Once the introductions were over, and after Connor had met all the family, they broke their fast in the gazebo overlooking the river. All that remained of the home crew, save for America, sat at table; Connor and Zeke made welcome additions, even though Connor appeared shy in the face of a Marshall multitude.
He'd get over it.
A morning breeze bathed the eaters, defying the Louisiana summer. Plates were heaped with ham and its red-eye gravy, grits, eggs, plus fluffy biscuits. India smiled. Why, this was just like the old days. Lots of food and lots of folks.
No one spoke a word against Connor or Zeke for their Yankeeness, though India knew it didn't go unnoticed. Persia's husband was fighting with General Forrest, Catfish had lost his father to an enemy bullet, and the whole family had suffered in varying degrees for the War of the Rebellion.
India supposed the Billy Blues she'd brought here in 1863 had inured the family to enemy presence. And Matt's easy acceptance of Connor had to mean something. Whatever the case, she wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.
Granny Mabel and ZekeâIndia took pride in having figured those two would make a pairâchatted and teased each other.
But Persia stole the show, giving the lowdown on Tim Glennie's latest letter. When hadn't she been the center of attention? Once that would have bothered India. No more. She smiled again, thinking about all that inspiration and how it had given her the gumption to keep after Connor. But she did cast a covert eye to see how he was reacting to the beauteous Persia. He didn't seem the least bit in thrall.
“Uncle Matt,” said Kirby Abbott, III, better known as Catfish, “I am glad you're home. I'm sick of runnin' the farm.”
Matt pulled his eyes from his voluptuous blond wife. They hadn't wanted to leave their room; there was no guessing why. He ruffled his nephew's hair. “It's good to be back, lad.”
Young Stonewall banged his spoon on the table, not at all interested in his father paying attention to another boy. “Me. See me,” shrieked the toddler. “Me.”
Matt lifted him from the high chair to fill a lap long empty of a son. “There you go,
me.
Is that better?”
Stonewall cooed, and Honoré leaned her cheek against Matt's arm. “My husband may have said it's good to be home,” the lovely woman from French Louisiana said with a lilting accent,
“mais
my Matt wants to take to the sea.”
“Uncle Matt, you better not.” A scowl on his freckled face, Catfish folded arms over an underdeveloped chest. “I've run this place since that soldier shot Daddy in the head, but it's your job to be boss, not mine.”
“Don't listen to your aunt Honoré. I'm here to stay.”
India lowered the morsel on her fork. Being on Burke O'Brien's steamship had increased Matt's appetite for seafaring life, it was glaringly apparent from his expression. If only someone could not only handle the plantation, but also love it ...
How about Zeke? He was a man of the land, a horse breeder and farmer, but he and Granny Mabel were up in years. They deserved a retirement.
Once the meal had been halfway consumed, India got down to business. “Are we still divvying up chores?”
A chorus of yesses answered her question.
“We've hired a few more of the freed servants, now that we have Winston's gold,” Granny Mabel said. “They've planted a truck garden. We'll have lots of vegetables to can for winter.”
“Who'll do the canning?” India asked. “Dahlia can't do that and keep meals on the table, too.”
Persia, who'd never lifted a finger before April 1861, spoke proudly. “I'm learning how, even though it's hot work. Already I've put up some early tomatoes. My, if only Tim were here, he could fan me ... and recite poetry to pass the time.” She pressed fingers to her ivory cheek. “War is just the awfulest thing, taking a man from his work at home.” Lashes batted. “If I weren't a married woman and you weren't an engaged man, Major O'Brien, I'd ask you to save li'l ole me from a life of drudgery.”
If Persia didn't treat every man like this, India would have been worried. But Persia was Persia. “Keep up the good work. With the
canning,
little sister.”
Other family members explained how they had pitched in.
“Work, work, work. That's all a fellow hears round this place nowadays.” Catfish, a boy stuck in a man's job, took advantage of his reprieve. “Think I'll go fishin'.”
“Speaking of fishing . . .” Granny Mabel got quiet. “When a lady brings a man all the way from Illinois, that implies a courtship. Or more. Major O'Brien, what are your intentions with my granddaughter?”
Connor laid his fork down. In an unenthusiastic voice, he said, “I'd like to ask your permission to take India's hand.”
Why does he act cold to the idea of marrying me?
Granny Mabel kept an investigative eye on him. “You're a strapping lad. Rather big. I reckon those muscles will come in handy around this place. We're short on help, as you can see.” She grinned at India. “You picked you a pretty one.”
“Yes, I did.”
Tell her about Port Hudson. And Georgia. Tell her Connor isn't meant for this place.
She couldn't.
“Will you be good to my girl?” Granny Mabel grilled him.
“Yes, ma'am. But you need to know something. I'm not rich. In my calling, a man doesn't get rich. But I will love and cherish her all the days of our lives.”
His eyes went to India, seeking silent confirmation, which she gave, now understanding his hesitation. He'd worried about wealth.
Turning back to Granny Mabel, he asked, “Do I have your permission, ma'am?”
“Yes.”
Everyone cheered.
Matt suggested a toast, which they made with the brewed chicory that served as coffee. He added his best wishes, and: “He's a fine fellow, even if he does side with the North.”
“I've got an idea.” Catfish lifted his index finger, brilliance prevailing in the mouth of a babe. “Indy and the major can get married, and he can run Pleasant Hill.”
If it were only that easy.
Twenty-six
Seated on the lawn, down where it met the river, Connor, shirtless and bootless, stared at the night-silvered waters and ruminated over the day just finished. What a day. It was not unlike being on the battlefield, everyone coming at you at once, so lively were the Marshalls. Yet he liked these people and he liked this place. Too much.
They were a family, the Marshalls, such as he'd never known. At breakfast, young Catfish had voiced something that had come to Connor's mind. Those women and that boy were doing a fine job of wrestling with a plantation in occupied territory, but he had the urge to give it a shot himself.
Foolish idea.
Even if he didn't have an obligation to the Army, even if it weren't his guiding light, he had too much pride to live off a wife's family.
He heard footsteps on the grass behind him, and knew India had come to him. He'd hoped as much. He wanted to end this day in her arms, but wouldn't do it in her family home, not without the benefit of marriage. It just wasn't right.
He meant to do right. Make things right at Port Hudson, and make certain any child of theirs wasn't born out of wedlock. He was honor-bound to do that. In honor of his love for her.
“Connor . . .”
“Why didn't you tell me this was no mere farm?” he asked, at this, their first private moment.
“I never thought to describe it. It just is. Does it daunt you?”
“How would you feel if it does?”
“I'd expect you to get over it. You're welcome here, Connor. Welcome and wanted.”
Sweet were her words, sweet and balming.
She placed a hand on his shoulder; a volley of desire went through him. He angled to grip that hand, and pulled her down across his lap, her slim legs shining in the moonlight. She wore a sheer lawn nightgown cropped at her knees. And nothing else.
It was like a granite column, his shaft. Had it been only two nights since they had last made love on the
Delta Star?
Considering the tier of his appetites, he decided it had to have been more like two years.
“God, I'm hungry for you,” he said huskily before shoving his hands in midnight-black hair and pressing famished lips to hers. The hollow of her mouth held the taste of vanillaâDahlia had made custard for dessert. But India was his dessert.
The thin material of her nightgown did little to shield the feel of her breasts against his bare chest. He discerned those mouth-watering tips tightening under the friction. His fingers untied the few ribbons, then drew the paltry barrier of textile aside. Lips ever starving savored her generous breast, and he felt as if there was no world outside of this scrap of ground and this seductive woman.
Another sense kicked inâhe detected the scents of soap and lavender. “You've bathed. I intend to mess you back up.”
She laughed, the sound throaty and erotic. “You just better. I'd hate to think I wasted all that fou-fou.”
“Mighty sure of yourself, aren't you, vixen?” He growled, and arranged her in the grasses. His mouth, his hands, all his heart went into his loving assault, and somewhere in the middle of it, he murmured, “Why shouldn't you be sure of yourself? Has any woman ever had more silken skin? Or finer curves for a man to skim his palm along?”
“You make me feel splendid, as if I were beautiful like my sisters.”
“Why would a man want a waft of fou-fou when he can have lavender in its entirety? You're what I want. Sweetness and unwavering pluck. Pure lavender. Pure India.”
A moment passed as she pondered all that praise. “What would you change about me, if you could?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” she implored.
“All right. I'd like to know more about what you enjoy.” He explored her ankle, then scouted upward to the back of her knee. “Do you like this, Indy?”
“You know I do.”
“Do you like
this
more?”
She drew in her breath as he made forays along the inside of her thigh, then circled his fingertip through the hair at the top of them. “Do your magic, Connor. You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I know. Wave my magic wand across
this.”
His tongue dipped to that place where she seemed to get the most excitement from, not counting the finish to lovemaking. Her hands held his head, and she moaned, feeling the excitement all the way through her. Oh, how she loved this. How she loved him. Always, he made her feel special, as if she were the most beautiful and precious woman in the world.
His love was unconditional, all she'd ever wanted. And they'd be lovers forever, until death and beyond. No longer did she fear their passing might be before its time. To have such love, for however long they would be able to enjoy it, was a precious gift, one that she could cherish one moment at a time.
And this moment was rife with rapture. He made love to her slowly, aroused each of her senses and all her passion, and with even more fervor than the times before. When he gave his hot seed into the glove of her womanhood, she felt as if they were already in heaven. Joined, happy, forever. For no other reason than unlimited love.
Replete, serene, she hummed a sweetheart's song after he slipped out of her and cuddled her into his brawny arms. Her eyes closed to accept the feather-light kiss that he gave to each eyelid. And then he was kissing her lips again.
“I never dreamed it could be like this,” she whispered when their mouths withdrew for the tête-à -tête of post-lovemaking. “You make me so very happy.”
“Make me happier, India. Marry me tomorrow.”
“Before I turn myself in to Port Hudson?”
“That was our plan, if I remember correctly.”
“Maybe in your mind, but I don't think we discussed the specifics.”
“We've got to marry first. You'll be in a stronger position as the wife of a Union officer, remember.”
A funny feeling crawled through her as they discussed reasons beyond love alone. “Can we marry tomorrow? There's a license to be got. With Unionists in control of the parish, do you think we'll have a problem?”
“No.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I had a talk with your grandmother. The Confederacy may've lost its hold in West Feliciana Parish, but the Marshalls still have influence. There'll be no problem with a license.”
“As capable as you are, I should've known you'd know right where to go to get a job done.”
He laughed. “I do appreciate your faith.”
She sobered to a certain extent. “Speaking of getting a job done, I must tell my family about Port Hudson.”
“You don't. I spoke with your grandmother this afternoon. Truth be told, she wasn't surprised. Zeke explained Rock Island before we got here.”
“I'm glad. I didn't know what to say to her.”
“You at a loss for words? Naw. Never.”
He got a loving cuff to the jaw for his brand of teasing. “You're really a very wicked man, Major O'Brien.”
“Is this a prelude to the list of all the things you want to change about me?” he asked silkily.
Should she be frank? She must. “If I had my ifs, well, my nephew didn't make a bad suggestion this morning. I'd love to think that you and I have a future here at Pleasant Hill.”
“Honey, I'm military.”
“I know. But this place needs a strong man at the helm. Count Matt out. He'll take to the seas, I imagine. As for Persia's husband, Tim Glennie reads poetry and collects butterflies.”
“Don't remind me.”
She chose to ignore his dry remark. “Catfish is a boy, although he's fine with repairs and with overseeing the few fieldhands we've been able to hire. You've seen him, though. Enough of his childhood has been ruined, and I want him to be the kid he ought to be. Besides, we need a leader. You're educated and experienced in leading men.”
“Not with cotton pickers.”
Phoebe's words about how he'd do anything to get away from cotton came back to her. “We can hire an overseer. All you'd have to do is make certain he can get the workers to work, and be fair in the making certain. It's not frontier outposts or Indians at the gate, but I can't imagine you'd get bored.”
She waited for his comment, and when it didn't happen, she studied his set, moon-kissed features. “Look at it this way, Connor. You'll be saving a bunch of ladies a lot of aggravation. We'd like to get back to what we're good at.” She tickled his nose. “Making life miserable for the menfolk.”
He chuckled, which pleased her. With tender vengeance, though, he tickled her ribs; she wriggled and squirmed, giggling, begging him to stop but not wanting it at the same time.
“Seems to me, Squirt,” he taunted, laying waste to her feet, “the Pleasant Hill ladies are very good at what they do.”
“Beast! Stttoppp.”
His attack ceased. Picking glades of grass from her hair, he said, all seriousness, “I've seen what you and your kinswomen have done to keep Pleasant Hill intact. Save for your sister Americaâno offense to her conditionâyou ladies are a mighty unit of soldiers.”
“We'll do what we must, till better times come along.”
“The war won't go on forever, and don't delude yourself into thinking the South will win,” he pointed out. “I'll go where the Army sends me, be it the frontier or a soft assignment back East. When you say I do, I'll expect you to follow me.”
“I will,” she replied honestly, but worrying about this home, Port Hudson, and a not inconsiderable place to the east called Georgia. Where the no-nonsense, matches-loving General Sherman had vowed to settle the war by making it on the citizens of the South. “Pleasant Hill will always be part of me.”
“It must've been a charmed life,” Connor speculated, “once upon a time.”
“Exceedingly charmed,” she answered, glad to get away from thoughts of Georgia. “Did you know Mr. Audubon lived amongst us for a decade and did many of his wildlife paintings here? Of course, it wasn't all pretty pictures or mint juleps or milk and honey. Not for this plain spinster it wasn't. But you know about that.” She recalled stories told by Granny Mabel. “Did I ever tell you . . . this plantation has been in the maternal lines of the family for almost a century?”
“Maternal lines?”
“Yes. The founder had but one daughter, and that set a standard for the coming generations. Mattie was the first son born on this land. Too much like Papa, Mattie. Saltwater in their veins. Then came my twin. Cotton and terra firma should've been Winny's middle names. No use going into all that, you know.” She jumped quickly to the next generation. “Might as well count Catfish out, too. He'll take wings at the first opportunity. Land, no telling where.”
She clicked her tongue. “What shall be, shall be.”
“My brave Squirt.” Connor took her fingers, kissed them, and his touch made her feel better. “I'll do my best to make up for all you've suffered. That may not be strings of pearls and handsful of diamonds, but it won't be because I haven't tried.”
“They must pay pretty good in Mr. Lincoln's army,” she joked.
“You know they don't. Does it matter to you should baubles never come your way?”
She didn't need to think about the collapse of the Cause in this section of occupied Louisiana to form an answer, but she wanted Connor to understand. “I suppose I was just as greedy as the next girl, before the war. Took a lot of things as my due. Then this happened and that, and before I knew it, that river yonder was festering with ironsides and stars and stripes.
“My own Mattie was surrounded at Port Hudson, four to one. I got scared, thinking about what-all might be taken from me and mine. And to tell the truth, Connor, I knew in my heart the South was losing this part of Louisiana.
“That's when I put on my thinking cap. What did I have to give to get a fair share of take? Not being a beauty, and not having an urge for prone-level tussling until I tried it on you, I didn't see a use in offering up India in a lavender silk gown. The only thing I was good at was looking out for people.”
“That's not all you're good at. It's just one of your sterling traits.”
She patted his cheek, delighting in tender praise. “That's sweet of you, honey.”
“Go on with your story.”
She broke a blade of grass, pulling it through her fingers. “I hitched up a cotton wagon and drove down to Port Hudson. Our boys may've been outnumbered, but they were holding their own. Toward the end of May, it really got ugly. Bodies lying on the ground, flies and mosquitoes in hog heaven. I figured, if I'm decent with these boys, they'll be good to Pleasant Hill. Didn't take me long to quit thinking about myself What I did, I did because I wanted and needed to. At last I had a purpose.”
She clicked her tongue. “As far as turnabout's fair play, I was right. And I was wrong. Many a soldier and officer thanked me for helping out. But a whole lot decided, 'If she's Louisiana, she's Reb.' They trampled the cotton and the corn. Helped themselves from the stable, and fired up the workersâtold them to take what they pleased as salary on the way out. Some of the Pleasant Hill folks took the Yankees at their word. Some didn't, like Dahlia. That's war. That's why I don't like it. It turns people mean.”
“But you're not bitter.”
“No, I'm not. But I learned a lesson. When people were grabbing this and that, I realized that nothing mattered but flesh and bones. Nothing mattered but my loved ones. So, to answer your question about baubles. No, baubles don't mean anything to me. Don't look at me like that. I know what you're thinking. That I'm contradicting my whole purpose in going North. I'm not. Baubles and money to keep a family on its feet are two different things.”