Healing Grace (17 page)

“Tears”

Sadness and sorrow drown my eyes,

Filled in yours, they dignify.

Guilt and shame pour out of me,

From you, they are apology.

Weakness and flaws line my face,

On yours, splendor, awe and grace.

Failure and defeat flow from me,

In you, prevailing victory.

You are strength and I am shame,

No one but me, can I blame.

To mimic your depth, I try, I yearn,

Lessons of trust, from you I learn.

Trained to never weep or mourn,

You teach release, I am reborn.

Held inside so many years,

Now I can’t stop these endless tears.

The colonel was a pillar of strength, a man to be admired, respected, emulated. Like the boy, the troops revered him. Rarely did the colonel appear angry or annoyed. Sometimes, when frustrated, he would pace, but never for long. The only real upset the boy had ever seen from the powerful man was when casualties were heavy. The colonel would sit and stare off into space, and his expression would be distressed. But never, in all the time he’d been the colonel’s errand boy, had the boy seen the colonel cry.

Until that day.

The regiment was still camped near the farmhouse—the same place they’d been most of the summer. In his quarters in the upstairs bedroom, the colonel was taking a bath. For the longest time, the colonel remained huddled in the tub, with his arms wrapped around his shins and his head down on his knees.

The boy didn’t particularly like hauling the heavy buckets, but he knew the colonel would appreciate having his water warmed, so he set his book aside and started for the door. He stopped short when he heard the colonel make a funny sound.

“Did you say something, sir?” The boy could see enough of the colonel’s profile to know his eyes were closed. Without raising his head the colonel shook it.

The boy started to leave again when he heard the same sound, a high-pitched grunt.

“Is something wrong, sir?”

Again the colonel’s head rolled back and forth.

“I’ll bring more hot water,” the boy said.

When he returned with the bucket in hand, he had to knock on the door with his boot. He hit it harder than intended and the door opened a crack. “Colonel,” he called out, “this will warm you up.”

While he waited for the colonel to bid him entrance, he heard something. At first he didn’t realize what it was. It wasn’t loud. It was muffled.

The boy hesitated, unsure whether to enter or close the door and give the colonel privacy. The steam from the bucket was hot, burning his hands, and his shoulders ached from the trek up the stairs. He listened to the colonel’s sobs for another moment, then opted for his second choice. Just as he set the heavy bucket on the floor, the colonel brokenly called his name.

Tentatively the boy pushed the door open. The colonel wasn’t in the tub any longer. He was sitting on the bed with a towel over his lap.

“Colonel?” the boy asked anxiously. “Are you alright?”

The colonel didn’t answer.

The boy dragged the bucket into the room and closed the door. He thought maybe the colonel was troubled about the war, but of late things had been stagnant. The men were bored. He couldn’t imagine why the colonel would be upset over that.

“Is there anything I can get for you?” the boy asked.

The colonel said nothing, but he looked up and the boy saw the streaks on his face. They weren’t the kind that came from the bath.

“What’s wrong, sir?” he asked.

The colonel shook his head and closed his eyes. More tears seeped from the corners.

Unsure what to do, the boy sat down next to him. The smell of whiskey made his nostrils flare and he noticed the half-empty bottle on the end table next to the bed. The last time the colonel had drunk from it was when he’d been wounded, a few months before.

“I’m so alone,” the colonel whispered.

It dawned on the boy then that the colonel missed his family. The colonel wrote letters to his son and daughter all the time and he talked about them, but they weren’t really his children. They were his stepchildren. The son was twelve and the daughter ten. The colonel’s wife was older, and had been married before. He received a lot of letters from her. Mostly she wrote about the children. Sometimes the colonel would laugh as he read, and then he would share the stories out loud. He’d also shared that his wife was pretty and kindhearted. He said she was a good mother and the children were fortunate to have her.

“You’re not completely alone, sir. I’m here.” It was the only thing the boy could think to say.

The colonel’s sobs shuddered through him, and his great shoulders shook. But then suddenly he moved, curling his legs up onto the bed. Before the boy realized what was happening, the colonel’s head was on his thigh.

At first, the boy didn’t know what to do. Tentatively he petted the colonel’s hair like he used to pet the barn cats. He smoothed the colonel’s curly locks that way for such a long time, his trousers became dampened by the colonel’s tears. Even after the colonel stopped sobbing, he remained lying there, so the boy didn’t stop petting.

He was still stroking when the colonel abruptly sat up. Then he did something the boy never expected. He took the boy’s face in his hands and kissed him on the mouth.

“I want to lay with you,” the colonel murmured. “Will you let me?”

The boy’s heart was thumping, madly thumping. He didn’t know what the colonel meant. “Okay,” he said.

The colonel’s fingers threaded through the boy’s hair, tilting his head. This time when he kissed the boy, it wasn’t just a brush of lips. This time, the colonel opened the boy’s mouth and thrust his tongue inside. The boy tasted the colonel’s saliva, and whiskey. Never had the boy been kissed on the lips, and never had someone put their tongue in his mouth.

“Take off your clothes,” the colonel said.

The boy’s throat tightened. The tremors in his hands made it hard to push buttons through the holes. He tried to be quick, because he didn’t want to upset the colonel. But the colonel didn’t seem to be in a hurry. While the boy undressed, the colonel went to the door and locked it.

“Have you done this before?” the colonel asked.

“I…I don’t know,” the boy said. His voice was breathless, like a child’s. He sounded funny to his own ears.

The colonel pushed him down onto the bed, onto his back.

“Relax, love,” the colonel said, and he smiled. “Close your eyes and pretend a pretty girl is doing this to you.”

The boy stayed still, with his eyes closed, while the colonel touched and kissed his chest, his stomach, lower. Sometimes in the morning, when the boy woke up, he was swollen. But this wasn’t the morning and the colonel was making it happen. The colonel spoke to him too, telling the boy what he wanted him to do, how he wanted the boy to turn on the bed.

The boy obeyed, because he always obeyed the colonel. He had to, because he didn’t want to ever disappoint the colonel. This was what the colonel wanted and all that mattered was pleasing the colonel. The only thing the boy could think to do was breathe, one breath at a time, so the colonel wouldn’t know how scared he was.

It will be over soon. It will be over soon. Soon…

Repeating the words in his mind calmed him. He concentrated on them, and on breathing, and reminded himself of things he had to do the next day. The colonel’s laundry was ready. There was a cobweb in the window sill. He needed to catch the spider and put it outside. The wall behind the oil lamp needed to be scrubbed. Just keep breathing. He was pleasing the colonel.

It will be over soon.
The colonel must be missing his…

The boy’s eyes flew open. There were no noises, no grunts, no cries. The only sound was the faint creaking of the bed ropes and the colonel’s heavy breath. The boy’s panic returned. Not because of what was happening, but because he wasn’t doing something he was supposed to do. The colonel confused him and he forgot. He forgot to make the noises and say the words.

So he let himself whimper. He let himself moan. It’s what the colonel would want to hear. The boy was supposed to make these sounds.

“You wanted this too, didn’t you?” the colonel breathed.

The boy didn’t want this, but that didn’t matter. Relief spread through him. He was pleasing the colonel, and he knew how to please the colonel more. He closed his eyes and rasped the words he was supposed to say.

“I’m hurting you?” The colonel’s voice wasn’t a whisper this time.

The boy let his whimpers roll out and he said the words again, embellishing them this time. He was good at this. He could make his voice scratchy, youthful. He could make it sound like his pain was severe.

But the colonel didn’t do what the boy expected. The colonel let him go.

“Oh, love, I’m sorry,” the colonel murmured. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. If I hurt you, if I ever hurt you, you must tell me.”

The boy’s heart began to pound again. He thought he’d done the right thing, but the colonel looked upset. The colonel hadn’t hurt him, but the boy knew better than to say that out loud. To fix his mistake, he stammered, “Y…you d…d…don’t ha…ha…have to st…stop.”

“No, love, I won’t hurt you,” the colonel said. “There are other ways.”

The boy didn’t know what that meant.

The colonel kissed him on the mouth, and whispered, “Do you know how beautiful you are?”

The colonel did things to the boy for a long time—things that were new and things the boy had never thought he’d want to feel. There were things he’d done before, but that had never been done to him. Through it all he lay as still as he could, trying to control his breathing, trying to control his racing heart, trying to control the tremors.

But he couldn’t control anything, not the spasms that caused his hips to twist off the bed, not the choked gasp that came out of his throat, and not that ecliptic burn that shook him from head to toe.

After that, the colonel got off the bed. The boy kept his eyes closed and held his breath. He wasn’t ready to look at the colonel, because he knew if he did, the colonel would scowl at him. The colonel would call him stupid and tell him he’d done everything wrong. The colonel had never treated him that way before, but this was different. This was very different.

He heard the colonel pour a glass of water. And he thought the colonel came close to the bed again. He thought maybe the colonel was standing there, staring down at him, but he wasn’t sure. He waited, keeping his eyes closed, except he couldn’t hold his breath any longer. He had to let it out and take in another. He tried to do it silently, but he wasn’t silent, and he knew the colonel would hit him. The colonel would beat him.

The colonel got on the bed and leaned over him, hovering so close the boy could feel the heat emanating from him. Fingertips smoothed the boy’s hair back from his forehead. Fleetingly lips brushed over his, so lightly they tickled. And the colonel whispered, “Thank you, love. Thank you… thank you… thank you…”

“You need to leave Grace Manor. Go to Washington. All of you,” Etienne said as he pointedly looked from one person to the next—Julien, Jessica, Trent, Emily, and around again to his brother. Sam was present in the parlor as well. The children, for once, weren’t underfoot, but that was because Etienne had insisted they be elsewhere during this meeting.

“Where is this letter you found?” Trent asked.

“As I’ve already explained, I inadvertently left it on the table in the abandoned barn. When I went back for it, it was gone. I believe the man pretending to be the spook has it. That’s why he’s been circling the barn at night. He knew it was there somewhere and was looking for it. It’s evidence against him and he couldn’t risk having it seen. This time he got there before me.”

“You believe this man—this spook impersonator—is the one who killed Luther?” Julien asked.

“Yes,” Etienne said. “I also believe he’s using the spook disguise to draw you out. Curiosity-killed-the-cat kind of thing, and you’re the cat. He thinks you’ll go after him to figure out who he is, and when you do, he’ll have his opportunity. The letter said he has money at his disposal, which tells me he’s well-armed. The horse he rides is further evidence of decent funding.”

“What do you want to do, Trent?” Emily asked. “Maybe we should go somewhere and stay through August. We could visit Elise. Julien, your mother and Seth won’t mind if we barrage them for a few months, will they? The letter said this hoodlum has until August to do his dirty deeds, right Etienne?”

“Yes. He has until August,” Etienne confirmed. “And I’m sure
Maman
and Seth won’t mind having guests. That’s a great idea.”

“The Independence Day races are next week,” Trent said. “We can’t miss those. Daniel’s been looking forward to them all year.”

“Trent,” Etienne said firmly, “Julien is not the only target. You are, too. None of you are safe here. Not Jessica, not Emily, and I wouldn’t put it past this man to go after the children, either. He’ll use any means at his disposal to achieve his ends.”

“Speaking of the races,” Julien intoned. “Etienne claims the man rides like a demon. Could he be entered in the race?”

“It’s definitely worth looking into,” Trent said. “I can look at the manifest. Narrow down the possibilities.”

“So you’re not going to listen to me?” Etienne asked. “You’re going to stay here?”

“We are listening to you,” Julien said. “You also said this man is being blackmailed. We need to figure out who he’s protecting. Once we know that, we’ll be able to get behind this and end it.”

“That’s what Sam and I are trying to do,” Etienne countered. “That’s why we’re here.”

“And you need all the help you can get.” Julien smirked. “Especially if you keep garbing up in Trent’s old clothes. You’re smelling up the whole parlor. Can’t you at least have them washed before you wear them? No offense, Em.”

“None taken,” Emily giggled.

Etienne saw Jessica doing her best to contain laughter, too. All of them were. Even Sam was biting his cheek. They’d been half mocking him ever since he’d said he needed to speak with them, and not solely because of his too short, attic-scented britches.

“At least we know he doesn’t have bugs crawling on him,” Trent guffawed.

“How can all of you take this so lightly!” Etienne threw his hands in the air, and abruptly stood up. “You’re fools, the lot of you. And Jessie, your husband is worst. Make him see sense, will you? He’s too stubborn to listen to me.”

Before Jessica could reply, Julien rose, covered the distance and pressed Etienne’s shoulder. It was all Etienne could do not to throw his brother’s hand off. The only reason he didn’t was the severity of Julien’s expression.

“Eddy, we’re not taking any of this lightly,” Julien said. “This family means everything to me, and that includes you. You know that. On behalf of all of us here in this room, I want you to know how much we appreciate what you’ve done. Without you, we would still know next to nothing. But you’re missing a critical piece. The letter you found only confirms it.”

“Yeah, what am I missing?”

“The Klan’s influence is far reaching. They’re in Virginia, Washington. They’re all over the south. They’re in the north now, too. As you know, Seth’s entourage of spies keeps him informed on Klan activity. He’s been sending telegrams to keep us up to date. So far, none of the other states’ groups have heard anything about us, or what’s going on here in Tennessee.”

“Why would they?”

“Exactly, but hear me out,” Julien went on. “No matter where we go, the people who are after us will follow, and when they do, they’ll seek assistance from their so-called brothers. Then we become enemies of more than just the Tennessee Klan. To keep this contained—and if we ever hope to live in peace anywhere in this country again, we must keep this contained—we have no choice. We stay here until this is over.”

“So what do you propose?” Etienne growled.

“A trap. We set out bait and let them come to us. The Independence Day races will afford an opportunity to do that. Trent and I have already discussed it. We would have included you, but you’re never here.” Smirking, he added, “Except when you’re playing dress-up in the attic.”

Ignoring the heckle, Etienne asked, “And what, pray tell, are you planning to use as bait?”

Julien grinned. “Me.”

* * *

Julien’s plan was a bad one. Etienne stomped toward the barn, his fury peaking a little more each time his heels slammed into the soft earth. Everything was spinning out of control and he could do nothing about it. Except catch the damn spook. Time was of the essence now, since Independence Day was Monday, two days away. Something had to be done. Tonight.

“Sir, do you mind if I—” Sam started.

“Go! Do whatever you have to do. I don’t give a damn!” Etienne had almost forgotten the loyal adjutant was on his heels.

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

Etienne closed his eyes. When he opened them and turned, he expected to see Sam hightailing it across the lawn, but Sam was still there. “What is it?”

“It’s about my…
er
… Edward Murphy, sir. My sister told me, and I would have said something sooner, but I didn’t realize it might be important until today. He’s planning to attend the races. He’s meeting
friends
there.”

“What friends?”

“I’m not sure, sir. But I will find out. I will also see if I get more information about where they’ll be. The course is pretty big. I thought perhaps I could finagle a way to invite myself along.”

“Great idea, Sam. Find out what you can. I appreciate it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“Yes, I know, sir.”

“How is Archie?”

“Willful.”

Etienne forced a smile, the best he could do with his temper raging. “Go on. Go take care of him.”

“Yes, sir. One last thing, sir. I…
um
… Archie and I switched bedrooms. I wanted you to know in case you need me. The front door won’t be locked, so you can come in anytime. I’m in the room on the left now.” His eyes darted past Etienne as he reached up to tip his hat. “Hello, ma’am.”

Etienne’s pulse sped up. Before he turned to see the lady Sam addressed, he knew who would be there.

Constance.

She was as beguiling as ever, dressed in the same shade of blue as her translucent eyes, with all that luscious hair curling around almost-bared shoulders. He wanted to go to her, to embrace her, to apologize again, though he still didn’t know what he’d done wrong.

Part of—or rather most of—the reason for his surly mood was that every other second since he’d left her house the night before, he’d been second-guessing himself. When they’d been in the barn, he’d believed she wanted him. She’d been the one who intoned they could have a ‘romantic tryst.’ Of course, from the moment she’d suggested it, he’d wished for an opportunity. He’d even thought up half a dozen ways to steal a kiss. But then she’d been the one to kiss him.

If she hadn’t wanted him to take further liberties then why hadn’t she said so, or at least pulled away? He’d known she wanted him to keep going because of the way her tongue melded with his during their deeper kisses, the way her body suggestively arched and writhed as he’d stripped her, the way she bent her knees and opened for him.

Those legs… those glorious, tantalizing, long legs…

Tipping his own hat, he murmured, “Constance.”

“Please excuse me,” she said. “I…I’m here to see Emily.”

She hastened across the lawn and Etienne couldn’t tear his eyes away. As it was, he was so compelled to follow he took two steps and had to catch himself lest he trail after her the entire way to the house. Instead he prayed for tornado-like winds to suddenly descend. Just one or two gusts would do, enough to lift her skirt and give him an eyeful.

Except a wish like that only proved how much of an ass he was. Last night, after they’d made love, she cried. In his endless deliberations he’d come up with three possible explanations for her tears. The first was that she missed her husband, which was reasonable, and should have been expected. The second, she felt guilty because Simpson was courting her. That couldn’t have been right though, because in the barn Etienne had more or less asked if she felt guilty, and she’d denied it. The third, and most humiliating, was that she’d been so disappointed by his performance, she’d wept. Not only that, but she’d been turned off enough that she wasn’t willing to give him another chance.

She was going to visit with Emily. Would she tell Emily what he’d done?

Only when she disappeared from view did Etienne turn around. Sam was still there, and as always Sam was watching. Uncannily intuitive Sam. One look at his worried expression and Etienne knew Sam had him figured him out.

“It’s not what you think,” Etienne lied.

“Yes, sir. I understand, sir. If you’ll excuse me, sir.”

He didn’t watch Sam go. Instead Etienne marched into the barn and straight to Igore’s stall. That wasn’t exactly true. He halted briefly to look at Izzy. The mare nodded her big brown-black nose, and the message to Etienne was loud and clear, “Yes, girls talk. The schoolteacher is probably, right now, filling Emily’s head with every sordid—and shameful—detail. And don’t forget, fool, that you told Constance you were married. Emily, no doubt, will jabberjaw the rest of that appalling tale. Constance will never agree to be your
chérie amour
. What she’ll agree about wholeheartedly is that your name should be changed to Etienne
Dis
grace.”

Continuing to brood, however, would get him nowhere. Besides, he had more important things to do. His next stop would be the telegraph office. Surely they had spare wire he could purchase. If not, he’d rip down an existing line, regardless of the repercussions of such thievery. Tonight, come hell or high water, he was going to catch the dubious, imposter spook.

* * *

It was a good thing the country wasn’t well traveled at night. If it were, Etienne would have had to rush out, stand in the road, arms flailing, and yell, “Stop.”

The wire he’d obtained from the telegraph office was virtually invisible in the dark. He’d strung it from a tree on the north side of the road to one on the south, high enough to spare the horse, but not the rider. Depending upon how hunkered down in the saddle the imposter spook was, the line should catch him somewhere between chest and forehead.

Could this plan result in the spook’s death? It could. He’d be thrown from the horse and in the ensuing tumble break his neck. This was a risk, but Etienne had little choice. He hoped, of course, it wouldn’t come to that. He needed the man alive to interrogate him.

The only thing left for Etienne to do was settle in the woods where he couldn’t be seen and wait. It occurred to him, while killing time, that the spook might not be out tonight. That was unlikely, however. The spook had been out every night, just as Etienne had been.

Except last night.

Last night the spook could have been out, but Etienne wouldn’t have seen him, because he’d been in the barn. With Constance.

Constance.

As hard as he’d tried, he couldn’t get her out of his head. Not the way her eyes—those transfixing eyes—lit up when she smiled. Not the way she could razz him with her startling acumen and wit. Not the way she’d held him when he couldn’t breathe, when the images invaded, when he couldn’t make them stop. No one had ever told him what happened in the war wasn’t his fault.

It was. Because he’d given the orders. He’d sent men—old men, young men, boys barely strong enough to hold a musket, fathers, sons, brothers—to their deaths.

POP, POP, POP… BOOOOM! POP… POP… BOOOOOM…

The cannon fire, like thunder, converged in his mind with the screams and cries of wounded, dying men. The red-soaked fields littered with corpses swarmed in until he could see nothing else. He could hear nothing else…

“…it’s not your fault… it’s not your fault…”

Like a sweet melody, the whisper came to him.