Page 11 of Just Imagine
Kit’s muscles ached as she descended the stairs the next morning. In contrast to the britches she’d worn the day before, she was dressed in a demure outfit of palest lilac voile with a delicate white lace shawl tossed around her shoulders. From her fingers dangled the lavender sashes of a floppy leghorn hat.
Miss Dolly stood by the front door waiting for her.
“Now, aren’t you pretty as a picture. Just fasten up that button on your glove, darlin’, and straighten your skirts.”
Kit smiled and did as she was told.
“You look awfully pretty yourself.”
“Why, thank you, darlin’. I do try to keep myself nice, but it’s not as easy as it once was. I no longer have youth entirely on my side, you know. But just look at you. Not a single gentleman will be able to keep his mind on the Lord with you sittin’ in the congregation lookin’ like a piece of Easter candy waitin’ to be devoured.”
“Makes me hungry just watching her,”
drawled a lazy voice from behind them.
Kit dropped the lavender hat ribbons she’d been trying to arrange into a bow.
Cain was leaning against the doorjamb of the library. He was dressed in a pearl-gray morning coat with charcoal trousers and waistcoat. A thinly striped burgundy cravat set off his white shirt.
Her eyes narrowed at his formal dress.
“Where are you going?”
“To church, of course.”
“Church! We didn’t invite you to go to church with us!”
Miss Dolly’s hand flew to her throat.
“Katharine Louise Weston! I’m shocked! Whatever can you be thinking of, addressing the general so rudely? I asked him to escort us. You’ll have to forgive her, General. She spent too long on horseback yesterday, and she could barely walk when she got out of bed this morning. It’s made her peevish.”
“I understand completely.”
The merriment in his eyes made his expression of sympathy suspect.
Kit plucked up the sashes of her hat.
“I wasn’t peevish.”
She was all thumbs with him watching, and she couldn’t manage a respectable bow.
“Maybe you’d better tie that before she destroys the ribbons, Miss Calhoun.”
“Certainly, General.”
Miss Dolly clucked her tongue at Kit.
“Here, darlin’. Tilt up your chin and let me.”
Kit was forced to submit to Miss Dolly’s ministrations while Cain watched in amusement. Finally the bow was arranged satisfactorily, and they made their way out the front door to the carriage.
Kit waited until Cain had helped Miss Dolly in before she hissed at him.
“I’ll bet this is the first time you’ve set foot inside that church since you’ve been here. Why don’t you stay home?”
“Not a chance. I wouldn’t miss your reunion with the good people of Rutherford for anything in the world.”
Our Father who art in heaven . . .
Jewel-like puddles of sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows and settled over the bowed heads of the congregation. In Rutherford, they still talked about what a miracle it was that those windows had escaped the spawn of Satan, William Tecumseh Sherman.
Kit felt uncomfortable sitting in her lilac finery amidst the faded dresses and prewar bonnets of the other women. She’d wanted to show herself off to good advantage, but she hadn’t stopped to consider how poor everyone was. She wouldn’t forget again.
She found herself thinking about her real church, the simple clapboard structure not far from Risen Glory that had served as the spiritual home for the slaves from the surrounding plantations. Garrett and Rosemary had refused to make the weekly trip to the white community’s church in Rutherford, so Sophronia had taken Kit with her every Sunday. Even thought Sophronia was a child herself, she’d been determined that Kit hear the Word.
Kit had loved that church, and now she couldn’t help but compare this sedate service with the joyful worship of her childhood. Sophronia would be there now, along with Magnus and the others.
Her reunion with Magnus had been subdued. Although he’d seemed happy to see her, the old informality between them was gone. She was now a white woman, fully grown, and he was a black man.
A fly buzzed a lazy figure eight in front of her, and she stole a glance at Cain. His attention was turned politely toward the pulpit, his expression as inscrutable as ever. She was glad that Miss Dolly was seated between them. Sitting any closer to him would have ruined the morning.
On the other side of the church sat a man whose attention wasn’t as firmly fixed on the pulpit. Kit gave Brandon Parsell a slow smile, then tilted her head just enough so that her straw hat brim shielded her face. Before she left the church, she would make certain he found a chance to speak with her. She had only a month, and she couldn’t waste a day of it.
The service ended, and the members of the congregation couldn’t wait to speak with her. They’d heard the New York City finishing school had transformed her from a hoyden to a young lady, and they wanted to see for themselves.
“Why, Kit Weston, just look at you . . .”
“And aren’t you a fine lady now.”
“My stars, even your own daddy wouldn’t recognize you.”
As they greeted her, they faced a dilemma. Acknowledging her meant that they’d have to greet her Yankee guardian, the man Rutherford’s leading families had been so diligently shunning.
Slowly, first one person and then another nodded to him. One of the men asked him about his cotton crop. Della Dibbs thanked him for his contribution to the Bible Society. Clement Jakes asked whether or not he thought it would rain soon. The conversations were reserved, but the message was clear. It was time the barriers against Baron Cain came down.
Kit knew they’d later remark to each other that it was only for Kit Weston’s sake they’d acknowledged him, but she suspected they welcomed the excuse to draw him into their insular circle, if only because it would give them a fresh topic of conversation. It would occur to none of them that Cain might not wish to be drawn in.
Standing off to the side of the church, a woman with an air of sophistication that set her apart watched what was happening with some amusement. So this was the notorious Baron Cain . . . The woman was a newcomer to the community, having lived in a large brick house in Rutherford for only three months, but she’d heard all about the new owner of Risen Glory. Nothing she’d heard, however, had prepared her for her first sight of him. Her eyes swept from his shoulders down to his narrow hips. He was magnificent.
Veronica Gamble was a Southerner by birth, if not by inclination. Born in Charleston, she had married the portrait painter Francis Gamble when she was barely eighteen. For the next fourteen years, they’d divided their time between Florence, Paris, and Vienna, where Francis had charged outrageous prices for flattering portraits of the wives and children of the aristocracy.
When her husband had died the previous winter, Veronica was left comfortably well off, if not wealthy. On a whim, she’d decided to return to South Carolina and the brick house that her husband had inherited from his parents. It would give her time to assess her life and decide what she wanted to do next.
In her early thirties, she was striking in appearance. Her auburn hair was pulled softly back from her face and fell in lustrous curls over the nape of her neck. Setting off its coppery hues were a pair of slanted eyes, almost as green as her fashionable Zouave jacket. On any other woman her full bottom lip would have been obtrusive, but on her it was sensual.
Although Veronica was considered a great beauty, her thin nose was a bit too long, her features too angular for true beauty. No man, however, seemed to notice. She had wit, intelligence, and the intriguing quality of watching those around her with an amused eye while she waited to see what life had in store.
She eased toward the doors at the back of the church, where the Reverend Cogdell was greeting his flock as they filed out.
“Ah, Mrs. Gamble. How pleasant to have you with us this morning. I don’t believe you’ve met Miss Dorthea Calhoun. And this is Mr. Cain of Risen Glory. Where has Katharine Louise gone? I wanted you to meet her, too.”
Veronica Gamble had no interest in either Miss Dorthea Calhoun or anyone named Katharine Louise. But she was very much interested in the dazzling man who stood next to the pastor, and she gracefully inclined her head.
“I’ve heard a great deal about you, Mr. Cain. Somehow I’d expected horns.”
Rawlins Cogdell winced, but Cain laughed.
“I wish I’d been as fortunate to have heard of you.”
Veronica slipped her gloved hand into the crook of his arm.
“The matter is easily remedied.”
Kit had heard Cain’s laughter, but she ignored it to focus her attention on Brandon. His regular features were even more attractive than she’d remembered, and the stray lock of straight brown hair that tumbled over his forehead as he talked was endearing.
He couldn’t have been more different from Cain. Brandon was polite where Cain was rude. And she didn’t have to worry about him mocking her. He was every inch a Southern gentleman.
She studied his mouth. What would it feel like to kiss it? Very exciting, she was certain. Much more pleasant than Cain’s assault the day she’d arrived.
An assault she’d done nothing to stop.
“I’ve thought about you quite often since we met in New York,”
Brandon said.
“I’m flattered.”
“Would you like to ride with me tomorrow? The bank closes at three. I could be at Risen Glory within the hour.”
Kit gazed up at him through her lashes, an effect she’d practiced to perfection.
“I’d enjoy riding with you, Mr. Parsell.”
“Until tomorrow, then.”
With a smile, she turned away to acknowledge several young men who’d been patiently waiting for a chance to speak with her.
As they vied for her attention, she noticed Cain deep in conversation with an attractive auburn-haired woman. Something about the attentive way the woman was gazing up at him grated on Kit. She wished he’d glance in her direction so he could see her so well surrounded by masculine company. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to notice.
Miss Dolly had been engaged in animated conversation with the Reverend Cogdell and his wife, Mary, who was her distant relative and the one who’d recommended her as a chaperone. Kit realized the Cogdells were looking increasingly bewildered. She hastily excused herself and hurried to Miss Dolly’s side.
“Are you ready to leave, Miss Dolly?”
“Why, yes, darlin’. I haven’t seen the Reverend Cogdell and his dear wife, Mary, in years. What a joyous reunion, hampered only by the recent events at Bull Run. Oh, but that’s old folk’s conversation, darlin’. Nothin’ for you to worry your pretty young head about.”
Cain must have sensed disaster, too, for he materialized at Kit’s side.
“Miss Calhoun, the carriage is waiting for us.”
“Why, thank you, General—”
Miss Dolly gasped and pressed her fingers to her mouth.
“I—I mean Major, of course. Silly me.”
With her ribbons all aflutter, she scampered toward the carriage.
The Reverend Cogdell and his wife stared after her in open-mouthed astonishment.
“She thinks I’m General Lee living in disguise at Risen Glory,”
Cain said bluntly.
Rawlins Cogdell began to wring his pale, thin hands in agitation.
“Major Cain, Katharine, I do apologize. When my wife recommended Dolly Calhoun for the post of chaperone, we had no idea— Oh, dear, this will never do.”
Mary Cogdell’s small brown eyes were filled with remorse.
“This is all my fault. We’d heard she was nearly destitute, but we had no idea she was feebleminded.”
Kit opened her mouth to protest, but Cain cut her off.
“You needn’t worry about Miss Calhoun. She’s settling in comfortably.”
“But Katharine can’t possibly stay at Risen Glory with you under these circumstances,”
the minister protested.
“Dolly Calhoun is hardly a proper chaperone. Why, she must have spoken to a dozen people today. By this afternoon everyone in the county will know about her. This won’t do. It won’t do at all. The gossip will be dreadful, Mr. Cain. You’re far too young a man—”
“Kit is my ward,” he said.
“Nonetheless, there’s no blood bond between you.”
Mary Cogdell gripped her prayer book.
“Katharine, you’re an innocent young woman, so I’m sure it hasn’t occurred to you how this will look to others. You simply can’t stay at Risen Glory.”
“I appreciate your concern,”
Kit replied.
“but I’ve been away from my home for three years, and I don’t intend to leave again so quickly.”
Mary Cogdell looked at her husband helplessly.
“I assure you that Miss Dolly is a stickler for the proprieties,”
Cain surprised her by saying.
“You should have seen her fussing over Kit this morning.”
“Still . . .”
Cain inclined his head.
“If you’ll excuse us, Reverend Cogdell, Mrs. Cogdell. Please don’t trouble yourself any further.”
He took Kit’s arm and led her toward the carriage, where Miss Dolly was already waiting.
Rawlins Cogdell and his wife watched the carriage drive away.
“There’s going to be trouble there,”
the minister said.
“I can feel it in my bones.”
Kit heard the crunch of gravel and knew Brandon had arrived. She rushed to the cheval glass to check her reflection and saw a proper young lady in a riding habit gazing back at her. There were no boy’s clothes for her today, and no Temptation, either. She’d resigned herself to a sidesaddle and poor Lady.
That morning, while the sky was still the pale, soft pink of the underside of a seashell, she’d raced across the fields on Temptation. The wild, exhilarating ride was much different from what she could expect this afternoon.
She had to admit her new riding habit was flattering, no matter how much she disliked the idea of wearing it. Made of crimson broadcloth trimmed in black braid, the jacket fit her snugly in the bodice and accented her waist. The full skirt fell in graceful folds to the hem, which was decorated with a deep border of black braid in a swirling pattern that looked like a chain of script L’s.
She checked to make certain there were no hanging threads or hooks that had escaped her notice. The four black frogs that held together the front of the jacket were all fastened, and her hat was on straight. It was black, a feminine version of a man’s stovepipe, but with a lower, softer crown and a wisp of crimson veiling trailing from the back. She’d fastened her hair in a neat bun at the nape of her neck and even polished her boots.
Satisfied that she looked her best, she snatched up her riding crop and left the room, giving no thought at all to the black kid riding gloves lying in her glove box. When she reached the hallway, she heard voices coming from the piazza. To her consternation, she saw Cain standing in the drive talking to Brandon.
Once again she was struck by the contrast between the two men. Cain was much bigger, but that wasn’t all that set them apart. Brandon was properly dressed in hat, coat, and trousers, with a bottle-green four-in-hand showing above the top of his vest. The clothes were old and no longer of the most fashionable cut, but they were neatly pressed, and he wore them well.
As for, Cain, he was bareheaded and wearing an open-collared shirt rolled at the sleeves and a pair of muddy trousers. He stood in an easy slouch, one hand stuffed into his pocket, a dirty boot propped on the bottom step. Everything about Brandon indicated culture and breeding, while Cain looked like a barbarian.
Her eyes lingered on him a moment longer before she clutched her riding crop more tightly and walked forward. Lady waited patiently next to the mounting block. The old sidesaddle Kit had found in the attic rested on the horse’s back.
Kit gave Cain a cool nod and Brandon a smiling greeting. The admiration in his eyes told her that the efforts she’d taken with her appearance hadn’t been in vain. Cain, however, seemed to be enjoying some private joke, one she quickly realized was at her expense.
“You watch yourself today, Kit. Lady can be a real handful.”
She gritted her teeth.
“I’m sure we’ll get along fine.”
Brandon made a motion to help her mount, but Cain was quicker.
“Allow me.”
Brandon turned away with obvious displeasure to mount his own horse, and Kit placed her fingers in Cain’s outstretched hand. It felt strong and much too competent. After she’d settled into the sidesaddle, she looked down to see him gazing at her cumbersome skirts.
“Now who’s the hypocrite?”
he asked softly.
She gazed over at Brandon and gave him a blinding smile.
“Now, Mr. Parsell, don’t you ride too fast for me, y’hear? I’ve been up North for so long, my riding skills are rusty, ’deed they are.”
Cain snorted and walked away, leaving her with the pleasant sensation that she’d had the last word.
Brandon suggested they ride to Holly Grove, his former home. As they trotted down the drive toward the road, Kit watched him covertly studying the planted fields that stretched out on both sides of them. She could only hope he was already making plans.
Holly Grove had been put to the torch by the same soldiers who’d spared Risen Glory. After the war, Brandon had returned to a crumbled ruin and blackened chimneys already overgrown with wild grape vines and blackberry brambles. He hadn’t been able to pay the punishing taxes on the land, and everything had been confiscated. Now it stood idle.
They dismounted near what had once been the smokehouse. Brandon tied the horses, then took Kit’s arm and led her toward the ruins of the house. They’d been chatting pleasantly as they rode, but now he fell silent. Kit’s heart swelled with pity.
“It’s all gone,”
he finally said.
“Everything the South believed in. Everything we fought for.”
She gazed at the devastation. If Rosemary Weston hadn’t taken that Yankee lieutenant into her bedroom, this would have been the fate of Risen Glory.
“The Yankees laugh at us, you know,”
he went on.
“They laugh because we believe in chivalry and honor. But look what happens when there’s no chivalry and when honor’s turned into a joke. They take away our land, tax us until we can’t buy bread. Radical Reconstruction is the Almighty’s curse on us.”
He shook his head.
“What have we done to deserve so much evil?”
Kit stared up at the twin chimneys, like great ghostly fingers.
“It was the slaves,”
she heard herself saying.
“We’re being punished for keeping human beings in slavery.”
“Poppycock! You lived with the Yankees too long, Kit. Slavery is God’s plan. You know what the Bible says.”
She did know. She’d heard it preached often enough from the pulpit of the slave church by white ministers the plantation owners sent to remind their people that God approved of their enslavement. God had even issued instructions regarding a slave’s obligations to his master. Kit remembered Sophronia sitting by her side during these sermons, stiff and pale, unable to reconcile what she was hearing with the loving Jesus she knew.
Brandon took her arm and led her back along the overgrown path, away from the house. Their mounts were peacefully grazing in the clearing near the smokehouse. Kit walked over to a tree that had fallen long ago in a storm and sat on the trunk.
“It was a mistake bringing you here,”
Brandon said as he came up beside her.
“Why?”
He stared off toward the blackened chimneys in the distance.
“This makes the differences between us all the more apparent.”
“Does it? Neither of us has a home. Remember that Risen Glory’s not mine. Not yet, anyway.”
He gave her a searching look. She plucked at a piece of tree bark.
“I only have a month, and then Cain’s going to force me to go back to New York.”
“I can’t tolerate the idea of your living in the same house with that man,”
he said, sitting next to her on the tree trunk.
“Everybody who came into the bank today was talking about it. They say Miss Calhoun’s not a fit chaperone. You watch yourself with Cain, you hear? He’s not a gentleman. I don’t like him. Don’t like him at all.”
She was warmed by Brandon’s concern.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
And then she deliberately tilted her face up to him, slightly parting her lips. She couldn’t let this excursion end without kissing him. It was something she had to do so she could erase Cain’s brand on her mouth.
And on your senses, a small voice whispered.
It was true. Cain’s kiss had set fires in her blood, and she needed to prove to herself that Brandon Parsell could spark those same fires.
His eyes were partially shadowed by the brushed beaver brim of his gray hat, but she could see him looking at her mouth. She waited for him to come closer, but he didn’t move.
“I want you to kiss me,”
she finally said.
He was shocked by her forwardness. She saw it in his frown. His attitude irritated her even as it endeared him to her.
She reached up and gently lifted off his hat, noticing as she laid it aside that there was a small red line across the upper part of his forehead from the band. “Brandon,”
she said quietly.
“I only have a month. There isn’t time for me to be coy.”
Even a gentleman couldn’t ignore so bold an invitation. He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to hers.
Kit noticed that his lips were fleshier than Cain’s. They were also sweeter, she decided, since they remained politely closed. This was a tender kiss compared with Cain’s. A pleasant kiss. His lips were dry, but his mustache seemed a little rough.
Her mind was wandering, and she brought her attention back to what she was doing by lifting her arms and throwing them enthusiastically around his neck.
Were his shoulders a little narrow? It must be her imagination, because they were very solid. He began trailing kisses across her cheek and the line of her jaw. His mustache scratched the sensitive skin, and she winced.
He pulled back from her.
“I’m sorry. Have I frightened you?”
“No, of course not.”
She swallowed her disappointment. The kiss hadn’t proved anything. Why couldn’t he set aside his scruples and do the job right?
No sooner had she thought this than she admonished herself. Brandon Parsell was a gentleman, not a Yankee barbarian.
He dropped his head.
“Kit, you must know that I wouldn’t hurt you for anything in the world. I apologize for my lack of restraint. Women like you are to be cherished and shielded from the more sordid aspects of life.”
She felt another prickle of irritation.
“I’m not made of glass.”
“I know that. But I also want you to know that if anything . . . permanent were to happen between us, I would never debase you. I’d bother you as little as possible with my own needs.”
This was something she understood. When Mrs. Templeton had spoken about Eve’s Shame, she’d told them there were husbands who were most considerate of their wives, and they should pray to marry such a man.
She was suddenly glad Brandon’s sweet kisses hadn’t stirred a raging fire in her. Her response to Cain had been nothing more than a reaction to the strange emotions of being home again.
Now she was more certain than ever that she wanted to marry Brandon. He was everything a woman could want in a husband.
He made her put on her hat so she wouldn’t get sunburned and gently chastised her for forgetting her gloves. As he fussed over her, she smiled and flirted, playing the Southern belle to perfection.
She reminded herself that he was accustomed to a different sort of woman, one who was quiet and retiring like his mother and his sisters, and she tried to restrain her normally impulsive tongue. Still, she managed to shock him with her opinions about Negro suffrage and the Fifteenth Amendment. As two small furrows etched themselves between his eyes, she knew she had to make him understand.
“Brandon, I’m a well-educated woman. I have opinions and ideas. I’ve also been on my own for a long time. I can’t be what I’m not.”
His smile didn’t quite erase the furrows.
“Your independence is one of the things I most admire about you, but it’s going to take a while for me to get used to it. You’re not like the other women I know.”
“And do you know a lot of women?”
she teased.
Her question made him laugh.
“Kit Weston, you’re a minx.”
Their conversation on the ride back to Risen Glory was a happy combination of gossip and reminiscences. She promised to go on a picnic with him and let him escort her to church on Sunday. As she stood on the porch and waved good-bye, she decided that, all in all, the day had gone well.
Unfortunately, the evening did not.
Miss Dolly waylaid her before dinner.
“I need your sweet young eyes to sort through my button box. I have a pretty mother-of-pearl in there somewhere, and I simply must find it.”
Kit did as she was asked, even though she needed a few minutes alone. The sorting was accompanied by chatter, twittering, and fluttering. Kit learned which buttons had been sewn on which dresses, where the garments had been worn and with whom, what the weather had been like on that particular day, as well as what Miss Dolly had eaten.
At dinner, Miss Dolly requested that all the windows be closed, despite the fact that the evening was warm, because she’d heard rumors of a diphtheria outbreak in Charleston. Cain managed Miss Dolly well and the windows remained open, but he ignored Kit until dessert.
“I hope Lady behaved for you today,”
he finally said.
“The poor horse looked terrified when you marched toward her with all those skirts on. I think she was afraid you’d suffocate her.”
“You’re not nearly as amusing as you seem to think. My riding habit is the height of fashion.”
“And you hate wearing it. Not that I blame you. Those things should be outlawed.”
Her opinion exactly.
“Nonsense. They’re very comfortable. And a lady always likes to look her best.”
“Is it just my imagination, or does your accent get thicker whenever you want to irritate me?”
“ ’Deed I hope not, Major. That would be most impolite of me. Besides, you’re in South Carolina now, so you’re the one with the accent.”
He smiled.
“Point taken. And did you enjoy your ride?”
“I had a wonderful time. There aren’t many gentlemen as pleasant to be with as Mr. Parsell.”
His smile faded.
“And where did you and Mr. Parsell ride?”
“To Holly Grove, his old home. We enjoyed catching up on old times.”
“That’s all you did?”
he asked pointedly.
“Yes, it’s all,”
she retorted.
“Not every man’s interests when they’re with young women are as narrow as yours.”
Miss Dolly frowned at the sharpness in Kit’s voice.
“You’re dawdlin’ over your dessert, Katharine Louise. If you’re finished, let’s go to the sitting room and leave the general to his cigar.”
Kit was enjoying irritating Cain too much to leave.
“I’m not quite finished yet, Miss Dolly. Why don’t you go? I don’t mind the smell of cigar smoke.”
“Well, if you don’t mind . . .”
Miss Dolly set her napkin on the table and rose, then stood at her chair as if she were gathering her courage.
“Now, watch your manners, darlin’. I know you don’t mean anything by it, but sometimes you seem a bit sharp when you speak to the general. You mustn’t let your natural high spirits keep you from giving him his proper respect.”
Her duty done, she fluttered from the room.
Cain looked after her with some amusement.
“I must admit, Miss Dolly’s beginning to grow on me.”
“You’re really a terrible person, do you know that?”
“I admit I’m no Brandon Parsell.”
“You’re certainly not. Brandon’s a gentleman.”
He leaned back in his chair and studied her.
“Did he behave like a gentleman with you today?”
“Of course he did.”
“And what about you? Were you a lady?”
Her pleasure in their bantering faded. He still hadn’t forgotten that ugly letter from Hamilton Woodward. She didn’t like how much it bothered her to know he questioned her virtue.
“Of course I wasn’t a lady. What fun would that be? I took off my clothes and offered myself to him. Is that what you want to know?”
Cain pushed back his plate.
“You’ve grown into a beautiful woman, Kit. You’re also reckless. It’s a dangerous combination.”
“Mr. Parsell and I talked politics. We discussed the indignities the federal government’s been forcing on South Carolina.”
“I can just hear the two of you now. Sighing over what the Yankees have done to your poor state. Moaning over all the injustices of the occupation—none of it the South’s fault, of course. I’m sure you two made quite a pair.”
“How can you be so callous? You can see the horrors of Reconstruction all around you. People’ve had their homes taken from them. They’ve lost savings. The South is like a piece of glass being ground underneath a Yankee bootheel.”
“Let me remind you of a few painful facts you seem to have forgotten.”
He picked up the brandy decanter at his elbow, but before he could pour from it, he shoved the stopper back into the neck.
“It wasn’t the Union that started this war. Southern guns fired on Fort Sumter. You lost the war, Kit. And you lost it at the expense of six hundred thousand lives. Now you expect everything to be just like it was.”
He regarded her with disgust.
“You talk about the horrors of Reconstruction. The way I see it, the South should be thankful the federal government has been as merciful as it has.”
“Merciful?”
Kit leaped to her feet.
“Do you call what’s happened here merciful?”
“You’ve read history. You tell me.”
Now Cain was on his feet, too.
“Name any other conquering people who’ve dealt so leniently with the ones they’ve conquered. If this had been any country but the United States, thousands of men would have been executed for treason after Appomattox, and thousands more would be rotting in prisons right now. Instead, there was a general amnesty, and now the Southern states are being readmitted to the Union. My God, Reconstruction is a slap on the wrist for what the South has done to this country.”
Her knuckles were white where they gripped the back of the chair.
“It’s too bad there wasn’t enough bloodshed to satisfy you. What kind of man are you to wish the South more misery than it’s already had?”
“I don’t wish it any more misery. I even agree with the leniency of federal policies. But you’ll have to forgive me if I can’t work up much righteous indignation because people in the South have lost their homes.”
“You want your pound of flesh.”
“Men have died in my arms,”
he said quietly.
“And not all of those men wore blue uniforms.”
She released her grip on the chair and rushed from the room. When she reached her bedroom, she sank onto the chair at her dressing table.
He didn’t understand! He was seeing everything from the Northern perspective. But even as she mentally listed all the reasons he was wrong, she found it difficult to reclaim her old sense of righteousness. He’d seemed so sad. Her head had begun to pound, and she wanted to go to bed, but there was a job she’d already put off for too long.
Late that night after everyone was asleep, she made her way downstairs to the library, and to the calf-bound ledgers in which Cain kept the plantation’s accounts.