The Dixie Widow (27 page)

The Winslows retired to their rooms, and Davis commented thoughtfully, “You are blessed, Belle.”

“They are wonderful, aren’t they?” Then feeling uncomfortable alone with him, she rose and said, “I’ll see you in the morning, Lieutenant.”

He slept poorly that night, guilt slicing at him. He tried to assuage it by thinking he was not there to spy out any secrets, but that did not seem to ease his mind. Finally he fell asleep, vowing to leave as soon as possible.

But his leg was worse the next day, and Belle diagnosed it as overuse. “You’re pushing too hard to get well—and in the long run it will take longer,” she had told him firmly.

He forced himself to spend long hours in bed reading, and when he tired of reclining, Belle prepared a place in the parlor where he could sit comfortably with his leg raised. The change was gratifying and he continued reading until he had devoured every book in the Winslow library. Noticing Davis’s eager pursuit, Rebekah said, “I think Mary Chesnut
has all the books ever published. I’ll bring you some. What are you interested in?”

“Oh, anything.”

Without delay, she returned with a large stack of books, including novels, poetry, travel books, sermons, and biographies. He immediately submerged himself in the reading material, and the long rainy days passed unnoticed as he lost himself in book after book. To Rebekah’s surprise, he finished the stack in less than a week, and she made another trip, bringing back twice as many.

Belle found herself tense for a few days, worrying about the nursing needs at the hospital, but slowly she began to relax. She went for long walks, refused invitations to parties, and finally began to read—not one of her most enjoyable pastimes. She had never been an avid reader, so had no particular interest. Davis had recommended a novel,
Pride and Prejudice,
which, to her surprise, she liked. He gave her another,
Jane Eyre,
and after she finished it, she told him, “I don’t like this one.”

He smiled at her. “That’s because you identify yourself with the heroine.”

She stared at him puzzled. “Jane Eyre! I’m like
her?
”

“Not plain like Jane—nor poor.” Davis studied her for a moment. “You’re like her in character. Both of you are very determined women. When Jane made up her mind, she wouldn’t allow anything on God’s earth to change her.”

“She was very religious—and I’m not.”

“All of us are firm in what we believe in,” Davis said. “For Jane Eyre it was religion. For you it’s the Confederacy.”

They discussed the book for about an hour, and finally Belle remarked, “I never knew books were about people—I mean
real
people.”

“The good ones are,” he said.

That had been the beginning, and Sky and Rebekah were pleased to find the pair involved in long conversations about
books. “It’s good for Belle,” Sky voiced. “She’s much more relaxed, isn’t she, Rebekah?”

The second week passed, and on Friday Sky arrived home with a guest for supper. “Here’s Beau!” he announced as he entered the kitchen where Belle and Rebekah were preparing supper. Rebekah greeted him warmly, giving him a hug, but Belle’s hands were covered with flour, and she said quietly, “I’m glad to see you, Beau.”

“I’ve got only a week,” he said, staring at her, thinking that she looked more beautiful in an apron with her hair tied up loosely than most women fully gowned for a ball.

Sky drew him away into the parlor to discuss military matters and to introduce him to the Winslows’ house guest, who was sitting with his leg up, reading by a large lamp. “Lieutenant Owen Morgan—Captain Beau Beauchamp.”

“Keep your seat, Lieutenant,” Beau said, bending down to shake hands. “Glad to see you’ve recovered so well. Major Benning told me he was sure you’d die on the way.”

“Major Benning?” Davis repeated, then recovered quickly. “Why, I guess I did look like a poor bet when I left the company. But as you can see, I’m doing all right.”

Davis listened carefully, but said little. He had memorized Thad’s brief and incomplete background information about Morgan.
It’s a good thing Morgan was in the Army of the Tennessee,
he thought.
I’d be in real trouble if he’d been in Beauchamp’s brigade!

He tried to excuse himself, but Sky wouldn’t hear of it. “You’ll want to hear what’s happening with the army, Owen.”

Beauchamp shrugged, and his face was not happy as he gave his opinion. “Grant’s the man now for the Union. He’s the best Lee’s ever had to face, and it looks as if he’s building up to hit us with everything he’s got.”

“I think that’s right, Beau,” Sky nodded. “Most of the staff officers think he’ll send the one army to get Joe Johnston in Tennessee, and that’ll he’ll bring the Army of the Potomac here to fight Lee.”

“He’ll never whip General Lee!” Beau responded with pride in his eyes. “Grant’s done all right in the West, but he’s never come up against Robert E. Lee. He’ll go down like Pope and Burnside.”

Sky looked at the young man doubtfully, but said nothing. He knew how thin the lines of Lee’s army were stretched, and how desperately short supplies were—on the front and at home. Still he said nothing, but sat there letting Beau speak.

Rebekah and Belle came to join them, and Beau, of course, had to give a complete report on Mark, Tom, and Dan. Rebekah listened to every word, her hands twisting in her lap; but the fear she fought to control showed in the lines in her face.

Changing the subject, Beau asked Belle, “What have you been doing with yourself since you took a vacation from the hospital?”

“Oh, nothing much,” she shrugged.

“She’s become quite a reader, Beau,” Rebekah smiled. “When she was in school I had to threaten her with a switch to get her to read anything. Now she’s got her nose in a book every spare minute.”

“Oh, Mother,” Belle protested, “it’s not that bad!” She gave Davis a nod. “There’s the
real
bookworm.”

Beau turned his gaze on Davis, studying him as if he were a strange specimen. “I didn’t know you fellows from the Army of the Tennessee were such scholars, Morgan. Were you a schoolteacher or something before you joined up?”

Davis shifted uncomfortably, not knowing for certain what to say. But they were all waiting for him to speak, and he answered, “Oh no. Just picked up the habit along the way. Kills the time, you know.”

Belle said, “I never really thought that books meant much. To me they were just stories to entertain people—but Owen’s got me to noticing how they can help you to look at life.”

Beau raised his eyes at her use of Morgan’s given name, but merely asked, “How’s that, Belle?”

“Oh, I don’t know—yes, I do, too.” She began to tell how Morgan had suggested she read some of James Fenimore Cooper’s novels about the frontier. “At first it was just exciting Indian stories, but after a while I began to see that it was more than
that.
” Her eyes grew bright as she spoke of how, for the first time, she understood Cooper’s books were about America—how it grew, and the tragedy of the Indians who lost their way of life in the process. She mentioned the way she had wept when the noble Mohegan recited the elegy of his race.

“Why, the Indians had to go, Belle!” Beau broke in sharply. “We could never have grown to be a great nation if we’d let a few thousand savages keep all the land.”

Belle stared at him, then said, “That’s what
I
always thought, Beau, but as I read the book I was able to see the Indians’ side of it. And I guess that’s what I’m learning through books.”

Beau admitted grudgingly, “Well, I guess maybe novels can do that, but I think poetry’s a farce. I’ve tried to read some of the stuff, and can’t make head nor tail out of it! Why can’t they just
say
what they mean instead of beating around the bush?”

Belle laughed. “That’s exactly what I told Owen!” She turned with a smile to Davis and said, “Tell Beau what you told me about poetry.”

“I don’t think the captain needs a lecture from me, Miss Belle,” Davis protested.

“Well, then, if you won’t, I will,” she said saucily, and proceeded to enlighten Beau on interpreting poetry. “Poets don’t say what they mean, because some things can’t be put into words,” she told him. “For example, when Father wants to tell Mother how much he loves her, how can he do it?”

“He can say ‘I love you,’ “ Beau grinned. “You wouldn’t expect him to spout poetry, would you, Rebekah?”

“Yes, I would!” Rebekah responded unexpectedly.

“Well, I’ll have to start saying ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ and learning
how to make rhymes,” Sky joked. “Or better still, I’ll hire a poet to write me a poem for you.”

“That’s not what you did on your last anniversary,” Belle countered. “At that party you said it right out loud for everyone to hear. Remember? You lifted your glass and said, ‘Rebekah, most people drink the best wine first—but you and I, we’ve saved the best till last!’ ”

“Why, that’s not poetry!” Sky protested, his face beat red.

“Yes—it is,” Rebekah insisted quietly. She took his hand and added, “I’ve thought of it almost every day since you said it. It told me more about how you felt toward me than anything you’ve ever said.”

Sky looked at her, then nodded, “Well, bless me! It’s true!”

“See, Beau?” Belle said triumphantly. “What Father said would
seem
to be about drinking wine—but it’s not. It’s about love.”

Beau plunged in, and for half an hour he and Belle argued about poetry. Rebekah caught Sky’s glance, and knew they were both thinking that Belle was more alive than she’d been since her time in Washington.

Finally Beau said, “Well, I guess I’m just a thick-headed soldier. I guess the best a woman will ever get out of me is a plain ‘I love you.’ “ He glanced sharply at Davis, a half-angry challenge in his eyes. “I suppose
you’d
dash off a poem about it, eh, Morgan?”

“No, I’m no poet,” Davis answered with a shake of his head. “The best I could do would be to copy one from a real poet.”

“Secondhand love?” Beau jibed. “Sounds like pretty weak stuff to me.”

Belle asked, “Which poem, Owen? What’s your favorite poem about love?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Shakespeare’s Sonnet Number 116, I suppose.”

“Do we have a copy?” Belle asked.

“I haven’t seen one,” Davis replied.

“Do you know any of it?” she insisted. “You do! I bet you can say the whole thing!”

“Let’s hear it, Owen,” Rebekah urged.

“I never memorized it, but I’ve read the poem so often, I think I remember most of it. Let’s see, it goes something like this:

Davis’s voice fell away, and he looked around the room with embarrassment.

“I don’t understand much of it,” Belle said quietly. “But I like the part where it says
love is not love which changes when it finds alterations.
She looked at Davis, her lips parted, and then asked, “Is that what it means, Owen, the part about rosy lips and cheeks being cut down?”

“I think so.” Davis shrugged and added, “I guess that’s why I like it. I’ve seen so few people who loved without reservation. Men who say they love, but when the woman grows older, he leaves her for somebody younger.” He knew he was talking too much, but added impulsively, “That sort of thing’s not love at all!”

Sky stared at him in wonder. Finally he said, “Owen, that’s
what I’ve always
wanted
to say, but never could find the words for it!”

Davis got to his feet, picked up his cane, and said, “Mr. Winslow, you’ve just given the best definition of poetry I ever heard! Well, I’ve bored you enough. Good night, sir. Good night, Mrs. Winslow.” He turned to Beau and shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t tell anyone about this stuff, please, Captain Beauchamp. It’s a weakness I have, but it could be worse. I could hold up trains or do something I could be jailed for.”

Beau laughed mirthlessly. “I won’t let it get out, Morgan.”

“Good night, Owen,” Belle said, and after he had left, her parents talked for a brief time, then bid the pair good night and retired.

Beau and Belle talked for a time about her brothers, about Pet and Thad. Finally they went to the kitchen for a glass of lemonade. “Let’s go out where it’s cooler,” he suggested, leading the way to the porch.

“This is nice, Belle,” Beau commented. “Gets pretty noisy at camp. Tonight you can almost cut the silence with a knife.”

“It is quiet.”

They spoke softly, watching the clouds race across the sky. A full moon had come out to smile down on the rain-soaked earth, and the smell of honeysuckle and moist earth filled the air.

“Belle, I’ve worried about you.”

“Worried about me, Beau?” she asked in surprise. “Why, I’m all right, Beau.”

“You are
now,
but the last time I was home you were pale as a ghost and half sick.” He moved closer, his eyes resting on her lovely face. “You were all tensed up, too, as if you were scared or something.”

“It’s a difficult job. All that death—and men hurting all the time.”

“I know. I wish you wouldn’t go back to it.”

“Not go back?” Belle stared at him, incredulous. “Why, I’ve
got
to go back, Beau. It’s my job, just like being a soldier
is your job. Anyway, what would I do with myself if I didn’t go back?”

He took a deep breath and wrapped his arms around her. “You could marry me, Belle.”

Totally off guard, she lifted her face to him and he bent his head and kissed her. She felt like a fragile flower in his powerful embrace, and was so moved by his kiss that she surrendered and leaned against him, letting him have his way. He felt her response, and pulled her closer, his lips demanding.