underground railroad for the Beaumont household. The Captain said the whole business had gotten entirely too risky.
The Captain. Portia wouldn’t say who arranged the transfer of slaves—first downriver into Mobile and then upstate by railroad. Probably it was some saintly old preacher who followed the teachings of Jesus and the Constitution: all men are created equal, with certain inalienable rights. Camilla pictured long, flowing white hair, maybe spectacles like Ben Franklin. A black frock covering frail shoulders and a Bible tucked under his arm. He’d preach with thunder and fire, but love everyone black and white the same. A man who’d organized the freedom runs for four years without a slipup would have to be brilliant.
“Camilla!”
Daydreams broken, she sat up. Nobody’s voice but her brother Jamie’s could carry up a carpeted flight of steps, down a hallway and through a thick oak door. He often forgot he wasn’t on the quarter deck of the Lady C.
Her bare feet hit the floor with a thump. “Can’t a person sleep around here?”
“It’s almost noon!” Jamie barked. “I need your help if I’m going to sail for Cuba this evening.”
She got moving. Caught up in the events of the past twenty-four hours, she’d almost forgotten Jamie’s planned blockade run. He’d been to Cuba before and made it back safely, but it was always a chancy thing. The Yankees took it as a personal affront when a Confederate merchant ship slipped through with arms and supplies.
But people in the South had to eat, she thought as she donned her clothing. And they had to defend themselves.
Dressed in her faded indigo day dress, she plopped down at the dresser. As she pinned her curls into bunches over each ear, she prayed for Jamie. For his safety, for his health, for his wisdom in guiding the ship. He had many men under his command. So much responsibility.
She wondered if Jamie knew about the fish boat. Probably so. Papa confided in him, and he’d always been crazy about anything that moved in the water, from tadpoles to warships.
He wouldn’t like that she knew about it. He was as overprotective as their father. But she was a grown woman now. As soon as Harry could come down south again without being blown to bits figuratively and literally, she was going to marry him and start her own family. She was tired of being under Papa’s thumb. Tired of being bossed around by Portia and restricted by Lady’s ideas of gentility.
She closed her eyes. Please, Lord, end the war quick.
She found Jamie in the foyer directing Horace and Willie in the disposition of several brass-bound leather trunks. He was dressed in a dark naval uniform, his fair hair spiking across his forehead in the humidity, sweat streaking his blond mustache and beard.
He looked up and grinned, swiping his sleeve across his brow. “There you are, Miss Slugabed. Knitting socks and writing letters last night wore you to a frazzle, I guess.”
Camilla straightened the embossed buttons on her brother’s coat. The top one hung by a thread. “Here, let me—” Her eyes widened. “Oh! Don’t move, I’ll be right back!”
She hurried to the parlor, where she’d spent several hours sewing before bedtime, and returned with a thickly quilted rectangle of gold-brocaded taffeta, folded several times and fastened with a frog closure. “I made this for your trip.”
“Thank you. Er—what is it?”
Camilla pulled Jamie down to sit beside her on the bottom step. “Look, I’ll show you.” She unbuttoned the frog. “It’s a housewife.”
Jamie laughed. “Just what I need on a cruiser.”
Camilla unfolded the fabric so he could see the row of five pockets and a flat square piece stuck through with needles and pins. “It’s got everything you need to make small repairs to your uniform. All the girls are making them for their men going off to war.”
At the wobble in her voice, his expression softened. “I’m not exactly going to war. Don’t you want me to send this to Harry?”
“I made it for you.” She gave him a mock frown. “And you’d better come back with it in person!”
“I plan to. No Yankee steamer’s going to catch the Lady C.”
Camilla slanted a glance at him under her lashes. “Suppose the Yankees were able to build a boat that could attack without you seeing it.”
Jamie leaned back on his elbows. “You mean like in the fog? Well, they wouldn’t be able to see us, either. Nobody sails in weather like that.”
“No, I mean—what if a boat could move underwater? Couldn’t they blow you up before you knew they were there?”
He exploded with laughter. “A boat sailing underwater? Oh, Milla, you’ve been reading too many penny novels.” He pulled her into an affectionately rough hug. “Either that or you truly don’t have enough to occupy that fertile imagination. Thanks for the gift.” Releasing Camilla, he refolded the housewife and slipped it into his coat pocket. He stood and offered her a broad, callused hand. “I’ll put it to good use. Now be a good girl and go pack me a lunch. Make it generous, ’cause it’ll be a long time before I get Portia’s sourdough bread again.”
Packing him a lunch was the least she could do. He was always the soul of generosity to her. On the way to the kitchen, she touched one of the little carved coral camellias dangling at her ears—her birthday present. Jamie knew how much she adored camellias, how she waited for their blooming every winter.
Portia was up to her dimpled elbows in bread dough and was not best pleased by Camilla’s interruption. “That boy picks the inconvenientest times to go sailing!”
Smiling at the anxiety behind Portia’s grumpy frown, Camilla pulled bread and cheese out of the bin and began to carve thick slices of both.
Portia heaved a sigh as she added an apple tart and some sausage left over from breakfast to the hamper. “I hope those Yankees got poor eyesight tonight.”
“Me, too. God preserve him.”
Jamie wasn’t afraid of anything, especially not a Yankee clipper. He took life exactly as it came, laughing at the worst dangers, even her question about the fish boat. Was his amusement genuine—or did it serve the purpose of hiding his thoughts? Everything with Jamie was usually right on the surface. Maybe her assumption that he knew about the boat was wrong.
She paused in the kitchen doorway, absently swinging the heavy hamper. “Portia, I heard something funny last night on my way in the house.”
Portia’s head whipped around. “Shush, little girl! Mind yourself!” She jerked her head toward the back door. “Come out this way, and we’ll walk around the house.”
As they picked their way through the kitchen vegetable garden, Portia drew close, sharing the handle of the hamper. “Why didn’t you tell me last night?” she whispered.
“I forgot,” Camilla retorted. “I was busy getting scolded!”
“Hmph. And didn’t you deserve it. What’d you hear?”
“Did you know Papa had a man in his office in the middle of the night?”
Portia
