The Quaker and the Rebel (10 page)

Mrs. Bennington couldn’t wait until the carriage came to a halt before craning her neck out the window. “Rebecca! It’s so good to see you.”

Emily peeked over the woman’s shoulder to study the mansion. It was a rather impressive sight, she had to admit. The house was nothing like Bennington Plantation back on the island. Entirely wood-framed with tall columns and second-floor balconies, it rambled outward from several wings and additions, yet the whole structure had a welcoming elegance. Crepe myrtle, potted bougainvillea, and lattice filled with climbing wisteria gave the home a riotous, overblown feel.

“Augusta, it’s been far too long.” A woman hurried down the steps to greet Mrs. Bennington, leaving the master of the house to follow behind at a more leisurely pace. Tall and straight backed, Rebecca Hunt had silver-streaked hair and ruddy skin. Bone thin and hawk nosed, she wasn’t beautiful like her sister, yet something appealing radiated from her smile.

Emily helped Mrs. Bennington down from the carriage, clutching her arm with one hand and her reticule tightly in the other. “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

“Good afternoon and welcome.” Mrs. Hunt smiled pleasantly in her direction and then hugged her sister.

The gentleman stepped forward. “I’m James Hunt. You must be Miss Harrison.” He extended a smooth hand that had never engaged in hard labor. “I believe you’ve already met our son, Alexander.”

She dipped one knee slightly. “Yes, sir. Thank you for your kind hospitality.”

“Not at all. Let me take that.” He pulled the bag from her fingers, handed it to a servant, and turned to greet his sister-in-law.

Blessedly, the master’s son was nowhere to be seen. Emily didn’t like the way her gut tightened whenever Alexander looked at her or the way he twisted her words. He made her feel like an unpolished schoolgirl instead of a trained governess.

“Come, Emily,” said Mrs. Bennington. “Rebecca will give us a tour of the main rooms. She’s made some changes I’m eager to see.” Arm in arm, the two sisters climbed the steps, chattering away. Because Mrs. Bennington had refused her chair today, Emily trailed close behind, ready to catch the woman should she fall.

As she wandered the expensively appointed rooms, Emily remembered her ill-timed meeting with Alexander at the abandoned barn with an uncomfortable flush. This home, deeper in the Confederacy, was a place she could effectively start slaves on their road to freedom. She hoped the master’s son had forgotten her perfect spot to hide runaways overnight.

Two hours later, Mrs. Hunt held up her palms, concluding her lengthy explanation of hand-painted wall coverings, imported tapestries, and European furniture. “Enough. Shall we enjoy an informal dinner on the terrace tonight? You’re probably exhausted after the trip.” She, however, looked as fresh as a spring morning.

“I believe I’ll retire to my room,” Mrs. Bennington said. She appeared ready to faint. “Please send dinner up on a tray later, something light.”

“Will you be joining us this evening, Miss Harrison?”

“No, ma’am. Thank you for the invitation, but I also prefer to relax.” She slipped her arm firmly around Mrs. Bennington’s waist as they started up the stairs. With the inevitable meal with the Hunts postponed, she was granted a temporary reprieve. After unpacking and resting in her room, she slipped down two flights of servants’ stairs to the first floor. Conversation ceased and all eyes turned as Emily entered the room.

“Hello, Miss Harrison.” Lila scrambled to her feet. She sat at a long trestle table in the huge, partially underground kitchen. The room was comfortably cool, yet the massive fireplace would make it cozy warm during winter.

“May I join your family for supper?” Emily directed the query to Matilde.

“Yes, if you promise to stay away from the stove.” Matilde flashed her magnificent smile. “Sit there, next to my daughter.”

Emily complied with both requests. Over the next hour, Matilde introduced Emily to the entire Amite extended family as workers came in to eat and then returned to chores. Relaxing on the bench, she dined on rabbit stew, wilted greens, lima beans, corn bread, stewed tomatoes, and blackberry pie. The Amites were well known and loved by the Hunt Farm workers, both slave and free. Lila introduced her to cousins and nieces and nephews until Emily gave up trying to remember names. After eating their fill, Emily and Lila took a long walk as the sun dropped behind the Shenandoah Mountains. It was peaceful here and beautiful, yet Emily was filled with an odd sense of foreboding long after she told Lila good night and crawled beneath the soft quilt on her bed. Storms and specters filled her dreams as she tossed and turned in the perfect bedroom in the perfect world of Hunt Plantation.

“Miss Harrison. Miss Harrison.” A voice pierced her fitful slumber, causing Emily to scramble from her bed. “Mrs. Bennington wishes you to join her for breakfast on the terrace.” A voice called through the door.

“Tarnation,” she muttered. In a louder voice, she said, “Please tell Mrs. Bennington I awoke frightfully hungry and had breakfast in the kitchen earlier.”

The person at the door seemed to be waiting for a better excuse. When none came, the maid said, “Yes, miss. I’ll tell her.”

Forgive me, Lord, for lying and breaking Your Ninth Commandment.
Emily sent up her penitent prayer.
Another reprieve, but how long can this go on
?

Unfortunately, not long at all. Mrs. Bennington sent a note to Emily’s room, insisting she join her for lunch on the terrace. Because the ball was that evening, luncheon would be served at two. Emily arrived promptly at the appointed time to find Mrs. Bennington seated with her sister.

“Come sit, my dear. It’ll just be us women for the meal. My
brother-in-law left to track down Porter at the field hospital. He’ll lend a hand until time to bring Porter back for the evening festivities.”

“One could almost forget a war is going on,” Emily murmured. Mrs. Bennington nodded in agreement, but Mrs. Hunt slanted an odd expression. Emily concentrated on lunch while the two sisters shared news and gossip about mutual friends. There was absolutely no mention of Alexander during the meal. Perhaps he was estranged from his family and wouldn’t be making an appearance. Oddly, she found no relief at the thought. Though he wasn’t physically present, the laughing, mocking eyes that had caused her to blush in the barnyard seemed to follow her around her room. Would there be no escaping him, even in his absence?

Finally, Mrs. Bennington struggled to her feet. “Shall we rest, Emily, until time to get ready for the ball?”

After helping her employer to her room, Emily napped for several hours—something unheard of on her parents’ farm. Refreshed, she dressed carefully for the Hunt Farms ball. If she was to be of use, she must study her adversaries in this region of white columns and slave-tended fields. The aristocratic manners and genial hospitality of the slave owners couldn’t mask their evil, blackened hearts. She grew up poor, but she had also grown up knowing freedom.

Because Lila had the evening off, Emily struggled into her underthings and the ball gown on her own. The deep sapphire color added depth to her pale blue eyes. With tiny pearl buttons down the front and hundreds of pin-tucked folds below the waist, the dress accentuated her slim figure. Slipping on dancing slippers, she pinned up the few stray locks that escaped her chignon. She refused to have her hair done by a slave maid.

No one will be looking at me anyway
. She had seen the steady stream of carriages for the past hour, delivering at least one belle and in some cases, several beauties on the arms of their fathers. Each wore a gown more exquisite than the last. A Paris fashion house during the spring shows wouldn’t offer such gorgeous selection.
“Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow…Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of
these.”
For some reason, the Bible’s assurance that Christians shouldn’t worry about clothes failed to console her. Jealousy filled her heart and eroded her confidence. Just once, Emily wanted to feel pretty, self-assured, and carefree instead of backwoods, unsophisticated, and poor.

Not wanting to be announced at the entrance, Emily slipped up the servants’ stairs to the third floor ballroom. The high-ceilinged, palatial space was crowded with revelers. Emily found an obscure spot behind a potted hibiscus to watch the festivities. Couples whirled around the polished marble floor with confidence, as though each fluid movement felt as natural as drawing breath.
Miss Turner’s School for Ladies didn’t quite prepare me for this
, she mused sourly.

Along the wall conservatively dressed, silver-haired ladies and rakishly handsome aristocrats stood in clusters, sipping from long-stemmed flutes. From her position by the hibiscus, Emily spied her host across the room talking with several soldiers clad in Confederate butternut. As often the case when one stares long enough, Emily locked eyes with Alexander Hunt, who was apparently not estranged from his family after all. He stopped talking and grinned from ear to ear. She glanced left and right to see for whom the magnificent smile had been intended. No one had ever looked at her in such a fashion. Emily felt like a snared rabbit when Alexander bowed to the soldiers and crossed the room.

“Great Scot, it is you, Miss Harrison. I thought I saw that potted plant move. I arrived home just a bit ago and didn’t know my aunt and uncle were visiting.”

“If you’d been forewarned, Mr. Hunt, would you have leaped down on me from the balcony?”

He threw back his head and laughed. “At the very least, Miss Harrison.” His voice turned several heads in their direction.

“Would you be so kind, sir, as to lower your voice?” she whispered.

He furrowed his eyebrows. “Are you afraid I will mention you went riding in a completely inappropriate costume with your petticoats showing?”

Emily bit the inside of her cheek. “No. I simply don’t want Mrs.
Bennington to know I had…wandered so far off-track from Martinsburg.”

“You were definitely beyond the reach of a casual ride. Some might be curious as to what you were doing. But since the girls are in Paris, I imagine you have much free time on your hands when Aunt Augusta rests.” Again he laughed as though greatly amused.

The sound was starting to grate on her nerves. She offered her sternest, most schoolmarmish scowl.

“Don’t worry, Miss Harrison. Your secret is safe with me. I’ll never tell a soul you left Martinsburg for the afternoon and somehow ended up in Berryville.” Then he added, more to the potted hibiscus than to her, “My uncle said you were a fireball.”

“I shouldn’t keep you from your other guests and, frankly, I’ve grown weary of this conversation.” She scrunched her nose, sniffed, and turned away.

But he was too quick for her. Alexander trapped her against a pillar behind her with his palms flat on both sides of her head.

“Do I vex you, Miss Harrison? Or maybe I tempt you to do something spontaneous?”

“No, Mr. Hunt, you do not. I like my actions to be well thought out,” she snapped, trying not to breathe in his heady scent. Matthew had smelled no different than any other farmer, not like this exotic blend of spicy shaving balm and pomade. She slipped down the pillar and prayed her knees wouldn’t buckle from anxiety. “Does this method usually work for you? Do women usually find this kind of effrontery charming?”

“I daresay, more often than not they do.”

“Then I shall be a new experience for you.” Emily ducked under his arm to escape.

“Wait, please,” he begged. “Let me at least sign your dance card. You cannot refuse your host.”

“I have no dance card, sir. I don’t plan to indulge in dancing.”

“Because due to your Quaker religious convictions you never learned how?”

“I didn’t say that. Miss Turner taught me the basics, but I choose not to participate in ridiculous frivolity.” She picked up her voluminous skirt, but he wouldn’t be put off so easily.

He took her arm with a gentle but firm grasp. “My aunt will be crushed when she learns you treated your host with such unwarranted hostility. Were you raised by a pack of wolves, Miss Harrison?”

That was the last straw. Emily rose up on tiptoes to almost be on eye level with him. “My mother raised me to have manners no different than any of these silly Virginia belles.”

“Is that so? But a lady would indulge her host in his simple request…”

“Fine, we shall dance,” said Emily through gritted teeth. Taking his arm with a gloved hand, she allowed herself to be led into the crowd. Once on the floor, however, she couldn’t keep up as he tried to guide her through a reel. She found herself taking extra steps which threw off their rhythm. It was as if her legs were a yard too short or she’d grown a third foot.