Peach Orchard Farm, September 1864
WILL’S ORDERS ARRIVED the next day. Charlotte was in the sewing room off the downstairs parlor, a tiny space with good light not used by soldiers, where she and Edgar’s sisters could mend and sew. This cloudy, dreary afternoon that threatened rain, Patience sat next to the silent fireplace, darning socks and humming Für Elise, her needle keeping time with the music. Josie was absent as usual. She refused to frequent the downstairs as long as it was “infested with filthy Yankees” and, like Edgar, spent her days as far away from the house as possible.
Her husband’s neglect had never bothered Charlotte before, but now it did. Three days ago, she’d walked to the mill with a picnic lunch, seeking to repair whatever she’d broken in her marriage, but the outing had been strained. Other than the farm and the mill, they had little to talk about. Mentions of Benjamin had been met with grunts, whether of approval or disapproval Charlotte despaired of knowing.
She’d wanted to tell him about the honey and the catfish and the pleasure Benjamin had taken in his new marble game, but refrained, afraid. Any discussion that included the Yankees threw him into a red-faced rage. Perhaps, too, she’d been guilt ridden, for most of her conversation would have contained references to Will.
So she’d listened to Edgar’s list of complaints against the lazy slaves and Mr. Lincoln, who bore the fault for what had happened to his beloved home.
With a heavy heart, Charlotte stitched a new collar for her husband’s shirts and prayed she could mend more than his clothes.
On the pine boards at her feet, Benjamin and Tandy played marbles, a game that had kept them fascinated from the moment Will had offered the small leather pouch.
The house, thankfully, had returned to some semblance of its former self. Most of the sick had recovered sufficiently to camp outside with the other soldiers. Only a handful remained in the parlor, too grievously wounded to go anywhere for some time. They were a sad lot with an uncertain future.
From the window overlooking the veranda, she spotted an unfamiliar rider trotting down the lane of magnolias toward the house.
She wove the needle through the fabric and put the snowy-white collar aside, rising to greet the newcomer. Few from Honey Ridge had darkened the Portlands’ door since the Yankee occupation, and she’d lain awake last night wondering what was being said and what she could do to assuage the rumors. Out on the veranda, she paused, recognizing the blue uniform as Union Army, not a visitor from town. A hard knot clutched inside her chest.
She watched as the man dismounted, spoke to Will and handed him a packet.
The knot grew tighter, harder.
Charlotte spun away, crossed the length of the porch and headed north toward the trees. The peaches were long gone, but the arbor of green leafy arms embraced her as she disappeared into the orchard. This was her sanctuary, her solace, the only place where all the watchers couldn’t see.
She walked, head down, praying. A wind had picked up, whipping the scent of a dying summer into her nostrils. Dying. She didn’t want to think of it, especially if Will was going away, but dying was a major part of war. Dying, not winning some great cause but stealing away everything a man was and everything he could ever be.
Oh, and Will Gadsden could be so much. He already was.
“Charlotte.”
Lost in thought, she’d not heard his approach. She whirled, her skirts whispering over the stiff August grass. “Will.”
It was enough, this acknowledgment of their Christian names. They stood three feet apart, their eyes clasped in the embrace their bodies were denied. Charlotte gripped the folds of her skirt to keep from reaching for him. She could see the news in his face.
Will removed his cap, held it resolutely, as she did her skirt. “Lizzy told me you were here.”
“Lizzy always knows.” The words were stiff on her dry lips.
“Orders arrived from General Schofield.”
She swallowed. “You’re leaving.”
She struggled to maintain composure, to present a cool, unflappable British facade, though inside she wept.
Will canted toward her, then seemed to catch himself and stiffened to military posture. “Tomorrow at daylight.”
The umbrella of tree limbs shuddered in the breeze. Clouds overhead darkened.
“What about the wounded?”
“Most can travel. The handful too sick or injured will remain. I trust you’ll care for them.”
“I will do my best.” Edgar would be furious but, for Will, she could do this one thing.
Will took a step. “Charlotte.”
Oh, his dear and wonderful face. The eyes of kindness. The spirit that had met her as an equal. The man who desired her, who made her feel womanly again. How desperately she wanted to touch him.
“I will miss you, Charlotte.”
Every fiber of her being yearned for him. Don’t go. Don’t go.
“Will, I—” She prayed they could both stay strong in these final moments.
“There are things I want to say but mustn’t.”
“Yes. We mustn’t.” But how wrong it seemed to send him away, perhaps to his death, without knowing.
He rolled his fingers round the cap brim. Round and round. The thick cloud of silence quivering between them held all the words they could not say for honor’s sake. She watched the fine, long hands that had never caressed her because they had no right. Yet the man with rights did not want her.
The conflict confused and wounded. Edgar didn’t care. Will did, and the emotion between them was bigger than the sky, bigger than the war, bigger than the differences between north and south.
She looked down at the dying grass, struggling to accept God’s will. The handsome captain was not hers. She was not his.
“Will you write to me, Charlotte?”
Her head snapped up. A tiny pulse beat, like winged hope, fluttered madly against her collarbone. “How is that possible?”
“I’ll find a way.”
“Nothing can come of it, Will. Of this—” She dared not voice the obvious. Would not say love.
He held her gaze another long, long moment while a crack splintered through the center of her heart.
Sorrow backlit Will’s coffee-dark eyes. His hurt tore at her fading strength.
He retreated a step. “I understand.”
Slowly, he replaced his cap, adjusting the fit until he was once again the constrained, professional military man.
Charlotte’s throat filled.
“You mean a great deal to me, Charlotte. I wish you well.”
“And you, Will Gadsden.” She swallowed thickly. “Stay safe. Godspeed.”
There was so much more she wanted to say, but silence was more prudent.
He gave a curt nod and pivoted on his boot heel.
Long after the flash of red stripe against Union blue trousers disappeared through the peach trees, Charlotte stood in her Tennessee orchard and tried to breathe.