Surrender the Wind (5 page)

A knock at the back door drew both their attention. John changed…an edge of alertness about him.

“Do not worry. Some of my new students’ parents have made social calls. Remain here.” She moved to the parlor and glanced out the window and returned. “It is later than I thought. Samuel is here with our dinner. Rest assured, no one other than Samuel and his mother know of your presence and they are sworn to secrecy. They have escaped from South Carolina and I employ Samuel’s mother to cook and to do laundry, giving them the money they need to exist. Samuel will be in to assist with your personal needs. Without his help, I could never have lifted you in the bed.”

Over the week, when she wasn’t there, John walked back and forth, stretching his muscles to regain his strength. Like a caged lion, he explored the house and grounds. Outside, there was a half-moon privy and a small empty barn. No neighbors. They were sequestered from the rest of the world. In the distance, a train hooted a whistle. Can’t risk to be seen. He returned to the house.

In the parlor there was no furniture except a piano in the corner. Beyond that, a kitchen with a sideboard, table, chairs, stove…and the smell of burnt coffee. That was the end of the house tour. Not much. Very tidy. Very modest. The pieces didn’t fit.

During the day, John defended his opinions and at night, he watched her garrison her side of the bed with pillows. So far, he had been a gentleman.

“Say what you will, Miss Callahan, but I am a firm believer of States Rights. Each state is entitled to its own separate sovereignty. There is no debate on the subject.”

“Aren’t you full of virtuous principle and indignation? Won’t you ever listen to my reasoning?”

He gave her a speculative glance, saw where her dress parted, where her fingers touched the hollow of her throat. “It’s been my experience that reason and ladies never keep close company.”

“Oh-h! How dare you make light of my opinions. Our forefathers fought together for this land and paid with their blood for an idea, an idea unlike any other time in history. Don’t you understand that anything that’s worth fighting for is the whole?”

“We are two parts.” He reminded her.

“But two parts make a whole,” she protested. “General, allow me this one small favor to tap into your thick head—a house divided will not stand—it will fall.”

John clapped his hands. “Bravo! Spoken like a true Republican Lincolnite! When Washington agrees to reconcile—”

“Reconcile! The damn war is almost over.”

Noting her swearing, he drawled, “Of the fullness of the heart, the mouth speaketh.”

“Don’t quote me any Psalms.”

“Wrong. Matthew 12:34.”

“You’re a fine one quoting the Bible—your Rebs doubtless drink the blood of Yankee boys, dig up their graves and pick your teeth with their bones.”

He grimaced. “Almost as bad as picking a dead man’s pockets.”

“I told you I was getting your personal affects to write a letter to your widow. And to think of it, she’s well-suited for the likes of you. I can picture her—fat as an elephant, a complexion as ruddy as a washboard, and beady black eyes ringed like a raccoon. Did I ask you if she had a nose like a sausage? No doubt, she keeps you up all night with her snorting like a horse and constipation problems. Although I can’t say I blame her, living with the likes of you would cause anyone indigestion.” She tossed her golden head and eyed him with cold triumph.

“Indigestion?” he choked.

“At the very least, I can summon upon her joy at your passing to the devil’s own. Too bad to disappoint her.”

“I can imagine her great sorrow.” He lived to goad her.

“So you are married. Isn’t that amazing?”

“My goodness, we are full of spit and fire, aren’t we. Just like a woman to establish her outrage at something in order to secure her true endeavor. To answer your question, no woman has me in her clutches as of this late date.”

She pulled her glasses down and peered at him over the rims. “In your
September
years, you remained unmarried?”

“I’m not ancient. I still have my teeth.” He smiled and displayed his even white teeth.

“Is there something wrong with you? Some affliction? Madness runs in the family?”

John crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the headboard. “I’ll have you know I was sought and hunted down like hounds after a fox. In my Virginia county, there was no stone left unturned to find me. Girls sent flowers to themselves written with love notes from me that I never wrote. I’d enter a ballroom and they’d all start swooning. Their mamas tempted me with their food and their papas tempted me with their money. Even the girls themselves tried to compromise me.”

She gasped. “Compromise you! More likely you—”

“Why on one occasion…” He stroked his neck and looked at the ceiling with thoughtful reflection.

“Save me from your fantasies. Of course, lots of men are bachelors by choice—but in your case—it’s a choice girls didn’t want to make.”

“How you grieve me.” He quirked his brow. “Is there no hope?” A safe bet she’d be stoned at the pillars before she’d fall into that trap.

“You deny your conceit, yet, you seem convinced that if you had never been born, people would want to know why.”

He sighed with solemnity, and then placed his hand over his heart. “Miss Callahan, you are a very harsh judge. I am wounded. Perhaps if the Yankees put you in the front line, we Confederates would all run from sheer fright. In fact, they would only have to hear of your arrival, setting the South to fire, causing it to tremble with horror.”

“How old are you?”

“How old do you think I am?”

Her mouth curved into a smile. “The Cretaceous period?”

John scarcely heard her. He was still attempting to recoup from the staggering effect of the smile she’d just given him.

“Miss Callahan, your sweetness and poetry are a balm to my delicate condition.” In pure admiration, he considered the impact she made on him.

Catherine huffed. “Ha, from what I’ve read about you, you’re no more delicate than a snake and as ambitious as Lucifer.”

To keep his mind from going awry and his tongue from getting trussed into knots, John feigned injury. The woman held weapons enough to flay his backside. “And to think I could have more peace in a real prisoner of war camp. Instead, my misfortune is to endure your torture. However, I thank you for the compliment.”

“I could never consent to pay a man so great a compliment. Men fall so easy for flattery.”

How she poured out the honey. “I am humbled by your flattery. A snake? Lucifer? I am overwhelmed with your adulation, Miss Callahan. Indeed, I could aspire to no greater heights.” He shifted his position, the effort stabbing his side. He propped himself up on one elbow, then stared at her, his countenance giving nothing.

“Tell me about your home.”

She didn’t want the conversation to end and neither did he. Energized by the one topic that gave him pleasure, he said, “My home, Miss Callahan, Fairhaven, as it is called, boasts pin oaks in all their glory, and lobelia and violets as plentiful on the lawn as the stars in the sky. Fields and fields of tobacco, wheat, corn, and peanuts grow forever, and the fragrance of the best ham and bacon smoking in the sheds this side of the universe assails the senses. Deer, fox and raccoon roam abundant among beeches, maples and sweet gums. Fairhaven possesses a modest white house which, I dare say I’ve only slept in a total of fourteen days since the war’s commencement and where my parents reside. With fondness I recall slow, sweet days with picnics on the grounds down by the Shenandoah River—where our family and friends sit on springtime grass, eat fried chicken and sip sweet lemonade with hunks of ice floating in our glasses. I am glad to sing the praises of my fine home. I have many warm memories. But I fear it will be exposed and, without a doubt, suffer the ravages of war.”

“Your home sounds lovely. I hope it escapes any ruin.” She heard a knock at the door. “Samuel has arrived.”

* * *

Catherine departed to allow the thirteen-year-old, strapping boy with black curly hair, to help Rourke with his personal needs. Once the former slave moved past his fear of Rourke they had become fast friends. Across her yard, beneath the cool shade of a giant oak, she picked lilies-of-the-valley for the general’s tray.

So far she had been successful at keeping the conversation off her. She thought about the orphanage she had built in New York City using her family’s money for the orphans of the war. How were they faring? Hours she had spent volunteering with the orphans, and later divided her time working side by side with Dr. Parks with the veterans, marveling in his unorthodox and legendary skill in saving limbs.

Coming from one of the wealthiest families in the city, no one dared to criticize her breach in decorum. Of course, she chastised her detractors and shamed their idleness when so much was needed. From her example, many of her peers were inspired to volunteer.

Then Francis Mallory came into her life. She rubbed her fingers against the rough bark of the oak. To think she had fallen prey to his charms. He had presented a dashing figure with his flashing black eyes, his long curving mustache and impeccably black tailored suits.

How she remembered the day she met Francis, had been knocked down on Madison Avenue, and her reticule ripped from her wrist. Francis had knocked out the thief and returned her reticule, then pulled her to her feet. She had resisted his courtship, but when he appeared at her fundraisers, donating huge sums of money, then donating a carriage full of toys for her orphans, Catherine melted.

Jimmy O’Hara had later explained the snatched purse trick and informed her of Mallory’s history. In lieu of what Francis lacked in paternity, he made up for in internal violence. His blue-blooded father met a suspicious death followed by his stepbrother, the authentic, notwithstanding legal heir to Mallory Foundries. With powerful political connections to back him up, Francis was quick to seize the Mallory fortune by declaring his heritage, albeit an illegitimate claim that no one dared to voice opposition.

Mallory had raised his position in New York Society by two notches, still not enough to gain him entry into the high-class world he craved. To get there, he needed the Fitzgerald stamp to wash away the criminal part of his past. He held a fascination for Catherine, and along with his lust for recognition…nothing would get in his way to obtain both of his objectives.

Mallory’s grand design included taking over Fitzgerald Rifle Works by destroying its reputation. Deliberate misshapen gun barrels purchased from Mallory Foundries caused the Fitzgerald rifle to explode when fired, killing or maiming the soldier. The Secretary of War had wired complaints to Helmsley, Fitzgerald’s Rifle Works manager. Of course, Mallory Foundries claimed no accountability. The responsibility weighed on Fitzgerald Rifle Works and the well-earned and long-acquired distinction as the oldest, largest and reputable rifle manufacturer laid in great danger. Catherine had ordered Mr. Helmsley to have every gun fired and inspected several times before it left the plant.

She tapped her lip. Hadn’t the trouble at the Rifle Works coincided with the exact time of her brother’s disappearance? Leading the New York Calvary, Lt. Colonel Shawn Fitzgerald had ridden into battle after battle with hardly a scratch. Manassas, Antietam, Fredericksburg, Gettysburg, Boonsboro. The last of his whereabouts reported at Brandy Station where he disappeared without a trace. She had used the Fitzgerald influence in requesting a military investigation. Despite a full inquiry, the military came back empty-handed, and apologized with respect to that area of the country being fully engaged in battle, making it impossible for further exploration.

Jimmy’s street-rat existence produced him a master of the shadowy occurrences and personalities of the city’s Irish underworld. He had warned her of Mallory, but she couldn’t believe it. She had badgered Jimmy to escort her, disguised of course, into one of the most notorious underground gaming rings. To her horror, Francis Mallory crippled a poor immigrant with his bare fists to the wild cheers of gentlemen. Mallory had lifted his head and never was there a more awful face, a beast raised from the bowels of Hell.

To save Fitzgerald Rifle Works, she had Jimmy fence the Fitzgerald jewels. The funds were given to Mr. Helmsley and a secret foundry was built in New Jersey to supply Fitzgerald Rifle Works, freeing them from Mallory’s noose.

Then Catherine disappeared. Now she counted the days before she would legally be of age to obtain control of her family’s fortune. She would hire bodyguards and find legal avenues to take Mallory down.

What if Mallory found her? An image of perdition loomed. She laid in a bed, naked, his callous hands groping at her breasts. Dear God. She clutched the lilies and ran into the house.
Why did she feel safe with John?

* * *

John noted the lilies she arranged on the tray with the roast chicken smothered in currant sauce, braised potatoes and carrots, baked bread with fresh butter, and was that apple pie for dessert? She tucked a napkin under his chin and he liked her female pampering without artifice.

John considered many things: The war. The futility of it. But he knew, the South would never surrender. He would never surrender. He had to get back. General Lee had become short of good commanders. Many had been lost—Johnston, Jackson, Armistead. Their names kept slipping through his thoughts. He could not become connected to a woman.

However, the war had taken a toll on him.

So easy to forget…to stay here…to bury the Cause, yet, he would not be able to forget, his duty, his oath.

John rested against the pillows and smiled at her deliberate evasiveness. The very mysterious Miss Callahan did not fool him for one minute. Despite her subtlety, she was a picture to behold, her slender form sheathed in her simple pink dress with a line of tiny pearl buttons fastened just beneath her creamy white throat. Her emerald eyes were so agreeable in expression and, he found them irresistible, yet a naked intuition warned him from falling under her spell.