Love, Come to Me(51)

As night approached and Mrs. Flannery arrived to prepare dinner, Lucy wandered into the parlor where Heath was settled on the sofa in a long-legged sprawl. Several newspapers were piled around him in neat, crackling stacks. Heath lowered the paper he was reading and watched her walk across the room, his eyes bright blue and unrevealing as they followed her every move intently.

“What are you reading?” she asked idly, glancing at one of the piles and bending to pick up the top sheets. A paper from Vicksburg, the Citizen. “Oh, these old things . . . oh, how strange—this one isn’t the usual sort of paper, it’s . . .”

“Printed on the back side of wallpaper,” Heath said, one side of his mouth lifting in a half-smile.

“Why?”

“Supplies ran low near the end of the war, and the paper mills were burned. Some newspapers printed on wrapping paper, wallpaper, anything they could stick in the presses. And when they ran out of ink, they started using shoe-blacking.”

Lucy smiled, admiring the persistence and determination of the Southern publishers. “I guess we Northerners don’t have the market cornered on stubbornness, do we?” She shuffled through a few more sheets. “The Charleston Mercury. Why did you save this one?”

“Read the headline.”

“The Union is dissolved . . . oh, the announcement of South Carolina’s secession—”

“That’s right. At fifteen minutes past one, December 20. The moment everyone knew that there would be war.”

“And this other newspaper—why did you keep this?”

“That . . . ah, that one . . .” Heath reached out a hand

for it and settled back down on the sofa, his expression softening with distant memories. Lucy tilted her head as she looked at him, mesmerized by the bittersweet smile that played gently on his mouth. “This is what my father died for.”

“What do you mean?” Lucy asked, stricken by his words.

“ ‘This paper,’ ” he read aloud, “ ‘which has heretofore strayed from its former Unionist loyalties, is under new management which will seek to uphold the principles of the United States of America . . .’ ”

“I don’t understand.”

“It was a Richmond paper, run by one of my father’s closest friends. My father was a loyal man as well as a firm believer in the Confederate press—he had a great respect for the printed word and swore that as long as the Southern press was alive, the South would never fall. He rushed over to the newspaper office where the editorial staff had started a battle to keep the paper from falling into the hands of the Union troops and becoming a Yankee mouthpiece. My father was killed in the fight and the paper was taken over. This Union edition came out the next day—the struggle to keep it from the Northerners had been useless. My father’s fight had been in vain.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be. There were worse ways to die. Slower ways. It was good that he never found out how the war ended.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. A soft and unexpected feeling of warmth swept through Lucy’s chest as she found what she had been seeking all afternoon. Why, of course, she did understand much more about him now. It all made perfect sense. “Your father’s feelings about writing . . . was that why you became a correspondent?” she asked hesitantly. “Is that why you wrote that book, and why . . . why you’re so interested in newspapers and publishing and things like that?”

Heath’s gaze pulled away from hers. He shrugged slightly. “I would have been interested in it anyway.”

“Did you find out about his death before or after . . .”

“Before or after what?”

“Governor’s Island,” Lucy said, suddenly pinned by his narrow-eyed stare.

“So you got your hands on a copy of the book,” he mused, raking a hand through his tawny hair. “What did you think about it?”

“I thought . . . ,” she faltered, uncertain of exactly what she had thought about it. “Well, I was a little . . . revolted . . .”

“Yes?” he prompted, seemingly fascinated by the shifting emotions on her face. What was he looking for? Why did he appear to be so absorbed by her expression?

“I was . . . sorry that you had been in prison camp . . .”

“A reassuring sentiment, coming from my wife. Anything else?”

“I . . . didn’t really like it. I didn’t expect it to be so . . . dark. There was no . . . kindness, no hope.”

“No. I didn’t have much hope then. Or kindness.” As he saw that Lucy’s forehead had become furrowed, he smothered a grin. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t develop a little of each in the last few years. Don’t look so anxious. Is Mrs. Flannery almost ready with dinner? I’ve been hungry for hours.”

Instead of the regular Thursday Circle meeting this week, the club was sponsoring a special musical evening. A huge crowd of men and women filled the impressive drawing room of the Hamptons’ home, while several young musicians played selected works by German composers. Betta, Alice, Olinda, and the rest of the Thursday Circle were well-known for their quick, sharp tongues and the short work they could make of anyone who was targeted by their gossip. During the musical evening Lucy sat close to Betta and Olinda, whose presence would ward off the approaches that her old friends might have made to her.