In His Eyes(41)

Miss Whitaker stepped from the room in a dingy cream and tan dress, the child wrapped in a shawl and tied to her bosom.

One corner of his mouth pulled up. “An interesting way to tote a child.”

She glanced down at the baby and shrugged. “Keeps both hands free. And, besides, he seems to like it.”

Westley gestured toward the stairs, and she hurried on in front of him, her feet fluttering about like a windswept sparrow. By the time he won the battle of the staircase, she had already disappeared into the dining room.

The cane an ever present demotion of his pride, Westley crossed into the dining space and found Miss Whitaker looking out the window, her forehead creased.

He paused. “See something of interest?”

“Oh!” She dropped the curtain entangled around her slim fingers and spun around. “Um, no. Just a pretty bird.”

Why should he be surprised that lies came so easily to an imposter? Worse, why should he be taken aback at his own disappointment to hear them slither from such beautiful lips? And there, again, that hint of lilt in her words that seemed more pronounced with her nervousness. Keeping his thoughts to himself, he rounded the long table and pulled one of the carved chairs from its place. She looked at it for a second, then stiffly settled on the cushion. He bent slightly at the waist.

“If you will excuse me a moment, I’m going to the kitchen to see if Sibby has any honey. I haven’t eaten any in months, and I am rather fond of it.”

She tugged on a curl hanging down by her ear and glanced at her baby. “All right.”

He slipped out of the door at the front of the dining room that led to a small portico on the side of the house. Then he stepped off the brick pavers and onto the soft earth. At least the damp ground muffled the sound of his steps and eliminated the annoying tap of the cane.

As his time as a soldier taught him, Westley measured his movements and eased around the long wing of the house, coming up to the open section near the kitchen. Nothing moved about in the yard. No vagabond Confederate militia lurked about seeking easy prey. The wind whispered over the grass, making it sway in a gentle waltz. A squirrel barked at his companion and a mockingbird trilled.

Perhaps Miss Whitaker had merely watched a bird after all. Westley rolled his shoulders. He’d been ingrained in battle for too long. Now he searched about for enemies when only wildlife trespassed on Belmont lands. He almost started to feel foolish creeping around his own home when he heard whispers.

He pressed his back against cool bricks that had been fashioned from the sandy clay of the banks of the Mississippi and slowed his breathing.

“You sure? We might wanna wait.”

Westley strained his ears, but could not identify the voice of the speaker.

“Can’t. We done made a promise.”

He narrowed his eyes. Sibby. What was she about?

“Here. Take this with you. Better do it at night, just in case.”

A few moments later, the door to the kitchen banged and footsteps moved over the floor. Westley straightened himself, stepped back onto the bricked sidewalk and made no effort to mask his footsteps and thump of the cane. When he stepped into the breezeway and to the kitchen door, Sibby looped the handle of a basket over her arm, her focus on the food she gathered.

“Sibby?”

She yelped, and a covered platter in her hand teetered. She stumbled to right herself and grabbed it with both hands. She turned wide eyes on him. “Suh! You done scared me!”

He watched her carefully. “My apologies.” He glanced around. “Is anyone else in here with you?”

She stiffened. “No, suh. Just me.”

He tapped his finger on the cane. “That so? Hmm. I thought I heard someone talking as I approached.”

Sibby let out a long breath and then a laugh that seemed counterfeit. “Oh, that was just me, Major Westley.”

“Oh? Then to whom were you speaking?”

She shifted her stance. “No one, suh. I was just takin’ to myself.”

Westley tilted his head. More lies swarmed around Belmont. “Odd habit to keep, Sibby. You best be careful before others begin to think you are going mad.”

Her fingers gripped the platter tightly. “Yes, suh. I’ll be rememberin’ that.”

He stared at her and her gaze darted to the space behind him.

“Well, I best be gettin’ on to the house afore these here biscuits get cold.”

Westley stepped aside and motioned her past. When she slid through the door she turned guarded eyes on him. “Was there somethin’ you needed out in the kitchen?”

“Oh. Yes. I nearly forgot.” He tried to smile. “Do we have any honey?”

Something flickered across her eyes but she shook her head. “No, suh. Things like that are right hard to come by in these parts.”

And yet, there seemed to be plenty of items stocked in the pantry. How had they kept the Rebs from raiding those supplies? Beyond that, how had they gotten so much to begin with when stores were scarce and wares even more so?

As though reading his thoughts, Sibby’s eyes darted to the kitchen. “Mr. Remington hid lots of stuff under the house. We always had sumthin’ to eat. Not plenty like before. But sumthin’.”

Westley watched her.

She straightened her shoulders and turned toward the main part of the house. “I got Nat to bring all that stuff we had left up outta down there and put it back in my kitchen.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Seemed best, seein’ as how the war’s over and all now.”