In His Eyes: A Civil War Romance Page 6

  She dug deeper, feeling a bit of smooth material underneath her fingers. She smiled. Perhaps she would find something fine enough for a lady to wear. Well, at least for a pretend lady.

  She grasped the material and lifted it free. Silk the deep red color of wine shimmered in the waning sunlight filtering through the window. It might clash with the color of her hair, but that didn’t matter.

  She stripped down to her chemise, pulled a fresh set of stays around her, and then slipped the gown over her head. It fit almost perfectly. The tasseled hem pooled a bit around her feet, but if she managed to find some crinoline or a decent petticoat, then it should just brush the floor. She ran her hand up the smooth material of the bodice and paused.

  A mirror. She needed a mirror. Near the window sat a dressing table, and atop it, a silvery looking glass. Ella hurried to it, her skirt making an odd swishing sound.

  The reflection that met her eyes caused her cheeks to warm. Well, what did she expect to find in Cynthia’s valise? Ella placed her hand at the base of her throat. An entire hand’s width and still skin to spare before the top of the bodice.

  The gown scooped low, so far down that her rounded bits of femininity were poking over the edge. Not to mention the exposure of her shoulders and the top part of her arms. Ella groaned. The rest of the bodice fit fine, though she suspected it had hugged to Cynthia tighter than it did her.

  Ella clicked her tongue. Why did Cynthia have this dress with her anyway? Did she suspect to get back into it after having the child? Pushing those thoughts aside, Ella examined the rest of the gown, trying to decide if the trollop’s dress or the scullery maid’s frock would cause her more harm.

  Finally, she wrinkled her nose and reached behind her and started fumbling with buttons. As pretty as the silk was, it would not do. Better a maid than a tart. If they hadn’t stopped mid-way up her back, she wouldn’t have been able to get to them. Ella made a face. She must have been too enamored with the fabric to notice that part of the dress was missing.

  A knock at the door stilled her trembling fingers.

  “You done yet? We is waiting on you.”

  How much time had passed? “I…um…well….”

  The door swung open, and Sibby’s pointing finger dropped to her side. “Oh!”

  The heat climbed from Ella’s exposed throat all the way to her ears. She crossed her arms over her chest.

  Sibby narrowed her gaze. “I thought you wasn’t that type.”

  Ella looked at the gathered folds of the shimmering skirt. “I’m not. This belonged to Lee’s mother. I didn’t know….”

  Sibby sighed loudly enough to pull Ella’s gaze back to her creased face. “Now, look here. I might can get that dress turned into something respectable, but I ain’t got the time now.” She crossed over to the bed and began plucking through Ella’s things with no regard for privacy. “What else you got?”

  Tamping down her frustration and embarrassment, Ella joined her and lifted the yellow dress. “Just this and what I came in.”

  Sibby wrinkled her nose and dug into the bag, pulling out a deep-blue gown. She’d barely lifted it before dropping it back to the coverlet. “This ’un is worse than what you got on.”

  Ella pressed her lips into a line.

  Sibby bustled to the wardrobe. “No matter. The missus was bigger than you, but I bet she’s got somethin’….” Her voice trailed off. “Here!”

  She pulled out a black paletot and held it up.

  “A winter coat? But it’s far too warm.”

  Sibby leveled a sour gaze at her. “Then you sweat. If this is gonna work, then you can’t go looking like some wretch…or a trollop.”

  Ella accepted the woolen coat that buttoned all the way to her neck. She was covered, but her attire seemed odd, and, therefore, suspicious.

  “Now. Let’s get moving.”

  She nearly refused, but what was a little embarrassment in order to secure a home for her little Lee? It wasn’t the first time people of any class or color had looked down upon her, and she doubted it would be the last. Let them think what they would. Lee would ever be worth the scorn heaped upon her. Drawing a breath to bolster her confidence, Ella embraced her new life as a deceiver.

  Westley ground his teeth against the pain and attempted once again to stand. Mrs. Preston clicked her tongue at him, but he ignored her just the same as he had the two days past when she had tried to gainsay him. The week he’d spent awake had brought him strength—and restlessness. He ached to be free of the bed. And the leg would hold him, if for no other reason than his relentless determination.

  “You have to give it time to heal, Major.” Her voice carried equal notes of pleading and chiding.

  This he knew, and yet he grew ever agitated by the time it took to do so. Weeks had passed since the battle, weeks his leg should have healed more than it had. No, what caused this weakness was naught more than continued laziness. In order to gain strength, he would have to demand it of himself and force his body to cooperate with his wishes.

  “You will gain your feet once more, but you must give it time.”

  Westley grunted a reply as he feared opening his mouth for a proper response would release a dishonorable yowl instead. Perhaps if he put only a portion of his weight….

  The swish of her skirts across the floor signaled Mrs. Preston moved from her place at the hearth to come near, even though she had promised him space mere moments earlier. She would give him no peace about it.

  An idea struck him, and Westley drew a breath before tugging up the corners of his lips. “I thought perhaps the bedding could be cleaned…?”

  Mrs. Preston came around the bed and scratched at the white cap holding down her gray curls. “Well, now, I suppose that could be a good thing.”

  Feeling triumph rise, Westley once again shifted weight toward the farthest edge of the bed. The straw mattress could use a good fluffing, and the ropes underneath had begun to sag. He placed his feet flat upon a woven rug. Positioning himself so that the bulk of his weight went to the right leg, he managed to rise and straighten his back.

  To be free of that accursed bed! Even if he gained freedom for only a moment he would count it a victory won. Westley began to smile in earnest, until he felt himself start to sway.

  Mrs. Preston yelped, and in an instant her stocky frame took up residence under his right arm. “Whoa, there. I think you press the matter too hard, Major. The bedding can wait.”

  Westley groaned. “It could use fluffing and tightening, too.”

  His nurse stiffened. “Well, I’ve hardly had the opportunity to…” She pointed her finger at him. “Oh, no you don’t. I won’t be goaded by you, boy.”

  Boy? A career soldier and at the age of twenty and six years, Westley could hardly be called a boy. But he did not refute her, and would allow her to mother him…to a point. He shifted tactics. “Please, might I at least find my rest in a chair? If I do not get out of that bed soon, it will not only be my leg that ails me.”

  His chest tightened and he tried to bury the fear that surged. Each day he had noticed that small things escaped him. Words he could not find upon his tongue, names and places he should know but did not. Perhaps it was superstition alone, but he couldn’t help but feel the longer he wallowed upon the bed, the more his mind slipped away from him.

  Mrs. Preston clicked her tongue at him again, but then her shoulders slumped. “The doctor says we cannot know if you sustained any injury to your head, even though we found no evidence of such. And, too, it could come from the fever or the lack of sustenance. But worry not, that too shall heal given the proper time.”

  Annoyed at being so easily read, Westley tried to turn the conversation back to whence it had strayed. “The chair?”

  Mrs. Preston waved her hand. “Very well. If it will ease this tension about you, then I will fetch the arm chair and put it at the hearth.” She tilted her head to eye him from where she remained underneath his arm like a crutch. “But you will wai
t in the bed until I return with it, and you will allow me to assist you to the chair. If I find you have attempted to cross this room in my absence…”

  Westley nearly chuckled. “I shall not test your patience, ma’am.”

  She slipped from beneath him and gripped his arm as he lowered himself to the bed, pretending that even so short a stand had not nearly exhausted him. Curse this weakness.

  Mrs. Preston evaluated him with keen eyes, then gave a curt nod. “You will wait.”

  Westley stared at her.

  She arched her eyebrows. “I’ll hear you say it.”

  He unlocked his jaw enough to allow, “I’ll wait.”

  Satisfied, she swept from the room in an abundance of plaid skirts. Alone, his shoulders sagged. To be reduced to such a state soured him—wasting away here as the lone patient when the rest of the men had returned to their units. He should be mounted on….

  His thoughts stumbled. What was that horse’s name? Panic began to flutter in his chest, but he squelched it as he had been trained to do. West Point taught him that fear only caused a man to be blind.

  He focused his thoughts on the horse once more. All he must do is concentrate. A prized stallion of good Kentucky stock. Yes, he remembered that. Black as coal with not the first speck of white to mar him. A beautiful creature he had called…what?

  A scraping sound drew him from his thoughts and turned his attention to the door. More scraping. Then a grunt. What in the heavens…?

  Westley pushed his toes to the floor and almost attempted to gain his feet when he remembered his invalidity. “Mrs. Preston? Are you in need of assistance?”

  Some muttering, and then she poked her head through the door. “You, sir, can offer none, and as there are no others about, the task falls to me.”

  Westley frowned. “Forgive me. I did not think through the predicament I asked of you.” He indicated the slatted chair near the bed where she had oft sat to feed him or watch him eat. “This one will suffice.”

  A smile bunched her rounded cheeks. “Nonsense. Besides, I’ve already made it thus far. It is closer to the hearth here than back to the living quarters.”

  Finding no choice but to remain seated while the woman struggled to shove a worn leather armchair through the door, Westley battled with his loathing for his condition. But there was naught to be done for it than to rest and to ask of his body only what it was yet willing to give.

  Finally, the struggle ceased with the proper positioning of his new place of confinement and Mrs. Preston ran a hand over her brow with satisfaction. “There. Now you can rest here by the hearth, and I will fetch you something to read. That will lift your spirits, yes?”

  So much hope laced her words that Westley couldn’t help but smile. Where would he be without this woman’s kindness? He owed her more than his bitterness. “Indeed, that would lift them considerably.”

  She brushed off her apron. “Good, then.” She eyed him. “Well, let us see how well we can manage you on one leg.”

  The task proved more strenuous than he cared to admit, and the amount of weight he was forced to lean upon the woman frustrated him further, but at long last they had scooted, hobbled, and hopped their way across the floor and eased him into the welcoming embrace of the well-used chair.

  Mrs. Preston blew air up her face, stirring a lock of hair that had come free. “Good thing I’m no flimsy girl, else I never would have gotten the bulk of you more than a step or two.”

  Westley cocked his head. “Pardon?”

  A sad smile bowed her lips. “When I was young, I lamented that I was stockier than the other girls. Where they were fine-boned and small, I had no trouble besting my brothers at wrestling.”

  Surprised by the thought of Mrs. Preston tumbling about in the dirt, Westley felt himself grin enough to use muscles that had not been stretched in some time. “Truly?”

  “Most certainly.” She bobbed her head. “But my pa always said my build was a good thing. Said that a farm woman should be of hearty stock, not some wispy thing that couldn’t help pull a calf or hoe a garden.”

  Westley had never given much thought to such things. His family owned two thousand acres of farmland on the banks of the Mississippi, but his mother had been a well-bred lady who never would have put her fingers in the dirt, let alone assist in the birthing of livestock.

  “Still, I wished for a more feminine form.”

  Westley thought that her late husband must have found her pleasing enough to wed, but thankfully arrested the thought err it could leave his mouth. The high society types were not the only ones to wed out of benefit rather than affection. Had that been the case for her, he would not add to her pain by making her voice such aloud.

  “Oh, don’t look so pitying on me, boy!”

  Once more alarmed his features were easily read, Westley frowned, which gained nothing more than a chuckle from Mrs. Preston.

  “In time I learned God always knows what is best. My Henry was a bear of a man, all brawn and muscle.” She pointed a finger at him. “Bigger, even, than you.”

  She pushed the stray lock of hair back under her cap and fetched a blanket to spread over Westley’s legs, though he wasn’t cold. “If I had been one of those willowy girls,” she continued, “I would not have been able to birth him seven hearty sons.” A twinkle made her eyes sparkle as she stepped back from him. “Nor carry heavy furniture for an arrestingly handsome man who has taken up residence in my home.”

  Westley gaped, which only caused her to bark out a hearty laugh. “Come, now, I cannot be the first to make mention of your looks. The girls must ache to touch that dark hair of yours or run a hand over such a stony jaw.”

  As his discomfort grew, Mrs. Preston seemed to enjoy herself even more. “One such as you must have a lady pining for you at home, no?”

  Her question sucked away all the mirth that had risen within him. He turned his gaze to the ashes in the hearth. “No one waits for me, nor should they.”

  His words were gruffer than he intended, and she fell silent for a moment. “Forgive me, I spoke without thought.”

  Feeling like a rapscallion, he released the air from his lungs. “Nothing to forgive. You have shown me nothing but kindness.” Westley shoved aside the darkness that threatened to claw its way within and forced a smile. “You mentioned something to read…?”

  She offered up an apologetic smile and left him alone once more. Westley ran a hand over his face. He would not allow himself to succumb to pity—be it from himself or another. He must formulate a tactic to bend his body to his will and regain his place in the world. He needed to be ready to ride again soon.

  If I ever ride again.

  Westley set his jaw against the loathsome thought. He would heal. He must heal. Resigned that he must ask no more of his body than it could bear, he determined to work toward his strength but not undo his healing in the process. With Mrs. Preston’s good care, he would be on his feet soon enough.

  But what then? With the war all but over and him injured, would the army release him? If it did, where would he go? He’d spoken true words to Mrs. Preston—No one waited for him back home in lands that knew him as a traitor. It would do him no good to return there. He should simply leave it and start life anew. In the west, perhaps? The army could surely spare him there.

  Westley nearly groaned. He should not abdicate his family lands. Father would have been disappointed that even now Westley was a traitor who sought to shirk his responsibilities to his family and his plantation.

  But his parents were dead. He could no longer disappoint them. He alone would have to live with the decision to abandon the estate.

  Perhaps he could petition the army to send him to join Federal forces near Belmont. They would surely take up residence in the South for a time to ensure the Southerners did not attempt further rebellion. It might afford him the option to hold his property and serve simultaneously. But would he want to? He didn’t know if he could face friends and neighbors who had fo
ught on the other side of the war and every day bear their hatred of him—he who had been born a Southerner yet had served in the Federal Army. Even the men in his ranks had shown distrust of him—for no other reason than the accent that marked him as Southern. For that, Westley set himself to removing the traces of it from his speech. Within the first year of the war, no one guessed he hailed from south of the line, and by the second, those who had known it seemed to have forgotten.

  The muscle in his jaw ticked and Westley rested his head against the back of the chair. As his father and grandfather before him, he wanted to make a name for himself in the military. Soon he would be able to leave here, and when he did, he would rid himself of the lands that no longer held anything for him.

  Satisfied that it would be a good plan, Westley allowed himself to relax and think through his course of action. Moments later, footsteps at the door alerted him to Mrs. Preston’s return, but he kept his eyes on the rafters above.

  “Here,” she said, thrusting a thick volume at him. “I believe you were right. Reading is just exactly what you need.”

  Westley accepted the book without glancing at it. “I thank you.”

  “I’ve marked a place for you.” Without awaiting his response, she patted his shoulder and scurried from the room, no doubt heading to bake something or other.

  When she had closed the door on his solitude, Westley looked down at the book in his lap and groaned. Then he tossed the Bible on the floor and stared at the hearth’s ashes once more.

  Ella pulled the curtain aside and watched horses plod toward the house, the carriage behind them ambling slowly. Each pound of the hooves, though barely heard, sent shudders through her heart. One week. Not nearly enough time to learn all that she must know in order to be a lady. Sibby had altered the two dresses from Cynthia’s valise, and the woman had worked a miracle to fashion an appropriate dress out of the blue gown.

  Ella glanced down at the smooth sapphire silk with bits of white lace donning her tea bodice. She looked a bit more respectable, but still….

  “Get away from that window. You want them to see you watchin’ for ’em?”