The Memory House

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?”

“No.” Prisoners were not allowed to slow the progress of fighting men. But he did not share that bit of bad news with Charlotte. “We suspect he’s a deserter.”

“You could let him go.” Her lips formed a thin, worried line. His gaze was drawn there.

“Impossible.”

“Why?” She fiddled with an inkwell situated on the open desk, a reddish-walnut affair bare of papers.

“There is a war going on, Mrs. Portland. I have men to protect.”

“Is he so dangerous, then?”

Will huffed a short, unhappy laugh. “The only danger he presents is the amount of fleas and lice covering his body. He’s so scrawny his bones rattle.”

“The poor soul is starving. You could leave him here.”

He wished he could. Just as he wished he could send all his men home. But because he could do neither, he didn’t respond.

Lizzy, in her snowy apron and head wrap, brought the coffee. Once again her sharp glance slid between him and Charlotte. She was watchful, protective of her mistress, and he would not be at all surprised if she stood guard outside the door.

“Your maid doesn’t trust me,” he said, after Lizzy left the room.

“Should she?”

The question bothered him. He wanted to be trusted but, indeed, with the enemy, he could not make that promise. “Have you owned her long?”

Something fierce and dark flashed in Charlotte’s expression. “My husband owns slaves. I do not. Nor would I if the choice was mine to make.”

Her passion gave him pause. He set the coffee on a side table. “You are loyal to the Union?”

“I am loyal to my home and family. Your war bewilders me.”

“As it does all of us, Mrs. Portland. There are times when I—” He stopped, aware he revealed too much.

“Times when you what, Captain? Wished you’d never joined such a ruthless cause? I’m sure those young men lying in our cemetery would wish the same if they could.”

He blanched. Yes, she’d pinched a sore spot, for he was haunted by the loss of men, some of them hardly more than boys, who’d marched to war filled with fiery idealism only to face the harsh realities of butchery and death.

“I regret every lost man, whether Union or Confederate.”

His revelation, one he’d scarce let himself think much less say, softened her. “I’m afraid I do not understand the politics of war, or the propensity of men to purchase human flesh. Both are obscene to me.”

“Would you prefer the Union remained separated?”

“I would prefer, as scripture dictates, to live in peace with all creatures whenever possible.” She grimaced and a flush colored her cheeks the shade of fresh peach skin. “Forgive me, please. Sometimes I forget myself. I shouldn’t say such things to a man of your position and rank.”

“Voicing an opinion is not a cardinal sin.”

“No? Some believe a woman has no opinion, Captain.”

He wondered if she meant her husband but refrained from asking such a private, personal question. As it was, he shocked himself at the ease with which they conversed. She was bright and knowledgeable, qualities he’d been taught to admire in a woman.