Night of the Candles (12 page)

Pity such as she had never known before swelled her chest. It caught her so unaware that she gasped with the force of its pain, her vision blurring with a rush of tears. Poor human creature, wayward, contrary, but infinitely vulnerable. Why should he be forced to wander, lost and alone, bereft of the source of kindness?

Amanda grew suddenly chilled. Numbness crept over her, paralyzing her limbs. Eyes, wide and blank, she clung to the drapes of ruby velvet as to a lifeline, her fingers crushing their soft folds.

Then below her Carl stirred. He lifted his head in a listening pose, his body going rigid. An instant later he surged to his feet, and with swift, incongruous grace, melted into the shadows toward the rear of the house.

Almost at once, Amanda saw what had alerted him. It was a horseman, cantering along the road toward the barns. In the blackness of the night it was impossible to identify either horse or rider. They were no more than moving shapes in the night heralded by the faint clop of hooves. So Amanda thought until she realized there was one other circumstance that helped make them apparent to her gaze. The rider was dressed in robes of white, full robes billowing in the night wind, flowing back over the rump of his horse. He wore no hood to define the shape of his head however, giving him, for one brief instant, the look of a headless phantom.

A slow frown creased Amanda’s forehead as memory stirred. Once before, not so long ago, she had seen something similar. Where? When? She could not quite bring the moment into focus. The harder she tried, the more it receded into dark mists of pain and an odd mental malaise.

Did it matter? What was important was that someone at Monteigne rode encased in the white, sheet like robes of the nightriders. Riding in secret, hiding under the cover of night, they joined with others to perpetrate deeds of darkness.

Shivering violently, Amanda turned from the window. She tumbled into bed and drew the cover to her chin. Though she closed her eyes and sought desperately for the oblivion of sleep, its simple, mindless comfort would not come. Chilled and awake, she was left to face her fears, both known and unknown.

TOWARD daylight, when the dawn at last pushed the shadows out of her room, Amanda finally slept. It was a heavy, unnatural slumber like the effect of a sleeping potion. She was awakened in midmorning by Marta, bringing a breakfast tray.

Roused, she recovered her vigor to the point of getting out of bed and declaring her intention of going downstairs. Her small hidebound trunk had been delivered to her room, and from its depth she took a morning costume of brown fustian which featured a high-necked polonaise with slashed sleeves to show a white blouse, and fullness which was drawn to the back exposing a white underskirt of the same material. It was as near to mourning wear as she had brought with her, and, with the addition of a black ribbon at the neck, should be unexceptional.

Marta helped her with her laces and buttons and putting up her hair, though she did so in the heavy silence of disapproval. Amanda did not let that deter her. She was tired of the bed, tired of the coming and going in her bedroom, and of the feeling that the commotion and disruption in the household was her fault. She was not so simple as to think that she was well enough to travel with only a lone male to support her, but she refused to be bedridden a moment longer. She could see no difference between staying in bed and lounging at ease on one of the sofas in the parlor. It would be more convenient; Marta would not have to run up and down the stairs with trays; and she would not have to feel that she was putting everyone to needless trouble.

More than these, she would not have to lie helpless, at the mercy of her own imagination and the foreboding that crowded her mind.

She left her room and went down the hall with its narrow strip of carpeting. Marta trailed behind her, smelling salts grimly at the ready.

The stairs presented no problem going down, though she was silently doubtful of getting back up so easily.

Nothing moved in the quiet house. The front and rear doors had been left open, allowing the fresh coolness of the wind to sweep through the hallway. Amanda took a deep breath, feeling better already, as she stepped into the parlor.

No one was there. A wry smile curved her lips as she recognized the pangs of disappointment. She had no real need for congratulations on her show of fortitude, still it would have been nice to have someone share her elation.

She had accomplished the feat. She was downstairs. Taking up a book on farming methods that had been left lying on one of the tables, she lay down upon the settee. Marta piled cushions at her back, then settled herself into a chair and took her tatting from a voluminous apron pocket.

They sat for some time, Amanda trying to find something of interest in contour plowing and green manures, Marta keeping a wary eye on her patient. It was almost as if she expected her to keel over at any moment, Amanda thought with the beginning of exasperation.

She was saved from this severe test of her nerves by Jason. He strode into the room with his hat in his hand and a preoccupied frown on his face. He checked as he saw her, then came on more slowly. Tossing his hat into a chair, he took a seat, a species of concern replacing his frown.

“I didn’t expect to see you today,” he said, leaning forward with his elbow on one knee. “Are you sure you are strong enough?”

“Quite sure. I feel much better for the effort. I do believe if I had stayed in bed a moment longer I would have had a nervous attack.”

A slow smile lit his face, changing him beyond recognition. “You surprise me. I would have said you were not the type.”

“It is difficult to say what type a person may be until he or she is tried.”

“True,” he conceded. “And what, if I may ask, has tried you? Tell me, and I will see what can be done to change it.”

How could she answer that? He could not be expected to change his household to suit her whims. She dismissed the impulse to demand that he refrain from riding with the nightriders during her visit to say instead: “The fault is in myself. I haven’t the temperament to be an invalid.”

He gave a slow nod. “I can believe that. Amelia used to say how conscientious you always were, how full of energy.”

“Did she?”

“She admired that in you. We often admire the qualities in others we lack ourselves.”

Once more Amanda was at a loss. She was grateful to Marta who chose that moment to get to her feet.

“Your pardon, fraeulein, mein herr. I find I come downstairs without my spare reel of thread. While you, Herr Jason, are here, I will fetch it.”

A casual wave of long brown fingers signaled his acquiescence. As Marta’s heavy tread sounded on the stairs he leaned back, so at ease anyone might have been forgiven for thinking he was content to be where he was.

“I … haven’t thanked you for having me here,” Amanda began as the silence stretched.

“Not at all. It was the least I could do when you were injured on my front doorsteps, wasn’t it?”

Amanda shook her head at his dismissing tone. “Nonetheless, I am grateful for the care you have given me.”

“As to that, Marta is your benefactress, and I’m sure she is happy to have a patient to practice her skill upon again.”

“She has been extremely kind.”

“Marta is a person of strong likes and dislikes. I don’t believe anything or anyone could prevail upon her to care for a person she took in aversion. She may have her faults, but I have never known her to stint herself when the welfare of her patient is at stake.”

There was an undercurrent in his voice, almost as if he was defending the German nurse. Amanda did not pursue the subject however. It could only lead to the illness of Amelia with its painful end.

From the corner of her eye Amanda glanced at him, aware of a peculiar magnetism about his still form. He was staring at her, his elbow propped on the arm of his chair and his chin resting on his fist. His gaze moved slowly from her brow to her cheeks, blooming with color, to the curves of her mouth, pausing a moment there before dropping to her hands clasped tightly in her lap. He frowned.

“You say you are engaged to Sterling, but you don’t wear his ring,” he said abruptly.

Instinctively Amanda covered her naked finger. “No. Such things aren’t that important since the war. We decided a wedding band would be enough.”

“Very practical,” he murmured.

“Yes,” Amanda answered, her tone abrupt. Glancing about in search of some inspiration for a change of subject, her gaze alighted on the portrait above the fireplace. “I never realized you fought in the recent conflict.”

“Didn’t every man in the South who was able to stand?”

“Not every man,” Amanda said unhappily. Claiming he was needed by his parents, both of whom were plagued by ill health, Nathaniel had never gone to battle. Oh, he had drilled with the home guard and worn a tailored uniform, but that had been the extent of his effort. It was nothing short of amazing the way his mother’s health had improved after Appomattox, though his father still claimed a heart condition. “I believe from your insignia that you were with the cavalry?”

“Gray’s Brigade,” he admitted.

“I think I have heard of them. You were at Bull Run and Chattanooga…”

“At Bull Run, yes. During the Chattanooga offensive our main target was the M & C railroad.”

“Vicksburg?”

“Grant’s supply depot. We only slowed the inevitable. If Lee had relieved the siege … Never mind. We lost. It’s over.”

“Is it?” she asked slowly. “Is it over as long as the South is garrisoned by Federal troops and no man who fought in the war can hold office, when the people of the South are forced to remain in the Union but are treated as disenfranchised citizens, required to swear fealty to the victors? How can it be over when men ride at night to right old wrongs and make new ones in the process?”

“In ancient times warriors were put to the sword and women and children enslaved. You must admit the methods today are more humane.”

“More humane, perhaps, but the intention is the same — to cripple and humiliate the enemy.”

“Do you approve of the nightriders then?” he asked smiling a little at her vehemence.

She slanted a conscious glance at him, the image of the man on horseback cantering toward the barn the night before vivid in her mind. A shade of coolness crept into her voice as she said, “No. They only invite retaliation and give those with old scores to settle or covetous instincts a cover for their wicked deeds. I will, if you like, admit to ambivalent feelings on this score. It goes against the grain to accept the treatment being meted out and do nothing about it.”

He shifted in his chair to cross one ankle over his knee. “What do you suggest?”

“I don’t know. I suppose we shall all have to swallow our pride and take the oath of allegiance. Until we do this there will never be enough men of like mind with the right to vote the scalawags and carpetbaggers out of office. The trouble is that some, like my grandfather, would rather die than so compromise their honor.”

“Your grandfather?”

She nodded, her eyes clouded with remembrance. “Oh, they blamed it on the privations of the war years and the death of my grandmother. It wasn’t that — not entirely. It was watching everything he had worked for all his long life lose value, seeing the fortune he made disappear along with the gallant traditions he believed in and the honor he held most sacred. He no longer cared to live, and so he died.”

“Leaving you alone to face all he had left.”

“Someone must,” she said simply.

“For all your much vaunted self-control, I think you felt it more than most.”

His tone was quiet, gentle, and disconcerting in its understanding. She met his open green gaze for a long moment, a breathless eon of time in which she felt a fleeting, perilous comfort … and something more she could not quite define. Admiration? Affinity?

Softly, almost to himself, he added, “It is the ones who allow themselves to feel the most who are easiest for others to use … and to hurt.”

This was too close for bearing. She made a swift, negative gesture, sitting forward. One of the cushions behind her slid to the floor, but she scarcely noticed. “I don’t believe that,” she said.

In a single smooth movement, he rose from the chair, picked up the cushion and loomed over her to place it behind her back. “Don’t you?” he asked, his face so close to her own she could see her own pale face reflected in the pupils of his eyes, see the ridged muscles of his jaw and the blue shadow of his beard under the skin. Even if she could have found an answer, she could not have voiced it.

A sound in the doorway behind them cut across the moment. “Well,” Sophia said, her voice overloud. “This is where you are. I could not believe it when I found your room empty just now.”

“Just the person we want to see,” Jason said straightening, stepping to the fireplace without hurry or visible change of demeanor. “The occasion calls for refreshment, don’t you think? What shall it be, Amanda? A glass of wine, or a cup of tea?”

“Tea, please,” Amanda replied.

“Certainly,” Sophia said. “I will be happy to tell Proserpine. For three, I presume?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Jason replied, “since Marta seems to have deserted us.”

Her silvery blond head held high, the other woman went away. Despite her words she did not look happy to relay the orders of the master of the house, even though she was to be included in partaking of the refreshments.

“It’s getting warmer, don’t you think?” Jason said. Moving to the window, he brushed the curtains aside and raised the sash, letting in a breeze laden with the musty midday warmth of Indian summer. Sophia returned before be was done and took the chair he had occupied.

“Marta hasn’t deserted Amanda,” the other woman said as if taking up a conversation where she had left off. “I saw her upstairs a while ago. Since she was free I asked her to turn out her room. It has been some time since it was cleaned last, and I wanted to gather the linens for the laundress. She comes tomorrow, you know, Jason.”

He gave her an indifferent nod.