Mischief and Magnolias Page 4

  Vince shot him a glance, one brow raised. “When did you become so sympathetic?”

  He ignored the question. How could he answer? How could he explain that something in Shaelyn’s flashing eyes had touched him and brought out every one of his protective tendencies? He thought of his mother and sister, sweet and gentle women both, and what would have become of them had they found themselves in the same circumstances. How would his officers feel if the situation were reversed and it was their mothers, daughters, sisters, or wives whose homes were confiscated? Could they have cruelly tossed those women out with nothing more than the clothes on their backs and a few coins, if they had any, in their reticules? And there was Jock MacPhee to consider as well.

  He turned and faced them all. “Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness. I have my reasons for allowing them to stay.” He grinned. “I am sure none of you want to enjoy my cooking.”

  “Nay, ye don’t. Trust me. I’ve tasted his cookin’,” Jock teased with a laugh and tapped his chest with his closed fist. “I’m still tastin’ his cookin’.”

  “We have an opportunity to do some good here, gentlemen, an opportunity to prove to these genteel Southern women that we are not cruel, heartless bastards. Now, go find your rooms and unpack.”

  As the men started to leave the room, he stopped them. “One more thing. You will treat these women with respect. Think of them as your mothers or your sisters. Be kind. Be courteous.” His eyes narrowed as he pinned each one of them with a steely stare. “I will tolerate nothing less.”

  The Scotsman remained behind as the other men left the study. He approached Remy and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, slipping easily into the role of favored uncle, though they shared no blood ties. “Thank you, laddie. I’m glad ye decided to let Brenna and Sassy stay. I was hopin’ ye would.”

  “I only hope I don’t regret my decision.”

  A gleam lit the older man’s eyes and a smile spread the ginger mustache across his lip. “Ach, ye won’t, laddie. Ye have my word.”

  Remy watched the man leave the room and wondered why the Scotsman grinned as he did. He’d known Jock MacPhee for many, many years—from the moment he’d taken his first steps. A friend of his mother and father, Jock had spent a great deal of time at the Harte family home and distillery when he wasn’t captaining the riverboats that plied the Mississippi River.

  Was there something the man hadn’t told him?

  • • •

  Shaelyn took a deep breath and swiped at the perspiration dotting her forehead, despite the cooling breeze coming in through the open French doors. Candlelight flickered on the walls as she took another frayed and tattered skirt from the armoire and tossed it on the bed, adding to the pile growing on top of the comforter. She had already moved her mother’s belongings downstairs and now worked on her own.

  With each piece of clothing making the mound higher, her anger grew. “Damned bluebellies,” she murmured under her breath. Her fingers grasped the silk fabric of a ball gown in the back of the armoire. A sigh escaped her as she pulled it out and held it against her body. Such happy memories were associated with the white gown splashed with hunter green leaves. She’d worn it when James had asked her to wait for him, when she’d kissed him and sealed the promise.

  Tears sprang to her eyes as those memories faded, replaced with the reality of what her life had become. Balls and soirees and barbecues were pleasures of the past, as each day became a struggle simply to survive the ravages of war. There had been no extra money for anything frivolous.

  In truth, she hadn’t had a paying customer on any one of her steamboats in quite some time and even if she’d had, she didn’t have a captain or navigator. She could have piloted the steamers herself, but without a crew, the task would have been impossible, and no one wanted an unlicensed pilot, no matter her skill and experience.

  The warehouse in Natchez-Under-the-Hill had been empty for some time as well. The account at the bank had no funds. Simply keeping food on the table had necessitated selling off her mother’s fine china and several of the paintings her parents had collected for much less than half their worth. She would have sold the piano in the music room if she could have found a buyer. Her mother no longer played.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a cup of coffee that wasn’t full of chicory, and now she had a house full of Union officers to contend with. At least they’d brought provisions with them.

  She tossed the gown on the bed and swiped at the tears blurring her vision. Forcing herself to take a deep breath to calm her shattered nerves, she continued to remove her clothes from the armoire. The drawers in the bureau were open and already empty.

  Noises in the hallway drew her attention. Male voices, which hadn’t been heard in this house for the past two years, raised in camaraderie, followed by the sound of heavy objects sliding across the floor.

  Shaelyn glanced through the open door and clenched her teeth so hard pain radiated from her jaw. Instead of two people lifting the heavy chests, each one grabbing a handle, the officers pushed and tugged them to their assigned rooms. A reprimand built on her tongue. Who had raised these men that they couldn’t come up with the idea to work together to avoid scratching the marble tiles she spent so much time cleaning and polishing?

  She gathered the pile of clothing in her arms and left her bedroom, intending to give them a piece of her mind. Or at the very least, suggest how they could move their trunks without ruining her home, but the words died on her lips as she collided with Major Harte’s hard body.

  She swallowed hard as her gaze rose to his. Her mouth dried and her heartbeat picked up its pace to match the vein pulsing in his neck.

  “Excuse me,” she managed, although how she could speak was beyond her, especially when he put his arms around her to steady her. His warmth seeped through his uniform and she smelled his clean scent of citrus and soap.

  Her pulse pounded in her ears. In the brief moment his hand touched her arm, she saw a vivid image in her mind. Of them. Together. His hand possessively caressing her flesh, his lips touching hers.

  “Of course.” He released her and she almost staggered on legs that had turned to butter on a warm day. “Be careful, Miss Cavanaugh.” He grinned and her world turned upside down. Indeed, her world had been upside down from the moment she wrapped her arms around him on the front porch, and nothing had changed in the hours that followed. She felt…unbalanced, unsure, unable to hold a coherent thought in her head, as if some awful spell had been cast on her. The lights dancing in his eyes didn’t help, nor did the charmingly crooked smile spreading his lips.

  Shaelyn blinked and inhaled deeply, to still the frantic pounding of her heart, before she turned on her heel and fled down the hallway to the dumbwaiter built into the wall.

  She stuffed her clothing into the dumbwaiter, aware of the warmth of his gaze on her. A shiver raced up her spine and heat rose up to settle on her face. Her whole body felt flushed before the feeling disappeared as if it never happened. Shaelyn glanced behind her and noticed she was alone.

  She pulled air into her lungs and let it out slowly, then yanked on the cord that would lower the dumbwaiter to the small room behind the kitchen.

  What was that? What happened to me?

  She’d never, ever felt that way and even now, as she went downstairs, her pulse still beat an erratic tattoo in her ears. She closed her eyes for a moment, her hand resting on the wrought-iron banister, and tried to erase the vision she’d seen from her mind, but no matter how she tried, the image remained strong. So did the scent of citrus and soap.

  As soon as she stepped into the small room behind the kitchen, the smell of freshly brewed coffee overpowered the fresh, clean scent of Remington Harte, for which Shaelyn was extremely grateful. She removed her clothing from the dumbwaiter and sniffed, her mouth already watering with anticipation. She entered the kitchen, her arms full of skirts and blouses and her favorite ball gown. “Is that real coffee I smell?”
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  Her mother turned from the stove, her eyes as bright as her smile. “Yes, it is. No chicory.” Her grin brightened and for the first time in a long time, Brenna seemed like her old self. “You should see all the food Major Harte brought. I have a lovely ham in the oven, but there’s beef, sausages, and bacon.”

  “Bacon?” Shaelyn stopped listening and repeated the word as if she were dreaming. How long had it been since she’d had bacon? Or beef, for that matter? How long had it been since they’d had any kind of meat? Granted, there were three pigs in a small enclosure behind the carriage house, but none of them were fat enough to make a trip to the butcher. Eggs and vegetables were plentiful because of the henhouse and garden, but even her connections in the black market couldn’t provide her with meat, even if she’d had the coin to pay the exorbitant prices.

  Perhaps having them here wouldn’t be so awful.

  After she put her clothes away in her new room, she came into the kitchen, grabbed an apron from one of the drawers, and tied it around her waist. “What would you like me to do?”

  “Set the table, please.”

  Shaelyn did as she was told then returned to the kitchen. “What now, Mama?”

  “I’m not sure. Do we still have the asparagus that we put up last year? Maybe green beans? Or beets? Just pick something.” Shaelyn watched her mother as she basted the ham with a mixture of brown sugar, ground mustard seed, and vinegar. The aroma scented the air and made her mouth water almost as much as the coffee. “Oh, and see if we have any peaches left. I didn’t have time to make dessert.”

  “Yes, Mama.” She grabbed a lantern, lit it, and went downstairs to the cellar. She stifled an oath—indeed, she stifled a scream of frustration—when she saw the mess the soldiers had left.

  She wended her way through the small path between sacks of flour and potatoes and other foods she couldn’t identify at the moment, found a spot on the table where she could put the lantern, and began setting the room to rights.

  A short time later, the cellar had some semblance of order. Smoked meats hung from hooks in the sturdy beams above her, and everything else had been stacked neatly, clearing a wide path to the shelves in the back where Brenna stored the vegetables and fruits they had preserved. Shaelyn loaded two jars of green beans and three of sliced peaches in heavy syrup into the well she’d made with her apron and brought them upstairs.

  Warmth from the oven heated the kitchen. Fine tendrils of her mother’s dark hair clung to her forehead and cheeks, and yet she didn’t seem to mind. Indeed, she seemed quite happy, if the tune she hummed was any indication. Her mother had always enjoyed cooking and toyed with the idea of writing a cookbook one day.

  “Look at you!” Brenna exclaimed when she turned around and spotted her daughter placing the jars on the table. “What took you so long? Did you decide to roll in the dirt?”

  “No, Mama, I straightened the cellar.”

  “They did leave it in quite a mess, didn’t they?” A warm chuckle rose from Brenna’s chest as she swiped at the perspiration gleaming on her forehead. “Go get yourself cleaned up. By the time you finish, they should be finished putting their things away and ready for supper.”

  Again, as she never wanted to see her mother as upset as she’d been earlier, Shaelyn did as she was told.

  Deep, rich voices in a multitude of accents alerted her that the officers had arrived in the dining room. Presentable in a clean skirt and blouse once more, she stepped out of her room just in time to grab the coffeepot and a pitcher of cold tea.

  Major Harte sat at the head of the table, in her father’s customary spot, although she hadn’t set a place setting there. The sight of him in that chair brought a flash of anger, yet at the same time, a comfort she couldn’t explain. His officers had taken places on either side of him and seemed relaxed in each other’s company, as if they’d known each other for a long time, which she supposed they had. The major watched her, his warm gaze bringing an uncomfortable flush to her cheeks and a slight tremor to her hands.

  Back and forth through the swinging door, Shaelyn brought the mashed potatoes, the green beans, bread and butter, and a gravy boat filled to brimming with the leftover brown sugar glaze. With each trip, she felt more and more self-conscious, especially with the major’s eyes watching her every move. She didn’t look at any of them until she heard Jock clear his throat. She glanced at him and caught his wink, his light green eyes, the color of new leaves, glowing with merriment and not a little bit of mischief, before she scurried back to the kitchen and the last item to be brought to the table.

  “I must admit, I am anxious to see these riverboats you’ve boasted about, Jock.” The comment came from Aaron Falstead, who grinned, showing off a complement of pearly white teeth.

  “Ach, ye’re in for a treat, laddie,” the Scotsman replied, smiling. His eyes sparkled as he winked at her once more. “Finest riverboats on the Mississippi.”

  “Tomorrow will be soon enough,” Remy said as he draped a linen napkin over his lap and took the platter of ham from Shaelyn’s suddenly shaking hands. He flashed that charming smile that sent liquid honey gathering in the pit of her belly and, without a word, passed the heavy plate around, making sure everyone had theirs before taking several slices for himself. He placed the platter in the middle of the table. “Thank you, Miss…Shae.”

  The way he said her name sent a jolt of pleasure to her heart, and the warm honey that settled in her stomach spread outward, speeding through her veins one pulse beat at a time. Excused, she pushed through the swinging door and let out the breath she’d been unaware she’d been holding.

  Brenna, bless her heart, sat at the small table where the servants—when they had had servants—had taken their meals, two plates heaped with food in front of her. Her hands were folded in her lap as she waited, but her eyes were bright, and the smile Shaelyn loved so much softened her features.

  As soon as Shaelyn slipped into a chair, Brenna reached across the table and grabbed her hand.

  She prayed, thanking God for the food on the table, asking Him to watch over them and to bring Ian home safe. To Shaelyn’s surprise, her mother included the soldiers in the dining room in her prayer.

  While she picked at her meal, she listened to the conversation in the other room. She learned that Daniel Bonaventure had a wife and three strapping boys in Pittsburgh. He hadn’t seen them in quite some time and sadness reflected in his voice.

  Aaron Falstead had a fiancée in Keyport, New Jersey, where he grew up and where his father owned a steamboat company that plied the shoreline from New York to Red Bank. They planned to be married once the war ended.

  Cory Ames had a new daughter he hadn’t yet met.

  Peter Williams had no wife or fiancée waiting for him, but said he planned to remedy that as quickly as possible. Life was too short, he said.

  Captain Becket didn’t contribute much to the conversation. Out of all the men in her home, he was the quietest. If he had an opinion, he didn’t share it.

  Captain Davenport had neither wife nor sweetheart and didn’t seem interested in obtaining either one. Or so he claimed in his clipped New England tones.

  Major Harte said very little, although he did laugh, which for reasons she couldn’t fathom, warmed her. A long sigh escaped her as she pushed the mound of mashed potatoes around her plate. Her appetite fled as a startling realization came to her. The men who had invaded her home were not monsters. They were just men who happened to wear blue uniforms. They felt sadness and happiness, loneliness and companionship, just as she did.

  “You’re not eating.”

  Shaelyn glanced up from her plate to find her mother’s gaze on her. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Of course,” she said, then pushed away her own plate. “I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but having them here may well turn out to be a good thing, Shae.” She stood and moved to the butcher-block table, where she opened the jars of peaches and poured them into one of her beautiful serving bowls
. She added a serving spoon then took several smaller bowls from the cabinet and put them all on a tray. “Try to finish a little more, dear, then bring that other pot of coffee.”

  Brenna pushed open the swinging door separating the kitchen from the dining room, the tray in her hands. Before the door swung closed, she heard her mother say, “My apologies, gentlemen, I have no dessert for you this evening, but I thought some peaches Shae and I put up last year might be the perfect thing to end your dinner.”

  Shaelyn dragged herself from her chair, grabbed the coffeepot from the stove, and followed. As she refilled their cups, every one of the men around the table said “thank you,” which didn’t surprise her. All of them were courteous and kind and polite to a fault.

  A short time later, the officers left the dining room, and a hush fell over the house as they closeted themselves in the study. Shaelyn glanced at her mother and noticed the fine lines around her eyes seemed deeper and more pronounced. “Why don’t you go to bed, Mama? I’ll clean up.”

  “Thank you, dear. Having all these men here just reminds me of how much I miss Ian and your father.” She sighed. “It’s been such an eventful day. I must be tired.”

  As Brenna slipped inside her room, Shaelyn filled the sink with hot soapy water then rolled up the sleeves of her blouse and began to clear the table, saving the scraps for the pigs, who would eat heartily tonight.

  By the time the pigs were fed, the dishes done and put away, and the kitchen gleamed in the lamplight, exhaustion overwhelmed her. Not only exhaustion, but a queer, curious tingling in her belly as she placed the roasting pan in the cabinet beside the stove. She turned quickly to find Major Harte standing in the doorway, watching her every move. He limped closer and stood on the other side of the butcher-block table.

  “Might I have a moment of your time?” His voice, when he finally spoke, seemed weary and yet still commanding.