Mischief and Magnolias (26 page)

Ah, Shae, my love, are you, as Vince believes, a spy? A traitor? Are you helping the Confederacy?

He'd have to find out, no matter how much it hurt him, and do it before Vince made good on his threat.

He'd learn the truth. The whole truth.

And what then? What will you do if she is abetting the Confederacy? What will you do if she is a spy?

• • •

For two days, after Shaelyn hooked Jezebel up to the buggy and started down the long drive toward the road and her beloved steamboat, the
Lady Shae
, the only one left to her, Remy saddled his horse and took off after her, despite the strain and pain sitting in the saddle caused him.

He watched from behind a group of trees as she swept and mopped the decks, washed windows, and polished brass on the small riverboat. Sometimes she'd disappear for a while, stepping into a stateroom with her bucket full of soaps and oils and old rags, only to reappear hours later, the kerchief she tied around her head askew and damp with perspiration. He'd never seen brass so bright and shiny or saw a person work so hard.

He never saw anyone else approach the boat either.

He was beginning to feel like a fool, but he couldn't stop. He had to have proof Shaelyn was innocent so he could shove it in Vincent Davenport's face before he recommended the captain perform his duties elsewhere. He couldn't wait for that day and so, despite his own growing sense of shame, he continued spying on his wife.

On the third day, she surprised him and didn't take Silver Street down to Natchez-Under-the-Hill and the
Lady Shae
. Instead, she snapped the reins a little harder and headed north. Remy hung back, just until she disappeared from view, then kneed his mount.

He followed at a discreet distance until the buggy disappeared. He almost passed the shaded drive hidden behind a wealth of trees and low shrubs, which offered privacy as well, but pulled back on the reins just in time. As he turned and made his way toward the manse, he studied the structure. It was a beautiful home, surrounded by lush green lawn and stately trees.

He stopped a woman strolling down the drive toward him, her arms filled with a bundle of blankets. “Excuse me, can you tell me what this is?”

“It's a hospital.”

He nodded in thanks then applied pressure to his mount's sides. The horse walked toward the steps at the front of the building.
A hospital? Is she ill?

No, she couldn't be. Earlier today, she'd been trading quips with Jock and her mother, her face alight with pleasure, her wit as quick as always. If she'd been ill, she wouldn't have done so. At least he didn't think so. A sigh escaped him. Would he ever truly know the woman he'd married?

He gave a gentle tug on the reins and his horse stopped. Shaelyn's buggy was there and Jezebel munched contentedly on the oats filling her feedbag. Other buggies were there too, and several horses had their reins tied to a long railing.

Warm light spilled from the multitude of windows, and a few men lounged in rocking chairs and on benches on the front porch, taking in some fresh air, blankets slung around shoulders to protect them from the chill. Many had bandages wrapped around various parts of their bodies. Behind several chairs, he spotted the canes and crutches the men used to ambulate outside. Nurses, both male and female, helped other patients.

Remy dismounted, his leg almost collapsing beneath the weight of his body. Pain, sharp and nausea-inducing, shot up his thigh and he nearly lost the lunch he'd eaten. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and for a moment, everything seemed to darken as his head grew very light. He dragged several deep breaths into his lungs and managed to not only drive the nausea away, but the dizziness as well.

He climbed the front steps without falling on his face, despite the residual pain. Several of the men saluted, recognizing the stripes on his uniform, a few standing as they did so.

“At ease.” Remy returned the salute. As he walked down the gallery and greeted the men, he took the opportunity to peek in the windows, searching for any sign of Shaelyn. At last, he found her and his heart ceased its frantic pace.

She wasn't ill. Not in the least. He watched as she shrugged out of her plaid jacket and spoke with a man and several other women gathered in what must have been a parlor at one time. A settee, several chairs, and a large desk remained, but that was all.

Shaelyn tied an apron over her dark skirt, rolled up the sleeves of her white blouse, slipped a basket over one arm, and strolled into another room, her skirts swishing around her ankles.

Remy moved to another window and continued watching her as she spoke to a young man reclining upon a familiar army-issue cot. The dizziness returned and the ache in his thigh sparked to life when he noticed the boy was missing his leg from far above the knee down, exactly the same place the surgeons wanted to cut his own leg. Remy sucked in his breath.

The loss of the boy's leg didn't seem to matter to Shaelyn though. She kept a smile on her face as she pulled a chair closer to the cot and sat beside the young man. She reached for the boy's hand and held it as they spoke.

After a few moments of conversation, Shaelyn released the boy's hand and pulled a writing tablet from the basket. She laid the tablet on her lap and for the next twenty minutes or so, the boy spoke and she wrote.

This was a Federal hospital, he learned from the men on the porch in various stages of recuperation. He knew there had been one in the area, he just hadn't known where. Union soldiers filled the beds inside and the chairs lining the gallery outside. Shaelyn hadn't lied to him. She truly didn't care what color a man's uniform was. What mattered was the comfort she could bring to someone.

And there was a great deal of comfort. He watched with fascination as she moved from one man to the next. Her smile never faltered, at least not that they could see, but he could tell how difficult keeping the smile on her face had become—he knew her that well at least.

The heat of embarrassment suffused his face, making him sweat despite the chill of the day. He'd been a fool, a damned fool. Not only for listening to Vince, but for believing him too. How could he have doubted her? His own wife?

“May I help you?”

Remy jumped, startled, and quickly turned to see the man Shaelyn had been talking to earlier, his starched white coat brilliant in the late-afternoon sun. Behind wire-rimmed spectacles, his eyes were bright with intelligence, warm with welcome, and gleaming with good humor.

“I'm Dr. Shaughnessy.” He held out his hand. “Is there a soldier you wished to see? A relative?”

Remy didn't quite know what to say as he shook the doctor's hand. “Major Harte,” he managed, and cleared his throat as his eyes darted back to Shaelyn.

The good doctor peered in through the window and a slow smile stretched his mouth into an understanding grin. “She's quite lovely, isn't she? The men adore her.” His grin widened as he clasped his hands in front of him. “I must admit, I'm quite fond of her as well. She's been one of my best volunteers.” His eyes snapped back to Remy. “Her name is Shaelyn Cavanaugh.”

“Harte.”

“Excuse me?”

“Shaelyn Cavanaugh Harte. My wife.”

“Ah, I see.” The doctor rocked back on his heels as understanding dawned on him. He studied Remy, but said nothing more.

Beneath the doctor's scrutiny, heat rose up to warm his cheeks and his stomach clenched. Now, not only was he embarrassed, but the wicked tongue of jealously licked at his gut as well—a most uncomfortable feeling.

“Why don't you come in and see what kind of hospital I run?” Dr. Shaughnessy squinted behind the lenses of his spectacles. “I can assure you, Mrs. Harte is treated with nothing but respect and kindness. As I said, the men adore her and look forward to her visits.”

Remy shook his head. “Thank you, but no.” He turned and started walking away, every muscle in his body taut, sweat dampening his back, his one thought to get away and get home before Shaelyn saw him and learned how big a fool he was.

“Major, you're limping. Are you hurt?”

Again, Remy shook his head. “No, sir.” He stopped, turning around to face the man. He thought about asking the doctor to keep his visit here today a secret, but that would have made him look like more of fool…and would reflect badly on Shaelyn as well. After a moment, he simply nodded his thanks and continued on his way, his hand clamping the railing as he descended the stairs as quickly as he could. He climbed into the saddle and kicked his horse into a gallop.

He'd learned a valuable lesson today. Trust his wife.

Three days later, Remy closed the study doors and limped toward the desk. His men, including his officers staying in the other homes in Natchez and the warehouse, watched his every move. He was aware of their scrutiny as well as their confusion and curiosity, but he had his reasons for asking for this meeting.

He gave a slight nod to Vince. His second in command sat to the right of the desk, long legs crossed, fingers tracing the label on the bottle of whiskey, though he hadn't poured himself a drink. A smug, knowing smile curved Vince's mouth but did not reach his eyes, and for a moment, Remy wondered if his smile
ever
reached his eyes.

It was because of Vince's accusations that he chose to say what he had to say away from the women of the house, especially one woman. His wife. And it was because of Vince's accusations that he had learned something wonderful about the woman he married…and something about himself too.

It still rankled him that he'd actually followed her, hurt him that even after learning she volunteered at the hospital, he followed her the next day, and the next, only to learn that she visited those unable to leave their homes, bringing with her news of the outside world as well as Brenna's cakes and muffins. He watched her bring foodstuffs, a fresh ham and a chicken already fried to golden perfection, taken from the pantry he had stocked, to a new widow and her children, and his heart pounded with pride and something else. Shame. And when Shaelyn came so willingly into his arms each night, that shame and unworthiness flared brightly.

No, if there was a spy, a traitor, within his group, and he was beginning to think there was, he'd find out. He glanced at the men gathered around him and mentally tried to figure out who it could be.

Jock, whom he'd known all his life and trusted with that same life? Never in a million years would Angus MacPhee betray his country. Daniel Bonaventure, with whom he'd felt an immediate bond when they'd met? Again, he didn't think so.

What of the others? Respected officers, one and all. Granted, he didn't know them well, at least not as well as those living in the same house with him, but he believed in his ability to judge men on their behavior, on their attitudes. None of them had given him reason to distrust them.

Except for one.

The man who had done the accusing.

“We're going to look for the
Sweet Sassy
,” he announced as he leaned against the desk, his heart beating a steady conviction-filled cadence in his chest. “I find it impossible to believe a boat that size could simply disappear. If she sunk, if she exploded, then I must know.” He pinned each one of them with an intent stare. “We leave tomorrow afternoon.”

No one said a word, each man giving him his undivided attention, again, except for one. He glanced at Vincent once more, a little disappointed the man still studied the whiskey bottle instead of paying attention to him. “I trust the
Lady Shae
will be ready.”

“Of course.” The man finally took his gaze from the bottle and glanced at Remy.

He saw it then. Not only saw it—he felt it as well. Hostility. Shining brightly from the dark brown of Vincent Davenport's eyes. But only for a moment, a flicker actually, a tick of the clock so brief, he wasn't quite sure it truly was hostility. Perhaps it was something else. Jealousy?

Remy shook his head and got back to the business at hand. For the next hour, he and his men discussed plans for finding the
Sweet Sassy
.

“Thank you, gentlemen. Until tomorrow then. Dismissed.” His men rose from their seats, talking among themselves as they headed for the door. He saw Jock start to approach the desk, but quickly turn around when Remy shook his head and directed his attention to Captain Davenport. “I'd like you to stay.”

Remy took his seat behind the desk and leaned back in the soft leather chair, fingers steepled, as his men left the room and closed the door behind them. Vince eyed the door and uncrossed his legs, planting both feet flat on the carpeted floor. He looked ready to jump out of his skin.

Without preamble, without warning of any kind, Remy turned all his attention to Davenport and said, “I think it may be time for you to transfer to another unit.”

This time, the hostility shining from his eyes left no doubt in Remy's mind, as Vincent sat up straight, his face taking on an unhealthy reddish hue. He did not raise his voice. In fact, his voice lowered to a menacing timbre. “Why? Because your wife is a spy? Because I had the audacity to tell the truth and say she tampered with her own boats to make them sink. Or explode. Perhaps you're not fit to command, Major.” An eyebrow raised and a smirk settled on Davenport's lips. “Perhaps you're helping the Confederacy as well.”

Such rancor dripped from his lips that Remy was taken aback. He stiffened beneath the onslaught of malice, his temper flaring at the belligerence and lack of respect.

“That's enough, Captain! One more word regarding Shae and I'll make sure it's the last word you utter in this house. She is my
wife
and you will keep a civil tongue in your head when you refer to her.” He reined in his temper with an effort that left him shaking. When had he started disliking the man? Was it after his accusations? Or had it been there all along, going as far back as the Academy? As a lower classman, Davenport had tested his mettle on more than one occasion, but this…this he would not tolerate.