The Quaker and the Rebel Page 7

  As she wandered the expensively appointed rooms, Emily remembered her ill-timed meeting with Alexander at the abandoned barn with an uncomfortable flush. This home, deeper in the Confederacy, was a place she could effectively start slaves on their road to freedom. She hoped the master’s son had forgotten her perfect spot to hide runaways overnight.

  Two hours later, Mrs. Hunt held up her palms, concluding her lengthy explanation of hand-painted wall coverings, imported tapestries, and European furniture. “Enough. Shall we enjoy an informal dinner on the terrace tonight? You’re probably exhausted after the trip.” She, however, looked as fresh as a spring morning.

  “I believe I’ll retire to my room,” Mrs. Bennington said. She appeared ready to faint. “Please send dinner up on a tray later, something light.”

  “Will you be joining us this evening, Miss Harrison?”

  “No, ma’am. Thank you for the invitation, but I also prefer to relax.” She slipped her arm firmly around Mrs. Bennington’s waist as they started up the stairs. With the inevitable meal with the Hunts postponed, she was granted a temporary reprieve. After unpacking and resting in her room, she slipped down two flights of servants’ stairs to the first floor. Conversation ceased and all eyes turned as Emily entered the room.

  “Hello, Miss Harrison.” Lila scrambled to her feet. She sat at a long trestle table in the huge, partially underground kitchen. The room was comfortably cool, yet the massive fireplace would make it cozy warm during winter.

  “May I join your family for supper?” Emily directed the query to Matilde.

  “Yes, if you promise to stay away from the stove.” Matilde flashed her magnificent smile. “Sit there, next to my daughter.”

  Emily complied with both requests. Over the next hour, Matilde introduced Emily to the entire Amite extended family as workers came in to eat and then returned to chores. Relaxing on the bench, she dined on rabbit stew, wilted greens, lima beans, corn bread, stewed tomatoes, and blackberry pie. The Amites were well known and loved by the Hunt Farm workers, both slave and free. Lila introduced her to cousins and nieces and nephews until Emily gave up trying to remember names. After eating their fill, Emily and Lila took a long walk as the sun dropped behind the Shenandoah Mountains. It was peaceful here and beautiful, yet Emily was filled with an odd sense of foreboding long after she told Lila good night and crawled beneath the soft quilt on her bed. Storms and specters filled her dreams as she tossed and turned in the perfect bedroom in the perfect world of Hunt Plantation.

  “Miss Harrison. Miss Harrison.” A voice pierced her fitful slumber, causing Emily to scramble from her bed. “Mrs. Bennington wishes you to join her for breakfast on the terrace.” A voice called through the door.

  “Tarnation,” she muttered. In a louder voice, she said, “Please tell Mrs. Bennington I awoke frightfully hungry and had breakfast in the kitchen earlier.”

  The person at the door seemed to be waiting for a better excuse. When none came, the maid said, “Yes, miss. I’ll tell her.”

  Forgive me, Lord, for lying and breaking Your Ninth Commandment. Emily sent up her penitent prayer. Another reprieve, but how long can this go on?

  Unfortunately, not long at all. Mrs. Bennington sent a note to Emily’s room, insisting she join her for lunch on the terrace. Because the ball was that evening, luncheon would be served at two. Emily arrived promptly at the appointed time to find Mrs. Bennington seated with her sister.

  “Come sit, my dear. It’ll just be us women for the meal. My brother-in-law left to track down Porter at the field hospital. He’ll lend a hand until time to bring Porter back for the evening festivities.”

  “One could almost forget a war is going on,” Emily murmured. Mrs. Bennington nodded in agreement, but Mrs. Hunt slanted an odd expression. Emily concentrated on lunch while the two sisters shared news and gossip about mutual friends. There was absolutely no mention of Alexander during the meal. Perhaps he was estranged from his family and wouldn’t be making an appearance. Oddly, she found no relief at the thought. Though he wasn’t physically present, the laughing, mocking eyes that had caused her to blush in the barnyard seemed to follow her around her room. Would there be no escaping him, even in his absence?

  Finally, Mrs. Bennington struggled to her feet. “Shall we rest, Emily, until time to get ready for the ball?”

  After helping her employer to her room, Emily napped for several hours—something unheard of on her parents’ farm. Refreshed, she dressed carefully for the Hunt Farms ball. If she was to be of use, she must study her adversaries in this region of white columns and slave-tended fields. The aristocratic manners and genial hospitality of the slave owners couldn’t mask their evil, blackened hearts. She grew up poor, but she had also grown up knowing freedom.

  Because Lila had the evening off, Emily struggled into her underthings and the ball gown on her own. The deep sapphire color added depth to her pale blue eyes. With tiny pearl buttons down the front and hundreds of pin-tucked folds below the waist, the dress accentuated her slim figure. Slipping on dancing slippers, she pinned up the few stray locks that escaped her chignon. She refused to have her hair done by a slave maid.

  No one will be looking at me anyway. She had seen the steady stream of carriages for the past hour, delivering at least one belle and in some cases, several beauties on the arms of their fathers. Each wore a gown more exquisite than the last. A Paris fashion house during the spring shows wouldn’t offer such gorgeous selection. “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow…Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.” For some reason, the Bible’s assurance that Christians shouldn’t worry about clothes failed to console her. Jealousy filled her heart and eroded her confidence. Just once, Emily wanted to feel pretty, self-assured, and carefree instead of backwoods, unsophisticated, and poor.

  Not wanting to be announced at the entrance, Emily slipped up the servants’ stairs to the third floor ballroom. The high-ceilinged, palatial space was crowded with revelers. Emily found an obscure spot behind a potted hibiscus to watch the festivities. Couples whirled around the polished marble floor with confidence, as though each fluid movement felt as natural as drawing breath. Miss Turner’s School for Ladies didn’t quite prepare me for this, she mused sourly.

  Along the wall conservatively dressed, silver-haired ladies and rakishly handsome aristocrats stood in clusters, sipping from long-stemmed flutes. From her position by the hibiscus, Emily spied her host across the room talking with several soldiers clad in Confederate butternut. As often the case when one stares long enough, Emily locked eyes with Alexander Hunt, who was apparently not estranged from his family after all. He stopped talking and grinned from ear to ear. She glanced left and right to see for whom the magnificent smile had been intended. No one had ever looked at her in such a fashion. Emily felt like a snared rabbit when Alexander bowed to the soldiers and crossed the room.

  “Great Scot, it is you, Miss Harrison. I thought I saw that potted plant move. I arrived home just a bit ago and didn’t know my aunt and uncle were visiting.”

  “If you’d been forewarned, Mr. Hunt, would you have leaped down on me from the balcony?”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “At the very least, Miss Harrison.” His voice turned several heads in their direction.

  “Would you be so kind, sir, as to lower your voice?” she whispered.

  He furrowed his eyebrows. “Are you afraid I will mention you went riding in a completely inappropriate costume with your petticoats showing?”

  Emily bit the inside of her cheek. “No. I simply don’t want Mrs. Bennington to know I had…wandered so far off-track from Martinsburg.”

  “You were definitely beyond the reach of a casual ride. Some might be curious as to what you were doing. But since the girls are in Paris, I imagine you have much free time on your hands when Aunt Augusta rests.” Again he laughed as though greatly amused.

  The sound was starting to grate on her nerves. She offered her sternest, m
ost schoolmarmish scowl.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Harrison. Your secret is safe with me. I’ll never tell a soul you left Martinsburg for the afternoon and somehow ended up in Berryville.” Then he added, more to the potted hibiscus than to her, “My uncle said you were a fireball.”

  “I shouldn’t keep you from your other guests and, frankly, I’ve grown weary of this conversation.” She scrunched her nose, sniffed, and turned away.

  But he was too quick for her. Alexander trapped her against a pillar behind her with his palms flat on both sides of her head.

  “Do I vex you, Miss Harrison? Or maybe I tempt you to do something spontaneous?”

  “No, Mr. Hunt, you do not. I like my actions to be well thought out,” she snapped, trying not to breathe in his heady scent. Matthew had smelled no different than any other farmer, not like this exotic blend of spicy shaving balm and pomade. She slipped down the pillar and prayed her knees wouldn’t buckle from anxiety. “Does this method usually work for you? Do women usually find this kind of effrontery charming?”

  “I daresay, more often than not they do.”

  “Then I shall be a new experience for you.” Emily ducked under his arm to escape.

  “Wait, please,” he begged. “Let me at least sign your dance card. You cannot refuse your host.”

  “I have no dance card, sir. I don’t plan to indulge in dancing.”

  “Because due to your Quaker religious convictions you never learned how?”

  “I didn’t say that. Miss Turner taught me the basics, but I choose not to participate in ridiculous frivolity.” She picked up her voluminous skirt, but he wouldn’t be put off so easily.

  He took her arm with a gentle but firm grasp. “My aunt will be crushed when she learns you treated your host with such unwarranted hostility. Were you raised by a pack of wolves, Miss Harrison?”

  That was the last straw. Emily rose up on tiptoes to almost be on eye level with him. “My mother raised me to have manners no different than any of these silly Virginia belles.”

  “Is that so? But a lady would indulge her host in his simple request…”

  “Fine, we shall dance,” said Emily through gritted teeth. Taking his arm with a gloved hand, she allowed herself to be led into the crowd. Once on the floor, however, she couldn’t keep up as he tried to guide her through a reel. She found herself taking extra steps which threw off their rhythm. It was as if her legs were a yard too short or she’d grown a third foot.

  When she glanced down at her feet for the fourth time, Alexander put a finger under her chin and lifted her face. “You’re too tense and stiff. I know you can dance, so allow yourself to relax. I promise not to bite you.” His voice was gentle, his smile no longer mocking.

  Emily grew transfixed by his deeply set gray eyes, mesmerized by their fathomless depth. A woman would kill to be blessed with lashes like those. But with a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and sharp aquiline nose, his face held no softness. His features had a hawklike appearance, softened only by his hair falling lazily over his forehead. Matthew would roar with laughter at his dandified clothing. All he needs is a walking stick to be the perfect fop.

  “A penny for your thoughts, Miss Harrison.”

  “I was just…admiring your attire, Mr. Hunt.”

  “Then you must have excellent taste in fashion. I go to a haberdasher and tailor in Winchester who makes my garments before each season. The man is quite good, staying abreast of everything happening on the Continent. One has to be careful not to dress as though this were still the frontier, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, I certainly do. With the country embroiled in war, we must not forget about style.” They whirled effortlessly around the dance floor. What kind of people were these aristocrats? But at least with the distraction of banal conversation her dancing had improved. Her stiffness and self-consciousness disappeared as he held her in his arms. “Tell me, Mr. Hunt. I believe Warren County has become part of the Confederacy, has it not? How is it you haven’t been conscripted?” Or volunteered hung in the air unsaid, yet even she knew how rude that would be to add.

  “Ah, yes, the Glorious Cause. Don’t think my heart doesn’t yearn to fight with my school chums on the battlefield, but the Confederate government recognizes the importance of Hunt Farms. We supply horses to the cavalry along with a steady stream of grain and grass for horse fodder. I was told to send a replacement to the local regiment while I keep things going here at home. My father doesn’t have the strength he once had. With many of our people running off…it was the least I could do.”

  And so much safer, I would imagine. Why did these Southerners insist on calling slaves “their people”? As though softening the term of possession could change the corrupt, heinous nature of bondage. Emily couldn’t believe she was put off by his reluctance to sign up with the Confederate Army. Why would she be angry that a rich, indolent man didn’t join the traitorous rebels to fight against everything she stood for? Yet somehow his avoidance bothered her a great deal. When the interminable waltz ended, she pulled away from his embrace. “Thank you, Mr. Hunt.”

  “The pleasure was mine, Miss Harrison. I assure you.”

  She left as fast as her dignity would allow. She had to get away from him…she had to think.

  FIVE

  Alexander watched Emily depart in a great hurry. What a conundrum she was. She was obviously the woman who had been hiding in a barn in Berryville, his aunt’s recalcitrant governess. The woman he had danced with tonight had the same flaming red hair and spattering of freckles across her nose, but in that gown he hadn’t been sure they were one and the same until she had scowled at him from behind the potted plant and unleashed her barbed tongue. The woman he baited on Bennington Island and then pounced upon in the barnyard near Berryville looked more like an underfed chicken than the pleasingly attractive swan who had graced his parents’ ballroom.

  He was familiar with women who flirted—who charmed their way into men’s hearts and minds by wielding their feminine powers. Lately Alexander wanted little to do with them because he didn’t trust them…and because he couldn’t trust himself. He preferred to stay away from pretty faces and stunning figures, from women whose touch could melt icicles in the dead of winter. But this odd creature with her wild hair and long legs like a yearling wasn’t like them. Without artifice or an ounce of seductiveness, she couldn’t charm a bear to a beehive. Strong-willed and opinionated, especially on topics she knew nothing about, Emily Harrison nevertheless possessed her own sense of grace. Alexander found her dissimilarity to the belles of Virginia oddly appealing.

  “Good grief,” he moaned. “If that skinny colt looks enticing, I’ve been away from the ladies of Belinda’s too long.” He laughed, realizing that this governess living in his uncle’s home could come in handy. His parents had begun to question him about his comings and goings. They wondered why he needed to spend so much time away from the farm. The last thing he wanted was to cause his parents worry. If he struck up a courtship with Miss Fancy-Bloomers, he would have an excuse to be away for days at a time. Martinsburg and Front Royal weren’t exactly around the corner from one another. Because there was no chance of Miss Emily Harrison bewitching him with her charms, this little Yankee could come in handy indeed.

  Emily didn’t slow down until she was out of the crowded room of overdressed, perfumed peacocks. At the door an elderly servant approached from his assigned station. “May I bring you a wrap, miss?”

  “No. If I wished for a wrap, I would get one myself,” she snapped, but regretted her words the moment they left her mouth. The poor man looked as though he’d been slapped.

  “I beg your pardon. That wasn’t what I intended to say. I meant I have no desire to be waited on by slaves.”

  “Yes, miss,” he said, lowering his gaze to the foyer floor. His expression registered distress and bewilderment.

  Emily felt ashamed. Lately, she couldn’t control her words or her temper. Offering a weak smile, she hurried
through the door. Once she was out on the expansive verandah, she inhaled the cool night air and began to relax. Jasmine and honeysuckle—two of her favorite scents—wafted on the breeze. She closed her eyes and imagined herself back home in Ohio, listening to the foghorns of steamboats passing on the river. Strains of another reel drifted through the open windows, but she concentrated on the calls of the whippoorwills and nightjars. Tree frogs and crickets added to the evening symphony she found so comforting.

  And she needed some comfort. Her behavior with Alexander left her far from calm and relaxed. How could she enjoy dancing after being raised a Quaker? How could she enjoy being held in another man’s arms so soon after Matthew’s death? Shamelessly, she savored the attention she received in the beautiful ball gown, secretly delighting when a man’s head turned in her direction. Restless and confused, she began to pace. When she reached the length of the verandah, she discovered that the wide porch wrapped around the house. Turning the corner, she sought peace and quiet in the cool shadows, far from the conviviality of the ballroom.

  But here the night music wasn’t the tumult of insects calling for mates or the tinkling laughter of coy belles. Emily heard sounds both distinctly human and decidedly angry. She cocked her head to focus her attention with every nerve. Voices emanating in the direction of the slave cabins waxed and waned. Some unfortunate soul was receiving a browbeating, of that she was certain. Listening to the verbal tirade, Emily’s breath caught in her throat as her stomach soured. She couldn’t discern the hateful words, but the meaning was clear…and far more frightening at night than in the light of day. Her previous musings about dancing and pretty ball gowns vanished.

  A memory crept insidiously to mind of another warm summer evening long ago—a memory of men emboldened by darkness and fueled by alcohol. She closed her eyes, trying to force that night back to the past where it held no power over her. Damp with perspiration, Emily heard someone holler in a clear voice: “I’ll teach you to sass your betters.” She gasped, paralyzed where she stood for several moments. I’ll teach you to sass your betters? Daring not to breathe, she waited uneasily for the next harangue. But it did not come; she heard nothing but the pounding of her own heart. Soon the sounds of crickets and tree frogs filled the air. Indoors, the musicians struck the chords of the next dance for couples young and old.