When the Splendor Falls (49 page)

“Miss?” Lieutenant Chatham called out, saving Leigh from saying anything further in response to Neil’s stinging rebuke which had made her feel the fool.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” Leigh said, kneeling down beside him again and touching her hand to his forehead in growing concern. “Are you having any trouble breathing? I must have wrapped your ribs too tight,” she said, glancing over worriedly at Jolie for reassurance, for Jolie had wrapped Stuart Travers’s bruised and broken ribs on more than one occasion.

“Oh, no, I’m feeling much better, Miss Leigh. I just wanted to thank you for your kindness. You’re an angel, Miss Leigh,” he said, his eyes full of adoration, and Leigh didn’t dare glance up into Neil’s face, for she’d heard the imprecation uttered softly beneath his breath. “And that is why I would ask you not to think too ill of the captain,” he begged. “He’s a fine gentleman. I’ve never met anyone quite as brave, and he has risked his life time and time again for us. He saved mine today. I wanted you to know what kind of man he is.”

Neil’s mouth tightened into an ominous line as he heard the lieutenant begging forgiveness for him.

“You needn’t worry, Lieutenant,” Leigh reassured the young man, patting his hand comfortingly, “because I do know exactly what kind of man your captain is.”

Lieutenant Chatham managed a smile. “Thank you, Miss Leigh,” he said, speaking her name as lovingly as the mulattress had while helping her tend the wounded, and because he thought so highly of his captain, he never realized the meaning of her words, but Neil had been in no doubt when meeting her glance as she began to rise, unable this time to avoid the hand that closed around her elbow with such strength of purpose, easily lifting her to her feet.

“Miss Leigh? I’ll never forget you,” Lieutenant Chatham declared, blushing with embarrassment after his outburst.

“And I’ll never forget you, Lieutenant,” Leigh told him fondly, smiling down at him before she walked toward the doors of the stables, returning the friendly smiles and grateful farewells from the men, Jolie a step behind, Stephen already waiting at the door, holding it open to speed their escape.

“A real lady, her,” someone remarked.

“Sweet lil’ reb. Reminds me a bit of my sister back in Tennessee. Wish I knew how she was doin’. Married to a reb, although he’s a fine man despite that,” another man said, worrying about her welfare should federal soldiers have hidden out on her farm.

The next couple hours seemed endless to the men as they waited for darkness to fall, when they could make their escape, and although many might have wondered, no one had the courage to ask their captain exactly where they’d escape to. They wouldn’t be able to get very far with all of the wounded, and as they sat, waiting, they tried to amuse themselves. Some told tall tales, others played poker, holding the different suits of their Miss Liberty playing cards up to the fading light to determine the winning hand that might display a pair of shields, a straight flush of five-pointed stars, or a straight with patriotic eagles and flags.

Others dug deep inside their haversacks, pulling out treasured daguerreotypes in fancy frames or dog-eared photographs of loved ones they might never see again. Several pulled out pipes and tobacco pouches, carefully packing their hoarded tobacco into the bowls, a match lit and shared among many until burning itself out. The pungent smoke drifted around the stables, mingling with the tallow smoke from a stub of candle stuck in a spiked candleholder someone had had the presence of mind to pack with his belongings, the scratchings of his pen on a piece of paper spread across a writing kit propped on his knee, perhaps the last letter to be written home. Another close by peered at the comforting verses in the Bible he was reading, while another leaned closer to the candlelight to thumb through his New England Almanac, wondering if he’d ever return home, if he’d ever know again the joy of planting and harvesting his crops.

McGuire’s friend had unrolled his sewing kit and was sewing back on McGuire’s sleeve, certain his friend would have need of it in future, even if he seemed dead to the world right now. Lieutenant Chatham stared down sleepily at the theater tickets for a performance he would never see, while another lonely soldier fingered the bawdy pictures he’d traded his Jew’s harp and a pair of socks for when last in camp.

“Wish that lil’ lady had left her papa’s corn liquor with us.” A disembodied voice spoke suddenly out of the darkness that now enshrouded the small confines of the stables where they felt holed up in like rats.

“Best I’ve ever drunk. Always heard these Virginians made a brew fine enough to blow yer boots off while slidin’ down as smooth as molasses.”

“Beats swallowin’ Ol’ Red Eye,” someone said, taking a deep swig of water from his canteen as he remembered the cheap whiskey that made the rounds of the camps, the foul taste of turpentine hard to get off your tongue.

“When we leavin’, Cap’n?” Someone finally voiced what was on all of their minds. “Reckon we’ll be the only ones ridin’ tonight with this storm comin’ on, ’cause the wind’s pickin’ up. Figure it’ll be pouring down rain soon.”

Neil straightened, pushing himself away from the door, where he’d stood for over an hour staring at the big house through the fine mist that had begun to fall. In another twenty minutes, it would be dark. He glanced back at his men, most were ready to ride, and the odds were more in their favor now, thanks to their respite at Travers Hill, that they would survive. They might not be able to reach their own lines, but for now, he knew a safe place for them to hide; a place no reb, except for two, would know to look for them.

The horses had been fed and watered, and were well rested. There was no reason to delay any longer once dusk fell, Neil thought, damning himself for not having found out what had happened at Royal Bay and to his cousins. But it was too late now, too late even to thank her for all she had done today to help them, he thought as he walked along the passageway eyeing his men, his hard-eyed expression causing a few of the men to look away uneasily. “We’ll leave within half an hour. Start gathering up your kits, and I don’t want anything, and that means so much as a burnt match, left in this stable. We don’t want to cause trouble for the lady,” he warned them, his voice as cutting as a knife’s edge as he bent down to pick up a playing card that had somehow strayed from the deck, the owner looking sheepish as he quickly tucked it in his haversack and wondered how the lady would have explained that playing card, emblazoned so prettily with the emblems of the Union.

“Whoa, Cap’n! Lookee here. Guess they was in a hurry to leave, ’cause they fergot this stack here. Didn’t even notice it pushed back here in the corner.”

Neil stopped beside the man who’d called out, staring down in dismay at the neat pile of linens, torn into bandage-sized strips, on top, a pair of scissors, two bottles of medicinal lotions, and a wad of blood-soaked blue uniform. “Damn,” he bit out as he picked up the incriminating evidence that, if found by a rebel patrol, could have had tragic consequences for the Travers family—for Leigh.

“Get ready to ride immediately upon my return,” he ordered, turning back toward the door. “I’ll signal you. Otherwise, don’t make a sound, gentlemen, and don’t open the door for anyone else. In this gray mist, you might let in a whole troop of rebs before you even knew the difference.”

“Where you goin’, Cap’n?”

“To return these items to the lady,” he answered abruptly as he anticipated another meeting with the lady in question. “And to reconnoiter the area. I don’t intend to ride out of here blind. After shaking them off our scent, I have no intention of riding into a reb camp by mistake.”

“Want me to bury that bit of uniform, Cap’n?”

“No, we’ll let them burn it up at the house, that way no trace will be left to be found by someone sniffing around,” Neil said, slowly opening the door, then slipping through and disappearing into the twilight.

* * *

Sitting on a small three-legged milking stool before the open hearth in the kitchens, Leigh slowly drew a brush through the long strands of her hair until it hung in thick, shining waves over one shoulder, nearly touching the floor.

Dropping the brush on top of her damp towel, she poured a couple of drops of the roses and lavender lotion that would always remind her of her mother into her palm, smoothing the creamy liquid into the chafed skin of her hands. Standing up, she allowed the quilt she’d wrapped around her shoulders to drop to the brick flooring. The warmth of the hearth lightly touched her naked body, bathing it in golden firelight as she poured more of the fragrant lotion into her hand and began to spread it on her arms and shoulders, then lower, onto her breasts and hips, then down the length of thighs and calves, trying to blot out the memory of her bloodied hands and the torn flesh of those men in the stables.

Surely they, and Neil Braedon, must have left by now, Leigh thought, glancing at the windows, and the darkening sky beyond.

Earlier, and without a backward glance, she, Jolie, and Stephen had made their way back to the kitchens from the stables. No one had spoken and it had been a silent vow between them that nothing would ever be spoken of their afternoon’s activities. The less said the better. And soon, it might be forgotten.

She’d had time only to scrub her hands and face, brushing her hair free of tangles and drying mud before confining it in a chignon and hastily joining Althea and Guy in the study, her excuse of having eaten in the kitchens accepted and not questioned as she fed Lucinda and talked with Guy, reading to him from the three-month-old newspapers Adam had brought with him on his last visit to Travers Hill. She’d caught Althea’s puzzled gaze on her more than once, but Althea had said nothing, and she hadn’t enlightened her. After that, household duties had required her attention and she and Jolie had made the beds with fresh linens, then she’d helped Jolie replenish her stock of potions, then, leaving Jolie in the kitchens preparing the evening meal, she and Stephen had gone out and collected kindling, staying well away from the stables in their search of the woods, and forcing herself not to think about the men hiding there.

Only now, had she found the chance to bathe. She’d filled the tub with steaming water and scented it with a few drops of jessamine oil, the flowering vine having grown wild and plentiful over the years in the woods and on the fences that still marked Travers land. Sinking down deep into the healing waters, she’d felt her body relax. Drinking a cup of Jolie’s specially brewed tea had left her feeling drowsy and docile beneath Jolie’s soothing hands as she’d massaged her neck and shoulders, releasing the tensions. She’d suspected Jolie had brewed it especially strong. Her hair had been lathered with chamomile blended with one of Jolie’s fragrant soaping lotions, then rinsed until once again it felt clean.

Jolie had returned to the big house, a preoccupied look on her coppery face when she’d pushed Leigh down on the stool before the fireplace. Leigh remembered something about conjurin’, a full moon, and thunder as Jolie had scurried away, mumbling beneath her breath, her eyes wild.

Shivering now, Leigh pulled the quilt over her shoulders, wrapping it snugly around her body as she added another log to the fire, careful not to disturb the glowing coals beneath the big pot at the far end of the hearth, where a tantalizing odor drifted from it. Huddling closer, she watched as the log was engulfed by flames. Her body warmed by the fire, she allowed her eyes to close, and her thoughts to linger on Neil Braedon. Somewhere in the distance, Leigh heard Damascena whinny, but she was too tired to do more than open a heavy-lidded eye in lazy curiosity.

Suddenly, both eyes opened wide, for standing in the doorway was the disturbing object of her thoughts. How long had he been there? she wondered, glancing down at the soft-soled moccasins that allowed him to move so silently, and catch people off-guard, she thought crossly.

Leigh got quickly to her feet, almost losing her balance as her head spun. Trying to pull the quilt closer around her shaking body, her foot caught in a fold as she turned to face him.

“I came to tell you we are leaving, and to return these items to you. In your haste, you left them in the stables. The circumstances of their having been there would have been hard to explain,” he told her, holding out the stack of linen strips he carried, the scissors and bottles balanced on top. “I would suggest you burn this,” he added, holding up the bloodstained blue material as he placed the linens on the table.

Leigh continued to watch him as he came toward her, his eyes never leaving her as he moved quietly across the room. Then he was standing before her, staring down into her face as he dropped the piece of blue cloth in the hearth, where the flames climbed the highest and would consume the quickest, leaving nothing but ashes.

“As usual, our parting was not as I would have wished.” He spoke in a low voice, startling Leigh by the unexpected gentleness in it. “I wanted to thank you. I thank you not for myself but for the lives of the men your tender ministrations might very well have saved today.”

“I only did what had to be done,” Leigh murmured, glancing down uncomfortably at her bare feet.

“You did far more than most,” Neil contradicted her, reaching out a hand to touch the softness of her unbound hair, the back of his hand grazing her fiery cheek.

Leigh jerked away as if burnt, and he dropped his hand, his expression suddenly hardening. “I did not have the opportunity to ask you earlier, nor did I wish to reveal too much to my men, but what happened at Royal Bay?”

“You’ve seen it?”

“Yes.”

“There was a battle. I’m sorry I can’t remember when,” she said with a frown of concentration, swaying slightly on her feet. “I don’t even know if the house was hit by rebel or Yankee cannon fire. It doesn’t really matter. It’s gone. Your aunt, Euphemia, died that night. She was the only one left at Royal Bay and a shell hit the house directly. She wouldn’t come here and stay with us. She was a proud woman,” Leigh remembered. “Your uncle died before the war, before Royal Bay was destroyed.”