CHAPTER TWELVE

We do not know the past in chronological sequence. It may be convenient to lay it out anesthetized on the table with dates pasted on here and there, but what we know we know by ripples and spirals eddying out from us and from our own time.

—EZRA POUND

The three red drops on my drawers alerted me to the fact that my body was functioning as normal, despite the abnormal circumstances of my life. My father, a Civil War history buff, had dragged me to the Atlanta History Center about one hundred times, the Cyclorama just as many times, and Civil War battle reenactments more times than I could count. But nothing I had ever learned could have prepared me for the realities of being a woman in the 1860s.

Knowing by instinct that a woman’s monthly cycle would be a delicate subject, I had to consider who would be the best person to ask how to deal with it. Asking Stuart would be out of the question. Julia would probably be able to give me an answer, but only after a few horrendous moments of utter embarrassment.

There was a brief tapping on my door, and Sukie entered with a pile of clean linens. My muscles ached as they remembered helping to wash the linens the previous day—lifting, turning, and squeezing constantly—and I was pleased to see the fruits of my labor.

I gave her a bright smile. “Sukie, I need some help.”

She paused in the middle of the room. “Ma’am?”

I decided the direct approach would work best. “I need something to protect my clothing. I’m having my period.”

She squinted at me for a moment before she realized what I was saying. “You be havin’ your monthly bleeding.” She set the laundry down on the bed and patted my sleeve. “I be right back.”

And that was the easy part. Figuring out what to do with the cloth belt and mounds of rags that Sukie brought for me was another. Staring at the strange ensemble, I suddenly realized where the expression “on the rag” came from. Sighing to myself, and saying a quick prayer of thanks that I ovulated sporadically and nowhere near twelve times a year, I set about folding the rags in a thick bundle and inserting the ends in loops on the belt. I said another prayer of hope that the thing would stay in place.

Walking down the stairs, I heard the soft murmur of voices. Hoping to find Julia to enlist her in teaching me about some of the plants in her garden, I approached the library. I hesitated in the hallway when I realized it was Pamela’s voice.

“It does not matter where I got the information. It is from Sherman’s headquarters and could do the Confederacy a lot of good.” I heard the rustle of petticoats and the tapping of heels against wooden floor. “Here—take it. Use it.” Her voice was low, the word “use” coming out with a hiss. “And if you get caught, I have brought some quinine with me. You could say it is the medicine you are smuggling and nothing else.”

Stuart’s voice was also low, but I heard enough to understand what the conversation was about. “How can you betray your own son-in-law? Does Julia know?”

I pictured Pamela waving her hand through the air, dismissing any inconvenient thoughts. “During wartime, one must forget one’s personal loyalties and concentrate on the needs of the greater good. I am not betraying anyone. I am only doing what I can for the South.”

The cabinet door opened, followed by the clinking of glass. I pictured Stuart pouring himself a drink. After a slight pause, he said, “And if William finds out whose side you are really on, what then? What will happen to Julia?”

Pamela chuckled softly. “Do not worry about William. I will contend with him if the need arises. And as for Julia, I am sure you will take care of her.”

I heard Stuart slam down the glass. “That is enough. There is nothing between Julia and me. And if I take that piece of information from you it will be for the Confederacy and not for some petty cause like thwarting William. Despite our many differences, he is still my brother, and Julia is his wife.”

Another pause was followed by Pamela’s voice. “There is something else we need to discuss. That man, Matt Kimball, approached me yesterday in town. He wanted me to pass on a message to Mrs. Truitt. I thought I would tell you first.”

I held my breath to better hear her words.

“What is it?” Stuart’s words were clipped.

“He says he has information regarding her daughter.”

My heart tightened in my chest, and I barely heard Stuart’s voice. “I do not trust him. I will speak to him myself. Do not tell Laura about it. If it is anything, I will let her know.”

Pamela’s brittle laughter came through the door. “Is it him you do not trust—or is it her?”

“Never you mind, Pamela. I will handle it.”

The stamp of his boots heralded his departure from the room, and I quickly ducked into the parlor just in time to see Stuart cross the hallway and crash out the front door.

I jumped, startled, at the sound of pecking from the parlor window. I walked slowly toward the sound, peering cautiously through the glass. I stepped back as a large black crow, its raven wings a startling shadow against the brightness outside, brought its beak against the glass. The staccato taps broke the silence of the room as the black head of the bird continued to thrust its beak at the windowpane.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and I abruptly turned around.

Pamela was staring at the crow, her eyebrows raised and her face a pasty white. Without looking at me, she said, “A crow tapping on one’s window is a very bad sign.”

“What do you mean?”

She turned toward me, her black eyes as cold as marble. “It is an omen of death.” Without another word, she turned and left the room.

My body shivered, and I hugged my elbows to give me warmth.

For the next several weeks, I waited for Stuart to approach me with information about Matt Kimball. When he didn’t, I knew I’d have to take matters into my own hands and seek out Matt myself. I just preferred to do it when Stuart wasn’t around to catch me doing what I was sure he would consider covert activity.

The news of General Lee’s devastating Confederate loss at Gettysburg in Pennsylvania cast a somber pall over the town, and there were considerably more women dressed in head-to-toe black in church on Sundays. I didn’t see Matt Kimball in church again, and wondered how I would ever find a way to approach him.

As we moved into September, the overwhelming heat of summer began to dissipate and the oncoming autumn was evident in the turning leaves and cooler evenings. Since the scene in the cemetery, Stuart had been avoiding me, his attitude cool when we did cross paths. But sometimes as we all sat at the dining table or in the parlor, I would look up suddenly and find him watching me, his eyes brooding. I began to feel like a mouse nibbling at cheese set in a trap.

Julia was busy in her garden, harvesting the fall vegetables and planting turnips. She explained to me that the turnips would have a sweeter taste if they were planted in time to experience at least one frost. From the amount she planted, I assumed the turnip would have a starring role on our winter dining table.

One evening I sat on the porch before supper, rubbing my knees, made sore from helping Julia in her garden. The door opened and Stuart hesitated in the threshold.

“I am sorry to disturb you. I thought you were Zeke.”

I stopped rocking and frowned. “I must try harder to stay out of the sun if you’re mistaking me for a man more than three times my age.”

Stuart sent me a sheepish smile. “No, you misunderstand. Zeke was supposed to meet me on the porch for a game of backgammon, but he sometimes forgets the time when he is immersed in one of his books.” He held out a board, a bag of playing pieces clinking in his other hand.

I sat up. “Backgammon? I love that game, but I haven’t played in a very long time.”

He walked closer to me. “May I challenge you to a match, then?”

“Only if you’re not a sore loser.”

He cocked an eyebrow without comment as he slid a small table over and pulled up a chair. “Perhaps we should set up stakes for this.”

“Stakes?” I smiled nervously.

“If I win, I get something. And if you win, then you get something.”

Worry grew in the pit of my stomach. “But I have nothing to give.”

He leaned close to me, his eyes narrowed. “Oh, but you do.” His mouth spread in a thin smile. “If you lose, you have to answer truthfully any question I ask.”

My throat felt thick. “And if I win?”

He settled back in his chair and began setting up the game. “That would be your choice. You could have your freedom to come and go as you please.”

“I should have that anyway,” I said. I finally saw a way to seek out Matt Kimball. “Whoever wins the best of seven.” I picked up the dice and rolled them. Double sixes. “I go first.”

We began playing and I quickly discovered we were evenly matched. Soon we were called in for supper, and afterward we moved the set indoors to the parlor. A crisp snap had invaded the air, and the ladies were all wrapped in thick shawls. The clicking of Julia’s knitting needles and the popping of the wood in the fireplace punctuated the cozy silences in the conversation lulls.

I found myself furtively watching Stuart as he contemplated a move. He had the habit of running his hands through his hair when he was concentrating, causing the thick black bristles to stand on end. When he growled as I rolled another pair of sixes, I offered a polite suggestion that he smooth it back down so as not to scare any visitors.

Dr. Watkins had taken to calling most evenings now that the cotton harvest was over and Stuart had more free time, and he had perched on a chair between Julia and her mother. I watched him as he looked at Julia, his eyes softening like a puppy’s, and I knew that his feelings for her hadn’t altered since Robbie’s birth.

I had been almost unbeatable in backgammon when I had played my father or Michael, but Stuart was a formidable opponent. I won three in a row, and then my luck seemed to run out. Unfortunately, I was not as gracious a loser as he was. By the middle of the sixth game, he was resoundingly whopping me. I looked in dismay at the large number of my counters still on the board and the piles of his pieces resting on the table.

He tossed the dice onto the board and chuckled slightly with the result. I brought my hand down on the table with a thump, making the pieces jump. “That’s not fair,” I shouted in mock dismay as I stared at the double sixes. “If you win this game, it will be from sheer luck and not due to any skill on your part, that’s for sure.”

I realized that all eyes rested on me and I offered, “The man gets doubles every time he rolls,” as a feeble explanation for my outburst. The three gave polite smiles in my direction before resuming their conversation.

Stuart rapidly picked up two of his counters and began moving them home. He looked up at me, a small smile framing his lips.

“Do you really think that’s the best move?” I asked, pretending to study the board.

He shook his head slowly. “That is not going to work on me, Mrs. Truitt.”

I gave him a look of false innocence. “Pardon? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Hmm,” he murmured, and he threw the dice again. Double fours.

I put both elbows on the table and made a frown. “I don’t think it’s gentlemanly to beat a lady at backgammon.”

Quietly, he said, “If I did not think I would win, I never would have agreed to our little wager.” He leaned forward, as if to make sure nobody else heard him. “But if you continue with your distractions, you might still win this match.”

I saw his gaze directed at the low neckline of my dinner dress, one of two from Julia’s wardrobe that had been modified to fit me. I quickly yanked my elbows off the table and sat back as far as my hoop skirt would allow, which was approximately two inches. I felt myself blushing as I hastened to roll the dice. Snake eyes. “Whoop-de-do,” I said unenthusiastically.

“Never say you do not roll doubles,” Stuart said, and he rolled again and completed moving his counters off the board. His blue eyes gazed steadily at me, making the blood run thick and heavy through my veins. “One more game, and the winner takes all.”

I chewed on my inner cheek, wondering how I would answer the question he was bound to ask me. I looked down at the board and began setting up my pieces one last time.

The wind outside picked up, alerting us to the signs of an early autumn storm. Dried leaves and other debris were tossed carelessly at the window, mixed with the louder pat-pat of water droplets against the glass. The crackling of the fire in the fireplace joined the chorus, and I breathed in deeply the homey smell of the pine logs. I absently fingered the smooth polished wood of a counter in my hand, remembering games I had played with my father and with Michael.

“Your move,” Stuart said, his voice low.

I jumped, startled into the present, and gave him a weak smile. “Sorry, I was just daydreaming. Calling up ghosts, actually.”

We began to play in earnest, the dice rolling quickly, and the click of the pieces on the board drawing us further into the game. We were neck and neck as we pulled our remaining counters into the home stretch. He had three on the first space, and I had four on the fourth space. All I needed was at least a double four and I would win. I picked up the dice and brought them slowly to my lips. I blew softly on them, Stuart’s eyes never leaving mine, then let them drop. They rolled as if in slow motion before coming to rest. Double fives.

I stared at them in shock. “I won,” I whispered.

Stuart sat back in his chair, a bemused expression on his face. “This time. But do not think I am through trying.” He rolled a counter between long fingers. “Name your prize.”

The tempting thought of claiming another kiss crossed my mind, but it was all whimsy. “I want my freedom to come and go as I please.”

He nodded slightly. “So be it. Unless you do something to jeopardize our trust.”

Julia spoke up. “What a wicked night. I was just sitting here calling to mind a night just like this. The night Willie was born.” A dreamy smile touched her lips as she paused. “The wind was blowing something fierce, just like it is now, but we thought it might be a hurricane coming in from the coast. All the shutters had been nailed shut over the windows, and the house was very dark.” Her soft hazel eyes grew still and dark, looking at me but past me, seeing another autumn night.

She put her hand lightly on her abdomen, smoothing the fabric of her dress. Her voice sounded as if it were coming from a far-off place, barely audible against the violence of the wind outside. “I felt the baby stretching, pulling my skin so tight that I thought it might burst, and I knew that my time had come. But I had no fear. Zeke had told me that everything would be all right.” The firelight flickered over her face, casting a portion of it in shadow but illuminating the other half in a soft, radiant light. The undulations of light and darkness mimicked the surges of an unborn child in the womb, making me grieve afresh for the emptiness of my own.

Julia blinked, as if seeing me for the first time, and smiled. “And he was right. Willie was born in the early-morning hours, chubby, pink, and bawling.”

The mood broke as Julia laughed softly, and the click of her knitting needles began anew.

“You’re very blessed, Julia. All three of your children are so beautifully healthy.” The words tasted sour on my tongue, and I hoped that no one had detected the bitterness. “So, now I know the story of Willie’s birth, and I was there for Robbie’s. Tell me about Sarah’s.”

Dr. Watkins stood and moved to the window. He crossed his arms on his chest and leaned back. “That was frightening—remember, Julia? It was summer, June if I remember correctly, and she was a good two months early. So small. We did not think she would make it.”

Julia kept her head down, the needles clicking vigorously. An earsplitting scream broke the silence of the house. Stuart stood immediately but was held in place by a gesture from Julia.

“Let us see if she quiets down by herself.”

I looked around me for some sort of explanation, but all faces were turned to Julia in mute awareness. A minute passed in silence, my heart beginning to beat at a normal rate again, when the same horrifying scream began again.

Julia stood abruptly and her knitting needles, still attached to the stockings she had been working on, slid from her lap. “I will go,” she said, and left the room. Suddenly realizing that it was Sarah who had screamed, I followed Julia upstairs.

Muffled sobs reached me as I crossed the landing and entered Sarah’s room. She shared a room with Willie, whose curved form I could make out in the dim light on the opposite twin bed. In true male form, he had not been awakened by the shrieks.

Julia sat on the edge of the bed, her arms around her daughter, murmuring unintelligible words of comfort. I heard her hand thudding gently on the back of Sarah’s nightgown.

Sarah brought her head back abruptly and pointed toward the window. “Mama, make it go away!” she screamed, and then pushed her face onto her mother’s shoulder.

The curtains had been pulled back, revealing nothing but pitch-black darkness. The wind still whipped against the house, but the rain had stopped. I approached the window cautiously and peered out. Nothing could be seen in the yard below, but a small brightening of the night ceiling brought my gaze upward. Thin strips of cloud slid quickly across the sky, alternately exposing a round, full moon and casting it in shadow. As the bright moonlight flooded the room momentarily, Sarah screamed again.

“Close the curtains.” It was Julia’s voice, soft as usual but commanding nevertheless. I quickly grabbed the two panels and brought them together.

Julia began to sing quietly, and Sarah’s sobs lessened. I felt like an intruder in this maternal scene and softly crept out of the room. As I started to walk down the stairs, Julia left the room, closing the door behind us.

I turned to Julia. “What was she afraid of? Was it the storm?”

Her face was in shadow, dark and unreadable. “No. She is afraid of the full moon.” She stepped past me and walked down the stairs, her dress rustling as it brushed the steps. A chill covered me in goose bumps, and I shivered.

I didn’t follow her. Instead I went to the library and to the shelf where the family Bible was kept and pulled it from its place before opening the front cover. There, the next-to-last entry under a long list of births and deaths: Sarah Margaret Elliott, born June 16, 1856. Quietly, I closed the book and pushed it back on the shelf.

Feeling restless, I crept quietly past the parlor to the front door and stepped out onto the porch. The storm was passing but leaving trailing shifts of wind in its wake. My skirts billowed out around me and I slapped my hands down at my sides to try to keep them from making me airborne. The sound of buggy wheels and the brisk trotting of horse’s hooves came from the front drive, and I assumed the good doctor had taken his leave. The cloud cover had thinned and the bright moonlight streamed down on the front yard, reflecting itself in the sporadic puddles and illuminating the scattered debris of twigs and leaves.

I walked slowly toward the edge of the porch and leaned on a column, its hard surface a comforting support. The smell of wet clay and damp animals assailed my nose and I breathed it in deeply, as if to convince myself of the new reality of my life.

A different scent caught my attention, and I turned slowly around to see Stuart at the other end of the porch, drawing on a cigar. He walked toward me, his face hidden in shadow but briefly illuminated by the end of the cigar as he inhaled.

I remained where I was. “I’ll leave if you want to be alone.”

He stopped and stood several paces away from me and blew the smoke to the side. “I find your company refreshing.”

I laughed. “That’s mighty big of you to say, since I pummeled you at backgammon.”

He smiled down at me, but his eyes were serious. “Are you sure you will not change your mind about your prize? Is there anything else you might like?”

My gaze traveled down his face and settled on his lips before quickly glancing away. “No. I like the idea of being a free woman again.”

He tipped ashes over the railing, his eyes never leaving my face, and I watched them scatter in the night air. “You won the match, which is why I will allow you a bit of freedom. But do not think it is because I trust you.”

I bit back my anger, suddenly realizing how much I wanted to gain his trust. I grabbed the railing with both hands, my back to Stuart. “If you’re standing on a river’s edge, just looking at the water, not touching it, do you have to wade in to find out that it’s wet?”

He didn’t say anything, so I turned to face him. “These people—Julia and the children—do you really think I would do anything to harm them? And this house—it’s more of a home to me than you would ever realize.”

My voice quivered as I remembered standing in front of the house for the very first time with Michael and feeling the powerful force of being home. I shivered as a gust of cool wind worked itself down the front of my dress.

Stuart took a step toward me, still unspeaking, his face unreadable. Smoke from the cigar danced up between us like little ghosts, vanishing with the wind’s whim. “These are dangerous times, Laura. Things are not always as they appear to be. People, too. I have met men and women since this conflict began who will risk anything to promote their cause. I have learned to withhold my trust until my boots are completely submerged in the river. Then I will believe it is wet.”

I threw my hands up. “Fine. Just allow me to write the inscription on your headstone. ‘Killed by a bullet he did not believe would hurt him.’”

He leaned close enough that I could smell the soap on his skin. I pressed my back against the rail, unsure of the light in his eyes. “The only thing that sustains me when I am in the heat of battle is the picture in my mind of this house and my family—and knowing they are safe. But now you are here, living with us. I do not know who you are, where you are from, or what you want. You have secrets. You have never denied it. And I have a strange way of not trusting people who are not completely truthful with me.”

I straightened, my anger brimming like static electricity. “What if . . . What if the truth was so insane—so unspeakable—that you wouldn’t even recognize it as the truth?” I slammed my fist on the railing. “I don’t even know what the truth is anymore—and I really don’t care. I just want to find Annie and go home. I just want to go home with my daughter.”

“Where is home? And what is there that is so important to you—more important than staying here, where so many people have grown to care for you?”

I didn’t realize I was crying until he reached up and brushed a tear from my cheek. Pushing his hand aside, I used my sleeve to wipe my cheeks. “My memories—of my husband and our lives. Of our perfect little life with our daughter.”

Stuart’s voice was low and measured. “I have watched my boyhood friends die for this cause. I held the head of my best friend while his brains drained into my haversack, and all I could think of was my rations being spoiled.”

His words drew me toward him and I faced him again. He threw down his cigar and ground it out with the heel of his boot.

“Why are you telling me this?”

His eyes were dark pools of still water. “Life goes on, Laura. Memories will not keep you warm on a winter’s night.” He inhaled deeply. “And I also want you to understand what is at stake. We have sacrificed so much, and I do not want to give away what is left so easily.”

“I won’t take anything from you. I just need shelter until I can go home.”

“It is too late for that.”

My hand clutched his sleeve. “Too late to go home?”

“No. Too late to leave without taking anything with you. You have already captured hearts, Laura. You could not leave without taking at least one casualty.”

I knew he wasn’t talking about Julia or the children. The moonlight lent his face an eerie blue cast, giving him the appearance of a ghost. I felt the goose bumps on my arms when I realized that, to me, he was a ghost—at least somebody who had lived in my own distant past. He saw my shiver and slipped off his coat, placing it gently on my shoulders.

His eyes were clouded in shadow as he looked down at me. “I might as well tell you this now. Charles has told me that I will not be fit for combat duty for a few months yet, but I have some business to attend to and will be making several short trips before I return to my regiment.”

I opened my mouth to mention the conversation I had overheard between him and Pamela, but stopped. He would never let me go into town if he realized I knew Matt Kimball wanted to speak with me.

“Will you miss me?” he asked suddenly.

I was glad of the darkness. “Yes, I will. A lot,” I answered, without hesitation. With a trembling voice, I added, “There’s nobody else here who can play backgammon.”

He chuckled lightly as he placed his hands behind my neck and tilted my face toward his. He leaned down and kissed me softly. His lips lingered over mine, and a faint sigh escaped me as I tasted cigar smoke and whiskey.

“This might be considered by my superiors as consorting with the enemy, you know.”

I kept my head back in the hopes he’d kiss me again. “I’m not your enemy, Stuart.”

“This coming from the woman who said she wanted a cannonball to land on my head.”

His lips were so close, I shut my eyes. My voice sounded languid in the night air. “I didn’t really mean that, you know. I might even be upset.”

His kiss this time was anything but gentle, his lips bruising mine. His mouth traveled to my ear and he whispered, “Memories cannot compete with flesh and blood, can they?”

The front door opened and we stepped apart. Julia looked at us knowingly, a tight smile on her face, and I was glad again for the darkness to hide the stain of red creeping up my face.

“I was wondering where you two had gone off to. Laura, we were hoping you might play something for us on the piano.”

We followed her inside, but she stopped me before I entered the parlor so she could adjust my hair. With a raised eyebrow at Stuart, she swept past us and settled herself onto the sofa, waiting demurely as I sat at the piano and began to play.

Much later, as I lay in my lonely bed, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. The full moon turned the blackness in my room to gray, reminding me of how my life was no longer black-and-white but instead had fallen between the colored cracks of reality. Finally, in the last stages of wakefulness when the world tends to blur its edges, I imagined I heard the tap-tapping of a black crow’s beak against a windowpane, and my blood chilled with dread.