Dust billowed up around Westley’s feet. The few people going about their business on the street passed him without so much as a glance. Dressed in plain black trousers, a gray vest, and broadcloth jacket he’d purchased for the journey, he did not draw the attention his uniform would have stirred. He recognized one or two of those who passed by him, but did not call a greeting. Would his former Greenville neighbors identify him? And, if so, how would he be received? Not with joy, he felt certain. And if he happened upon any of his boyhood friends, they would likely greet him with a pistol. Ducking his head, Westley continued to the solicitor’s office, only to find that it had been reduced to a pile of blackened bricks.
The livery, then? The jingle of tack made him look up as a carriage came down the street at a quick pace. Surprised, Westley took a step back, lest he risk being trampled. As the carriage rolled past, a young woman inside stared at him through the window. He frowned. Was that…?
The carriage carried on and then pulled to an abrupt stop about fifty paces past him. The Negro driver hurried down and opened the door, and two ladies in hooped dresses emerged into the dust their carriage had roused. They stepped into a ramshackle building that seemed to be the center of activity.
Deciding it probably passed for a general store, Westley headed that way. He would likely find what he sought in one of two places, and as he didn’t care for the idea of a tavern just yet, he would first find what he sought at the mercantile.
Ignoring the ache that had now become a throb, he hobbled down the road and through the front door. Nodding at a proprietor he didn’t recognize, he looked to the sparse shelves several patrons mulled over.
“Mr. Remington!”
A woman’s gasp made Westley cringe. So, it didn’t take long for him to be recognized. Steeling himself for the scorn he would face, he turned to the female’s voice and discovered a lovely woman in a yellow dress.
“It is you!” She began fluttering her fan. “Oh, Mama!”
An older woman appeared behind the younger and recognition slammed into him. The dour Mrs. Martin narrowed her gaze at her daughter, then it flew wide as she looked to Westley.
“It can’t be!”
“I know!” The younger woman’s cheeks bloomed a soft pink.
Westley studied her. Could this be the same little Miss Martin he remembered? The one with the rounded face and form who had twittered about at neighborly gatherings? It seemed so, though this young woman hardly resembled the girl from years past.
He opened his mouth to offer greeting, especially as the young lady did not presently shower him with scorn, but her next words caused his own to lodge in his throat.
“Won’t she just be faint with joy?”
She?
Mrs. Martin fingered the buttons on the collar of her navy blue dress. “Indeed. Seems she won’t be needing those widow’s gowns after all.”
Widow’s…?
Westley cleared his throat. “Excuse me, ma’am, but I—”
Miss Martin clasped her hands. “Can you imagine it? Oh, I would so love to see the surprise on her face when you get home.”
“Home?” This question managed to make it through the constriction in his throat.
Mrs. Martin lifted her brows. “Why, of course. Did you not know your young bride and child are at Belmont?”
Westley filled his lungs and slowly released. What game did this woman play? Had some imposter set sights upon his family home? Perhaps he should fish out further information. “I was injured and have been under the care of the doctor for several weeks.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” Miss Martin said, her fan fluttering. “Your missus said that they received word you were missing and assumed dead. But the poor dear held out hope you would return.”
Westley felt his blood quicken.
“It was rather odd, you see, as none of us saw her arrive. It seems she traveled to the house alone to have your son.”
“My son?” Westley croaked. Impossible. He had abstained from knowing a woman, even one from the abundance of those who hung around the camps for men to make use of to relieve their basal hungers. Therefore, there were none who could claim he had sired their child.
At least, not with any thread of truth.
His anger began to seethe. What trollop had decided to use the news of him missing from his unit as an excuse to try to steal his name rather than admit her sin?
“Oh, look at him, Mama.” Miss Martin’s pink lips turned up. “She told true. Looks like they did marry in a flurry of emotion.”
Westley forced a smile. When he got to Belmont, that tart would soon regret making him her target. For now, though, he might play the game….
“You have met her, then?”
“We were over for tea last week. I must say, Mr. Remington,” Mrs. Martin said, eschewing his military title, “I would have never expected you to wed a Confederate girl.” She smirked. “Perhaps there will be some redemption for you in this town after all.”
Westley frowned. Not a Federal camp follower, then. Who was this woman who had stolen his name?
“We are leaving just as soon as Mama gets some thread to patch my dress again. We could drive him out there, couldn’t we, Mama?”
Westley slid his gaze from the sunny young woman to her dowager mother. The elder Martin woman’s mouth hitched, and something sparked in her eyes. Suspicion?
“Why, of course, Opal, dear. I would be glad to see the happy couple reunited.” She offered a smile that held little humor. “I’ll be only a moment.”
Westley followed Miss Martin outside, her incessant words slipping across his ears without taking hold. He’d expected to find any manner of things at Belmont, but not this.
“Mr. Remington?”
Westley focused back on the young woman who tied a large bow under her chin to secure her bonnet. Closer inspection noted her gown frayed a bit, and the ribbons and flowers on the bonnet were worse for wear.
“I asked what became of your speech. You sound as though you didn’t grow up a stone’s throw from here.”
As intended. Westley tried to give an apologetic smile. “I have been away many years.”
Her forehead creased, and he decided to turn the subject off him.
“I see Greenville did not fare well. How are things at Riverbend?”
“Oh.” She lowered her gaze and much of the delight slipped from her countenance. “We still have a roof to ward off the rain and walls to stay the wind. The rest we can make do without.” She turned warm brown eyes toward the street. “Many here did not fare as well.”
Westley inwardly groaned. He was such a cad! What was he thinking to ask such a thing?
“Though none fared as well as Belmont.” Mrs. Martin’s clipped words intruded on the conversation as the door clicked behind them. “But I’m sure you know that.”
He did, and he could not fault the woman her bitterness. “My father’s letters said as much, but I have heard naught of Belmont since his passing.”
Some of the steam went out of Mrs. Martin’s scowl as she waved for her driver to untie the horses. “He was a good man. We were all sad to see him go. The only good of it is that your mother went soon after.”
Good? How could losing both of his parents at once be a good thing?
She blinked, tears pricking her otherwise cold eyes. “It is hard on a woman living her remaining years as a widow. Be glad your mother didn’t have to suffer it during these hard times.”
Her soft words bore so much pain all he could do was incline his head. “Perhaps you are right.”
“All the more reason to have joy this day, Mama,” Miss Martin said as the driver opened the carriage door. “Mrs. Remington will receive the great blessing of not having to face what she feared she would.”
Westley nearly corrected the young woman who he thought had misunderstood that his mother also died, but then realized she referred to the imposter.
He offered a tight smile. Something must have happened to
Sibby. She would have been a force for any actress to deal with, and, colored or not, she would have never handed over Belmont. There were two women in this world Westley esteemed. One was dead and the other must be gone. It seemed there would be no stragglers to see off Belmont after all.
Westley assisted the ladies inside the carriage and then seethed in his humiliation of struggling inside behind them. Though the leg throbbed as he sat, he refused to let his fingers seek the comfort of massaging it.
“Does your leg hurt you much, Mr. Remington?” Miss Martin asked.
He nearly lied, but that would be both dishonorable and ridiculous. “It does.”
The carriage lurched forward and another spasm of pain shot from his thigh to his toes.
“I wonder,” Mrs. Martin said, her reedy voice filling the carriage. “Why you did not send word to your wife that you were alive.”
“I did not know she was here.” The truth.
“Hmm. Where else would she have been?”
Westley tugged at the collar of his shirt, which seemed to grow tighter the more he was in this woman’s presence, and contemplated telling her he did not have a wife. But he had become intrigued with this imposter who was bold enough to make such claims, so he wanted to see what she would do when confronted.
“It took weeks after my injury to awake. Only then could I convey my name and rank. I am told the army sent word thereafter.” Again, the truth.
“I see.” The older woman sat back in her seat and studied him, the questions behind her dark eyes thankfully not springing to her thin lips.
“Well, we have had difficulty with correspondence, Mr. Remington. Things being what they are, if letters are not delivered by messenger….” She let her words trail off.
They rode in silence for a time, until it seemed Miss Martin could no longer contain herself.
“She is quite lovely,” she said with a mischievous grin. “I can see why you would be so taken with her that you married in a rush.” A smile holding notions of romance Westley doubted he was capable of turned up her mouth.
“I am sure she would be glad you thought so.” Most likely true. Women forever hunted for compliments.
Miss Martin pressed her fingers to her lips and looked out the window. “Ah, the joyous reunion awaits.”
Mrs. Martin chuckled. “I dare say, it should be most interesting to see.”
Westley declined a response. Interesting, indeed. The carriage made the turn from the river road to the drive up to Belmont, and he ran a hand over his freshly shaven face. Now, little imposter, we shall see what game you play.
Ella rubbed her temples. “Sibby. The Yank gave us two weeks, and already one of them is past. We must discuss this.”
Sibby’s nostrils flared. “Now, you look here. I done told you I is workin’ on it.”
Ella nearly groaned. Why did this woman make all things difficult? Patting Lee where she kept him tied to her chest, she began to pace around the library. “What is it that makes you so against listening to reason?”
“What?”
She’d thus far played along, but the more she did so, the more Sibby seemed to mistake her gratitude for weakness. She pointed a finger at the other woman. “There are things you are not telling me.”
Sibby narrowed her eyes. “You don’t know nothin’.”
Obviously. “Only because you will not tell me. How am I to help?”
Sibby let out a long sigh and then suddenly her shoulders drooped, as though a burden kept hidden weighed them down. In that moment she seemed much older than her years.
Ella sank into one of the armchairs in the library and motioned for Sibby to take the other. “How are we to keep your home if you sit by and allow the army to take it?”
Sibby perched on the edge of the chair and picked at her fingernails. “I never did wanna be like the white ladies, you know.”
Ella frowned, wondering what that had to do with their conversation, but held her tongue.
“Mrs. Remington, she was always worryin’ over folks. Makin’ sure they was cared for and all.”
Not a bad thing. Ella may have liked this lady who, from what she’d heard told, was vastly different from most others.
“My Ma, she was thata way, too. Was her that told all us what to do, and her that all the Negroes under the Remingtons looked to. Then she died.”
Ella started to offer condolences, but Sibby kept talking.
“I weren’t but eighteen summers, but with Mrs. Remington so sick with worry over the war and her boy, it went to me to run things for her like my Ma did.”
Ella watched Sibby closely, some of the woman’s desperation to keep a tight hold on things making more sense.
Sibby met her eyes. “Then Mr. Remington died, and the missus….well, she weren’t right in the head after that.”
“Oh.”
“I was right glad Mr. Westley and Mr. Remington weren’t here to see her like that. Scared folks the way she had dem fits….”
Ella plucked at the hem of her sleeve. “I’m sorry.”
Sibby took on a faraway look. “Onlyist thing that made her smile was my Peter.”
“Your son?” Ella asked softly.
Sibby nodded. A tear slid down her cheek, but she quickly flicked it away as though it had no place upon her. “Then he took sick, too, and Mrs. Remington, well, she just couldn’t bear it….”
Ella’s throat constricted, and she tightened her grip on Lee.
Sibby’s eyes flew to the child and she shook her head. “I tried to tell her it weren’t her fault.”
Though Ella had guessed that something must have happened to Sibby’s child, she had not wanted to pry.
Sibby drew a breath and rose. “He died two days ’for she did.”
Ella stood and placed a hand on the woman’s arm. “I’m so sorry, Sibby. Truly I am.”
She stepped away, and the softness that had made her speak such things hardened once more. “Weren’t nobody left ’round here to take care of folks, so I had to do it. Been doin’ it ever since, and I is goin’ to do whatever I gots to do to make sure we is safe.”
Once more returned to the positions they had thus far held, Ella frowned. What kind of things might Sibby have done to take care of the people? From what she’d seen of the fields, cotton harvesting wasn’t one of them. Gardens somewhere, perhaps? The cellar shelves held jars of preserved vegetables that must have come from somewhere.
“I do not understand, Sibby. You wanted me to help.” She followed Sibby out of the library.
“No. I just wanted you to keep away them soldiers,” she snapped.
What had happened to the woman who had only moments ago shared painful things of the heart? The one who seemed to be open to reason?
“As I am trying to do!” Annoyance flared, and Ella struggled to keep it down. So long as Lee had a place to live and milk to nourish him, well, that was what mattered most. But now Sibby’s stubbornness could undo it all. Ella took a deep breath and rubbed the baby’s back. She needed some fresh air. “What about the crops?”
“What about ’em?”
Ella hoped the woman would see reason. “If we plant something, then perhaps the army will be satisfied that we are providing living space and work for freedmen, and the Yanks will grant leniency on the taxes until we can produce a harvest.”
Sibby fanned herself with her hand. “You know that ain’t nothin’ but foolish hope.”
Ella set her teeth. Why must this woman be so difficult? With the prospect of losing everything, she had no choice but to put aside her efforts at meekness. “Fine. Then I shall begin selling off plots of the land so the taxes can be paid.”
Sibby’s mouth fell open. “You gonna do no such thing!”
“Why not? It seems a perfect solution.”
Sibby continued to stare at her, and Ella moved past her to go up the stairs. It took a moment longer than expected, but the woman soon followed. “You ain’t got no right to be sellin’ what ain’t you
rn.”
A smug smile Sibby couldn’t see tugged Ella’s lips. “Don’t I? Why, there are carpetbaggers aplenty looking for land to buy, and since everyone knows I am mistress here, who would think twice about my ability to sell it?”
“You…you….” Sibby began to stutter, and Ella could nearly feel the frustration pouring off of her.
Ella walked to the end of the upper hall and opened the door to let in the afternoon breeze. “You think on it, then ask your people. You will see that I am right.”
Sibby pressed her lips and refused to say more.
Satisfied she would win the argument, Ella stepped out onto the upper front balcony to let the mid-May breeze wash over her. Bold words, indeed. Would the state of the country allow for her to sell land that didn’t belong to her? It would be worth the try.
Movement drew her attention to the end of the drive where a carriage made the turn off the river road. A carriage she had seen before. She frowned. “Sibby, did you invite the Martin women over again?”
“Now, listen here. We can talk ’bout you askin’ women to tea later. Right now we gots to….” She slowed as she noticed Ella’s pointing finger. “What they doin’ here?”
“That’s what I just asked you.”
Sibby scoffed. “What? You think I invited ’em?”
“You did last time.” Ella lifted her shoulders.
“Did not.”
“Then how…?” Ella shook her head. She didn’t have time for this. Guests were arriving, and she was in her work dress. She began tugging on the strips of cloth around Lee. “Here, hurry up and take him so I can get into another dress.”
Sibby took the baby in the crook of her arm, and they scurried into Ella’s room. She crossed to the wardrobe. “They is gonna expect you in the black ’un.”
Ella had already thought the same. Sibby tossed the simple frock to her, and by the time the carriage wheels drew close enough to hear, Ella had donned the cotton dress and started to tie a ribbon about her waist. “Will it do?”
“I reckon. Get on with you, then.”
Ella reached for the baby. “I’m taking Lee with me.”
Sibby shied back. “What for?”
In His Eyes: A Civil War Romance Page 10
