Widow of Gettysburg (12 page)

Liberty was beginning to wonder if it had been a mistake to allow Amelia into her life like this. Still, she was a paying customer, and she sorely needed the funds. Later, when things settled down, her path would not be chosen by her need. Visions of customers coming to Liberty Inn danced through her mind.

A knock sounded at the door, and Liberty jumped up to get it. She reached down to scratch Major behind the ears as she stepped around him.

Surprise snatched the words from her mouth when she opened the front door.

“I wanted to check on you. After what happened, and not being able to help clean up the mess … I felt terrible.”

She swallowed. She did not remember him being so tall. “Johnny, is it? I thought you never wanted to see me again.” Why was her face growing warm?

Major ambled over and bumped into him for attention. He smiled as he rubbed the dog’s fur. “Unfinished business always did bother me. I felt like I ran off too quickly with those two scalawags, and I should have checked the rest of your property to make sure no one else was lurking around.”

She raised an eyebrow. He smelled clean, and his face was freshly shaven. His oak blond hair was combed into place, except for a stubborn swirl of hair splaying up in the back.

“So, are you well?” His eyes skimmed over her as he passed a hand
uselessly over his cowlick. “You look well.”

Their argument over her mourning clothes came back to her, and a smile bloomed on Liberty’s face. He would never guess how hard she had fought to stay out of mourning once she had decided he was right. Her smile wilted when she remembered black-draped Amelia and “the vacant chair” waiting for her in the dining room right now. Liberty had not escaped the world of death yet.

An idea sparked. “Are you hungry?”

He smiled, and laugh lines framed his eyes. For the first time, she noticed a sprinkling of grey above his ears. She wondered how old he was.
Maybe not so old.
War had a way of aging a person.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“So you are here for the food again?”

“No! Not—no.” He sighed. “I told you why I came here. To check on you. But if you’re going to offer me some food, I won’t offend you by turning it down. It does smell divine.” Eyes closed, he inhaled.

Perfect. “We just so happen to have a vacant chair that I would love for you to fill. Please come in.”

Laughter bubbled in her chest as she led him back to the dining room and watched Amelia’s face knot. “Please, sit down.” Liberty motioned to the empty chair with the place setting all ready in front of it. “Amelia, we have company.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am. How do you know Miss Holloway?”

“I’m her mother.”

Liberty balked.

“Well, I’m the closest thing she has to it, even though she won’t call me Mama yet.”

Libbie’s blood ran hot. “This is Amelia Sanger,” she said firmly.
A woman whose grief makes her crazy.

Amelia nodded. “Her husband’s mother.”

“No—” Liberty said a little too loudly. She lowered her voice. “My
late
husband’s mother.” She shot her a look that bordered on a glare. “She’s visiting.”

“I live here.” Amelia smiled sweetly.

“As a guest of Liberty Inn. Here pass me your plate you must be starving.” She strung the words together leaving Amelia no chance to jump in and twist the truth one more time.

Johnny handed her his plate and watched as she heaped steaming chicken dumplings high upon it.

“Whoa, that’s enough.” He laughed, and she realized she’d given him a triple portion.

“We do have plenty, you know. We just happened to have some extra dead chickens lying around.” Liberty gave him a pointed look. “We’ve been eating chicken ever since.”

He colored, but recovered himself. “It does seem like you have a lot to chew on.” He took a sip of water and raised his eyebrows at Amelia, who she guessed he was referring to.

Amelia dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin and smoothed it over her lap. “Well. Pleased to meet you, Mr. …?”

“Just call me Johnny.”

Johnny.
Liberty narrowed her eyes at him.
Johnny?
Her eyes popped wide open as she realized he’d just called her Miss Holloway. She had not offered her last name to this man. How would he have known that unless—Could he be? If he was, why did he not tell her right away? Racking her brain, she stabbed a piece of chicken with her fork and swirled it in the creamy sauce on her plate. After Levi had died, a soldier named Jonathan Welch had written to her, telling her that he had been friends with Levi, had been with him that day he died at Bull Run. Jonathan wrote to her that Levi had fought bravely, she should be proud, and that Levi had loved her. She had written back to thank him, and ask for more details. They had continued the correspondence sporadically, though they had never met face to face. Had never had a reason to.

Liberty looked at the man across from her now. If this was Jonathan Welch, how had he gotten mixed up with the Rebels?
Is he a spy? Is that why he never offers a last name?

He caught her gaze and held it from across the table.
He seems to
know me. Is that why he wanted to make sure I was moving on after Levi?

After the chicken dumplings, Liberty served them Bella’s rhubarb pie and lemonade. When he took his leave, she walked him to the porch, where the scent of her wild roses permeated the sticky air. Curiosity overcame her.

“Johnny.”

Silas looked down into her eyes and saw something that hadn’t been there before.

“Do we know each other?” she whispered.

Silas groped for a response as the June breeze sighed through the hickory trees, smelling of hay and clover just as it had six years ago. He slacked a hip and leaned against the porch railing he built for Helen Holloway. The woman had not endeared herself to Silas one bit, but he had needed the odd jobs. He was going to buy freedom for his father’s slaves.

Snatches of his conversations with Helen floated back to him now.
I think I heard your daughter crying in the hayloft. I thought you’d like to know. Is there anything I can do? Her sharp retort: She’s not my daughter, thank heaven. But she is my cross to bear. Pay her no mind. I am paying you to fix the fences, replace the rotten boards on the barn. I am not paying you to be nursemaid to the child. Leave her be. She has to learn to make her own way.

Silas had wished he could make things better for Liberty. He still did.

“Well?” she asked again, bringing him back to the present. “I feel like you know me …”

“Not nearly as much as I’d like to.”

She smiled, dimples starring her cheeks, and he cursed himself for his uncalculated reply. It sounded like he wanted to court her. All he wanted was to protect her, like he would a sister.

“Will I see you again?” Her face reddened as soon as the words left her mouth.

His neck stuck to his collar.
Do you want to?
The question cleaved to the roof of his mouth. This was wrong, this was all wrong. He had come here under the illusion of blissful anonymity, only in order to make sure she was all right. If he had any notion she would expect more from him, he would not have come. Would he?

Silas tightened his grip on the railing as Liberty studied him with the same innocent blue eyes that had stirred his sympathies years ago. Before he could stop himself, he scanned the rest of her. She was petite—only coming to his shoulder—but the soft curves of her body reminded him she was no longer a child. She was a woman—capable, resilient—
and beautiful.
His pulse quickened. He could not, would not trust himself with her. She was not safe with him.

It was time to leave. For her sake.

“I best be on my way. Much obliged for the vittles. Be well.” His bow was as awkward as his parting speech. As Silas mounted Bullet and rode away, he looked back and saw her standing on the porch watching his cowardly retreat. He tipped his hat at her, then spurred Bullet into a gallop, away from Holloway Farm.

No women,
he told himself.
Not one. Especially not Liberty.

It began as a rumble. It grew to a thunder. By the time Bella Jamison had opened her window and peered down South Washington Street, the sound roared from an unseen source, like the crashing tide of Georgia’s coastal waters hidden in the cloak of night. Clouds of dust lifted off the dirt road, announcing the power that rushed at her.

Then she saw them, and exhaled a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Union cavalry on well-fed horses, in smart blue uniforms, faces glistening with resolve.

Bella grabbed a tray, piled it high with rolls she had just pulled from
the oven, and hastened outside, the June sun shining full her in face. Soon, both sides of South Washington Street were lined with people—on sidewalks, in doorways, in windows, on balconies. The cavalry slowed their pace to grab slices of soft bread and tin cups of coffee from outstretched arms. White handkerchiefs fluttered like moths in the sky, and jaws flapped just as fast.

We’re saved!

You’re here!

The Rebs won’t come around again now!

Won’t you come to our house for dinner?

It was an absolute riot of relief. Young women stood in clusters at the intersections of Breckenridge, W. High, and Middle Streets, greeting the troopers with smiles and songs: “Yankee Doodle” and the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Small boys saluted the men and brought carrots and apples to the horses. Questions and answers sailed back and forth between citizens and saviors.

Straining her ears, Bella sifted all she could from the clamor. These were Brig. Gen. John Buford’s cavalry, a force of thirty-five hundred.

Three cheers for Billy Yank! Down with Johnny Reb!

Buford surely suspected Lee’s entire army was in the immediate vicinity.

Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

The people of Gettysburg must use caution.

The battle is as good as won!

For more than an hour, the cheers and songs and offers of food filled the air, until the last of the column rode out of sight, past the Pennsylvania College campus, to set up camp.

A tug at Bella’s sleeve pulled her attention to Aunt Hester. “We safe now, baby.” She grinned. “See that? All is well. With them between us and the Rebs, nothing can hurt us now.”

When Bella went to bed that night, she rested well for the first time in two weeks. As she folded down the quilt to rest at the foot of her half-empty bed, she did not wonder if she ought to hide in the cellar
instead. As she pulled the crisp, soap-scented sheet up over her bone-weary body, she heard only crickets—not the Rebel yell or a shot of warning or hoofbeats thundering down the street. Her thoughts hovered comfortably around Abraham and the tasks that lie ahead of her. She would need to wake up early if she hoped to finish pressing and return Hettie Shriver’s laundry before nine o’clock. After that, she would check on Liberty Holloway at the farm, and then … a yawn derailed her train of thought, and she happily surrendered to slumber.

Tomorrow would be a big day.

“IT SEEMED AS IF
the heavens and earth were crashing together. The time that we sat in the cellar seemed long, listening to the terrific sound of the strife; more terrible never greeted human ears. We knew that with every explosion, and the scream of each shell, human beings were hurried, through excruciating pain, into another world, and that many more were torn, and mangled, and lying in torment worse than death, and no one able to extend relief. … Who is victorious, or with whom the advantage rests, no one here can tell.”

—SARAH BROADHEAD, Gettysburg housewife, age 34