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  It wasn’t a question, and Lizzie couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes, those feelings. Shouldn’t a wife feel those for her husband?”

  “Yes. And also no.”

  Lizzie frowned, waiting for more. Tempy pulled the skillet off the stove and waved her over to sit at the table, then joined her.

  “You never got to meet my Isum. He was already dead and laid to rest by the time you come to Carnton. He and I was together almost forty years. Not married proper like, of course. Colored folk ain’t got that choice. But we was sure married in God’s sight. And all the angels too!” Tempy smiled, and a glimpse of the younger woman she’d been flickered in her eyes. “I’s just a girl, and Isum, he was a growed man. I sure didn’t feel no warm, squishy feelin’s for him either. I’s scared to the bone. But he was right patient and kind with me. He give me time. And that seed of love you talkin’ ’bout, it grew real slow like. And with gettin’ to know each other.”

  “So you were glad you chose him?”

  “Chose him?” Tempy looked at her as though she’d grown a third eye. “There weren’t no choosin’ for me, Miss Clouston. I was told who I’d be with. Slaves don’t get to make them kind of choices, ma’am.” Tempy laid a gentle hand on her arm. “What I’m sayin’ to you is that it ain’t so much who you marry as it is your thinkin’ on marriage. Me and Isum, we both knew we hadn’t got no other choice, so we worked ’til we built somethin’ fine and strong. But you, you got choices, ma’am. Though not as many as you mighta once had, with all the marryin’ men dyin’ in the war. The only thing worse than havin’ no choice is havin’ it and throwin’ it away.”

  Tempy’s eyes filled with earnestness. “So whatever way you go with your Lieutenant Townsend, you make sure it’s of your own choosin’. Not somebody else choosin’ for you. ’Cause when it’s done, it’s done. There ain’t no turnin’ back. Not for women like you anyway. And while I’m sure it’s a fine thing to walk this life with a man who can make your heart go all soft and buttery, there’s a heap of pleasure found in walkin’ life with a good man who will cherish and care for you. Who’ll give you a home and a safe place to grow old. And who’ll be a good father to your children.”

  Tempy gave her hand a pat, then rose and returned to the stove. After filling the glasses with milk, Lizzie retrieved the tray and headed upstairs, Tempy’s counsel settling inside her and more than confirming the decision she’d made. And it wasn’t lost on her that such wisdom was coming from, and very graciously so, a woman who’d never been given the right to make such a choice for herself. Or even to be legally married.

  BALANCING THE TRAY in one hand, Lizzie opened the door to the best parlor, where she’d left Hattie and Winder working their lessons. Mrs. McGavock and two other ladies from the community were busy in the schoolroom upstairs putting finishing touches on “the soldiers’ Christmas,” as they’d called it. Lizzie had gotten a glimpse of what Carrie had done for them. No wonder the men loved her as they did.

  “Thank you, children, for waiting patiently for your—”

  Hattie was seated in a chair, still intent on her primer. Winder was nowhere to be seen.

  “I told him not to leave, Miss Clouston. I told him he’d receive a discipline.”

  Lizzie deposited the tray on a side table. “I appreciate you staying faithful to your studies, Hattie.”

  A much-too-angelic smile tipped the girl’s mouth. “May I have his cookies?”

  “No, you may not.”

  Hattie’s face fell.

  “But you may have your cookies and twenty minutes of leisure time to read whatever you would like.”

  Her countenance lit. “Thank you, Miss Clouston!”

  Lizzie didn’t have to ask where Winder had gone. She already knew and headed for the staircase.

  “Oh, Miss Clouston?”

  Lizzie paused at the door.

  “Are we still having the reading tonight? Upstairs, with the nuns and soldiers?”

  “Yes. It’s our last one.”

  Hattie grabbed a lady finger from the plate. “It’s been fun hearing the story again, knowing what’s coming.”

  Lizzie nodded. “That’s the mark of a good story. And a good writer. There are certain books I’ve read countless times. Each time is a pleasure. And each time I find something new.”

  Lizzie closed the door, thinking of the novels she’d loaned to Lieutenant Shuler earlier in the week. She’d chosen Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott and The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas. And simply for fun she’d also included her favorite—Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen—only to see his reaction.

  She prayed as she climbed the stairs that the gangrene wouldn’t return. He was such a dear boy and had already endured so much. She’d only learned that week that he’d lost his brother, one year younger than him, to the war last year.

  In a flash, Thaddeus’s face came to mind, and she prayed the inquiry Roland had made would turn up something. But recently it had felt as though her prayers fell flat. At times her heart was so heavy, she couldn’t seem to get the words to come. She’d heard a preacher say once that he didn’t think it mattered so much what words you chose. That it was the person’s faith in the One to whom the request was being made that gave the prayer wings, not fancy words. She hoped that was true. Because even in the moments when she questioned what God was doing and wondered if he still heard her—like now—she chose to believe he did.

  Before she even reached the second-floor landing, she heard Winder’s laughter and peered around the corner. She saw the little urchin perched atop Lieutenant Shuler’s bed, the two of them huddled over something and laughing.

  CHAPTER 33

  “This is one of my favorites!” Winder pointed. “You ready?”

  Lizzie paused in the doorway as Winder began speaking again. Or more rightly, began to read.

  “‘I . . . see . . . a . . . pig. How . . . fat . . . it . . . is! Can . . . the . . . pig . . . run? It . . . can . . . not . . . run. It . . . is . . . too fat!’” Winder giggled, and Shuler did too. “You wanna try one this time, Lieutenant?”

  Shuler shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, come on, I read wrong all the time. You won’t never learn to read it right unless you let yourself read it wrong.”

  Lizzie’s mouth nearly dropped open. No matter that Winder hadn’t remembered her words precisely or that he’d used a double negative—a pet peeve she found most irksome—the fact that he remembered her counsel at all was something. But even more shocking . . . Lieutenant Shuler couldn’t read?

  Movement beyond the bed drew her focus, and she saw Roland watching her—and holding a forefinger to his lips. She nodded and stayed hidden around the corner, watching.

  Winder scooted closer and held the book out to Shuler. “This is a good one too. I’ll start you out. ‘See . . . the . . . old . . . rat.’”

  Eyes down, Shuler shook his head. But Winder nudged him and smiled. “You read it, and then after dinner I’ll go get my soldiers and we can play.”

  Shuler eyed him. “You’ll go get your soldiers after dinner anyway.”

  Winder grinned, then pointed back to the page.

  Lizzie felt a catch in her throat. That was exactly what she did to Winder when he got off topic. She would smile and gently direct him back to the page. She sighed. She’d been teaching since the age of twelve, and it wasn’t often a teacher got to see moments like this. Moments when progress could actually be witnessed. And what she found especially humorous . . . Winder was reading the primer from which she’d instructed him to read earlier. So, in a sense, he was doing what she’d told him to do, the little rascal.

  “‘See . . . the . . . old . . . rat,’” Winder started again.

  Shuler exhaled, then squinted as he looked at the page. “‘C-can . . . the . . .’” He shook his head again. “I can’t do this. I only learned a bit, and it seems even that’s gone from me.”

  “‘Can . . . the . . . ,’” Winder said and
pointed to the page.

  Lizzie was familiar enough with the McGuffey Reader to know there was a picture of the rat above the reading exercise.

  “‘Rat,’” Shuler said, then stared at the page as though trying to memorize the word.

  “Very good!” Winder grinned.

  Again Lizzie saw trademarks of her own teaching in the boy’s reaction, and her heart warmed.

  “‘Can . . . the . . . rat . . .’” Shuler’s mouth twisted to one side. “‘Run!’”

  Winder and the lieutenant laughed and nudged each other.

  Lizzie spotted Sister Catherine Margaret and Sister Mary Grace exiting Hattie’s bedroom. When the nuns looked her way, their expressions grew curious. Lizzie just smiled and indicated for them to wait with her and listen.

  Finally, after Lieutenant Shuler finished reading, she winked at the nuns, backed up a few steps, and retraced her path. She made certain her heeled boots well announced her entry this time.

  She might have been tempted to laugh at the look of guilt on Winder’s face, if not for the surprise—and shame—on Lieutenant Shuler’s.

  “Hello, Master Winder. I wondered where you were.”

  “I . . . I . . .” The boy cast about the room as though looking for a convenient tale to grab hold of.

  Wanting to spare him the temptation to lie, Lizzie quickly jumped in, also eager to salvage the lieutenant’s gentle pride. “Lieutenant Shuler, I appreciate you allowing Winder to read through his lessons with you today. That was most kind of you. But in the future, Winder, I would appreciate you asking permission before you leave the lesson room. Do you understand?”

  Relief flooded the boy’s face. “Yes, ma’am, Miss Clouston. I won’t do it again. Ever.”

  Lizzie knew better than to believe that. Yet she also appreciated his not attempting to share the blame with Lieutenant Shuler, but taking it fully upon his own slender shoulders. “I appreciate your reassurance, Winder. Now, if you’ll take your primer and return to the parlor, your cookies and milk are waiting.”

  “I still get cookies?”

  “This time,” she said, giving him a stare she’d mastered over the years.

  He sobered further. “Thank you, Miss Clouston. Thank you a lot!”

  “You’re most welcome, Winder. I’ll see you downstairs.”

  The boy crawled off the bed and shot from the room. Lizzie dared a quick look at Roland, whose handsome face was the perfect definition of composure, all but the faint glimmer of awareness in his eyes. Lieutenant Conrad, on the other hand, was as wide-eyed as Winder had been. Same for Private Lowe and Lieutenant Baker. And Lieutenant Taylor and Private Smith—she discovered thankfully—weren’t in the room.

  But despite her having done her best to give the lieutenant an out, young Shuler looked up at her, eyes filled with remorse.

  “Miss Clouston, the fault don’t lie with him, ma’am. Leastwise, not all of it. You see . . .”

  He glanced at the three books on his bedside table, and Lizzie wished she could think of something else to say to spare him embarrassment.

  “I don’t read that good, ma’am. I never did. My mama didn’t only read to us when we were young’uns. She read to us all through our home years. I think that’s why I like listenin’ to you.” He smiled, then shrugged. “Makes me feel close to her somehow. Like she’s not fully gone. You know what I mean?”

  Lizzie nodded, struggling to find her voice. “Yes, James. I know what you mean. And as soon as we finish A Christmas Carol tonight, we’ll start reading whichever book you’d like next.”

  He smiled. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Can I listen in too?” Conrad asked, still wide-eyed, but with excitement now.

  “Of course. We’ll meet like we’ve done thus far and—”

  All attention in the room moved past her, and Lizzie turned to see a Federal soldier standing in the second-floor hallway.

  Roland recognized the officer; he’d been with General Folsom the day the Federal regiments showed up to take him and the rest of the wounded to prison. The captain had a memorable air about him, much as Folsom did. And it wasn’t difficult for Roland to imagine that he could be downright cruel with very little effort.

  Lizzie whispered something to Sister Catherine Margaret, who did an immediate about-face and left the room, cutting a path straight through the contingent of Federal soldiers, who parted like the Red Sea. That nun certainly had spunk. And God on her side too, Roland figured, which didn’t hurt.

  The captain pulled a list from his pocket. “We’re here to escort the following Confederate prisoners to Nashville.” His voice carried in the sudden quiet.

  “Excuse me, Captain.” Lizzie stepped as far as the doorway. “I believe there’s been some mistake. These men aren’t—”

  “There’s been no mistake, miss. This is an affair of the United States military, and interference of any kind will not be tolerated.”

  Roland willed Lizzie to look at him, but she didn’t. She merely stared at the captain, who continued reading.

  “These are the prisoners who are leaving with us immediately. Captain John Hampton. Second Lieutenant George Estes. Brigadier General William Quarles. Captain Joseph Bond. And Second Lieutenant Conrad.”

  Lizzie looked back at Lowe and Baker, then at Conrad, and her gaze snagged on Roland’s. Roland gave the slightest shake of his head, clearly seeing she was searching for a way to intervene. With a look he tried to tell her no. Because whatever attempt she made to delay or derail what these soldiers came to do, the prisoners they took with them were the ones who would pay. And pay dearly.

  Bridled anger showed in both Lowe’s and Baker’s features, but Conrad wore a baffled expression.

  “I’m not supposed to go yet, Captain Jones,” Conrad said in a loud whisper, as if the entire room couldn’t hear him. “The doc didn’t give his say. That was the rule. Doc says go first, and then we go.” Lieutenant Conrad turned to Lizzie. “Miss Clouston, can you tell them for me?”

  “Conrad.” Roland managed to respond before Lizzie could. “You’re going to need to go with these soldiers. They’ll take you to a hospital in Nashville.”

  “No, no, no . . .” Conrad clutched his bandaged head. “I’m supposed to stay here. I want to stay here!”

  Lizzie stepped forward. “Please, Captain. If you’ll only—”

  The captain gave a sharp whistle, and two soldiers stepped into the bedroom and took hold of Lizzie by her upper arms. Roland bolted from the cot but scarcely made it to his feet before his legs gave way. Pain scuttled his strength, and he fell back. His shoulder hit the edge of the cot, and he went down hard. A million jagged needles shoved themselves deep into his legs, straight to the bone. He bit back a moan, and his head swam. But it was the boot that came down on his right arm that jerked him back to the surface—and to a world thrumming with pain.

  “No!”

  A scream sounded from a long way off, and Roland groaned, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out. “Let her go,” he managed. “She won’t interfere.”

  “Oh, I know she won’t interfere, Captain Jones. That is your name, isn’t it?”

  Roland looked over at Lizzie, who was still flanked by soldiers, then up at the captain. The pressure on his arm increased.

  “Yes,” Roland answered, swallowing the bile rising at the back of his throat. “Captain . . . Roland Ward Jones.”

  “A decorated Rebel sharpshooter.”

  Roland couldn’t tell if the caustic smile he felt in the moment reached his face or not. “What is it about sharpshooters that you fellows don’t like?”

  “Always have a witty response, don’t you? Just like last time.”

  “Not always.” Roland squeezed his eyes tight. It took concentration just to breathe. “I’ve just found that . . . when you’re near death . . . it helps to keep your sense of humor.”

  “Then you should be laughing your head off, Captain. Because when I come next time, I’
m coming for you. And we’ll see how well you do without that Enfield rifle of yours.”

  Roland searched the man’s face for recognition beyond the memory of having seen him here at Carnton. But nothing came.

  “Does the name Lieutenant Riley Birch mean anything to you, Captain Jones?”

  Roland reached past the pain and sifted through memories, trying to find one with that name attached to it. “No,” he finally said. “It doesn’t.”

  “Riley Birch was my best friend since we were kids. He was standing right next to me at Chickamauga before the battle started, when a Rebel sharpshooter took him out. Right there beside me. One minute he was talking, the next he was lying in a pool of blood, a hole torn open in his chest.”

  “I wasn’t even at Chickamauga.”

  “I don’t care,” he said slowly. “You’re a Johnny Reb sharpshooter and that’s all that matters. You’re all the same. Bunch of backwoods yokels who think you have a prayer of winning this war. While I may never know who killed my best friend . . .” His eyes darkened, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “At least I’ll know who killed you.”

  A scuffle sounded from the hallway, and Roland spotted Colonel McGavock pushing his way through.

  The colonel strode forward. “Who’s in charge here?”

  The captain rose, pressing his boot down on Roland’s arm as he did. Roland sucked in a breath.

  “I am, sir.”

  “And you are?” the colonel asked.

  “Captain Robert Moore of the United States Army.”

  “Well, Captain Moore, I’m Colonel John McGavock, the owner of Carnton. And I want to know why you’ve barged into my home and are demanding to take these wounded soldiers without benefit of a doctor’s examination and release, which is the agreement General Folsom made with me when he was here.”

  “You may own Carnton, Colonel McGavock. But may I remind you that every one of these men is a prisoner of the United States Army, and hence answers to that authority. Any grace given them can be rescinded at any time. So step aside and let us do our duty.”