“It’s good to see you smile,” Malone said.
Libbie did her best to settle Pilot so they could talk. “I appreciate your being so kind to me.”
He frowned. “Have some of the boys been unkind? Because if they have—”
“No, no, of course they haven’t. But I’ll admit to being surprised by the fact. Me being—who I am.”
“You mean you being the woman who’s worked tirelessly to feed and nurse them and do her part to see that the dead are properly buried?”
“You know what I mean. My brother and all. And then after what happened at your farm. It was Southerners who did that.”
“You had nothing to do with it,” Malone said. They hadn’t ridden far when he asked, “Not that it’s any of my particular business, but—have you decided what you’ll do now? Will you leave Missouri?”
“And go where?”
“To family?”
“Walker was my only family—unless you count distant cousins in Alabama who forced Walker to take me in because they didn’t want me. And I choose not to. Count them, that is.” She looked over at him. “You’re very fortunate, you know, to have such a loving family.”
Malone grinned. “I am blessed. Although we drive each other nearly to madness at times.”
“But at all times, you’d die for each other.” Libbie said it before she thought, and then she thought of Walker—again—and that he hadn’t been willing to die for anything but himself. Feeling weepy, she urged Pilot to a trot and pulled away from Malone a bit. She needed to gather herself. She heard a yelp and looked back and Malone was sitting on the ground looking surprised. The raggedy bay that had thrown him was nearby, grazing.
Libbie hurried back to him. “Are you hurt?”
“Only my Irish pride,” Malone said, picking himself up and slapping the dust off his backside. He retrieved the horse and remounted. “As you might have guessed, I’m not a very good rider.” When the horse tossed its head, Malone pretended to address the animal. “All right, all right. I’m a terrible rider. We’ve only the Belgians on the farm and I’ve precious little experience in the saddle. But in my defense, you’re not exactly the best-behaved horse in the army, either.”
Libbie laughed. “Then I must thank you for being so kind as to agree to escort Pilot and me home.”
“Oh, that wasn’t kindness. That was hoping for a chance to ask if you might call me Jack. And allow me to write, once we’ve received our marching orders.”
Libbie stared at him in disbelief.
“Will you at least think about it?”
She would. She rather liked the idea, in fact. Of the writing, at least. She didn’t know if she was quite ready to be so familiar as to use his given name, though. Not until she’d thought about it some more. For the rest of the day anyway. Or until she’d tended to Pilot and turned him into his stall at home. Or at least until they reached the turn into the yard.
Chapter 26
Libbie sat with her back against the wall, staring down at Walker’s letter. The afternoon had been busy, with Maggie and her uncle driving in with a wagonload of bedding to be distributed throughout the house, and the various companies and squads receiving orders as to where they should camp. Once again, the field beyond the garden was a sea of soldiers’ tents, and as the evening wore on, the sound of mouth harps and pipes floated on the night air.
Libbie had spent most of the afternoon in the house, completing the same kind of form that she’d worked with earlier that morning, only this time she was recording the names of the living. Dr. Feeny had had the idea after finding a note that one of the more serious cases had written before enduring the surgery that required the amputation of his right arm. I am Private James O’Reilly of St. Louis, Missouri. I am a patient at the hospital that was formerly the Wildwood Grove Plantation near Littleton, Missouri. I write this so that in the event I am unable to provide the information after surgery, my family can be notified of my condition.
“He’s right-handed,” Dr. Feeny said.
Libbie nodded. “Is he conscious?”
“He is. But feverish.”
Libbie spent the afternoon with the patients in Private O’Reilly’s part of the house, and before supper, O’Reilly had dictated letters to a younger brother and to his mother. He’d also flirted with Libbie so outrageously that he made her blush. As good a sign as any that the private would recover.
And now here she sat, staring down at Walker’s letter and once again hesitating to read it.
Maggie came in, saw the letter, and excused herself.
“No,” Libbie said. “Don’t go. I’d rather not be alone when I read it.”
Maggie sat down opposite her.
Taking a deep breath, Libbie opened the envelope. “Two pages,” she said. Walker had had a lot to say.
Monday evening, July 8, 1861
Dear sister,
If you are reading this letter, I am gone. I do not know how I will have left you. I hope the circumstances will be such that you can say that it was a good death. I fear that my skills do not extend to the battlefield. I fear leaving you alone. I fear that our plans to ascend to political office will fail. I fear being weak. And I fear that, once all is said and done, you will be unable to forgive me for the countless times I have disappointed you, and for the times I have caused you pain. Even now, in what I fear may be my final hours of life on this mortal plane, I fear asking forgiveness, for I can think of no reason for you to extend it.
In my fear, I have done something that, should you read this letter, will at least provide for your future. Knowing men as I do, I suspect that part of the battle for Littleton will include a battle for the funds housed in the vault at the bank. Our brothers will want to protect it from the thieving Federals, and the latter will want to protect it from furthering the Cause. And so I have taken steps to secure it in a place where no government will ever find it.
You are my only heir, Elizabeth. The papers I was so concerned about your keeping track of—the papers in the black metal box—include a copy of my will. If it is somehow stolen from you or if you lose it, Mason Ellerbe has a copy. He also knows my wishes in regards to our home, and should anyone attempt to fight your inheritance, he will come to your aid.
And now to the end of the matter. Robert knows the location of some keys. Have him get them for you, but under no circumstances are you to have him with you when you use them. Robert already knows too much, and it is never healthy for a man’s slaves to know all his secrets. There is a false door behind the paneling in the basement room where we stored the furniture. As you stand in the doorway looking into the room, count from the left-hand corner. The twenty-first board is loose. Remove it and you will find a hidden door. The hinges are ten boards to the right of the lock.
Behind that room there is a tunnel, and halfway down the tunnel, there is a pile of crates. They hold some things of interest, intended only to distract looters. There is a significant amount of Confederate money in one of the metal boxes. I doubt that by the time you read this letter it will have much value. If it makes me a traitor to say it, then call me a traitor. I write what I believe.
What came out of the vault is buried beneath those crates. Once you have located all 1250, you have everything. Take extreme care not to reveal the location. Take extreme care in the use of the funds. Do nothing to garner unwanted attention, and please remember that you are a beautiful woman and there will always be men seeking to prey on the lonely.
I have loved you in my own way, Elizabeth. The 1250 are the only proof I can offer you now. I would hope that if I’d had another chance, I would have behaved more honorably. That is all. Good-bye.
Libbie read the letter three times. She didn’t cry, and yet she couldn’t help but think that Walker’s letter was one of the most tragic things she’d ever encountered. He sounded so desperately alone. Frightened, but unable to share it—or show it. Caring for his sister, and yet so woefully incapable of expressing it. Ambitious, an
d yet unable to truly enjoy anything he’d accomplished. Desperately unhappy, knowing it, and powerless to rectify it. She bowed her head. Lord God in heaven, please save me from making the same mistakes.
Maggie hadn’t said a word. When Libbie finally looked over at her, concern shone in her expression. “Is there anything I can do?”
Libbie held out the letter. “Read it. Please.” She shivered. So many warnings. He’d said so many things designed to build a hedge around her. To protect her, he said. But if being protected meant that she had to keep secrets… had to be alone… she’d been alone long enough.
Maggie handed the letter back. “He did care for you,” she said.
“Too late,” Libbie said. “Too late for it to do either of us any good.” She swiped at the tears. “I suppose I can answer yours and Jack’s question about what I’m going to do now.” She looked about her. “I’ll be staying here. Not that I ever thought I’d leave.”
“But you own it now,” Maggie said. “You can do what you want with it.”
Whatever I want. What did she want? She didn’t know the first thing about running a plantation.
Maggie reached over and squeezed her hand. “Don’t be afraid.”
“I’d be a fool if I weren’t. I don’t know the first thing about running a plantation. I don’t know much of anything about things that matter.”
“You’ll learn,” Maggie said.
“I’d better learn in a hurry. I have to tell the slaves about this. Make out their papers. And if Annabelle and Malachi decide to leave—I’ll starve, for one thing. I’ve never cooked a thing in my life.”
“I can’t imagine Annabelle leaving,” Maggie said. “She seems truly fond of you. Offer her a position. Head cook. Kitchen boss. Whatever suits her. She knows you need her.”
“Simple as that?”
“Well, no,” Maggie said. “I doubt anything will be quite as simple as that, but we’ve hired help before on the farm. I don’t see any reason you can’t. How many acres do you have?”
“I don’t know.”
“Someone knows,” Maggie said. “What about Asa James?”
Libbie shuddered. “He’s gone with the Guard and I don’t want him back. Ever.”
“You’ll find someone.”
“Now I’m the one who’s afraid.” She looked back at the letter. “And what’s he talking about… twelve hundred fifty? Twelve hundred and fifty what?”
“Easy enough to find out,” Maggie said.
“Come with me.”
Maggie shook her head. “He expressly ordered you not to let anyone else know.”
“If it’s twelve hundred and fifty dollars,” Libbie said, “are you going to hit me over the head and run off with it?”
Maggie snorted. “Of course not. I’ll smother you in your sleep and pretend to be distraught when you don’t wake up tomorrow.”
“Not very creative,” Libbie said and got to her feet. She lit one of the small lamps used for after-dark visits to the outhouse. “At least we don’t have our nightgowns on yet,” she said. “Come on. Neither of us will be able to sleep until we dig it up—whatever it is.”
Maggie shook her head. “I mean it. I don’t want to know.”
“But I trust you.”
“Then trust that I’m doing the right thing. Whatever you find in that tunnel, I don’t want you to speak of it. I wish I’d never heard of it. Whatever it is, move it. Don’t tell me where, just move it and let that be the end of it.”
“But—why? You’re my friend. I know I can trust you.”
“You’re the only true friend I’ve ever had, Libbie Blair. I don’t care if it’s the pot of gold at the end of the Irish rainbow, I don’t want to hear about it.” She handed Libbie the letter. “Take this with you. I wish I’d never read it.”
United States of America. Twenty D. An eagle on one side, Lady Liberty on the other. Libbie stared down at the two rows in disbelief. Walker had left her one thousand two hundred and fifty twenty-dollar gold coins. How much was it? Her index finger wrote the numbers in the air as she worked the problem. She worked it again. And yet again, for she couldn’t believe it.
She’d always thought their parents were wealthy, and Walker had inherited it all, but he always worried about money. The man had twenty-five thousand dollars in gold in a bank vault and he’d never taken any joy in it.
Libbie didn’t know whether to be angry at him—again—or weep for him. Weeping won out. And with the tears came a jolt of fear. Her mind reeled. Move it. Don’t tell anyone. And then, finally, do only good. She could do a lot of good. And she would start with Maggie Malone, who was going to be trekking about the country with her boys. She would need at least a couple of skirts without bullet holes in them. Betty would know what to buy and how to make them.
By the time Libbie locked the doors behind her and padded back up the stairs, she was smiling. With God’s help, she would see to it that Walker’s fortune gave only joy. Anonymously.
Stepping out of the back door and looking up at the night sky, Libbie felt the cloud that had hung over her future dissipate. Wildwood Grove had been many things, but it had never been her home. That was about to change.
Two weeks after the Battle of Wildwood Grove, the Irish Brigade was ordered to the Missouri-Kansas border, where a guerilla named Quantrill was wreaking havoc. The brigade was to be transported to Kansas City by steamboat, but not before they treated the city of Littleton to a full dress parade. The men spent the better part of two days polishing boots, trimming beards, cleaning weapons, and grooming horses and mules.
Maggie watched it all with a growing sense of desperation. She’d requested a private meeting with Captain Quinn to plead her case, but either he didn’t get the message or he didn’t want to see her. It was as if he’d forgotten what she’d done for Hero—who was happily ensconced at the Feenys’.
Jack and Seamus had been given leave to do some of the cleanup at the farm, and much to Maggie’s surprise, when Paddy mentioned the possibility of young Noah staying on to help with chores, Noah said he would do it. He hadn’t ever had a home away from the river, he said, and he liked the idea of giving it a try. Not to mention, he and Kerry-boy had taken to each other so much that the pair had become inseparable. When Paddy expressed doubts as to his own ability to raise a boy, Noah said that he was mostly raised and that wouldn’t be a problem. Maggie suspected the two would have their share of arguments, but then the Malones had always been inclined to show affection by the way they reconciled after a good fight.
She didn’t want to go home. She’d made a home with the Irish. She’d fallen in love with a soldier. The men had applauded her. But now they seemed bent on marching away without her. They were all acting strange as the day approached when they would leave. It was as if they were watching her. As if they hadn’t gotten to know her. Even Ashby, who was, praise be to God, on the mend, was different when she came around. He seemed to favor Libbie now. And while it was true that Libbie was teaching him to read, Maggie didn’t see that that was any reason for Ashby to switch loyalties quite so completely.
John Coulter was no comfort, either. Just when Maggie thought she’d say yes the next time he proposed marriage, he seemed to give up on her. They’d all given up on her, it seemed.
“Don’t be silly,” Libbie said. “Nothing’s changed. Your boys still love you and so does John. They’re just busy getting ready to move out. That’s all it is. They don’t mean anything by it.”
The morning that Libbie and Betty presented Maggie with two completely new ensembles and the requisite unmentionables, Maggie cried—not because she was touched, which of course she was, but because she didn’t think she needed to be “outfitted for the march,” as Libbie said.
“Captain Quinn won’t speak to me about it,” she said. “And John refuses to plead my case.”
“And since when does Maggie Malone need permission to join the army?” Libbie teased. “You waded right in the last time.”
But something in Maggie had changed. She cared what the boys thought of her now. She wanted them to want her. She didn’t want to force herself upon them. What had she done wrong? Were they really going to leave her behind?
The morning of July 23 was beautiful. Absolutely perfect for a day’s march. When Maggie made the point to John, he gave her a lukewarm hug and said, “Have faith, Maggie-girl. Captain Quinn hasn’t forgotten you, nor have the boys. They never will.” And then he teased her about the lavender soap. “Still have it in your pocket?”
“Does it matter?” Maggie snapped.
John smiled. “Would I ask if it didn’t?” He kissed her on the cheek, mounted Blue, and rode away.
It would be a glorious day, and Maggie was miserable. Couldn’t John see that her heart was breaking? She needed more than a hastily whispered “Have faith.” He wasn’t even going to accompany her into town. Fish was stuck with her.
“May I offer you a ride, mademoiselle?” Fish called, patting the wagon seat and flashing a smile. “We are to form the parade just outside of town. You will have to walk only a short distance. Miss Feeny says you will watch with her, is that correct?”
Maggie supposed it was. The Feeny home was right across the street from the small park where all the speeches would be given. The regimental band would play and then the boys would march away, drums beating, fifes playing, all the way to the levee and on board the two steamboats waiting to take them to Kansas City.
Libbie was riding Pilot to town, thereby leaving the carriage for Malachi and Annabelle, Betty, Robert, and Ora Lee. The field hands would follow in one of the smaller farm wagons. Captain Quinn had even arranged for some of the wounded men who’d been camping in the yard to be taken to town by wagons so that they wouldn’t miss the speeches. Maggie envisioned that it would be almost as inspiring as Independence Day. Without the fireworks, of course.
Fish whistled and hummed all the way to Littleton, admiring the Malone farm as they drove past. It did look nice, Maggie had to admit. Paddy had replanted the garden, and repaired the broken windows. No one would ever suspect what it had looked like back in June.
Daughter of the Regiment Page 27
