When the Splendor Falls (41 page)

Jolie snorted, hastily wiping away a tear as she gave the mixture a brisk stir. “Got nowhere else to go, Mister Guy. Travers Hill is home, an’ this is our family. Miss Leigh read that proclamation to us herself, an’ she told us that we were free to do as we liked. Got it folded up right here in my pocket, so I can tell anybody who asks that I know I’m free. Heard tell them Canbys didn’t tell their slaves they’d been freed. ’Course, weren’t many left there anyway. First chance they got they run off. Well, I told Miss Leigh that I got things to do in the kitchens, so if she wouldn’t mind, I’d just get on with my chores. For me an’ Steban, it’s no different today than was yesterday. Your mama, Miss Beatrice Amelia, was a real fine lady. Never raised her voice nor a hand against me nor any of my kin. An’ she worked just as hard as I did. Same with Mister Stuart. He treated Sweet John like he was his own flesh an’ blood. He was real proud of that boy, same as he was of you, Mister Guy. Your papa died tryin’ to save my Sweet John from those deserters that come lootin’ here at Travers Hill, an’ they were wearin’ gray, Mister Guy. Wearin’ gray. Mister Stuart didn’t have to do that. He could’ve shot at them from the house. But he was cussin’ somethin’ terrible, tears rolling down his face when he sees them takin’ my Sweet John to that oak. Sweet John had already knocked one of them against the side of the stables, split his head wide open. Then Mister Stuart, he shot one of them dead, but they’d already beat an’ hanged my Sweet John by then. Sweet John didn’t want them stealin’ that sweet mare of Miss Leigh’s. She was the only horse we had left outa all the fine horses we once had at Travers Hill. Everything else, includin’ Mister Stuart’s favorite, Apothecary Rose, from pigs an’ hens an’ cattle, to them fat milk cows an’ plump geese was taken by the soldiers long ago, along with all the oats an’ corn. Hardly anything left,” she said, sniffing loudly.

“Then the other man, he got off a shot, an’ poor Mister Stuart, he fell dead. Never suffered none, he didn’t. Miss Leigh, she come runnin’ from the house ’bout then, totin’ that gun of yer grandpapa’s, a bunch of your hounds barking at her heels. Those river rats didn’t think she knew how to shoot, not knowin’ she was Mister Stuart’s lil’ gal, that she was a Travers. She shot him dead, Mister Guy, blew away that
C
that’d been branded on his face for bein’ a coward. Figure he should’ve been shot then. An’ the other two, they figured to jump her when she’d fired off that gun, knowin’ she couldn’t shoot them too, but she up an’ pulls out a pistol she’d been carryin’ in her apron an’ shoots the varmit between the eyes. Scared the other one yellow, seein’ her shoot like that, ’cause he took to his heels, squealin’ like a stuck pig when she winged him, an’ runs back down to the riverbank and this barge they’d come floatin’ down the river on like a pack of rats. Last we seen of him, but I doubt he lasted very long, ’cause we found a mighty deep pool of blood down there in the sand before the current got him an’ he got carried downriver.”

Guy’s trembling hands balled into fists on the arms of the chair as he felt the rage filling him that he couldn’t control, and couldn’t do anything to vent, when thinking of his father’s and Sweet John’s deaths, and the danger that Leigh and the rest of his family had been in that day. And they were still in danger. Nothing had changed. In fact, it had gotten worse, with deserters almost outnumbering those willing to serve, or so it seemed to those on the front lines. And the next time deserters came to Travers Hill his family might not escape them. And he wouldn’t be any good to them.

“An’ since I raised your mama from the cradle, an’ helped bring each of you Traverses into this world, I’m not leavin’ this family to those Yankees, or yellow-bellied deserters. Where’d me an’ Steban go anyway?” she asked him, her eyes becoming watery as she stared at Guy, but she didn’t bother to hide her tears this time.

The light from the fire couldn’t soften the thin, cruel-looking scar that cut across his face from brow to cheek, the black patch he wore over his sightless, scarred eye a vivid reminder of the fierce fighting on the battlefield the day he had been wounded. His right eye, still a bright shade of green, unclouded and unmarred, stared at them from behind a fringe of thick lashes, but he could not see them. The concussion he’d suffered from the shell that had exploded beneath his horse during a charge had cost him his sight in the other eye as well, even though there had been no physical damage to it. But whether or not he’d ever see again, the doctors had been unable to reassure him. Time, they had said. Only time would bring him the answer.

Restlessly, he moved his shoulder, easing the stiffness. The wound was almost completely healed, giving him only an occasional twinge as the flesh tightened along the puckered scar from the saber’s blade that had sliced across his shoulder. “Poor ol’ Rambler,” he murmured to himself. He would never forget the roan hunter that had carried him safely through so many battles, easily jumping the open trenches and earthworks the enemy had sought to trap them with, never faltering, never panicking even as cannon fire roared deafeningly and smoke obscured the field. Rambler had proven himself a great warhorse. As great as General Lee’s Lucy Long, Guy thought, smiling as he thought of his own sister, little long-legged Lucy. And Rambler had been as fast as Jeb Stuart’s Thoroughbred mare, Virginia. And even that damned bluebelly Grant had a horse he could be proud of; Kangaroo, left by a Confederate officer on the battlefield at Shiloh, they said. Guy’s smile turned bitter as he thought of the ironies of war.

But Rambler had held his ground, carrying his rider like a knight of old into the fray, leading the charge time and time again. And he had died on the field of battle, protecting his rider from being mortally wounded. Guy’s hands relaxed, as if he were still lightly holding Rambler’s reins, only this time they were riding across a field of rolling bluegrass, his hounds racing ahead, their barking sounding soft and sweet to the ear, and disturbed only by the melodic notes of his hunting horn, not the bugler’s frenzied warning cry.

Guy dropped his hand down beside his leg, gently tugging at the soft ear of one of the two hounds that still remained at Travers Hill. The others had either died or run off, frightened into running wild by the sound of cannon fire. He felt the roughness of a tongue licking his hand, and patted the dog on top of his head, comforted by the familiar feel.

“Here you are, Guy.” Leigh spoke softly beside him, startling him, so lost in his thoughts had he become that he hadn’t heard her approach.

“Careful,” she warned, stepping back to avoid his jerky movement of surprise.

“Shouldn’t sneak up on a person like that. Especially a blind man,” he joked.

“Sorry,” Leigh said, placing the tray across his lap, then guiding his hand to the spoon next to the plate.

“Did I hear Althea’s voice?” he asked, beginning to eat, his spoon moving slowly and carefully between his mouth and the plate. “Damn!” he muttered, feeling the hot gravy seeping through his pants leg where he’d spilled a drop. “Clumsy oaf.”

Leigh looked away, still finding it hard to watch Guy in his helplessness, to see his frustration day after day. “Yes, I think she is going to get better. She actually ate some supper, and she asked about Noelle and Steward. She wants them back in her room at night.”

“That’s a good sign. No word about Nathan?” he asked, slipping a piece of corn bread to his hounds, and hoping Leigh hadn’t seen him do it.

“No, no word,” Leigh said, watching as Noelle helped Steward into his chair at the table, the stack of books beneath his chubby rear end putting him close enough to his plate for him to eat.

“Miss Leigh, you get over here an’ eat before your supper gets cold,” Jolie warned.

“Can I get you anything else, Guy?” she asked solicitously, thinking he’d eaten his corn bread rather fast, but then that was easier for him to eat than the possum in gravy. “More corn bread?”

“No, nothing more, Leigh,” Guy said, sounding slightly impatient. “I’ve got to learn to feed myself. You go eat. You need it more than I do,” he said without self-pity, for even though he knew great frustration, he had learned to live with his blindness, even if others hadn’t.

Leigh continued to stand beside Guy for a moment, staring down at him and thinking he was no less handsome even with the black patch across one eye, and she found herself remembering his words, spoken so carelessly when he’d arrived at Travers Hill. “Makes me look quite piratical, doesn’t it? I’ll have the ladies swooning when in my presence.” Neither of them had spoken aloud the memory of Sarette Canby breaking off the engagement when hearing of his disfigurement. They’d heard rumors that she was to marry a general from Georgia this spring.

Good riddance, Leigh thought, smiling as she watched Guy sneak a piece of corn bread to one of his beloved hounds. Unaware that she sighed, her expression turned to one of pity as he dropped his napkin onto the carpet.

Leigh reached out automatically to help him, then drew back her hand as he fumbled for it.

As if he could sense her feelings, even if he could not see her expression, Guy suddenly said, “Go on, Leigh. I’ll be all right,” he told her, managing to find and pick up his napkin.

“Miss Leigh!” Jolie called again, her hands on her hips as she waited for Leigh to take her place at the head of the table, then sitting down to take her place next to Stephen, and across from the two children, who were chattering. Hushing them, they quieted as Leigh said grace, then the ordinary sounds of a family dining together filled the room.

“You don’t eat enough, honey,” Jolie told Leigh as she cleared the empty plates from the table. For a moment she watched Leigh cradling the baby in her lap as she fed it, handing Leigh a cloth when the baby gurgled and laughed, dribbling gravy down its dimpled chin, its small hand pushing away the spoon. “She’s close to bustin’, you got her so full of milk and honey and gravy. An’ sure am pleased to see Miss Althea eatin’ somethin’ more than she has,” Jolie said, glancing over at Althea, who was sitting up, Noelle and Steward on either side of her as she read to them.

Stephen was putting another log on the fire, but soon he and Jolie would help Althea to her room. He’d already brought in a couple of mattresses and blankets, which he’d place close to the hearth later, and where he and Guy preferred to sleep each night. Guy claimed it was far easier for him to remain in the study than to stumble upstairs, but his real concern was the safety of the house. Although they’d never said anything, both he and Stephen felt better being downstairs where they could be easily alerted if anyone prowled around Travers Hill at night; Guy’s hounds growling at the least little noise.

“I’m going to take her upstairs and tuck her in,” Leigh said, holding the warm bundle close against her breast for a moment, then across her shoulder as she patted her gently, the resulting burp causing Steward to giggle and mimic her noisily until Althea surprised him by admonishing him into quietness, for he’d never received a reprimand from his mother before.

“Are you quite certain you want that little rascal in your bedchamber tonight?” Leigh questioned, holding out her hand for him to kiss with gentlemanly dignity and giggles, which was their usual ritual every evening.

“I’m a gentl’mon, Steban says,” he told everyone proudly. “Jus’ like my papa.”

Althea stared at her son in surprise, never having heard him put more than two words together. “You certainly are,” she told him.

“Alwuz kiss Auntie’s hand,” he said, and Leigh suspected it was only a matter of time before he’d be winking at her.

“Me too, Mama?” Noelle asked, staring at her mother hopefully.

“Yes, indeed, both of my babies are going to be with me tonight,” she promised, pressing a warm kiss against her daughter’s cheek.

“We’ll have to get that little fellow on Pumpkin’s back one of these days soon, never heard of a Braedon, and certainly not a Travers, who couldn’t sit a horse, or at least a pony, properly,” Leigh heard Guy say as she walked to the door, taking the lighted candle from Stephen. She turned at the door, watching them gathered together; all that was left of the Travers family of Virginia.

The rest of them were gone now.

The foyer was cold, the darkness hiding the bloodstains on the pine planking of the floor where wounded soldiers had lain dying. The flickering candlelight guiding her, Leigh made her way up the stairs and along the darkened hallway.

Reaching her bedchamber, she placed the candle on the windowsill, then carefully put the baby down in another, far more elaborate cradle next to the big four-poster. The canopied cradle, draped with delicate damask hangings to keep out the drafts, had rocked several generations of the Travers family into peaceful slumber. Lovingly, Leigh covered the baby with a thick quilt, tucking it in securely around the already sleeping child.

Leigh stood for a moment, resting her shoulder against the bedpost, remembering the sound of voices and the pale images of familiar faces.

Palmer William
. Almost a year to the day, July 21, 1861, after that summer four years ago, Palmer William had died in the Battle of First Manassas. The Yanks called it Bull Run. Riding with his onetime professor from the Virginia Military Institute, it had been the battle where General Jackson had won the name “Stonewall.” Palmer William had fallen in the afternoon, at Henry House Hill. The Confederate troops had made a valiant defense, driving the federal soldiers back. It had been a costly defeat for the Union; and an even costlier one for their family.

Leigh walked over to the blanket chest that had been pushed against the wall beneath the window to make room for the trundle bed. She opened the lid, moving the candle closer to reveal the contents. Her hand found the fringed officer’s sash and she held it tightly for a moment before carefully placing it back in the trunk, next to the pair of gauntlet gloves and the jaunty slouch hat with the ostrich plume Palmer William had favored as being far more dashing than a kepi. His sword lay on top, next to the pistol he had carried into battle, and which she had used that day to kill the looters. His possessions had been returned to them by the family that had buried him in their own family plot, Justin Braedon having carried his friend’s body from the battlefield to a nearby farm to be buried with dignity.