In The Face Of Death (45 page)

“A good thing you were not an officer for the South, Madame, if you are so prepared for our three-day stay,” Sherman said to her archly. “It would have been a more difficult fight had there been a greater attention to supply.”

“Hence the Georgia campaign, as I recall,” she said to him. “To cut off supplies.”

“Precisely. An army without supplies cannot fight. If the spring before had not been cold, we would not have been able to do as much as we did, but the South was already low on supplies, thanks to fighting and poor crops.” His voice was a little huskier than it had been six years ago, a sign that the asthma was still with him; he sounded impatient, as if he was tired of answering Leonetto’s questions. He looked around the room, as if sizing up its defensive possibilities. “Only an incompetent leader would fight once supplies are lost.”

“Hood, Johnston, and Forrest were not incompetent; you said so yourself,” said Madelaine, trying to keep a tone that would satisfy Leonetto. This was more difficult than she had anticipated; she knew Sherman had missed her, had sensed it through their bond over the years, but she wanted him to tell her so, to admit it. It was suddenly very important to her that he speak the words aloud.

“No, they were not, and they surrendered, as any leader worthy of his men must do, to protect them. To fight on would have been profligate with lives, and have gained nothing but more complete ruin.” Sherman agreed at once, adding, “Joe Johnston is my good friend now.” At last he gathered enough of his courage to take her hand. He did not shake it, as she anticipated, but raised it to his lips, his eyes locked on hers. “I should not be surprised, Madame, but I am.” Then his eyes crinkled appreciatively, and he murmured, “Burgundy velvet and with a train;
very
elegant.”

His approval was disconcerting, as she knew he intended it to be. “What can I be but flattered? And I must thank Professor Leonetto for keeping my confidence.”

She turned to Leonetto and smiled, all the while wishing he would vanish. “I was not certain you would be willing to do it.”

The Professor bowed and offered a self-satisfied smirk. “It was my little experiment. I was curious to see how General Sherman would respond to a former acquaintance after the passage of years.”

“No,” said Sherman at once, his voice sharp and determined, cutting at the words. “That was not your purpose, sir. You were not completely satisfied that Madame de Montalia actually knew me, as she claimed she did. You did not mention her to me to test
her,
not to test me. Because you were not wholly convinced that she and I are truly friends.” He directed his piercing steel-colored eyes at the man. “I trust you are satisfied now?”

Leonetto had nothing to say in his own defense. “I did not mean to offend you, General.”

“You don’t offend
me,
you offend Madame de Montalia,” said Sherman with an impatient gesture with his left hand; Madelaine recognized it as his sign of wanting to be finished with the matter. “Offer your apology to her, not to me. I am not due one; she is.”

“I . . . I am sorry to have doubted you. But such a tale, and from a woman of your
.
. . quality,” said Leonetto with a slight shrug. “You would have doubted such an assertion yourself, I daresay.”

“Your apology is accepted,” said Madelaine, grateful to Anamaria for arriving with the hot brandy.

“Good; very good,” said the Professor, noting that there were only two steaming cups on the tray she offered.

“And when you are done serving the gentlemen, please light the lamps, Anamaria, and send Giorgio to light the fire; it is getting chilly in here,” said Madelaine in Italian.

“Certainly, Madame. It is growing dark so early.” She presented the tray to the tall American first, looking at him speculatively, trying to discern what it was about the man that so intrigued Madelaine de Montalia, for she and Giorgio had never seen her this animated except when Saint-Germain was also here.

Professor Leonetto took the second cup and then glanced at Madelaine. “You are having none, Madame?” He faltered, uncertain how to proceed if his hostess did not also have something in her hand.

“No. I have a tiresome condition that limits my diet severely. But do not let that take away from your pleasure. Pray enjoy them,” Madelaine responded.

“And she won’t eat supper with us, either, Professor; several times I’ve tried to convince her to join me and she never has,” said Sherman dryly. “Though, if she’s up to her usual standard, she will have a good meal to offer us.” He sipped at the hot brandy. “What else is in this?”

“Other than brandy? A little honey and nutmeg and lemon peel,” said Madelaine at once. “It is a more pleasant drink that way.”

“You know that from experience, do you?” Sherman asked her with a sudden grin. He looked about the room again, with less determination. “Is that a Botticelli?”

“I believe so,” said Madelaine, looking at the painting over the mantle. “I will find out if you are curious.”

He was about to say no, and then he looked at her closely. “Yes, I would like to know.” He had more of the brandy and said, “There was a time I did some sketching, you know.”

Anamaria left the withdrawing room, taking her tray with her.

“Yes,” Madelaine said, hoping that the emotion would not be too obvious in her voice. “I remember.” She thought of his sketch of her, sitting in a frame on her writing table. Later, she promised herself, she would show him.

“Do you? From so long ago?” he said lightly enough, but with a suggestion of knowledge beyond the ordinary. “I haven’t done much since the war.”

“It was not so long as you might think. You forget that I am older than I appear,” Madelaine said pointedly.

“True. You do not change,” said Sherman, the statement almost an accusation.

Anamaria returned with a taper to light the lamps; soon the room was ruddy with the soft light from them. For the next few hours, as they sat first in the withdrawing room and then in the dining room, Sherman held forth, for Professor Leonetto’s benefit, on the subject of American politics, American expansion, American scenery, and American cooking. “No criticism intended, Madame,” he interjected to Madelaine. “That is not to say that this fare is not delicious,” he added quickly to Madelaine, “but for me, the savor is lacking. It is more sophisticated, no doubt, and the result of long traditions of cooking, but I am a plain man, and I prefer simple, American fare. This stuffed veal breast is wonderful, but my tongue is more set for a stew than this. I’m afraid that most of this is wasted on me. Not that this isn’t superb, but my wants are far simpler. Plain food for a plain man. My wife, now, she might be more appreciative than I am.”

Madelaine wondered what sort of fool would think Sherman a plain man; he was easily one of the most complex men she had ever met. She did not challenge this assertion, but said, “The foods of home have one advantage that no other can best, as I am sure your wife would agree. When it comes to nourishment, there is no spice so savory as love.”

Sherman gave her a sharp look, the first indication of hope in his eyes. “Very true, Madame. Very true.”

At ten, Professor Leonetto and Sherman broke out their cigars, and Madelaine ordered that port be served to them. She did not leave the dining room, though custom required she leave the men to themselves, so that they would be at liberty discussing matters of interest to men. Considering the variety of subjects Sherman had already addressed, Madelaine could not imagine what else might be said that would be unfit for her ears.

“Supper in the English fashion,” approved the Professor as he lit his cigar. “With port at the finish.”

Madelaine said nothing to him. She was growing weary of his constant attempts to wring more information from Sherman, and his obvious self-serving intentions. She should have warned him Sherman would not dance to that tune. She wished the evening were over and these two retired to their rooms so that she might send the servants to bed and then be free to visit Tecumseh before he began to dream.

“But the food here is better than the English, or so I am told,” Sherman said, trying to make amends for his earlier pronouncements. “I certainly have dined well since I came to Europe. Not that I am one to dwell over my dinner.”

“The English are the worst cooks in the world,” Professor Leonetto declared roundly. “But they are very capable sailors and fine weavers and they make excellent sweets. It is the cold that makes them like sweets.”

Sherman nodded. “I’ll remember that, for when I am there,” he said, and blew out a long stream of smoke. “Though I haven’t much of a taste for sweets. I prefer a richer savor to my foods; sweetness must have taste, or one might as well eat sugar.” He looked directly at Madelaine.

Another hour passed in a discussion of the importance of railroads in warfare, and the improvement in rifles and heavier guns, Sherman doing most of the talking, making rapid gestures with his cigar to emphasize a point or to draw a map in the air. His speech was fast and crackling with ideas; he avoided mentioning politics as much as possible, claiming that since his father-in-law’s death, he had not kept up with “the shenanigans in Washington at all. Though with my wife writing a book about her father, it’s probably just as well I’m away at present.”

Professor Leonetto tried in vain to get Sherman to criticize Grant’s presidency, or to indicate his own plans in regard to high office, but could not shake him from his support of his friend, and his assertion that he had no such ambitions. “John and Philemon are enough politicians for one family. They enjoy it; I do not. I want no part of that life.” And then, at last, Sherman stubbed out his third cigar and rose. “Well, it has been a delightful evening, and I must thank you before I retire. You are a young fellow, Leonetto, but I am coming fifty-two, and after a day of traveling, I need my rest. These bones are getting old. You will have to excuse me or prepare to listen to my snores.” Nothing about him suggested fatigue; he looked prepared to continue holding forth for hours.

But Leonetto did not question this. “Of course, General. I should have realized. But the time got away from me; this has been so fascinating I was not paying attention to the hour,” he said promptly as he, too, got to his feet and shook hands with Sherman. “It has been a very pleasant evening. And most enlightening. Most enlightening.”

“Do you think so?” said Sherman, his tone implying that he thought otherwise. “Well, you will have tomorrow and the day after to learn more, if you like. Though I can’t imagine what you haven’t asked me already, or what other answers I could give you than what I have done.” He stretched, his back arching with the effort. “Which room did you say was mine?” he asked, looking at Madelaine.

“I have given you the one with the view of the lake, over the withdrawing room. Andrea will lead you up,” she said, and rang for her butler, noticing that he concealed a yawn as he came through the door.

“That’s good of you, Madelaine,” said Sherman, apparently unaware of the sudden scrutiny of Professor Leonetto. “I will wish you good-night.”

“And I will do the same,” said the Professor, a speculative glimmer in his eyes at this unexpected familiarity.

Madelaine waited until Anamaria had cleared the table, and then went up to her own room, which was located in the same wing as Sherman’s. She knew she was delaying the privacy with Sherman she so desired, but she did not challenge her own reserve. She felt apprehension as well as excitement as she climbed the stairs, for she was aware of Sherman’s ambivalence, the same undercurrent of conflict that he had experienced from the start of their affair. As she changed out of her burgundy velvet dinner dress and into a silken, ruffled peignoir, she wished she could see herself in the mirror, to take stock of her appearance before venturing down the corridor to the large room that overlooked the lake. She let down the elaborate chignon and her coffee-colored hair tumbled. Taking her brush she worked at it impatiently, not willing to take the time for her usual one hundred strokes, fearing now that if she waited much longer she would lose her nerve. “Ridiculous,” she said aloud as she put her brush down, made a loose knot of her tresses at the back of her neck, retrieved a vial from her jewel case, got to her feet and stepped out into the deserted hallway, confident that her servants were abed and Professor Leonetto was in a room at the far end of the villa. When she reached the door, she tapped lightly, then, without waiting for an invitation, she opened the door and stepped into the room.

The fire in the grate crackled merrily, the lamps were lit and turned down to a soft glow, the bed was turned back and the curtains tied back with satin sashes, but of Sherman there was no sign.

Madelaine stood still for an instant, trying to think what had happened to him—was he bathing in the adjoining room, or had he taken a turn about the villa?—when the door-latch was swung roughly out of her hand as Sherman pushed it closed.

“Walked right into my ambush,” he declared triumphantly as he pulled her into his arms and kissed her enthusiastically, straining her close to him for some little time as his arms reacquainted themselves with the shape and weight of her. Then his hold eased and he straightened up so that he could look down into her face, and said the one thing she wanted most to hear: “God Almighty, I have missed you, Madelaine.” His voice was a caress. “There have been nights when I have lain awake and tried to recall everything between us. When it seemed my veins would boil for want of you. When I have thought that my heart would break free of my body and fly off in search of you.” He released her and tugged at the tie of his dark-blue velvet robe.

“I have missed you too, Tecumseh.” She reached out to touch his chest; the crisp hair there was now almost totally white.

“And look at you,” he went on, taking her face in his hands and staring down at her as if to photograph her. “The same radiant girl I met, all those years ago, in San Francisco. These days, I remember your house on Franklin Street better than my own on Rincon Hill.”

“I am not quite the same,” she protested, seeing the frown line between his brows deepen.