The Velvet Shadow (51 page)

Flanna pressed her hand over her face as her throat ached with regret. She did not mind her sentence, for she liked the widow Corey and Charleston no longer tugged at her heart. But neither Roger nor Alden deserved a prison term.

“Come, my dear.”

Flanna looked up. The widow stood by her side and her arm slipped around Flanna’s waist. “Let me take you home.”

“Wait, please.” Flanna stepped out of the widow’s embrace and turned to Alden and Roger, who stood between uniformed guards. “Roger, I’m so sorry,” she whispered, reaching out to take his hand. He tried to smile at her, but his features only flinched uncomfortably.

“And Alden—” She took his hand, too, and held it tightly. “I
never meant for this to happen. If I had known I would bring you such pain, I would never have acted as I did.”

“If you hadn’t, I’d be dead.” The warmth of Alden’s smile echoed in his voice. “Take care, Flanna. God go with you.”

Flanna released their hands, and the soldiers led both men out of the courtroom. She stared at the space they had occupied a moment before, and it seemed to her that it now contained a dark and palpable emptiness. She stood in the void and heard her heart break—a small, clean sound, like the snapping of a twig underfoot.

…
and he shall direct thy paths
. Where was God taking her?

A light touch patted her shoulder. “Let’s go home.” The widow Corey spoke with staid calmness. “You’ll feel better after a cup of tea.”

Flanna took an abrupt step toward the door, then allowed Mrs. Corey to take her hand and lead her out of the courtroom.

A pair of volunteer nurses had managed to move the wounded out of Mrs. Corey’s kitchen by the time Flanna and the widow returned. Mrs. Corey told Flanna to sit at the table while she prepared a bit of lunch.

“I’m so sorry,” Flanna murmured again, drowning in waves of guilt. “There’s a guard outside your door now, and all because of me. You are too kind to suffer this way.”

“Pshaw! Why should I mind having a handsome soldier on my front porch?” The widows blue eyes snapped with mischief. “Don’t you worry your pretty head about me. There’s a lot of life left in these bones, and I’m not as addled as I might seem.”

“You don’t seem at all addled.” Flanna stared at her hands. Right now she was the one who couldn’t seem to pull her thoughts together.

“I’ve heard that we should expect a visitor later this afternoon,” the widow said, her heavy teakettle wavering as she lifted it from the stove. “A man from a South Carolina unit. He was one of our patients the other day—do you remember him? You pulled a piece of shell from his leg.”

Flanna shook her head, her memories obscured by the events of
the morning. “I’m sorry.”

The widow sat a teacup before Flanna and added a pinch of tea leaves, all she could spare since the blockade had dried up supplies. “You talked to him for quite a while. And you mentioned your brother, Wesley”

Flanna nodded absently. “I remember now. He had shrapnel near the tibia; it just missed the artery.”

“I received a note from that young man this morning.” The widow patted her bosom, which crackled under her touch. “He’s returning this afternoon to thank you.”

“No thanks are necessary,” Flanna murmured, lifting her teacup. “He should save his strength for marching.”

The widow sat down and gently stirred her cup, her eyes abstracted. “I don’t know that the army is going anywhere. Some say they will camp out here until the war is over. Richmond can’t be allowed to fall, you know.”

She rattled on about Jeff Davis and the Confederate treasury, but Flanna’s thoughts wandered toward Alden and Roger and the place called Libby Prison.

“Mrs. Corey,” she asked, putting her hand on the woman’s frail wrist, “tell me about Libby Prison. Will Roger and Alden be treated well there?”

The widow’s silver brows drew together in an agonized expression. “Dearie, you don’t want to know about that place.”

“Yes, I do.” Flanna’s eyes never left the widow’s face. “Mrs. Corey, I have great respect for Roger Haynes, and I love his brother more than life itself. So you must tell me—what have I done by bringing them here?”

The lady’s dark eyes flashed a gentle but firm warning. “Libby Prison is not for the faint of heart. I visited there one Saturday with some ladies from my church, but I could never go again. You don’t want to know—”

“Tell me, please!”

Mrs. Corey exhaled loudly, then looked away. “The prison is a
converted ship’s chandlery.” Her hand toyed with the tatted lace doily in the center of the table. “It’s a dark and cold place, with only six big rooms for over a thousand prisoners. And I’ve heard—though I don’t know if it’s true—that the men are kept barely alive on quarter rations. The Confederacy must feed her own men, you see, before she can feed her prisoners.”

A cold lump grew in Flanna’s stomach and spread chilly tendrils of apprehension through her body. She couldn’t bear the thought of Alden growing thin and weak. His body needed food and rest to heal itself, and he would be allowed neither in a prison.

“Dear God,” Flanna dropped her head onto her hand, “show me what to do! There has to be a way!” Forgetting Mrs. Corey, Flanna yielded to the compulsive sobs that shook her and lowered her head to the table, watering the wood with her tears.

“Flanna?”

Mrs. Corey’s cackling voice slashed Flanna’s sleep like a knife. She lifted her head from the table, noticing that her arms tingled from poor circulation. She wasn’t sure how long she had slept, but her head felt as though it had filled with cotton.

“Flanna, dear.” Mrs. Corey’s slippers whispered across the wooden floor as she scooted into the room. “You have a visitor. Sit up, let’s wipe your eyes and smooth that hair of yours.” The lady’s little hands patted Flanna’s cheeks and hair, pulling her into some sort of presentable appearance.

Flanna blinked, trying to force her confused emotions into order. “What time is it?” she murmured, her voice heavy with exhaustion.

“About four o’clock, I should think.” The widow took a step back and studied Flanna with a critical eye. “I expect you’ll do,” she said, clasping her hands at her waist. She glanced up and nodded toward someone who stood in the hallway. “You may come in now.”

Another patient? Flanna turned at the thump of heavy boots upon the floor. A Confederate soldier came toward her, but his trousers were whole, his gray coat stained only with mud and grass, not blood. At
the last moment she looked at his face, expecting to see a bruised eye or bloodied cut that needed her attention, but it was only Wesley.

Wesley! She stared wordlessly at him, her heart pounding; then she jumped up and ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck.

He lifted her from the floor in his embrace and lightly scolded her for the sobs that broke from her lips. “There now, is that any way to be greeting your long-lost brother?”

“Wesley, I’m so happy to see you!” He lowered her to the floor and Flanna stepped back, thinking that she might actually burst from the swell of joy in her heart. Wesley was whole, thank God, and well, though his face was ruddier than she had ever seen it. He wore a beard now, which added to the manly aura around him, and the sun had parched the skin around his eyes and forehead. A gold captain’s braid hung from the shoulder of his uniform. So, he was an officer!

“Welcome to Richmond, little sister.” Wesley tossed his hat on the kitchen table, then winked at the widow. “Mrs. Corey tells me that you’ve gotten yourself into a bit of a scrape.” His mouth opened in mock horror as his hand smoothed her hair. “And what’s this? In faith, I never expected to find you bald!”

“I’m not bald.” Flanna smacked his hand. “And yes, I’ve really made a mess of things. Not for me, so much, but for two very dear men.”

Without waiting for permission, Wesley pulled out a chair and sat down, and Flanna took the seat opposite him. From the other side of the kitchen, Mrs. Corey hummed and put another kettle of water on to boil.

“Would one of them be the Roger Haynes you wrote me of?” Wesley asked, one corner of his mouth turning up in a wry smile. “The charming, successful man you thought you might marry?”

“Yes—and no.” Flanna sighed and opened her hands. “Yes, it’s Roger, and no, I will not marry him, though we are great friends. It’s his brother, Alden, that I love.” Her smile faded. “He loves someone else, a girl back home. But I’m the one who dragged him behind enemy lines. Now he’s wounded and in prison, and he’ll die there
unless I can do something.”

“You?” His left brow shot up in surprise. “Genteel little Flanna, who would rather sit at home than go riding and soil her brocade slippers?”

His cynicism grated on her. “I’m not wearing brocade slippers anymore.”

“So I understand.” Wesley cut a quick look at Mrs. Corey, and Flanna frowned. What had the widow told him while Flanna slept?

Wesley reached across the table and took her hand in his. “Flanna, you were constantly surprising me when you were a little lass. Once you got a thought into your wee head, nothing could stop you from doing what you set out to do.” He laughed, a deep and rich sound that warmed Flanna’s heart. “You gave me and the cousins quite a bit of competition until you decided you’d rather sip tea and chatter than tangle with us.”

She shook her head, impatient with his reminiscences. “Wesley—”

He lifted his hand, cutting her off. “’Tis a bit strange, don’t you think, that you should come full circle? For here you are, full grown into a bonny lass and chasing after the boys again. But this time you’re in over your head, darlin’.”

She sat silently, a hot tear rolling down her cheek.

Wesley leaned forward, his eyes suddenly somber. “I trust you heard about the fire? About Papa?”

She nodded, and some of the stiffness seemed to melt out of Wesley’s shoulders. “I’m glad you know, and relieved I am for not having to tell you. Papa died the way he lived, trying to help someone. I know he wouldn’t want us to grieve.”

“But—” Flanna’s promise weighed upon her, choking her. “I promised to go home and help him, Wes. That’s all I’ve wanted to do for these many months—”

“Hush, darlin.” He reached out and grabbed her hand. “Papa wouldn’t want you to stake your future upon his past. The world’s a different place, and the Charleston you knew is already changed. If Papa were here, he’d tell you to get on with your life, and since he’s
not here, I’ll do the telling for him. You’re a bright girl, Flanna, and God led you away from us. To my way of thinking, he’ll keep on leading you. All you have to do is trust him.”

Trust God? If Wesley only knew how hard that was! She
wanted
to trust God’s plan for her life, but he had led her over a path filled with so many obstacles.

Flanna knew that tears were flowing down her face, but she was not truly crying. The tears came from a simple overflow of regret, hurt, loss, and love.

Wesley’s eyes darkened with emotion. “Aw, don’t cry, lass! Your brother’s here. And since your life seems now entwined with two other men, I’m going to help you free those fine lads, Yankees though they may be.”

A hot and awful joy swept through her, then despair reared its ugly head. “I can’t do anything, Wesley! I’m under arrest and there’s a guard outside. Mrs. Corey is under strict orders not to allow me out of the house.”

“Ah, lass.” His white teeth flashed amid his red beard. “Mrs. Corey is your friend; how can you be forgetting that?”

“What do you mean?”

Wesley did not answer, but pointed behind Flanna. As her thoughts swirled in confusion, Flanna turned and saw the widow standing behind her. Mrs. Corey’s arms were filled with folded clothing. “This was to be Willie’s new uniform,” the lady said, gently fingering the soft gray coat on the top of the stack. “I meant to give it to him at Christmas. But Christmas never came last year.”

The widow offered the clothing to Flanna with a small smile. “Willie would be pleased to help you, Miss Flanna. I’ve watched how you treated these boys, and I know your heart is in the right place.” She placed the garments on the table, then stepped back. “But you’d better hurry. They transport the prisoners every afternoon near sunset. If you’re going to reach those men before they reach the prison, you’d best go now.”