“Really?” Coulter sounded surprised. “Blair was that intent on keeping people away?”
Jack grunted. “And now that I think about—” He glanced at Maggie. “You wondered if there might be a connection between the Wildwood Guard and what happened at the farm? Without anyone living on our farm, there’d be less chance of Union sympathizers noticing something going on at the plantation.”
Sergeant Coulter motioned for Seamus and Jack to come with him. “Let’s see what Captain Quinn thinks about it all.”
After the boys and Sergeant Coulter went to find Captain Quinn, Maggie busied herself in camp. She tended to Hero, made coffee, and ended the day with more mending. Ashby had apparently shown his mended shirt to someone, and the word had spread that the woman in camp was not only a good shot—she was willing to sew. Most men offered to pay her for her efforts, but beyond teasing Ashby about paying her in gooseberries, Maggie refused their money. She liked the idea of helping them out. In fact, at least insofar as she’d experienced it, there was a lot to like about camp life. If it weren’t for Paddy, she’d be trying to find a way to stay with the Irish a bit longer. Paddy. She must write to him again tonight—and avoid the topic of the skirmish.
The moon had risen over the Irish Brigade encampment before Jack, Seamus, and Sergeant Coulter returned from their meeting with Captain Quinn—and, Maggie assumed, the brigade commander. Coulter nodded at Maggie as he walked past, but instead of lingering, he said something about seeing to Blue and headed off to where the horses were picketed. The boys settled by the campfire, strangely silent.
Maggie finally asked. “Well?”
“The usual.” The way Seamus spat out the words made Maggie look up. He was angry.
Jack took a deep breath. “I’m going to get my mess kit,” he said to Seamus. “Want me to bring yours?” He made a show of leaning over the campfire and inhaling. “The coffee smells good.”
Seamus grumbled a reply, and Jack went to retrieve their mugs.
“Are you going to tell me what’s happened, or am I to beg?”
Seamus harrumphed. “What’s happened is the captain is sending Jack and Colt off and—as usual—I’ll have no part in the adventure.”
“What kind of adventure?”
“To Wildwood Grove to see what Walker Blair is up to.”
Maggie waited a moment before saying quietly, “Wildwood Grove being a few days’ march from where we are now, I don’t suppose they’ll be going on foot.”
Seamus didn’t answer. Instead, he lay back with his arms behind his head, staring up at the stars. Finally, he muttered, “You’re right, of course. Jack isn’t the best rider, either—but he’s far better than me. I’d only slow them down. Likely break my neck trying to ride some half-broke army nag.” He sat up. “But I don’t have to like it.”
Maggie did her best to keep from smiling. “You mean it’s no fun being the one left behind? Hard not knowing what’s happening?”
Seamus shrugged, pulled his fife out of its case, and began to play a mournful tune. When Jack returned, Sergeant Coulter was with him. Seamus put his fife away and poured himself a mug of coffee. No one said anything for a while, until Coulter finally flexed his left arm and said to Maggie, “I don’t know what was in those herbs you packed against that bullet trail across my arm, but they’ve done wonders.”
Maggie was glad for the low light to hide her self-conscious blush as she said, “I’m glad to hear it, but didn’t you say the surgeons wanted you to keep it in the sling for a while longer? I wouldn’t want to be blamed for your going against their orders.”
The golden light of the campfire illuminated a beautiful smile as Coulter said, “If anything, they should ask what you used to speed up the healing.” He paused. “And as for your leaving camp—you can’t.”
Jack cleared his throat. “What the sergeant means, Maggie-girl, is that Captain Quinn thinks it would be better for you to stay with the brigade until we have a better idea of what’s going on in Lafayette County.”
Maggie suppressed a smile. Jack knew better than to say you can’t to her. “I don’t mind being told I can’t leave,” she said. “I’ve at least a dozen shirts to mend, and if Fish can be convinced to allow it, I’ll help with the cleaning of those rifles we fired earlier today.”
“It shouldn’t be for too long,” the sergeant said. “Jack and I will be moving as quickly as we can—learning as much as we can in as short a time as possible.”
Jack mentioned sneaking into Littleton as part of the assignment. “I’ll let Paddy know you’re safe so that he doesn’t worry.”
Maggie let a note of sarcasm drip into her voice. “Thoughtful of you, Jack. Not wanting him to worry.”
“Thoughtful as can be,” Seamus said. “Especially when it means he’ll get to visit Bridget Feeny.”
“Feeny,” Sergeant Coulter said. “You mentioned a Feeny earlier. Brick house on a corner? Not far from the newspaper office?” He paused. “I don’t remember a Bridget, though. It was just the good doctor and his wife, the last I knew.”
Seamus spoke up. “How do you know the Feenys? I thought you were from St. Louis.”
Coulter reached out to pet Hero, who was curled up close to the campfire. “I’m not from anyplace, really. I was in St. Louis when I joined the army, and that’s as good a place as any to call home. As to the Feenys, I only know of them. We’ve never met. My grandparents lived in Littleton when I was a boy. I spent quite a bit of time with them—until the spring after I turned twelve. That’s when an uncle talked Grandpop into letting me come on board his steamboat. Told them he’d make me his cub pilot.” He took a long, slow breath, and with a last stroke of Hero’s sleek coat, said, “Uncle and I eventually agreed that steamboating wasn’t for me.”
There was more to the story than the sergeant wanted to reveal. Some long-ago hurt lay behind the man’s words. Maggie was sure of it. Remembering how Seamus had cried when they laid Da to rest in the churchyard made her wish she could somehow soothe the hurt Sergeant Coulter was feeling as he spoke of losing his grandparents—and their home.
“At any rate,” he continued, “during the time I was working for my uncle, my grandparents passed on, and Uncle sold their house. I remembered the name Feeny from a ‘discussion’ he and I had about the matter.”
A discussion. Maggie could just imagine. All these years later, Sergeant Coulter still felt the emotion of what must have been a fight. It sounded in his voice—just a wee thread of anger.
The sergeant let out a low grunt. “A heated discussion.”
Ah. She was right, then. The man had cared deeply for his grandparents and their home. For some reason, the home had been wrested from him, and the memory still caused him pain.
“But all of that aside,” Coulter said, and his voice took on a lighter tone. “I have good memories of Littleton.” He looked over at Maggie. “That all happened back in…’49. I don’t remember any Malones. And I do think I’d remember you.”
Thankfully, Seamus spoke into the awkward silence Maggie had no idea how to fill.
“Maggie was only eleven when Da moved us all to Littleton,” Seamus said. “That would have been… 1850?” He glanced over at Jack, who nodded.
“Then I was right,” Coulter said. “We wouldn’t have crossed paths. With my grandparents gone and their home sold to the Feenys, there hasn’t been a reason to go back.” A slow smile replaced the sadness on his face. “I remember when they were building the courthouse. It was the talk of the county.”
“Littleton’s quite the metropolis now,” Maggie said. “You’ll be surprised when you see it.”
A bugle sounded “Lights Out,” and Sergeant Coulter stood and said good night. Seamus and Jack doused the campfire, while Maggie moved Hero’s bed from beneath the wagon seat to beside the blanket she spread out in the shelter of Fish’s wagon. When she called to him, Hero whined a protest, but then he rose and limped over. “Good boy,” Maggie said, and gave him a pat. “Very
good boy.”
Sheltered beneath the wagon, she took down her hair and did her best to work a comb through it. Once she had it braided, she lay back, petting Hero and trying not to think about Jack and Sergeant Coulter spying on Walker Blair and whoever else might be gathered at Blair’s plantation. Thinking instead about a young boy learning that his grandparents had died and being told that the home where he’d grown up was sold. How that must have hurt.
Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the square of lavender soap. When Hero whined, Maggie looked over at him. The dog’s eyes were fixed on the bit of soap. He thumped his tail. Maggie chuckled. “You little beggar.” She let him take a sniff. He sneezed and then, with a deep sigh, flopped onto his side and closed his eyes.
“Good idea,” Maggie murmured. Wrapping herself in her blanket, she settled down, Paddy’s satchel for a pillow. Eventually, the low rumble of men’s voices faded away, and there was only the sawing of cicadas in the trees, and the image of Sergeant John Coulter speaking about his past and then smiling at her, his handsome face illuminated by the firelight. There was a sadness to the man… even when he smiled. As she stared at the dying campfire, she whispered a prayer. Dear Lord in heaven, I know that it’s askin’ a great deal, but I’m askin’ it anyway. Make my boys invisible to the eyes of the enemy… Seamus and Jack… and John Coulter, too. Keep them safe. As for Noah, I don’t know what to ask. Just—be mindful of him, as you are of us all. And if it’s all the same to you, dear Lord… I wouldn’t mind stayin’ on for a bit.
Chapter 12
The familiar sound of Ora Lee’s humming woke Libbie on Sunday morning. It had been a restless night, and now she heard rather than saw Ora Lee open the shutters and raise the window. When the warmth of the morning sun splashed across her face, she turned her head toward the window and took a deep breath. And realized that she couldn’t open her left eye all the way.
Ora Lee stopped humming. “I’m gonna fetch some ice,” she said, and slipped out of the room.
Libbie sat up in bed, exploring the left side of her face with her fingertips. It wasn’t terribly sore. That had to be good—didn’t it? Taking a deep breath, she slipped out of bed and crossed to her dressing table. She leaned down to look in the mirror. Oh, my. Sitting down abruptly, she gazed out the window toward the river, listening to the song of a red bird that must have been nesting somewhere in the trees just beyond the carefully tended lawn. She looked back in the mirror. Annabelle had been right. She was going to have a black eye. Bruises got worse over the first couple of days.
She was still sitting at the dressing table when Ora Lee returned, accompanied by Annabelle, who took one look at Libbie and sighed. “Lord, have mercy.” She handed Libbie the cold compress she’d brought with her.
“It doesn’t hurt,” Libbie said, closing her eyes as she applied the compress to her swollen cheekbone.
“No headache?” Annabelle asked.
Libbie shook her head. “I’m actually surprised it looks as bad as it does.” She held the compress away and prodded a little more energetically with the fingertips of her free hand. “Is there anything I can do? I mean—I can’t be seen like this. Walker would kill—I mean. He wouldn’t want anyone to know.”
Annabelle’s grunt spoke the words she didn’t dare speak.
Libbie swallowed. “He apologized. He didn’t mean to hurt me.”
Again Annabelle grunted. Then she asked, “You sure your head don’t hurt? Can you see clear?”
“I can see just fine, out of my right eye, anyway.”
With a sigh, Annabelle turned to go. “I’ll send your breakfast up here. Got some salve might help a bit.”
Ora Lee opened the door to Libbie’s wardrobe, but then she hesitated. “What you want me to pull outta here, Miss Libbie? Mastah Blair be expectin’ you for the church service.”
A knock sounded at the bedroom door, and Walker spoke Libbie’s name—barely loud enough for her to hear it. He rarely gave her more than half a minute to come to the door before barging in. Today, though, he waited. Libbie called out for him to wait a moment while she “made herself decent.”
“The church service begins in half an hour,” he said quietly. “Seein’ a beautiful woman is good for the men. It reminds ’em of what they are fightin’ for.”
Libbie hadn’t really minded the ritual of walking the grounds at Walker’s side while he basked in the salutes and the greetings of the men in “his” regiment. The idea that he was displaying her like a possession rankled, but her resentment paled when she concentrated on the smiles of the men who populated the Wildwood Guard. As far as the church service was concerned, Walker had selected a chaplain known for short sermons, and when it came time to sing, the men did so with enthusiasm. Libbie enjoyed hearing all those masculine voices. It made her feel safe. Or it had. Now that she knew there was a problem arming them… dear Lord. Knowing Walker’s true reason for organizing a regiment had made it all seem like a game. She hadn’t let herself think about the idea that some of them might die. Soon.
“Will you come? Please, Libbie. I—the men. Will you come for them?”
“I can’t,” Libbie said as she opened the door. She lowered the compress and showed him the bruised side of her face.
Walker stared. For once, he didn’t seem to know what to say. Voices sounded behind him. Men were coming out of their rooms. Walker pressed against the door, intending to step into her room. When Libbie blocked the door with her foot, he turned away and pulled it closed behind him. She heard him greet the men. “I believe there is coffee waiting in the dining room. I’ll join you directly.”
Footsteps sounded as the men walked past Walker and descended to the main floor. He rattled the doorknob. “Please. Libbie. Open the door.”
Again, Libbie cracked it open. Again, she blocked his entrance with her foot.
“Isn’t there some way to—can’t you do something? A bonnet?” He paused. “Surely there’s a way to hide—”
“If there is, I don’t know it,” Libbie said. “You’ll have to think of some excuse.” She closed the door. Firmly. And leaned against it, her heart pounding. Walker had never let her have the key. If he wanted to force the issue, she wouldn’t be able to keep him out. But he didn’t. She could sense him just standing there on the other side of the door. She practically held her breath while she waited to see what he would do. Finally, he retreated. She heard him descend the stairs.
She spoke to Ora Lee. “Annabelle said something about breakfast. Could you go down and get it? I’m hungrier than a bear coming out of hibernation.” After Ora Lee left, Libbie sat at her dressing table, staring at her swollen face. Making a plan.
Nowhere to go. That was the real problem, Libbie realized. Even if she wanted to leave Wildwood Grove, she had nowhere to go. Serena Ellerbe might be willing to take her in, but her father, Mason, was one of the men Walker was trusting to further his political career once the fighting ended. Libbie could just imagine the conversation that would take place if she should arrive on the Ellerbes’ doorstep looking like this. Walker would never forgive her.
Walker. Maybe she should hate him, but she didn’t. After all, he was all she had. She couldn’t just walk away and never look back. And yet… she needed a refuge. Needed to feel that she was back in control of at least some part of her life beyond deciding menus and reading the latest issue of Godey’s and being paraded about on Isham Green’s arm.
Standing at her bedroom window, she looked toward the river. I’ve got peace like a river… in my soul. Annabelle sang those words all the time. How Libbie wished she could somehow know peace… in her soul. She needed to think. To calm her jangled nerves. To find the same kind of peace that river symbolized as it rolled on by, never stopping. Powerful. Strong.
The river. She needed time by the river. She took a deep breath. Everyone on the place was preoccupied with the church service this morning. Even the slaves would be down there, clustered along the garden fence, visible testimony
to Walker Blair’s power over his possessions. Walker would count heads. He’d know Malachi and Ora Lee and Annabelle were all there as expected. If Libbie took a ride this morning, Walker wouldn’t be able to blame anyone but her. And if he tried to hit her again—well. That wouldn’t happen. Not ever again. But she needed to think.
Hurrying to dress, Libbie left her room. At the bottom of the stairs, she hesitated. She wanted—needed—the key to her bedroom door. Would it be in Walker’s office? She intended to make the search a quick one, but was brought up short at the sight of a map of some kind atop a rustic table that had been dragged in from somewhere. She lingered over it a moment, reading words that sent a chill down her spine. Someone had written earthworks just beyond the row of log cabins where the field hands lived. Battery at the top of a ridge—the very ridge above her hideout, if she was reading the map correctly.
It didn’t take a military education to know what it all meant. Someone expected there to be a battle. Here. At Wildwood Grove. The notion made her tremble. How could she have been so willfully ignorant? She hadn’t set foot in this room since the officers arrived. Hadn’t wanted to, really. It was enough that she had to be charming every evening. Enough that she had to walk with Isham Green after dinner.
Looking at the map of the plantation, Libbie wondered at Walker’s true motivation for forbidding her to ride. If earthworks were being dug along the quarters, she’d see them if she went riding. Did Walker want to hide things from her because he didn’t want to frighten her—or because he didn’t trust her? Maybe his injunction was less about her personal safety and more about keeping his plans from her. Now that she thought about it, she’d seen Walker hastily fold the map up one evening when she and Sheriff Green returned from a walk via the front door.
What else might Walker be hiding from her? She didn’t know, but the notion that he had secrets made her want to find her door key more than ever. Moving quickly, she checked every drawer in the room. No keys. When footsteps sounded in the hall, Libbie spun about, her heart pounding, but it was only Ora Lee. Libbie frowned. “Aren’t you supposed to be at church? Walker will know you weren’t there. He counts heads.”
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