One
Rock Island, Illinois
March 14, 1864
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A tea party for three was a helluva place for a West Point fighting man to spend his thirtieth birthday. The War of the Rebellion raged to the South, but not here, not in the center of Major Connor O'Brien's discontent.
The hostess had excused herself to fetch a fashion periodical. North wind tapped at the windowpanes, snowflakes clotting the sashes, and the fireplace overheated this drawing room, where foodstuffs sat uneaten and a Persian house cat snoozed in his lap. Connor O'Brien envied the cat's sleep.
Medal of Honor territory this was not.
He eyed the other guest, a past-the-bloom member of the United States Sanitary Commission. India Marshall had arrived this afternoon.
The aged lady smelled of lavender water. Salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a bun at her nape, with tight curls springing to her forehead, she wore a lace kerchief above a squarish face. A shawl draped her shoulders. Rocking a Boston rocker, humming the battle hymn of the Republic, she busied her fingers with knitting a glove. Conversation didn't seem to interest her, since she hadn't said two words to Connor. Neither did she glance his way.
He sought to bring her out. “Ma'am, I understand you'll be taking quarters with the Lawrences.”
“I will.” She shoved spectacles up her nose. “I've been told officials must stay with Colonel Lawrence and his wife.”
Officials, and a reluctant major.
Wartime housing being scarce, the Commandant of Prisons had mandated the mansion built by long-dead pioneer, George Davenport, be used as seat for Rock Island Prison Camp's warden and his family. With many surplus rooms available to the childless Lawrence couple, Connor, as second in command of the newly constructed prison, had been afforded the luxury of the lodging. Some luxury.
Opal Lawrence had done her best to make the dwelling commonly known as the “Davenport mansion” homey, livable, and had given the place a woman's touch by placing this inherited piece of furniture with that bit of the same. But Connor would have been happier bunking inside the prison than to have taken quarters with the commander he both despised and scornedâand sarcastically thought of as “Dimpled Darling”âRoscoe Lawrence.
The colonel was anything but dimpled or darling. Ugly didn't begin to describe him. Inside or out. Lawrence's negatives were neither here nor there, though. He was Connor's commander. So be it.
Furthermore, the Army being the Army, no one had asked Connor for either his opinion or approval. Thus, he did his best to stay as far from this residence as possible, but such as Opal's modest tea party in honor of his birthday chained him to the place.
He studied the sanitarian's profile. “I've heard of the Sanitary Commission. Fine organization. They've sent nurses and doctors to staff military hospitals. But battlefield casualties are hundreds of miles away.”
While he had no use for his commander, it was his duty to keep abreast of everything that affected the prison compound located due north of the Davenport mansion, and Miss Marshall's presence couldn't be by chance. “What brings you to Rock Island?”
The humming stopped, but it wasn't for an answer.
He asked, “Will you set up a collection stand in town for donations of cookies and mittens for troops in the fields?”
She cackled, as if his had been the most absurd question in the world. Her voice sounding oldâtoo old?âshe never missed a beat, knitting. “War's work spreads near and far, Sonny.”
“Maâam, the name's O'Brien.” He scratched Amelia's furred chin, receiving a thankful yet somnolent purr. “Connor O'Brien.”
“Please excuse me. Age does peculiar things to a lady.”
He noted something peculiar, all right. The up-in-years Miss Marshall had an odd facial pallor, as if she'd powdered her cheeks with ashes. Still and all, Connor figured the petite woman had been comely enough in earlier years. Awnings of dark lashes porched her bespectacled eyes, and hers were nice features. Unwrinkled features.
She inspected the half-finished glove. “Mrs. Lawrence told me this camp is manned by decrepit veterans unfit for active duty. Grandfathers. What brought you to Rock Island Prison Camp?”
Apparently Opal hadn't added “dregs of the Union Army” to her details. Dregs fit Connor. As it did her husband.
“Most of the officers, and some of the men, aren't aged,” Connor pointed out, not at all eager to touch on his reasons for being assigned to a lousy outfit.
“All the better to keep the rowdies in line?” she asked.
“We do what has to be done.”
“That's war for you. The Rebels are so desperate they're sending lads barely weaned from Mother's milk into battle.”
“President Davis ought to order surrender.”
“The war does drag on. Beyond decency.” She bent her neck to finish off a finger. In a sorrowful yet caustic voice, she muttered, “Shouldn't have started.”
“It did.” Connor rested his wrist against the hilt of his saber. “The Union won't back down.”
“ 'Tis a pity.” Knitting needles clacked. “So many young men like yourself, dying, dying, dying.”
Older women did tend toward the maudlin, and since he had a high regard for such womenâhe had two splendid aunts in their fiftiesâConnor settled on the benign. “You're doing a fine job on those gloves.”
“Thank you.” She held them up, proud. “I'd be honored if you'd take them, once they're finished. Well, maybe not.” Her gaze took a fleeting shift in his direction, and he got a brief glimpse of dark blue eyes. Her tongue clicked. “You may have the next pair. I believe these'll be way too small for your big hands. You have nice hands. Broad, sturdy, strong.”
Again, she looked his way. Her lashes batted behind silver spectacles, flirting? He got uncomfortable. Connor liked women, but preferred them more his age.
“Yes, those hands are nice,” she gushed. “All the better to hold big ol' rifles or heavy swords. That's sure a nice sword you're toting.” India Marshall lifted and wiggled a finger way too youthful for her overall appearance. “Naughty boy, have you been using that shiny saber to keep your prisoners in line?”
He scowled. What was it about her that didn't ring true, over and above a questionable style in word choices? Connor stroked Amelia's feline ear and sized up the sanitarian. Her hands grasped his attention. Tawny in hue, they were neither weathered nor overused, nor did they have a single liver spot.
Her shape didn't resemble an older woman. There appeared to be muscle, and a pert bosom, beneath that crocheted shawl and ghastly gray frock. She called to mind a half-grown gray cat he'd found as a lad. Feisty, lynx-sly. No way was she akin to the fat lazy cat asleep in his lap.
“Sonny Boy, shame on you, staring at wizened old me,” India Marshall admonished, akin to a Sunday school teacher. “Why haven't you answered my question? Are you cruel to prisoners?”
Cruel? The off-to-Washington commander of this post had enough cruelty to go around. Roscoe Lawrence had taken the eastbound train from Rock Island this morning, had left not two hours before India Marshall arrived. His absence being the sole reprieve in the six months he'd had the ill fortune to be assigned to Rock Island Prison Camp, Connor got the sneaking suspicion he'd come up against a whole new set of problems.
“Well, Major O'Brien? Are you cruel?”
“I do what I have to do.”
“That's the coward's way.”
“Those Rebels deserve what they get.”
The fingers of one hand covered her lips, a gesture of shocked disapproval. “What would your dear mama back home think, were she to know her sonny boy is mistreating penned prisoners.”
“âDear mama' doesn't think anything, she's dead,” he replied, boiling hot. “Why are you goading me, Miss Marshall?”
“War's purpose is to kill and maim. My purpose is to clean up the mess. You and I couldn't be further apart in outlook.”
“Outlook you won't get an argument on. My job is to fight. I am a West Pointer. We live for combat.”
“Pity.”
“What is that supposed to mean? Ma'am.”
“ 'Tis a pity you must battle fenced-in men. I should suspect a big strapping lad such as yourself would much prefer to lock horns with the likes of that Rebel, Robert E. Lee.”
His exact preference. Connor should have been on a battlefield, fighting the misguided Confederates, but he wasn't, and if Stew Lewis didn't come through for him, no telling how many more birthdays he'd spend in the harvest of disgrace.
With a war of sorts going on in this drawing room, he got back to it. “Better
you
should lock horns with General Lee. I get the impression you're rarin' for a fight.”
“My gracious, you are a sensitive whippersnapper. Why, I bet you've grown tired of being cooped up on this island, with little more freedom than your own charges. Are you hoping for magic to spring you from here?”
A miracle was exactly what it would take to spring him from the trap of bad judgment. His actions at the battle of Gettysburg got him transferred here, and Connor supposed he ought to be thankful for not getting a court-martial over it, but how could he look on the bright side while under the command of Colonel Roscoe Lawrence?
He had, nonetheless, written to a West Point classmate, petitioning Stewart Lewis to call him back to the fields. Lewis hadn't replied. Alas, the appeal hadn't escaped Dimpled Darling Lawrence's notice. The camp commander, an ass of the first order, had objected. Loudly and profanely.
Connor slanted his gaze at the sanitarian. “There's no such thing as magic. If it existed, why are these United States falling to wrack and ruin from within?”
“It's never too late for miracles.”
“Right.” He gazed into hearth flames, rankled. “You're trying to pull something out of me, Miss Marshall.” He extended a long leg, and at the same moment he intended to ask, “What is it?” Amelia refitted herself on his lap, and parked her chin on the hillock of his uniform-covered privates.
Purrs loud and noticeable drew the sanitarian's eyes to the source. Miss Marshall's lips curved in amusement. The tables had turned. It was her turn to stare at him, but he didn't like the target of her line of sight.
“My gracious, Major, you do seem to be popular with the ladies.” Her comment obviously having little to do with the Persian, she added, “The young ones do like the conquering hero in a man, I reckon.”
Connor put Amelia to her paws. Quickly.
“Look, lady. I don't know what you're trying to prove, but I don't appreciate it. Seven thousand men are here because they made war against the legal government of these United States. If you're wanting to knit gloves and collect cookies for Union men, fine. If you've got something else in mind, like stirring sympathies against the war, move on.”
Her hands went still around the knitting needles. “I've offended you. I did so hope we could become allies.” She ducked her chin. “Forgive me, Major O'Brien?”
Allies? She'd taken a curious avenue to it. Why fight her, though? He'd been reared to show respect, not temper to his elders. Not doing so shamed him, brought him to his senses. Making war on little old ladiesâand penned warriors, truth be toldâas much appeal as quitting the Army to take over at Fitz & Son, Factors.
“No hard feelings,” he allowed.
“Thank you kindly, sir.” She gathered her knitting. “If you'll excuse me, I'll go upstairs and unpack.”
And so it was that on the blustery afternoon of his thirtieth birthday, Connor O'Brien rose by custom from the upholstered love seat in an overheated salon to allow a bothersome old lady her leave, and wished he could be anywhere else.
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India rounded the wall leading from the drawing room into the foyer, and wished she'd used a different tack in finding out how the inmates were treated. The wall as support, she shivered, her nerves haywire. Usually, India could be described as bold as full rigging, but home lay a long way south of here, and survival rode on the success of her mission.
You played it all wrong, Indy
. She'd tried to ape her grandmother, had mixed in her beguiling little sister, and what had been the outcome? Pure India Marshall.
She'd alienated that good-looking major.
Furthermore, Connor O'Brien had taken a too-close look at the young woman behind the get-up sewn by her nimble-fingered sister-in-law. The major's suspicion had been as evident as that manly bulge in those dratted blue uniform britches.
Gracious, he did do justice to his vestments!
Have you gone mad?
Conquering heroes had never appealed to her. Her taste ran toward poetry readers.
Taste was not the issue, nor was this a good time for wilting. Or for unpacking.
India squared her shoulders, dragging in a breath of restorative air. Better. Maybe all wasn't lost. After all, she'd apologized to Connor O'Brien, and he had been a gentleman about it. He might permit her inside the gates.
Permission or no permission, she must breach those walls.
It would be best if she cased the fence's perimeter to find its weakest point. Yet breaking into a penal colony had about as much appeal to India as swimming or snakes. Her weakest points.
Stop dawdling, Indy.
She thought of Tennyson's poem.
Yours is but to do and die.
She took a step. Her gaze caught on a tintype hanging on the wall. She eyed the opposite to the major's attractiveness. This soldier's image would knock the wind out of any sail.