In His Eyes: A Civil War Romance

by Stephenia H. McGee

  “Ella.” He tried the name and decided he liked the sound of it. It seemed soft and inviting. Somewhat opposite of the stiff yet fiery woman who regarded him with sparking eyes filled with something akin to distrust.

  The girl crossed her arms. “You gonna throw her out? She got nowhere to go.”

  Despite the ire he should feel over one of lower rank speaking to him thus, Westley chuckled—as seemed to be becoming a habit on this rather peculiar day. “You like her, do you?”

  She clasped her hands behind her simple pink dress. “Yes, suh. She a real nice lady.”

  Hmm. A nice lady who lied to the United States Army and convinced Sibby to let her run a house she had no business in. “That so?”

  “Yes, suh. And she ain’t like other white ladies.”

  Intrigued, Westley shifted the cane to his other hand and leaned his weight on the rail. “Oh?”

  “Yes, suh. She ain’t afraid of workin’. She scrubs in the kitchen just as hard as I do, even though Sibby keep tellin’ her not to.”

  Not a woman of any means or family status. That seemed right. He’d briefly considered that she could be a displaced woman who had lost her home and seized upon a standing house without proper owners. But something about that didn’t fit. Perhaps this Negro child would tell him things the lady might not.

  “Do you know where she comes from?”

  The girl shook her head.

  “What about the baby? Surely his father would like to know he is here?”

  The child shifted her stance. “Don’t know his father.”

  “You mean she didn’t tell you anything about her husband?”

  “That boy’s daddy ain’t her husband.” The little girl wrinkled her nose. “She ain’t got one.”

  Westley’s jaw constricted. As originally suspected, though briefly discarded. A harlot. She’d come here pretending to be a widow to hide her sin, just as Westley first believed when the Martin women said a wife waited for him at home.

  The little girl’s eyes flew wide as she realized she’d said something she ought not. “What you gonna do?”

  He growled and turned for the stairs.

  The girl’s repeated question followed him as he made the turn on the landing, but he ignored her. Of course. It made perfect sense. His first instinct of a camp follower had been correct. And of course she would come here!

  Why had he not thought of it sooner? His mother allowed trollops to find succor here. There had been plenty of talk whispered behind gloved hands, and certainly such gossip openly circulated amongst the unfortunate women.

  Miss Whitaker came to find such aid, only to discover his mother dead and no help to be found. So, she had taken advantage of Sibby’s softness toward children and plotted to take over his household!

  Anger heated with each painful step he took until it nearly bubbled over by the time he reached the top of the stairs. The nursery. She would be in there.

  Rather than step out of the upper hall onto the rear porch and enter the nursery by the outer door, he decided to cut through his mother’s room instead.

  Another thought sprang to mind, and he forced himself to reconsider. What if some renegade soldier had forced himself upon a hapless woman and the child had resulted? He’d heard tales of such from both armies. Perhaps he jumped to accusations too quickly. In either case, however, he could not alter his course! She could not stay any more than he. Better he stomp out any intrigue he felt for her and end this farce before it could get any worse!

  With sweat on his palm he clasped the doorknob and flung open the door to the rose painted room…and nearly lost his composure over the sight before him.

  Ella screamed and dropped to the floor behind the bed, her heart hammering wildly. What in tarnation was that man doing in her bedroom? Holding the widow’s dress she’d been changing out of up to her chest, Ella peered over the top of the bed.

  Mr. Remington stood frozen in her doorway, his face contorted in an odd mixture of anger, confusion, and embarrassment.

  Ella seethed. How dare he fling open her door unannounced? Just because this was his house…. she stilled. Owner of Belmont or not, he didn’t have the right. Did he?

  Mr. Remington appeared to regain some of his senses and narrowed his eyes. Had he not the common decency to avert his eyes? Humiliation pulsed with the flutter of her heart. Worst of all, he did not seem to be inclined to shut the door.

  “What are you doing?” Ella screeched.

  The muscles in his jaw convulsed. “What are you doing in my mother’s bedroom?”

  Changing! She’d thought to put her work dress back on before going to face the man once more. Perhaps then he would see her less as the woman pretending to be a widow and more as a poor working woman in need of employment. Never did she expect for him to burst into her room!

  “This is the room Sibby told me to sleep in,” she said, keeping her tone measured as best as she could. “The better to be near my son.”

  “You do not stay in the nursery with him?”

  She clenched her fists. First he would not give her the consideration of allowing her to dress before he continued to question her, but now he thinly veiled his insinuation that she fell short as a mother. “Sibby sleeps in there so she can feed him when he wakes in the night.”

  The man stood even more rigid, and his forehead creased above the eyes that bore into her.

  After a few more heartbeats, Ella could take it no longer. “Sir! If you don’t mind, I would like to finish dressing before we continue this most inappropriate conversation.”

  Surprise startled him from whatever contemplations overtook his mind, and his dark eyes focused on her once more. Then, ridiculously, they lit with an indecorous amusement.

  The heat burning in her face intensified. “Be gone!”

  The man had the gall to smirk at her before finally stepping back and pulling the door closed. The nerve! And here she thought that plantation gentlemen would surely act more civilized than those that had come upon a woman traveling alone. She ground her teeth. No. She would not think on that.

  Miscreant or not, she would have to face him. Still on her knees, Ella pulled the faded tan dress over her head, buttoned the clasps at the base of her throat, then climbed to her feet to shake the skirt down over her petticoat.

  “Are you finished yet?”

  The deep timber of his voice permeated the door and Ella startled. He listened at the threshold! Furious, she rounded the bed and flung open the door. He stood there, propped on his cane as though nothing untoward had just occurred.

  She tried to steady herself. “Mr. Remington….”

  “Major.”

  She inwardly groaned. “Major Remington. I am very sorry you did not expect to find me in your house, and I can understand how you must feel, but bursting in on a woman in private quarters is simply unacceptable.”

  “As my mother is dead, I did not expect her private quarters to be occupied.”

  Ella crossed her arms. “Yet, once you saw the room was used, you still did not remove yourself.”

  He shrugged, and Ella’s blood pounded. Such arrogance!

  He narrowed his dark eyes on her, his gaze unabashedly roaming over her from face to foot. She forced herself to remain still.

  “Odd, really. Not at all what I expected.”

  She blinked at him. Whatever could he mean?

  “Regardless, it simply won’t do.” His brow creased. “I must insist that you find alternative accommodations.”

  Her heart tripped over itself. “But, please, sir. Surely I can continue to work for my keep?”

  He shook his head. “That won’t be possible. You see—”

  “Mista Westley!” Sibby burst into the room, the bundled child in her arms. She glanced to Ella, who must have looked stricken, because Sibby’s frown deepened and she crossed over to her.

  As Sibby passed the baby to Ella, she spoke low. “I is right sorry. Once he’s had his say, ain’t no changin’ it.
But I’ll see what help I mights can find for you.”

  Speechless, Ella could only nod as she pulled Lee against her. Oh, my sweet wee one. What shall we do now?

  Mr., ah, Major Remington cleared his throat. “Sibby. I have many things I need to discuss with you.”

  “Yes, suh. I done figured that.” She tossed a look at Ella before following him to the stairs.

  The major glanced back at Ella. “And you and I will continue this discussion later.”

  Ella turned away before he could see the moisture that blurred her vision. She closed the door to the room that would no longer be hers, placed a tearful kiss on the baby’s brow, and then began to pray.

  Each step sent pain flaring up his leg, regardless of how much of his weight he attempted to place on the cane. By the time Westley reached the bottom of the stairs, beads of sweat formed across his brow and attempted to slide toward his eyes, lines of moisture betraying his weakness. He grunted and used his free hand to smear them away.

  “Dat leg hurtin’ you much, Mista Westley?”

  He regarded the woman as he paused to rest in the foyer. “Why do you call me that?”

  A spark glinted in her eye. “We don’t call no man Masta no more, suh.”

  He grunted again and turned toward the back of the stairs to the doorway that would see him to the comfort of the library. “You were free years before Lincoln’s proclamation. What does that matter?”

  “Just do, suh.”

  He could understand that, he supposed, but that had not been the reason for his question. “Regardless, that is not the issue. I simply ask why you askew my military title.”

  Some of the defiance left her voice. “Oh. Sorry, suh. You wants I should call you Major Remington?”

  She followed slowly behind him and waited until he settled his frame into a leather chair near the fireplace. “Yes. That is my preference.” How odd she thought anything different.

  He resisted the show of frailty rubbing his leg would bring. Already he had revealed far too much of his pain. His men would be ashamed of him. A warrior crumbled by his pitiful intolerance of a little discomfort.

  Sibby looked at her feet, twisting her hands.

  Westley watched her, wondering how long it would take before she started talking. He waited.

  Just when he suspected he might have to voice questions they both knew he wanted answers to, she launched an assault on words that sent them spraying from her mouth like shrapnel.

  “I had no idea that girl was gonna show up on the porch. But she came right on up with that baby, and he was just a squallin’. I knew he need somebody to feed him, so I took him and left her out there with them soldiers. Truth told, I thought she’d be gone soon as they were. But, no, suh, she came right on in the house and asked me if she could stay here.”

  Westley ran a hand through his hair. “I would have thought the same. Usually the women Mother had here did not stay long, especially once they got what they wanted from us.”

  Her face contorted in confusion, but she merely nodded.

  She said no more, so Westley prompted, “So she told you that she claimed to be my wife…?”

  Sibby twisted her hands in front of her again. “Yes, suh. And, well, it seemed like a good idea. Seeing as we done thought you was dead and all.”

  In other circumstances, Westley might have laughed. “I see.”

  “What you going to do with her now? She ain’t going to leave that baby.”

  Hmm. A harlot who loved her child and refused to abandon him in order to return to her profession. Had she by chance been forced into it in order to survive? Become a camp follower who intended to do laundry and ended up taking payment for men to come to her tent instead? He’d seen it happen too many times.

  Westley settled deeper into the comfort of the chair, every muscle in him aching for a bed. Ironic, seeing how he had been so desperate to escape one not too long ago. He regarded Sibby. If he told her now of his plans to sell the place, then she would only fly into a fit he didn’t feel like dealing with at the moment.

  “I’ll think on it and decide tomorrow.”

  She pressed her lips into a line and stared at him, something flickering in her eyes.

  “What?”

  She shifted her weight. “Well, there’s somethin’ else you needs to know.”

  He propped his elbow on the armrest and rubbed his temple. “What?”

  “Well, Miss Ella told them soldiers that we was going to share the crops between the colored folks. I thought that there was a good idea at first, ’till I discovered we ain’t got no good seed to plant.”

  None of that mattered. If the soldiers came back to check on the situation, Westley would take it in hand.

  “Then another soldier came and we thought he was goin’ to come see if we did like she said we was goin’ to do. But that weren’t what he came for.”

  Interest piqued, Westley leaned forward. “Then what did he come for?”

  “He said we gots two weeks to pay all the taxes else they is takin’ the place.”

  Not unexpected, but inconvenient all the same. “When was this?”

  She counted on her fingers. “Week ago, I think.”

  Westley groaned. One week to find a buyer, or else he would have to pay the taxes from his personal accounts. He had the funds—his father had been wise to move all of his accounts to northern banks and place them under Westley’s care—but he did not want to dip into them if he didn’t have to. He preferred to sell, then settle all debts from that.

  “What you gonna do, suh?”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  She seemed like she wanted to ask more, but his expression likely told her that would not be wise. “I done sent Basil to get your room ready, suh.”

  Westley gave his approval, then thought better of it. “No. Prepare my father’s room instead.”

  Sibby’s forehead furrowed. “But, suh, that room….”

  Connected to Miss Whitaker’s, he knew. “I am Master here now, am I not?”

  Something in her eyes hardened, but she dipped her chin. “Yes, suh. I’ll get it done.”

  She turned and started out the door, her spine stiff.

  “And have a bath heated as well. I could use one,” he called as she scurried out.

  “Yes, suh.”

  Westley frowned, wondering what had made her fortify her defenses. He lolled his head back. What a lout! He’d meant as the owner of the house, he would lay claim to the man’s bedroom in the main section of the house rather than his childhood chamber on the side wing. Not that he meant to be master here in the way that had died with the war. He groaned. He didn’t wish to antagonize Sibby over a misunderstanding about Belmont’s most comfortable bed.

  Or perhaps you seek less a feather bed than an excuse to be nearer the imposter.

  He grabbed hold of the thought and flung it aside. Only to keep a closer eye on her. He forced his thoughts back to Sibby and the others who might remain here. Yank or not, master or no, this was still his house, and the people living within it should respect his orders just as the men under his command—understanding he did what he thought best for all.

  Except these people were not soldiers, and he acted the cad. The pain pulsing in his leg harmonized with the throb in his temple, swelling to a tormenting symphony.

  Westley groaned. Home again to a house he didn’t want, to aid servants who bucked under his care, and deal with a wife he didn’t marry. He dropped his chin to his chest. Perhaps he should have started reading from that Bible after all.

  But then, how could things possibly get any worse?

  The soft glow of early morning had breached the drawn curtains, marched across the floor, and roused Westley from fitful slumber some time ago. How long, exactly, he couldn’t say. But long enough that the thoughts vying for attention in his head now gave way to the study of the movements and voices on the other side of the door.

  The singing captivated him first. A ten
der hymn of grace that resurfaced memories of his mother humming the same tune. He listened to the young mother on the other side of the door as she sang to her child and wrestled with the decision he had to make. Then those sweet sounds turned to low whispers that pulled him from the comfort of the quilts.

  Westley palmed the loathsome cane and pushed to his feet, slowly making his way closer to the portal that separated him from the odd woman on the other side. Bare soles hardly making a sound, he pressed his ear to the door.

  “Miss Ella, there ain’t nothin’ I can do.”

  “I can’t leave him, Sibby.”

  “If you take him, who gonna feed him? You sure ’nough can’t do it.”

  A small sob broke through the plains of the door and lanced him. The muscle in his jaw convulsed. How could he, in good conscience, separate mother and child? Or worse, toss them out so that both might starve? What had happened that she could not nurse her child?

  “Come with me then, Sibby.”

  Westley tried to shield himself against the desperate words, but they only sank farther into his resolve.

  “Can’t do that, neither. Got too many people here that needs me.”

  “I cannot….”

  The words dissolved and Westley pressed his ear closer.

  “I cannot lose the only one I have.”

  The pain in the woman’s voice rallied a long forgotten desire to protect, and Westley groaned. The whispers on the other side of the door carried a frantic tone, then moved away. He set his teeth against the ache in his leg and moved across the room to endure the tribulation of dressing.

  He’d donned his trousers and linen shirt when the expected knock came at the door to the upper hall. “Suh?” Sibby said loudly enough to be heard through the closed door.

  Westley fastened the top button. “Yes, Sibby?”

  “You be needin’ any help?”

  “No.”

  A prolonged silence. “I got food made, if you wants any.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair, noting that it now curled above his ears and called, “Thank you, I shall be down shortly.”

  A thought gripped him and he hobbled to the door. When he opened it, Sibby still stood on the other side, as though she had no intention of moving on while he finished his morning ablutions. He studied her a moment. “I’d like Miss Whitaker to join me for breakfast. We have things to discuss.”