Beloved Enemy (10 page)

How comforting that felt! And how very right, as if she had been created for exactly this man. “I fear that I will still be housebound,” she replied.

He chuckled. “As you are now?”

She smiled into the folds of his greatcoat's shoulder cape. “Exactly.”

“Then may I come again to your garden, just as I did tonight?”

She sighed with contentment. “Our garden attracts all sorts of birds, even blue ones.”

He grinned. “I do not have a singing voice, but I will endeavor to keep you amused.”

Julia quivered at the word
amused.
The way he said it made the promised entertainment sound very seductive. Her common sense suddenly reared its head. What was the matter with her? Resting shamelessly in the arms of a man, who was her enemy?

Julia lifted her head to say good-night, and found, to her shock, that his lips hovered very near hers. His tongue flicked out between his teeth, then retreated. He tensed under his coat.

Heavens above! He was going to kiss her!

Her throat tightened. “This…this is too rash,” she stammered. “Much too sudden.”

Raising his head, he released a long, slow breath. “Forgive me. I nearly forgot myself.” He stood up, taking his warmth from her.

Julia experienced an odd twinge of disappointment. Rising from the bench, she attempted to ease the ticklish situation. “The hour has grown very late. I share a bed with Carolyn and I am afraid that she might notice my absence. I would not, for the world, wish any more harm fall on you from a Confederate gun. My father used to be an excellent shot.”

He gave her a wry smile. “I appreciate your concern, Miss Julia. But tomorrow night? May I come again at ten?”

Julia was afraid to voice her consent. Instead, she merely nodded.

He touched the brim of his hat. “Then, a thousand times good night until tomorrow's night comes again.”

Before she could whisper, “Good night, Rob,” he strode out of the garden, just as if she had sent him on his way with a flea in his ear. He did not look back when he
lifted the gate latch, nor did he wave from the alleyway. In less than two minutes, he was gone from sight. Julia touched her bare lips that had no sweet kiss lingering on them.

A
ll the way back to his rooms at Ebbitt's Hotel, and throughout the rest of that dark night, Rob could not get Julia Chandler out of his head. The analytical part of his brain told him that she was of no interest to him. Julia was a Southerner—a breed apart, as his mother would have said. Rob had been raised to believe that all Southerners were a lazy, shiftless people, who now fought to keep their slaves to do their work and wait upon them. Yet, Rob had difficulty fitting Julia into that description. He found her to be a highly intelligent woman, though extremely sheltered. Considering her desire to teach school, she did not strike him as shiftless. Then again, he had only met her three times, and always under unusual circumstances, to put it mildly. His mother and assorted aunts would have been scandalized if they knew he was wooing a Confederate lady.

Rob bolted upright in his narrow bed. Was he really wooing Miss Julia? Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, despite the fact that his bedroom was chilly. Mr. William Ebbitt practiced the utmost thrift when it came to heating his establishment at night. Rob returned his head
to his pillow and pulled the thick woolen blanket high under his chin.

Of course he wasn't wooing Julia, or any other woman. After his nasty experience with Lucy Van Tassel, he had sworn off matrimony for good. Lucy's emphatic rejection forced Rob to realize that he would remain a bachelor all his life. His nephews and nieces would have to fulfill his desire for children.

So, his nagging conscience asked, if he wasn't wooing Julia in her father's garden, what was he doing there? Making small talk while they froze to death? Thanking Julia for the pleasant time he had enjoyed at the Winsteads' ball—three times over? What about the caramels? A mere courtesy gift. And the gloves? Her hands were cold. And the promise to return tomorrow night?

Rob had no answer to that question—at least none that he cared to examine closely. Squeezing his eyes shut, he willed his mind to think of something relaxing like drifting clouds and fields of waving grain. The last thing he remembered before sleep finally claimed him was the way Julia had looked at him when he had shown her his hand. A gentle kindness had shone in her face. Warm gratitude filled his heart.

In the cold light of dawn, his memories of the Chandlers' garden refused to go away. While buttoning his shirt with his left hand, he paused to study his right. In the dark last night, Julia could not have fully seen the damage that one of her countrymen had done to him. Perhaps she did not comprehend the extent of the scarring, nor realize that some of his fingers were virtually frozen into their half-curled position. It had ceased to look like a hand to Rob. In his own mind, he called it a claw.

Julia was only being kind. Her gentle heart didn't allow her to see him as he really was. She pitied him, that was
all. With that distasteful thought, he struggled into his uniform frock coat. In the mirror, a grim-faced major of the United States Army looked back at him.

That was who he was—her enemy. He had no business pursuing this…relationship with such a gentle lady. They were too divided by their backgrounds and beliefs. This friendship could only lead to tears or trouble. Best to end it now and save both of them from grief. He would not accept pity, even if it was wrapped in kindness.

Rob clamped his jaws together so tightly that a small nerve in his cheek throbbed. He had made his apologies to Julia for his lack of courtesy at the ball. He had sweetened his shortcomings with caramels. He had, for a brief moment in time, allowed himself to live again as the man he had once been, before that blistering day at Gettysburg changed him forever. As it was, he had pushed his advantage almost too far with that innocent lady. His gift of the gloves was enough—in fact, they had been far too much for propriety, but that was now over.

His mirrored image squared his shoulders. Oak leaves embroidered in gold bullion on his shoulder boards flashed in the pale light of the winter's morning sun. His military rank reminded him of his job in the secret service. Consorting with the enemy, even one as sweet as Julia, was against the rules of war. He knew the next action he must take, and it wrung his heart, for he realized how hurt Julia would be when he did not keep his appointment that evening.

“It is the best thing that I can do for her—for both of us,” he said aloud to the man in the looking glass. “And I am a vile cad for it.”

Briefly, he considered writing her a short note to explain his reasons for ending their friendship, but he had no way to send it to her without risking interception by her parents.
Of course, there was the maidservant, if he could find her again. No, the break must be complete and final—like a battlefield amputation. He glowered at his right hand. Maybe he should have let the doctor saw it off instead of stupidly hoping that one day it would be whole.

He would never allow himself to be that foolish again.

 

In the dark night, the chimes in the tower of Christ Church tolled half-past ten. Julia burrowed her chilled face into the fur collar of her cloak. What had delayed Rob? He had promised to be here by now. Perhaps the freezing weather had made the roads between Alexandria and Washington difficult to traverse at night—especially when so many of the water-filled ruts had frozen over. His horse must take its time to pick its way around them lest it break an ankle in the dark.

She shivered. At least her fingers were warm. She smiled at the fleece-lined gloves that protected her hands from the bitter wind, so much better than her muff. How very thoughtful Rob was! Especially for a Yankee!

Julia shook her head. She couldn't think of Rob as a Northerner. In the dim light of the garden, his coat lost its blue color. It could have been black—or even dark Confederate gray. How wonderful it would have been had Rob been born on this side of Mr. Mason and Mr. Dixon's survey line! If he had been a Southerner, Julia knew she would have married him in a heartbeat. Poor Frank, for all his charm, did not hold a candle to Rob.

Julia pulled her cloak tighter around her. Rob couldn't possibly marry her. Not only was he a Yankee, but he had never even hinted at his feelings for her. Perhaps she had been just a bit of fun to him. Julia bit her lower lip. Here she was—a silly, moon-crazed girl standing in a frigid gar
den waiting for some will-o'-the-wisp to come by and dally with her once again for his own amusement.

Her cheeks burned. How could she have been so stupid? She had been so anxious to find someone nice to ruin her that she had not used the eyes that the good Lord had given her. She should have seen straight through that handsome smile of his and all those honey words immediately. Was her heart to be bought by a box of sweets and a pair of gloves? She had been out of civilized society for too long, and had forgotten how to spy a snake in the grass.

Of course, Major Montgomery wasn't coming tonight! He never intended to return. Julia should be thankful that the man possessed enough decency not to pursue his obvious advantage over her.

What a foolish ninny I have been!
Picking up the hem of her skirts she dashed to the back steps. The frosted autumn leaves crackled underfoot. She would count this experience as a very good lesson learned. Major Montgomery was nothing more than a rascal and a Yankee!

 

The next morning, a soft tap on the bedroom door pulled Julia out of her self-pity. The cold sunlight illuminated the pages of her book, but her eyes did not see the words for the sheen of tears in them.

She cleared her throat. “Who is it?”

“Carolyn,” her sister replied. “May I come in, Julia?”

Julia closed her book. “I have a headache, Carolyn. I'm afraid I am poor company this morning.”

Carolyn retorted with a rude word that she must have picked out of a gutter. “I know you're crying and I highly doubt that it is over a headache.” She jiggled the doorknob. “Please, Julia, let me in. Mother has launched into another one of her tantrums, and I need to hide until she takes a nap.”

Sighing, Julia pulled the key out of her pocket. “Just a minute,” she called as she pinched some color into her cheeks. Then she opened the door.

“Your eyes are red,” Carolyn remarked, sitting down on the bed. “Don't bother to cry over Payton. He's not worth it.”

Julia lifted her chin. “I am not crying over that stupid boy. In fact, I've barely given him a second thought.”

Carolyn settled herself among the bolster pillows. “Well, it's plain as milk that you're not crying over this phantom headache.”

Julia snorted. The transparency of her feelings annoyed her. “Who says that I have been crying over anything at all? I may be coming down with a cold. I do declare, Carolyn Anne, your imagination has run away with you again.” She lay down on the counterpane next to her sister.

Unfortunately, her sister was too intelligent to believe her. “Oh, frivle-fravle! You haven't cried like that in a year of Sundays. Not since the time you learned that Frank had been killed. You have a broken heart, sure as you're born. I can hear it flapping inside you. Tell me all, Julia. You know you'll feel better if you do.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I am
very
good at keeping secrets.”

Julia sighed. It would be a relief to unburden her soul, to have a really good cry with Carolyn and then put the whole horrid episode behind her. She rolled on her side to face her sister.

“You're right, Carolyn. I am pining, though I don't think that I am filled with utter despondency. At least, I certainly hope not,” she added.

Carolyn's blue eyes grew wider. “Someone at the ball?”

A lump rose unbidden in Julia's throat. She nodded while she tried to swallow it down.

Carolyn knitted her brows. “But who? There were no decent boys there, only a roomful of crowing Yankees. What a mass of finery and vulgarity they were! Though I have to admit that some of them could dance well enough. My stars, Julia! Did you ever hear such accents come out of anyone's mouth like those Northern boys spoke? They set my teeth on edge. I told my dance partners, ‘Don't say a word, honey, just smile.'”

Julia nodded. The lump in her throat grew larger. Her chest felt as if a wide belt had been pulled tight around it. She bit her lower lip.

Carolyn studied her sister's face. “Hellfire, Julia! Is that what you're crying over? Some
Yankee
boy?”

“He's not exactly a boy,” Julia croaked. She blew her nose and scolded herself for her weakness. “He's twenty-seven.”

Her sister's eyes narrowed. “But he's a Yankee just the same, even if he was fifty and had pots of gold under each arm. You can't trust them a lick. They are all polecats, every last one of them. What's come over you?”

Julia sniffed into her hankie. A fresh set of tears filled her eyes. “I told you that I wasn't feeling well.”

Carolyn snorted. “You're as healthy as a horse. Don't you start having the vapors like Mother. It's too tiresome. You get hold of yourself and you'll be fine soon. Why, I bet that Yankee is nothing more than a whiskey-drinking, tobacco-chewing varmint.”

Julia balled her wet handkerchief in her fist. “He may be a lot of things, Carolyn, but I don't think he drinks whiskey, nor chews tobacco—at least not in the presence of a lady. He did have a certain amount of good manners.”

Carolyn tossed her blond curls. “Ha! I daresay he drinks
whiskey all the time—and not in a julep, either.” She wrinkled her nose. “Be that as it may, the New Year's Ball is over and done now. Your good-mannered Yankee is back in Washington, probably laughing up his sleeve at you while he tells tall tales to all his friends.”

Julia's temper flared, blotting out her tears. “Rob isn't that sort at all. No matter what he may think of me, I doubt he would be so cruel as to banter my name around some oyster bar.”

Carolyn lifted one brow. “Oh, it's
Rob
now, is it? Let me tell you about this Yankee Rob. He has
robbed
you of your good sense, that's what! And cruel? I've heard such stories of cruelty that those people have done to our poor Virginia that it would make your hair stand on its ends.”

Julia's cheeks grew very warm. “You don't know the first thing about him, Carolyn. This man is kind and he, too, has been hurt.”

“Fiddlesticks!” Carolyn mimicked. “I don't care a fig for his little ole feelings. Look what he's done to you! That weasel has made you lose your wits and cry your eyes out for the likes of him—all in one night.”

“He's not a weasel!” Julia snapped. “And it wasn't just in one night. Oh!” She stopped herself, but Carolyn pounced on her slip of the tongue.

“What have you gone and done, Julia?” she gasped.

Julia knotted her handkerchief between her fingers. “I've seen him several times since then,” she replied softly. “In our garden.”

“Over Papa's dead body!” Carolyn gasped. “He'd just up and die if he knew that a Yankee had stepped foot inside our home—even in the garden.” She put her hand to her mouth. “I can't believe how you've changed. You have never done anything so outrageous in your entire
life.” Her voice sank to a whisper, “What did you do in the garden?”

Julia's ears burned. “Nothing! We sat under the tree and talked. He is very witty and charming. He can even quote Shakespeare very well.”

Carolyn shook her head. “I highly doubt that an introduction, even from Mr. William Shakespeare, would cut the mustard with Papa. You have lost your mind entirely!”

 

Colonel Lawrence furrowed his brow as he reread the memorandum from Secretary of War Stanton. Ever since the inconclusive battle at Antietam, President Lincoln had grown increasingly concerned over the lack of good military leadership. The appalling losses at Gettysburg and the new policy that prohibited the exchange of prisoners had exacerbated the problem. The President wanted to redress this situation before the Spring campaign heated up. Forced into action by executive pressure, Stanton and his civilian advisor, Allen Pinkerton, had come up with a dangerous solution.