To Whisper Her Name (25 page)

“Evening, Mrs. Norris.”

“Evening, Mr. Cooper. I hope you don’t mind.” She motioned toward the door. “I left somethin’ inside for you. Thought maybe you could use it tonight.”

He followed her into the cabin and saw a suit hanging from the mantle.

“It belonged to my husband,” she said, her voice unusually soft. “It’s a few years old, but I cleaned and pressed it. You’re a touch taller than he was though, so I let out the pants. But other than that, my Noland was right about your size. There’s a shirt too.” She pointed. “And a tie.” She gave a little sigh, like a memory had squeezed her heart. “Noland told me toward the end, he said, ‘Rachel, don’t you go buryin’ me in that suit, woman. I ain’t never felt right in it, and I ain’t spendin’ my days in the hereafter tuggin’ at no collar.’” The smile on her mouth trembled. Her eyes watered. “I gave ‘bout everythin’ else away, but not these. Not ‘til now.”

Ridley fingered the sleeve of the suit. It reminded him of one he’d owned before the war. Another lifetime ago. This woman’s gift was far too generous, yet to refuse it would be nothing short of an insult. “Thank you, Mrs. Norris. I don’t quite know what to say.” He looked back at her. “If it fits, ma’am, I’ll wear it with pride.”

Smiling, Rachel reached for the door behind her. “I’ll wait outside, if you don’t mind. I’d like to see it on you.”

Ridley soon found her estimation on the fit to be near perfect. The coat was a tad snug through the shoulders, but everything else felt tailored to him. Wearing the shoes he’d polished with saddle oil last night, he stepped outside.

And the look on Rachel’s face said everything.

O
livia couldn’t keep from staring at him. It didn’t help that Ridley was seated right across from her, sandwiched between Mary and Cousin Lizzie — both of whom seemed positively giddy. And with good reason. They were seated beside a most appealing man.

Ridley Cooper was — without question — beyond handsome this evening. She loved the circumstances under which he’d been invited to dinner, a gentleman’s agreement with the general regarding a mare. And Ridley had bested him, just as Elizabeth had said. Ridley seemed so at ease in this setting too. Observing him like this — a proper gentleman if ever she’d seen one — she had a hard time imagining him in the wilds of the Colorado Territory.

He hadn’t said another word to her about leaving, and she assumed that since he’d taken the job as foreman, he’d decided to stay. Which made perfect sense. And the probability of that gave her more enjoyment than it should have.

The suit he wore wasn’t the latest in fashion, but what it lacked in that regard, he more than made up for in how he wore it. She’d always heard that the clothes made the man. But the man sitting across the table from her was disproving that adage. In every way.

She didn’t know what she’d expected him to wear tonight. She hadn’t really thought about it. She’d only ever seen him in his work clothes. But she hadn’t expected him to look like this. Like a dessert so luscious one wouldn’t want to ruin it by taking a bite. Yet at the same time, all one wanted to do was gobble it up. The comparison made her smile. Until Ridley caught her attention. And the way he looked at her from beneath slightly hooded eyes temporarily caused all the air to be expelled from her lungs. She reached for her glass of lemonade just for a taste of something cool.

“So tell me, Mrs. Aberdeen …”

With effort, Olivia dragged her focus from Ridley’s and placed it on the older gentleman seated to her right: decorated Confederate General Percival Meeks. She couldn’t forget the name because General Harding had made a point to use the title at least three times during dinner. That and Percival Meeks truly resembled the image his name conjured.

A much older man, though kind and gentle from best she could tell, General Meeks was somewhat challenged in girth. Quite the opposite in every way from the younger yet higher-ranking colonel seated on her left. Yet having observed the general during the meal thus far, she’d decided it wasn’t his advancement in years that had contributed to that condition, but rather his sustained — and enthusiastic — contribution to the weight saddling his middle. A man of grand proportions, as her mother might have said. He was also balding. Though that, in and of itself, didn’t bother her. She’d seen many a handsome man of that description.

But the way General Meeks wore what remained of his hair made for an interesting study atop his large, round head. His hair had thinned on the top, and he shaved all but the sides where it still grew in thick behind his ears and around the base of his skull, giving him the appearance of an aging athlete wearing a somewhat sagging — and hairy — laurel.

“How do you like living at Belle Meade, Mrs. Aberdeen? The general told me you’ve only been here since May. And …” General Meeks leaned a little closer, offering a compassionate smile, the skin on the crown of his head bunched up in a puddle of wrinkles. “He told me you were recently widowed,” he whispered, his eyes conveying genuine kindness. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, ma’am.”

Knowing where General Harding stood on her remarrying and aware that these two colleagues of his weren’t from Nashville, Olivia safely assumed this was
all
General Harding had told him about her widowhood. “Thank you, General Meeks. I very much enjoy living here and appreciate your condolences.”

“My own dear Sarah passed some seven years ago now. It’s hard to believe it’s been that long. Time passes so quickly in some ways and yet —”

“So slowly in others,” she finished for him, grateful to see Susanna and Chloe carrying in the dessert trays. She hoped it was something that would melt quickly. Dinner would be over faster that way.

“General Meeks.” General Harding’s voice carried over the lively table conversation. “What opinion do you hold of these changing times, sir? Do you believe the market for thoroughbreds is improving or do you hold that …”

Momentarily relieved of Percival Meeks’ attention, Olivia sipped from her water glass and enjoyed the lilt of Aunt Elizabeth’s laughter from the foot of the table. No one would have guessed how ill she’d been a few weeks back. Even General Harding had commented recently on the improvement in her health, which Olivia felt certain could be attributed — at least in part — to Rachel’s special blend of tea. The doctor’s prescription for additional rest was certainly a contributing factor, as was Susanna’s insistence that Elizabeth eat a daily portion of liver to fortify that “tired blood” of hers.

Elizabeth wouldn’t be running a footrace any time soon, but at least she was well enough to host a dinner party. Although Olivia imagined the dear woman would be abed tomorrow because of it.

Setting her glass back on the table, Olivia found her focus drawn yet again across the table. To Ridley. He was speaking, but — she looked closer — no sound came from his lips. Then she realized …

He was mouthing something to her.

She frowned the tiniest bit, trying to communicate she hadn’t understood. Then growing nervous someone might see them, she swept the table with her gaze. But no one was watching. She looked back again to find his lips tipped in a half smile. And he mouthed it again — only four little words — but they lit a warmth inside her, like someone had struck a match within her chest.

Cousin Lizzie chose that moment to ask him a question, and Ridley answered without missing a beat. So Olivia waited, watching, knowing full well she was dancing very close to the edge of what some might consider inappropriate behavior for a widow. But still, seconds later, when Ridley sought her gaze again, she simply smiled and nodded.

“Here you are, Missus Aberdeen.” Susanna appeared by her chair. “Some o’ my Tennessee blackberry cobbler.”

“Thank you, Susanna. It looks delicious.” Olivia eyed the steam rising from the bowl. So much for something that melted quickly. “And it’s still warm.”

“Why, o’ course, ma’am. It’s best warm from the oven with cream poured right over.”

Susanna placed a bowl before Colonel Burcham. “Here you are, Colonel. I hope you enjoy my —”

“I don’t eat blackberries,” he said in a clipped tone, then slowly looked up. He smiled at Susanna, but it wasn’t friendly. “I’m surprised you didn’t make note of that the last time I was here.”

Conversation around the table dropped to a low hum, and Susanna swiftly removed the bowl she’d set before him. “I’m so sorry, Colonel. I —”

Elizabeth leaned forward. “My deepest apologies, Colonel Burcham. I reviewed the dinner menu beforehand, so I fear the oversight was mine. Susanna …” Elizabeth’s smile would have seemed natural to anyone who didn’t know her well. “Why don’t you get the Colonel a slice of your pumpkin bread with the honey-cinnamon butter you make. Colonel, you do like pumpkin, if memory serves.”

“Yes, ma’am, I do. And I thank
you
for remembering.” He cast a dark look at Susanna’s back as she hurried from the room.

Dinner conversation resumed with an awkward limp, but Olivia — tenser than she’d have thought over such an exchange — didn’t miss the glance Elizabeth shot General Harding over the rim of her coffee cup. Nor did she miss the disapproval on Ridley’s face.

Colonel Bryant Burcham, a man built for war — tall and broad shouldered, with rugged features that might have otherwise held appeal — scoffed beneath his breath. “It’s not the same as it used to be.”

Olivia knew the comment was meant to engage her in conversation, but she was so angry, she couldn’t respond. Her hands shook with the force of it, yet she didn’t understand why. She was offended for Susanna, most certainly. But this was something more.

The Colonel looked over at her. “This never would have happened before. But now —”

Olivia forced herself to meet his gaze.

“They’ve lost their motivation, Mrs. Aberdeen. That’s the simple truth of it. They’re lazy creatures at heart. They require a firm hand, much like those thoroughbreds out there. They’re happier that way.”

Something white-hot sparked inside her, and Olivia realized what it was she was feeling. The tone the Colonel had taken with Susanna — such condescension, superiority — was how Charles had often spoken to her. And that tight smile Colonel Burcham had given … How often had Charles smiled at her that same way?

Olivia shivered at the memory.

She glanced at Chloe, who was still pouring coffee at the far end of the table, and knew by the way Chloe kept her eyes down that the woman had heard what he’d said. As apparently had Ridley, judging by his darkened features.

Olivia unclenched her hands knotted in her lap, reaching for calm she didn’t feel and searching for a way to redirect the conversation. “Colonel, where are you from originally? I don’t believe you’ve told me.”

“No, I haven’t.” His smile was friendly this time, but not at all appealing.

As he took the bait of conversation, Olivia smiled on cue and responded to his questions with brief answers before turning the questions back around. All the while, she felt General Harding watching her. She glanced toward his end of the table and soon wished she hadn’t. The subtle tilt of his head, the way he glanced at the gentlemen beside her — one thing became abundantly clear in that moment …

Regardless of her own desire to wait as long as possible to remarry, the general obviously desired that it happen sooner, which meant it would. And she felt an unseen clock begin to tick. She counted back over the weeks since Charles had died and felt another tiny shard of her heart break off. A little more than nine months remained before her year of mourning would be spent.

She glanced at the men seated on either side of her — both of them looking at her in turn — and she suddenly felt like a prized filly on the auction block. Never mind that she was still in mourning. If she were going to have any part in choosing her next husband, it would be an uphill battle against whatever designs General Harding already had in the works.

Susanna returned with the Colonel’s dessert, and Olivia busied herself with her own, keeping up with the various conversations around the table — Mary and Lizzie taking turns with Ridley; Mr. and Mrs. Foster, a couple visiting from Mobile, Alabama, engaged with General Harding and General Meeks. Down the table Selene sat with her own General William Hicks Jackson, the very man Selene spoke of so often and so fondly.

Aunt Elizabeth had confided that General Harding expected General Jackson to ask for Selene’s hand. Though, supposedly, the general had made it clear later would be better than sooner. Watching Selene’s expression now, Olivia doubted the young woman would agree.

General Jackson, a former Confederate officer, was eleven years Selene’s senior and quite a horseman himself, Elizabeth said. From what Olivia observed, he seemed to truly care about Selene, which made her glad.

If not also a wee bit envious, in a melancholy way.

Following dessert, the men retired to the study and the women to the parlor, where Olivia spent the next hour visiting with the other ladies.

“Selene, dearest?” Mrs. Foster asked. “Why don’t you regale us with some songs before my husband and I must take our leave. The last time we were here you sang so beautifully.”

“Yes, dear,” Elizabeth chimed in. “And please include my favorite.”

Cousin Lizzie invited the men to join them, and Selene played the piano and serenaded them in accomplished fashion, singing one song after another.

Sensing someone watching her, Olivia discreetly glanced to the side, hoping to find Ridley the guilty party. Which he was, though not alone. General Percival Meeks, who sat in their line of sight, tilted his head to her in silent acknowledgement.

Olivia smiled, aware of Ridley watching General Meeks now. Thinking of what Ridley had mouthed to her earlier, she was especially eager for this portion of the evening to draw to a close. She shifted her attention back to Selene and couldn’t help but notice Mary, who sat off to the side, studying her older sister.

Selene finished the song and everyone clapped, Mary included. But longing shadowed the young woman’s features.

“Well done, dear daughter,” the general said, clapping longer than anyone else. “Splendid, as always. And now, for the finale …”

Olivia found herself hoping —
praying
— he would call upon Mary to play. Olivia sneaked a look across the room and would’ve sworn the young woman was praying the very same thing.

“You know which song I would like for you to sing, Selene.”

Olivia’s heart fell and only grew more tender as Selene’s slender fingers moved effortlessly over the ivory keys, breathing life into the song the general requested. The familiar tune filled the parlor as it had so many other parlors throughout the South in recent years.