Just Imagine (23 page)

"Merciful?" Kit leaped to her feet. "Do you call what's happened here merciful?"

"You've read history. You tell me." Now Cain was on his feet, too. "Name any other conquering people who've dealt so leniently with the ones they've conquered. If this had been any country but the United States, thousands of men would have been executed for treason after Appomattox, and thousands more would be rotting in prisons right now. Instead, there was a general amnesty, and now the Southern states are being readmitted to the Union. My God, Reconstruction is a slap on the wrist for what the South has done to this country."

Her knuckles were white where they gripped the back of the chair. "It's too bad there wasn't enough bloodshed to satisfy you. What kind of man are you to wish the South more misery than it's already had?"

"I don't wish it any more misery. I even agree with the leniency of federal policies. But you'll have to forgive me if I can't work up much righteous indignation because people in the South have lost their homes."

"You want your pound of flesh."

"Men have died in my arms," he said quietly. "And not all of those men wore blue uniforms."

She released her grip on the chair and rushed from the room. When she reached her bedroom, she sank onto the chair at her dressing table.

He didn't understand! He was seeing everything from the Northern perspective. But even as she mentally listed all the reasons he was wrong, she found it difficult to reclaim her old sense of righteousness. He'd seemed so sad. Her head had begun to pound, and she wanted to go to bed, but there was a job she'd already put off for too long.

Late that night after everyone was asleep, she made her way downstairs to the library, and to the calf-bound ledgers in which Cain kept the plantation's accounts.

  11

The next few weeks brought a steady stream of callers. In better times the women would have dressed in their prettiest gowns and arrived at Risen Glory in fine carriages. Now they came in wagons drawn by plow horses, or they sat on the front seats of broken-down buggies. Their gowns were shabby and their bonnets rusty with age, but they carried themselves as proudly as ever.

Self-conscious about the extravagance of her wardrobe, Kit dressed plainly for her first callers. But she soon discovered that the women were disappointed by her simple gowns. They made pointed references to the pretty lilac frock she'd worn to church, and had her hat been trimmed in taffeta or satin? They'd heard the gossip about her clothes passed from maid to cook to the grizzled old woman who sold she-crab from a tub off the back of a pushcart. Kit Weston's wardrobe was rumored to contain beautiful gowns of every color and description. The women were starved for beauty, and they wanted to see them all.

Once Kit understood, she didn't have the heart to disappoint them further. She dutifully wore a different dress every day and, with several of the younger women, abandoned subterfuge altogether and invited them to her bedroom so they could see for themselves.

It saddened her to realize that the clothes meant more to her visitors than they did to her. The dresses were pretty, but they were such a bother with their hooks, laces, and overskirts that always caught on furniture. She wished she could give the green muslin to the pretty young widow who'd lost her husband at Gettysburg, and the periwinkle silk to Prudence Wade, who'd been left scarred by smallpox. But the women were as proud as they were poor, and she knew better than to offer.

Not all her callers were women. A dozen men of various ages made their way to her door in as many days. They invited her on buggy rides and picnics, surrounded her after church, and nearly got into a fight over who was to accompany her to a Chautauqua lecture on phrenology. She managed to turn them down without hurting their feelings by telling them she'd already promised to attend with Mr. Parsell and his sisters.

Brandon was increasingly attentive, even though she frequently shocked him. Still, he remained at her side, and she was certain he intended to ask her to marry him soon. Half of her month was over, and she suspected he wouldn't wait much longer.

She'd seen little of Cain, even at meals, since the night of their disquieting conversation about Reconstruction. The machinery for the mill had arrived, and they were busy storing it under tarps in the barn and sheds until they were ready to install it. Whenever he was nearby, she was uncomfortably conscious of him. She flirted outrageously with her male admirers if she thought he was watching. Sometimes he seemed amused, but at other times a darker emotion flickered across his features that she found disquieting.

Gossip traveled quickly, and it wasn't long before Kit learned that Cain had been seen in the company of the beautiful Veronica Gamble. Veronica was a source of mystery and speculation to the local women. Even though she was Carolina-born, her exotic lifestyle after her marriage made her a foreigner. There was a rumor that her husband had painted a picture of her lying stark naked on a couch, and that it was hanging on her bedroom wall as bold as brass.

One evening Kit came downstairs for supper and found Cain in the sitting room reading a newspaper. It had been nearly a week since he'd appeared for a meal, so she was surprised to see him. She was even more surprised to find him dressed in formal black and white, since she'd never known him to wear anything but casual dress in the dining room.

"Are you going out?"

"Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm eating in this evening." He put down his paper. "We have a guest for dinner."

"A guest?" Kit looked down at her muddy gown and ink-stained fingers in dismay. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"It didn't occur to me."

Kit's whole day had gone badly. Sophronia had been cranky that morning, and they'd quarreled about nothing. Then Reverend Cogdell and his wife had come calling. They'd recounted all the gossip that Kit's stay at Risen Glory without a proper chaperone was producing and urged her to live with them until someone more suitable could be found. Kit had been doing her best to reassure them that Miss Dolly was up to the task when her companion had fluttered into the room and insisted they roll bandages for the Confederate wounded. When they'd left, Kit had helped Sophronia clean the Chinese wallpaper in the dining room with bread crusts. Then she'd spilled a bottle of ink while she was writing to Elsbeth. Afterward, she'd gone for a walk.

There'd been no time to change for dinner, but since she wasn't expecting anyone except Miss Dolly at the table, she hadn't been concerned about the condition of her plain muslin dress. Miss Dolly would scold her, but she scolded her about her appearance even when Kit was dressed up. Again she glanced at the ink stains on her fingers and the mud on her skirt from kneeling to free a baby field sparrow caught in a tangle of brambles.

"I'll need to change," she said just as Lucy appeared at the door.

"Miz Gamble's here."

Veronica Gamble swept into the room. "Hello, Baron."

He smiled. "Veronica, it's good to see you again."

She wore a stylish jade-green evening gown with an underskirt of bronze-and-black striped satin. A border of overlapping black lace trimmed the décolletage and set off the pale, opalescent skin of a natural redhead. Her hair was swept up into a sophisticated arrangement of curls and braids caught in a crescent of bronze silk laurel leaves. The difference in their appearances couldn't have been more apparent, and Kit selfconsciously smoothed her skirt, which did nothing to improve it.

She realized Cain was watching her. There was something oddly satisfied in his expression. He almost seemed to be enjoying comparing her unkempt appearance with Veronica's perfection.

Miss Dolly swept into the room. "Why, I didn't know we were having company tonight."

Cain performed the introductions. Veronica replied graciously but that didn't ease Kit's resentment. Not only was the other woman elegant and sophisticated, but she radiated an inner self-confidence Kit didn't think she'd ever possess. Next to her, Kit felt callow, awkward, and unattractive.

Veronica, in the meantime, was engaging Cain in conversation about the newspaper he'd been reading.

"… that my late husband and I were great supporters of Horace Greeley."

"The abolitionist?" Miss Dolly began to quiver.

"Abolitionist and newspaper editor," Veronica replied. "Even in Europe, Mr. Greeley's editorials supporting the Union cause were much admired."

"But, my dear Mrs. Gamble…" Miss Dolly gasped like a guppy "Surely you don't mean—I understood you were born in Charleston."

"That's true, Miss Calhoun, but I somehow managed to rise above it."

"Oh, my, my…" Miss Dolly pressed her fingertips to her temples. "I do believe I've developed a headache. I'm sure I won't be able to eat a bite of din ner. I think I'll just go to my room and rest."

Kit watched in dismay as she fled from the room. Now she was alone with them. Why hadn't Sophronia told her that Mrs. Gamble was expected so Kit could have taken a tray in her room? It was outrageous for Cain to expect her to dine with his mistress.

The thought made her chest hurt.

She told herself it was outraged propriety.

Veronica sat on the settee while Cain took his place in a green-and-ivory-upholstered chair next to her. He should have looked ridiculous on such a delicate piece of furniture, but he seemed as comfortable as if he were astride Vandal or perched on the roof of his cotton mill.

Veronica told Cain a story about a comic mishap at a balloon ascension. He tossed back his head and laughed, showing even, white teeth. The two of them might have been alone for all the notice they were taking of Kit.

She rose, unwilling to watch them together any longer. "I'll see if dinner's ready."

"just a minute, Kit."

Cain uncoiled from his chair and walked toward her. Something calculated in his expression made her wary.

His eyes roamed over her crumpled frock. Then he reached for her. She started to back away, only to have him catch a lock of hair in his fingers near one of her silver combs. When his hand came away, he was holding a piece of twig.

"Climbing trees again?"

She flushed. He was treating her as if she were nine years old and deliberately embarrassing her in front of their sophisticated guest.