Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales #2)(72)



He said not a word, instead tearing the bundle from my arms and attacking it. The biscuits and cheese were clutched in his fists, everything else falling to the packed dirt floor. He devoured the meager fare, acting as if he’d not eaten in days. Judging by the unnatural thinness of his frame, he most likely hadn’t. His frame was that of a stocky man, yet his uniform pants bagged and his cheeks were hollow.

As he ate, I took a much closer look at him, noticing for the first time the slight silvering at his temples; I estimated him to be nearly ten years older than myself. Lines bracketed both his mouth and eyes, and dark hair curled over his brow. His lips were thin and firm. Stubble outlined his jaw, making him look interesting and rugged. He was probably a handsome manˉin better timesˉbut the war had taken its toll, changing him the way it had so many. The lamplight was kind to him, giving his face interesting planes and shadows.

“Did you bring anything else?” He looked up at me and I almost smiled at the crumbs clinging to his lips. His stomach growled, and I felt suddenly ashamed that I had eaten a large dinner with ham, potatoes, carrots, and fresh biscuits. I shook my head, lowering my eyes.

He grunted, and then bent down, retrieving the bottle of homemade liquor. I’d brought it to use as antiseptic, not for drinking.

“This’ll help.” He uncorked the bottle and raised it to his lips.

“You really shouldn’t.” I stepped closer and tried to take the bottle from his hands. He held it out of my reach.

“Why’d you bring it then? If not for drinking, what’s it for?” He pronounced the word as fowa, in a thick accent as he held the bottle well out of my reach.

“To clean the wound, fight gangrene. My mother always said keeping a wound clean makes it heal faster. You don’t want to be drunk if someone finds youˉthey’d shoot you on sight just for wearing that gray around here. That’s why I didn’t send for the doctor. He’d be the first to string you up.”

“What would you have said if I’d died?”

“That I’d found your dead body, of course,” I answered, becoming angry at his cavalier attitudeˉI’d save his life, shouldn’t he appreciate that?

He lifted the bottle to his lips and I frowned. My only experience with drunkenness was the binges my uncle routinely engaged in. I begged as he took the first swallow, “Please?”

He glanced at the bottle then back to me, before shaking his head. He handed the bottle back and I tucked it under my apron, thanking him before settling down on a patch of hay. I didn't know what else to say.

I worried the faded cloth of my skirt between my fingers. Made of blue muslin, it showed its age in the worn threads and tattered hem. I looked at the man and saw what I thought was derision; I felt so shamed.

“When are you leaving?” I demanded. I felt awkward and appalled when I saw the surprise and momentary hurt enter his eyes. I rose to my feet, looking away from him as I did. His hand on my arm stopped my journey to the door.

I glanced at him, but what I saw reflected in the light’s dim glow frightened me and I averted my face as quickly as I could. I shook his hand from my sleeve and ran out of the barn.

I returned home and undressed, careful not to wake my younger sisters in the old feather bed in the small room we all shared. After brushing the brown hair so much like my mother’s, I slid into my own corner bed’s waiting warmth, wishing for a calm night. I tried to sleep but my mind was filled with the man’s image and what would happen on the sunrise.

The next morning I completed my chores with more than the usual amount of care; I did not want to earn my uncle’s censure or attention. I’d forgotten my sewing supplies in my haste last eve and I had to retrieve them before they were found and recognized. The small pouch I carried my threads and needles in was embroidered with my mama and papa’s names and the anniversary of their wedding. If someone from my uncle’s family found them they’d know they were mine; if the Confederate was found there as well, it would mean much trouble for me.

Trouble was something I did not need.

I finished up the breakfast dishes and dried my hands with a small towel and gathered up the last of the ham and eggs, wrapping them in a clean cloth. I would take the food to the man before he went on his way, a gesture of good will to make up for my rudeness from before.

“What are you doing, girl?” My uncle’s voice was harsh in my ear and I startled, pulling against the hand he’d wrapped around my arm. I knew I’d have yet another bruise.

“Feeding the barn cats, sir.” I kept my eyes lowered respectfully, hoping he’d not see the lie writ on my face. I was a poor liar, and I knew it.

“Don’t waste good food on them cats. Feed it to the dogs instead. Get your sister off to the school and get yourself to the store. I need some tobacco, and be sure not to skimp on my change.” He threw several coins my way and I gathered them as he went out into the morning sun to see to the planting.

I gave thanks for the excuse to be gone from the farm in mid-morning. I went into the bedroom and instructed Rachel and Amelia to hurry, that Uncle wanted them gone. They complied, as eager as I to be away from the farm.

Soon Amelia was on her way to the schoolhouse and Rachel to the churchˉwhere she did charitable works along with the reverend’s wife, and I was just about on my way to the mercantileˉvia the path through Jessup Mill’s farm.

Rachel Van Dyken's Books