Hand on hip again: "With whom would it compromise me, Captain? Washington? Bosworth? They're both discreet, tolerant men. I have a spare room with a bed and no neighbors closer than a mile."
"All right, but I still have reason to worry about you. There's liable to be fighting around here, and you're—"
A soft clunk. He glanced down. A lump of mud had dislodged from his pants and lay on the floor. Sheepish, he picked it up. She waved the spoon.
"Off with those things, then we'll eat and talk. Go into my room — straight down there. I'll send one of the men with water for the tub and a nightshirt that belonged to Barclay. Some of his things are stored in the attic. Leave your uniform in the hall, and I'll brush it up." Through all this urging, she prodded him with the spoon, determined as any sergeant drilling a recruit. A last prod — "Now scat." He left, laughing.
Gus Barclay's mere presence drew him out of the dank inner places where he had dwelled of late. He sank into hot water in the zinc tub and scrubbed himself with a cake of homemade soap, having first removed the thong from around his neck and laid the leather bag where it couldn't get wet.
He put on the nightshirt and returned to the kitchen, where she filled him with plain, hearty food. The freedmen ate, too. They regularly took their meals in the kitchen, she explained. "Though they always come and go by the back door. Some of my neighbors — fine religious folk, church every Sunday — would probably burn me out if they saw black men crossing my threshold at all hours. Washington and Boz and I talked it over, and we decided we could all stand a bit of injury to our pride if that's the price of keeping the roof over our heads."
The freedmen smiled and agreed. The two of them and Gus were a family, Charles realized; one into which he was immediately welcomed.
After he dressed in his cleaned-up clothes, she showed off her fields and buildings in a leisurely ramble on foot. The frost melted, the temperature rose, bare earth oozed moisture and scents of a coming spring. They spoke of many things. Of Richmond, where she had sold produce from the farm twice in the fall. "It was my impression that every person in that city is engaged in swindling every person in some fashion."
Of his disillusionment with the army. "Staff officers are a pretty busy lot. I calculate they spend fifty percent of their time politicking, fifty percent fiddling with pieces of paper, and fifty percent fighting."
"That's a hundred and fifty percent."
"That's why there hasn't been much fighting."
Of her uncle, Brigadier Jack Duncan. She wished she knew his whereabouts so that she could write him. Unofficial couriers — smugglers — could carry almost anything across Confederate and Union lines, using a combination of forged passports and bribes.
Then, without prompting, she spoke of things past. "I wanted a child, and so did Barclay. But I became pregnant only once, and then only with extreme difficulty."
They were strolling along a lane bordering a small apple orchard. The lowering sun threw a web of branch shadows down upon them. She was bundled in an old hip-length coat, a coat for chores, and had crossed her arms over her breast and tucked her hands under her sleeves. She didn't look at him while she discussed the subject of childbearing, but otherwise there was no sign of embarrassment. Nor did he feel any.
"I was sick almost constantly for the first four and a half months. Then one night I lost the child spontaneously. I would have had a fine son if he'd lived. I may be able to quote Pope, but I'm not as good at simple things as the old cow in the barn who keeps us in milk and calves."
She made a joke of it, but she kept her head down, kicking at stalks of long grass beside the lane.
For the evening meal she spit-roasted a round red roast of beef. Washington said he and Boz had chores and so would not be able to join the others for supper. Gus accepted the fiction without question. She and Charles ate by the light of the kitchen hearth — one of the best meals he had ever tasted. Thick slices of browned potatoes grown on her land. Hot corn bread unlike the army's; no wiggling visitors revealed themselves when he broke a piece in half. And the juicy, tender beef, free of the stink of brine and the Commissary Department.
She brought a jug of rum to the table and poured a cup for each of them.
He shared more of his thoughts about the war. "Independence is a fine, laudable quality in a man. But an army that wants to win can't accommodate it."
"Seems to me the government is caught in the same dilemma, Charles. And suffering. Each state puts its own wishes and welfare ahead of every other consideration. The principle we're fighting for may turn out to be what destroys us. But here — we're getting too gloomy. Will you have some more rum? Tell me about your command."
"Shrunk considerably since we danced in Richmond." He mentioned the petition and his reassignment to Butler's scouts.
Solemnly, her blue eyes fixed on his. "I've read about the duties of scouts. Very dangerous."
"But less trying than leading men who want to go fifty ways at once. I'll be all right. I value my horse and my hide — in that order."
"My, you're in a good mood."
"It's the company, Gus."
"Odd —" A log broke in the hearth; fire and shadow moved sinuously over the walls, the stove, the handmade shelves holding her dishes. "I can almost listen to that name without cringing. As you say" — eyes on him again, briefly — "the company."
Each felt, then, the isolation of the house, the sex and rising emotion of the other. Charles brought his legs together under the table. She began to fuss with dishes, forks, spoons, clearing things. "You must be worn out — and you have a long ride tomorrow, don't you?"
"Yes and yes." He wanted to follow her as she moved away, sweep his arms around her, let only one bedroom in the dark house be occupied tonight. It wasn't propriety that prevented him, or fear that she would say no, though she certainly might. It was a self-spoken warning from the silences of his mind, one he had heard before. A warning about time and place and the circumstances that had brought them together.
He pushed away from the table. "I suppose I had better turn in." He did feel pleasantly tired, his muscles loose, his body warm, his heart content except in one regard. "It's been a wonderful day."
"Yes, it has. Good night, Charles."
Going to her, he leaned down and gently kissed her forehead. "Good night." He turned and walked to the spare bedroom.
He lay under the comforter an hour, reviling himself. I should have touched her. She wanted it. I saw it in her eyes. He flung the cover off. Strode to the door. Listened to the night house, the tiny creaks and shifts. Reached for the knob. Stopped with his fingers an inch from it. Swore and went back to bed.
He wakened with his heart beating fast and caution gripping him. He heard noise in the hall, sounds not normal for a house at rest. Light flashed under the door. Barefoot, in the borrowed nightshirt, he jerked the door open. Augusta Barclay stood in a listening attitude near the foot of the attic stairs. She wore a cotton flannel bed gown with an open throat, and had braided her yellow hair.
"What's wrong?" he said.
She hurried along the hall, an old percussion rifle in one hand, a lamp casting tilting shadows in the other. "I heard something outside." Saying this, she stopped close to him. He clearly saw her nipples raising the soft flannel. Restraint and good sense deserted him. He put his right hand on her breast and leaned down, inhaling the night warmth of her skin and hair.
She pressed to him, eyes closing, lips opening. Her tongue touched his. Then knocking began.
She pulled back. "What have you done to me, Charles Main?"