She clutched the fabric at her chest. Seek, he had said, find the truth. The truth about what made her special. Ella looked at dark circles that gathered under her eyes. Special. She wanted to spit the word. Why had her mind conjured such a thing? What cruel jest did it play upon her, tempting her to look for something beautiful where nothing existed?
Ella pressed her lips into a line. She would have to forget that dream, else she would too deeply ache to return to it. She arranged her features so that the woman returning her stare appeared calm and in control.
Then she gathered her defenses and strode from the room.
Westley rapped the head of his cane on the neighbor’s door and stepped back. Dew clung to the grass and made diamonds drip from green spears. To his right, a bird called to its mate in the early moments of a new day. Hopefully, the dowager wouldn’t be too furious with him for tapping upon her door at this inappropriate hour.
The Martins’ home, Riverbend, sat in the curve of the Mississippi and was, therefore, aptly named. Many men, Westley’s father among them, had told Mr. Martin he’d built his mansion much too near to the river, but the man didn’t listen to reason. Westley wondered how long it would be before the mighty Mississippi overflowed her banks again and Riverbend washed away.
Westley stepped forward to knock again when the heavy oak door creaked open and a Negro woman with a plump middle and gray hair peered out at him. Her eyes darted behind him as though she expected someone to accompany him.
“I am Major Remington, here to ask an important neighborly favor of Mrs. Martin, if you please.”
Her eyes widened with recognition and she bobbed her head. “Come on in whilst I go gets the missus. She just done got up.”
Westley entered the house and didn’t bother removing his hat. He wouldn’t be staying long. The woman scurried away and left him alone in the entry. Westley frowned. It seemed Miss Martin had not been exaggerating. No paintings hung on the walls, no rug donned the floor, and, from where he stood, Westley couldn’t see a single stick of furniture.
If he didn’t know better, he might assume the house had been abandoned. The click of heels turned his attention to the stairs. Mrs. Martin, wearing what he thought to be the same deep navy blue dress he’d seen her in last time, descended the stairs with a look of surprise.
“Mr. Remington. What brings you to Riverbend? And at this hour?”
He dipped at the waist. “My apologies for arriving unannounced, and so early in the morning.”
“Indeed. We haven’t even taken our breakfast yet.” She offered her hand.
He bowed over it and gave the slightest whisper of his lips over her papery knuckles. “My sincerest apologies.” She opened her mouth, but he didn’t give her a chance to pepper him with a lesson on manners. “And, I must also apologize for my behavior when last we saw one another. I fear it was rather barbaric of me not to bid you a proper goodbye. I do hope you will forgive my indecency and not let it come between long-standing neighbors.”
She regarded him flatly. “Very well. You are forgiven. One can let such things go, I assume, given the circumstances you found yourself in.” Mrs. Martin looked behind him. “Has your wife joined you? Opal has been asking after her. We don’t have all that much, but I suppose you could join us at the meal.”
Westley shook his head. “I’m afraid not, on both accounts.”
Something sparked in her eyes and she appeared relieved. Were things so dire at Riverbend that they could not afford to invite neighbors to dine with them? If the furnishings were any indication, it appeared that may very well be the case.
Westley cleared his throat. “And the reason she is not at my side,” he said, carefully avoiding both using her true name or calling her his wife, “is the very reason why I have come to call so early.”
“Oh?”
“The baby has fallen quite ill, and it is imperative I go to find the doctor. I’ve come to beg the use of your carriage so that I do not have to walk all the way to town.”
Mrs. Martin fingered the fabric at her throat. “Oh, my. That is just terrible.” She seemed sincere, the concern in her eyes replacing notes of suspicion. “Of course you may use our carriage. I’ll send for Freddie to ready it for you.”
Westley gave a slight bow. “I am in your debt.”
A quarter hour later, after a promise that when the baby was healthy Ella would come to call on Miss Martin, Westley snapped the reins and turned the pair of ragged geldings toward town.
The steady plod of the horses’ hooves reminded him of the ticking of a clock. Time that slipped away from him—his time at Belmont, his time away from the army, the time the child might have left if he did not find the doctor soon enough.
He tapped the reins and brought the horses to a trot, the rough gait jostling their harnesses and vibrating Westley in the seat. They didn’t carry on that way for long, however, until they eased back into a lumbering walk. Poor beasts. They looked as though they’d had a tough winter. If he’d thought himself up to the task, he would have only asked for one to ride into town rather than tiring both with the carriage just for himself. Perhaps he could repay them with a sack of oats for the creatures. He would need to find his own horse. He would not want to lean on the Martins’ thin resources again.
After a time Greenville unfolded before him, every bit as gray as it had been when he’d first arrived. How long had that been? Days? It seemed months. In so short a time one scarlet-haired female had upended his life. A woman whom the Martins, and who knew how many others, still thought to be his wife.
Westley set his jaw as he passed ruined buildings and blackened bricks. Why hadn’t he corrected them? While he waited on the carriage and the women asked after Ella, it would have been the perfect time to lay out the truth. And still he’d hesitated.
Westley pulled the carriage to a stop and looped the reins over the wooden hitching post outside of the general store. Everything within him declared the dishonor of withholding the truth about the nature of their relationship, but he’d done it all the same.
Westley slapped the dust off his hat and tucked it under his arm. Not many folks moved around this time of the day. They were likely still taking the morning meal. Good. The fewer people he saw in Greenville, the better. Westley stepped inside, and the proprietor greeted him.
“Good mornin’, sir. What can I do for ya?”
Westley let some of his childhood accent slide back into his words, hopeful it would set the other man at ease. He didn’t want the man to clam up out of spite. “Mornin’, good sir. Do you know where I might find the doctor?”
The man scratched his thinning hair. “I’m sorry to say we haven’t had one come through here in some time, mister.”
Westley kept his features even. “A nurse, then perhaps? Anyone who might take a look at an ill infant?” He’d have someone look at Sibby, too, but he’d seen enough wrongly-turned ankles to know that all she needed was time off of it.
Compassion lit in the man’s eyes. “This your first babe to get sick?”
The question startled him. “I, um, yes. It is.”
The man waved to another customer that entered. “Then count yourself lucky, fellow. Most of us have lost too many of our children these last few years. The ones the fires and starvation didn’t take, the sicknesses did. Can’t tell you how many mothers buried little ones this last winter. Cemetery’s half full of ’em.”
Westley stared at him.
“Better that you ain’t had none till now. Now that there’s at least a little hope they might survive what ruined this country.”
The man wagged his head and Westley’s blood felt too thick to push through his veins. He dared not comment on the man’s declaration. There was nothing he could do for already-lost children. All he could do was try to save the one he’d held in his hands. “Is there no one who can help? He is only a few weeks old.”
The old man offered a sad smile. “What kind of sickness?”
West
ley lifted his palms. “He’s been coughing a lot. Sounds a bit strangled.”
The older man glanced around and waved him closer. “Might be the whooping cough. Lots of the babes have been getting it.”
Westley leaned across the counter that separated them. “Do you know how to treat it?”
“I got something stored in the back. But not much of it, mind.”
Westley narrowed his eyes. Something about the way the man said it grated against him. His suspicions tingled. “Very well. I can use whatever amount you have.”
The man assessed Westley, then disappeared behind a door in the back. A moment later he returned with a small brown bottle and slid it across the counter.
Paregoric Elixir.
Westley turned the concoction over in his palm. “And this will cure it?”
The man rubbed the back of his neck. “Can’t say for sure that it will. But it does help with the coughing fits.”
The man gave Westley a price and he nearly dropped the bottle. “Are you mad, man?”
The proprietor dared to look offended. “Do you not know how rare these medicines are?” He lowered his voice as though the words he spoke were some grave secret. “Have you been living in a cave somewhere?” He narrowed his eyes. “Who are you, anyway?”
Westley set his jaw and fished currency from his pocket. “I can pay you in Federal funds. But only half.”
The man’s eyes lit with greed. No doubt the Federal funds, even though only half of the price he’d asked for, would be worth twice as much. Confederate bills were useless. Westley handed over the currency and the man snatched the money away as though Westley might change his mind.
“I have some amber oil, too. You rub it on the neck and chest. Not as good as the elixir, mind, but helps a lot, too.”
Westley pressed his lips in a line. Did this man seek to take advantage of him? Would the things even work? His mind jumped back to Ella and how desperately she clung to the child in the night.
He glared at the man. “A bag of oats, too.”
The proprietor grinned and snatched most of what remained of Westley’s funds.
The knock on the door sent Ella hurrying down the stairs. It must be the doctor! A good thing, too, since Lee had started coughing up thickened spittle this morning and had refused to eat again after that first attempt. She dashed off the stairs and scrambled across the foyer.
Ella pulled open the door and her heart lurched. Not the doctor at all! A man in Yankee Blue tipped his cap, his eyes taking in her widow’s blacks. Ella straightened.
Oh, she had forgotten all about him! Of all the days…. Ella forced a tight smile. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, madam. I have come to collect the taxes for this property.”
Her pulse quickened and her mind scrambled for something to say. She’d never managed to get Sibby to agree to anything. “Yes, of course.” She opened the door farther. “Won’t you please come in?”
He hesitated.
Ella gestured inside. Perhaps the invitation would ease the skepticism flashing in his eyes. If she didn’t seem too eager to be rid of him, then perhaps he would think she had nothing to hide. “My husband has returned home, and he will be able to take care of these issues with you.”
“He has?”
Ella widened the door. “Yes, thank the Lord. And if you don’t mind waiting, he should be back from town any time now.” She hoped. “As you know, such things really are better left to men to discuss. Now that he is returned to me, don’t you think it wise you speak to him instead?”
Not bothering to reply, he strode into the house, his eyes carrying over the decorative plaster and papered walls. What else was she going to do but hand the man over to Major Remington?
Oh, please, don’t let him be angry…
Ella gestured to the parlor. “If you will kindly wait here, I shall prepare some refreshments for you.”
“Thank you for your hospitality, madam.” His eyes lingered on her dress, and questions littered his eyes.
Ella laughed nervously. “It is quite a miracle! We thought he was dead, and here he is returned to us!”
He lifted his eyebrows and spoke slowly, as though to a child. “Your husband, the Federal officer, has returned?”
Ella resented the mocking tone, but kept a false smile plastered on her face. “He has, indeed! He will be glad to speak with you upon his return, I’m certain. He will want to get this unpleasant business settled.”
The man regarded her flatly.
Ella gestured toward the furniture. “Won’t you take a seat?”
He stiffly lowered to one of the chairs, his eyes never leaving her face. Before he could say anything else, Ella blurted, “I shall return with refreshments in a moment.” Then she turned in a spray of black fabric and slipped out from under his gaze.
Ella hurried up the stairs and back to the nursery, partially tripping on her skirts in her haste. She flung open the door, her heart galloping. “Sibby!”
The other woman yelped and put a hand to her mouth. “You done scared me!”
Ella closed the door behind her. “That Yankee soldier is back.”
Sibby’s face twisted. “What he want?”
Ella put her hands on her hips. “You know exactly what he wants. We were supposed to be planting fields! And the taxes…” She began to pace. “What are we going to do about the taxes?”
Sibby followed Ella with her eyes. “Why you doin’ all that frettin’?”
Lee began a coughing spasm, his tiny body quivering in the crib. Ella rushed to him just as he retched up a thick wad of mucus. Oh, a Yank in the house and Lee with this horrible sickness! Could this day get any worse? Her stomach twisted, and she felt as though she may try to heave up the empty contents of her stomach as well. She cleaned the baby’s face with the rag sitting in the crib.
“Miss Ella!”
Ella swung around. “What?”
“You gonna give you self flutters.”
Flutters?
“Why you all in a tizzy over that man down there? Mista Westley…Major Westley, he be here now. You lets him worry ’bout that man.”
Sibby’s words, so confidently spoken, eased some of the tightness in Ella’s chest. She’d said such things to the man below, but she didn’t actually believe them. She’d only tried to stall him. But, of course, Sibby was right. This wasn’t her house to worry over! She didn’t need to prove she belonged here, abide by any new Federal laws, or pay any money. None of those responsibilities belonged to her. They belonged to the major.
Ella wrinkled her nose. “He’s waiting in the parlor, and the major isn’t back with the doctor yet.”
“Then you best get him some tea or somethin’. I gots some bread and fig preserves in the kitchen.” She eyed Ella. “You know how to make the tea tray?”
“Of course I do.” She’d worked in a kitchen, after all. How different could that be from serving guests in a fine house?
Sibby held out her arms. “Then you best be givin’ me that boy and get to it.”
Ella clenched her teeth and took the servants’ stairs to the kitchen. By the time she had the bread sliced and the preserves in a small bowl, the tea kettle whistled. She carefully arranged it all on the tray and somehow managed to get it through the house without dropping anything.
She found the Federal man standing stiffly at the parlor door. “I began to think you would not return.”
“My apologies, sir,” she said as she slipped by him and set the tray down. “I’m afraid my maid has injured her ankle, and I had to prepare these things myself.”
“Oh.” He followed her to the center of the room and regained his seat. “Very well, then. How long do you expect your husband to be?” He pulled a watch from his breast pocket and snapped it open.
“My son is sick and Major Remington went to town before dawn to fetch the doctor. I expect them here momentarily.” She poured the tea and handed him the cup. “Sugar? I’m afraid we don’t h
ave any cream.”
“Thank you, no.”
Ella dropped a spoonful of sugar into her own cup and stirred, alarmed to see that her hand shook.
“The doctor, you say?”
Ella held the cup in both hands, afraid the liquid might spill. “Yes.”
The man frowned. “The only doctor anywhere around here left for Memphis three weeks ago. A new one was due last week, but he hasn’t shown up yet.”
Ella’s heart pounded. No, no, that couldn’t be. Then who would look at Lee? Heat flooded her face and blood pulsed in her ears, obscuring the words the man spoke. She didn’t care what he had to say anyway.
If there was no doctor….
Ella swayed. No doctor. No hope. No hope for her wee one….
Ella fanned her face. Hot. Much too hot. Her stomach rolled. “Oh, my, I’m not feeling so well….” She tried to stand and became dizzy.
The edges of her vision turned black and Ella swayed again, dropping back into her chair. The man’s reedy face peered down on her, and then the world faded away.
Walking as briskly as the cane would allow, Westley made the turn from the river road and onto the drive leading to Belmont. The two bottles in his pocket clinked together with each hitched step he took. He hoped the remedies would do until he could present himself at the nearest Federal outpost and ask after a doctor. Even if the town didn’t have one, the army would.
His cane crunched the rocks along the road, in harmony with the throb that gained intensity in his leg the longer he walked. Good thing he only had to walk to the Martins’ and back instead of all the way into Greenville. He glanced at the sky, wishing he had a watch. How worked up had Miss Whitaker gotten herself in the hours he’d been gone?
Now that a new day had arrived, would she remember the way she’d wanted him to stay at her side? Would she look at him the way he imagined her eyes sought his in the moonlight? The memory of her whispered words and the desperation in her tears quickened his pace.
As Westley neared the house, the sight of a fine horse in a polished leather saddle brought a furrow to his forehead. The horse, Federal, no doubt, nickered at him as he passed. Westley hurried to the front porch and into the house, ignoring the increased pain in his thigh.
In His Eyes: A Civil War Romance Page 18
