High Hearts (12 page)

“Perhaps you’re right.”

Just then Ernie entered with her tray of treats. “Good mornin’, Miz Jennifer, it’s good to see you.”

Jennifer viewed Ernie’s handiwork with envy and pleasure. “How beautiful!”

“Di-Peachy told me we has an important guest.” Butter would melt in Ernie June’s mouth.

Sin-Sin, lurking in the background, heard enough. She put her hand to her mouth as though clearing her throat. “Humph.” Ernie, after more compliments, retired.

“Sin-Sin, Jennifer found my emerald pin!”

“I doan believe it.”

Lutie handed the pin to Sin-Sin. “That’s it.”

“In the middle of the ball of yarn,” Jennifer added.

Sin-Sin shook her head. “Doan that beat all.”

“Well, this is a lucky day, Jennifer, and I have you to thank for it.”

The two rivals buttered toast, gobbled jams, and plied one another with the conversation of the county. Jennifer, because she had organized the sewing brigade, was enjoying special prominence. Lutie couldn’t sew worth a damn. It killed her to see Jennifer reap so much praise. Everyone in Albemarle County was carrying on about sewing uniforms.

“—and so you see, dearest Lutie, the situation could be quite serious.” Jennifer’s voice dropped into the terribly sincere key.

“Of course, I see. But not a shot has been fired.” Lutie waved her hand. “Maybe both sides will get tired of this before it starts and go home!”

“With Abe Lincoln in the White House? He’ll drive us into battle. It has to happen, and we have to be prepared for it.”

“It’s certainly not going to be here, Jennifer. There’s nothing in Charlottesville those abolitionists want. We breed horses and tend to our business. Why, we don’t even have an important railroad connection.”

“How do you know the Northerners won’t go on a rampage? What if they burn everything that stands and shoot everything that moves?” Jennifer was truly frightened.

“They’re gentlemen! My brother-in-law is one of them. You’ve entertained Northern people in your superb home. Why I remember only too well the harvest party you had for the Aethelreds, those charming people from Maine.”

“They’re the exception that proves the rule.”

“I do hope you’re mistaken.” Lutie’s hand fluttered to her breast. “I can’t believe the Yankee army will make war on women and children. Jennifer, our boys will whip the daylights out of them!”

“Yes, but our boys can’t be everywhere at once, and they will need your help. You’ve had so much experience.” Jennifer referred to Lutie’s skill at nursing the servants and her sad ordeal with the dying Jimmy. “Why don’t you set up nursing classes so we women will be ready to do our part on the battlefront?”

Trapped, Lutie didn’t take long to answer. She had to accept the challenge or she’d forfeit her lead in the community. She’d lost ground, thanks to all the sewing! “You know I’ll do it.” Lutie began to fill with her task. “We’ll start up here, of course. Each week we can move to another suitable house. I suppose we’ll need to conduct some classes in town, too. I’ll expect to see you and our ladies this Thursday then, the Feast of Saint Mark.”

“Splendid, Lutie. Shall I have one of my servants leave cards for everyone at their home?”

“No, Di-Peachy can do that.”

“I’m sure Geneva will be a big help.”

“Geneva has gone away for a bit—the shock of Nash leaving so soon and all. Jennifer, I tell you this in strictest confidence, I sent her over to England. I didn’t want anyone
to know as it might look like I feared for her in this turmoil. She’ll return in a few months. She was possessed of such grief, of such”—Lutie cast her hands skyward and smiled seraphically—“young love.”

Jennifer smiled as though understanding, but she didn’t at all. Jennifer Greer married Big Fitz for her days not for her nights.

The moment Jennifer Fitzgerald was gone, Lutie grabbed some sheets of paper, called for Di-Peachy, and the two began planning nursing classes.

Before nightfall, the women, white and black, in Albemarle County knew, knew for a fact, that Geneva Chatfield Hart was on the Atlantic, sailing toward England.

“Proclaim ye this among the Gentiles; Prepare war, wake up the mighty men, let all the men of war draw near; let them come up.” Joel 3:9.

Sitting in St. Paul’s, Ninth and Grace streets, admiring the chaste interior, this third day after Easter Henley thought the lesson for the day wretchedly topical. So did the reverend. At appropriate moments he would swing out his arm, his flowing robes creating a mild breeze.

Henley knew that back home Lutie would be ensconced in her front pew at Christ Episcopal Church on the corner of Hill Street, or Second Street as younger people called it, and Jefferson Street. She’d be listening to the same lesson and fretting over war. Unfortunately, Geneva would be no help since she didn’t seem to give a fig about the war. Henley doubted if his daughter comprehended the enormity of what was about to descend upon both the Union and the Confederacy. He wasn’t sure he grasped it himself.

Henley knew wherever Sumner was, he’d take out his Bible and read the lesson. He had promised Lutie he would devoutly follow his church almanac, and he would. Sumner would always keep a promise to his mother. A pity he hadn’t promised to stop drinking and playing cards.

The reverend belabored the phrase “wake up the mighty men.” He was referring to the gentlemen assembled inside St. Paul’s, over half of them in uniform. Henley rather enjoyed being referred to as a mighty man. The fact that the gray coat of his uniform called attention to his thick silver hair pleased him, too. Thank God I didn’t go bald, he thought, and then offered a prayer to the Almighty whom Henley imagined as a gigantic man with long silver hair and flowing beard to match. One couldn’t have a bald God, after all.

This deeply spiritual moment was riven to shreds by the alarm sounding from the bell tower in Capitol Square. St. Paul’s, close to the square, shook with the noise. Before the reverend could finish his sentence, the uniformed men stampeded out of the church. Henley, sitting in the front, couldn’t get out that fast. In the few seconds between blasts, the congregation panicked. The main aisle was clogged with terrified adults and screaming children. One ten-year-old boy led his weeping mother by the hand telling her not to worry; no Yankee could kill her because he’d kill the Yankee first.

Henley finally broke through the crowd and dashed out the front door into the mild, sunny light. He smashed into a woman, and they both tumbled on the ground.

“I’m so sorry, madam.” Henley scrambled to his feet. He then offered his hand to the woman as she gathered up her luscious, pale pastel skirts. When she took his hand and finally gazed up at him, he wanted to faint. Staring him straight in the face was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life. Her rich blonde hair curled around her shoulders. Her becoming church hat framed her perfectly formed face. Her skin glowed like an unplucked peach. Her features bespoke fine breeding, but it was her eyes that destroyed him. They were bright cobalt blue, not pale blue or ice blue or watery blue but blazing, deep cobalt blue. Only once in his life had Henley ever seen a woman equal to her beauty, but she was a slave, Di-Peachy’s mother.

“Colonel, I apologize. In the excitement I didn’t look
where I was going.” Her low voice soothed him like honey in whiskey.

“The fault is all mine.” Henley offered his arm to this goddess. “Allow me to escort you to my carriage. I regret that I cannot see you home, madam, but as you can plainly surmise, I am needed elsewhere.”

“You’re both gracious and generous, Colonel. I have my own carriage, and I’d be obliged if you’d walk me to it.”

The light pressure of her hand on his arm drove him wild. Here he was, a man twice her age and then some, and he felt like a satyr, a bull, Zeus beholding Leda.

Four perfectly equipped bay horses calmly stood amid the pandemonium. Henley sucked in his breath. She was not only beautiful, she was rich. Those were the best bred Cleveland Bays in Chesterfield and Henrico counties.

A man running by bellowed, “It’s the
Pawnee!
The Feds sent a warship to bombard our city.”

Henley walked her to her carriage. “If they have the range, they’ll aim for the Tredegar Iron Works. Failing that, I think our Northern foes will settle for sowing misery where they can. Please be careful. Don’t linger by any government buildings.”

“I’m not afraid of the Yankees, Colonel.” A crooked grin spread across her face. Her teeth were perfect. “I think the Yankees ought to be afraid of me!”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He lifted her up into the carriage. “Madam, like Helen you could launch a thousand ships.”

“Or oyster boats!” She laughed.

He laughed along with her. She was beautiful, but unconcerned about it. He loathed vain women. The fact that he could spend half an hour perfecting his beard did not qualify as vanity. That had to do with looking respectable. “Forgive me for not introducing myself.” The commotion grew steadily worse. “I’m Henley Chatfield from Albemarle County.”

“The famous horseman! Why, I’ve always wanted to meet you. My husband and I spent years in Europe, and we’d heard of you there. It’s Fate that we should meet, Colonel Chatfield.”

“The Fates are kind.”

“Let’s just say the Fates did not give us eyes in the back of our head.” She smiled. “I’m Kate Vickers.”

“I’m honored.” So this is Kate Vickers, thought Henley. No wonder men fought duels over her.

“I receive on Thursdays after two. Won’t you please come by? We might even be able to hear ourselves talk.” She gestured at the panic around her. “I’m sure, too, that the other guests would be thrilled to meet Virginia’s most successful horseman in person. I regret, of course, that my husband Mars won’t be there. He’s training a cavalry regiment somewhere in the western counties.”

Henley didn’t regret Mars Vickers’s absence a bit. “Until Thursday.” He raised his hat as the splendid carriage, driven by a fully dressed coachman, wheeled and turned. Walking with a calm, deliberate pace, so as not to appear frightened, Henley made his way through the mob of well-dressed citizens to the capitol. Men poured into the streets with pistols and shotguns. Many of the town’s finer ladies headed for Chimborazo Heights. If there was going to be a display of fireworks, they fully intended to witness it.

Once inside the capitol, Henley found other officers. Nobody knew what was going on. At least one man had the sense to order the howitzers down to the riverbank. If the
Pawnee
came up the river, the artillery was ordered to fire upon it.

Henley, disgusted by the tangle inside the capitol, worked his way toward the legislative chamber. He picked a desk and sat in it. An ad hoc committee of men without offices filled the room designed by Thomas Jefferson. At first, concern over the projected damage a Federal warship could do dominated their conversation. As time went by and no sickening booms were heard, the men turned their minds to other matters. The Confederacy had a president. Virginia had a governor, a good one. But the army of Virginia had no commander. They’d heard that Governor Letcher had sent word to Robert E. Lee. Colonel Lee on April 18 had been offered command of the United States Army by General Winfield Scott. He declined.

Henley knew the Lees. He was four years younger than Robert, aged fifty-four. Henley hoped Robert E. Lee would soon take command. Richmond couldn’t afford many more Sundays like this one. It was all the more upsetting in an odd way because the
Pawnee
never did steam up the James River. It was a false alarm.

“How long do you reckon?” Geneva asked Banjo.

“If the weather holds, another day,” Banjo cheerily replied.

The clouds crowned the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The world was wrapped in cotton candy, fairy floss as Lu tie called it. The two companions had ridden steadily since dawn. At last the weather behaved like a mild April, and the morning temperature was in the low sixties.

The thought of seeing Nash soon made Geneva’s heart pound. She dreamed of him night and day, but she was careful not to discuss him with Banjo. She had mentioned that she hoped to be reunited with her childhood friend, Nash Hart, and maybe she would even find her brother Sumner.

Banjo’s presence was a tonic for her. She was spared those thousand and one false courtesies men shower upon women, at least Geneva thought them false. The only time she was happy was on horseback. Then her skill weighed more than her sex, her family name, her family wealth. Geneva never examined why she needed to prove herself physically against all comers. Geneva rarely examined anything. As far as she was concerned, she loved horses and she possessed a gift for them. What else was there to know?

“See that stump over there?” Banjo pointed. “Hit it.”

Geneva, grateful for his attention to her marksmanship, pulled out her father’s pistol and fired. The first shot went wide, but the second sank into the rotted trunk with a satisfying thud.

“Not bad, boy, but you’ll have to keep practicing.” Banjo pulled his own sidearm, and the slender barrel flashed. He had found his target. He dismounted, tied his horse, and
walked over to the stump. Banjo rooted around the ground, finding four big pinecones to put on the stump. “Now, Jimmy, you stay off to the left here. Watch what I do, and then you do it.” Banjo hopped back in the saddle, headed off about one hundred yards. He turned and cantered back toward the stump, then when forty yards from it, he turned parallel. He pulled his pistol, urged his horse on, and blew every pinecone off the stump without wasting a bullet.

Geneva applauded.

“You do it.”

Dutifully, she retraced his route, turned, and then galloped. She emptied her gun and hit the stump, but not the reset pinecones.

“Keep your eyes on the target!” Banjo instructed. “Stare so hard at those pinecones that you see each little petal. Do it again.”

This time she focused on those goddamned pinecones so intently her eyes ached. She hit one, but missed the others.

Breathing hard, she rode up to him. “I’ll practice every day.”