The Quaker and the Rebel (20 page)

Emily marched to one of the highboys and opened the carved doors, smiling mischievously. “My father only owned one suit, one hat, two pairs of work trousers, and half a dozen shirts. Let’s see how many you have.” Her eyes grew round at the number of coats, jackets, and waistcoats, with a stack of neatly pressed trousers on one side and piles of starched shirts on the other. There were winter woolens, summer cottons, starched linens, uncountable cravats, and at least a dozen pairs of braces hanging from pegs. “My, your wardrobe is vaster than the sum total my parents and I owned in our lifetimes.” She stepped back, staring. “How in the world do you pick what to wear each day?” Emily ran her hand down a full-length robe. “Is this exquisite material Chinese silk? I’ve read about the fabric.”

“My valet helps me make selections, and yes, that cloth was imported from the Orient.”

She pressed the smooth silk to her cheek. “I would remain in this robe all day and refuse to get dressed.”

“Emily, why don’t we view the artwork in the morning room? There are some—”

“Please let me continue. I’m fascinated by your wardrobe.” In the other armoire were more practical garments. Cotton shirts, cowhide breeches, tall leather boots, and a collection of straw hats perched on the top shelf. “Ah, clothes useful to a gentleman farmer.” She was about to close the doors when one garment caught her eye—a long coat of butternut wool with distinctive gold braided epaulets adorning the shoulders.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t care for some tea? That roast beef has left me thirsty.” He crossed the room in three long strides, trying to draw her away in a gentle but deliberate manner.

She wouldn’t budge. “This is a Confederate officer’s uniform.” She pulled out the garment for a better look.

Alexander walked back to the armoire as a sour taste rose up his throat. “It was a gift from an old friend—an impetus to induce me to join the Glorious Cause. I’m afraid it didn’t work.”

“I read somewhere that Richmond is short on uniforms for soldiers.
Perhaps the gentleman would like to have it back.” She spoke in a soft voice.

“The former owner…is dead, Emily.” Alexander shut the wardrobe and took hold of her hand. “Let’s not talk of him or fabrics or clothes.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Hunt.” Suddenly she shook her head as though waking from a nap. “I have overstepped the boundaries as a governess, along with your hospitality. I will return to my room now.” She curtsied with the innocence of a child. “Thank you for supper.”

“You have no boundaries, but why don’t we adjourn to—”

But she had already left the room and vanished down the steps. All thoughts of kisses in the garden were apparently forgotten.

Alexander shut his bedroom door as memories of Emily creeping from a barn in the dead of night returned. With the Federal Army camped not twenty miles away, had she been sneaking out to meet a Yankee lover? Shrouded in her cloak, alone but apparently unafraid, she hadn’t seemed shy or helpless that night. He should have asked her to explain herself when he had the chance instead of falling prey to her sweetness and beauty.

What a cool, clever actress you are, Miss Harrison, but two can play your little game of intrigue.

His lips thinned to a narrow line as his jaw clenched. After pacing the length of the gallery for an hour, he still couldn’t figure her out. Long ago he would have prayed for guidance, sending his troubles heavenward. But he’d since given up expecting help from God. With this conundrum as with all others, he was alone.

Exhausted, he finally crawled into bed for an hour of rest. But his troubled sleep did little to refresh or restore. Phantoms filled his dreams, those of the past and those yet to come. And a red-haired nymph, wearing a dark cloak in the dead of night, danced through them all.

Emily didn’t sleep much that night either. She awoke in the dark
with a start, momentarily confused by her surroundings. When she recalled each sweet kiss and tender touch, a blush filled her cheeks and warmth spread through her belly. Drawing the quilt up to her neck, she savored the memory of the most enchanting evening of her life. Alexander—tousle-haired, dreamy-eyed, and honey-lipped—a dream that had swept her up and carried her away. Emily laughed at the absurdity of kissing him in the garden as though they were characters from a dime novel. But Alexander wasn’t a dream or a storybook character. He was a man of flesh and blood, one she had considered her enemy not long ago.
Did I really say I might be falling in love with him?
Remembering her heat-of-the-moment confession, she pulled the covers over her head.

“Never drink champagne again,” she moaned aloud.

Then she recalled something odd he had said as well:
I don’t wish to take advantage of your situation, especially because we’re in the midst of a war.
What an odd comment from someone who bred horses far from the horrors of the battlefield. Matthew would never return to make her his bride, to build a home for them. She was no longer an engaged woman with a future. The fact they were in the midst of war was the reason she sought an evening of human companionship.

Throwing back the covers, she scampered to light the mantel lamp. But halfway across the floor she paused as a bolt of lightning shot through her head. Pressing her fingers to her temples, she slumped into a chair, the sharp pain a reminder of the champagne. Surprisingly, she felt no pangs of guilt for kissing Alexander at dinner or in the garden. Would this bold behavior become normal for her after a lifetime of proper decorum? She hoped not, but the man seemed to have changed everything.

“Alexander.” She whispered his name in the dark bedroom, as though testing the sound of it for the first time. “Alexander Wesley Hunt,” she said with a Southern drawl. “Alexander Wesley Hunt of the distinguished line dating back to the Mayflower Wesley Hunts.” She said that in a British accent, making the words sound the way Miss Turner would have said them, and then giggled. Emily knew she was
acting like a girl with her first schoolyard crush, but she hadn’t felt like this about Matthew. She’d never experienced these emotions before.

Wrapping a shawl around her nightgown, she walked onto the verandah. No one stirred outdoors—even the servants were asleep at this hour. She climbed the steps to the upper gallery, treading mouse-like past each dark bedroom until arriving at the one she knew to be his. The French doors were ajar to catch the evening breeze, and a kerosene lamp had been left burning, it’s wick trimmed low. Careful not to make a sound, she sidled to the doorway for a peek. She’d never seen a sleeping man before other than her father, who snored loud enough to wake neighbors a mile away.

But a view of Alexander curled under the embroidered coverlet, shrouded by muslin, was not to be. His room was empty. Only a tangle of bed sheets, wadded into a ball, indicated someone had been there earlier. Boldly, Emily crept into the room, knowing that she could be discovered and questioned at any moment. Then she would be fired and sent back to Ohio without references or prospects of employment. Yet his room drew her like a moth to a flame.

Is this what love did to a person—made one reckless enough to trespass into another’s private domain without invitation? She glanced back at the open doors with a shiver, but she didn’t run this time. Instead, she lifted the lamp from the table and padded over to the armoire where she’d seen the Oriental robe. What would silk feel like next to her skin? Was she brave enough to try it on? But when she reached for the robe, she noticed that the butternut uniform with brass trim and tassels was missing. Emily turned up the lamp and thumbed through the hangers to no avail. The gift from a dead childhood friend, an impetus to join the Glorious Cause, was gone.

An odd frisson of fear snaked up her spine. Closing the highboy, she returned the lamp to table and hurried from the room. She paused on the balcony, hidden from below by entwined grape vines, and clutched her shawl tightly around her shoulders. Darkness shrouded the world, the eastern sky yielding only a hint of dawn. In the garden, owls called to their mates, while bats swooped in their eternal quest for
mosquitoes. Emily crept toward the top of the steps and then froze at the sound of a scraping latch. Squinting in the direction of the noise, Emily watched a tall, powerfully built man lead his horse from the barn. Clad in dark clothes and high boots, he stopped at the water trough. If he hadn’t allowed his horse to drink, she never would have learned the identity of the nighttime rider. In the moonlight, she recognized the profile of Alexander and his horse, Phantom.

Where could he possibly be going at this hour? Is he bound for the bed of another woman because I permitted only a few kisses?

Emily leaned precariously over the rail and glimpsed the butternut uniform with shiny brass buttons and a strangely plumed hat. Had she not been infatuated and consumed with female jealousy, she might have drawn a different conclusion from his attire. She watched until he mounted his horse and rode away, vanishing into the inky night. Then she returned to her own modest accommodations, not wishing to remain in a rake’s room another moment longer. As a tear slid down her cheek, she knew she had seen all she needed to see. How foolish she had been to believe he could love a woman like her.

“I’ll teach you to sass your betters.”

You have your secrets, Alexander, and I have mine. Now I won’t feel so guilty with what I plan to do.

“Colonel, sir!” Captain Smith snapped a salute as his superior rode into a misty clearing in the forest.

Alexander was late. He had selected the midnight rendezvous at their last parting and now it was several hours past. As he reined in Phantom, forty rangers stopped what they were doing and gave him their attention. Those assembled were his best and most trusted. He wished he could greet each man personally, but time was precious. “Gentlemen, dawn lies within the hour and there is much to do, but I need a moment with Captain Smith.” He offered his men a rare smile and then nodded at his second-in-command. He swung off his horse,
handed the reins to the nearest soldier, and then walked to the smoldering fire. Nathan Smith followed at his heels. The men around the fire stepped back to give them some privacy.

“What have you learned, Captain?”

Smith handed him a cup of coffee. “Our scouts have been gathering intelligence for the past several days, sir. Meade’s army has moved from Centerville and is camped outside Warrenton.”

Alexander grinned at the news. “They are very close. The Yankees are coming to us this time.”

“I believe they’re planning to stay awhile, sir. A wagon train left the depot at Gainesville and is headed this way. Supply wagons have been coming down Warrenton Turnpike all day and night.” Smith gestured toward the west with a gloved hand.

“You don’t say. I haven’t seen you this excited in a long time.” The colonel slapped his adjutant on the back. “Are you telling me no troops guard this delectable string of wagons?” He sipped the steaming, bitter coffee.

“I’m afraid we’re not that lucky, sir. They set up a cavalry screen for a ten-mile perimeter around their camp, and have cavalry riding alongside the wagons with infantry guards too.”

“Is that so? Sounds like they expect us, Captain.” He finished the coffee with another gulp.

“Yes, I believe they do. Why don’t we fool ’em and ride up Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington to pay old Abe a social call? I doubt they’re expecting us there.”

Alexander scratched his new growth of chin whiskers as though pondering the idea. “Do our scouts have any idea what’s in those wagons? We’ll get mighty steamed up if we risk our lives for more bolts of calico.”