In His Eyes: A Civil War Romance

by Stephenia H. McGee

  Ella lifted her chin. “Because he’s my child, and I wish it.” And if he cried she might be all the sooner to get rid of her uninvited guests.

  They stared at each other for a moment, then Sibby handed over the boy before grumbling something under her breath and stepping out of the room. Sibby hurried down the stairs, and Ella followed her at a slower pace. She had just taken the first two steps when the front door opened.

  Ella frowned. Sibby had not had the time to make it to the door, so the Martin women must have opened it on their own. The nerve! What kind of people had the audacity not only to come over uninvited but to let themselves in as well?

  Another thought occurred to her, and Ella’s heart began to flutter. Had her ruse been found out? Did the Martin women come bearing accusations that made them bold?

  Just then Sibby let out a squeal, and Ella clutched the baby tighter. Had the sound seemed born of fear rather than delight, she would have hurried back to the second floor, but curiosity continued her to the landing.

  “Mr. Westley! Oh!”

  Ella came to a halt midway down the staircase and stared. It couldn’t be. Her heart thudded so furiously in her chest she thought it might burst from her. Lee began to squirm, and just then did she realize she had squeezed him too tightly.

  “You is alive! Oh, have mercy. I just….” Sibby’s words came to a tumbling halt, and she spun around to look up at Ella, who still stood transfixed on the stairs staring at the scene before her.

  Sibby stood beside a man whose presence filled the entry—a man who was supposed to be dead. Mahogany hair topped a stern face that was all the more handsome for the masculine set to his jaw. Wide shoulders and a lean physique, he looked very much the warrior Sibby had described him to be. All except for the cane at his side, which he leaned upon heavily.

  So this was the man she had claimed to be her husband? Her heart dropped. No wonder the Martin women had been skeptical. Never would Ella have garnered the attention of one such as he. She stopped herself short. What was she thinking?

  The man stared at her, his dark eyes assessing everything from her widow’s dress to the baby in her arms. To her surprise, he said nothing about her presence. Oh, but what would he do when….?

  “Don’t you wish to greet your wife?” Mrs. Martin asked, slipping to the man’s side. She raised her eyebrows at Ella, as though she had figured out the game.

  Ella glanced past the man to the women who waited in the still moments that had surely not been as long as they seemed. Miss Martin wore a wide smile that evidenced she expected Ella to come to her senses and throw herself into the arms of the husband she was supposed to dearly love.

  Ella opened her mouth to try to stop the humiliation, but the man spoke first.

  “Indeed. I am most eager to see you, wife.”

  Ella’s mouth unhinged and she stared.

  He looked at the baby. “And is this my son, as well?”

  Finding her senses, Ella glanced to Sibby, but the woman seemed just as confused as she. Did this man seek to trap her?

  “Mr. Remington, I….”

  He held up a hand. “Come now, surely I am Westley to my wife?”

  She gulped, and took an unsteady step closer. Perhaps he thought to save face in front of his neighbors. But why continue thus? When later he threw her out, he would only have all the more explaining to do.

  “Mr. Westley, Ella, she….” Sibby stammered.

  Mr. Remington gave a firm shake of his head, sending a lock of hair dancing across his brow, and Sibby seamed her lips.

  Ella came forward, descending the stairs and coming to stand before the man a head taller than she. “This is, um, this is Lee,” she managed, glancing at the baby.

  His eyes lingered long upon her face, and then something that seemed like understanding lit a spark in eyes so dark a brown they neared black. Finally, he glanced at the child. “A handsome boy.”

  Unable to contain herself, Ella spoke words that burned in her throat. “I thought you were dead.”

  A smile tilted one side of his mouth. “So I see.”

  A fire lit in her chest. Did this man toy with her? She had not meant anyone harm, merely needed someone to care for the baby. She stared at him, all the more flustered when amusement shone in those arresting eyes as well as upon his well-formed mouth.

  “Come, Mama,” Miss Martin interjected. “We should leave them to such private matters, should we not?”

  Ella had all but forgotten the Martin women were standing in the room. She darted a glance past Mr. Remington to Miss Martin. The young woman offered Ella a smile even as her mother looked to be near on spouting an accusation.

  “I do thank you for the ride, ladies,” Mr. Remington said, the deep timbre of his voice smooth with the genteel words of one born to privilege. “But if you would be so kind as to forgive my eagerness, I would now like to speak privately with my wife.”

  Mrs. Martin sniffed. “Of course. We bid you good afternoon, Mr. Remington.” She nodded to Ella. “Mrs. Remington.”

  Ella knew she should give some sort of farewell, but what did that matter now? She would probably never see these women again. Her eyes darted to Sibby, who stared at the floor, and then back to the handsome man in front of her.

  What was this that caused a tremble in her knees? Could it be the way his eyes held her own as though they were some great treasure to behold? She gulped. No. It had to be the fear of losing a home for Lee that caused her legs to be unsteady.

  The door clicked behind the departing neighbors, and it seemed her composure left with them. She swayed and thought she might fall until a hand grasped her upper arm and held firm.

  “Are you well, Miss?”

  Ella looked up into his eyes, and when she discovered a measure of concern pooling within their depths, found herself all the more confused. Why did he not pummel her with harsh words? Or at the very least, demand to know why she had labeled herself his wife?

  “It was the baby….” she said through lips that seemed too dry to form words.

  She stood steadily now, but still he did not release her. He looked down at the child. “You needed Sibby to help with the nursing?”

  Ella nodded.

  “I should have guessed as much.” He swung his gaze to Sibby. “Did you know that the Martin women believe this woman is my wife?”

  Sibby’s eyes grew large. “But, suh, we done thought you was dead!” Sibby shook her head. “And she done showed up here with that babe right when them soldiers did.”

  “Soldiers?”

  Growing uncomfortable at the nearness of this man and the odd sensation it sent through her, Ella took a step back and he released her arm.

  “The blue soldiers. They wanted to make sure we weren’t no slaves.”

  Mr. Remington reached up to stroke a firm chin devoid of whiskers. “I see.”

  “Please, sir,” Ella said, finally finding her voice. “This is my fault. I needed someone to help with the baby, and when I arrived the soldiers wanted to speak to a Remington. Without thought, I pretended to be one so that Sibby could care for the child and I could get them to leave.”

  To her utter amazement, the man chuckled. “Did you, now?”

  “Now, Mr. Westley, we done thought you was dead,” Sibby said again.

  He cocked an eyebrow. “So you keep telling me.”

  Sibby wagged her head. “We thought that with no white folks here they was gonna make us leave.”

  The man frowned, and Ella wondered if he believed the claim.

  “I can’t say that I didn’t think that myself. How many of you are still here?”

  Sibby looked down and away. “A few.”

  Mr. Remington shifted his weight to rest more heavily on the cane. Sibby noticed the action and pointed to the parlor. “Why don’t you go on in there and sit. I is going to get you somethin’ to drink. You hungry, too?”

  “No. Some tea would be good, though.”

  Sibby bobbed her head,
and Ella watched her go. The woman seemed too eager to serve and far too submissive to be the same one who had lived with Ella these past two weeks.

  She returned her gaze to the man before her. His shoulders slacked some and Ella wondered just how tired he must be. Perhaps exhaustion alone kept him from sharp words. She turned to follow Sibby to the kitchen when his voice stopped her.

  “I would have you join me. There is much for us to discuss.”

  Knowing she had no other choice, Ella inclined her head and stepped around him, hurrying into the parlor. Her mind awhirl, she shifted through the various hardships that would soon befall her. How foolish of her not to consider the possibility that this man might return! The letter had said he was missing, not for certain he was dead.

  She crossed the patterned carpet and placed Lee down in the cradle, then took a seat beside him on the settee. Once settled, she forced herself to keep a steady gaze on the one who would determine her fate. Mr. Remington slowly made his way across the room as though each step he took pained him.

  As he settled into the chair farthest from her, he regarded her with cool curiosity. “So, Miss, tell me. Who exactly are you?”

  Ella placed her trembling hands in her lap. Who was she, indeed?

  Westley watched the arresting creature before him as she fiddled with her black dress. Hair the color of a sunset and green eyes that sparkled like emeralds had caused him to alter his course. He’d had every intention of calling out her deception upon entering, with the added bonus of having neighbors behind him to verify the tale. He almost felt bad for leading the Martin women to believe such a woman belonged here, but that easily could be explained. He’d meant to set a trap.

  When Sibby arrived first, his thoughts of a trap were derailed. With Sibby here and a part of the scheme, well, he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to see what kind of woman had managed to cow her.

  And then he’d set eyes on the imposter….

  He clenched his teeth. Intrigue, that’s what he would name it. He was intrigued by this woman who had the nerve to claim his name and who even now defied him by taking so long in answering his simple question. Did she dare to cook up another lie?

  He cleared his throat and those eyes the color of a faded gem set upon him once more. “I’ll ask you again, Miss. Who are you?”

  She glanced at her baby and resolve tightened her soft features. Her fidgeting stilled, replaced by a steely calm he’d often seen young soldiers try to effect when faced with something they feared. She lifted the boy from where he slept and held him against her.

  She lifted her chin, further showing off the curve of her neck, which Westley instructed his eyes not to linger upon.

  “My name is Eleanor Whitaker.”

  Odd, the way she spoke, as though her voice carried some clue he couldn’t quite grasp. He let his eyes carry over her smooth complexion and pert little nose that turned up slightly at the end. He should send her out the door, but curiosity stilled him. A few moments more to understand her purpose would matter little.

  He tapped a finger on his leg, turning his gaze from her to the parlor that appeared unchanged since last he sat here. “And what, Miss Whitaker, caused you to claim to be my wife?”

  She moistened her lips. “As told, sir, I came here seeking a wet nurse. When I pretended to be a Remington once I heard Sibby say none were here, it was only because she looked distressed and…. well, I desperately needed someone to care for the babe.”

  There it was again—a soft bit of lilt to certain words. Her accent gave her away as Southern, but something else tinged it. Irish, perhaps? Or Scottish? Her eyes caressed the boy in her arms, and something hard in Westley inexplicably softened.

  “As I hoped, the soldiers seemed satisfied with the small deception and soon departed. Sibby agreed to care for my son, and I had thought that would be the end of it.”

  The ache in his leg grew in intensity, and Westley set his jaw against it.

  As though misinterpreting his discomfort for anger—which he should feel, yet strangely did not—she shifted in her chair. “I do hope you understand I did not mean to cause you any trouble.” She held his gaze, though he suspected it was difficult for her to do so.

  He couldn’t help the smile that tugged on the corner of his mouth. “You can imagine my surprise when my neighbors informed me that my wife and son waited for my arrival.”

  “Yes, well…” She toyed with the fabric of the dress again. “They came to tea, and by then we had decided that it would be a good idea to let the ruse stand.”

  We? Why had Sibby agreed to such an outrageous claim? A question she would very soon have to answer.

  Westley regarded the small woman who dared where she should not. “And what, do you suppose, I am to do with you now?”

  Her lip quivered slightly, and he was overcome by the irrational urge to smooth it with his thumb.

  “I would ask that you let me stay. For a little while, at least, good sir.”

  Westley leaned forward. Now she would venture to ask him to keep up the pretense of being his wife?

  “As a hireling, of course,” she continued quickly, as though sensing his unrest. “I would continue helping tend the house as I have done the past couple of weeks, and in return my son and I have a place to live. You may tell all of my deception. I am unconcerned by what others will think of it.”

  Interesting. He could have allowed it, he supposed, if not that he had come to sell the lands. He frowned at her. Fetching though she may appear, she was naught more than trouble. And something in the flutter of her lashes told him she did care what his neighbors would think of her.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” he said, linking his fingers together.

  She blinked at him. “But….”

  The baby made a small noise, and she clutched him to her. Then, before Westley could react, she was on her feet and hurrying to the door. “Excuse me, but I need to find Sibby to feed him.”

  Westley watched her go, perplexed. What had happened that she could not nurse her child as a mother ought?

  His thoughts returned to Sibby. His mother’s last letter, the one that Sibby had sent along with her own telling of Mother’s death, had told that Sibby’s own baby had also died from the sickness along with his parents. The child had been born to her seven months after renegade Confederates had found her man, Joe, on the road from buying supplies in Greenville. Mother’s letter stated that Joe claimed to be a freeman, and they’d hanged him for it.

  Mother told him about everything going on at the plantation, as though she wanted to be certain Westley missed nothing. Mother said she worried over Sibby’s bitterness when Joe died. Westley stroked his chin. That bitterness had likely only gotten worse after Sibby lost the infant as well as the man. Was the grief over her own son why she had nursed other children? And where did these babes keep coming from? That had been, what, four months past? And still she had milk to give?

  Too many questions, and he was too tired to contemplate them all. Still he waited, but the imposter did not come back once she delivered the child upstairs. Not that he expected differently. She likely fretted over his unannounced return and hesitated to continue their conversation. He rose from his place in the parlor and headed for the stairs. If she would not come to him, then he would go to her.

  A knock at the door altered his steps. When he opened it, a young man in blue shadowed the entry.

  “Good day, sir. I have come with news for the family.”

  Intrigued, Westley accepted the folded paper and popped the seal. His eyes skimmed the brief words and he groaned.

  To the family of Major Westley Remington,

  The United States Army is pleased to inform you that Major Remington has been found alive.

  We join you in your joy.

  Lieutenant John Peyton

  Westley nearly laughed. This must have been the letter the corporal had said was sent to Belmont. How ironic that he should be the one to receive
it. What would have Miss Whitaker done if it had arrived before him? She probably would have scurried off before he had arrived and he would have never set eyes on her. A surge of relief over the chance to confront such an interesting woman irritated him. Ridiculous!

  “We are exceedingly sorry for ill tidings, sir, and leave you to personal matters,” the man said, interrupting Westley’s thoughts with words the poor fellow had probably spoken far too many times.

  The man began to turn when Westley chuckled. “On the contrary, Sergeant. It seems I am alive and well.”

  Confusion lined the man’s rigid features. “Sir?”

  Westley slipped the missive in his shirt pocket and gave it a pat. “As I returned home with the news that I am still alive before this letter did, the news has already been received.”

  The man nodded, seeming too weary to join in Westley’s unexpected bout of good humor. “Very good, sir. Good day to you, then.” Then, as though remembering himself, the sergeant wheeled back around and snapped to attention. “Then you must be Major Remington.” He gave a sharp salute. “I meant no disrespect, sir.”

  Westley gave a half-hearted salute in return. “You could not have known. Carry on.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” The sergeant hastily retreated.

  When Westley turned back around, a small Negro girl stared at him with large eyes set in an inquisitive face. She didn’t make a move to address him or scurry from his presence, so Westley grunted. “Hello.”

  “You ’member me?”

  Westley eyed her. How was he supposed to remember all the children who ran about this place? He shook his head.

  She leveled clear eyes on him that bespoke of how much the nation had already changed. “I is Basil. I help Sibby with the washin’ and the ironin’ and the cleanin’.”

  He moved to go past her to the stairs. He placed a hand on the railing when her next words stilled him.

  “You gonna let Miss Ella stay?”

  He studied her. “Ella?”

  She tilted her head as though he were dull. “You know, that white lady you was talkin’ to?”

  “Miss Eleanor Whitaker?”

  She bobbed her head. “Yeah. Ella.”