The Quaker and the Rebel (8 page)

The room grew so quiet one could hear wax drip from the sconces.

“No.” His heavy lids drooped, rendering his eyes impossible to read. “I’m moving because doctors are desperately needed in that area. Most doctors in the East have joined one or the other armies, leaving towns frightfully short of medical professionals.” Several guests put down their glasses and stared at her with undisguised hostility.

Emily couldn’t seem to stop herself. “Your guest just said planters are more welcome in eastern counties than here, where most farms are run without keeping people in bondage.”

Ladies reacted to Emily’s display of unfeminine behavior with a sharp intake of breath. To be sure, no one present had ever heard a woman speak so boldly before. The gentleman on Emily’s right covered her hand with his and squeezed, as though attempting to bring her to her senses. The older man on her left cleared his throat. “Here, here, miss. Do not talk of matters of which you have no knowledge.”

“But I do have knowledge of such matters, sir. Mr. and Mrs. Hull confirmed my suspicions about slavery in this area.”

“You are correct, Miss Harrison,” said Dr. Bennington. “Slaveholding plantations are few and becoming increasingly unpopular here, but that is not my reason for leaving.”

“Porter, you don’t owe this ill-bred young woman an explanation,” interrupted the elderly man. His bulbous nose had grown increasingly pink during the meal. “Isn’t she your governess? She should be sent back to the nursery to her charges at once, if not given her walking papers.”

More than one dinner guest nodded in agreement. Except for
Margaret. She stared at Emily with wide-eyed horror. And not Mrs. Bennington, either. Oddly, she watched the ordeal with teary eyes, wringing her hands as though frightened of the outcome.

Sipping his wine, Dr. Bennington remained unruffled. “No, Walter. Miss Harrison is encouraged to speak her mind in my house. That’s how we are raising our daughters.”

Emily regained her composure and looked at him squarely. “I acknowledge that you are an unusually benevolent master, Dr. Bennington, but how can it be just to uproot and move your
people
miles away against their will?” Again, the room grew so quiet she could hear the clock ticking on the mantel.

“I agree with you, Miss Harrison. That is why I signed Deeds of Manumission today for all my workers. They are free men and women, and they can go east with us…or not.” He took another sip of wine, but his gaze never left his young employee. “I will resettle in Martinsburg with only paid staff. And I intend to send Margaret and Anne to Europe until I’m confident Virginia is free of hostilities that might threaten their safety.”

At long last, Emily was speechless.

S
PRING
1862

Alexander had always preferred an active, dangerous life. Unfortunately it came with secrets, subterfuge, and deception. From his earliest days at the University of Virginia, he’d told his parents a steady stream of white lies to protect them from the scandal of his brawling, gambling, and carousing with women. He’d been expelled after dueling with another student over a not-so-virtuous lady. Only by luck had the man recovered from his wound and intervened to have him reinstated, following payment of an exorbitant sum of money.

His parents had all but given up hope of children when Alexander
was born. He soon became his father’s pride and joy and the apple of his mother’s eye. But when he grew into a rebellious teenager, James Hunt sheltered his delicate wife from his rowdy behavior. Now that his father had grown old and troubled by a weakened heart, Alexander’s web of lies also included him. However, it was no longer schoolyard brawling that would bring shame to the Hunt family reputation. These days he was up to his neck in something that could send him to a Northern prison…or put him at the end of a hangman’s noose.

His mother had begged him not to join the Confederate Army during Jefferson Davis’s call for volunteers. She insisted he run the plantation due to his father’s poor health. Many in his social class resisted the impulse to enlist and fulfilled their patriotic duty in safer ways. Alexander had no desire for the tedium of camp life—the endless drills, marches to nowhere, and the stultifying boredom between battles. Following secession, he yearned to serve his fledging country, but not within the confines of the regular army.

His role as partisan ranger—a guerrilla—hadn’t been planned. During one of his frequent rides, he discovered that a Union telegraph office had been set up behind newly drawn battle lines. After Alexander overpowered and tied up the operator, his friend Daniel Ellsworth cut into the circuit using a ground wire. From intercepted messages, they learned of the transport of Confederate prisoners through Loudoun County. Alexander answered messages for the Yankee agent, giving false reports of troop movements to throw off the enemy and inflating Confederate troop numbers before the next battle. With Ellsworth’s knowledge of telegraph lines and Alexander’s natural military intellect, they began a series of clandestine forays that would eventually make him famous. No telegraph office in the Shenandoah Valley was safe from their trickery. Newspapers dubbed him the Gray Wraith due to his mastery of disguise and stealth. Commissioned in secret by the Secretary of War, Colonel Alexander Hunt walked a fine line, giving his handpicked men the necessary advantage to supply the Army of Northern Virginia. Because they would be nowhere near as effective if
his identity became known, he and his rangers returned to their quiet lives between raids. But each day the subterfuge grew harder to maintain.

His parents frequently questioned his absences and were less than satisfied with his evasive replies. Alexander envied his men who returned to wives and children, but despite his attraction to the red-haired governess at his uncle’s home, he doubted marriage would ever be his destiny. Not that Emily Harrison would make a suitable wife, Northern or Southern. Pity the poor man who married that sharp-tongued, ill-tempered troublemaker.

On a lovely spring afternoon, as peepers created a frenzied tumult from the pond, Alexander was in no hurry to return to life in Front Royal. Because his father employed well-paid trainers, grooms, and jockeys, besides overseers and field hands to run his horse breeding operation, Alexander never felt essential at Hunt Farms. Only in the saddle in the backwoods did he feel part of something significant. He rode like a true Southern aristocrat after many summers of steeplechase in his youth. He and Phantom were two halves of one powerful whole. And that ability to handle a horse saved him in many close calls during his current identity.

Their last raid hadn’t yielded what he had hoped. The Union train from Alexandria contained only grain forage for livestock and a limited amount of rations—no weapons or ammunition, and no military intelligence. But the last boxcar yielded a rare treat—crates of oranges, lemons, candy, and fresh shad. Fish was scarce due to the Union blockade of the seacoast. His rangers carried the provisions back to camp for a fish fry. Like children they cavorted around the fire as grease in the pans spattered, eagerly awaiting the change in cuisine.

After dispersing his troops, the colonel had spent the day scouting new rendezvous locations in the Berryville area. It wouldn’t be prudent to keep to familiar haunts. He had learned of a small abandoned barn outside of Berryville, and therefore was surprised to spot a horse tethered to the water trough.
Might be a deserter, but from which side?
Alexander carried no firearm. His mother’s instructions on the Quaker
way of life had taken root, giving him no desire to take another life. An intelligent man knew other ways to gain the upper hand. Using handholds in the side of the barn, he climbed up the wall to the hayloft window and perched silently over the door, prepared for anyone exiting the barn.

Almost anyone, that is. When the door swung open, he leapt down on the deserter, landing with a mouthful of flaming red hair and a sharp knee to his gut.

“
Ouff
! Get off me, you oaf! Are you some sort of wild beast?”

Hearing a feminine voice, Alexander scrambled to extract himself from a person both female and beautiful. Beautiful, that is, if one found red-faced, scowling women with leaves in their hair and dusty clothes beautiful. At the moment, he did. It was Emily Harrison—the governess who almost burned down the kitchen at Bennington Plantation. The same woman who demanded he cover his chest yet couldn’t keep her eyes off of his bare skin. He laughed at the absurdity of meeting her in the remote countryside.

“Y
ou!
” She spat out the word as though it were a distasteful mouthful of castor oil.

“Alexander Wesley Hunt, madam, of Hunt Farms, Front Royal.” He bowed deeply before stretching out his hand. “We met last summer at Bennington Plantation. I believe Matilde had just ousted you from her kitchen.”

She jumped back, glowering as though his hand were a serpent. “I remember you, Mr. Hunt. Perhaps you will explain why you leaped down on me?” Her voice seethed with venom.

“I humbly beg your pardon.” Alexander swept off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. Fortuitously, he wore riding clothes with his uniform packed safely away in the saddlebag. “I thought you might be a deserter looking for a place to hide. Please forgive my indiscretion, madam. Both Union and Confederate scalawags travel this valley on their way home.”

While Emily dusted herself off and pulled leaves from her hair, Alexander assessed her appearance. Instead of a riding habit, she wore a
summer ensemble more suited to a walk in the garden. His eyes flicked over her briefly before coming back to her face. “Madam, where is your carriage and driver? May I assist you in some way? Are you lost, or did the carriage throw a wheel and you sent your driver for help?”

“Stop calling me ‘madam,’ ” she demanded with a stomp of her foot. “You know very well I’m unmarried. And I do not have a driver, sir.”

“Then how did you get here?” He peered around the barnyard with confusion.

“I rode my horse, you simpleton.”

“In that?” He pointed to her cotton dress and smock. “Without leather boots or a riding habit?” Then the full impact of her words struck him like a whack to his head. “Great Scot. I believe this is the first time in my life anyone called me a simpleton.”

F
OUR

E
mily couldn’t tell if Mr. Hunt’s shocked expression was due to the insulting word she had just used or her inappropriate attire. “Well, that rather surprises me. And it’s none of your business what I wear when I ride, Mr. Alexander Wesley Hunt of Front Royal. If you’ve finished pouncing on me, I’ll be on my way.” The masculine scents of leather and shaving balm wafted around her. She remembered meeting the arrogant nephew on the island, but she had no intention of allowing him to intimidate her again. “I am no deserter looking for a place to hide out.” She pushed past him. Her tone was dismissive, but he still followed at her heels like a puppy. “Truly, Mr. Hunt, I do not need your assistance. Good day to you.”

Spying her new chestnut mare, his attention focused on the horse. “What a beauty! What’s her name?” He ran his hand down the shiny flank.

“Miss Kitty. She was a gift from Dr. and Mrs. Bennington.” Emily tugged the reins loose from the branch, wishing it wasn’t her first time on the new Morgan. Though an experienced horsewoman, she always rode astride as a girl and was uncomfortable with the new sidesaddle. She didn’t need this mule of a man seeing her fall on her backside.

“Why such a lavish gift? Did you serve some of your culinary delights at their dinner table?” He winked impishly.

“Must you continue to refer to one accident as though no other thoughts ramble through your mind?” Her breath left her lungs in a huff. “Mrs. Bennington was pleased I agreed to accompany them east, despite the fact their daughters left for Europe.”

“With the girls gone, why would my aunt still need a governess?”

“She wishes me to remain in her employ as her personal assistant. Now, as I’ve answered your questions, you may continue on your way.”

He grasped Miss Kitty’s bridle. “Humor me with one more, Miss Harrison. How will you mount without a hitching block?”

“Not all women are helpless belles, Mr. Hunt.” Emily lifted her foot into the stirrup, grabbed the saddle and a fistful of mane, and hauled herself up. Unfortunately, she revealed an expanse of dainty petticoat lace and quite of bit of stocking above her shoe. She tugged down her skirt, but not before his eyes practically bugged from his head.