In The Face Of Death (29 page)

“Things could change,” Howard remarked, “if they find out what’s up here.”

“We’re not restoring the mill,” said Madelaine. “That’s what most people would come here for.”

“Don’t be so sure of that,” Howard said.

Madelaine wondered if he intended to flatter her with that observation or was simply making polite small-talk. “Well, this is a long way for anyone to come out of curiosity.”

“You may well find out otherwise,” said Howard. “There’s a lot of people on the move, and some of them stay off the main roads.” He chuckled once, as if his comments were a private joke.

“And if war reaches here, there will be many more,” she said, studying his response from the tail of her eye.

“The war won’t come this far. We’ll have a treaty long before fighting can spread here.” He was very sure of himself, and his grin bordered on cocky.

“You’re convinced of that?” Madelaine ventured.

“Doubtless.” He took another long sip. “You’re lucky to have the millpond. This creek dries up, some summers; that’s one of the reasons the mill was abandoned.” He finished the water and held out the glass. “It’s probably a good place to swim.”

“Would you like another glass?” asked Madelaine. “If you have far to ride, you will be thirsty again.”

“Yes. Another glass would be welcome,” he said, favoring her with a sudden flirtatious smile. “How good you are to a stranger.”

She did her best to respond in kind. “Given that I am a stranger myself in this country, it would be odd if I—”

“And you could be much better if you wanted to,” he added, winking.

“I’m sorry,” she said, glancing toward the shelves of the pantry. “I can’t spare any food for you—”

“Don’t be stupid. It won’t fadge.” Without any warning he touched her shoulder. “I have heard that you Frenchwomen are very knowing.” His insinuation was eloquent. “In all kinds of ways.”

Madelaine stopped working the pump-handle and stared at him. “Mister Howard?”

“I told you my friends call me Chance,” he said, making this an imposition. “Say it. Say ‘Chance’.”

“Mister Howard,” she said firmly, “I do not want this attention. If you are a gentleman, you will not do this to me.” What had happened, she wondered, that had brought about this change in him? And why had it happened? What had changed? One moment he was engaging in polite banter, the next he was treating her as if she were bought and paid for.

“They say that you are taught the ways of pleasing your men,” he went on in determination, his smile still fixed in place. “Is it true?”

“All women are taught to please their men,” said Madelaine abruptly. “And I will thank you to take your hand off me.”

“That’s not real pleasing of you,” he cajoled her.

“It isn’t intended to be,” she said. “Stop it at once, Mister Howard.”

Howard’s eyes brightened. “Why? What will you do? Scream? There’s no one here but you and me and the horse. Why not take what’s offered?”

“If you do not want me to scratch your face, you will stop. Now.” If it came to that, she could best him in a fight even in daylight, she knew, but she did not want a fight; there would be too many questions to answer.

“Why’d you want to do a thing like that?” he asked, his tone light and teasing, but his hand still on her shoulder, the fingers digging in as if he wanted to fix claws in her flesh. “You don’t have to take on this way. This can be real pleasant for us both. No reason for either one of us to regret it. Nobody’d have to know but you and me.”

“Just as nobody has to know you help runaway slaves get north?” she countered, and felt his fingers tighten more cruelly. Now he would either come after her, or the shock of her question would make him retreat.

“What are you saying?” he demanded, stepping back from her, releasing his hold on her. “What runaways?”

She finished filling the glass a second time. “You and a few others guide runaway blacks north. Don’t deny it: I’ve seen you at it, very late at night. You were guiding the runaways to a Reverend Singleton. If people in this area found out about it, what would they say?”

His laugh was unconvincing. “No one would believe it. Especially your being out at that hour. What were you doing when you saw us? If you saw us?”

“Why would they not believe me? There are groups of men who hunt the runaways to recapture and punish them. They have no love for any abolitionists, and I suspect they like the Southern ones least of all. They would probably be glad to discover who is helping the runaways escape.” She could feel his anxiety mounting and pressed her advantage; she did not want him to renew his questions about her nocturnal wanderings. “If I were to add that you forced your attentions on me, you might not fare very well at their hands.”

“Don’t be absurd,” he said, his voice two notes higher than before. “You wouldn’t do that. You’re the one at this mill. Everyone knows that this place was used by runaways.”

“Yes. A group of men have already come to warn us about that.” She held out the glass, noticing that there was sweat on his upper lip. “Here.”

He took the glass and drank it down quickly, all the while watching her as if he expected a trap. He handed the glass back to her, taking care not to touch her fingers as he did. Then he made the effort to smile again, and produced a grimace. “You don’t have to. . . . There’s no reason for you to. . . .”

“Mister Howard, I have no wish to bring embarrassment on myself or on you.” She spoke as if to a naughty child, and saw at once it was a mistake.

“It’ll be our secret,” he said forcefully, his confidence returning. “Just between us.”

“No, not a secret. I do not say this for your benefit. I respect the work you do with the runaways. I have no wish to endanger that. But if you do anything or say anything that impugns my reputation, you will sorely regret it.” She felt her anger course through her, as if it scoured her veins.

“What would make me do that?” he challenged her.

Madelaine gave him a level stare. “This is no idle threat, Mister Howard.”

“It’s not? What would you do to me?” he asked in a show of bravado. “Sue me in court? What witnesses do you have? It would be your word against mine, if you tried that. And who do you think they’d believe—me or you?” He rocked back on his heels, satisfied that he had escaped all hazard.

“I am not so foolish,” said Madelaine.

“Then what? Give me away to the men you said came here?” He was close to jeering now.

“No, Mister Howard; that would endanger the runaways. No, I would break your spine and leave you crippled,” she said flatly.

Now it was his turn to stare. “You?” He raked his eyes over her, repeating incredulously, “You?”

“Yes, Mister Howard,” she said with cold certainty.

He took a step back from her, his mouth turning sulky. “It won’t come to that.”

“I hope not.” She indicated the door. “Your horse must be cool enough now to drink safely. Take him down to the millpond. You can leave from there.”

At the old mill, near Dallas, Georgia, 3 September, 1863

Walter arrived today, with his two Shaker women. They came in a very handsome dog-cart, with a hinny pulling it. From what these two women tell me, Shakers have a reputation for breeding good hinnies and mules. . . . I have asked Sister Bethesda and Sister Leah to tell me about their sect, and they have said they would once Walter is safely established. . . . Both women are widows, though not from war: Sister Leah’s husband, who was considerably older than she, died of heart failure two years ago, and Sister Bethesda’s husband froze to death four winters ago while tending stock. Sister Leah is thin as a stick and has a child-like prettiness her austere clothes cannot conceal; Sister Bethesda is a hale, large-framed woman of sixty years who thrives on work. . . . They are willing to remain here to tend Walter for as long as he needs them. Susanne has not said if this is agreeable to her, though I am sure that she cannot care for Walter alone.

There is sad news from that dreadful battle at Gettysburg, in Pennsylvania. John Selbie was wounded there and three days later, died. Susanne has done what she can to bear her grief but I fear she may be overcome by it. . . . Walter received the news a month ago, but felt it would be better to wait to tell Susanne until he could do it in person, so that she would not have to suffer her loss alone.

As for Walter himself he is not strong and I suspect he may never be so again. His wound has left his back damaged, and though he is able to walk with crutches, it is not likely that he will improve beyond the need of them. I have no medicaments that can repair the injury, though I have given him an anodyne to reduce his pain, and a poultice for when his wound swells. . . .

There is no word of Tecumseh, and I dare not ask for any, given the sentiments of those around me. . . . How I have come to miss him. I remember the taut lines of his body, his passion, the weight and taste of him. . . . It has been too long since I had his knowing love.

“How do they find this place?” Susanne asked, flinging her hands in the air as she saw two unfamiliar children wander into the hollow, their faces pinched with hunger and fatigue.

“I don’t know,” said Madelaine, setting the stoneware crock aside and glancing out of the barn. “They may sense it,” she suggested, half in jest.

“Well, we can’t turn them away,” said Susanne fatalistically. “They have endured so much already. It is cruel enough that they are cast adrift. We must not refuse them haven.”

“As you wish,” said Madelaine, brushing dried leaves off her muslin skirts. “Look. There’s Melissa.” She laughed once. “That child has the makings of a grand society hostess.”

As Susanne and Madelaine watched, young Melissa came rushing from the back of the mill, her braids flying behind her, one hand stretched out to the newcomers. “Hello,” she caroled as she ran. “Welcome to the Old Mill.” She seemed unaware of the dazed stares of the two arrivals. “You must be hungry. And tired. Come with me,” she said as she reached them. “I’ll show you where you can rest, and then we’ll get you some stew. It’s just lamb, greens, and onions, nothing fancy. But it fills the belly.”

The taller of the two, a tow-headed boy, made a half-hearted attempt to pull away from her as she linked her arm with his. “Don’t.”

“You’ll feel better when you’re rested up,” Melissa informed him, paying no attention to his rudeness.

“We better tell Luke Greentree to make the rounds of his traps again,” said Susanne as she started out of the barn. “This makes nine children we’re feeding.”

“And I can ride to Dallas to get some supplies,” Madelaine offered, aware that her supply of gold was getting low as prices were rising. “More soap, and blankets, if I can find any.” She watched Susanne hurry toward Melissa, who was escorting the new children into the mill, thinking that they would not be able to accommodate more than another three or four, given their current resources. Perhaps, she thought, they should look for a better location. But where would that be? she asked herself. With fighting coming nearer all the time, this small, protected place might be the best location possible. With a short sigh, she left the barn and went toward the mill to find out about the latest additions to their community.

Sister Leah was just ladling stew into heavy white bowls when Madelaine came into the kitchen. She looked up, murmured a luke-warm greeting, and went back to her task, saying to the new children, “Now make sure you thank God for giving you this food, and guiding you to this safe place. So much could have happened to you, and you’ve been spared. You’re here because He is merciful. Let Him know you’re grateful.”

The taller child said, “Shan’t,” as he took the bowl and spoon.

“Will too,” said the shorter.

Sister Leah was about to deliver an admonition to them; Melissa stepped into the breach, saying, “They can thank God when they’re done eating. God must know how hungry they are. He’ll understand.”

“All right,” said Sister Leah. “Just see that you thank Him right and proper.” She avoided looking directly at Madelaine as the children sat down to eat. “Miz Selbie’s making up a bed for them.”

“I thought so,” said Madelaine, aware of the Shaker woman’s distrust of her. “Do we know who these children are and where they came from?”

“Not yet,” said Sister Leah. “They aren’t very talkative.”

“So I gathered,” said Madelaine, and went over to the table where the two youngsters were gobbling down their stew with as little chewing as possible. “I’m Madelaine de Montalia. Who are you?”

The taller boy glowered. “Ain’t supposed to tell.”

“Why not?” asked Melissa, who had taken a chair across from the newcomers.

“Cause that’s what Ma told us.” The shorter boy made a face and went back to the serious business of eating.

“Where is your Ma?” Madelaine asked.

“Gone,” said the shorter boy. “His, too.”

“Then you’re not brothers,” Madelaine asked in surprise, for the two had a marked resemblance and she had assumed they must be siblings.

“Cousins,” said the taller. “My Pa’s his Ma’s brother.” Satisfied that was settled, he picked up his spoon again.

“Well, it’s very clear you’re related,” said Madelaine, hoping to draw them out. “Your families live near each other, do they?”

“Yep,” said the taller around a mouthful of lamb.

“Where is that?” asked Madelaine.

“Not supposed to say,” said the shorter.

“Shut up, Seth,” said the taller, then blushed so intensely that his scalp glowed pink through his pale hair.

“Is that your name? Seth?” Madelaine asked, pressing her advantage with the shorter of the two.

Looking guilty, the boy nodded, and pointed to his cousin. “He’s Daniel.”

“Seth and Daniel,” said Madelaine. “Those are good names.” She turned to Melissa. “You’ll make sure Seth and Daniel meet the others, won’t you?”

Melissa nodded with bright-eyed enthusiasm.

Suddenly Daniel said, “The soldiers took our Ma’s.” His face tightened up. “Just took them.”

“Took them?” Madelaine repeated. “Took them where?”

“Don’t know,” said Seth.