Mallory paused for a moment and stepped away, letting him into the room and closing the door. “Very well,” she said, meeting his gaze. “I meant to speak with you in the morning, Logan.”
“Speak with me? You mean about Stuart?”
Logan was tall but not as solid as Stuart—most Confederates had nearly starved to death, after all. He wasn’t thin but he’d always been slender. His black hair shone in the flames of the candles and lamps lighting her room.
He stood very still and watchful.
“Yes, Logan. About Stuart.”
She seemed to have taken the wind out of Logan’s sails. He eyed her darkly and said, “I came to tell you that I saw you walking with him down to the road. I don’t want you being friendly with him, Mallory.”
Mallory’s heart beat fast and hard and her throat had gone suddenly dry. “Stuart and I…” she began, and faltered. “That is—Logan, I’m very sorry. I won’t be able to marry you. I’m in love with Stuart.”
He stared at her for a moment, then gave a short laugh. “In love with him! You barely know him, Mallory. You met him four years ago and you couldn’t have gotten to know him very well.”
“Well enough.”
A dangerous glint appeared in Logan’s eyes. “What did he say to you?”
“He only—he asked me if I loved you. And then all at once I knew it was Stuart that I love. I’m glad we haven’t told anyone about our engagement, except Brooke. I can’t marry you.”
“Do you realize what you’re doing, Mallory? Do you realize what marriage to Stuart will mean? Living up North among our enemies, leaving everything you care about behind!
“I’ve already made inquiries—we could get a good price for the land your father left you. We won’t starve.”
Mallory clasped her hands tightly together. “I don’t know yet if I’m going to marry him. I don’t know where we’ll live. I don’t know anything, except that I love him.
“And I do not wish to sell my property! No one but Yankees could afford it! You should have told me of your plans, Logan. I’m very grateful that you’ve allowed me to live here, and I’ve tried to work hard so as not to be a burden.”
“If you were grateful you wouldn’t be running off to marry a Yankee!” he said with a sudden flare of temper. “If you were grateful you would realize that you don’t promise to marry a man one minute and change your mind the next!”
Dimly, Mallory could hear her teacher, Miss McKay: “My dears, you must never allow anyone to goad you into a silly argument. Allow a dignified silence before answering a petty remark.”
There was silence but Mallory didn’t feel particularly dignified.
Logan’s face was red with anger and the unwelcome thought occurred to her that he might even suggest a duel, that age-old tradition of two opponents facing each other over a deadly weapon chosen by the challenged party. No matter that dueling was against the law—there was a higher law and within it was bound a Southern man’s sacred honor.
Logan was an excellent shot, having hunted all his life. He was also brave and impulsive and had already fought one duel over some youthful escapade. Thankfully his opponent hadn’t died in that encounter—Brooke said that Logan had deliberately aimed high.
Somehow she must defuse this dangerous situation.
“Logan, all of this is my fault, and mine alone. I was wrong to say I would marry you when I love Stuart, and I’m sorry. I didn’t expect to ever see him again. You’ve been good to me, a perfect gentleman. Will you please forgive me and respect my decision?”
He stared at her for a long moment, then he seemed to make an effort to relax his features as he smiled at her. “There is nothing to forgive, my dear Mallory. I can only hope you will realize this is simply an infatuation of yours, some fantasy you have built up in your mind. Until I see you walk down the aisle with Stuart Wakefield, I shall continue to hope that you will change your mind. Again.”
With that he turned, opened the door and closed it—a little too firmly—behind him. She listened as his footsteps went down the long hall and descended one of the back stairways that led outside. Maybe he was going to sit and smoke on the porch. He’d said he didn’t have any more cigars but he seemed to always have one stashed away somewhere.
She must warn Stuart. He hadn’t come upstairs or she would have heard him. She picked up a candle, left her bedroom, and went hastily along the hall and down the curving staircase.
Everything was still and quiet. A single lamp burned in the foyer, revealing the walls denuded of their portraits and sconces, the polished cedar floor bare of its fine Brussels carpet and hand-carved furniture. The arched fanlight over the front door reflected a soft orange glow from the parlor and she walked silently toward it, pausing in the doorway.
Stuart sat before the fire. He’d removed his coat again but still wore the vest—his white shirt was unbuttoned at the throat and the sleeves rolled up.
His long legs, encased in black knee-length boots, were stretched out negligently and next to him the narrow black window reflected his reclining form. She thought at first he was asleep, but she saw that his eyes were open and he was looking at the smoldering embers of the dying fire.
Something happened inside her that felt as if her heart were literally rolling over. What if Logan is right? What if I’m just caught up in a fantasy about Stuart? How can I marry him when he’s a Yankee and that will always come between us…
In the few seconds that she stood framed in the doorway, several things came clear to her. Somehow time had stood still for her and Stuart. They’d fallen in love that moonlit night in Philadelphia, and a war had intervened. She had seen and endured terrible things, and doubtless so had he.
But the war was over and they had come together again and their feelings were the same, untouched by war and tragedy and death.
Whether it was real and lasting remained to be seen. Whether or not their marriage could survive the obstacles that would inevitably come was unknown. Wasn’t that true of any marriage?
But it must be based on trust, and honesty. Without those things there was no marriage, no joining of minds and hearts in the sight of God. Without those things love was shallow and specious.
She had to tell Stuart the truth.
She’d made no sound but his head turned. He straightened and his eyes went to hers. He got to his feet at once.
“Mallory. Is something wrong?”
She glanced behind her to make sure no one was near. The stairs beckoned, inviting her to flee and escape this conversation. She hesitated, then turned toward him again.
“I don’t know,” she said, walking into the room and setting her candle on a table. “Stuart, I talked to Logan.”
He waited for her to go on. She closed the door, walked across the room and pulled the sliding door closed that separated the two parlors. She turned to him again with a faint smile.
“He came to tell me I mustn’t walk with you in the moonlight, and so I told him. He’s angry. He thinks I’ll change my mind.”
“Will you…change your mind?”
Her eyes touched his dark hair, his level brows and strong chin, and his own eyes that were hardened and haunted by war yet somehow remained soft and understanding.
She took a deep breath. “I haven’t decided anything. But you might change your mind.”
Two lines deepened between his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“You can stop looking for that man. That soldier.”
Now he had a guarded look. “Why do you say that, Mallory?”
“Because—I killed him.”
Stuart stared at her as though she’d sprouted horns.
“You what?”
She had to speak around a large lump in her throat. “He came here. I was at my bedroom window and I saw him go into Tipper’s cabin. I got a pistol and ran to the cabin and he was about to—Tipper was on the bed and I shot him.”
The disbelief in his face changed slowly to belief. He took her hands and made her sit down, then yanked a chair forward and sat down across from her, taking her hands again.
“Tell me everything,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “What did you do with the body?”
“I—I buried him. But I didn’t know about the money, Stuart, I swear to you. It wasn’t on him and I never thought to look at the horse. I was going to take the horse away the next day, but it was gone.”
“Who else knows, besides Tipper?”
“Stuart, I must have your word—”
“Trust me, Mallory. Who else knows? Logan?”
She shook her head. “No. Only Tipper and Deke.”
“They helped you bury him?”
“Yes, but they had no choice!”
“Mallory, do you think I’m going to condemn you for what you did? You probably saved Tipper’s life and your own. Judd Fowler was that kind of man. I’d have killed him myself, after I beat the—”
He stopped, stood up, and walked around the room. He pushed his hand through his dark hair and looked at her again. “Where is he buried?”
“The slave cemetery.”
“You’re sure no one saw you? No one else suspects?”
“I haven’t any reason to think that. No one has ever said or implied anything.”
“But you could have been seen?”
“It was night when we buried him. The cabins shielded us on one side and the woods surrounded us. We had to have a light but I don’t see how anyone could have seen us, and if they had why wouldn’t they have asked what we were doing?”
“What you were doing would have been obvious. Did he die immediately?”
“That was the strange thing about it. I shot him in the shoulder but he seemed all right. Deke tied him up and we were going to wait until Logan got back from town the next day to decide what to do with him.
“He wasn’t bleeding much and Deke said he was mad and trying to get loose. And then a few hours later Deke went to his own cabin to get something, and when he got back the man was dead.”
“Did he have any bills on him, any money at all?”
“I—I don’t know, Stuart. I don’t know if we even looked. We were all so—”
She paused, remembering the frantic, hot darkness of that night. Stuart went to her and pulled her to her feet. “Mallory, I know you’ll never be able to forget it, but remember, too, that you were in the right.”
Her eyes met his and her arms slipped around him. Stuart’s hands moved back to touch her hair. Gently he kissed her forehead, and then, not so gently, his mouth took her own in a very different kiss than the one they’d shared earlier. It left her breathless, her knees trembling.
He pulled away slowly. His hands swept down her arms and clasped her own, and he set her back in the chair. “Let me think.”
She watched him cross to the window where he belatedly pulled the draperies closed. He put his hand on the mantel and looked for a moment at the last embers of the fire. It was almost dark in the room. After a moment he turned and went back to her.
“No one else must ever know. I can have a clear conscience about that—and so must you. But that horse and that money went somewhere. The money belongs to the United States government and I intend to find it. Logan mentioned that Deke left unexpectedly. Was that when he left? Did he take the horse?”
“He said he didn’t. He did leave that night, but he says he doesn’t know anything about the horse or the money.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Yes…yes, I do. I’ve known Deke a long time. He helped my father at Grace Hall sometimes when we had problems with our own overseers. He’s an honest man.”
“What about Tipper?”
“I’m sure she doesn’t know anything. We both thought at the time that Deke had taken the horse when he left.”
“So the horse mysteriously disappeared and the money was probably on it. Did you get a look at the horse? Were there saddlebags?”
“I honestly can’t remember, Stuart. I remember seeing that the horse was tied to a tree behind the cabin. I forgot all about it until the next day. Deke told me tonight that he left because he was scared but that the horse was already gone.”
“I’ll talk to him in the morning.”
A smoldering log sighed in the fireplace. The flame from Mallory’s candle wavered on the table.
“You’d better go upstairs,” Stuart said quietly. “I’m going to stay up awhile. Light a lamp, will you? I may do some reading.”
She took her candle in one hand and raised the glass chimney of one of the lamps, lighting it. She replaced the chimney and turned to look at Stuart.
“Goodnight.”
He put his hand on her arm. “Try not to worry. I’ll talk to Logan, too, in the morning.”
“Be careful, Stuart. He really is angry.”
“I can’t blame him for that.” His lips brushed her cheek lightly. “Goodnight, Mallory.”
He opened the door for her, watching as she began to ascend the staircase. She felt as though she floated up the stairs. Someone had put out all the lamps and the corridor was dark. She lit one of them with her candle so it would be burning when Stuart came upstairs.
She went to her room, closed the door and began undressing. She put on the thin cotton nightgown she’d been wearing all summer, washed so many times it was almost transparent, and brushed out her hair. It fell in thick waves well past her shoulders.
She looked at her face in the mirror, observing the flush on her cheeks and lips and the brightness of her eyes. She seemed to see everything with heightened clarity, as though she’d been ill and now was well.
In one night her life had changed. It had taken a new course—a course full of hope and the promise of a deep and abiding happiness. She hadn’t thought it possible. She’d resigned herself to a sad and empty feeling left by all that had happened in the last few years. Her brief engagement to Logan had done nothing to allay that sadness, but Stuart had begun to brush it away the moment she saw him.
Mallory blew out the candle and climbed into bed, shook out the mosquito netting and pulled it around her, and lay back on the thick pillows. She stared at the underside of the canopy above her and tried, as Stuart had bidden her, not to worry.
There seemed to be plenty to worry about…Logan, the situation with the dead soldier, and…good heavens, Brooke was going to be furious! Brooke was used to getting her own way, even though Corinne had tried to put a stop to that soon after she’d married Adrian Wakefield ten years ago.
Corinne DePugh Langley Wakefield was descended from the French settlers of Natchez, a city named after its original Indian inhabitants. The Indians had massacred the early French colonists in 1729, but after the Natchez tribe was slowly decimated over the next two years, the rest of the DePugh family had arrived from France, and had prospered.
Corinne’s first husband, John Langley, had been wealthy, and a year after his premature death from cholera his widow had married the handsome widower, Adrian Wakefield—one of the “Natchez Nabobs,” a name given to the forty or so men of extreme wealth who lived in Natchez.
She had marched into the house like a small, female Napoleon, expecting to be obeyed without question. Logan had gone immediately on the Grand Tour and stayed in Europe for almost two years. Brooke appealed to her father whenever she and Corinne clashed over some small matter and Adrian usually sided with his daughter.
Brooke, upon her father’s death during the first year of the war, promptly married Lawrence Chandler, a young Confederate captain she’d known only a few weeks. She saw him infrequently during the war and he’d been accidentally killed by his own men in a skirmish more than a year ago.
One thing about Corinne—Mallory thought drowsily, turning over on her side—she’d kept the plantation going while all the men were away, even after most of the slaves left, and money—which was in the form of Confederate bonds—became worthless. They’d planted a little cotton which Corinne had managed to sell through a broker in the city. She’d seen to it that vegetables were planted and made Deke raise chickens, in a shed far away from the house.
At her instigation they’d hidden a cow and her calf, a mule, and some pigs in the woods whenever the Yankees came looking for livestock. The soldiers had found the squealing pigs but not the cow, calf, and mule.
The mule had died only that summer. He’d wandered onto the property a year or so before and Mallory had suspected even then that he was ancient. Yet he’d been persuaded to successfully plow the field where Deke had planted their short rows of cotton.
Corinne saw to the running of the household, instructing Brooke, Mallory, and Tipper in the areas of cleaning and cooking and tending the vegetable garden, and she worked just as hard herself.
It had, in fact, been no small undertaking to survive in the year or two before Logan came back, and Corinne deserved much of the credit.
Logan, upon his return from the war in late April, immediately took over as head of the house. Corinne reluctantly backed down but continued to indulge her domineering nature by bossing Brooke and Mallory, who usually obeyed simply because it was easier to do so than to oppose her.
Tipper, the only slave besides Deke who had remained on the plantation, knew nothing of cooking and serving. However, under Corinne’s rigorous tutelage she was learning. Corinne was an excellent cook, and although their food was sometimes sparse it was good. The men had fished and hunted wild turkey and deer, and somehow they’d gotten by…
Half asleep, Mallory became aware of a shrill sound outside her partially open window. She sat up, thinking it must be an animal. Then she realized that it wasn’t an animal.
It was a woman, screaming.