Kary, Elizabeth (66 page)

"Hayes!
Oh, Hayes! Thank God, you're safe!" Leigh's arms came around his neck, and
she pressed her body close to his. The scent of him was in her nostrils, and
there was the taste of his lips against her own. Oblivious to where they were
and to the men around them, Leigh clung to her husband, reveling in a reunion
she had never dreamed could be. In that moment nothing mattered except that
Hayes was safe, alive after all the months of thinking him dead. Her tears wet
both their cheeks, and his name became a breathless litany, murmured softly
against his skin. Her joy was so all encompassing that it was a full minute
before she realized that Hayes was not responding to their reunion with the
same abandon she was feeling. Confused, Leigh looked up at her husband.

Hayes
stood staring at her, his expression stark and his eyes as flat and empty as
polished mirrors. Fear stabbed her as she searched for some sign of recognition
in his face. Then slowly his hands came to rest against her waist, and he
whispered a single syllable: "Leigh."

***

April 3, 1865

"Have
you got a blanket to sit on, Leigh, and the directions I got from that nice
sergeant?" Mother Bickerdyke nagged as she bustled around the summer
kitchen beginning preparations for the noon meal. The number of Union soldiers
who found their way from prisons in the South to Wilmington was growing, and
with it the need for food and lodging. Already Leigh and Mother Bickerdyke had
filled the empty house next door and the church across the street.

"I
tell you," Leigh answered truculently as she loaded things into the
basket, "I'm not at all sure this picnic is a good idea. It's been the
best part of a week since Hayes wandered in here, and he has hardly said a
dozen words to me since then. I can't imagine how you even convinced him to say
he'd go."

"Oh,
he wants to go," Mother Bickerdyke snapped, stirring ferociously at the
concoction in the bowl before her. "When it comes to you, Leigh, he's
eaten up with wanting. He wants to hold you and talk to you, but he doesn't
know how."

The
subject of their conversation sat within sight of the cookhouse on the wide
Veranda of the antebellum mansion. Conversing easily with two other soldiers,
he looked very much the man Leigh had married. In the past days the color had
returned to his face, and he seemed to have picked up a bit of the weight he
had lost during his months at Andersonville. That Hayes had been held at Libby
Prison in Richmond until the previous November explained why he was in better
condition than many of the men they saw. Still, he bore that strange,
unmistakable stamp of a man who had been a prisoner of war.

Leigh
sighed unhappily as she recalled the frustrations of the last days. Her sheer
delight at finding Hayes safe had gotten them through the first minutes of
their reunion. It was only when she had begun to realize that Hayes was not
reciprocating her feelings that she regained control of her emotions. Looking
up into his impassive face, she had simultaneously become aware of the catcalls
from the men around them and the apathy in her husband's eyes. Frightened and
confused, Leigh had tightened her grip on Hayes's arm and drawn him to the
relative privacy behind a pile of supply boxes.

"Hayes,"
she had begun, watching him intently, "Hayes, are you all right?"

"Of
course I am," he had assured her. But his carefully controlled voice
belied the reassuring words.

"But
where have you been? The Army told me you were dead." The flutter in her
voice had been the antithesis of Hayes's icy monotone, and her compulsive need
to touch him was in sharp contrast to the way his hands dangled at his sides.

"I've
been in Andersonville," he had answered, admitting the obvious, "and
before that at Libby."

"But
how did you get there?"

"I
was captured." When she would have demanded details, he went on.
"After falling off the pontoon bridge, I lost consciousness, and when I
came to myself again, I was washed up on the riverbank. I tried to find my way
back to Chattanooga, but I was captured by a Rebel patrol."

Prying
a pearl out of an oyster would have been easier than getting Hayes to tell her
more about his experiences. Giving up for the moment, Leigh had led him back to
the kitchen, made sure he had a plate of stew, a biscuit, and some tapioca for
dessert, and assigned him a cot in the big bedroom below her own. Perhaps when
he'd had a bit to eat and time to rest, he would be more forthcoming, Leigh had
reasoned. Leaving Hayes to his own devices, she had gone back to her work with
the other men who needed care.

But
as the days passed, Hayes continued to be every bit as reticent as he had been
that first night. Observing him from across the compound, Leigh noticed that he
chatted easily with the other men and seemed to enjoy their company, but he
stringently avoided anything that put him in contact with his wife.

For
herself, Leigh could not get enough of him. Without looking, she knew whenever
he was near and spent more time than she should staring like a lovesick
schoolgirl. Even from a distance, she could see the changes the war had made in
him: the new lines that webbed from the corners of his eyes, the deepening
creases around his mouth, the sprinkling of gray in his walnut-brown hair. The
second day he had been shaved and barbered, taking years from his appearance,
and though his actions still made him a stranger, he looked very much like the
man she loved.

Leigh
had watched him with a growing fascination, hungering for the sight of him and
listening for the sound of his voice. Dreams of happier times plagued her sleep
and the knowledge of what they had once shared sharpened her frustration. She
found herself entertaining secret fantasies of leading him to her pallet in the
attic, stripping off his clothes, running her hands along his body, and making
him a part of herself. But she kept a tight rein on her emotions and tried to
content herself with the furtive glances she could steal.

She
quickly came to understand the reasons for the change in him. From the other
prisoners she began to learn what the conditions had been at Andersonville,
with no shelter, no sanitation, and little food. She heard tales of brutal
punishment, the cruel guards, and the inhuman treatment. Life in the stockade
must have been hell on earth, and it would have deeply scarred a man like
Hayes.

Whether
he had built his wall of reserve to protect himself from those hardships or
from the hurt Leigh herself had caused, she could only guess. Guiltily she
remembered how they had parted in St. Louis and the months that had passed
without contact between them. Hayes did not know about Aaron Crawford's
interference or that they had conceived and lost a child. He had no idea that
Leigh had grown into a different woman, capable of understanding and
tenderness, or that from loss she had learned a great deal about love.

How
much she had to tell him. How much there seemed to be to say, but until now she
had not been able to make Hayes listen. Well, perhaps the picnic was a good
idea, she conceded, tucking the last few items into the basket. If she and Hayes
were alone together, he would be hard-pressed to ignore her.

"Haven't
you got everything packed up yet?" Mary Ann Bickerdyke prodded her.

"Yes,
all ready," Leigh replied, a faint tremor in her voice.

The
older woman came to where Leigh stood. "Scared?" she asked
perceptively.

"A
little, I guess. You know how I feel about Hayes, but unless I can convince him
that I still love him, what chance do we have for a future together?"

"Now,
you listen to me, girl," Mother Bickerdyke offered. "Hayes needs you
as much as you need him. After what he's been through, he's uncertain and
confused. He doesn't know what tomorrow will bring, and, what's worse, he's not
even sure about the past. You haven't had a chance to tell him about the baby,
have you? Or explain about all the letters that never arrived?"

Leigh
shook her head as tears rose in her eyes.

"No,
I thought not. And there's no sense crying over something you can fix."

"I
love him, Mother Bickerdyke. I only want a chance to show him how much."

"Yes,
I know you do, and that's why I think you'll find a way to make things right.
You go to him, Leigh," Mother Bickerdyke said, turning to gaze at the
tall, lean man who sat waiting on the veranda. "You're twice the woman you
were when you came to me at Cairo. You've got the strength to make that man
whole and happy, and I believe you can.

"You
tell him all the things he needs to hear: that you understand what he's been
through, that you love him. You give Hayes a child to make up for the one you
lost. You give him a future to live for that's better than what's past."

"I
don't know if that's what he wants—" Leigh began.

"It's
what he wants," the older woman insisted sagely. "You mark me well.
It's what every man wants: a little warmth and tenderness, a chance for happiness
with the woman he loves. Give Hayes all the care and loving you've spent four
years lavishing on other men. Why are you questioning what he needs when you
have never questioned what you gave the others?"

"All
the others wanted," Leigh began thickly, "was comfort and compassion.
I've never had to give them what Hayes wants. I've never had to give them
myself."

Mother
Bickerdyke nodded and glanced speculatively at Leigh. "Comfort and
compassion? A part of yourself?" she asked softly. "Isn't it all the
same thing in the end?"

***

It
had turned out to be a beautiful day, alive with the sudden warmth of spring.
Newly leafed trees rustled overhead, and the green grass flirted with the wind,
undulating in the fields like rolling velvet waves. The wild jonquils that
splashed across the hillsides were a brilliant complement to the blazing azure
sky, and the scent of freshly turned earth lay heavily on the air.

Yet,
for all she tried to enjoy the beauty around her, Leigh's attention was on
Hayes. He sat hunched forward on the buggy seat, a foot braced against the
dashboard, one wrist draped negligently over his knee as he guided the horse
with practiced hands. He had been frustratingly uncommunicative since they had
left Wilmington, and Leigh sat, trying to ignore the press of silence around
them. It was not an easy task when she had so much she wanted to say, so many
questions she needed to ask. But each of her attempts at conversation had been
politely but firmly rebuffed.

Surreptitiously
she watched her husband, noting his quiet but determined intensity. He seemed
wary but not apprehensive, guarded but not uneasy, and she wondered at his
thoughts. She was fully aware of the nudge of his shoulder against hers as they
jolted over the narrow country road. On the breeze she caught the subtle,
citrus tang of his skin and saw the sinewy strength of his hands. Never in her
life had she been more aware of a man, nor had any man seemed less receptive to
her charms.

"We're
to take the fork to the right," Leigh instructed, reading the last of the
directions from the paper Mary Ann Bickerdyke had given her. "The spring
should be just ahead."

With
a murmur of acknowledgment, Hayes guided the buggy down the less traveled road,
then clucked softly to the horse, urging it to a trot. The vehicle bounced
along half a mile farther before Hayes drew on the reins and pulled to the edge
of the road.

"This
must be the place," he observed.

Down
a slight slope lay a pool of silver blue, shining like a mirror in the sun. The
pond was surrounded by a grove of willow trees trailing their branches in the
water. It was a perfect place for a picnic, serene and isolated. Mother
Bickerdyke had obviously known what she was about when she had sent them here.

"Isn't
it lovely?" Leigh said softly after a moment. "Shall we look for a
place to spread our blanket?"

Hayes
swung out of the buggy and turned to help her down, taking her hand gingerly as
if to avoid more intimate contact. While he unhitched the horse from the
traces, Leigh gathered a well-worn quilt and a basket of food from the back of
the borrowed buggy. Strolling past where Hayes was hobbling the horse, she
moved down the path to the pond.

Hayes
followed at a more sedate pace, appreciatively noting the swing of his wife's
wide skirts as she passed before him. He had no business coming here with
Leigh, he chided himself, no business coming here at all. Being alone with her
was making him want things he knew he could not have, making him wish he could
change things that could not be altered. Back at the house in town it had been
hard enough to keep his distance, but here, without the protection of her duty
and the men who envied him his wife, he was uncertain of his ability to keep
his emotions in check. He found himself in the unenviable position of a man
parched with thirst forced to deny himself a drink.

Nor
was Leigh making self-denial any easier to bear. In the pink mull gown and
scooped bonnet she looked delectable, touchable, soft, and willing. His senses
clamored for him to take what she seemed so ready to give, but he knew he dared
not weaken.

"Is
this all right?" Leigh asked, setting the basket aside and flapping the
quilt into place in a sun-spattered clearing at the edge of the pool. Without
waiting for his reply she settled herself on the ground and stripped the bonnet
from her head.