a wonder worker.”
Lively music and golden candlelight spilled out of the Winstead windows and flowed down the curving brick steps. Julia and Carolyn quickly handed over their velvet, fur-collared cloaks to the waiting maid in the side chamber that had been reserved for the ladies’ use. With suppressed giggles, they slipped on their low satin pumps and hurried into the wide central hallway of the Winstead mansion. Julia stretched her mouth into a false smile while her stomach roiled at the prospect of meeting a live Yankee soldier face-to-face.
Great swatches of berry-rich holly looped up the carved wooden balustrade of the main staircase. Grave-faced servers passed among the revelers balancing silver trays of champagne glasses on white-gloved hands. Carolyn snatched one of the brimming crystal flutes before Julia could stop her.
“Oh, it tickles my nose!” Carolyn giggled. She took a second sip.
“Only one glass, mind you,” Julia cautioned her with faint trepidation. “You promised to behave. Remember, we must not draw any attention to ourselves or we will be caught. Tonight, you will have to be invisible—and don’t forget, we are supposed to be Yankees.”
Carolyn made a face under her half mask. “Don’t be such a wet dish rag, Julia. I’ll be so good, you won’t recognize me.”
With that, Carolyn slipped through the throng and disappeared from view before Julia could also remind her sister that they must leave by eleven-thirty so that Hettie and Perkins, who was warming his feet in the Winstead servants’ hall, could get the sleep they needed for the following day’s chores. With trembling fingers, Julia tightened the ribbons that held her mask in place. Holding up her glass of champagne to the light, she stared at it as if it were medicine, then drank it down in one gulp. Thus fortified to meet the enemy, she made her way into the double-wide reception rooms that had been cleared of heavy furniture and now served as a ballroom.
A myriad of silver candelabra held a wealth of lighted tapers; their beeswax perfumed the air. The happy sounds of fiddles and banjos caught her like a sudden breeze on a sultry day. Her feet tapping to the lively music, Julia swept her gaze around the crowded room.
Half of Alexandria must have been present tonight, but Julia had no intention of mingling with them. Everyone knew that the Chandlers were firmly Confederates, and therefore social outcasts among the Northern-leaning members of the citizenry. Julia told herself that she didn’t give a fig what other people thought of her. Tonight she was here to dance and laugh—and to be “ruined”. She lifted another glass of champagne from a passing tray. The bubbly spirits cheered her soul and tickled her brains.
How deliciously wicked I feel! Clara Chandler would have fainted on the spot if she knew that her gently-bred daughters were drinking. Already the effervescence lessened her trepidation; her spirits felt giddy. She should not become too relaxed or she would start singing “Dixie” and that would be a disaster here.
Up on the dais at the far end of the room, Alexandria’s renowned fiddle master, old Joe Jackson, led the small string ensemble in a never-ending parade of melodies; many of them were new to Julia. Most of the younger male guests wore coats of military blue, but she resolved to look only at their faces while she considered which one she would encourage. Her blood quickened with the excitement that permeated the ballroom. The war seemed a million miles away.
Then she spied what she had fervently hoped would be there. A true smile of pleasure lit up her face as she wove through the dancers toward the buffet table in the adjoining dining room. A glistening mound of tan-colored caramels coated with powdered sugar beckoned to her from their silver dish.
Rob Montgomery ran his gloved finger around the collar of his freshly starched shirt. When he had been in the field, he considered himself fortunate to have a clean shirt; starching could go to the devil. He preferred it that way. He rubbed his neck where his collar had irritated his skin. Then he fumbled for his pocket watch, snapped open the lid and squinted at the time. Quarter past ten. From his vantage point on the sidelines, he had spent the past hour watching his cousin and friends sweep laughing belles around the dance floor.
The music was very good, he admitted to himself. Before the war, he would have taken the nearest pretty young thing out to the center and whirled her into giddiness. But now—He glanced down at his right coat pocket that hid his useless hand. Even though he had pulled a glove over the lifeless fingers, he knew in his heart that no young lady would want to touch such a dead thing as his smashed hand. Damn those Rebs!
For want of something better to do than drinking too much of Winstead’s good whiskey, Rob picked his way around the dancers and wandered back into the dining room. To kill the first hour, he had already sampled enough of the sweet delights that graced the snowy expanse of the damask-covered table. Crystallized fruits, sugar cookies and gingerbread in artful piles, savory cheese sticks and anchovy paste spread on wafer-thin crackers, pecan tartlets, flavored gelatins and frozen charlottes, sliced jelly cake, chocolate-dipped lady fingers, glossy cherries in syrup—the bounty was not only endless, but overwhelming. What Rob really wanted was a good cup of strong coffee. Even more, he longed to be back in his own bed.
Reaching for a sugared walnut, his attention was drawn to the stunning auburn-haired miss on the other side of the table. It was not her wasp-narrow waist circled with the golden ribbon or her grass-green taffeta gown that had caught his eye, nor her creamy white arms that moved with the grace of a willow in a breeze. Nor did he pause too long to regard her incredible green eyes made more intriguing by the frame of her black mask. Nor did his gaze linger too long on her moist pink lips that promised passion. Instead it was what she was doing with those lips that had piqued his interest.
First, she slipped a caramel into her mouth. Then she surreptitiously glanced over each bare shoulder. Very provocative, Rob thought, though she was obviously not playing the coquette with an unseen admirer. No, her look was definitely furtive.
Rob stepped behind a large potted palm where, unseen, he could observe her at closer quarters. Once the young woman assured herself of her privacy, she opened her reticule that hung from her wrist. It looked to be a little larger than the usual size worn at a ball. With another glance around, she dropped several caramels into her bag and pulled it shut.
Rob smothered his laughter behind his good hand. He had done that same trick himself at a Fourth of July picnic many years ago at his grandmother’s home in Rhinebeck. Thinking of that reminded him once again of this year’s much different Independence Day. Instead of shooting off a string of squibs among a seated flock of his assorted aunts, a Rebel’s bullet, the size and shape of a marble, had torn into his hand, splintered most of his bones, and severed the main nerve.
This Fourth of July, Rob had lain outside one of the temporary field hospitals in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, enduring both the heat of the sun and the drenching rain that followed while he waited his turn on the surgeons’ butcher table. It was nearly three days before someone looked at his wound. The harried doctor had wanted to take his hand off, even had his knife out, but Rob’s vanity made him object to amputation. How could Miss Lucy possibly marry him with only one hand to hold her?
Muttering “gangrene” and “touched in the head,” the doctor wrapped up Rob’s stiffened hand and left the healing to Providence. The Lord had allowed Rob to recover without infection since the bullet had gone clean through, but divine generosity had stopped there. Since that day, Rob had not been able to move his fingers nor experience feeling below his wrist. The worst injury was not his hand but his heart when Miss Lucy walked away from him in disgust. Ever since, Rob’s passionate nature had turned stone cold.
A soft gasp from the pretty pilferer brought Rob out of his dark reverie. To his consternation, and her delight, she had spied another dish of caramels a little nearer to his hiding
