dawning of anger in his eyes. "I never thought it."

  "No? It seems odd to me that this is the first time I have heard of your great desire to call, the first I've seen of you in weeks!"

  "There were arrangements to make for funds and I didn't want to intrude or have it look as if I were assessing the property."

  "If by that you mean me—"

  "I didn't say that!"

  "Are you positive you don't want to dispense with the formalities and just move in? Why pretend, since you have made so sure of me?"

  "I'm not—"

  Sally Anne would not let him finish, though for those who could hear it there was pain threading her angry tirade. "Why go to the trouble of paying court when money will do? Why not just hand me a roll of bills and lead me to my bedroom? That's the way men like you usually get what they want, isn't it?"

  "What I would like to do," the colonel began, putting his hands on his hips, "is lead you out to the woodshed—"

  "Stop!"

  It was Ranny who spoke, coming to his feet with a smooth surge on that single word. His voice was not loud, but there was something in it that cut through the building quarrel like a keen sword. He looked from Thomas to Sally Anne and back again. His tone flat, he said, "This is silly." Then, without a backward glance, he walked away along the veranda and down the steps.

  There was absolute silence for the space of ten seconds when he had gone. The colonel raked his hand through his hair and clasped the back of his neck. He sent a quick glance at Sally Anne, then looked at the floor. "I'm sorry if I offended in any way. I only meant to help."

  Sally Anne said nothing. Lettie, watching the movement of the woman's slender throat and the shimmer in her eyes, thought it was because she could not. Mr. Tyler gave a heavy sigh.

  "I am sure, Colonel Ward," the older man said, "that my daughter regrets anything she may have said that was unseemly. Regardless, you must see that what you propose is impossible. We cannot accept your charity."

  A stubborn look came over Thomas's face. He straightened his shoulders. "It isn't charity."

  "Whatever the term you choose, it would not be proper for us to live here under the circumstances you have described. It is a question of something that has caused a great deal of hardship in this part of the world, and probably will cause more, but something to which we cling now as never before. That thing, sir, is pride."

  There was an implication—unintentional, Lettie was sure, but there all the same—that pride was something with which the colonel must be unfamiliar. Thomas Ward did not take offense. He stared at Sally Anne's father for a long moment, and when he spoke, his voice was tentative.

  "As you wish, sir. But there is an alternative. Could you, perhaps, square it with your principles to accept me as the holder of your mortgage?"

  "With the same provision as before?"

  Thomas did not so much as glance at Sally Anne. "By no means."

  "I see." There was a flicker of regret in the older man's face before he pursed his lips in thought.

  "However," Thomas said, "I have formed a deep attachment to this area and would like, someday, to live here and own land. I know next to nothing about the farming methods that work best, a problem I would like to remedy. It would be a great service to me, sir, if you would permit me to visit from time to time and go over the fields with you."

  The men regarded each other intently for long moments. At last a smile began to lift the lines on Samuel Tyler's face. He gave a snort of wry laughter and rose from his chair to step toward the colonel, clapping him on the shoulder. "I think I can put my hand on a bottle of bourbon, if my wife doesn't have it packed in the bottom of her trunk. Come on inside and let's talk about this over a drink."

  It was a male conspiracy. Lettie, looking from the two men to Sally Anne's suspicious frown, fought to keep the smile of appreciation from her lips. Whether it would work or not was impossible to know, but at least now there was a chance. Ranny, with his simple and decisive intervention, had given it to them.

  He had one to offer Lettie also.

  Lettie, Ranny, and Lionel were in the schoolroom as usual the following morning. Peter was absent, though the problem was a cut foot, according to the note that had been sent, rather than anything to do with the events of the previous day. The morning was unsettled, with high moving clouds coming and going across the sun. Because of the fluctuating light, Lettie had moved her chair closer to the window in order to see her book better as she read from Great Expectations. Ranny sat at her feet with one shoulder braced against the chair leg as he held her hand, playing with her fingers as usual. Lionel lay on the floor nearby in his favorite position, staring at the ceiling with his hands clasped behind his head.

  Lettie came to the end of the chapter and closed the book. She looked at her lapel watch. "Nearly noon. That's it for today."

  Lionel turned his head. "Just one more chapter? Please?"

  "If you haven't had your fill of school, there are those sums—"

  "I think I hear Mama Tass calling me to dinner!" he exclaimed in sudden energy, and, jumping up, made a dash for the door.

  Lettie let him go. She could not blame the boy for not wanting to work. It was a lazy day. She leaned her head against the back of her chair and looked down at Ranny.

  He was watching her. He had always done that, but lately there was something unnerving in the concentration he bent on her. For an instant, she was caught in the deep and unwavering blue of his gaze. The clear light falling from the window beside her fell fully upon his face, gilding his skin, striking into his eyes.

  Lettie realized suddenly, as she looked closer at him in that lambent glow, that the color she thought she saw in the irises of his eyes was false. It was actually a mixture of blue and green and brown enclosed in a gray outer ring. His eyes only appeared blue as a reflection of the chambray shirt he wore, one of the many that made up his wardrobe. How odd that she had never noticed it before. She supposed that she had received an impression at their first meeting, one there had been no reason to doubt.

  Hazel. Hazel eyes. It was not an uncommon color. Not at all.

  "Miss Lettie, will you marry me?"

  Her thoughts scattered. "What did you say?"

  "I said—"

  "Forgive me, Ranny. That's all right, I know what you said. It just … took me by surprise. What I would really like to know is why you said it." She felt as if she were prattling nonsense, but she needed time to think, time to discover if this was another of his jokes.

  "I would like to be married to you."

  "Now why? Is it maybe because of the colonel wanting to marry Sally Anne?"

  "No."

  The word was hard. He looked down, shielding his eyes with his gold-tipped lashes as if he was either hurt or offended. Her voice soft, she asked, "Why, then?"

  He looked up again to meet her gaze, his own open, totally vulnerable, though a pulse throbbed beside the scar on his temple. "Because I want to take care of you. Because I want you to live with me.
Because I want to be with you my whole life long."

  Tightness invaded Lettie's throat. For a long, breathless moment, she knew an insane impulse to agree. He was so very dear, so touchingly handsome in his incapacity. There was such goodness in him and an odd kind of strength that went beyond the physical power of his body. It would be so easy to take him, to care for him, to teach him the pleasures of love she had been shown, to allow him to love her. Their children would be beautiful.

  Dear God, what was she thinking!

  Ransom watched her face, the moist softness in her eyes and tremulous curves of her mouth, with his heart suspended in his chest. He saw the faint flush that seeped into her skin and felt a stirring of hope for the gamble he had made, one crafted with care over these many endless days since he had held her on the ferry. Then came the shock, driving the color from her features and turning her eyes black. His grasp on her hand tightened.

  "Don't look like that," he said, his voice rough.

  She gasped and summoned a shaky smile. "Oh, Ranny."

  He had to help her. "You don't have to. It's all right."

  "I wish—I really wish I could." She reached out to touch his hair, running her fingers through the soft, blond strands. "You should have been married long ago, when everyone else was doing it at the start of the war, when all the girls were chasing you."

  He sat very still under her hand. It had been a long time since she had touched him, a very long time. "I didn't want them."

  "You don't want me, either. It wouldn't be right."

  "Why?"

  "I'm not good enough for you," she said, her voice low and etched with acid self-knowledge.

  He saw what he had done to her, saw and felt it cutting into him, deep and deeper still. He wanted to explain, to remove her pain, to take the blame upon himself where it belonged and make it right. His mind was blank except for one thing.

  "I love you."

  The tears rose in her eyes, clinging to her lashes. "Oh, Ranny. It's a strange thing, but I think that in a way I love you, too."

  "Then take my name."

  His name, a man's most valuable possession. She might have succumbed to the promise the day before, when she had been afraid for nearly a week that she might be carrying the Thorn's child. Today that possibility no longer existed. If she was dispirited and too inclined to tears, doubtless the cause could be laid to the time of the month. But that had nothing to do with Ranny. She summoned a smile.