Where The Heart Is (Choices of the Heart, book 1) (5 page)

“Aunt, I was so frightened for Kendra for a while.”

Caroline put an arm around Chelle’s shoulders. “So was I. First births are chancy, but she’s fine and she has a strong, healthy boy.”

Chelle’s mind turned to the little girl asleep at home. “I’m thinking of Leah. What happened to her mother?”

It was too dark to see Caroline’s face clearly, but regret came through in her voice. “She hemorrhaged. The doctor and I couldn’t get it stopped. These things happen, but it never gets any easier to take.”

Chelle had no idea how she’d react in a situation like that. She only knew how awed she’d been by Kendra’s courage and by the new life she’d brought into the world. “I don’t suppose it does, but I’d like to go to other births with you and learn from you. Would you be willing to let me do that?”

Caroline stopped, her surprise obvious. “Aye, I’m willing, if you’re willing to be ready for anything. If you change your mind just let me know, and I won’t think any less of you for it.”

A warm glow built in Chelle’s chest, an unexpected sense of purpose. This was something she could do to give some meaning to her time there. “Thank you, Aunt.”

* * *

Chelle and Caroline arrived home to Jean’s welcoming supper of beef stew and dumplings. Ravenous, Chelle had almost cleared her plate before she noticed that the rest of the family seemed preoccupied, especially her father. She dropped her fork and looked around the table. Jean wouldn’t look at her.

“Dad, is something wrong?”

Chelle’s father met her gaze with troubled eyes. Everyone at the table fell silent.

“We’ve had a letter from your brother, lass.”

Fear ran through Chelle like ice water. “Is Trey all right? Where is he?”

“Yes, he’s all right.” Her father pulled the letter from his shirt pocket and handed it across the table. “Here, read it yourself.”

June 2, 1861

Camp Marcy, Maryland

Dear Dad,

By the time you get this, I will have been several weeks a member of the 60
th
Cavalry, 3
rd
Pennsylvania Volunteers. A fine name for a bunch of raw recruits like us. Some of these boys had never fired a rifle before they joined up. I only hope that our commanding officer, Colonel Averill, can turn us into soldiers before we’re needed, which likely won’t be until next spring.

I don’t suppose you’ll be any more surprised me than I am at myself…

Pennsylvania Volunteers. A Federal regiment. Instead of staying out of the war, Trey had enlisted for the Union. The letter fell from Chelle’s hand to the table. A scalding lump formed in her throat.

“How
could
he?”

Her chair crashed to the floor as she jumped to her feet. She got a quick glimpse of the sympathy on her father’s face before she ran from the kitchen. In her room, she curled up on her bed, fists doubled against the knot in her stomach. Now she and her father and Trey wouldn’t be merely unwelcome if they ever returned to Georgia.

They’d be considered enemies.

A few minutes later, her father came in and sat beside her, Trey’s letter in his hand. “Come, lass, it’s not as bad as all that.”

Chelle sat up and leaned against him. He folded his arms around her and rocked her as he used to when she was a little girl waking from a nightmare, but she didn’t think she’d ever wake from this one.

“How could Trey do this? I understood that he couldn’t fight for the Confederacy, but how could he fight for the other side?”

Her father held her closer. “He’s told us why, Chelle.”

He sat back and handed her the letter. Fighting tears, Chelle read it.

We talked it all over at home, and you know I felt the same way you did—that even if her cause was right, which it isn’t, the Confederacy was too badly outgunned and outmanned to win this war. But she will fight to the bitter end, and the longer it takes, the worse it will be. But what if the Confederacy is so badly outnumbered that the end comes sooner rather than later? With less destruction and bloodshed? Isn’t that worth fighting for? If I’d joined the Morgan County troop, I’d have been fighting for our home, but with little or no chance of winning. This way, even though I’ll never be able to go back, I’ll be fighting to help end the war quickly, before it ever reaches home. I only hope you and Chelle can understand…

Chelle set the letter on her nightstand and tried to imagine how her brother must be feeling now, with his family far away, as he prepared to go to war against the friends he’d grown up with. Feelings had run strong enough at home before she left, but now Trey had cut himself off from the old life for good. Could it possibly be worth it?

“I suppose I understand, in a way. He thinks he’s doing the best thing he can do to protect home, but… it’s just so hard to believe. If he’d even hinted that he might do this, I’d have—”

Her father laid a hand on her knee. “What would you have said to him, lass? He knew you were in love with Rory.”

Chelle couldn’t answer. No quarrel she’d had with Trey had ever seriously strained their closeness, but if she’d any idea he would consider fighting against their friends, it might have come between them permanently.

And, for the time being at least, he was safer than he would have been traveling west. Chelle clung to that thought, for her father’s sake as well as her own. “At least he’s relatively safe until next spring.”

Her father gave her a quick hug. “Aye, and it could all be over by then. He might never see battle at all. Let’s not worry until we have to.”

Chapter Six

“Then there’s Mrs. Fred Connell. Mabel, her name is. Mam says there’s lots of folk clever enough to mind everyone else’s business if they neglect their own, but Mrs. Connell’s capable enough to mind her own affairs and others’ too.”

Chelle giggled. “She sounds like Mrs. Hetty Palmer at home.”

“Aye.” Kendra leaned over her small son and adjusted the bonnet that protected him from the warm August sun. “There’s plenty like that the world over, I’ll warrant. And then there’s Hiram Brantley. He goes by contraries. Whenever his wife wants him to do a thing, she nags him to do the opposite. They’ve been married twenty years and he still hasn’t caught on.”

Laughing, Chelle inched forward on her knees, holding Leah’s chubby hands as she took a few steps over the rough grass. “My mother used to do that to Dad sometimes, but he knew it, and she knew he knew it.” She looked down at the smiling little girl. “Leah, you’ll be running me off my feet in no time.”

They sat in a secluded spot on the hill outside the village, reached by a side path that wound off in the opposite direction from Mr. Rainnie’s sheep pasture. In the two weeks she’d been bringing little Davy out for fresh air, Kendra had shown Chelle a few worthwhile new spots and told her the quirks of some of Mallonby’s people in the process.

Kendra clapped, cheering Leah on as she took a few more steps. “Ten months is early to be walking, Mam says. I think Leah’s going to be a big girl. She’s more like her father than her mother. She likely won’t thank him for it when she’s older.”

With a little gurgle of triumph, her red curls running riot in the slight breeze, Leah plumped down on her bottom. Her brown smocked dress promptly blew up over her face, making her squeal. Chelle pulled it down, feeling a twinge of sadness for Mr. Rainnie, mixed with impatience. He shouldn’t be missing his daughter’s first steps.

“She seems to have her father’s temper, too. What was her mother like?”

“Well, you know Mrs. Rainnie was from Carston.” Kendra laid Davy on the grass and clasped her arms around her knees. She’d recovered well from her labor, and she was slowly losing her defensiveness around Chelle. “I think Mr. Rainnie met her at one of the dances there. She had dark hair, and lovely gray eyes, like Leah’s. She’d have been four or five years older than me. I never really knew her. She was a bit shy like, but I know she loved music. She had a fine singing voice, sang solos in the church choir, and she and Mr. Rainnie went to all the dances hereabouts. He played the fiddle at most of them and they were the best dancers in the district. He’s given up playing at dances though, now that she’s gone.”

Chelle picked Leah up and held her close. Jean was weaning the babies now. It wouldn’t be long until the little girl found another home. How would Chelle fill her days, and her heart, when Leah was gone?

“I can’t imagine how anyone raised by the Paxtons could grow up to be a dancer. They’ve been to the forge to visit Leah once or twice. She hasn’t taken to them at all, and I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t give them a dog I liked, but I’m afraid Mr. Rainnie is going to let them have Leah.”

Kendra gathered up her son. “Are they so bad, then? I don’t know them.”

Chelle made a rueful face. “They aren’t bad at all, just stiff and set in their ways, and judgmental. They disapproved of me on sight. I don’t know why.”

Chelle wished she could take back her words when Kendra blushed. “Perhaps it’s because they’ve heard you’ve been seen with me.”

“If that’s why, I don’t care a fig what they think. It’s time I was getting home. I promised Aunt Caroline I’d start supper for her… Oh, no. Is that Drew Markham?”

A dark-haired young man was coming up the track from the village. Though she’d only met him once, Chelle recognized Drew’s arrogant stride, even at a distance. Kendra looked and rolled her eyes.

“Aye, that’s him sure enough. I don’t like coming across him outside of the village like this, but there’s nothing for it now.”

“He can go to the devil,” Chelle huffed. “Come on.”

They reached the ford across the river at almost the same time as Drew. He crossed and waited for them, blocking the way to the stepping stones.

“Afternoon, Kendra.” His voice was laced with insolence.

Kendra replied in kind. “Bugger off, Drew.”

Drew grinned and glanced back at the stepping stones. “Looks like you
ladies
are in need of a little assistance.” Before Kendra could react, he scooped her into his arms and started across the ford.

Chelle stood there, furious. Of course Drew knew Kendra wouldn’t dare struggle with the baby in her arms. When he reached the other side, he smiled down at her red, angry face. “How about a kiss, lass?”

Meanwhile, Chelle had stormed across the ford. Angry beyond thought, she shifted Leah to one arm, stooped and picked up a rock. As a little girl her aim had been as good as Trey’s, and she doubted she’d forgotten how to throw. “Put her down or I’ll knock you out.”

Drew gave Chelle an appraising look then set Kendra on her feet. She promptly slapped his face as hard as she could.

“You heard her. Now bugger off!”

Drew’s temper overcame his caution. He lifted a hand to the red welt on his cheek and took a couple of quick steps toward Chelle. Rather than throw her rock and leave herself unarmed, she stuck her foot out and tripped him. With a satisfying splash, he toppled face down in the shallow river. Before he could get to his feet, the girls ran to the top of the hill, into sight from the village. Drew didn’t follow.

Kendra looked shaken. Both children were crying. Chelle could hardly speak for rage. “What I wouldn’t give for any of the boys from home to have seen that! Drew would be lucky if all he got was the thrashing of his life!”

Kendra cast a nervous glance back the track as she hushed her son. “For your sake, perhaps, but not for the likes of me. Chelle, you’d be wise to say naught about this.”

Chelle turned to face her. “I’ll be… I’m not going to let him get away with this. I’d like to see Brian give him the beating he deserves.”

Kendra’s expression turned pleading. “Aye, but it isn’t you Drew would vent his spite on afterwards. Please, just let it lie.”

It went against the grain, but Chelle would never forgive herself if Drew retaliated against Kendra. “All right, I’ll say nothing about it for your sake. At least we’ve had the satisfaction of seeing him land in the river.”

* * *

Martin edged his way through the pub’s Saturday night crowd and nodded to Harry, who nodded back and pushed a full mug of bitter across the bar. Martin laid down his coins and tasted his drink as he took in the lively scene.

The rich smells of good food and beer permeated the air. Lamplight warmed the stone walls and glanced off mugs and glasses, giving the room a welcoming glow. Mill hands and farm workers filled the tables and lined the bar. Later on, Jason Tewkes would be in with his flute and Henry Walker with his fiddle. Malcolm Blake was already there, over in the far corner, priming his rough but true tenor voice with a whiskey or two. Malcolm’s memory was a storehouse of ballads to fill the gaps between tunes. And chances were someone would bring a bodhran. Martin had always enjoyed playing along with the wild, pulsing rhythm of a bodhran. It seemed to unleash his imagination, lend its energy to his bow until he couldn’t tell whether the drum followed him or he followed it. The music just flowed.

On past evenings Eleanor would sing, too,
My Bonnie Light Horseman
or
Black is the Color
or some other favorite of hers. The Crow was the sort of pub where a woman could go with her husband and feel comfortable. Martin closed his eyes against the memories. He hadn’t been here on a Saturday night since losing Eleanor, but tonight he’d felt the walls of the farmhouse closing in on him and knew he needed to get out. A pint or two, and he’d be gone before the music started.

With no empty seats in the place, Martin put his back to a brick pillar and took his time over his ale. The hum of voices and the cheerful atmosphere took some of the edge off his loneliness.

“She just doesn’t like your looks, Drew. Maybe I’ll have a go and see if she likes mine better.” The voice came from a table at the back of the room. Martin looked and saw Drew Markham sitting with three or four farm laborers about his age. Being in the mill office now, he wouldn’t drink with the floor workers. These were lads Drew had likely known since he was still on his father’s farm.

He laughed and clinked his glass against his mate’s. “Luck to you, Tom. Only, if it works, you’ll have to share. She looks to me like one who might enjoy spreading it around.”

Tom looked a bit taken aback. “Keep your voice down, Drew. Her cousin’s here somewhere.”

“What’s the odds if he’s here? I doubt if Brian McShannon’s too interested in defending her, not if she chooses to cast in her lot with Kendra Fulton.”

So they were talking about the McShannon girl. Martin scanned the room for Brian but didn’t see him. It was none of his affair, but tonight Martin didn’t feel like containing his anger. He’d been doing that for too long. He let the months of suppressed pain rise hot and strong in his chest as he made his way to the back of the pub. Tonight, just once, he’d give his temper free rein.

“Evenin’, lads.” Martin focused on Drew, throwing all the contempt he could muster into his tone. “Were you talkin’ about Rochelle McShannon, then? If so, you’d be wise to mind your tongues. Her father might be a small man, but her uncle and cousin aren’t. Nor am I.”

He made the challenge obvious, too obvious to be laughed off. Drew leaned back negligently in his chair, a reckless gleam in his dark eyes. “We’re minding our own business, Martin. Why don’t you bugger off and do the same?”

“Right then, I will.” As he spoke, Martin reached across the table, grabbed the front of Drew’s shirt in one hand and backhanded him across the face with the other, sending him and his chair crashing to the floor. It felt good. In fact, it made Martin feel more alive than he’d felt for months. He stood back and grinned at Drew’s shocked companions. “Enjoy your evening, lads.”

Drew staggered up from the floor, his hand to his split lip. Martin turned away, slowly, deliberately. When he heard Drew coming around the table, he spun at the right moment to bury his left fist in the man’s belly. Drew crashed to the floor again, gasping.

Oh, it felt good, more like joy than anger. Martin stood there smiling, savoring the energy pumping through him. Drew started to rise, then unexpectedly launched himself at Martin’s legs, taking him down. Martin’s head snapped back as Drew’s right fist connected with his jaw, followed by a left to his eye. He felt his own fists slam into Drew’s body, then people pulled them apart and Harry Tate stood over them.

“Martin, have you taken leave of your senses?”

Maybe a little, but he didn’t care. Two of Drew’s companions helped him up while Martin got to his feet under his own power. Still feeling the rush of the fight, he looked down at the wiry little pub owner and tried to grin, but his sore jaw rebelled. “I’m sorry, Harry, but his filthy mouth needed shuttin’.” He glanced at the toppled chair and the spilled beer on the floor. “Doesn’t look like there’s any damage to speak of.”

“No damage? You should see your face, and Christ, look at Drew.”

Martin didn’t yet feel the punches he’d taken, but no doubt he would soon. His left eye had already swollen shut, but through the right he saw Drew, blood from his split lip running down his chin and spattering his shirt. Feeling no regret, Martin turned away. “Perhaps he’ll keep a civilized tongue in his head from now on. I’m goin’ home. Sorry again, Harry.”

A half-moon lit his way home, and the cool night air helped to clear his head. By the time Martin reached the farm the rush of the fight had left him, making way for the familiar emptiness. He went inside, lit a lamp and tended to his battered face. The stillness weighed on him again, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.

This had been a quiet house for as long as he’d known it. As an only child, Martin had spent more time with his fiddle than with any companions, but home had always been warm with love. When his parents’ deaths had left him alone, he’d found Eleanor. Now, the silence without her was a fierce thing that gnawed at his heart.

Unbidden, the image of Rochelle McShannon popped into Martin’s mind. Truth was she’d lurked in the background of his thoughts since she’d dropped his butter on the floor and his daughter in his arms. She’d go through life upsetting apple carts, that one.

Martin put the girl firmly out of his mind. She’d caused him enough trouble already. He was starting to feel his hurts, and he didn’t want to think about what he’d look like in the morning, but the remembered feel of his fist connecting with Drew’s face did wonders to dull his pain.

As expected, he woke in the morning aching fiercely all over, unable to open his left eye and with a good-sized lump on his jaw. He worked his way through the morning chores, then returned to the house, made coffee and sat at the table while it brewed, trying to decide how to spend the day. Not going to church, that was for sure and certain. He wouldn’t have gone with a face like this even if he’d been in the habit.

If he wasn’t going to keep the Sabbath, he might as well break it. With haying over and harvest not yet on, it was time some of the smaller jobs around the place got done. Perhaps he’d clean out the shed loft where he’d stored his fleeces. He’d ended up selling them to the mill after all, though it galled him.