Triumph (21 page)

His son was out there. Somewhere. His oldest son, Jerome, trying to find new ways to slip the Union blockade and bring supplies to the state and the Confederacy. He had watched the water through the night and into the morning, hoping against hope that Jerome might make it home for the holiday.

There was no sign of a ship. He didn’t despair. He had to believe in the ability of both his sons—and his daughters!—to survive the war. At the moment, however, he wasn’t particularly worried about the girls. Jennifer, his child by Naomi, his first wife, was home with him. She and her son, Anthony—now a handsome, precocious young boy of six—had been with him since Jarrett had brought her home after her husband’s death. Disguised as a man, she had begun some very dangerous spying activities, been caught and nearly hanged. His nephew, Ian, had managed to save her, and since then, she had tried to exist without thinking about the war—despite the fact that the state remained Rebel, and Union navy ships out of Union-held Key West far too often came near their shore.

Then there was his daughter Mary—born just last year and quite a surprise to both him and his wife, Teela. She had given him tremendous fear at the time of her birth, fear that she would die in childbirth, but she and the baby were well now, saucy, sweet, toddling around, allowing them to smile in the midst of their worry for their other children. James had lost a wife and child to fever during the Seminole War; he knew the anguish of it, and often prayed that, were he to be given one gift from God, it would be to
not
outlive any more of his children. Brent, he thought, might be safer than Jerome; Jerome was brash and reckless, and renowned for his daring escapades against the Yanks. Brent was a doctor, a surgeon, dedicated to life. James liked to believe that he would have the sense to take care for his own.

But then there was Sydney ...

Reckless, passionate, as any warrior of old. She had been with Brent in Charleston when South Carolina had seceded. She had become a nurse in Richmond. She had gone to try to exchange a Yank for her brother when Jerome had been captured.

Then, recently, she had married the Yank.

A damned fine fellow, he had been assured.

But Sydney had been living in Washington ever since, and he longed to have her home. Staring out at the water, he wondered about heading north to suggest to her new husband that Sydney might fare better back in her own home while the war raged.

No one thought, of course, that he should do it. Teela told him he had too hot a temper, that he’d be demanding his daughter—something he didn’t have a right to do, since Sydney had married the man by choice, had written about him before, and apparently loved him. But it was too long for a father to wait to see his child. Especially when it was Christmas.

“Father?”

He turned, surprised to be discovered there, by the lagoon pool, at this early hour. It was Jennifer. She was maturing now, in her mid-thirties, into a very serene and dignified woman, more beautiful, he thought, with each passing year. She had her mother’s hazel eyes, a nobility to her native features, a gentle smile, and at least, an inner peace. She came to him, and he slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Father, he is smart enough not to come. He knows the navy men will be keeping a close eye out for him now! They know Jerome loves his family.” She was silent for a minute. “I imagine Risa is by the sea today, as well. Looking out.”

“Risa is in St. Augustine. Teela urged her to come to us, but she was afraid that she would hear he had come to the north of the state somewhere, and she wouldn’t be able to reach him.”

“He’s not a fool. He is safe. And we just received that letter from Brent; he is well, but very busy—”

“You’d think they’d stop killing for Christmas, wouldn’t you?” James said softly.

“We have a long letter from Sydney, as well, you know, brought by one of Captain Dickinson’s men.”

“I know.”

“Father, I wish I could ease this all for you somehow.”

He drew her closer, setting his cheek against her dark head. “You do. You and Anthony and Mary. Have I told you how much I love you lately, daughter? How very precious you are?”

“Father, I—”

Abruptly she stopped speaking. “Look, Father, look!”

He’d been staring out to sea, and so he hadn’t seen the man lying half in the water and half out at the far side of the lagoon beneath a giant palm.

“My, God, it is a man!” Jennifer breathed. She pulled from James, and started running around the pool.

“No! Wait!” James called firmly. He didn’t know if she would heed him or not, and so he started to run himself. He caught her arm, pulling her back. “Wait! If he’s alive, he may be dangerous!”

He passed his daughter, aware she still followed behind him, but at least she was at his back. As he neared the body, he drew the knife he always kept in a sheath at his ankle before falling down to his knees in the wet sand by the body. He rolled the soldier over, thinking that the man must be dead.

Not dead ... a pulse ticked at his throat. Weak, but there. He looked at the uniform. Union cavalry. More cavalry—damn the cavalry! He was a lean man, young, with sand-encrusted blond hair and burned skin.

“Father ...”

“He’s alive.”

James studied the man’s face. A smear of blood grazed his temple, coagulated now with a matting of hair and sand.

“We have to bring him in! Help him,” Jennifer said.

“He’s Union, Jennifer.”

“So ... so is Ian! And Taylor stayed with the Union as well. They are both men you care about, nearly as close as your own sons.”

“Jennifer, your husband was killed by Union fire.”

“And I was saved by my cousin Ian from a hangman’s noose. Father, you can’t mean to let him die because he is a Federalist! What if a Union woman were to find Brent or Jerome or Julian injured? Oh, my God, does that matter—”

He looked at his daughter carefully. “No, I just want to remind you of the past, of the years gone by. There was a time when you wanted even Ian dead!”

“Perhaps. But both you and Ian taught me to live past bitterness. You wouldn’t just let a man die. I know you!”

James sighed. This was trouble, pure trouble. But Jennifer was right; he wouldn’t let any man die.

Yet he’d cut the bastard’s throat himself without blinking if he awoke to threaten his wife or children or six-year-old Anthony.

“Father ...”

“I have him, Jennifer. Run back and tell Teela quickly that I’m bringing ...” He paused, smiling ruefully. “Tell her I’m bringing her a wounded Yank for Christmas. It’s just what she’s always wanted!”

Christmas morning. Tia could not help flirting atrociously with Weir, aware that her easy laughter was heard by her enemy, that he listened to her teasing comments, saw the way she laughed with Weir—sharing conversations about the past. She intended to dazzle Weir, but she didn’t know why, because it felt dangerous and wrong. She caught her sister-in-law’s warning eye, and knew that Alaina was perplexed and worried. Still, she couldn’t help herself.

The morning was, however, truly enjoyable after breakfast ended. The children awoke but weren’t in the least hungry, since they were anxious only to open their gifts. They tore into the bright packages containing games and toys, laughing and running around. Their eyes were bright; too young to know that a dark cloud remained over the state and a country divided.

Then gifts were distributed to the adults as well, those that the family naturally exchanged, and those which Tara saw to it were available for her guests.

For Raymond Weir, a large smoked ham.

For Taylor Douglas, a miniature tintype of a woman, formed into a delicate silver frame that would easily fit into a soldier’s knapsack or pouch.

Tia had never seen it before. She didn’t even know what it was at first, but it traveled around the room and everyone complimented the workmanship. Taylor Douglas gazed upon the gift, then looked at Tara. “It’s a kindness beyond all I might have imagined, Mrs. McKenzie. With all the responsibilities you have here, that you thought to do this ... that you were able to obtain this likeness ... well, madam, I am deeply grateful.”

Tara smiled happily. “You sent this to James’s wife, my sister-in-law, Teela, soon after you were married, Teela and James lost their home to fire a while back. During the rebuilding, she sent us many things which had been saved, to keep for her. This picture was among them. When I heard you were coming here, I knew that Teela would be glad for you to have it again.”

The framed miniature had reached Tia. She looked down. The woman in the tintype was delicately blond and very beautiful. Her smile was sweet and winning. Her eyes had a faintly teasing nature to them.

She was his wife.

Her fingers felt cold and awkward. What did it matter? She had prayed she’d never see him again. He’d done nothing but humiliate her.

And now this.

They had shared a strange intimacy, and he was a married man.

He was looking at her. She handed the miniature to him. “She is very beautiful.”

He nodded, and turned away.

“Tia, will you help me with the eggnog, dear?”

“Yes, of course, Mother.”

“We’ll move on into the music room, gentlemen.”

“And ladies, Papa, and ladies!” Ariana, sitting in her grandfather’s lap, reminded him.

“Oh, yes. And ladies, of course.” He smiled across the room at his daughter-in-law. “Ladies, do forgive me.”

The others laughed. Despite the very presence of the war in their house in the form of the opposing colonels, the house seemed filled with Christmas spirit.

Only Tia seemed to have lost her sense of joy. “Are you all right?” her mother asked her as they joined Lilly in the kitchen, preparing a tray of eggnog—with and without whiskey—for their company.

“Yes, of course, Mother, I’m fine.”

“Has the colonel been pressuring you?”

“What?” she asked guiltily. Could her mother have possibly realized that there was
something
between her and Taylor Douglas?”

“Ray Weir. I do feel a bit sorry for him. He looks at you constantly.”

“Oh ... well. He did mention marriage again.”

“And?”

Tia shrugged. “I reminded him there was a war on.”

Tara nodded. “Then take care with him, my dear. Don’t tease him too mercilessly. He’s becoming very much a military man.”

“And what does that mean?”

“That he might want to take the law into his own hands at some point.”

“But—”

“Never mind, Tia. I didn’t mean that many military men aren’t fine human beings—such as your brother, Ian. But power is strange. Men take hold of it sometimes—and want more and more. You just don’t always realize your own power.”

“What is that power?”

“Youth and beauty,” her mother said, smiling.

“Oh, Mother—”

“Come, dear, you’re going to deny me, say that I think you’re beautiful because you’re my daughter, and that is all. You’re simply very, very beautiful, and the rest of the world agrees. Most obviously, Colonel Weir thinks so.”

“Colonel Weir ... and who else?” Tia said, surprised by the words herself, and very surprised by their wistful quality. “Oh, Lord, how silly of me, how petty in the midst of all this—”

“Tia, I will not say more. I’ll not have it all go to your head!” Tara gave her a tight hug. “Let’s go do carols. This is a very precious occasion, with you, Ian, Alaina, and the babies, and I will not see the day slip by!”

Drinks were served. At her father’s insistence, Tia joined her mother at the piano. They had often played together and even more often, sung together. Her mother’s stage training coupled with a really beautiful soprano voice had made her an excellent teacher, and Tia knew that many of the harmonies she did with her mother were exceptionally pretty. She was tense at first, uncomfortably aware of both Weir and Douglas, but after a while, Ariana, joining in, had her laughing, and they did fun songs with the children, then medieval carols. Realizing that at one point Taylor Douglas was watching her with an intrigued speculation, she found herself suddenly striking the keys in a rousing rendition of “Dixie.” Her playing was perfect, her voice even more so, full of the emotion that could make a song great.

Yet when she had ended, the room was in utter silence. She met her father’s eyes, and saw his anger and his disappointment that she had forgotten that their guests were there for
peaceful
negotiations, not to fight the war in their living room.

Then Raymond Weir began to clap.

Politely, Taylor Douglas joined in. Then the others as well. She felt the blood draining from her face, knowing that her father did not applaud. She quickly began to play “Silent Night.” Ariana crawled up on her lap. She sang with the baby’s pretty little voice joining her own, a few sibilant
s
’s making it all the more charming. Still, she wanted to sink into the woodwork.

She had ruined the spirit of the day.

Finishing the song, she kissed the baby on her forehead, set her alone on the piano stool, and turned to her father. “Excuse me, Father ...”

And she fled.

She couldn’t crawl into the woodwork, but she could go riding. Fly through the cool winter’s day on Blaze, and feel cleansed by the air.

“Tia!”

Her father hadn’t called her, her mother had. She pretended not to hear.

She didn’t dare take time to change. Exiting the house by the rear, she ran down the sloping lawn to the stables. Billy Cloud, one of her father’s Seminole men, was whittling by the door. “What are you up to, Miss Tia?”

“Just a ride, Billy.”

“Take care that you follow the property line, Miss Tia.”

She hesitated. “Why, is something wrong?”

He shrugged and looked up at her with sage dark eyes. “War is wrong, Miss Tia. The Vichy house due east of here was burned down last week. No troops will admit to it, but they say that Mr. Vichy was selling his cattle to the wrong group of people. You take care where you’re riding.”

“I will, Billy, I promise.”

She went in for Blaze, bridled her horse, but didn’t bother with a saddle. She left the stable, waved to Billy, then raced for the forest trail.