The Men of Pride County: The Rebel (12 page)

After nervously wiping his mouth and pant
leg, he said, “You would have to ask him about that, ma’am.” He set down the glass and stood. “Thank you for the drink and for the book. I’d best be going.”

Alone with her tart lemonade and bitter thoughts, Juliet asked herself, “What is it you’re trying to prove, Noble Banning? That you’re not the man your father is? Or are you following in his footsteps?”

Maisy Bartholomew’s party was a small, elite gathering in her new abode. Besides Juliet and her father, bachelors Noble, Miles, and George Allen appeared all polished and poised as well as Captain Tom Folley and his wife and Lieutenant Albert Howell. Juliet had never met the dashing mustached blond who’d captured the heart of Miles’s giddy sister, Jane, but she liked Albert immediately for his boisterous laugh and warm smile. As each arrived, the room saw a division between North and South with the Crowleys in the middle. While Maisy seemed unperturbed, it didn’t please the colonel. His one wish was for all his officers to mesh as a unit, not grind in separate parts. He tried to remedy the situation with a toast as soon as introductions were over.

“To the Fighting Seventeenth, gentlemen.”

Just as reluctant glasses began to be raised, Miles added, “To our courageous Union. Long may she stand.”

Only half the glasses tipped at that while the
rest dangled in defiance. Juliet was quick to mend the gap for her father’s sake.

“To our gracious hostess for inviting us into her home this evening.”

That won a unanimous chorus of “Here, here” and goblets emptied to a one. Juliet nodded in receipt of her father’s smile of thanks.

Colleen had cleverly fashioned a stylish residence for her mistress out of the few luxuries available. Chair mats of a colorfully woven cloth were reminiscent of the gown Juliet remembered seeing the girl wear during their desert crossing. Curtains were made from the Irish maid’s shawl. They were lovely touches, but Juliet wondered sadly over the girl surrendering them for such unappreciated use in a home that was not her own.

The table gleamed with china and crystal that Maisy had apparently been able to rescue from her plantation home. While Juliet and Pauline wore sensible calico, their hostess glowed in fuchsia-colored silk that made them seem drab and sparrowlike in comparison. Never one for affectation, Juliet didn’t mind, but being so underdressed obviously embarrassed Pauline Folley, whose scant extra coins went toward keeping her children in shoes, not in personal extravagances.

Maisy had impressed a lowly corporal into presiding at the sideboard, where he stood at stiff attention when not keeping glasses filled and removing dishes at the regal wave of Maisy’s hand. Juliet could well imagine her as
a queen bee in a bustling hive full of servants catering to her every whim. Perhaps there was some envy at the ease of Maisy’s life on her part, for she’d always managed on her own even when her father’s rank provided for privileges. She cooked her own meals and cleared her own table with an air of independent pride, because that’s how she was taught. Maisy, apparently, was groomed to lift no hand when another could do it for her. Maybe it was shallow to dislike her for such a pampered past, but Juliet couldn’t help it, especially as she watched the vain belle lording it over the humble Pauline throughout the evening meal.

Though Juliet was well schooled in the proper use of forks and glasses, she purposely abandoned those lessons in manners so that Pauline wouldn’t bear the brunt of Maisy’s patronizing tone alone.

Having dined with the Crowleys, Noble observed Juliet’s actions with interest. Having seen her impeccable graces, he realized that their absence was to make the less socially adept Pauline feel comfortable. And he admired her for it. In fact, there was little about Juliet that he didn’t admire, right down to her saber-sharp tongue and bold opinions. While such a woman wouldn’t do as a conservative Kentucky lawyer’s wife, she possessed all the qualities he’d dreamed of for an intimate companion. Imagine coming home at night to the fond study of her pleasing features across the table, to the revitalizing challenge of meeting
her barbed quips as the day’s shadows grew long, to the afterhours luxuries hinted at by her lush lips and galvanizing stare. Imagine …

Growing uncomfortable with the way his thoughts provoked a crowding within his trousers, Noble changed his focus from the colonel’s daughter to the man himself. And he found the fellow’s steely gaze upon him with an all too keen perceptiveness. Did Crowley know he lusted after the quixotic Juliet? If he did, he probably wouldn’t smile indulgently and ask about the horses.

“You should have some fine mounts, Colonel. Definitely your three dollars’ worth.” They shared a smug moment that Miles couldn’t resist interrupting.

“So Major Banning, now that you’ve tamed the animals, is it your plan to teach us all to ride like raiding Confederates?”

While several breaths were inhaled, Noble took the question in stride with a coolly civil, “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m familiar with the exploits of your John Hunt Morgan, a man you obviously emulate. The colonel believes you can show us how to become the scourge of the plains so no heathen would dare defy us again.”

“I would be happy to
show
you, but I can’t guarantee that you can be taught.”

Miles bristled up at the smooth slur. “What exactly are you saying, sir?”

“I’m saying that the Union’s idea of cavalry
is ridiculous. I’ve seen your men so loaded down with sundries that I could never be sure if they were lifted into the saddle after it was lashed on or if the riders mounted first and had the useless equipment packed in around him like salt in a pork barrel. No wonder your horses are broken down.”

“And you have a better way of doing things, I suppose?” Miles challenged. “Better than the Poinsett Tactics used by the dragoon regiments?”

“More practical than what is taught by your drill regulations. I heard it said once of our Southern horsemen: No one ever sees a dead cavalryman.”

Miles’s glare narrowed. “But that’s not true in your case, is it, Major? I understand that you left quite a few of your men behind to be buried by our troops.”

Noble went still, a stillness born of dangerous tension and fierce repercussions should Miles be foolish enough to pursue the topic. A man of linear thinking, the career army major never saw the threat. But Crowley did.

“Gentlemen, if you’d give your thanks to our charming hostess for a fine meal, I think it’s time we adjourned to the porch for some of my cigars.”

All but the two majors were quick to comply, then they, too, rose up like taut combatants readying to move to a different area of confrontation.

When they were gone, Juliet released her
breath. “Goodness, nothing is quite as tiresome as men when they get to talking about battles or politics.”

“I thought you enjoyed such discussions, Miss Crowley,” came Maisy’s arch observation.

“Not at the dinner table, where talk should be of a more refined and congenial nature.”

With a stabbing glance at Pauline, Maisy said, “Perhaps such boorish talk is all some of them understand.”

“Oh, I doubt that, Mrs. Bartholomew,” Juliet said. “War gives men an opportunity to behave badly when they should know better—if they can get away with it. We shouldn’t excuse or condone it. After all, if we three ladies don’t stick together, all civilizing influence is gone.”

Maisy gave her a hoity sniff. “I suppose you’re right about that.”

Leaping in at the first sign of possible companionship, Pauline said, “Juliet is right. It’s only the three of us, so we should get along. At other posts, we women have always stood together, visiting each day to compare notes on cooking, sewing, and the like.”

Maisy’s attitude cut the other’s optimism to the core as she sneered down her nose, “I hardly care to indulge in such plebeian discourses.”

“Then perhaps we should form a literary circle to discuss the classics. Certainly, a
woman of your stature is well read and socially informed.”

Maisy flushed beneath Juliet’s smoothly delivered remark, then muttered, “I’m not much for reading.”

“Perhaps you should make an effort to cultivate other interests, Mrs. Bartholomew. We have only each other, and it would be a shame for you to feel yourself above the need for camaraderie. Pushing to forward your husband’s career is admirable, but I fear you’ll find no household of servants to bully to add to your amusement.” Juliet rose while Maisy sputtered like a scalding kettle. “Pauline, help me carry these plates to the kitchen. I’m sure Colleen could use a hand in there. Grueling tasks are made so much more pleasant when shared by friends.”

Leading a smirking Pauline away from Maisy’s table, Juliet marched into the kitchen with her head held high. Just because she’d allowed the mean-spirited Maisy to choose the field of conflict didn’t mean Juliet was unfamiliar with the game. She could parry snobbery with the best of them.

Because like her father, she played to win.

The air grew thick and redolent with the smoke of fine tobacco. Differences were momentarily set aside in deference to a good draw and exhalation. As they puffed in silence, the group of officers could almost pass as comrades in arms.

Almost.

Noble watched curiously as Crowley bent to pluck several bristles from a broom left propped against the adobe wall. He snapped them into straws of unequal length, then secreted them in his hand. He extended it to Miles.

“Gentlemen, choose.”

Miles picked a straw, then scowled at its shortness. His displeasure deepened as the same opportunity was given to each officer, even the Southerners.

“John, surely you don’t mean to include them.”

“What are we drawing for?” George asked at last, studying his own stubby reed.

“A duty entrusted only to those closest to me,” Crowley answered. “A tradition I’ve maintained for nearly eighteen years, one that requires the utmost honor and discipline from the select few.”

Gazing down at his own long straw, Noble asked, “And exactly what is that privilege?”

Juliet readied for bed, bemused by her father’s good humor. She’d asked him to explain himself, but he only smiled, kissed her brow, and wished her a pleasant good evening. His self-satisfied silence annoyed her, because she sensed his amusement was somehow at her expense.

She felt badly about her behavior toward Maisy. It wasn’t like her to talk meanly to another,
even when that one was so deserving of the set down. She knew it was her obligation to further the spirit of good will. But it was hard to extend an olive branch to Maisy Bartholomew when her strongest urge was to use the branch to switch her pampered behind.

Pauline expressed her need for female companionship. Even with a husband and a brood of her own, she longed to reach out to others of her own sex. Juliet had never had many close friends. Jane Howell was the exception, but one didn’t have to work at being friends with Jane. She overwhelmed a body with chatter and good humor. Juliet found such gaiety difficult. More at home with men than with her own gender, she never knew exactly what to say. She could talk about books or gardening, she could complain about the day-to-day running of the post, but the subject she yearned to discuss she didn’t know how to broach.

She wanted to ask someone about what it felt like to be in love.

And that was a subject she felt shy of even around the mild Pauline.

If only her mother hadn’t passed on before imparting the wisdom of one generation to the next …

She was about to blow out the main room light when a soft knock sounded on the door. To her surprise, Noble Banning stood on the porch, his hat in hand, his features grim.

“Major Banning, it’s late,” she chided,
drawing her bed gown tighter about her. “My father has already retired.”

“This doesn’t concern him, ma’am. At least not directly.”

In answer to her frown of confusion, he displayed his straw with a flourish and watched her pale.

“I’ve come to escort you to your bath.”

Chapter 9

If he’d suggested scrubbing her back for her, Juliet couldn’t have been more shocked.

“What? You?”

He waved the broom straw under her nose, his amusement galling. “Just my luck. I’ll wait out here while you get—whatever it is you need.”

She slammed the door between them with enough force to knock chinking from the windowsills. Standing in the empty room, her heart a chugging steam engine, Juliet wondered what to do. How could her father have thought such a situation acceptable? She remembered his smothered grin and cursed him low and passionately. She wouldn’t have put it past him to have rigged the draw.

It was Noble, then, that he’d chosen for her to wed, not Miles. The idea was absurd. It was impossible. It was … tempting. As tempting as the image of Noble Banning hip deep in a moonlight-drenched pool.

No. She’d tell him no. There was no way she could go through with it.

But a good soaking bath was one of the frontier’s rarest luxuries. Spirit of ammonia in a washbowl and a dash of rose water only served for so long, then the body itched for leisurely submersion in water that was clean and pure, for milled soap and a headful of hedonistic suds.

That was the one extravagance the colonel allowed her, her and her mother before her. A monthly bath in a nearby stream, under the cover of night, under the watchdog care of one of his most trusted men. He himself couldn’t leave the post, so from the time she was a child, a draw of straws amongst his officers picked an escort who would wait, well armed and ever vigilant so that she could enjoy this single female indulgence.

And now it would be spoiled by a cruel fate that presented Noble with the long straw.

Thinking of the cool water and fragrant soap had her scalp tingling. A vigorous brushing was no substitute for deep-to-the-roots clean.

Why should she allow one arrogant Southerner to ruin her solitary pleasure?

Before she could talk herself out of going, Juliet snatched the blanket from the foot of her bed and gathered up her toiletries in a straw bag. Tugging on boots, she made no effort to change from her nightclothes. Her robe provided ample protection from the brush and
from prying eyes, and would give her freedom to sit astride.