Shades of Gray: A Novel of the Civil War in Virginia (22 page)

One of the women helped Andrea sit up while the
other held the glass of water.

“It miracular, Izzie,” she heard the older woman
say, before falling back against the pillow. “Go get Zach. Tell him to fetch
Massa drekly. She livin’ agin.”

Sometime later, though she didn’t know if it was
the next day or the next week, Andrea awoke to the sound of someone humming
beside her bed. “Where am I?” she whispered in a hoarse voice.

“Don’t you go worryin’ about where you is,
Mistis. We gonna take good care of you.”

Andrea nodded and floated back into the
darkness. She wanted to ask about her leg. Was it still there? But waves of
pain erased the questions from her lips. She wanted to talk, yet she wanted to
sleep. Sleep, more than anything, seemed to help her escape the pain.

But sleep no longer seemed possible, and there
was no such thing as a world without pain. Nerve and muscle alike racked her
with agony. Even the blood in her veins seemed afire, the searing heat stabbing
her with lightning bolts of torment.

Struggling to open her eyes at last, Andrea took
the first look at her surroundings. Her gaze fell first on the veiled light
that entered through a slot in the closed drapes of a window. She blinked at
the brightness, a light so intense to her sensitive eyes that it seemed alive.
She longed to stand in it, to feel it. Turning her head, she studied the rest
of her surroundings. She appeared to be in a room of comfort and elegance,
lying in a great poster bed of mahogany on a downy feather mattress.

Without warning, a plump, black woman burst into
the room with a tray. “Natchally, I thoughts you might be awoken today. How’s
about condescendin’ to a little brekfest?”

“Where am I?” Andrea’s mouth felt strange. She
wondered if she spoke loud enough for anyone to hear.

“I tol you, don worry ‘bout where you is.”

“Where am I?” Andrea said, louder this time.
Although her voice was feeble, she was amazed she could actually speak.

“I cain’t prezactly say. But you’s in the home
of my massa.” The woman’s tone was indignant.

“Who is your master?”

“Don’t you worry none bout dat. Ole Him a good
man. Take good care of you.”

Andrea saw
the tray of food just inches from her hand. Without thinking of the end result,
she reached up and gave a weak pull. The servant screamed in astonished
surprise when dishes tumbled and crashed to the floor.

“I demand to know where I am!” Andrea clenched
her teeth against the pain that seized her body.

“And I demand that you stop this behavior this
instant,” came a deep voice from the doorway.

Andrea looked up and blinked, hoping a second
look would change the image before her. The light coming through the door
behind him almost blinded her, yet his identity was unmistakable.

“
You
,” was all she could say, or at
least, thought she said. Andrea looked him up and down, believing he might not
be real, that she might be dreaming again. His boots and uniform were
mud-spattered, as if he’d ridden a long way in a short amount of time, yet he
appeared to be tall as an oak tree, his eyes sparking with the light of battle.
She blinked, trying to take in every detail of this soldierly figure that
radiated a presence and power that filled her with rage.

“I’s sorry, Massa. I din’t know you was home.”
The servant moved away from the wall and picked up a piece of glass.

“I just
arrived,” Hunter said in a low, unemotional voice. “You can clean up this mess
later.”

Mattie backed toward the door, keeping her eyes
on Andrea. “Careful, she got de devil in her head,” she whispered before
exiting.

“Miss, in the future, I would appreciate it if
you could try to act civilized in my home.” Hunter strode into the room.

His biting
words made Andrea angry, and the rush of blood the anger sent through her body
brought with it so much pain that her eyelids trembled. “In your
home
?”
Even to her own ears the words sounded as if they came with great effort and
from a great distance. Andrea took a deep ragged breath and tried again. “Have
I not endured enough of the South’s hospitality?”

* * *

Hunter raised one eyebrow, amazed at the girl’s
quick tongue so early in her recovery. But when he gazed upon her pain-filled
countenance, a feeling of sympathy arose in him.

“I apologize on behalf of the Confederacy for
your treatment,” he said in a gentle voice. “There was a … miscommunication
concerning your imprisonment.”

She squinted at him with a look of pure revulsion.
“Mis-communi-cation?” She stumbled over the word, as if it were more than her
muddled brain could manage. “So I am a prisoner here, now?” The look on her
face, even with her weakness, was hostile. “Here for you to take out your
vengeance?”

 “Miss, you are not a prisoner here. You are
free to leave as soon as you are able.”

“I am able,” she retorted, making an attempt to
rise. Although she appeared to make a valiant effort, her head barely made it
off the pillow.

For a moment, Hunter pitied the girl for what
she had tolerated in prison and what she would endure in her recovery. Her
weary and distrustful eyes stared strangely, as if unable to comprehend the
events that were yet unfolding.

Deciding to
let her rest, Hunter turned to leave, but stopped with his hand on the
doorknob. “You need not fear your treatment here. I pledge my word.”

He waited for a response, but none came. The
girl had become occupied with the ring on her finger, staring at it as if it
were new to her—or she just now remembered from whence it came.

“Daniel is here?” she asked, not removing her
eyes from the ring.

The question caught Hunter by surprise. “Yes, he
is here.”

Her countenance grew peaceful. The knowledge of
his brother’s presence, even in death, apparently gave her some sort of
comfort.

Deciding that silence was his best ally, Hunter
exited the room and hoped a good night’s sleep would cure his houseguest’s
irritable demeanor.

* * *

Hunter discovered the next morning that he was
mistaken in believing there would be an amiable discussion. Arriving in her
chamber a few moments after his servant entered with breakfast, he heard her
mumble, “I’m not hungry.”

“Miss, you must be hungry.” Hunter tried to
pretend the events of the preceding day had never occurred. “You haven’t enough
flesh on your bones to provide decent forage for a buzzard.”

Izzie sat the tray down and scurried from the
room.

“I trust you slept well.” Pretending to fix his
collar in the looking glass, he studied her reflection instead. She appeared
pale and exhausted, her eyes deeply sunken. She blinked hard as she glared in
his direction, apparently trying to see through clouds of fog and pain.

“Are you comfortable?” He turned around at her
quietness.

“
Now
,
Captain Hunter?” she replied scornfully. “Or before you came in?”

Hunter laughed, unaffected by her demeanor. “You
need not feel distressed at being here. I’ll do all in my power to help you
recover.”

“Then you are more kind than wise.”

Although stung by her sarcasm, Hunter thought it
best to ignore the stab. “You have the advantage of me. You know my name, but I
don’t know yours.” He stared at her hard. “Not your real one, anyway.”

The girl
turned her head away and studied the wall for a moment before answering.
“Andrea.” She paused, still gazing at the wall. “Evans.”

Hunter pondered the chance that the name was
real. Regardless, she appeared to have resigned herself to the fact she would
be recovering in his house. “Well, Andrea Evans, is there anything I can do for
you?”

Andrea
favored him with little more than a suspicious stare. “Let me go.”

“I can’t do that. You’re in no condition—”

Hunter watched her eyes shut violently against
his words, as if hearing them spoken aloud was more pain than she could endure.

 “Miss Evans, I wish to assure you that I am an
honorable man, and despite the fact you are my enemy, your treatment here will
be just. I can hardly be more generous.”

Her head turned slowly toward him. “You did not
possess the common decency to grant me my preferred punishment then, and I have
little hope you have acquired that trait now.”

Hunter forced a laugh and tried to control his
rising temper. “My dear, there is nothing
decent
about this war, nor the
crimes you perpetrated against the Confederacy.”

“My crime against you was devotion to my country,
her laws and her Constitution,” Andrea snapped. “The worst, most despicable
punishment you could conceive would be to bring me
here
. I may well die
within the confines of these walls.”

“I have no reason to be concerned about that
possibility,” Hunter responded sarcastically, “because you are obviously too
stubborn to die on enemy soil.”

Andrea turned her head as if warding off a blow,
and stared blankly at the wall.

“I apologize for your imprisonment,” he said
more softly now, “but as for being caught, you have no one to blame but
yourself.”

For a moment Andrea did not speak. Then her gaze
shifted toward the window, and her hand lifted in silent supplication. “Then
confine me if you must … but I beg of you, do not make me bear this burden
without seeing or feeling the sun.”

Hunter stared at her sallow skin, and could not
help but agree that the sun would do good for one who had risen from the dead.

He sighed and walked over to the window. Opening
the curtain, he stared out at the cold, gray sky. Situated as it was on the
north side of the house, the guest room never received direct sunlight, even
when not veiled by snow clouds as it was today.

When he turned back to Andrea, she appeared to
have drifted into a restless sleep.

Exiting the room and starting down the stairs,
he called for his servant.

“Yes, Massa?” Mattie magically appeared at the
top of the stairwell.

“Prepare the bedroom on the east wing,” he said
over his shoulder.

“You mean—”

He stopped and turned around. “Yes, Mattie. I
said the
east
wing.”

Mattie walked
away, but Hunter heard her mumbling under her breath. “A person cain’t keep up
with such transforminations as is going on aroun’ heah.”

Chapter
21

“O, with what freshness, what solemnity and beauty is each
new day born.”

– Harriet Beecher Stowe

Hunter was up as the first rays of light began
brightening the night sky. Passing Andrea’s new quarters, he paused in the
doorway when he noticed she was curled up on the windowsill. 

“It’s magical is it not?” she said without
altering the direction of her eyes.

Hunter did not answer at first. He just stared
at the figure silhouetted in the window. With her hand pressed against the
glass, it appeared she was trying to touch the sun as it entered the morning
sky.

“It’s ga-lorious no matter how many times you
see it!”

She glanced around when no one answered. “Oh,
it’s you.” She turned back to the window in grim silence.

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.”

His words were met by icy silence. She leaned
her head back and closed her eyes, though he could tell the action was not from
weariness. The way in which a nerve throbbed in her temple revealed that each
movement, no matter how slight, caused her great pain. How she had managed to
pull herself onto the wide sill he could not see. But he was glad he had taken
the added precaution of moving the bed next to the window.

“I will make every effort to see that your stay
here is comfortable.” When she still didn’t speak he asked, “Do I repulse you
so?”

“No more than anyone who fights against the flag
of their nation.”

Hunter took the blow like a true soldier. His
young houseguest had apparently awakened from her long slumber with a soul no
less full of hostility than when he had seen her some months before.

He watched
her gaze turn back to the landscape, and when she spoke again, it was in a low,
confused tone. “The seasons seem to have changed without me.”

“It’s February,” Hunter said, knowing she was
trying to calculate the lost months. “You were in Libby through December. I
petitioned for your release as soon as I heard about your imprisonment.”

“
Heard
about my imprisonment? And it
somehow came as a surprise to you?”

Hunter looked down at the floor, knowing his
story sounded like he was shifting blame. “As I told you, there was a
miscommunication.”

Andrea dismissed him once more by closing her
eyes, and he dismissed the thought that he would ever again see anything but a
scowl upon her face. The warm, enchanting smile she had worn at the ball must
have been part of the act, because he had yet to see any semblance of it here.

“It may please you to know, there’s been a
rather large escape from Libby.”

“The tunnel?” She turned her gaze toward him.
“When?”

Hunter cocked his head and stared at her
intently. “Yes, they escaped through a tunnel … just a few days ago.”

“Was Colonel Streight among them?” For the first
time all morning, she looked him in the eyes with something other than hatred.

“Yes. He was listed among them.”

Andrea sighed, and Hunter thought he almost saw
her lips turn slightly upward.

“You were aware of the plan?”

She turned her head away like a cat that
pretends not to see or hear its master. Hunter interpreted the action exactly
as it was meant, as one of rebuke and defiance. Although she was gaining
strength, she was also growing more remote—and irritable—if that was indeed
possible. The fever of her illness had passed, replaced by the fever of unrest
and hostility. The former had been capable of killing her, the latter, everyone
else in the household.