The Memory House. Linda Goodnight

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СКАЧАТЬ hush.” Mrs. Portland’s words were soft admonishment.

      A smile stirred in Will’s middle. He’d taken a shine to the youngsters. Benjamin, fair like his mother, and Tandy, the light-skinned slave with the persistent grin and keen mind reminded him of his oldest sister’s boys, not in looks but in manner. They amused him, took his mind away from the worries of war and reminded him that there was some kind of normalcy still to be found in this state of divided loyalties called Tennessee. He prayed neither boy should ever see any more of the war than he’d brought with him. That was horror enough.

      His chest tightened when the mistress of the house turned her gentle eyes on him. In the days of watching her in the sick rooms and observing her quiet, efficient running of the household, he’d come to admire her. She was a fine woman. A disturbing hum of pleasure tingled the back of his neck.

      Will straightened his shoulders to attention, and the sword bumped his thigh in a reminder of who he was and why he’d come to Charlotte Portland’s farm.

      She was another man’s wife. A Confederate sympathizer. He’d do well to remember both.

      “Captain Will, Captain Will!” Benjamin thundered ahead of his mother down the stairs. The young slave boy was not far behind. They came to a breathless, grinning halt in front of him. Ben executed a clumsy, endearing salute. “Sir, your message has been delivered!”

      “Well done, boys. Well done.” Will returned the salute but his attention drifted to the woman gliding toward him, neither breathless nor grinning.

      “Captain,” she said simply, coming to stand before him, those small, usually busy hands resting serenely at her waist. “Good morning.”

      He doffed his cap and held it in his hands, though his shoulders remained tight. “Ma’am, I’m sorry to trouble you again. If your husband was in residence I would take up my concerns with him.”

      Indeed, Edgar Portland had shown his bloated, furious face but twice since the company’s arrival. Once to express his indignation at the outrage of being invaded before storming away on his horse, and the other to chastise his wife for aiding the enemy. A man who didn’t defend his women held no esteem in Will’s opinion.

      “My apologies.” Charlotte’s mouth tightened and those tender hands began to work the cloth of her skirt. “Boys, please ask Lizzy to bring coffee for the captain while the pair of you remain in the kitchen for breakfast.”

      “Aw, Mama, I want to talk to Captain Will.”

      Will touched the boy’s shoulder. “A soldier obeys orders, son.” He winked. “I think I smell ham.”

      Tandy cut a glance toward the kitchen. “I sure am hungry, Ben.”

      “Me, too.”

      As the pair galloped into the kitchen like young ponies released to new pasture, Lizzy appeared in the opening of the double doors. “I’ll bring the coffee, Miss Charlotte, and look after the boys. You’ll be wanting breakfast, too. There’s ham and biscuits.”

      “Have the patients been fed?”

      Mrs. Portland’s question deepened the affection he felt and didn’t want. For indeed, patients lined her parlor and dining room on rows of pallets, makeshift beds of little more than a blanket or quilt or a bundle of rags. All of them provided by Charlotte Portland.

      “No, Miss Charlotte. Cook is working on that now.”

      “I’ll eat later.”

      Lizzy’s proud chin jutted stubbornly and doe eyes glittered with fierce affection. “You can’t go working all day again without food.”

      Will’s head snapped toward Charlotte. She’d not eaten yesterday?

      Charlotte brushed a hand along the hair above her ear, a smooth strip of blond pulled tightly into a bun. A loosely knit blue chignon covered the knot but couldn’t hide the golden shine.

      Will felt awkward to notice such a thing as a woman’s hair. With Charlotte he was noticing too much.

      “Don’t worry about me, Lizzy,” she said. “I am hale.”

      The maid didn’t argue but simply stood in the doorway, her black gaze fixed on Mrs. Portland. Charlotte took no umbrage at the impudence, and Will wondered at the relaxed relationship between slave and mistress.

      “Mrs. Portland.” Will touched Charlotte’s elbow, surprised at himself for taking the liberty. “She’s right. You need your strength.”

      The slave’s sharp gaze cut to him and settled there in speculation. Like a man burned, he drew away. “If you please, ma’am, could we have a word in your husband’s study?”

      Lizzy gave him one long, final stare before fading back into the kitchen.

      Once inside the small study, Will rotated his hat in his hands as he waited for Mrs. Portland to be seated at her husband’s writing desk, and then he took the black haircloth chair next to her. She was close enough that her lemony scent drifted to him, a disturbingly pleasant variance from the campfire smoke and coppery blood that clung to this stately home.

      Without preamble and in defense against her appeal, he said, “Private Stiffler discovered a rebel hiding in your orchard last night.”

      She blanched, pressing back against the mahogany desk chair, a hand to her throat. “In the peach orchard?”

      Had she known? Was she harboring and aiding the enemy outside while inside the house his men bled and suffered?

      Will watched her shocked reaction, studied the clear-as-June blue eyes. Either she’d missed her calling onstage or she hadn’t known. The relief he felt disturbed him as much as the persistent attraction.

      “Yes, ma’am. Stealing the last of the peaches. Are you aware of other rebels nearby?”

      “Until you came, the only soldiers we’ve seen were new recruits marching off to war from Honey Ridge.”

      “When was this?”

      “Last fall.”

      Did he believe her? His first inclination was yes, but he had not become a captain because he was foolish or made rash decisions. He’d invaded her home, taken her belongings and would take more before he and his band of injured moved on. Mrs. Portland had been nothing if not cooperative and caring, but she could not want him or his army on her farm.

      He was drawn to this woman who worked tirelessly with an uncommon compassion. In another place and another time…Will stopped the rabbit trail of thoughts.

      He had a duty and he would do it. But because of women such as Charlotte Portland, he would not become as base as some, looting and robbing and taking spoils of battle like savages.

      He prayed he’d never have to.

      “What will become of him?” she asked. “The man you found.”

      “He’s our prisoner. When we move out, we’ll take him along.”

      “Won’t he slow you down?”

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