"General!"
Margaret jumped back, but Ashton held her firm, his arms like iron bands. There was a softness in his expression, and he, too, seemed startled by more than just the housekeeper's voice.
"Mrs. Thaw," he said in reply without turning to face her. "I'll be with you directly, Mrs. Thaw." His voice was strained, and Margaret saw Mrs. Thaw shake her head with strident disapproval and stalk out of the room.
"Margaret." He took a deep breath. "Will you marry me?"
"Yes," she said softly, still in a daze. "Yes." A broad grin spread across his face, and his sun-bronzed cheeks flushed with delight. He leaned down to kiss her once more, but she halted him abruptly with her hand. "Ash!"
He stopped, his countenance suddenly unreadable. "What's the date?" she asked.
His eyes narrowed as he stared over her shoulder, and again she was astonished by how magnificent he was, a face of hard and even planes, but such expressive eyes and mouth.
"Let me see," he muttered. "Today is Thursday, October twenty-second, 1863."
"Oh," she swallowed, swaying slightly in his embrace.
"Is anything wrong?"
She closed her eyes for a few moments, then brightened and gazed straight into his face. "Ash! Your birthday is in three weeks!"
"Margaret," he said softly. "I have to return to my command. Do you want to marry me now, or on my next—"
"Now," she cut off his words, an involuntary shudder coursing through her body. This birthday would be his last. For she knew that sometime next summer, General Ashton Powell Johnson, C.S.A., would be killed by one of General William T. Sherman's crack sharpshooters.
Unless, of course, his wife could prevent it.
Chapter 7
Night came swiftly, and with it flickering candles and the strange noises of darkness. Never had Margaret experienced such complete blackness. There were no car headlights, no wavering house lights in the distance, no streetlamps or blinking airplanes in the sky. There was nothing.
"What time is it?" she whispered to Ashton, who was reading a book in the dim light cast by two candles.
"The downstairs clock struck ten a few minutes ago." His voice was warm in the chill of the room. She was wrapped in two blankets, he wore his gray jacket —at her insistence. The cold did not seem to bother him in the least, yet Margaret was frozen to the bone.
"It's a bit nippy in here," she said, moving her finger between her teeth to keep them from chattering. Ashton closed his book softly and smiled, his face illuminated by the candle's warm orangish glow. He stood up, placing the book on the chair, and lifted a candle, cupping his hand in front of the flame to prevent it from blowing out as he walked.
In a few muscular strides he was beside her, sitting on the bed, resting the fluttering candlestick on the small table beside her. Wordlessly, he took her in his powerful embrace, wrapping the wool jacket around her, placing her arms between his coat and his chest.
There she found warmth, the heat radiating from his body vanquished all of her chills. She snuggled closer, her hands roaming over his back, her head tucked in the crook of his neck.
And for the first time she could remember, Margaret felt completely safe.
"I apologize, Margaret." His eyes shot to the empty, cold fireplace. "We're woefully short on firewood here. The trees and branches outside are too damp to burn. Tomorrow I'll chop up a few of those chairs you hate so much . . ."
"Do they have webbed feet?"
"Those are the ones."
"Don't you dare touch them! They're fantastic, Ash. It's not worth it to burn them just for a few moments warmth. No way."
He shook his head. "You are a changeling, Mag."
Her hands moved up his back, and between his shoulder blades, just to the left of his spine, she felt a scar, a ridge that seemed to extend the width of his back.
"What happened?" she asked softly, her voice wavering.
He didn't answer for a few moments, and then she felt his voice against her ear, his breath caressing her cheek.
"That was a gift from a Union saber at Chancellorsville."
"Ouch," she murmured, stroking the scar gently.
There was the soft rumble of his laugh. "I believe I said something along those lines at the time," he chuckled.
At once she pulled back and stared into his eyes, potent even in the faint glow. "Were you there when Stonewall Jackson was killed?"
His gaze raked over her, and he gave a single, swift nod before pulling her against him once again. Suddenly Margaret felt a hard, bitter lump rise in her throat, and she closed her eyes against the tears that were stinging like a thousand needles.
She had always been so cocksure of who was "right" and "wrong" in this war. In her studies she had gloried in the triumphs of the Union, admiring the determination of the South, but she knew who was going to win the war—it was a fact she had known since she was a child.
And here was a man, sheltering her from the cold, who was on the other side, who had witnessed their brightest hope—General Jackson—fall in friendly fire, by the musketry of their own Confederate sharpshooters. The man who held her close had been wounded, had faced defeat, and would see his cause stumble before he himself would fall.
Her arms began to shake with silent sobs, and she buried her face in his chest. He stroked her hair gently and tilted her face toward his own.
"Mag?" He was stunned by the tears flowing so freely from her face, dampening his shirt, leaving her long black lashes luminous in their wake. He had never seen her cry.
"How?" Her voice was a shattered whimper, and she swallowed and began again. "How can you possibly go on?" He glanced away uncertainly, resting his lean cheek against the top of her head. "How can I not?" he said simply.
Margaret took a deep breath, trying to compose herself, to get her fragmented emotions under control. And she closed her eyes as Ashton inhaled her scent, his large hand moving along her neck, the roughened thumb settling on the base of her throat. He felt her sharp intake of breath, the quickening of her pulse.
Just as he lowered his head to claim her mouth in a kiss, the deep silence of the night was broken by the sound of thundering, galloping hoofbeats.
An excited voice pierced the dark. "General Johnson!"
Ashton smiled sadly at Margaret, detaching her arms from under his jacket. A chill licked her bare arms as she felt the cold air once again.
"I'm sorry, my love." His voice was thick with regret.
He stood up and walked to the window, the slight limp more pronounced, buttoning his jacket.
"Scouts," he said softly. Then he turned to her, and even in the indistinct light of the room, she was awed by the sight of the man before her.
He was, quite simply, the very ideal of a Confederate officer, of any officer. He was broad and defiant, commanding even in silence. The beautifully cut uniform, although slightly loose on his lanky body, was nothing short of splendid. He emanated power. She had an absurd desire to salute.
"I'll be back," And then he was gone.
Although she knew exactly where he was and could hear his booted footsteps on the staircase, then on the porch, she felt an aching sense of loss. The room, without Ashton, seemed very big and cold.
Still wrapped in the blanket, she stepped out of bed, halting against the momentary dizzy spell. She then continued to the window, where she saw Ash in deep discussion with four other men in ragtag uniforms. He clapped one of the men on the shoulder, and although the face was indistinct in the moonlight, she could tell by the man's posture that he had just been commended.
A bit of extraneous information flashed into her mind, and she recalled an account of General Johnson by one of his men. The quote came to her complete, word for word, as was often the case when she did consuming research. A piece of information would reveal itself, something she had read and somehow memorized. This had been in a green book at Columbia's library, published in the early nineteen hundreds, called Recollections of a War Long G
one.
"He was always quick with a word of praise, and tempered criticism with a smile or a soft joke. On the field there was none more gallant, and his example brought out the best in those around him. He was much beloved by his men."
An unfamiliar feeling swept through her, intense and poignant. And Margaret, the Yankee scholar, realized she was proud, to the point of exploding, of her Confederate general.
The scouts brought information that had Mrs. Thaw up and packing by dawn the next morning: The Yankees were coming.
The Federals were still at a distance of some fifty miles, but they planned to pass through Magnolia within the next few days.
Ashton had slept in the other room, and Margaret awoke a dozen times, disoriented, wondering where she was. The coarse linen sheets and the frosty air around her were a sharp reminder. She was in 1863 Tennessee, engaged to a Confederate general, and inhabiting the body of the most beautiful woman since—or until—a young Elizabeth Taylor would hit the scene.
All in all, she mused, it beat the hell out of teaching Beowulf.
There was a soft knock on her door just as a hazy new sun gleamed off the dark furniture.
"Come in," her new voice purred, and Margaret wondered if she could sing.
Ashton grinned when he saw her, wrapping a large arm around her shoulder as he kissed her forehead.
"Good morning, love," he said.
"Morning," she returned, aware that she was probably smiling like a besotted idiot.
"Do you feel well enough to travel? We could probably wait a day, but I do believe it would be best to clear out as soon as possible. And I need to telegraph General Lee about the troop movements."
"I feel wonderful," she sighed, and meant it. Whoever had been sick, Margaret or Mag, was apparently completely well.
Ashton began to leave the room. "I fear you won't be able to take much, Mag." He gestured to the massive closet packed with clothes. "There is a chance the Yankees will loot this place, so choose what you want with care. We'll bury anything of value in the backyard under the big elm tree. I would burn the house down, but there's no need to announce our location."
"They won't find it," she said with certainty. "They'll destroy the campus but leave 'Rebel's Retreat.'"
"Who can tell?" he shrugged, looking around the room. Margaret knew by his expression exactly what he was thinking—this was the last time he'd be there in the home he had built. His eyes snapped to hers,
and his features softened. "Do you need help getting dressed? I'll send up Mrs. Thaw if you wish." "I'll be fine. I think I can handle a few buttons." Half an hour later, Margaret wondered if she had spoken too soon. It was one thing to read about the layers of undergarments and petticoats and another to actually try to wear them. There were drawers filled with springy hoops and stays, corsets that looked like medical devices, lace chemises, a paper box filled with gloves, short and long, kid and cotton.
Margaret finally selected a dress, a plain wool gown of indigo blue with two dozen jet buttons down the front. Or the back, Margaret wasn't quite sure. She pulled out a pair of black leather half boots, some cotton stockings that had seen better days, but looked warm, a lace chemise and a tie-at-the waist pair of drawers that had a slit in the crotch. The hoops and crinolines were hopeless, some completely round, others flat in the front.
At last she was dressed, but there were a few serious problems. From the way the gown fit, it was supposed to button down the back, but that would be impossible without someone else to do the buttoning, so she reversed it. Now, however, her breasts were flattened, the buttons pulled taut to the point of erupting. And there was a definite billowing in the back, where breasts should be. So Margaret improvised, wrapping a fringed, paisley shawl around her shoulders to cover the top. Fine, she thought.
The length of the gown was another problem, about four inches too long to walk on even flat surfaces without hiking up the hem. She supposed she needed to wear a hoop, but it was like a massive Slinky, ready to twist and flip on its own. She decided to simply hold up the skirt. Brushing her hair was fun, long, luxurious black tresses unlike any Margaret had ever seen, much less grown on her own head. She could find no hairpins—a relief, since she wouldn't know what to do with them if she could locate them—but she knew that she couldn't leave the hair loose. In a drawer she found what she assumed was a blue velvet snood. At least, she prayed it was a snood and not some form of exotic underwear.
Since she had broken the mirror the day before, she was forced to tuck her hair into the net blindly, feeling for stray curls and wisps, tightening the snood with the silk drawstring.
"There," she said with finality, glancing down at the small booted feet, the full skirt, the shawl barely concealing a generous bust and an impossibly tiny waist.
She made the bed and straightened up the room, folding the blankets neatly and fluffing the down pillows. Running a finger over the carved unicorns on the bed, she, like Ashton, wondered when she would next return, if at all.
The steps downstairs were troublesome to negotiate. Not only was the heavy skirt a hindrance, but everything seemed so large. The last time she had gone down these stairs, she had been over a foot taller and barefoot. The railing was higher, the thickness of the banister made her new hand seem all the more childlike. Slowly she descended the stairs, her eyes narrowing as she saw the mirror on the wall.
Instinctively she went to it—it was exactly where she had seen it last. But now it was much higher to her. Instead of seeing her full face and shoulders, Margaret could barely view the upper portion of her head.
The face she saw was, indeed, extraordinary. Her eyes were startling, a violet-blue she had once seen in an advertisement for tinted contact lenses. Yet these eyes were real, surrounded by lashes so thick and black, they would put any self-respecting drag queen to shame. She couldn't tell if the eyebrows had been plucked, but they were delicately arched over the eyes, set into a brow of smooth, pure alabaster.
The nose, too, was flawless, but completely natural, straight and fine. Tilting her head back, heavy with the thick hair, she could see the mouth, full and red and slightly parted to reveal white teeth, small and perfect.
Only Margaret knew Mag was missing a back tooth. Margaret and, of course, Ashton.
She stepped back, regarding the lovely face with detached admiration, the way one studies a painting or a piece of jewelry. This was who Ashton loved, not Margaret.
Her hand crept to her throat, the movement graceful, reflected in the mirror.
Suddenly she was aware of laughter in the kitchen, and she followed the sounds, trying to ignore the awful feeling of despair that threatened to overtake her. This is who he loved, she thought, glancing down again at the beautiful woman she had become, the female perfection she had borrowed.
"Hi." She smiled, stepping into the kitchen. Mrs. Thaw spun around and stared at Margaret, her eyes growing wide with disbelief.
"Miss Mag? You dressed yourself?" Mrs. Thaw's mouth hung open.
The four scouts were in the kitchen drinking coffee, although Margaret couldn't detect the scent. They sprang to their feet, young men all, nervous as colts.
"Ma'am," one mumbled.
"Howdy, hello, ma'am," another with a garish plaid vest under a gray-green jacket croaked. The other two stood in respectful silence.
"Good morning. I'm Margaret." She extended her hand to each of them, and they all grinned back, reddening and shifting on their feet. She noticed they all had hardened hands like Ashton.
"The general's out getting your horse ready, ma'am. He'll be back presently."
Her horse. Damn, she thought. She was terrified of horses, ever since a circus pony named Pretzels had bitten her when she was twelve. He was a nasty, mean-spirited animal; and she could never again face a horse without experiencing an awful sense of doom, which made her, of course, the perfect choice for a cavalry general's wife.
With difficulty she managed to straighten her shoulders and turn to Mrs.
Thaw. "May I help you?" she asked.
Mrs. Thaw's hand shot to her chest, and she backed away. "Why no, Miss Mag. I'll get you some coffee."
"Great! I could sure use a cup . , ." Her voice trailed off as she saw the brownish-beige liquid Mrs. Thaw poured from a pot. There was virtually no fragrance to the brew, and Margaret sipped it slowly.
"This is the best peanut shell coffee I've ever had, Mrs. Thaw," said one of the scouts. And Margaret suddenly felt like a fool—of course there was no real coffee. These people probably hadn't tasted genuine coffee since the war began.
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