Elizabeth Lane (10 page)

“Varina—” He burst inside to see his sister in the rocker with the baby, a quilt bundled around her legs. Her pale lips parted as she saw him, but she did not speak.

Donovan took a deep breath, forcing himself to be calm. “I just passed Mattie Ormes charging down the mountain like a runaway freight wagon,” he said. “Would you care to tell me about it?”

“You were in church this morning. I think you already know.” Varina’s voice was uncharacteristically cold.

“About Sarah.”

“Yes, about Sarah, and how shabbily she was treated, even by you! After all she’s done here, and the courage she showed today—why, I’m ashamed of the whole town!”

“Varina—” The name emerged as a groan as Donovan sank onto the foot of the bed.

The rockers of the old chair—the one decent piece of furniture Varina owned—creaked on the rough-sawed floor. “The war’s over, Donovan. It’s too late to change the past. Why can’t people just accept that and leave well enough alone?”

He stared at her, incredulous. “Is that what you said to Mattie?”

Varina bent to adjust the baby’s wrappings, taking her time to tuck the ragged blanket tight around the tiny feet. Fuming with ill-concealed impatience, Donovan watched the calm movements of her work-worn fingers. She didn’t understand, he reminded himself. She would feel differently when she knew the whole story.

“I know Mattie lost kinfolk in the war,” Varina said gently. “A lot of us did. But hate is like poison, don’t you see? Sooner or later, the bitterness has to end so we can heal and go on. As far as I’m concerned, that time is long overdue.”

Donovan’s fist slammed onto the bed, its impact crushing the straw in the thin mattress. “Damnation, Varina, when you get a notion in your head, you’re like a mule with blinders on! There are things you don’t understand—things you still don’t know about Sarah Parker—”

“And now I suppose you’re going to tell me, whether I like it or not.” Her fingertip teased the sleeping baby’s fine
russet hair into a curl. “All right, Donovan, I’m prepared to indulge you. I’ll listen.”

Her gaze shifted to the front of the cabin. Donovan became aware of Annie, who stood wide-eyed at the stove, stirring the stew with a long-handled wooden spoon.

“That stew should be about done, dear,” Varina said. “Slide the pot off the heat and go on outside for a while. Your uncle Donovan thinks he needs to talk to me.”

She settled back into the rocker, the baby’s face a crinkled pink blossom against the drab ecru flannel of Varina’s wrapper. Donovan seethed as he waited for Annie to leave. The thoughts he’d organized so masterfully on his walk had scattered like thistledown. He struggled to catch and rearrange them as the curious child dragged her feet out the door.

“Close it, honey,” Varina called softly.

The latch engaged with a reluctant click, leaving them alone. Varina waited, her green eyes sharp and guarded as Donovan took a deep breath.

“What do you know about Sarah Parker?” he asked her.

Varina’s gaze was direct and defiant. “I know that Sarah is kind and brave and honest—and that during the war she fought for what she believed in.”

“You also know the woman was a spy. Say it, Varina. Don’t play these damned evasive games with me.”

“All right. She was a spy. And you shot Yankees. Who’s to judge which was worse?”

Donovan ground his teeth, then, remembering his resolve to be patient with her, he exhaled his frustration, backed off and started over.

“There’s more,” he said in a low voice. “There’s a lot you don’t know.”

“I’m not sure I want to hear it.” Her pale-lashed eyes searched Donovan’s face. “But then, I suppose that’s too much to ask, isn’t it?”

“Varina, you’ve got to understand—” He made a half start at the thing. Then, too agitated to sit, he sprang to his feet and began pacing the rough boards.

“I knew Sarah Parker in Richmond. Only she wasn’t Sarah then. She was someone else—someone you wouldn’t even know. Last week, when she stopped by to check on you, I didn’t even recognize her. But the night your little Charlie was born—”

“Wait!” Varina stared at him, bewildered. “You knew all this time? And you didn’t tell me?”

“I tried. But Sarah had just saved your life. You weren’t ready to listen, let alone believe what you heard.”

Varina’s pale forehead furrowed in thought. “You knew Sarah in Richmond. And you didn’t tell me…Donovan, you were in love with her, weren’t you?”

His breath caught as the words slammed into him. “Now listen, Varina—”

“No, you listen! I’ve known you all my life, Donovan Cole, and nothing else could explain the way you’ve been behaving! You were in love with her. And I’ll wager anything you’re
still
in love with her—”

“That’s enough, Varina!” Donovan exploded. “Blast it, once you get an idea in your head, you’re like a runaway horse with the bit in your teeth! Sarah wasn’t my sweetheart back in Richmond. She was Virgil’s.”

“Virgil’s?” Varina’s eyes rounded as the revelation dawned on her. “Sarah was Virgil’s sweetheart? She was
Lydia?”

This time it was Donovan’s turn to be dumbfounded. He stared at his sister, too stunned to respond.

“The chest,” Varina said swiftly. “In the very bottom, under Charlie’s old suit, there’s a bundle of letters. Get them out for me.”

Donovan hesitated, knowing suddenly what Varina wanted him to see. It made sense that Virgil would have written to her during the war. It made sense that he would have told her about Lydia. But to read his words again, to
open up the old wounds—even the thought of it was more than he could stand.

Varina’s infant son slumbered in her arms, his lashes pure gold against peach-petal cheeks. He would look like Virgil when he grew older, Donovan reflected. Even now, he had the same fiery hair and delicate skin, the same impetuously thrusting jaw. Maybe he would even have Virgil’s eager, passionate nature.

No,
damn it, he could not read what Virgil had written. The anguish, the sense of loss he had kept at bay for so long would sweep in and destroy him.

Varina was waiting, the baby cradled tenderly in the crook of her arm. Something in her eyes both moved and frightened him. “Please, Donovan,” she whispered.

Steeling himself against the pain, Donovan bent over the battered reed chest and raised the lid.

The letters were where Varina had said they would be, bundled together and tied with a dirty string, which, Donovan supposed, was all his sister had. They fell onto the bed when he loosened the knot—a couple dozen letters in all. A few, though not many, were addressed in his own large, blocky hand. Seeing how Varina had prized them, he was sorry he had not written more.

Another letter, the only one of its kind, was scrawled in a delicate, wavering script that Donovan recognized as their mother’s. His throat tightened as he realized it had been penned a week before her death. Putting it swiftly aside, he rummaged through the rest of the pile and separated the six or seven missives he recognized as Virgil’s. Even the sight of that awkward, grammar school penmanship tightened a knot of bitterness in his chest. He remembered kneeling in the cemetery to fulfill Virgil’s dying wish, placing the sad little gold ring on the grave marked
Lydia
Rawson Tag
gart…

“Find Virgil’s last letter,” Varina said softly. “Open it and read it to me.”

“Varina, I don’t think—” he began, but then he saw in her face that arguing would only waste time. Bracing himself against a flood of bittersweet memories, Donovan found the last posted envelope and slipped out a single, faded sheet, covered with writing on both sides. The creases, he noticed, were worn limp from repeated unfolding.

Dreading the pain, he hesitated again. “Read it,” Varina prodded him. “I want to hear you read it out loud.”

Donovan swallowed the raw lump in his throat. His shaking hand blurred the writing on the page.

“Don’t worry,” she added more gently, “it’s not a very long letter.”

Clearing his throat, Donovan forced himself to begin.

“Dearest Varina,

I don’t have much time tonight. It’s late and we’re marching out at dawn. It looks like I may get to see some action at last. As a member of General Lee’s personal staff, I’ve spent most of my time in Richmond, or at least behind the lines. But the general’s promised me that’s likely to change this time out. Donovan’s fought a half-dozen skirmishes with the Yanks already. He tells me it’s pure hell, with not a shred of glory to it, and that if I’ve got any brains, I’ll just keep my head down and stay alive. But I don’t feel that way at all. A man’s not quite a man, I say, until he’s been baptized by fire. I’m more than anxious to do my part for the honor of our family and the South.

“Damned, impetuous young fool!” Donovan wiped his stinging eyes with the back of his hand. “I tried to tell him how ugly it all was, and how senseless, but he wouldn’t believe me. I don’t know that he ever did, not even when he was lying there with his guts shot out. Virgil died believing it was the noblest thing he could have done!”

“Go on,” Varina said gently.

Donovan blinked his eyes clear, steadied the page and moved to the next paragraph.

“But that’s not the real reason I’m writing. I wanted to send you some good news. Today I went to a jeweler’s shop and bought a dainty little gold wedding band. When this campaign is over, I plan to come back to Richmond, show it to the sweetest lady in Virginia, and ask her—to be my bride.”

The words stuck in Donovan’s throat. He coughed awkwardly, seized by a sudden emotion so dark it had no name. Reading the rest of Virgil’s letter, he knew, would be unremitting torture. But Varina was waiting, and it was easier to go on than to explain stopping.

“I haven’t told you about Lydia before. Not only is she an angel, she’s the most beautiful woman in Richmond. I still can’t believe she would single me out from a city full of dashing officers. Donovan, I sense, doesn’t quite approve of our relationship. That may be because Lydia is a widow and a few seasons wiser than I am. But what do such things matter when two people are in love? And I am in love, Varina. Meeting Lydia has been the happiest event of my life. If I die tomorrow, just knowing that she loved me will have been enough to—

“No more!” Donovan flung the letter down on the coverlet, too agitated to continue. “You’re not putting me through any more of this! Not without an explanation!”

“I’m sorry. I only wanted you to understand.”

“What’s to understand?”

Varina clutched the baby against her, her face pale but determined. “The letter—the one you were reading—arrived
the same day as the news of Virgil’s death. You can’t know how I clung to it—to every word of it—so grateful that Virgil had a sweetheart, that he’d known something of love in his poor, short life. And I vowed, for Virgil’s sake, that if I ever met his Lydia, no matter what the circumstances, I would embrace her as a sister.”

“Varina!” Donovan exploded. “Don’t you see what was happening? She was using Virgil! She didn’t love him at all!”

“How can you be sure of that?” Varina’s controlled voice could not mask her clashing emotions.

“She told me herself—Sarah did. Not one week ago. She explained that she’d been fond of Virgil, but that in her position, she couldn’t allow herself to love any man.”

“She was fond of him.” Varina’s flat voice bore a stubborn refusal to see the truth.

“Virgil was on Lee’s staff. He was young and trusting. He was the perfect target. Don’t try to defend her, Varina.”

“But Virgil never knew the truth. He died happy, Donovan, thinking his Lydia loved him.”

“He died
hideously!
I know! I was there!” Donovan reeled with the impact of the memory. Blood…blood everywhere, soaking the proud gray uniform. The shattered organs, the labored breaths, the racking coughs, and finally the mercy of death clouding Virgil’s clear, young eyes.

Donovan faced his sister, his gaze riveting hers. “I’ll never know how much information that woman charmed out of Virgil, or how decisive it was in the awful pounding we took that day. But I can’t forget who Sarah Parker was, and I can’t forgive her for what she did. No matter how much good she’s done here, Varina,
I can’t forgive
her!”

Jerking away from her stricken face, Donovan bolted blindly for the door. Escape—that was the one thing he wanted now. The demons of Virgil’s death were all around him—the pain, the horror, the burden of his own guilt. No
matter how fast, no matter how far he ran, he knew he would never be free. But he had to try. That, or lose his mind.

He was stumbling across the yard now, past the startled eyes of the three children. The trees were ahead of him, and the rocky slope, jutting upward toward the ridge and beyond, where the jagged peaks scraped the sky.

Clouds were scudding in from the west, the first harbingers of a spring storm. From beyond the peaks, thunder rippled like a distant drumroll, but Donovan paid it no heed. His memory was trapped in the damp chill of a September night, with Lee’s troops camped behind the protecting ridge above Antietam Creek, while Yankee shell fire blazed against the ink black sky.

They had sought each other out, he and Virgil. As the darkness flashed around them, they crouched in a sheltered hollow, talking away their fears.

For a time, things had gone well enough. The old brotherly closeness, all too rare of late, had returned to enfold them in its warmth. They had relaxed and reminisced, savoring each other’s company for what could be the last time. Then Virgil had fished the gold ring out of his pocket and announced his plan to propose to Lydia Taggart.

Donovan had countered with a barrage of frantic advice. Lydia was too knowing, he’d argued, too worldly for a twenty-year-old innocent like Virgil. As for love, the boy would be well-advised to let his blood cool. He was suffering from a bad case of infatuation, that was all. It would pass, and he would be the wiser for it.

“Let Lydia go her way, Virgil,” he had counseled. “I know her kind. In the end, she’ll only break your heart.”

Virgil’s youthful temper had flared like tinder. In his anger, he had lashed out at Donovan.