In His Eyes(36)

Westley regarded the small woman who dared where she should not. “And what, do you suppose, I am to do with you now?”

Her lip quivered slightly, and he was overcome by the irrational urge to smooth it with his thumb.

“I would ask that you let me stay. For a little while, at least, good sir.”

Westley leaned forward. Now she would venture to ask him to keep up the pretense of being his wife?

“As a hireling, of course,” she continued quickly, as though sensing his unrest. “I would continue helping tend the house as I have done the past couple of weeks, and in return my son and I have a place to live. You may tell all of my deception. I am unconcerned by what others will think of it.”

Interesting. He could have allowed it, he supposed, if not that he had come to sell the lands. He frowned at her. Fetching though she may appear, she was naught more than trouble. And something in the flutter of her lashes told him she did care what his neighbors would think of her.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” he said, linking his fingers together.

She blinked at him. “But….”

The baby made a small noise, and she clutched him to her. Then, before Westley could react, she was on her feet and hurrying to the door. “Excuse me, but I need to find Sibby to feed him.”

Westley watched her go, perplexed. What had happened that she could not nurse her child as a mother ought?

His thoughts returned to Sibby. His mother’s last letter, the one that Sibby had sent along with her own telling of Mother’s death, had told that Sibby’s own baby had also died from the sickness along with his parents. The child had been born to her seven months after renegade Confederates had found her man, Joe, on the road from buying supplies in Greenville. Mother’s letter stated that Joe claimed to be a freeman, and they’d hanged him for it.

Mother told him about everything going on at the plantation, as though she wanted to be certain Westley missed nothing. Mother said she worried over Sibby’s bitterness when Joe died. Westley stroked his chin. That bitterness had likely only gotten worse after Sibby lost the infant as well as the man. Was the grief over her own son why she had nursed other children? And where did these babes keep coming from? That had been, what, four months past? And still she had milk to give?

Too many questions, and he was too tired to contemplate them all. Still he waited, but the imposter did not come back once she delivered the child upstairs. Not that he expected differently. She likely fretted over his unannounced return and hesitated to continue their conversation. He rose from his place in the parlor and headed for the stairs. If she would not come to him, then he would go to her.

A knock at the door altered his steps. When he opened it, a young man in blue shadowed the entry.

“Good day, sir. I have come with news for the family.”

Intrigued, Westley accepted the folded paper and popped the seal. His eyes skimmed the brief words and he groaned.

To the family of Major Westley Remington,

The United States Army is pleased to inform you that Major Remington has been found alive.

We join you in your joy.

Lieutenant John Peyton

Westley nearly laughed. This must have been the letter the corporal had said was sent to Belmont. How ironic that he should be the one to receive it. What would have Miss Whitaker done if it had arrived before him? She probably would have scurried off before he had arrived and he would have never set eyes on her. A surge of relief over the chance to confront such an interesting woman irritated him. Ridiculous!

“We are exceedingly sorry for ill tidings, sir, and leave you to personal matters,” the man said, interrupting Westley’s thoughts with words the poor fellow had probably spoken far too many times.

The man began to turn when Westley chuckled. “On the contrary, Sergeant. It seems I am alive and well.”

Confusion lined the man’s rigid features. “Sir?”

Westley slipped the missive in his shirt pocket and gave it a pat. “As I returned home with the news that I am still alive before this letter did, the news has already been received.”

The man nodded, seeming too weary to join in Westley’s unexpected bout of good humor. “Very good, sir. Good day to you, then.” Then, as though remembering himself, the sergeant wheeled back around and snapped to attention. “Then you must be Major Remington.” He gave a sharp salute. “I meant no disrespect, sir.”

Westley gave a half-hearted salute in return. “You could not have known. Carry on.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” The sergeant hastily retreated.

When Westley turned back around, a small Negro girl stared at him with large eyes set in an inquisitive face. She didn’t make a move to address him or scurry from his presence, so Westley grunted. “Hello.”

“You ’member me?”

Westley eyed her. How was he supposed to remember all the children who ran about this place? He shook his head.

She leveled clear eyes on him that bespoke of how much the nation had already changed. “I is Basil. I help Sibby with the washin’ and the ironin’ and the cleanin’.”

He moved to go past her to the stairs. He placed a hand on the railing when her next words stilled him.

“You gonna let Miss Ella stay?”

He studied her. “Ella?”

She tilted her head as though he were dull. “You know, that white lady you was talkin’ to?”