A month later, Emmett stood at the entrance to an assembly hall in Baltimore’s fashionable district, holding in his hand a delicate goblet of champagne and on his face, an artificial smile. In spite of Emmett’s protests, his father would not hear of his son missing one of these gatherings, and this week alone, he’d attended three. Or was it four?
The British naval blockades had nearly crippled the state’s economy, plantations and coastal cities were being raided daily, and still, the upper crust of Baltimore society continued on, donning their fanciest clothes and jewels, eating expensive food, and pretending the world outside wasn’t filled with battles, poverty, and refugees.
He felt an urgency to go, to do something, to return to his command. And luckily, he had only to wait a few more days before leading his new battalion north to Fort George on the Niagara.
From the far side of the room, Beauregard Prescott spotted his son and waved him over.
His father, looking much younger than his fifty-seven years, stood straight-backed, his chin raised and head tipped in a manner particular to a person possessing both extreme wealth and extreme self-confidence. His waistcoat was new and of the latest fashion, his jacket immaculately tailored. But his most handsome accessory was the woman, twenty years his junior, who stood beside him, adorned in equally lavish fashion.
“Good evening, Father, Emeline.” He kissed his stepmother’s cheek.
She curtsied and gave a refined smile.
“Come, there are people I wish to introduce you to.” Beauregard spoke excitedly. He extended his arm to his wife and laid a hand on Emmett’s back, guiding—or rather pushing him—toward a finely dressed cluster of ladies and gentlemen.
The group parted as they neared. Of course, as one of the foremost landowners in Virginia, Beauregard garnered esteem from his peers. Emmett was used to people deferring to the man when he approached.
“Good evening, Governor Barbour.” Beauregard bowed to a gentleman with dark curls and extremely thick black eyebrows.
“Prescott.” Governor Barbour shook Beauregard’s hand. “And the lovely Mrs. Prescott. Always a pleasure.” He bent and kissed the backs of Emeline’s fingers.
She smiled politely, inclined her head, and dipped in a curtsy, the motions smooth, as if she’d performed them countless times, which she had.
Beauregard turned his shoulders, lifting his hand toward Emmett. “Governor, have you met my son, Major Emmett Prescott?”
The sound of his advanced rank was still new, the promotion made official only a week earlier. Emmett couldn’t help but stand taller.
The governor’s eyes flashed in recognition. “An honor, Major.” He shook Emmett’s hand.
Beauregard gave the group a charming smile. “I’m sure you’ve heard Major Prescott is a recipient of the congressional gold medal for gallantry in action.”
“Very impressive.” The governor gave a crisp nod.
“He was a hero at Frenchtown, you know,” Emmett’s father continued. “And commended personally by both President Madison and Secretary Armstrong. Who knows how many more lives would have been lost if not for his daring action?”
Emmett’s ears were hot. “Well, of course I was not the only one who—”
One of the women stepped forward, a young woman with pouty lips, large green eyes, and a ruby necklace that sparkled in the candlelight. He noticed the color saturation of the corundum was very deep, nearly crimson. Shaking his head, he stopped all thoughts of the mineral compound of the woman’s jewelry nearly as soon as they’d started. Reminders of Abigail were still too painful.
“Is it true, Major, that Tecumseh’s Confederacy outnumbered the American forces two to one?” She blinked, opening her eyes wide, and laid a hand on his arm.
Emmett cleared his throat, shocked by the woman’s boldness. “No, not exactly, miss. Combined, the British and Native Confederacy forces were close to fifteen hundred while General Winchester commanded approximately one thousand.”
“I beg your pardon, Major,” Governor Barbour said, glancing at the woman. “I have neglected to introduce you. If you please, this is Charlotte Benedict from Philadelphia.”
“A pleasure.” He bent over her hand and released it quickly.
“Likewise,” she said.
“Excuse us, please,” Beauregard said abruptly. His gaze was already on someone else.
Emmett didn’t mind his father’s rudeness. He wished to be away from Charlotte Benedict before he had to think of anything further to say to the woman.
“Of course,” she said.
Emmett’s father nodded politely to the governor. Emeline curtsied again. Emmett bowed, and they hurried away. Beauregard introduced them to a senator this time.
And the evening progressed in the same manner. Emmett bowed and smiled and made pleasant conversation with influential people his father eagerly introduced him to. He answered questions, recounting his small part in a small battle as ladies fanned themselves, pretending to be distressed, and gentlemen nodded gravely, pretending to be concerned. And all the while his father beamed, reminding his acquaintances of the medal and the presidential decoration.
Emmett’s cheeks grew tired of forcing a smile, and after so many evenings repeating the same conversation for hours on end, he was feeling rather like a show pony. And it was . . . humiliating.
Seeing Lydia across the room, he excused himself. As he walked away, he heard his father’s voice behind him. “. . . the congressional gold medal for gallantry in action . . .”
His sister sat on a sofa between two young men who were vying for her attention. Another man approached, handing her a glass of champagne.
She rewarded him with her stunning smile and a flutter of lashes.
One of the men on the sofa said something to regain her attention, and she giggled, tapping him playfully with the edge of her fan and putting to good use the largest blue eyes in the state of Virginia.
The young man’s cheeks flared red. He was smitten.
When Emmett approached, Lydia jumped up, nearly spilling her drink and practically knocking over another young man who’d devised a reason to come speak to her. She flounced away from the lot of them with a wave of her fingers.
They watched her go with covetous gazes.
“Well, hello, Major.” She smacked Emmett on the chest with her fan, much as she’d done to the young man a moment earlier. “Growing tired of your adoring fans?”
Lydia was one to talk. He glanced back at her flock of admirers then turned toward the veranda doors and offered his arm. “I am rather tired of being displayed.”
She took his arm happily, and they strolled out into the night.
“And what is the matter, Brother?” she asked. “I thought you were enjoying the attention. Father has been singing your praises for weeks now.”
She was right. For twenty-eight years he’d sought this very thing—his father’s approval—but after being paraded around and shown off to his father’s friends, the pride he’d felt at his father’s praise was becoming dulled by repetition. And as the days went on and faces blended together, he realized his father was not boasting of his son at all, but of a medal and a title.
“He is not singing my praises.”
She tipped her head to the side, making her curls bounce. A thoughtful gaze that she seldom bothered with entered her expression. “You think he’s only acting this way because of that round piece of metal.”
He shrugged. “Well, it’s not as if he’s ever showed interest before.” He knew he sounded like he was pouting, but Lydia understood his history with his father. Emmett wasn’t simply searching for reassurance. He spoke the truth. Beauregard Prescott had not shown the tiniest bit of pride in his second son for Emmett’s entire life, and now that he did, Emmett was embarrassed by how much he longed for it.
He thought of the medal. Lydia was right—it was just a piece of copper with a raised profile of George Washington, but when President Madison had given it to him, announcing that he’d earned it by good conduct and gallantry in action, he didn’t think he’d ever felt so proud. Few men received such a commendation, and of those, most were senior officers. But Father hadn’t seen the battle, hadn’t even asked what he’d done to earn the medal. He saw the token and not the deeds, nor the man behind them.
Lydia pointed to a wrought-iron bench on the edge of the veranda. She sat and pulled him down beside her. All traces of the giggling southern debutante had left her face, and she looked at him seriously.
“Em, remember when we were children and we found a kitten stranded on a branch in the middle of the creek?”
He thought back. The story sounded vaguely familiar. “I . . . yes, I think so.”
“I was four, and you were fourteen. We heard the cries, and of course we knew there was nothing to be done. The water was moving too fast.”
“Yes, I remember now.”
“You found an old rope and tied it to a tree then jumped into the water. I remember how it pulled at you, dragging you downstream. Sometimes you’d go all the way beneath the water for moments at a time, and I was certain you’d drowned. But you held on, swimming out to the kitten, holding onto him, and pulling yourself hand over hand back to the shore.”
“The infernal animal scratched my arms to ribbons.” He smiled at the memory.
“Em, you’ve always been a hero to me. Not because you wear a uniform and everybody has to salute you and call you ‘sir.’ Because you fight for those who cannot defend themselves. You care to the point of risking your very life. That is why you are a good soldier. And that is why you are a hero. And I don’t need a medal to tell me that.”
She opened her eyes wide, leaning toward him, as if daring him to disagree.
He stared at his sister, shocked at her insight, and so moved that his eyes were itching and his throat becoming narrow. He’d never known her to be so considerate. “Lydia, I don’t know what to say. I . . .”
She flicked her hand as if shooing a fly. “Oh, hush now, or you’ll ruin the moment.” Her mouth twisted in a teasing smirk.
He grinned, sliding his arm across the back of the bench and leaning back. He’d only had one other person call him a hero. His throat tightened further as he thought back to that first morning at the bivouac camp. What had Abigail said?
You’re a hero, Emmett. No matter what anyone tells you. They don’t give those gold shoulder decorations to just anyone, you know.
He closed his eyes against the surge of emotion the memory evoked.
Lydia leaned back against him, playing with her fan. “You’ve been different since you returned, sad maybe.” When he didn’t answer, she continued. “I suppose being in a war changes a person. But I hope it hasn’t changed you too much.”
Emmett had no answer. He knew he was changed. And the battle was part of it, but nothing could have prepared him for the pain of losing the woman he loved. Especially when he couldn’t fully understand why. What had changed? Why hadn’t Abigail wanted him? Thinking of her was so painful his lungs wouldn’t take in a full breath. He needed to change the topic. “What about you?”
“What about me?” She sat up and twisted, looking delighted that the conversation had moved to her favorite topic.
“Tell me about those young men. Is there one in particular you fancy?”
She glanced back to the veranda door and wrinkled her nose. “One of them?” She blew out her breath in a very unladylike puff that lifted her curls from her forehead.
Emmett laughed at her absurd reaction. “What’s wrong with them? They all seemed to be gentlemanly, well-mannered—”
“None of those men care about me.” She looked at him as if this were obvious. “They just like to make me laugh and see me blush at their teasing. It is only a game.”
“Father will be wanting you to choose one, and I imagine soon. You are eighteen, after all.”
“Well, I shan’t choose one of them. They are just looking for a pretty bauble to hang on their arm and show off to their friends.” She rolled her eyes. “I do not just want to be a man’s ornament.”
Emmett thought of Emeline and the way his father treated her. An ornament was a good description.
“Then, who?”
“Who what?” She blinked and opened her eyes wide.
“Who will you choose for a husband?”
“Well, I don’t know him yet, do I? Or I would be hopelessly in love.”
He furrowed his brow, smiling. He’d never had a conversation like this with his sister and found it bemusing and rather fascinating.
Lydia leaned close, her hands clasped together. “The man I will love shall know me as no one else does. He’ll see what makes me different from all the other young ladies, and instead of being bothered by my differences, they will be what he loves most about me.”
He stared at her, again surprised by the depth his sister was capable of when she took the opportunity to use her mind. “He’ll know what you need,” Emmett said slowly.
“Yes, that’s right.” She nodded, making her curls bounce.
His heartbeat thumped against his ribs as the realization hit him. “And make you feel important,” he said.
“Obviously.” She looked at him with half-lidded eyes. She picked up her fan and spread it open, waving it before her and giving her most flirty smile. “And a gift of jewelry wouldn’t be unwelcome.”
“Lydia.” He pushed down the fan. This was no time for banter. “I need your help.”
She shrugged and opened her mouth as if she’d give a playful response but looked at him, and her face turned serious. “What is it, Emmett? You’ve gone pale. Are you ill? Or in trouble?”
“There is a woman.” He rubbed his forehead. “She . . . I love her.”
Lydia’s concern vanished, and her face lit up with a smile. “Oh, I am so glad.”
“But I’ve spoiled everything.”
She nodded. “Of course you have.”
He felt desperate. He’d never asked his sister for advice before, but suddenly she seemed the most clear-thinking person on the topic. “I must apologize, convince her that I love her, but I don’t know how. Will you help me?”
She took his hands and held his gaze steadily, showing a composure he’d never seen in her. “Em, calm yourself, and tell me everything.”