Mischief and Magnolias (3 page)

He didn't take more than a moment to glance around, but in that time he saw all he needed to see. The dining room table, covered in a lace cloth, seated twelve comfortably. Extra chairs lined one wall and a long sideboard sat across from it against another. The hutch stood empty—perhaps the fine china had been sold to put food on the table.

Shaelyn left and waited in the hall. Impatient, her foot tapped a beat on the marble floor. Remy grinned and slowed his pace to annoy her a bit more.

The ground floor of Magnolia House held a myriad of surprises, not the least of which was a billiard table in the game room and a fine piano in the music room. No artwork adorned the walls, but he noticed bright squares on the wallpaper where pictures had once hung. No carpets covered the floor, either, and the rhythmic tap of his cane seemed very loud, especially in the room he suspected was the formal parlor, which contained not a stick of furniture, not even a plant. Perhaps the furniture and paintings had been sold as well. Or bartered.

“This is a lovely home, Miss Cavanaugh.”

“Yes, and I'd like to keep it that way, Major. I would appreciate it if you and your men leave it exactly as you find it.” She led the way upstairs to the bedrooms at a quick step. Remy followed slowly, using his cane and the carved banister for support. After so many hours on horseback, his leg felt like a foreign appendage made of lead as he placed one foot in front of the other on the treads. Each time he put pressure on his leg, a fresh wave of pain shot through him. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Still, he endured, welcoming the burning rush. His circumstances, like so many others, could have been much worse and he could have died, several times, since the day he'd been shot.

Shaelyn waited at the top of the stairs, her fingers gripping the banister, knuckles white. He looked at her for a moment, saw how stiffly she stood, and forced himself to move faster. He had too much pride to show her his weakness.

When he reached the landing, he took a deep breath. He didn't apologize, nor did he acknowledge her as his gaze swept the upstairs hallway.

There were six bedrooms in all on the second floor, some with adjoining sitting rooms, some without. All led out to the gallery, which encircled Magnolia House. He inspected each bedroom, mentally naming who would occupy which.

The manse more than met his expectations. His officers, those who had elected to stay with him and not somewhere else in Natchez, including the apartments over the Cavanaugh warehouse, would be quite comfortable here for the duration of their stay. The proximity to Union headquarters at Rosalie was perfect.

Between the last two bedrooms stood a closed door. Thinking it held linens and such, Remy opened it. A smile curved his lips.

“The bathroom,” Shaelyn said from behind him.

The small room contained a commode, a sink with brass spigots, and a large clawfoot bathtub. “Indoor plumbing,” he remarked with pleasure. He entered the room and faced the sink, then turned the tap and waved his finger beneath the flowing water. Steam rose to coat the mirror and he wondered if there was, perhaps, a copper tank somewhere in the house that kept water heated. It didn't surprise him. Sean Cavanaugh owned steamboats. Surely he could devise something…or pay someone to devise something. Remy didn't ask though. Instead, he wiped the steam away and caught his grinning reflection. And something else—a tile-floored structure in the corner of the room. “What is this?”

“We call it a rain bath.” Shaelyn moved into the room, opened the wooden door, and pulled the lever connected to the pipe leading up to a wide, round brass…thing. Water flowed onto the tile floor, like it sprinkled from the sky during a rainstorm, before she turned it off. “Instead of taking a bath, you can stand in here and let the water flow over you to get clean.”

He'd heard about them, but had never seen one. And couldn't wait to try it. The structure gave a completely new way to keep clean, and after what he'd been through, cleanliness was something he valued. He said nothing more as she moved past him and stood by the door to the last room, her arms folded against her chest as she waited for him.

Remy poked his head through the doorway. He liked the stark simplicity of this room. The walls were papered in a soft white with sprigs of purple violets and green leaves. The draperies repeated the pattern. An intricately carved four-poster bed took up space between the French doors leading to the gallery. The bed looked inviting with its plump pillows slanting against the headboard.

“This will be my room.”

“But…but this is mine,” Shaelyn sputtered.

“No longer,” he said as he made his way down the hallway. “Have your possessions removed before dinner. Your mother's also.”

“And where am I supposed to sleep?”

He turned and grinned at her, couldn't help it. “You could stay with me.”

Her eyes widened and color stained her cheeks. She drew in her breath sharply. “How dare you even…suggest…such a thing!”

Remy shrugged. “It's your choice.” The idea of her warming his bed brought a vivid image to his mind.

“I am not that sort of woman!” Her eyes flashed with pride.

He took pity on her and relented. She didn't know him, didn't know his sense of humor. She couldn't have known he wasn't like most men, who would have taken advantage of this kind of situation. “You may move into the servants' quarters for the duration,” he said over his shoulder as he continued down the hall.

“I thought we had an agreement, Major. You said you'd try to make your stay as pleasant as possible.” She caught up with him and grabbed his arm, stopping his progress. Her eyes narrowed. “You said—”

“I know what I said, Miss Cavanaugh.” He looked at her small white hand on his arm and felt an infusion of warmth seep through his sleeve. Her touch ignited a fierce yearning in him. In another time and place—he didn't allow himself to finish the thought. “I am allowing you and your mother to remain here, but make no mistake. I am in command. My orders will not be questioned. I don't accept it from my men and I won't accept it from you. Do I make myself clear?”

Shaelyn nodded and stepped back, releasing her grip on his arm.

“I'm glad we understand each other. We are in the middle of a war. We all must make sacrifices.”

“Yes, Major, we are in the middle of a war,” Shaelyn said, her voice strong with defiance, her body stiff and unyielding. “But your battle has just begun.”

She spun on her heel and sashayed down the stairs. Remy watched her, fascinated. “If it's a battle you want, Miss Cavanaugh, it's a battle you shall have.”

Shaelyn heard his words and cringed as the front door slammed shut behind her. She needed more than a moment to gather her thoughts and bring her temper under control. When she told her mother of the agreement she'd made with Major Harte, she wanted to be perfectly calm. Right now, calmness seemed beyond her capability.

She walked the garden path to the edge of the bluffs. A stone bench shaded by magnificent magnolia trees awaited her, and her gaze swept the horizon as she sat.

“Oh, Papa.” She stared at the Mississippi flowing so peacefully below her. “I'm so sorry. I couldn't stop them from taking everything—the house, your business, your beloved riverboats. I couldn't save what you loved so much.”

She allowed herself the luxury of a few tears then took a deep breath and forced herself to stop. Crying never solved anything. Although her heart remained close to breaking, she would carry on, as she had done every day since the Civil War broke out, since burying her father and watching her brother march off to join the battle.

Sean and Brenna Cavanaugh had not raised a spoiled child. Shaelyn had not been coddled overmuch, although she knew she had been loved deeply. Her parents always encouraged her to be confident and independent, spirited and outspoken—within reason—and she'd done her best to make them proud. She wouldn't let the Union occupation of her home change her.

A soft breeze rustled through the trees and several leaves fluttered to the stone path, the scent of autumn heavy in the air. For the moment, a sense of peace flowed through her, as if Sean Cavanaugh understood. “Thank you, Papa.”

Her resolve once more restored, she rose and took two steps toward the kitchen door before a rumbling noise caught her attention. She looked up. Not a single cloud marred the darkening violet sky stretching into the distance. The sound grew in volume until it seemed to thunder all around her and the earth shook beneath her feet.

Shaelyn followed the flagstone path around to the front of the house, her feet lightly skipping over the stones in her haste. She stopped and stared at the sight before her, unable to move a muscle.

The entire Union Army filled her driveway. Or what seemed like the entire army. Wagon after wagon pulled to a stop on the circular path. Men in uniforms jumped over the sides and quickly set to work.

The front door of the house swung open. Captain Davenport came out and stood on the steps, his hands on the wrought-iron balustrade. A wide smile parted his lips.

“I see you found us without problem.” Shaelyn heard him say as several officers climbed down from the carriages. They joined him at the top of the stairs.

One of the officers, a man with gray in his sideburns, shouted, “Start unloading. Bring the provisions into the house.”

The men formed a line up the steps, past the officers, and into Magnolia House's central hallway. Item by item, they unloaded the wagons. Sacks of flour, sugar, and coffee were tossed man to man down the line. Barrels were rolled up the steps and down the hall.

Shaelyn raced up the curved staircase and pushed her way through the circle of officers on the veranda, her focus on Captain Davenport.

“Are you in charge of this this chaos?” The temper she had tried so hard to control simply broke loose. She couldn't help it, nor could she stop it. “You couldn't have them pull around to the back of the house to unload the wagons? There is an entrance to the cellar, right off the kitchen, Captain. Look what they're doing to my floor!”

Captain Davenport turned and glanced at the dirt being tracked into the house. Scratches from the barrels marred the beautiful marble. “I beg your pardon. I didn't realize—”

“No, of course not,” Shaelyn exclaimed. “Why should you realize what you're doing to my house? You're only here for a short while. Why should you care if you leave my home in shambles? You won't be here to make it right!” She threw her hands up in disgust and pushed past him, slamming the front door in the face of a young private tossing a sack of flour to the next man in line. The sack hit the door with a thump.

“My word!” one of the officers exclaimed. The statement traveled through the closed door and open windows into the hallway, where Shaelyn stood trying to calm herself before she approached the major. She drew in her breath and watched the line of men standing in the corridor, waiting for the next item to be passed their way.

Another voice, one she did not recognize, floated through the open window. “Who is that lovely young woman?”

“That,” she recognized the clipped speech pattern of Captain Davenport, “is Miss Shaelyn Cavanaugh. She is the daughter of the woman who owns this home. Beware. She has a temper.”

“So I see,” the second man said with a chuckle. “When will she be leaving?”

“She's not.” Again, Captain Davenport answered, his accent placing him from Boston, an accent Shaelyn had become familiar with when she attended school there. “She came to an agreement with Major Harte. She and her mother will be staying.”

“Is the major out of his ever-loving mind?” A third voice joined the conversation, and Shaelyn wondered if the tall man with the gray in his sideburns had uttered the question. It didn't matter. She had no intention of learning their names. “What is he thinking?”

“I wasn't privy to the conversation. All I know is they are staying. Mrs. Cavanaugh will cook and that young lady will be cleaning up after us.” He paused then ordered, “Please put my trunk upstairs in the hallway.”

Shaelyn moved away from the door and stormed into the library with one purpose—to give Major Harte a piece of her mind.

He didn't look up from the paperwork spread out on the desk—her father's desk. “What can I do for you, Miss Cavanaugh?”

“I see your word means nothing,” she stated, her voice cracking in her ears.

Remy finally glanced at her. One dark eyebrow rose in question. “Excuse me?”

She pointed toward the hallway and the line of men standing idly, waiting to pass more foodstuffs. Mud from their boots splattered on the marble tile. “Your men are ruining my home! Why drag everything through the main house when there's a perfectly good entrance to the cellar in the back?”

Remy looked past her, his mouth settling in a thin line. “I'll take care of it.” He rose from his chair with a wince of pain, grabbed his cane, and left the room. Shaelyn followed. Their footsteps tapped on the marble floor; her two to every one of his, despite his limp.

“Vince,” Remy said when he walked out the front door and stepped into the pile of flour. White puffs shot into the air. “Have the men bring the wagons around back to unload.” He glanced down at his boots and the flour coating the high gloss shine. “And have someone clean this up.” He turned to Shaelyn. “Satisfied?”

“No, Major,” she said, her voice sounding strange to her own ears. “What would satisfy me is having you leave.”

“I'm afraid that's not going to happen.” He turned on his heel and went down the hall in his uneven gait, his back ramrod straight as he returned to the study.

Shaelyn watched his progress and exhaled slowly.
This is not going to work at all. I don't want these men here.

She knew she had no choice though. Neither did anyone else whose home had been invaded by these men in blue, but at least Shaelyn and her mother were being allowed to stay. So many others found themselves homeless. Shaelyn squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. She turned to face Captain Davenport and the other officers. Her cheeks burned as she eyed each man and waited for one of them to give the order.