But even as he threw his body into his labors with vigor, the dowager’s daughter seemed to look too deeply into him, sensing something ailed him even after he’d healed. Left to her, she wouldn’t allow him to do anything but rest, and he loathed resting. It gave a man too much time to think.
Today the elder Martin lady was gone to town to meet with the Yankee interested in Riverbend, and he was left alone with Miss Martin, who would not allow him anything more interesting than a few dusty books. He stretched his legs and settled his back against one of the large columns that surrounded the house.
Thankfully, he’d found a suitable alternative to reading. As Mrs. Martin had readied herself to leave, he’d promised to sit out on the porch and keep watch. Not that either of them had told her about such plans. Miss Martin probably thought he merely minded her reprimands and took his leisure out of doors. In truth, his sentry duty on the porch solved the problem of leaving a young unmarried woman alone in the house with a soldier and gave the older woman peace of mind.
Shadow yawned and put his head in Tristan’s lap, the sound of singing and the cool breeze lulling them both into a moment of ease. Tristan kept alert, scanning the drive and yard for any sign of trouble.
The swish of skirts had him turning his head to see Miss Martin carrying a pitcher and two glasses. She handed him one and poured yellow liquid from the pitcher into it, then did the same for herself. Her long fingers tapped the glass as she eyed him, and he realized that once again he had forgotten his manners.
“Thank you.”
A small smile played on her lips, but she hid it away before it could bring its full light. “I remember when we used to have chips of ice to put into it.”
He nodded and took a sip, unable to control the grimace that puckered his lips.
She laughed, a sweet sound that held not the first hint of malice. “I also remember when we had plenty of sugar.” She took a sip of her own, the sourness seeming to have no effect. “I suppose I have just gotten used to things without much sugar.”
Tristan took another sip, this time more prepared. “Nice to have lemons. Haven’t tasted one in some time.”
Miss Martin’s eyes drifted down the drive. “It is one of the many blessings Mr. and Mrs. Remington bestow on us.”
He followed her gaze. “You will miss them when you leave.”
She eyed him, though he wasn’t sure if what he’d stated had been improper or not. It seemed a fairly obvious observance.
“How do you know I will be leaving?”
He shrugged. “Heard you and your mother talking.”
Miss Martin sighed. “I suppose it wouldn’t be a secret.”
She said it like a soldier who had come to terms with defeat. Something stirred within him, a desire to protect her from further surrender. He rolled words around in his head, choosing them carefully. “I formed the understanding that even though you would be forced to live among the enemy, your standard of living would be greatly improved…?” He watched her reaction.
She gave a small nod, and again he read resignation. “It would. And it would give Mama something fresh, which I know she desperately needs. Daddy’s memory clings to the very walls here.” Her eyes flicked down his borrowed clothing. “And she needs reprieve.”
Tristan squeezed his hand and felt the forgotten glass, then lifted the sour liquid to his lips. He swallowed, but the stall tactic did nothing to stay the words more bitter than the drink. “A new place will not uproot the memories.” The muscle in his jaw worked. “It will not dilute the pain.”
She stared at him a moment, but her eyes did not hold pity. Instead, they glimmered with understanding. He felt himself relax.
“Do you miss your home?”
The words plucked at the fleeting calm her gaze had tried to instill. “I don’t have a home.”
Her smooth brow puckered, but before she could ask it of him, the words tumbled free. “It wasn’t enough the Yanks killed my two older brothers in battle, or my father when they razed Atlanta.” The words burned as they escaped his throat, desperate for release even as he hated speaking them. “But then they used my house as lodging for their officers, forcing my mother to serve them.” He shook his head. “She had always been fragile. It was more than her heart could take.”
Miss Martin stared at the liquid in her glass. “What will you do with your home now that the Federals are withdrawing?”
He nearly spat, but checked himself and swallowed instead. “Found out in Greenville they burned it for good measure when they departed. Accident, they say, but I know better. There’s nothing to go back to now.”
Her brow furrowed deeper and she drew her lower lip through her teeth. When she looked at him again, her eyes glittered with unshed tears. “I am sorry for the loss you have endured.”
Tristan turned his eyes back toward the drive, unable to keep her gaze. Loss seemed an ever-present companion. A poisoned fog that hung around him, obscuring his sight of everything that lay beyond it. He squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to keep it from slithering deeper into his soul. He felt Miss Martin draw closer, and somewhere in the hollows of his mind he recognized her touch on his shoulder. But the air seemed to choke him even as he breathed in its clean purity.
Lord, save me from this darkness.
The unexpected prayer exploded from a tear in his soul, the first he had bothered to utter in over a year. Not since Millie….
He hung his head, knowing it too would not be answered, and then moved out of Miss Martin’s grasp.
Chapter Seven
Opal clenched the fabric at her throat as though in so doing she could erase the sudden burning that took up residence there. She inhaled slowly, letting the humid air work its way down into her lungs. She knew the pain of losing a parent, but at least she still had one remaining. This poor man had lost both mother and father, as well as two brothers. She glanced down at his banded arm.
“That only makes four.” The whispered words slipped past her lips, not meant to find purchase.
Mr. Stuart flinched, and Opal closed her eyes. “Forgive me. It is not my place.”
He ran his calloused fingertip over the bottom black ribbon and the glint in his eyes turned cold. “The last is for Millie.”
Before she could garner a response, he stepped down the porch and his long strides took him across the lawn. Opal watched him with her fingers pressed to her lips. If he continued to walk away, would he disappear from her life as quickly as he had arrived? As she’d tended him these past weeks, she’d continually done as Ella had recommended. She’d prayed he would find healing, and she prayed for wisdom to guard her heart.
Yet, still it betrayed her. Why did she feel so drawn to this man, a stranger? Why could she not let go of the foolish notion that she might find the happy end of a romantic tale? Such things did not happen during the swirling dredges of war. Well, except perhaps to Ella and Westley Remington. But that was different…special.
She nibbled the inside of her lip, a habit she had when she was lost in thought. Mama said it would cause wrinkles around her mouth, but she couldn’t help it. Mr. Stuart came to a stop about halfway down the drive, his hands in his pockets. She tried to follow his gaze, but saw nothing. Perhaps he saw only shadows of memory. She leaned against the pillar, watching him as he fingered the fabric on his sleeve once more.
Millie. He’d said the name with such anguish that it could only belong to a lost love. The woman he had first called for when he’d opened his eyes upon her porch. Her foolish heart twisted, knowing that his own would always hold a candle for another. Opal drew herself up.
Stop this foolishness! Mr. Stuart was not some beau come to call. He was a soldier who had suffered and fought and needed her kindness. Here she stood, a silly besotted fool over the first man who stumbled upon her porch. Mama had been right. All those novels had softened her head. She was holding on to girlish hopes and weaving impossible delusions.
Help me, Lord, to be more
resolute. Show me what I should do. The prayer, similar to many she’d spoken throughout the past days sprang to mind once more as she turned away. No time to sit about woolgathering. There were chores to be completed before Mama returned from town. Perhaps with the blockade gone they might even have an early delivery of apples now that the boats ran down the river again.
Above all else, love one another, for love covers a multitude of sins. The verse manifested seemingly of its own accord and Opal paused with her hand on the doorknob. Then the rumble of carriage wheels drew her attention back toward the road, giving adequate cause to dismiss contemplating why her mind had chosen to accost her with thorny reminders that she was to love in Christian charity, not in the rendering of the heart.
She straightened her skirts and moved to aid Mama with unloading whatever supplies could be had, but it was not their pitiful mule that churned up the mud. A sleek chaise with the hood neatly folded back had paused in the drive, the proud horse secured in its harness tossing its head. Opal’s stomach churned. She did not need to get a good look at the fellow in a stovepipe hat to know who had come to call.
Mr. Stuart grasped the horse’s bridle and stroked its ears with his other hand. Opal moved to the top step and clasped her hands in front of her as Mama had taught. She waited for several moments, but still the men talked. What could have Mr. Stuart keeping Mr. Weir from coming on to the house? Surely idle conversation could be had in transit. In her time spent with the soldier, she had not known Mr. Stuart to be given to prolonged pleasantries. But then, perhaps they spoke of news that men folk often seemed to attempt to shield from women.
Perhaps she should see what was happening. She had no sooner taken a step in that direction when Mr. Stuart turned to her and Mr. Weir leaned forward. Both men held her in their regard, and her fingers absently moved to check her pins. Her hand brushed against the rag tied around her head to keep the dust from her hair and she quickly snatched it free.
Opal forced herself to keep her chin high even as she stuffed the cloth into her pocket and the horse resumed its prancing pace. The two wheels of the carriage sucked at the mud, slinging it up on the bright blue paint. Yesterday’s rain had come in a downpour, dousing the land faster than it could be absorbed. A smirk played at the corner of her mouth. How had this dandy ridden this far south in such a frivolous conveyance? Such dainty things were meant for afternoon courtships in the park.
The thought caused her pulse to jump. He didn’t come to Riverbend with any such notions, did he? She immediately chastised herself and set her teeth. She was a callow ninny, indeed! Why, to think that every man who set foot on her land had intentions of the heart….
She clenched her fist, then relaxed it and forced a placid expression to smooth her features as Mr. Weir swung down from his rig and secured the horse to the hitching post. Her gaze slid over his clean linen suit and his hat, and then back to where Mr. Stuart trudged through the damp earth. By the time her eyes swung back to Mr. Weir, he was nearly upon her.
His polished boots held none of the muck that would cling to the pair of Daddy’s that Mr. Stuart wore, and as he removed his hat to offer a shallow bow, she couldn’t help but notice his hair seemed as polished as his shoes.
“Good day to you, Miss Martin.”
She inclined her head, but did not offer her hand. “Mr. Weir.”
“Has your mother not yet returned? We spoke in town, but I did not see her on the road to the house.”
Her eyes flicked to Mr. Stuart again as he came to stand at the Yankee’s side. “She has not. You met with my mother?”
“Why, yes. We had a scheduled meeting.” He raised his eyebrows. “She did not inform you?”
Opal scrambled for words, but it was Mr. Stuart who spoke. “Mrs. Martin has not yet returned, and as you have already spoken with her today, perhaps you should return at another time.”
An annoyed glance cast over his shoulder was the only acknowledgment Mr. Weir gave the interruption. “Miss Martin, your mother agreed that I should come to the house and we would continue our discussion here. I wish to have a closer look at the grounds.”
Mr. Stuart watched her carefully, but whatever thoughts played behind his eyes, he did not put them to further words. He was not a knight here to deliver her from the clutches of evil schemes, nor was Mr. Weir anything more than an opportunist who could well be the answer to Mama’s prayers. The time for foolish hopes and girlhood ideals was gone. Opal drew herself to her full height and extended her arm. “Of course, sir. Do forgive my manners. It has been a long while since my mother has had gentlemen callers. Please, come in.”
She opened the door for him and tried to ignore the way his eyes scrambled over every detail of both her person and the house as she gestured toward the parlor. “You can make yourself comfortable while I fetch some refreshment.”
Before she could close the door, Mr. Stuart stepped inside. She hid her surprise as he hesitated in the entryway, making her lean around him to latch the door. He smelled of the soap Daddy always used, and she had to close her eyes a moment to center herself. When she opened them again, she found him watching her.
“You are welcome to sit in the parlor as well,” she said, avoiding the intense eyes that tried to look too close upon her.
“If that is what you wish.”
What she wished? What other reason did he have to come inside if not to continue his previous discussion with Mr. Weir? He reached out and took her hand, and her breathing stopped.
“Or I can toss him out, if you wish that instead.” His voice was deep, almost a rumble from his chest.
She blinked at him, then remembered to draw air. Not a hint of mischief played in his eyes, and even though her lips parted, no words would come free. His hand still held the tips of her fingers, causing her thoughts to trip over themselves. She looked down at where the two of them touched, marveling at how such a small thing could cause her insides to unravel.
His gaze followed hers and he dropped her hand, taking a step back. When she found his eyes again, they were guarded.
“I promised your mother I would watch over you. So either I sit with him, or I send him on his way.”
Opal ran her tongue over her lips to restore some of their moisture, and his gaze darted to her mouth. His eyes darkened as his shoulders expanded with a deep breath.
Feeling heat creep up her neck, she ducked her head. “If you would sit with him, I would be obliged,” she muttered as she stepped around him and darted toward the safety of the empty hall. She scurried through the rear door and did not look back as she hurried toward the kitchen. Once safely ensconced inside, she let out the air contained in her lungs with a groan.
What was that?
Opal had little experience with men, but even she knew there had been something to the look he had given her. Confounding man! How could he look at her in such a way, when she knew he must be drowning in the loss of his Millie? She set her teeth and filled the teakettle. Mama had warned her about the desires of men. She must make sure he understood she would not be a pair of warm arms with which he could bury his loss.
She aimed to help him heal, but not like that. Her scattered thoughts jumped like frogs trying to escape a hot pan, never landing long on one thing before hopping to another. Mama must have made her final decision. Why else would she have invited Mr. Weir here? Would they like it in Massachusetts? Would she ever get to see Ella again? What would that oiled dandy do with a farm?
The thoughts peppered her, but she had answers for none of them. By the time the kettle whistled, she’d removed the last of the tea from the hidden lock box. She was loathe to spend it on Mr. Weir, but Mama would be appalled if she served him bitter lemonade instead of the fine English tea Mama had gone through such pains to keep. She dumped the last of the sugar into the serving bowl, her fingers trembling as much as her heart. Nonetheless, she held her head high, and by the time she made it to the quiet parlor, she had wrapped herself in enough resolve to appear c
alm.
She set the serving tray on the low table and poured a cup for each of them before sitting. Thankfully, the two men had chosen the chairs flanking the settee, so she did not have to worry about sharing it with either of them. “Sugar, gentlemen?”
“After you, Miss Martin,” Mr. Weir said.
Opal dipped the tip of the spoon into the white granules and dropped the miniscule amount into her cup before handing the bowl to Mr. Weir. He tilted it to the side, gathering a heaping spoonful. She glanced to Mr. Stuart, worrying there would be none left for him, but he lifted the cup to his lips and began sipping it black.
“How old are you, Miss Martin?”
Mr. Weir’s question startled her, but only the clink of her spoon on the side of her teacup gave it away. “I fail to see how such information is pertinent.”
Something sparked in his eyes, but it disappeared so quickly she thought she may have imagined it. “Simply making pleasant conversation.”
Well, perhaps Yankees didn’t find such a question rude. She tried to remind herself to remain pleasant. “I celebrated my eighteenth birthday this past December.”
He nodded as though she had answered the question correctly. “Yet you remain unmarried?”
Opal truly tried not to take offense at such personal questions, but found her words tightened all the same. “As we were at war, most of the men were a bit too busy for courting.”
Mr. Stuart made a funny noise in his throat that he quickly covered with a cough. Mr. Weir ignored him and waved a hand. “Of course, you are correct. How thoughtless of me.”
Best turn this conversation before it became more awkward. “Did you serve in the army, Mr. Weir?” No sooner had the words left her lips than she cringed. Oh, fiddle. A Confederate and a Yank sat in her parlor and she thought that would make things less awkward?
But Mr. Weir merely chuckled, despite how Mr. Stuart stiffened. “Oh, no. I was far too busy to play soldier. My father is a banker, and we had business to attend.” He flicked a dismissive glance at the man across from him. “Besides, I have no qualms with what you people do with your Negroes. It never bothered me a whit that you wanted to keep your slaves, so I certainly wasn’t going to risk my neck shooting you over it.” He grinned, but the hard look that came over Mr. Stuart’s features wiped it away.
The Heart of Home Page 6
