Beloved Enemy (3 page)

Though she truly felt faint, Clara smiled inwardly. Once again, she had triumphed over her family. Sending for Payton was a
brilliant
idea. Julia could be married before she turned twenty-one and came into Grandmother Lightfoot's legacy.

Julia slammed into her bedroom. Carolyn looked up from the alterations of her sister's old ball gown. “What was the buzz in the parlor this time?” she asked, threading her needle with care. “Usually I am the one on the griddle fire.”

Julia stared out the window at the winter-shrouded garden below. Mother's pink rosebushes stretched up their stark thorny limbs to catch the feeble rays of the midwinter sun.
My soul is as dead as those roses.
“Mother has got it in her head to marry me off.”

“Oh?” Carolyn picked up her thimble. “So who is the lucky fellow?”

Julia made a face at the windowpane. “Payton.” His name tasted like ashes in her mouth.

Carolyn gasped. Her thimble dropped from her lap and rolled across the floorboards. “She's not serious!”

Julia faced her shocked little sister. She folded her arms across her bosom as if that action would protect her from her odious cousin. “She is, and dear Papa was in agreement, as he always is when she works herself into a state.”

Carolyn looked truly stricken. “What will you do?”

“I told her no.” Julia should have told her that she wanted to be a teacher, but she'd never stand for that any more than Payton would.

Carolyn's mouth dropped open. “You said ‘no' to Mother? I can hardly believe it. You've never crossed her before.”

Julia sank down on the pink satin daybed. “I know, but not this time. It's too important a decision. When she told me her wonderful plans, I just blurted out ‘no.' Mother is not accustomed to hearing the other side of any argument, much less conceding to it. My refusal staggered her.”

Rolling her eyes, Carolyn shivered under her shawl. “I can imagine.”

Julia gave her a twisted smile. “Both Papa and Hettie had to help her upstairs to bed. I expect she's dosed up with laudanum by now. I suspect that she has already sent a letter to Payton telling him to run up here and make me his wife.”

“Perhaps he's changed,” Carolyn suggested, though the wrinkle of her nose indicated that she thought otherwise.

“As much as a fish can turn into a bird.” Julia shook her head. “Payton was nasty when he was a little boy, and he was even more disagreeable when we last saw him.”

“You can't marry Payton! You'll die of boredom—or worse.”

Julia curled her hands into fists. “I know that, but Mother is set like a stone.”

Out of nowhere, a wicked idea flashed through her mind. Without allowing a moment of consideration, Julia grabbed on to it like a rope out of quicksand.

She narrowed her eyes. “You know, lady-bird, I am so very, very glad that you ‘found' that invitation to the ball. I intend to have the best time of my life there.” She would see to it that Payton Norwood would never marry her.

Carolyn's mouth quivered. “Julia, you aren't planning to…I mean you can't…you wouldn't…”

A sly smile played across her lips. “What won't I do?”

Her sister's gaze searched Julia's face. “You wouldn't—” her voice sank into a whisper “—ruin yourself with a man at the ball so you didn't have to marry Payton, would you?”

Julia had little notion exactly what polite society meant by being “ruined by a man,” though she knew from her reading that the experience was enough to blacken a girl's name forever. Whatever it was, she would find some nice Yankee boy—there had to be at least one there—to do it to her.
That
would knock Mother's loathsome plan into a cocked hat.

She barked a harsh laugh. “I have no idea what you mean, Carolyn.”

C
hristmas Day 1863 was observed by the Chandler family with the same rituals that they had followed every other Christmas: services at St. Paul's Church; a Christmas turkey stuffed with the traditional cornbread and oysters, and a crystal bowl full of cranberry sauce; gifts from Papa; eggnog and favorite carols sung around the piano with a few friends, whose political sympathies were in agreement with the Chandlers' Confederate ones.

On the morning of the Winstead ball, Julia and Carolyn pleaded joint headaches. “Too much Christmas frivolity,” Julia whispered to Mother when she came to inquire after their health. In reality, the girls were in a fever of excitement, while they attempted to rest up and prepare their clothes for the evening's prohibited adventure. The daytime hours crept by at a snail's pace.

Hettie, by necessity, knew their plans since she had to let them in the back door upon their return from the party. Nevertheless, she gave the sisters a stern look when she brought up their suppers on a tray.

“You are asking for trouble,” she scolded them in a low voice while she watched them wolf down cold turkey, buttered bread and pickles.

“Yes,” replied Carolyn with glee in her eyes. “We are very wicked. Isn't it grand?”

Hettie examined the two black velvet half-masks that Julia had created from an old muff. “You be sure to act respectable, no matter what the devil tells you to do. That Winstead house will be full of no-good Yankees. I've heard stories about those men that would make your blood run cold.”

Carolyn glanced up from her supper. “Oh, do tell one!”

Julia didn't want to know anything more about the Yankees. One of those men was going to “ruin” her tonight, and that was all she could stand to think about. She nudged Carolyn. “Not now. We have enough on our minds as it is. You can tell us the gruesome horrors when we get back, Hettie.”

The cook picked up a silver-backed brush and began to rearrange Carolyn's hair. With quick, expert fingers she wound her blond curls into fashionable corkscrews on each side of her face. “Neither of you has a lick of sense in your heads. I feel it in my bones that tonight's foolishness will come to a bad end. You have no business going where you're not invited. Virginia girls mixing with Northern trash is just like washing good china in a mud puddle. Like my mama always said: crows and corn can't grow in the same field.”

Julia's skin felt dry and scratchy. She didn't want to think about those Northern boys and their reputed evil ways—not yet. She placed her hand on top of Hettie's. “Please don't spoil our fun tonight. I haven't been to a party since Christmas of 1860, and Carolyn has never gone to one at all.” She crossed her fingers behind her back before saying, “I promise that we will be as good as gold and twice as nice, won't we, Carolyn?” she added in a warning note to her rambunctious little sister.

Carolyn only nodded as she stared at herself in the looking glass. “First time I have ever had my hair put up. Oh, Hettie, you are a wonder worker.”

 

Lively music and golden candlelight spilled out of the Winstead windows and flowed down the curving brick steps. Julia and Carolyn quickly handed over their velvet, fur-collared cloaks to the waiting maid in the side chamber that had been reserved for the ladies' use. With suppressed giggles, they slipped on their low satin pumps and hurried into the wide central hallway of the Winstead mansion. Julia stretched her mouth into a false smile while her stomach roiled at the prospect of meeting a live Yankee soldier face-to-face.

Great swatches of berry-rich holly looped up the carved wooden balustrade of the main staircase. Grave-faced servers passed among the revelers balancing silver trays of champagne glasses on white-gloved hands. Carolyn snatched one of the brimming crystal flutes before Julia could stop her.

“Oh, it tickles my nose!” Carolyn giggled. She took a second sip.

“Only one glass, mind you,” Julia cautioned her with faint trepidation. “You promised to behave. Remember, we must not draw any attention to ourselves or we will be caught. Tonight, you will have to be invisible—and don't forget, we are supposed to be Yankees.”

Carolyn made a face under her half mask. “Don't be such a wet dish rag, Julia. I'll be so good, you won't recognize me.”

With that, Carolyn slipped through the throng and disappeared from view before Julia could also remind her sister that they must leave by eleven-thirty so that Hettie and Perkins, who was warming his feet in the Winstead
servants' hall, could get the sleep they needed for the following day's chores. With trembling fingers, Julia tightened the ribbons that held her mask in place. Holding up her glass of champagne to the light, she stared at it as if it were medicine, then drank it down in one gulp. Thus fortified to meet the enemy, she made her way into the double-wide reception rooms that had been cleared of heavy furniture and now served as a ballroom.

A myriad of silver candelabra held a wealth of lighted tapers; their beeswax perfumed the air. The happy sounds of fiddles and banjos caught her like a sudden breeze on a sultry day. Her feet tapping to the lively music, Julia swept her gaze around the crowded room.

Half of Alexandria must have been present tonight, but Julia had no intention of mingling with them. Everyone knew that the Chandlers were firmly Confederates, and therefore social outcasts among the Northern-leaning members of the citizenry. Julia told herself that she didn't give a fig what other people thought of her. Tonight she was here to dance and laugh—and to be “ruined”. She lifted another glass of champagne from a passing tray. The bubbly spirits cheered her soul and tickled her brains.

How deliciously wicked I feel!
Clara Chandler would have fainted on the spot if she knew that her gently-bred daughters were drinking. Already the effervescence lessened her trepidation; her spirits felt giddy. She should not become too relaxed or she would start singing “Dixie” and that would be a disaster here.

Up on the dais at the far end of the room, Alexandria's renowned fiddle master, old Joe Jackson, led the small string ensemble in a never-ending parade of melodies; many of them were new to Julia. Most of the younger male guests wore coats of military blue, but she resolved to look only at their faces while she considered which one she
would encourage. Her blood quickened with the excitement that permeated the ballroom. The war seemed a million miles away.

Then she spied what she had fervently hoped would be there. A true smile of pleasure lit up her face as she wove through the dancers toward the buffet table in the adjoining dining room. A glistening mound of tan-colored caramels coated with powdered sugar beckoned to her from their silver dish.

 

Rob Montgomery ran his gloved finger around the collar of his freshly starched shirt. When he had been in the field, he considered himself fortunate to have a clean shirt; starching could go to the devil. He preferred it that way. He rubbed his neck where his collar had irritated his skin. Then he fumbled for his pocket watch, snapped open the lid and squinted at the time. Quarter past ten. From his vantage point on the sidelines, he had spent the past hour watching his cousin and friends sweep laughing belles around the dance floor.

The music was very good, he admitted to himself. Before the war, he would have taken the nearest pretty young thing out to the center and whirled her into giddiness. But now—He glanced down at his right coat pocket that hid his useless hand. Even though he had pulled a glove over the lifeless fingers, he knew in his heart that no young lady would want to touch such a dead thing as his smashed hand.
Damn those Rebs!

For want of something better to do than drinking too much of Winstead's good whiskey, Rob picked his way around the dancers and wandered back into the dining room. To kill the first hour, he had already sampled enough of the sweet delights that graced the snowy expanse of the damask-covered table. Crystallized fruits, sugar cookies
and gingerbread in artful piles, savory cheese sticks and anchovy paste spread on wafer-thin crackers, pecan tartlets, flavored gelatins and frozen charlottes, sliced jelly cake, chocolate-dipped lady fingers, glossy cherries in syrup—the bounty was not only endless, but overwhelming. What Rob really wanted was a good cup of strong coffee. Even more, he longed to be back in his own bed.

Reaching for a sugared walnut, his attention was drawn to the stunning auburn-haired miss on the other side of the table. It was not her wasp-narrow waist circled with the golden ribbon or her grass-green taffeta gown that had caught his eye, nor her creamy white arms that moved with the grace of a willow in a breeze. Nor did he pause too long to regard her incredible green eyes made more intriguing by the frame of her black mask. Nor did his gaze linger too long on her moist pink lips that promised passion. Instead it was what she was doing with those lips that had piqued his interest.

First, she slipped a caramel into her mouth. Then she surreptitiously glanced over each bare shoulder. Very provocative, Rob thought, though she was obviously not playing the coquette with an unseen admirer. No, her look was definitely furtive.

Rob stepped behind a large potted palm where, unseen, he could observe her at closer quarters. Once the young woman assured herself of her privacy, she opened her reticule that hung from her wrist. It looked to be a little larger than the usual size worn at a ball. With another glance around, she dropped several caramels into her bag and pulled it shut.

Rob smothered his laughter behind his good hand. He had done that same trick himself at a Fourth of July picnic many years ago at his grandmother's home in Rhinebeck. Thinking of that reminded him once again of this year's
much different Independence Day. Instead of shooting off a string of squibs among a seated flock of his assorted aunts, a Rebel's bullet, the size and shape of a marble, had torn into his hand, splintered most of his bones, and severed the main nerve.

This Fourth of July, Rob had lain outside one of the temporary field hospitals in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, enduring both the heat of the sun and the drenching rain that followed while he waited his turn on the surgeons' butcher table. It was nearly three days before someone looked at his wound. The harried doctor had wanted to take his hand off, even had his knife out, but Rob's vanity made him object to amputation. How could Miss Lucy possibly marry him with only one hand to hold her?

Muttering “gangrene” and “touched in the head,” the doctor wrapped up Rob's stiffened hand and left the healing to Providence. The Lord had allowed Rob to recover without infection since the bullet had gone clean through, but divine generosity had stopped there. Since that day, Rob had not been able to move his fingers nor experience feeling below his wrist. The worst injury was not his hand but his heart when Miss Lucy walked away from him in disgust. Ever since, Rob's passionate nature had turned stone cold.

A soft gasp from the pretty pilferer brought Rob out of his dark reverie. To his consternation, and her delight, she had spied another dish of caramels a little nearer to his hiding place. Feeling like a burglar in his narrow silken mask, Rob flattened himself against the ivy-patterned wallpaper and waited to see what would happen next. Surely she had packed away enough booty to last her until February.

But no, it appeared that the lady still had sugared larceny on her mind. Once again, she glanced behind her.
Rob, too, looked over her bright hair that was crowned with glossy green sprigs of holly. Most of the room's attention was centered around the far table where cups of very potent eggnog were ladled out to the noisy guests. He glanced back at the lady just in time to witness several more caramels dumped into her expanding bag. She pulled the ties shut with a sleek, self-satisfied smile on her lovely lips. Then she turned her back to the table, snapped open her white silk fan and cooled the pink glow on her cheeks.

Rob noticed that a third dish sat near to him, hidden from her view by a large arrangement of purple hothouse grapes. He wondered what she would do if she spied that one. Propelled by his curiosity and a small spurt of mischief, Rob stepped out from the screen of palm fronds, took the dish in his good hand and circled to the other side of the table. He had meant to place the tempting candy within her reach and withdraw before she turned around, but she must have heard him. The auburn beauty glanced over her shoulder at him, then at the full silver plate in his hand.

His breath caught in his throat. A sliver of his once-legendary charm awakened. On a sudden impulse, he bowed his head and offered her the candy dish. “I believe you missed these,” he murmured. One corner of his mouth twitched upward. The startled expression on her face made her look even more alluring in the golden candlelight.

She blushed a little, but did not turn away shamefaced as he had expected her to do. Instead, she beamed a radiant smile. “How silly of me to have misplaced those little rascals, and how clever of you to find them for me! Thank you so very much.”

Without a moment's hesitation, she shut her fan, then pried open her bag and swept a few more caramels on top of the others. The entire operation took less than a minute.
She sucked the powdered sugar evidence from her fingers. Her pink tongue curled around her thumb in the most innocently provocative manner. Rob swallowed hard. She smiled at him again. Her smiles, like pure sunshine, warmed his stony soul.

 

Julia's vision swam. She blinked to pull it back into focus. Her heart had nearly jumped out of her mouth when the stranger spoke to her. The handsome man's sudden appearance so surprised her that she nearly lost her composure. Then he smiled.

He was extraordinarily handsome. His Federal uniform concealed his body from neck to boots, yet Julia sensed a strong physical power that lay coiled deep within him. Though the supper room was crowded, his presence compelled her attention, despite the faint air of isolation he wore about his tall figure. Beneath his thin silken mask, his bronze skin pulled taut over his cheekbones. His near-black hair gleamed in the golden light; one rogue lock fell across his forehead.