The Quaker and the Rebel (11 page)

When she glanced down at her feet for the fourth time, Alexander put a finger under her chin and lifted her face. “You’re too tense and stiff. I know you can dance, so allow yourself to relax. I promise not to bite you.” His voice was gentle, his smile no longer mocking.

Emily grew transfixed by his deeply set gray eyes, mesmerized by their fathomless depth. A woman would kill to be blessed with lashes like those. But with a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and sharp aquiline nose, his face held no softness. His features had a hawklike appearance, softened only by his hair falling lazily over his forehead.
Matthew would roar with laughter at his dandified clothing. All he needs is a walking stick to be the perfect fop.

“A penny for your thoughts, Miss Harrison.”

“I was just…admiring your attire, Mr. Hunt.”

“Then you must have excellent taste in fashion. I go to a haberdasher and tailor in Winchester who makes my garments before each season. The man is quite good, staying abreast of everything happening
on the Continent. One has to be careful not to dress as though this were still the frontier, don’t you think?”

“Oh, I certainly do. With the country embroiled in war, we must not forget about style.” They whirled effortlessly around the dance floor. What kind of people were these aristocrats? But at least with the distraction of banal conversation her dancing had improved. Her stiffness and self-consciousness disappeared as he held her in his arms. “Tell me, Mr. Hunt. I believe Warren County has become part of the Confederacy, has it not? How is it you haven’t been conscripted?”
Or volunteered
hung in the air unsaid, yet even she knew how rude that would be to add.

“Ah, yes, the Glorious Cause. Don’t think my heart doesn’t yearn to fight with my school chums on the battlefield, but the Confederate government recognizes the importance of Hunt Farms. We supply horses to the cavalry along with a steady stream of grain and grass for horse fodder. I was told to send a replacement to the local regiment while I keep things going here at home. My father doesn’t have the strength he once had. With many of our people running off…it was the least I could do.”

And so much safer, I would imagine
. Why did these Southerners insist on calling slaves “their people”? As though softening the term of possession could change the corrupt, heinous nature of bondage. Emily couldn’t believe she was put off by his reluctance to sign up with the Confederate Army. Why would she be angry that a rich, indolent man didn’t join the traitorous rebels to fight against everything she stood for? Yet somehow his avoidance bothered her a great deal. When the interminable waltz ended, she pulled away from his embrace. “Thank you, Mr. Hunt.”

“The pleasure was mine, Miss Harrison. I assure you.”

She left as fast as her dignity would allow. She had to get away from him…she had to think.

F
IVE

A
lexander watched Emily depart in a great hurry. What a conundrum she was. She was obviously the woman who had been hiding in a barn in Berryville, his aunt’s recalcitrant governess. The woman he had danced with tonight had the same flaming red hair and spattering of freckles across her nose, but in that gown he hadn’t been sure they were one and the same until she had scowled at him from behind the potted plant and unleashed her barbed tongue. The woman he baited on Bennington Island and then pounced upon in the barnyard near Berryville looked more like an underfed chicken than the pleasingly attractive swan who had graced his parents’ ballroom.

He was familiar with women who flirted—who charmed their way into men’s hearts and minds by wielding their feminine powers. Lately Alexander wanted little to do with them because he didn’t trust them…and because he couldn’t trust himself. He preferred to stay away from pretty faces and stunning figures, from women whose touch could melt icicles in the dead of winter. But this odd creature with her wild hair and long legs like a yearling wasn’t like them. Without artifice or an ounce of seductiveness, she couldn’t charm a bear to a beehive. Strong-willed and opinionated, especially on topics she knew nothing about, Emily Harrison nevertheless possessed her own sense of grace. Alexander found her dissimilarity to the belles of Virginia oddly appealing.

“Good grief,” he moaned. “If that skinny colt looks enticing, I’ve been away from the ladies of Belinda’s too long.” He laughed, realizing that this governess living in his uncle’s home could come in handy. His parents had begun to question him about his comings and goings. They wondered why he needed to spend so much time away from the farm. The last thing he wanted was to cause his parents worry. If he struck up a courtship with Miss Fancy-Bloomers, he would have
an excuse to be away for days at a time. Martinsburg and Front Royal weren’t exactly around the corner from one another. Because there was no chance of Miss Emily Harrison bewitching him with her charms, this little Yankee could come in handy indeed.

Emily didn’t slow down until she was out of the crowded room of overdressed, perfumed peacocks. At the door an elderly servant approached from his assigned station. “May I bring you a wrap, miss?”

“No. If I wished for a wrap, I would get one myself,” she snapped, but regretted her words the moment they left her mouth. The poor man looked as though he’d been slapped.

“I beg your pardon. That wasn’t what I intended to say. I meant I have no desire to be waited on by slaves.”

“Yes, miss,” he said, lowering his gaze to the foyer floor. His expression registered distress and bewilderment.

Emily felt ashamed. Lately, she couldn’t control her words or her temper. Offering a weak smile, she hurried through the door. Once she was out on the expansive verandah, she inhaled the cool night air and began to relax. Jasmine and honeysuckle—two of her favorite scents—wafted on the breeze. She closed her eyes and imagined herself back home in Ohio, listening to the foghorns of steamboats passing on the river. Strains of another reel drifted through the open windows, but she concentrated on the calls of the whippoorwills and nightjars. Tree frogs and crickets added to the evening symphony she found so comforting.

And she needed some comfort. Her behavior with Alexander left her far from calm and relaxed. How could she enjoy dancing after being raised a Quaker? How could she enjoy being held in another man’s arms so soon after Matthew’s death? Shamelessly, she savored the attention she received in the beautiful ball gown, secretly delighting when a man’s head turned in her direction. Restless and confused, she began to pace. When she reached the length of the verandah, she
discovered that the wide porch wrapped around the house. Turning the corner, she sought peace and quiet in the cool shadows, far from the conviviality of the ballroom.

But here the night music wasn’t the tumult of insects calling for mates or the tinkling laughter of coy belles. Emily heard sounds both distinctly human and decidedly angry. She cocked her head to focus her attention with every nerve. Voices emanating in the direction of the slave cabins waxed and waned. Some unfortunate soul was receiving a browbeating, of that she was certain. Listening to the verbal tirade, Emily’s breath caught in her throat as her stomach soured. She couldn’t discern the hateful words, but the meaning was clear…and far more frightening at night than in the light of day. Her previous musings about dancing and pretty ball gowns vanished.

A memory crept insidiously to mind of another warm summer evening long ago—a memory of men emboldened by darkness and fueled by alcohol. She closed her eyes, trying to force that night back to the past where it held no power over her. Damp with perspiration, Emily heard someone holler in a clear voice: “I’ll teach you to sass your betters.” She gasped, paralyzed where she stood for several moments.
I’ll teach you to sass your betters?
Daring not to breathe, she waited uneasily for the next harangue. But it did not come; she heard nothing but the pounding of her own heart. Soon the sounds of crickets and tree frogs filled the air. Indoors, the musicians struck the chords of the next dance for couples young and old.

Emily exhaled a weary sigh. She hadn’t come south to wear fancy silk dresses with embroidered slippers, or sip champagne under twinkling chandeliers, or recite the sonnets of Shakespeare to her employer while drinking cups of tea. And she certainly wasn’t here to be held in the arms of a rich Virginia planter, no matter how handsome.

Suddenly the breeze turned chilly. Crossing her arms over her chest, Emily wished she’d accepted the butler’s offer of a wrap. “I can be useful,” she whispered. “And you, Alexander Hunt, will be useful too.” Emily smiled.
At least there’s certainly no chance of me falling in love with you, Mr. Hunt. You don’t possess an ounce of the gumption or conviction of
Matthew Norton. You can keep your beautiful manners, expensive clothes, and gracious dancing. I can be coy like your belles if need be, but once I have you in the palm of my hand, you’ll be too smitten to notice a few less people around the place.

“Good morning, Miss Harrison.” Alexander’s voice boomed through the open doorway. “Are you famished for breakfast? You missed the midnight repast.”

Emily had waited in the kitchen until Mrs. Bennington came downstairs, hoping to avoid being alone with him that morning. She assumed any man worth his salt would have gone to his business concerns or at least to chores around the farm. She should have known better than to expect a lazy aristocrat to rise early. “Good morning. I don’t believe I am hungry.”

“Emily, please join us,” summoned Mrs. Bennington from the dining room.

“Yes, ma’am.” She sighed as she tried to step past him, but he blocked her path.

“You refused breakfasting with me, but acquiesced to my aunt?” he asked, furrowing his brow.

“I cannot refuse my employer or her hostess. Please excuse me, Mr. Hunt.”

Alexander stepped aside and then followed her into the dining room.

Emily couldn’t believe Mrs. Bennington was up this early. Was this the same woman who slept past ten each morning, took breakfast on a tray, and never appeared downstairs before noon? “I noticed your wheelchair still remains in the back of the carriage. You’re managing nicely with your two canes.”

“Truly, I am. The reunion with my favorite sister has done wonders for my health.” Mrs. Bennington beamed at Mrs. Hunt.

“I am your only sister.” Mrs. Hunt winked over her porcelain cup.

Emily peered at one and then the other as her heart swelled. There was a sparkle in her employer’s green eyes. Years had fallen away from her face in the comfort and ease of Hunt Farms. Emily hadn’t planned to grow fond of Augusta Bennington, but she couldn’t help herself. “Dr. Bennington will be pleased with your improved health when he returns,” she said, sampling sliced peaches in heavy cream. “I didn’t see him last night at the ball. Was he detained at the field hospital?”

Mrs. Hunt shook her silvery head. “James was unsuccessful in persuading Porter to attend. ‘Men are dying here for lack of care,’ ” she said, mimicking Porter’s voice. “ ‘And you wish me to come home, put on a penguin suit, and waltz around a ballroom as though things were normal?’ James volunteered to help until it was time to dress for the ball. Porter found plenty of nonmedical tasks to keep him busy.” Mrs. Hunt clucked her tongue. “Even with the help of convalescing soldiers, they are still so understaffed.” She nibbled a piece of toast daintily.

“Dr. Bennington spent the night in a battlefield field hospital?” asked Emily.

“He sleeps for a few hours on a pallet in the corner of the surgery tent. He hasn’t eaten properly or slept in a decent bed in days.” Mrs. Bennington delivered this news in a whisper.