They passed a home with dozens of men sprawled on the lawn, some with bandages over empty sleeves or trouser legs, others simply lying very still. The stench as they passed was almost unbearable.
"Hospital," Ashton said in a soft, emotionless voice. Women were tending the men, not the hoop-skirted belles of her imagination, but strong women carrying buckets, with hair plainly dressed and wearing old, mottled clothing. Margaret said nothing in response. The four-day trip had left her more than exhausted, even her bones felt weary, a heaviness that seemed to weigh her down at the shoulders.
"The road to The Oaks is just ahead," Ashton said a little while later. She simply nodded.
The closer they came to Petersburg, the more formal he had become with the scouts. They were preparing for life in the military, where the general does not tell ghost stories around a fire with privates, where officers are separate and stiff-backed and approachable only for reports and commands.
She fell asleep for a while, and when she awoke they were following a lush, tree-lined path, and she could tell Waffles knew the way. His ears were up, and there was an eagerness to his gait that she had not noticed before.
There was a widening in the road, and then Margaret saw it. The Oaks.
It was smaller than she expected, made of a deep red brick with columns bracing the wide front door. There were two wings branching out from the center building, and the windows were framed by shutters, some opened wide, others closed. The house was surrounded by trees and bushes, and Margaret could see a distinct similarity between the landscaping at The Oaks and that of Rebel's Retreat.
There were noises coming from within, a second-floor shutter was flung open, and a female voice shrieked with joy.
Suddenly Margaret realized an awful truth: she would know absolutely no one at this place. From what she could tell, Mag spent much of her childhood here at The Oaks and was close friends with Ashton's younger brother Eddie as well as his cousins.
"How does it feel, Margaret, to be back at The Oaks?" Ashton was beginning to dismount, and Margaret's mind darted frantically. What should she say? Should she pretend to know everyone or ask them to wear name tags until she could refresh her memory?
He reached up to take her off the horse, and she turned to him, her eyes a reflection of wild panic.
"I don't remember," she murmured.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I don't remember this place or anyone in it. I only know you." She was holding on to the saddle as if she could simply ride away, escape from all she should know so intimately.
Ashton rubbed his eyes with his palm, a gesture of fatigue and disbelief.
"I am not joking, Ashton. I've never seen this place in my life."
Finally he looked at her as his hands clamped around her waist. "You recall nothing? No one?"
Miserably, she shook her head, her hands planted on his shoulders as he lifted her off the horse.
"This is The Oaks," he said tightly. "Presently you will meet my mother, Eliza Branch Johnson. If I am not mistaken, her sister, my Aunt Eppes, is also within. Aunt Eppes was married to William Giles, who died five years ago. Their daughter is Lizzie Giles. Does that name ring a bell?"
She was about to nod, and hesitated. The name Lizzie Giles was familiar, but simply because she had been mentioned in one of Ashton's early letters to Mag. How could she explain recognizing a name from a letter that was fifteen years old now, but deny knowing anything else?
Ashton saw her waver, the uncertainty playing on her brow, then she shook her head. "No," she said. "I do not know the name. Do I like her?"
Fury welled in him, an anger so intense he turned his face away, not wanting her to see his expression. She's doing it again, he thought. Playing her games, teasing him to the very brink of madness.
But she had seen his features twist in fury. He started to walk away.
"General," called one of the scouts, and he stopped. For a moment Ashton had forgotten the others were even there.
In spite of her horse-sore legs, she reached him before the scout, her hand on his bent arm. The scout, seeing the expression on their faces, stopped at once, hanging back until he could again approach the general.
"Ashton, help me," she pleaded, her voice harsh with agony. "Please."
At last he turned to her. He was about to shake her by her shoulders, to demand that she stop this nonsense. As his hands slid over her too-slender shoulders, he stopped. Her face was raised toward his, confusion and even a little fear marring her features. Her gaze was searching, open, and so very unlike Mag that his anger ebbed.
Was it possible that she had no memory of the quarrel last summer between Lizzie and herself? Although he had not been there to witness the scene, his mother had gleefully reported the incident to him through a detailed letter. Apparently, the two women attended the same party in Richmond, and their benign conversation turned toward Ashton. Lizzie, ever protective of her cousin even though he was older by over eight years, stated plainly that she felt Mag had been misusing Ashton and should either discard him altogether or play him fair. Mag responded in equally plain terms that Lizzie's time would be better spent finding her own beau rather than in meddling with others. The exchange soon escalated into a near hair-pulling joust, stopped only by Aunt Eppes's frantic intervention. Since then the two had studiously avoided each other.
"Do you like her?" Ashton repeated Margaret's question, and she gave a little, hopeful smile and nodded. "Well, I suppose it would be fair to say that you two are like . . . sisters."
Margaret responded with a sigh of such blissful joy that Ashton immediately felt a stab of guilt. She must not remember, he realized.
Suddenly the front door of The Oaks flew open, and Lizzie ran down the slight slope of the lawn, arms opened, her gaze fixed only on Ashton.
"Ash!" she cried, all exuberance and airy delight.
Margaret stared at the lovely young woman with wide-set eyes and a slightly square face, like Ashton's. Lizzie's beauty was perhaps a little ahead of its time. She had clear, fresh good looks when the ideal of feminine beauty was more the soft, helpless type pictured on a candy box. This woman was strong and athletic and utterly natural, and Margaret liked her immediately.
"Lizzie!" exclaimed Margaret, throwing her own arms open to receive her, blocking Lizzie's path to Ashton. Margaret fought back her tears—how wonderful it would be to have a sister again!
Locked in Margaret's enthusiastic embrace, Lizzie's startled gaze flew to Ashton, who stood in open-mouthed, mute bewilderment, a slight shrug to his broad shoulders.
"Oh, Lizzie! How splendid to see you!" Margaret sobbed.
Lizzie pulled back slightly, wondering what the trick was. Perhaps Mag had just wiped something unpleasant on Lizzie's last decent day dress or planted a fistful of lice in her hair. But Ashton would have seen it and halted the mischief.
"Hello, Mag," she stammered at last, stunned by Mag's lovely eyes brimming with genuine tears of warmth. "We weren't expecting you . . ."
"Oh, I do hope this isn't an inconvenience. Ash." She turned to him, her delicate hand resting lightly on his forearm. "Ashton, please. I can't impose—let me find someplace else to stay. The last thing I want to do is cause extra work."
"Inconvenience?" Ashton shook his head swiftly, as if trying to jostle sense into his own mind. "No. I mean, Lizzie." He finally grinned at his cousin. "Margaret and I are going to be married. As soon as possible."
Lizzie turned to glare at Mag, but it was impossible. Margaret was staring at her with damp eyes and a quivering lower lip. "How delightful," she finally muttered, watching as Ashton pushed up his hat and scratched his head.
The front door again opened, and a thin woman in a black dress swept down the lawn. Margaret knew at once this was Ashton's mother.
"Ashton!"
Margaret stood'back as Ashton gave his mother a gentle hug. She was tall—much taller than Margaret —and wore her dark hair coiled around her head in a single braid
. At her throat was a brooch made of human hair, glossy light auburn, and Margaret recognized it as a mourning brooch. The hair was probably from her husband or dead children, and Margaret was unable to repress a shiver.
After stroking Ashton's cheek fondly, she looked over at Margaret and nodded politely. "Hello, Mag."
"Hello, Mrs. Johnson," Margaret responded, suddenly feeling very out of place. "Mother, Margaret and I are going to be married." Eliza Johnson looked up at her son and was about to say something when Lizzie jumped in.
"Aunt Eliza, didn't you say there was some tea in the parlor? Why don't we all go inside. The scouts and Mrs. Thaw can make themselves comfortable, too." Ashton's mother shot Margaret an unreadable expression and turned toward the house.
"Maybe I'm paranoid, but I don't believe she likes me," she whispered to Lizzie.
For the first time since she could remember, Lizzie had an urge to hug Mag. "No, Mag," she said softly as Ashton unloaded the saddlebags from the horses and led the scouts and Mrs. Thaw to the back of the house. "She's just been under a great strain with both Eddie and Ash in the war, and her husband gone."
"The poor woman," Margaret said, watching after Ashton's mother with unfeigned sympathy. Lizzie stared at Mag for a few moments, disturbed by the compassion in her voice. Had something happened to change Mag?
Taking her arm, they followed Mrs. Johnson into the house. The interior of The Oaks was quiet and subdued, not the gaudy flamboyance Margaret had somehow expected. Most of the furniture seemed to date from the last century, solid dark wood with graceful curves, more like colonial Williamsburg than antebellum Petersburg. It was just the way Margaret would have decorated the place, if she had the money.
They entered a parlor, where tea things had been laid, small bits of bread and cornbread, several biscuits, and some apples. Margaret averted her eyes, fearing her wanton expression of hunger would be unseemly.
Settled into a wing chair, Margaret folded her hands, very aware that she must smell of horses and dirt, and that her dress was filthy at the hem and her hair disheveled. Ashton's mother and Lizzie were chatting about the weather and Ashton's return, each eyeing Margaret as subtly as possible.
Margaret smiled just as her stomach rumbled, a loud squishy sound that everyone tried to ignore.
"So, Lizzie," she shouted, trying to cover up the next abdominal growl. "How the hell have you been?"
Both Lizzie and Mrs. Johnson gasped, and Margaret cringed, realizing the gaffe. Even soldiers seldom used the word hell except in reference to a sermon. Then the next stomach growl clamored from under her fist, and Margaret cleared her throat to blanket the sound.
Suddenly, Lizzie's mouth began to twitch, and soon it dissolved into a smile.
"I'm doing well, Mag. Would you perhaps like something to eat?"
"Something to eat?" Margaret swallowed, trying not to salivate. "Oh, perhaps . .-."
"What would you prefer?" Lizzie offered a delicate plate of thin china with minute rosebuds dotting the border. Her hand was visible through the plate, fanned out in a clearly defined shadow.
They leaned over the tiered tea table together, and Lizzie whispered. "You must be famished." Then, in a louder voice, "A tea biscuit might strike your fancy."
"So would a side of beef," she whispered into Lizzie's ear, and Lizzie ermpted into a spasm of giggles. "Yes, I believe that would be most pleasant," Margaret announced in a resounding tone.
There was an uncomfortable silence as Lizzie placed the tidbits on Margaret's plate while Ashton's mother did her best to busy herself with a teapot. Margaret glanced around the room, noting family oil paintings, a cluster of botanical prints, and a carefully arranged set of children's silhouettes. There were five of them, and Margaret remembered Ashton telling her he had lost three siblings. The silhouette of the oldest child must have been Ashton, a long-lashed profile of a boy holding a ball. And Margaret knew that somewhere in this house was a sample of Ashton's handwriting with his gold pen, a gift on his tenth birthday.
Lizzie spoke as she handed Margaret the full plate. "Mag," she began, clearing her throat and shooting a cautious gaze at Ashton's mother. "You have finally decided to marry Ashton. I do hope you will be very happy."
Margaret was about to take a bite of biscuit, wondering if she could possibly get away with cramming the whole thing into her mouth at once. She paused for a moment, frowning slightly but never taking her eyes from the biscuit.
"I think," she said softly, "the more important concern is that I make him very happy. There is no doubt in my mind that he will make me happy." She then took a bite and looked up at Lizzie and Mrs. Johnson.
They both stared at her as if she had sprouted a flower pot on top of her head. And she chewed self-consciously, wondering if something ghastly had trickled from the corner of her mouth.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway captured their attention, and Ethan the scout, with an ear-to-ear grin, poked his head into the parlor.
"Miss Margaret, ladies." He then turned to Margaret. "Ma'am, the general wanted me to tell you that he rode into town to telegraph Genera! Lee. He will be back within the hour, and he asks that everyone be ready for a wedding. He said he was going to grab anyone he could find with a collar, begging your pardon.”
Mrs. Johnson was immediately on her feet. "My word! Lizzie, there's so much to do! I'll go to the kitchen and see if I can help Hattie. Gracious! We're out of white flour, and there's none to be had in town. Please, eat no more of the cakes—they will have to do for a wedding cake. Lizzie, do you know where your mother is?"
"Yes, ma'am. I believe Mother went to visit Mrs. Barksdale over at Laurel Hill."
"Well, that can't be helped, I suppose. There's no time to fetch her now," Mrs. Johnson murmured.
"Mrs. Johnson," said Ethan, "I believe Mrs. Thaw is already in the kitchen with your cook, and I would be happy to get anyone you would require, ma'am,"
Mrs. Johnson smiled warmly at Ethan, and together they left the room. Ashton's mother did not so much as glance at Margaret.
With a sudden wave of uneasiness, Margaret placed the plate on the tea table, all traces of hunger gone. She scanned her dress, torn and dirty, and the frayed stockings and scuffed boots. What a fetching bride she was going to make, she thought miserably. The dress would count as something old and something blue, and her body could certainly be considered something borrowed. "Mag, would you like me to help you freshen up?" Lizzie asked gently.
Margaret could only nod. Poor Ashton, soon to be married to a woman who looked as if she'd slept in her clothing. And she had—for the past three nights. The least she could do was brush her hair and wash her face.
"I'd appreciate that, Lizzie," she said at last, trying to sound more confident than she felt.
As they left the parlor to go upstairs, Margaret paused to look at the silhouette of Ashton as a child, touching it lightly with her finger, a whimsical smile playing on her lips. Lizzie watched in fascination, again marveling at the genuine difference in Mag.
"We'd best get you ready," she said. The old Mag would have required a month to prepare for her wedding and would have preferred a large church filled with the cream of society.
Margaret turned to her, the soft smile still on her face. "Oh, of course."
In the hallway the sounds of a house suddenly coming to life were heard, the laughter from the kitchen, plates and silverware rattling. Upstairs, in a small bedroom to the front of the house, Margaret sat before a mirrored table and couldn't help but laugh at her dirt-streaked face.
"Lizzie, it's hopeless!" She giggled, framing her face with her hands. It was so strange to see such lovely features returning her gaze, in spite of the grime. Lizzie stood back, a quizzical expression on her own face.
"Did Ashton tell you about my trousseau?"
Margaret closed her eyes for a moment. "I'm not quite sure . .."
"Well, Mag." Lizzie's wide eyes twinkled. "You know when I was engaged to General Quarles?"
/> Margaret nodded, as if she had more than the faintest idea of what she was talking about.
"A few months ago I managed to smuggle my trunks from St. Louis, all of the gowns I bought in Paris last year—right under the Yankees' noses!" She clapped in delight at her own exploits, and Margaret could only gape—fully aware of the danger that must have been involved. "I have them here. Nothing for everyday wear, of course, just fancy gowns and such. Would you like to wear one of them?" "Oh, Lizzie, that would be wonderful!" Lizzie handed Margaret a damp towel with which to wash her face and hands, then ducked into the next room. Margaret could hear the sound of trunks being dragged across the floor, then some rustling of tissue. Within a few minutes Lizzie returned with what looked like an armful of cream-colored satin, small white shoes, and billowing underskirts.
A half hour later they were both staring in astonishment at Margaret's reflection. The gown, yards of satin, seemed to envelop her in its luscious froth, fitting her to absolute perfection. The gown was expertly cut off the shoulder with delicate gathers, revealing the gentle swell of perfect breasts. The only color other than the subtle ivory was a wide peach band at her corseted waist. The skirt was lavishly gathered over hoops and petticoats, with a light ruffle at the hem similar to the shoulders. The shoes, fine white kid, seemed impossibly fragile, especially paired with the white silk stockings.
Ashton's Bride Page 13
