thirteen
The Ladies’ League headquarters were housed in an expectedly historical home turned office. What Tucker did not expect as he stepped into the cool foyer was the decidedly modern finishes. The wall behind the receptionist was shiplap, the Ladies’ League logo etched in metal over it. It looked like it had been designed by one of those shows on HGTV.
Then there was the woman sitting behind the front desk in a state-of-the-art office chair that provided lumbar, neck, and arm support. The only thing it didn’t offer was financial support after you paid for the thing.
She swung toward him, acknowledging him but tapping on the ear of her headset and holding up a finger to let him know he’d have to wait his turn.
Tucker nodded, literally ducking into the waiting area so he didn’t hit his head on the ceiling beam. All three of the high-back chairs were pristine white, with colorful pillows taking up the functional parts of the seats. The chairs were designed to look inviting but didn’t actually invite anyone to sit down. At least that was what he concluded.
Several framed images hung above the chairs, and he leaned closer to see what they were. One held the front page of a yellowed newspaper, but the words were long gone, the small headlines of the day marred by age and air. Another frame held a penciled sketch of the three-story Cotton Exchange just a few blocks north. The final frame contained a picture he’d never seen before—a black-and-white image of the Colonial Park Cemetery.
The cemetery in the heart of the city was the final resting place of many of Savannah’s earliest citizens. Most of the victims of the yellow fever epidemic had ended up there—many buried below ground but some in family crypts. The red-brick structures were unmistakable.
He’d walked by the cemetery a million times, so he recognized it in an instant. But he didn’t recognize the faces staring back at him. All of them were haggard and rough. And all of them were wearing Union uniforms.
His stomach pitched. He knew what had happened there. How Sherman’s army, more than sixty thousand and weary, cold, and starving, had entered Savannah, not even half that large. And how the city hadn’t had enough roofs to house them, enough hearths to keep them warm. So they’d filled every vacant patch of earth. Including the cemeteries.
Headstones had been smashed, crypts robbed, and someone had captured it all.
His ancestors had been there. Caroline had seen it and known one of these men. And fallen in love with him.
Was she the real traitor in the family? He couldn’t help but wonder if she had decided Lieutenant Haulder was worthy of knowing the secret. If she had told him where the treasure was hidden, they could be looking for something that had been gone for a century and a half.
It certainly would have brought shame on the Westbrook name, as Caroline had said in that first letter PJ had found.
“Can I help you?” The receptionist’s tone was clipped and efficient, and he spun around to face her, forcing his thoughts to the present.
“Yes. I’d like to see Mrs. Haywood, please.”
“Do you have an appointment?” She squinted at him. “Oh, Mr. Westbrook.”
Well, his reputation preceded him. Maybe not a great sign in this building. But at the very least, he wasn’t forgettable.
“I’m sorry. We don’t endorse candidates. It’s a League policy.”
He strolled up to the desk, feeling like a giant as he ducked once again under the beam in the ceiling. “I’m not looking for an endorsement. I’d like to speak to Mrs. Haywood about something else entirely.”
The woman gave him an unsteady smile. “Well, I’m sure she’d be happy to speak with you. If you’ll make an appointment.”
“But she called first.”
“Oh. Let me just . . .” She punched a number into her phone, and he waited, smile frozen in place.
Mrs. Haywood hadn’t exactly called him, but certainly her voicemail to PJ constituted a first move. Maybe PJ had more grace than to return the call. Tucker did not.
Everything inside him wanted to tell the old bat just what he thought of her using her influence to get PJ canned. All because she didn’t like some old letter that besmirched his family’s good name.
Well, he didn’t need their help tearing down the family name. All he needed was to get good and riled up at his dad and seek out the only bit of comfort in a cold VFW community room. Then again, PJ was pretty much the best bit of comfort anywhere in his life.
“There’s a Mr. Westbrook here to see you.” The receptionist paused, listening to the voice on the other end of the line. “Yes. That Westbrook. He said you called.”
He squared his shoulders and shot her a partial grin. Not that that was going to help.
She hung up the phone. “She’ll be right—”
She didn’t even have time to finish as a door down the hall flew open, and the sharp report of high heels on the hardwood floor announced the impending arrival.
“Mis-ter Westbrook.” Mrs. Haywood’s greeting was not what he would classify as warm. All traces of Southern hospitality were conspicuously absent, and her glare could have sliced through cement.
“Mrs. Haywood.” He nodded. “Thank you—”
“Oh, do not thank me yet, young man. We do not have an appointment, and I certainly did not telephone you first.”
“No, you did not. But you did call Penelope Hunter.”
Her lips twisted into what had to be a painful grimace. “That girl has a lot of nerve sending you here. Especially when I’m so busy looking for a new venue to hold our guests.”
Everything inside him wanted to stand even straighter, stare her down, and defend PJ. He wanted to put Anabelle Haywood in her place, show her that he wasn’t afraid of her or her threats. But he knew that look in her eyes. He’d seen it before from men in power, men too proud to back down.
So he bit his tongue, snuck a breath, and bowed his head. “No, ma’am. She doesn’t even know I’m here.”
The lines around her mouth relaxed slightly, and he leaned in, meeting her gaze.
“Penelope would never ask it of you, but I have to. Would you reconsider holding your event at the Savannah River Hall? You know she’ll do an amazing job. She always has.”
The receptionist watched them like a tennis match, her eyes bouncing back and forth, her jaw hanging open just a bit.
Tucker did his best to ignore her, keeping his focus on Mrs. Haywood. “I can explain.” At least, he could try.
Mrs. Haywood crossed her arms over her yellow silk shirt, bouncing her string of pearls. After a long pause, she said, “You may have ten minutes.” With that invitation, she spun and marched back in the direction of her office.
He followed her, hustling into the room painted in pale blue and white trim. Large and spacious, it had probably been the master bedroom of the old home. Matching windows on the far wall bathed the room in natural light. Her antique wood desk filled as much space as a queen-size bed. The leather chair behind it looked comfortable, but she didn’t sit. She didn’t invite him to sit in one of the guest chairs either—mirrors of the ones in the waiting room.
Facing him, arms still crossed, she nodded. “Very well. What is it you want to say?”
He hadn’t prepared a speech because he hadn’t really thought he’d get this far. Now that he was here, he had to say something. But his mind was blank, save one image: PJ’s stooped shoulders and sad eyes.
“When PJ—I mean, Penelope—and I were in grade school, I complained about having to learn history.” He shrugged and let out a laugh. “And our teacher told me that those who don’t learn history are bound to repeat it. Do you think that’s true?”
“You must have seen it as you’ve explored Savannah’s history.” He pointed to a framed portrait on the wall. “You see the choices that were made and how we can make better ones now. Our history doesn’t define us. It just presents a choice.”
“I hardly see how that’s relevant to our situation.” With a glance at her gold watch, she added, “You have five minutes.”
Giving her a quick nod of understanding, he said, “I guess all I want to say is that Penelope has always been the person in my life willing to help me figure out my family’s history but never willing to let me settle for it.”
Mrs. Haywood’s eyebrows rose into her wrinkled forehead, but she couldn’t be any more surprised than he was. He hadn’t planned to say it. In fact, he couldn’t remember ever thinking it before. But just because he hadn’t put it into words until now didn’t make it any less true.
A slow smile fell into place as he remembered how she’d grumbled about crawling into an old attic but did it anyway to help him. How she’d straightened his tie and smoothed out his suit so he made a good impression. How she’d brought him soup when he was so sick that he refused to see anyone else.
She knew how to take care of him, and this was his chance to return the favor.
“Mrs. Haywood, I know you don’t know me, except for maybe what you’ve read in the newspaper or heard in a disparaging television commercial.”
She pursed her lips, which was about as much agreement as he was likely to get.
“But I know you. I know that you’re a respected community leader. I know that people are following your lead. And I’m asking you to give Penelope and the Hall another chance. I know you think her association with me is dragging her down, but the truth is that she brings out the best version of me. She’s not willing to let me settle for who I might have been—for who my family might have been. Traitors or tricksters, smugglers or thieves. She would never let me live down to that.”
“She must really want to keep her job,” Mrs. Haywood said under her breath.
“No, ma’am. Er—I mean, she does. She loves that job. But again, she doesn’t even know I’m here. I came to see you because my best friend’s heart is breaking at just the thought of losing her job. One she’s wildly fantastic at, I might add.”
The lines around Mrs. Haywood’s eyes deepened.
It was now or never, so he laid it on thick. “You’ve seen her do her job. Go ahead and tell me that your last two events at the Hall haven’t been the best you’ve ever had and I’ll walk right out of here.” He turned toward the door but paused to look her square in the eyes one more time. “You know I’m right. You know she does great work.”
The room seemed at odds with the fizzling tension inside him, the lazy sunshine floating across the floor. Clasping his hands together, he forced himself to wait for her to respond. After several long silent seconds, he feared she wouldn’t. His stomach twisted, and he reached for more words. But he’d used them all.
Then she gave a barely perceptible nod. “I’ll concede that point.”
She could have pushed him over with a feather. She’d agreed. Now what? Fighting the too-wide grin that threatened, he said, “Well, do you want to risk doing this year’s benefit with someone less talented? Your guests have come to expect a certain standard from your fundraiser.”
Mrs. Haywood did not have what one would consider a colorful complexion. But apparently her pale features could turn ghostly. And they did.
“My family’s past may be colorful and questionable, but I promise you it’s not a reflection of Penelope Hunter.”
She smacked her tongue like she’d swallowed something sour. “You speak pretty openly for someone running for public office.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He shrugged. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“Not even Daniel Westbrook and that incendiary letter?”
With a shake of his head and a laugh, he said, “That’s already out there. Why would I try to cover it up or ignore it? It may be part of my history, but it doesn’t define me or my future.”
She squinted at him, leaning forward on her toes. “Well said, young man, but I’ve already turned the matter over to our board of directors.” With a pat on his cheek, she continued. “You may tell your friend that I’ll speak with my board at our meeting next week. They’ll have the final say. So it would behoove you to clear up that letter’s nonsense by next Friday.”
Tucker had no idea what swept over him, but he grabbed her and pulled her into a warm hug. Over her sputtering gasps, he whispered, “Thank you very much,” before releasing her and booking it toward the door.
Penelope had spent far too many hours staring at her phone, waiting for it to ring and the other shoe to drop, when she should have been putting together package ideas for Emmaline and Winston. That was why she was wholly unprepared for their arrival.
She tried to give them a bright smile, pushing herself up from her chair and dropping the stepping stone she’d been rubbing to wave them in. “What a surprise to see you.”
Her stomach dropped to the floor for an instant. What if they had an appointment? Had she completely forgotten about it?
“Oh, we just couldn’t stay away,” Emmaline cooed, snuggling into Winston’s arm.
Penelope let out a tight breath. Well, at least she hadn’t dropped a ball and given Madeline a real reason to fire her. Not that Anabelle Haywood pulling the Ladies’ League event wasn’t reason enough.
She felt queasy all over again, and she was pretty sure her face showed it. Swallowing the acid at the back of her throat, she managed an uneven grin. “Oh?”
Emmaline’s eyes sparkled with some mysterious knowledge. “I think you know why.”
Penelope shook her head numbly. “Did you want to talk about the wedding?”
“No, silly! The kiss!”
She had no idea what expression her face showed, but she had a feeling it was pretty close to the one on Winston’s. The one that said he’d rather have a chat with a shark than talk about her kiss with Tucker. Especially after what Winston had said to her that night.
Right, well, that wasn’t any of his business. Smoothing her palms down the sides of her flowing skirt, she searched for the right words, but they stayed hidden while Emmaline dived right into the deep end.
“Did he propose yet?”
Winston gulped and then coughed loudly.
Emmaline was not dissuaded from her course. “I mean, how could he not after that kiss?”
“Oh, no.” Penelope waved around her naked left hand. “We’re not—that is, we’re going to try—” To what? To be better? To not make out in public anymore? Ever again, actually. No more kissing. Keep it simple. Just friends hanging out. Quasi-dating. No attraction.
Liar.
Ugh.
Emmaline’s smile dipped, but Winston’s ears remained red, his cheeks flushed. “Oh. But I saw him today, and he looked so happy,” she said.
Who could have made him visibly happy?
It couldn’t be the contractor from Jackson’s Hole. They were scheduled to meet him the next day. And it wasn’t the diary. They’d gotten no good news from that since the Fitterling revelation. And it probably wasn’t his parents. Talking with his dad wasn’t high on Tucker’s list of favorite things. Something else had made him happy.
It wasn’t her. And that shouldn’t matter. There was no reason why she should care if she was the one making him smile. But she did.
Her face suddenly burned and her throat became full. Standing in front of a sober Winston and his bubbly bride was not the place to ask herself these questions. So she swallowed the lump in her throat and tried for a smile.
“You saw him?” Penelope tried to cover the insecurity in her tone with a quick follow-up. “Where was that?”
“He was walking out of the Ladies’ League this afternoon. I just assumed he was asking about a wedding venue.” Emmaline shrugged. “We went there first too.”
“Oh, well, I’m sure he was . . .” Actually, she had absolutely no idea what he was up to. There was no plausible reason Tucker Westbrook would venture into Anabelle Haywood’s territory. Not when he knew how strongly she felt about his “nonsense.” She shrugged. “I’m sure I’ll hear about it later.”
“Of course you will. I bet he’s your last call of the day.” Emmaline’s eyebrows wiggled.
Winston looked like he was about to lose his lunch.
Emmaline hugged his side, forcing him to put his arm around her. “I call Winston every night at eleven. I can’t fall asleep if I don’t hear his voice first.”
Ha. Yeah, right.
Except she was right. Penelope talked to Tucker every night. His was the last voice she wanted to hear before falling asleep. And when they’d had their tiff about the kiss, she had lain awake for hours, tossing and turning and refusing to admit how much she missed her best friend. Every night that he’d been deployed, she’d reached for her phone, wishing she could hear him say three little words. I’m all right.
“Don’t you just love being in love?” Emmaline’s heart shone through her eyes.
“Yep. It’s the best.” Penelope couldn’t contain the sarcasm. Being in love with her best friend—the one who’d said he wouldn’t kiss her again—might actually be the worst. And she was afraid she might be halfway there already. Dangerous territory for sure.
As though speaking of him conjured him, the bell on her door rang, and all six feet two inches of Tucker Westbrook filled the entrance. “Excuse me. Am I interrupting again?”
“We were just leaving,” Winston said, towing Emmaline from the room and closing the door behind him with a solid thwack.
Tucker raised his eyebrows. “So, good meeting?”
“They stopped in to see if we’re engaged.”
“What? Them too?” He let out a full-bellied laugh. “What is it with this town? We’re friends for twenty-five years, and then the minute they think we’re dating, we must be getting married.”
“I know, right? It’s like they think they know something we don’t.” She gave a half-hearted giggle, but she couldn’t help but wonder. What if they did know something she and Tucker didn’t? Or what if they saw something?
What if she’d done a terrible job of hiding those errant feelings that had exploded when he kissed her? No matter how many times she talked with her mom and reminded herself that she could never risk losing Tucker or having him turn his back on her, those feelings—the ones that made her wish she was the one making him smile—refused to stay away.
She glanced up at him, his face still softened by a grin. No, it wasn’t soft. Without his beard, the lines of his jaw were sharp and hard as granite. The straight line of his nose and smooth outline of his lips were strong and firm.
Now she couldn’t help but remember what it had felt like for those lips to be pressed to hers. They’d agreed not to do that again. It was a bad idea. The worst.
So why did it take everything inside her to keep from throwing herself at him?
Wrapping her arms across her stomach, she nodded toward the door through which Emmaline and Winston had exited. “Emmaline said she’d seen you coming out of the Ladies’ League office. Isn’t that kind of like going into the lions’ den?”
He took a step toward her before sitting on the edge of her desk and crossing his long legs. “I thought it was enemy territory, but now I’m not so sure.”
“Ooh.” She plopped down on the spot beside him, matching his posture. “Do tell.”
“I went to see Anabelle Haywood.”
“And you made it out alive?” she asked.
Tucker scratched at his jaw for a long second. “I know. It’s kind of a miracle. She even let me hug her.”
Penelope worked her jaw, hoping to find a word or two, but her brain couldn’t comprehend the idea of Tucker wrapping his arms around Mrs. Haywood. Or her letting him.
“I mean, it was more of a stealth attack. I got in and out fast. But she didn’t send her attack dogs after me.”
He seemed lost in thought, so she nudged him. “So . . .”
“She’s going to talk to her board about not pulling the event.”
“What?” She jumped to her feet and spun to face him.
He rubbed the back of his neck, bowing his head for a short moment before meeting her gaze again. “I asked her to reconsider having her event here. I told her how my history may be a mess, but you’ve been loyal and faithful even then. I told her how I couldn’t make it without you, and that you refuse to leave me where I am. I’m a better man because of you.”
The backs of her eyes burned, and she shook her head. “But she doesn’t like you.”
He lifted one shoulder, his black knit polo shirt molding to the muscles there. “I think she likes me a little more because of you.”
“Me?”
He nodded. “Of course. Don’t you know how much everyone around here loves you? I mean, Catherine Saunders couldn’t stop gushing about how fantastic you are.” He paused, but his eyes never left hers. “Mrs. Haywood still has to check with the board next week—and she said it would be good if we could clear up that letter before then—but there’s hope.”
“Why did you do that?” She didn’t know why the words popped out of her mouth, but there they were, flapping like sheets in the wind.
Tucker stood slowly, his movements smooth and measured, his gaze never wavering. There was heat and life in his eyes, and she could feel the warmth across every inch of her skin. He reached out like he was going to touch her face, and she could already feel his embrace, sweeter than honey on her mama’s biscuits.
Everything inside her thrummed with life and hope and wishes for what might be. Now that she knew how it could be between them, it was so much harder to deny it, to convince herself that it was fire guaranteed to burn her. That she should keep her distance. There were no number of to-do lists that would help her recover when it all fell apart.
And it would fall apart. It always did. Her dad had walked out on her mom. Winston had left her. Tucker would choose someone else too. When he did, she’d be left to pick up whatever shards were left of her heart.
But maybe—just maybe—it would be worth it to really love him for as long as it lasted.
She gasped as his hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing below her eye, his gaze focused on the southern half of her face.
“Don’t you know I’d do anything for you?” His words sounded like they’d been dragged over a dirt road, and she couldn’t think what had prompted them. Had she asked him a question? Oh, right. She’d asked him why he’d gone to see Mrs. Haywood. Why he’d risked Anabelle’s wrath for her.
“You would?” Her throat went dry, and more words failed her.
His hand dropped to her jaw before he slipped his fingers into her hair and cradled the back of her neck. He was so close now that she could nearly feel the beat of his heart, or perhaps that was her own, drowning out every other sound. His other arm slipped around her back, inching her closer as she breathed him in—all clean and natural. He smelled like the sea after a rain.
“Always.” His rasped reply came as he leaned in, closing the distance between them until he was only a breath away.
Suddenly his features pinched. He dropped his arms and hesitated. She remembered. He’d said he wouldn’t kiss her again.
No. No. No. This was not happening. Not when she’d finally decided to just let it happen, to stop denying what they’d finally discovered. He wasn’t the only one with a say in this.
Lunging for him before he could pull away, she wrapped her hands into the soft fabric of his shirt, stood up on her tiptoes, and leaned in. The last thing she saw before closing her eyes was his half grin. She pressed her lips to his and the world exploded. Her office disappeared, and her whole world consisted of Tucker.
He turned them so that she backed into her desk, which grazed her hip. She gave an involuntary squeak, and he immediately spun them again, protecting her from the sharp corner. She squeezed his shirt in her fists and tried to get closer to him as he kissed a trail from the corner of her mouth to her ear and back.
Her lungs ceased to work, and she threw her arms around his neck, hanging on as his hands swept up and down her back. He seemed to be trying to soothe her, but his hands were so strong and big and male and . . . well, Tucker’s, that she couldn’t catch her breath. It seemed a small price to pay for sharing this moment.
Finally, when she thought she must have oxygen again or swoon, he leaned back just far enough to look into her eyes. His smile made his whole face glow. “I guess my beard won’t be coming back.”
She ran a finger across the smooth skin from his cheek to the tiny cleft in his chin. He’d had a beard since he’d been discharged, and she still wasn’t sure she was used to this version of his face. “I usually like your beard. Just not when we’re making out.”
He chuckled. “Like I said. It’s gone for good.”
Her stomach pitched and her breath caught. It sounded like they had a lot more of this in their future. Oh dear. How could she ever concentrate on anything else when kissing Tucker was an option? Work, the election, and the rest of her life were going to suffer.
Being in love with Tucker Westbrook might just be the worst. But she was all in. No halfway about it.
I hardly know what to believe any longer, for Lieutenant Haulder has kissed me. Mistletoe had seemed such a silly decoration this year, and we have no time for silliness.
This evening I was in the library once again. If I am to be completely honest, I may have been there hoping the lieutenant would once again visit, though I had a pretext of reading another of Miss Austen’s novels. I could not tell you its title, for I was far too distracted, listening to every creak and groan in the house. I thought I heard a door open and close, and I held my breath waiting for him to arrive. He did not.
I had all but given up on his appearance, closing my book and sliding my feet back into my slippers, when I heard him. He called my name ever so softly. It was deep but restrained so as not to wake anyone else in the house. He stepped into the room, linen shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, one thumb tucked into his suspender at his shoulder.
I could not contain my smile, for he is even more handsome by the glowing embers in the hearth, and I fell back into my seat, tucking my feet beneath me. He asked if he might join me, and I agreed immediately. Perhaps too quickly, but he did not seem to mind. I hardly feel worthy, but when he looks at me with such intensity, I am lost. He sat on the couch opposite me and asked about the book still in my hands. I had to laugh. I truly had no idea, for I had not been reading. This made him smile too.
I had once pictured Yankees like feral dogs, their teeth sharp as razors, their smiles filled with malice. Lieutenant Haulder is not like that at all. There is a warmth in his eyes, a humor in the way he tells stories of his men. When he speaks, I completely forget that he has been part of a campaign that has burned homes and farms in my state to the ground. It is a product of the war, for he would never do such things if not ordered to. I am certain of it.
We talked for hours about his home and mine, what we enjoy reading, the places we have traveled. Before the war, he had begun his education at the University of Pennsylvania, and he hopes to complete it so he may become a doctor.
I asked him if the army would not have waited for him. Would he not be of more use as a field surgeon than a foot soldier? Even as my question left my lips, I could see a sadness fall over him, his shoulders carrying the weight of the world. His posture stooped, the line of his mouth growing tight. I thought he would not answer me and I had brought an end to our conversation.
After a long silence, he sighed. He said that he could have waited to join, but his younger brother, Frank, had been eager to be part of the fray. Frank, afraid he would miss the fighting, could not be dissuaded from enlisting, and the lieutenant, feeling it was his duty to protect his brother, joined up as well.
I asked if Frank was here in Savannah. He only shook his head. And I knew. He’d joined the war to keep his brother safe but had been unable to.
I did not mean to touch him, but I reached for his hand and squeezed it, wishing him all my sympathy. He held on to it as though it were a raft in the middle of a stormy sea.
We sat in silence like that for several more minutes, his gaze never leaving the embers as they popped and fizzled their way out. The room had grown cool, and I could hear the wind howling beyond the windows. That is not why I shivered. I shivered at his nearness, at the way his thumb stroked the back of my hand.
When he stood, he pulled me with him, never releasing my hand. We walked toward the door, and he paused beneath the door frame. He looked up, and I did also. When I realized what he was looking at, my stomach dropped to my knees. Sarah had laughed as she’d hung the ball of mistletoe weeks ago. It was one of only a few decorative concessions to the season, but she said when a young woman lived in the house, she ought to have some excuse for a kiss.
The lieutenant looked at me, and I could see the desire in his eyes. His voice was rough and cracked as he asked if he could kiss me. It is tradition, after all. I giggled, for I did not even know his given name. When I asked, he laughed as well. William Haulder. He said his mother calls him Will, but he prefers William. I rather prefer the way it rolls off my tongue as well.
With the formalities out of the way, I agreed to a small kiss, but there is nothing small about him. I felt his presence surround me, and his hands on my arms were warm and gentle. I had only dreamed to someday know such a kiss. But I had always thought it would come from another, and I felt a surge of regret through my middle even as I allowed him such liberties.
He released me, and I rushed to my room. I did not even try to stay quiet, for Bradford sleeps like the dead. I have risked a candle to write, for sleep eludes me.
I cannot rest for feeling as though I have betrayed Josiah. I have waited four long years for him to return, for him to do more than kiss my forehead in the dark. I have prayed for his protection and longed for a single letter. Even now, I worry for his safety and his secrets.
I have loved him since I was a child, and I have promised myself that I would do anything for him. But I did not save my first kiss for him. What will he say if he finds out? Will it break his heart? Does he care for me enough for his heart to break?
All the worse, I wonder if I have betrayed my family and my homeland. I pray that the Almighty will forgive my sins if I break Papa’s heart.
Sunday, December 25, 1864
’Tis late on this Christmas day, and I am most conflicted. On this day of peace, in this season of supposed joy, I am in utter turmoil. Oh, what have I done? Can he ever forgive me? Can I forgive myself?
We shared a simple fare with the soldiers in our home at noon. It was no more than our usual meal, but Sarah had run a length of garland down the center of the table, and our napkins were red, the only hint at festivities. There seemed to be an agreed-upon truce between the Yankees and ourselves.
Lieutenant Haulder found his way to the seat next to mine, and amid the twelve others at the table, I think no one noticed anything unusual. Above the table, he was all things gentlemanly and good-natured. Below the table, he let his knee brush against mine. At first I thought it an accident, but when he let it rest there, I knew it was not. And heaven forbid, I liked it. I liked it very much. Is it such a terrible thing to want to be appreciated, to want to be admired? He told me last evening that he thinks I am beautiful, that my hair is as soft as silk, that I am the very reason for the term Southern belle. And when he holds me in his arms, I am undone. His kiss is sweeter than I could ever imagine.
Still, I know guilt as I have never known. Mama and Papa would surely disapprove. And if I care for him, why must I lie about the treasure? I don’t even know what it is intended for. Only that it sits there, stored away. And that Josiah has disappeared once again.
I barely made it through the table games and the carol singing this afternoon before feigning a headache and rushing to my room. But I had forgotten that it is no longer my room, for it belongs to Bradford equally now. The sun had begun to set, the room turning to long shadows as I lay in my bed, when my brother entered. He had a simple scrap of paper in his hand, and he said nothing as he slipped it to me. It said only: I am in the carriage house.
For a moment I wondered if it was from the lieutenant. But he would never use Bradford for such an errand. Which could only mean one thing.
I rushed from my room, nearly knocking over Sarah in my haste, but she did not seem surprised.
When I arrived in the carriage house, I did not dare to even whisper his name, though my heart beat in time to the rhythm of his name in my mind. The carriage house was cold and dark, the sun nearly gone. It smelled of horse and hay and the cold Savannah wind. A single lantern hung at the edge of the stall, and I peered into it. But it was empty save Marigold swatting her tail.
Then a low whisper in my ear. I cried out, and a firm hand covered my mouth and ended my scream. But as I turned, I knew I did not need to be afraid.
Josiah. I sank into him, and he held me as a precious stone. We stood there for many minutes, simply staring at each other, until I finally whispered that I thought I would never see him again. I thought he had gone for good.
He confessed that he soon would be leaving, and he did not think he should return—even after the war. For he says he has done what he thought to be right, but he fears it has only put him in danger.
I asked if we could not just return the cargo, and his face became very sad. He says they wish for his head, and they are searching for him even now.
My heart cried out when he said such things, and I buried my face against his chest.
Suddenly the door to the carriage house creaked, and he pulled me into the shadows, holding me against his chest. I barely breathed, only inhaling the wool of his coat. Only then did I realize I had left the house without a wrap, and I shivered, though I know not if it was from the cold or his embrace.
His arms were strong and still about me, but my heart raced. He did not move as we waited for someone to see us, to see him.
Then Marigold’s nicker and Sarah’s familiar voice split the silence. She told us we best hurry up, for the soldiers in the house had been drinking. There was no telling what they might do.
I squeezed my eyes closed and clung to him, praying that the Good Lord might see fit to spare his life, to protect him, even if he did not want to stay with me.
He pressed one finger beneath my chin, tilting my head up. In the darkness I could not see his face, but I knew his features, and I knew him. He said he wished he could have written me all that was on his heart. He wished he had not left all those years ago without telling me how he felt.
How did he feel? I begged him to tell me.
But he said only that he could not make me promises. He could not give me hope or ask me to wait, for his future is uncertain, his life in jeopardy. And he will not put me in such danger.
Perhaps it was my small sob that gave away my tears, for he brushed a finger across my cheek, wiping them away. Then he told me he had always cared for me. Even while he was a boy, he had hoped to make me his bride. But he could not bear to promise me a future he might not be able to fulfill, so he had said nothing. He begged my forgiveness that he yet could make no promises.
Then he kissed me. My body was aflame, my soul seared by his touch. Oh, his touch. So gentle yet powerful. It was all that I had waited these years for. Yet I know the terrible truth. How could I kiss one man when I am so much in love with another?
Josiah left then. Disappearing into the early night, slipping between trees and buildings until I could not see him from my place in the carriage house doorway. I could not help but compare William, who has sworn no devotion yet eagerly shown me his affection, and Josiah, who has withheld his affection but shown his trust. Who truly cares for me?
I am left unsettled and uncertain. And I still carry the secrets of the ship’s cargo. It has brought nothing but pain. How could it possibly be used for good?