Kary, Elizabeth (19 page)

He
greeted her with a formal bow and an extravagant compliment and received her
bright smile and a deep curtsy in return. It was not until they were swirling
across the dance floor a few minutes later that he noticed the almost
imperceptible lines of strain around her mouth. "Is something bothering
you, Leigh?" he asked with a hint of concern in his tone.

At
first she shook her head and glanced away, but when he pressed her, Leigh
relented and began to explain. "Mother and Father had a terrible row
before we came tonight, and I'm afraid they'll continue it here."

His
arm tightened around her impulsively as they executed a sweeping turn. "I
don't think you need to worry, Leigh," he reassured her. "Your
parents are both sensible people. They won't do anything to embarrass themselves,
or you."

Leigh
drew a heavy sigh. "That might have been true once, Hayes, but I'm not so
sure anymore. There was a time when conflicts were settled at home, but my
parents have changed since the war began, and so has the society we're living
in. Once both factions in St. Louis mixed freely, but now Northerners and
Southerners don't even speak when they pass on the street. And at a party like
this one, given to celebrate General Halleck's appointment as Commander of the
Mississippi, a Confederate can hardly feel at home. Mother didn't want to come
tonight, and I can hardly blame her, but Father insisted."

The
tension between Leigh's parents had been painfully evident last spring, Hayes
reflected, long before the bitter battles at Bull Run and Wilson's Creek had
decisively split
both the nation and Missouri in two. As he considered what he knew of the older
Penningtons, Hayes found himself wondering once again at all the things Leigh
never talked about, never shared. How had the forces that were dividing the
nation, turning brother against brother and father against son, affected the
already perilous relationship between her dissenting parents? And what toll was
all of this conflict taking on Leigh? If she had been torn and confused that
night on the porch at the beginning of the war, what must she be feeling now?
For the first time, Hayes found himself speculating about how the volatile
atmosphere Leigh had lived in all her life might have tempered and shaped her
personality. Did it explain why she craved safety and familiarity above all
else, why she had held herself aloof and found it difficult to trust?

"I'm
just afraid," Leigh continued, interrupting Hayes's thoughts, "that
Mother may feel compelled to create a scene of some sort to show Father how strongly
she feels about being forced to come." There was a subtle sadness in the
turn of her lips, a stark resignation in her expression as she spoke, and Hayes
wanted nothing more than to hold her close and make her problems disappear.

"Will
you help me keep Mother out of trouble tonight, Hayes, dance with her or take
her away for a cup of punch if things get difficult?" Leigh's luminous
eyes were filled with entreaty.

That
she would ask his help at all in such a delicate and personal matter confirmed
the depth of her concern, and Hayes readily agreed. But as the evening
progressed, no dire circumstances arose, and they both began to relax and enjoy
themselves. It was infinitely pleasant to have the time to spend in each
other's company without a freezing wind or the arrival of a horsecar to cut
their visit short, utterly delightful to be able to talk and laugh together as
part of a larger group, without fear of censure for their behavior. They ate
supper in their host's conservatory with a dozen other young couples, then
whiled away the evening dancing. Aaron Crawford claimed a waltz or two with
Leigh and several with her mother; Hayes spent time with Horace Pennington,
drinking good Kentucky bourbon and speculating on General Grant's spring
offensive. Since Grant was a former resident of the city, there was more than a
casual interest in the military man's prowess, and as they stood watching their
women whirled around the floor by other partners, Pennington expressed the
somewhat unpopular view that Grant knew what he was doing.

"I
was right about poor General Lyon," he declared, finishing off the last of
the whiskey in his glass, "and I'm right about Grant, too. There's very
little comparison between a man's ability to sell real estate, or even
firewood, and his ability to lead an army of men. Grant's tough and ruthless;
he's single-minded and shrewd. His leadership is just what the Union needs to
win some good, solid victories."

When
the dance was over the women were returned to an alcove near the front windows
where the two men waited. For a few moments they all stood together, Althea and
Leigh fanning themselves and sipping punch, recovering from their exertions on
the dance floor. But as the musicians struck up the first bars of the next
selection, General Halleck came toward them across the room and stopped before
the older woman.

"Mrs.
Pennington," he addressed Althea with the slightest of bows,
"I have
been admiring you from afar all evening, and I hope you will consent to dance
this waltz with me."

Halleck
was the highest-ranking Federal officer in the West, and Althea immediately saw
her opportunity to embarrass both this pompous Yankee general and revenge
herself on her overbearing husband. Not pausing to consider the consequences or
the censure her actions might bring, Althea
seized the chance to make her feelings
about the Union patently obvious. With her sweetest smile on her lips and a
reckless gleam in her eyes, she drew herself up to her full height and affected
her thickest Louisiana drawl. "Ah declare, General Halleck, though Ah'd
rather dance with a pig than a Yankee general, it just so happens that Mr.
Banister has already claimed this dance."

For
a moment everyone within earshot stood with mouths agape as Althea Pennington
faced down the furious Federal officer. Her support of the Confederacy was well
known throughout the community, but no one had
suspected she would do anything
to show her hatred of the Union so blatantly. Then Hayes, instantly deciding
the best way to defuse the situation was to do exactly as Althea said, offered
her his arm and led her onto the dance floor.

Horace
sputtered an apology for his wife's behavior, but the affront to the general
had been a grave one, and there were really no words to make the situation less
difficult or embarrassing than it was. With his face crimson and his mouth set
in an angry line, General Halleck beat a hasty retreat, and on the other side
of the room another lady quickly accepted the invitation Althea had refused.

Once
the tempo of the party picked up again, Horace Pennington began to mutter, half
to himself. "Why does she do things like that to me? Why does she have to
be so damned defiant?"

Filled
with concern, Leigh laid a comforting hand on her father's sleeve. "You
knew Mother didn't want to come tonight. Why couldn't you just let her plead a
headache and stay at home instead of demanding she accompany you?"

Horace's
mouth narrowed angrily, but there was resignation in the way his shoulders
sagged. "Have you taken her side, too, Leigh? Have I lost your love as
well?"

Leigh's
eyes burned with unshed tears as she tried to reassure him. "You haven't
lost my love, or Mother's either, but none of us can go on as we are. You know
how she hates the work you're doing for the Union, yet you continue with the
Quartermaster Corps as if what she thinks doesn't matter."

"A
man must do what he feels is right," Horace defended himself. "You
above all others should understand that, Leigh. My loyalty is to the Union, to
the abolition of slavery, to Abraham Lincoln."

"And
what of your loyalty to your wife?"

"It's
she who owes her loyalty to me, her loyalty and her obedience. I can't abide
any more defiance or tolerate her harping."

"And
what will you do, Father, to stop her?" Leigh demanded. "Will you
abandon your work for the North or be less vocal in your support? Can't you let
her know that what she thinks and feels is at least as important as your
political views? Because if you can't or won't make any concessions, I think
you're going to drive her south, back to where she can live her life without
this constant conflict."

"I'll
see her in hell before I'll let her go south," Horace blustered.

"I
think perhaps she's already in hell," Leigh snapped, turning his words
against him, "and so, for that matter, are you."

She
spat the condemnation defiantly, but with a feeling of defeat, then swept
across the room with no clear idea of where she was going. She needed quiet,
sanctuary, a place to be alone and regain her composure after the unpleasant
scene in the parlor.

Hayes
watched her go with concern in his eyes, a concern that was seen and carefully
noted by Althea Pennington. "You care for my daughter, don't you, Mr.
Banister?" she observed quietly.

Hayes
swept her into a graceful turn, using the time to frame an answer. "Yes,
ma'am, I do care about Leigh, and I hate to see what you and Mr. Pennington are
doing to her."

Brilliant
color rose in Althea's cheeks. "What goes on in our house is no concern of
yours, Mr. Banister," she warned. "Besides, I love my daughter and
would never do anything to hurt her."

"Do
you love her? I find that hard to believe after the little scene I just
witnessed."

"Horace
forced me to come tonight; I was only paying him back for what he'd done,"
the older woman defended herself. "Can't you see that?"

"What
I saw was a selfish and vindictive act, meant to hurt people you claim to
love," Banister replied, his silvery blue eyes flinty.

"That's
not true!" Althea began, but Hayes cut her short.

"It
is true, and I think you know it. I'm only beginning to understand what scenes
like that do to your daughter, and it's clear to me, Mrs. Pennington, that you
haven't a clue to how much arguments between you and your husband affect
her."

"Leigh
understands how difficult it is for me to live with what Horace is doing to
support the Union." Althea continued as if she had not heard him.
"She knows how I feel when I realize he's trying to destroy my brothers
and the way of life I love."

"Yes,
she's aware of how you feel," he conceded, "and she understands that
your husband is only trying to live by his own convictions. Leigh's a very
understanding person, and in this case it's tearing her apart!"

Althea
took the measure of his words, weighing them against her own perceptions of the
daughter she loved. That there was more truth in what he said than in her angry
protests was painfully evident.

Her
face had softened with regret when she spoke again. "You do care for
Leigh, don't you, Mr. Banister? You care for her very deeply."

Hayes
saw the change in her expression and felt a certain grim satisfaction that she
was acknowledging the consequences of her actions. "I value Leigh's
friendship very much," he admitted carefully.

"Ah,
her friendship, is it?" A knowing look lurked in her eyes. "Well,
then, Mr. Banister, I'm glad you are her friend. Leigh needs friends right now,
friends she can talk to and confide in. That's never come easy for her, and
with both her grandfather and Bran gone—"

Hayes's
brows drew together. "Bran?"

"Brandon
Hale, Lucas's brother. Surely she's mentioned him to you. He was her best
friend when they were all growing up."

"Not
Lucas?" His tone was puzzled.

"Lucas?
No, never Lucas." Althea shook her head. "There might have been a
time when he was her hero, and they always got on well, but it was Bran who was
her special friend. And I think she misses him terribly since he's gone off to
war."

Hayes
digested the information in silence. "And which is most important to a
woman, I wonder, a friend or a lover?" he mused at last.

"I
think a man who could be both a friend and a lover would have a distinct
advantage, Mr. Banister, don't you?"

A
swell in the music swept away any answer Hayes might have given, but he was
still pondering Althea Pennington's pointed observation when he went to look
for her daughter some minutes later.

Leigh
did find the solace she was seeking in the book-lined study at the end of the
hall. After she had closed the tall double doors behind her to guarantee
privacy, she moved across the room toward the fire burning in the grate and
stretched her cold, trembling fingers toward the blaze. Silent tears seeped
down her cheeks as she stood drinking in the fire's warmth while the scene that
had taken place in the parlor only moments before played and replayed before
her eyes.

Her
parents were going to destroy each other; that fact was now painfully clear to
her. Their behavior tonight gave evidence that the antagonism growing between
them was no longer limited to the confines of their home. Surely such a public
declaration of their marital difficulties boded ill for their future together.
Yet she could not believe that the reason for their hostility lay only in their
differing political opinions. Such vehemence, such bitterness, such pain must
have its roots in something more basic than the questions that divided the
nation. It must go far deeper than the conflicts over slavery and union to have
instilled such hatred in people who had once been deeply in love.