Handpicked Family
Handpicked Family
Shannon Farrington
Father by DesignAfter the Civil War, newspaper editor Peter Carpenter insists he'll never marry or raise children in such a troubling world. His commitment to bachelorhood only intensifies as he and his lovely assistant, Trudy Martin, search the ravaged Shenandoah Valley for his missing widowed sister-in-law and her baby.Ever the optimist, Trudy refuses to embrace Peter’s bleak outlook. Unfortunately, that doesn’t diminish her deep feelings for him—feelings she knows he’ll never reciprocate. But when Peter and Trudy become responsible for two war orphans, will Peter still keep his heart closed to his newfound family…or can he find hope in fatherhood?
Father by Design
After the Civil War, newspaper editor Peter Carpenter insists he’ll never marry or raise children in such a troubling world. His commitment to bachelorhood only intensifies as he and his lovely assistant, Trudy Martin, search the ravaged Shenandoah Valley for his missing widowed sister-in-law and her baby.
Ever the optimist, Trudy refuses to embrace Peter’s bleak outlook. Unfortunately, that doesn’t diminish her deep feelings for him—feelings she knows he’ll never reciprocate. But when Peter and Trudy become responsible for two war orphans, will Peter still keep his heart closed to his newfound family...or can he find hope in fatherhood?
SHANNON FARRINGTON and her husband have been married for over twenty years, have two children, and are active members in their local church and community. When she isn’t researching or writing, you can find Shannon visiting national parks and historical sites or at home herding her small flock of chickens through the backyard. She and her family live in Maryland.
Also By Shannon Farrington (#uae58ad75-4a40-589a-89b7-56d7b718c610)
Her Rebel Heart
An Unlikely Union
Second Chance Love
The Reluctant Bridegroom
Frontier Agreement
Handpicked Family
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Handpicked Family
Shannon Farrington
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08446-8
HANDPICKED FAMILY
© 2018 Shannon Farrington
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
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“I am sorry for any inconvenience I have caused you in coming here, but I promise you my scheming days have ended.”
Peter drew in a breath, hesitant to acknowledge her former feelings.
“It’s over and done with now,” he said. “I have made my position clear. If you will accept it, then we will speak no more of it.”
Accept that he never wanted a family, that he didn’t want her? Trudy would be lying to herself to say his rejection didn’t still sting, but yes, she had accepted it. “Very well,” she said.
He offered her a curt nod. With no further business, Trudy turned and left.
Give her marks for candor, Peter thought as he watched her walk away. And for grit. She was fast becoming his right-hand man—or woman, rather. She was definitely staff material—efficient, freethinking... But it comes at a price. He stopped that thought, reminding himself then that the matter had been settled.
Still, his thoughts betrayed him. In another time, in another place...
Dear Reader (#uae58ad75-4a40-589a-89b7-56d7b718c610),
Thank you so much for choosing Handpicked Family, my final book with Love Inspired Historical. Writing this Civil War series has been a wonderful journey, one I could not have completed without the help and support of many people. I am so thankful to my family for their prayers and loving encouragement, and also my church family and friends for their enthusiasm. I am especially appreciative of my extraordinary editor Elizabeth Mazer, who was willing to take a chance on me, all of my readers who picked up one of my books, and Wanda Lee and Melinda, my faithful pen pals, whose kind letters always arrived just when I needed an encouraging word! Most of all I am grateful to the God of Heaven and Earth who holds each of us in the palm of His hand.
Writing may require solitude but it is hardly a solitary process. Each of you has played a crucial role in the crafting of my stories and in my daily life. For that I will forever be thankful! May your lives be blessed as much as you have blessed mine!
I hope you enjoyed Peter and Trudy’s adventure. For information on any of my future writing endeavors, please follow me on Twitter @_SFarrington (https://twitter.com/_SFarrington).
Until we meet again,
Shannon Farrington
Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour. For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow... and a threefold cord is not quickly broken.
—Ecclesiastes 4:9–12
For Erin
A modern-day, mission-minded angel of mercy
Contents
Cover (#ufff2a0c6-c97a-54ab-9e98-ec918e94bf54)
Back Cover Text (#ufb2e7f01-764e-510e-b9f1-161b79767956)
About the Author (#u2e115b45-1d80-5cd3-8840-7a3729b2cac1)
Booklist (#ubc83b49e-383e-5600-9258-9c56f03307e2)
Title Page (#u4fa4a083-9536-5923-ad6e-99716d67b54b)
Copyright (#uaef39c41-4674-570f-ac8e-b791552c51fa)
Introduction (#ud93dd69e-4393-5cd5-bb90-04bb10398418)
Dear Reader (#ud35ba246-30a0-51d2-b68a-24c1907b0f1d)
Bible Verse (#u52b32bf8-39a5-548b-8205-ee2991f3d630)
Dedication (#u59b1a9c4-8aee-57d0-a826-fcbb349f57af)
Chapter One (#u4bd3961d-0b3f-51b8-8400-6aba04f236d8)
Chapter Two (#ud2bfbaf4-58f9-5224-a2d5-3a7fbe8c201a)
Chapter Three (#ubb6ca498-687d-5bb1-a28e-ea0e3db50c82)
Chapter Four (#u242ad473-fcba-5859-b3bb-f7787e0ba860)
Chapter Five (#ufff4c14a-e7e5-5cc8-bc29-952916c32369)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#uae58ad75-4a40-589a-89b7-56d7b718c610)
Shenandoah Valley, Virginia July 1865
Trudy Martin took one look at the ragtag collection of men blocking the road and pulled the wagon to an abrupt stop. She had not had much experience handling buckboards before. In fact, this was a first, and she had only learned to do so today out of necessity. Her friend Emily Mackay was teaching her because the teamster scheduled to drive had not showed. Neither had their armed Federal escorts, intended to protect this party from any thieves or malcontents they might meet along their journey.
How I wish for their presence now, Trudy thought.
Fear snaked up her spine, for even though the approaching crowd consisted mostly of gaunt-faced, frail-looking war veterans, some missing arms and hobbling on crutches, she saw the expression of determination on their faces.
They are just hungry people, she tried to tell herself, but Trudy knew full well that desperation often bred trouble.
Beside her Emily drew in a nervous breath. “They know we have food,” she whispered, “and I fear they intend to claim it.”
Emily’s husband, Dr. Evan Mackay, pulled a matching buckboard alongside them and paused. His lanky, rib-boned mare gave a snort as if to say she, too, was wary of the approaching men. With good reason, Trudy couldn’t help but think. Meat is meat no matter how poor the quality.
She scolded herself for the dark thought, but she knew from what the Mackays had told her, as well as from the articles she’d been proofreading for her employer’s newspaper, that here in western Virginia, food was scarce. The country had just endured four years of war and the Confederacy a humiliating surrender—but not before the land they had claimed as an independent nation had been ravaged by Federal forces. Families had been destroyed, and unemployment was widespread. Any soldier fortunate enough to return with his mind and body still intact was hard-pressed to find gainful work, but here, the devastation was particularly acute.
Desperation doesn’t even begin to describe this, she thought. How can the people expect to move forward when all they once had is in ruins? Nine months after the Federal army had scorched this land it was still as desolate as the moors of Scotland.
Trudy glanced heavenward, noting the angry gray sky. Rain is on its way, she thought, perhaps even a thunderstorm. She shivered, half because of the changing weather, half because of the still approaching men.
“Just keep on with the plan,” Dr. Mackay said calmly.
The plan had been to offer what help they could to a little community that had seen more than its share of hardship and horror. How exactly the town of Forest Glade had been chosen, Trudy could not say, but when she had learned this was to be the team’s destination, she’d jumped at the chance to be part of it. Her brother, George, had repeatedly marched and fought through this valley in his service to the Confederacy. He had also been wounded here. But for the grace of God and a kind minister named James Webb, he might not have survived.
George had been treated for his wounds at the church in Forest Glade. Her brother, who had told her about the events in subsequent letters, was currently in a Federal prison, still awaiting release. He could not come and express his thanks to Reverend Webb, but she could.
Also, as a former volunteer nurse from the Baltimore military hospital, Trudy had been confident that she could offer assistance. Dr. Mackay and Emily had thought so, as well. And yet while they had organized this relief mission, they had not initiated this trip. The original invitation had come by way of Trudy’s employer, Peter Allen Carpenter. As publisher and editor of The Free American, a Baltimore-based newspaper, Mr. Carpenter had taken it upon himself to report firsthand on the devastation leveled upon this once beautiful valley, and had sought to bring others who could provide different kinds of assistance.
He had asked for the Mackays’ help.
Mr. Carpenter had not asked for Trudy.
He had asked for assistance from Trudy’s brother-in-law, David Wainwright, wanting an additional writer to help with his coverage. What will he say when he sees that David has not come? she wondered. And worse, that I am here in his place?
David was a top-notch reporter with a nose for sniffing out corruption. He was as committed to justice and truth as Mr. Carpenter, but unlike their employer, he was also a family man. Elizabeth was now expecting her first child and suffering severe sickness. David, the anxious father-to-be, had been hesitant to leave his wife behind. For reasons not entirely concerning Elizabeth’s welfare, Trudy had persuaded David to remain in Baltimore and let her go to Virginia in his stead. Though she wasn’t a reporter, she should still be able to assist Mr. Carpenter in his work. She’d been doing so for quite a while, working for him at the paper.
She had boasted of her nursing and editorial skills as well as her ability to take orders and deal with privations. She had insisted Dr. Mackay and Mr. Carpenter would well protect her. She had assured her brother-in-law that she was the best person for the job. However, it wasn’t until Mr. Collins, the acting editor in Mr. Carpenter’s absence, contracted influenza that David finally agreed to remain in Baltimore. He would look after the newspaper, and all other concerns at home.
“This is best for everyone,” Trudy had told him, but now, admittedly, she was having second thoughts. Her brother-in-law had been a soldier. He knew how to marshal and manage unruly men. Her desire to help the people here was genuine, but her reason for wanting to come on this mission had not been entirely humanitarian. A romantic interest had initially played a part.
Her employer, Mr. Carpenter, was a sizable man with a commanding voice and a confident air. He was brave, honorable and wholly committed to the ideals of justice and truth. Never mind that he walked with a limp, an injury of birth. Never mind he was ten years her senior. She’d been smitten the moment she met him—right up until he had told her in no uncertain terms that he would never marry.
She had learned that the day before he had departed for Virginia, the day it had also become public knowledge that Elizabeth was with child.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Trudy had said to him when sharing the news.
“Wonderful?” he repeated. “Hardly. Unfortunate, I would say.”
Unfortunate? What kind of response was that? Trudy, though had tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Mr. Carpenter was a master with words when he put them on paper, not so always when addressing others. “You mean it’s unfortunate that your best sketch artist will now be limited in her newspaper duties?” Elizabeth and David made a formidable team, with him writing engaging stories and her sketching the images that brought them to life.
“No,” he said. “I was referring to the other matter. Only a foolish man would bring a child into this world.”
Trudy had gasped. “You can’t be serious?”
“I assure you, I am completely serious. This world is a dangerous, deadly place, Miss Martin. Apparently you’ve yet to realize that.”
Call her naive, for she knew she had a tendency to lean in that direction, but she’d seen her share of suffering. She told him so. Her father had died when she was but a child. Her brother had gone to war and then was left to rot in a Federal prison. She knew life had its struggles, but not all of it was bad. Families, children were the hope of the future, the promise of a better tomorrow.
Mr. Carpenter, however, thought just the opposite. “I’ll never bring children into this world.”
Pain, disappointment raked her heart, for she had felt all her aspirations concerning him going up in smoke. “Then you’ll never wed?”
“I’m wed to my paper,” he explained. “I’m committed to justice and reform. If you are going to work for me then you had better be likewise committed and put any other ideas you have out of your mind.”
Her sister, Beth, had teased her by insisting that Trudy’s interest in her employer had been written all over her face as clearly as a typeset page—a charge Trudy had denied. Apparently Mr. Carpenter, though, had read that news. Why else would he have spoken so adamantly about remaining an unmarried man?
Her embarrassment in revealing her feelings as well as her disappointment had been overwhelming. She wanted children. She wanted a home. As handsome, as courageous and committed to the truth as Peter Carpenter was, he was not the man for her.
By the time Trudy had learned this news, however, she had already convinced David to stay in Baltimore, and had promised the Mackays that she would assist them in his place. Whatever discomfort she felt concerning Mr. Carpenter and he her, they would simply have to overlook. She would not go back on her word. The Mackays were counting on her but admittedly, in this moment, she wondered how much help she could actually be to them.
The men were drawing closer. “We heard yun’s got food,” one of them shouted. “That true?”
“Aye, ’tis so,” Dr. Mackay called back. “Meet us at the church in Forest Glade at one o’clock and we will assist you there.”
“But we’re hungry now.”
“I realize that,” Dr. Mackay said as the raindrops began to fall, “but we’ve had some difficulty getting here and we must take stock of our supplies.”
Some difficulty indeed, Trudy thought sadly.
An entire wagon load of supplies had gone missing somewhere between Winchester, where they had previously counted a full shipment of goods, and the last rail stop in Mount Jackson. How that had happened Trudy couldn’t say. Her heart was grieved at the thought of what they had lost. Several Ladies Aid societies and Baltimore churches had raised the funds and supplies necessary for this journey. Trudy could only hope that whoever had commandeered their supplies had done so because they were in even more desperate need than the people in front of her.
“How do we know you’ll be there at one o’clock?” A tall man asked. “Don’t trust no Yankees.”
“Actually, we’re from Maryland,” Trudy said. Her announcement did not have the effect she had hoped.
“Even worse,” the man sneered. “Yun’s talk outta both sides of your mouth. You promise help and then don’t deliver.”
At that comment Trudy couldn’t help but take offense. She knew there was suspicion in the South toward the border states like Maryland—slave states that had not seceded from the Union. But she couldn’t help thinking it was unfair, especially when so many Maryland men had left to enlist in the Confederacy. My brother certainly delivered, she wanted to say. A knowing nudge from Emily, though, and a sharp, albeit well-meaning glance from Dr. Mackay kept her quiet. Obviously they thought the less she said right now the better.
Trudy reckoned that was wise advice, for as the group approached she studied the tall man who appeared to be the leader. Although his frock coat was full of holes and his boots had nearly just as many, Trudy recognized he was not to be tangled with. The look in his eyes scared her. She had seen it before in the faces of wounded soldiers at the hospital, the ones who had been through the worst of battle and were unable to forget. The ones who are haunted by hate, she thought.
Emily recognized it, too. “Perhaps it’s a good thing our planned military escorts did not arrive,” she whispered. “Their blue uniforms would only add fuel to the fire.”
Trudy swallowed back the lump in her throat. Had she already done so by announcing they had come from Maryland? The man with the vengeful eyes was studying her intently.
“Gentlemen,” Dr. Mackay said, “I understand your frustration.”
“You don’t know nothin’,” the leader retorted. “You’re a Yankee. You’re used to hot meals and warm beds.”
“Aye. ’tis true that I’m from the North,” Dr. Mackay admitted. “Pennsylvania. Before that, Scotland, but I’m not here as a soldier. I’m here as a Christian offering aid.”
“Well, we’ll see about that.”
The rain had stopped but still Trudy shivered. The other two able-bodied men in the group were carrying pitchforks. As for the ones hobbling on crutches, no one knew what they concealed in their clothing.
And here I sit helpless beside Emily. If David were here, he could help protect her. What real use am I? If something happens to her, to her husband, what about poor little baby Andrew?
Emily had sacrificed time with her precious seven-month-old son to come to Virginia. Andrew was home in Baltimore with Emily’s parents.
Determined to do her best by the baby and his mother, Trudy stole a glance to her right, then her left. The road on which they were presently parked was sunken, with high banks on both sides. Even the most skilled teamster would find escape impossible. She looked again at Dr. Mackay. Trudy knew he would do his best to defend them both, but he was severely outnumbered.
It was then that a pair of riders crested the knoll. One was dressed in the black garb of a parson. At sight of the other, Trudy’s heart skipped a beat. She would have recognized those broad shoulders anywhere. Peter Carpenter was riding toward them.
Oh Lord. Thank you!
“Gentlemen,” Peter called in his typical commanding voice as he approached. “It was determined that you should come to the church this afternoon to receive assistance.”
“We don’t want to wait,” the tall leader retorted.
“I realize that, Mr. Zimmer, Mr. O’Neil, Mr. Jones,” he said, addressing the two with the pitchforks, as well, “but it’s only fair to the other folks in the area to wait. Come to the church at one and we will see to your needs.”
Trudy felt her anxiety slipping away. They will listen to him, she thought.
The parson had caught up to him. The poor man looked as weathered and threadbare as his parishioners. While he continued the conversation with the disgruntled men, Mr. Carpenter urged his horse toward Dr. Mackay’s wagon.
“Where’s the other buckboard?” he asked.
“Part of our shipment was mislaid,” Dr. Mackay said.
“Stolen?” Mr. Carpenter clarified.
“It looks that way.” Dr. Mackay then explained how the Federal escorts had never arrived. “I thought it more foolish to remain idle at the station, so we started for our destination.”
Mr. Carpenter grumbled in agreement. Then he noticed her. His left eyebrow arched. “What are you doing here?”
She was used to his curt tone and unpolished manners. But this is not surprise speaking, she thought. It was obvious disapproval. It wasn’t as though she had expected open arms, but still...did he think she had followed him here purposefully, relentlessly intent on claiming him as a husband? That certainly wasn’t the case now.
But will he believe that? “David couldn’t come,” she said with all the steadiness of voice she could muster.
“So I see.”
She started to tell him why but he clearly didn’t care to hear it now. “I’ve already plenty of responsibility, Miss Martin,” he said. “I’ve no need for more.” And at that he whipped his horse back in the direction of the men.
* * *
Irritated couldn’t even begin to describe what Peter was feeling in that moment. Furious perhaps was more like it. No doubt Miss Martin had some plausible excuse for deliberately inserting herself into these events, but he didn’t have time for it now, not when a pack of unruly, hungry men were pressing their grievances.
Reverend James Webb, the underfed and overwhelmed parson of these parts, was still trying to assuage the fears of those gathered. “I assure you, Jack, Tom, Arthur, there will be food for all, if you’ll only let these people get it organized.”
“How d’ we know if you’ll still have food by one o’clock?” Jack Zimmer yelled.
“How do we know ya won’t give it to someone else?” Tom O’Neil added.
As the men continued to pepper the parson with questions, Peter stealthily felt for the derringer tucked discreetly inside his frock coat pocket. Yes, this was a mission of mercy but he was not about to be at the mercy of a riotous mob. He’d seen what desperate men could do before. Back in 1861, an unruly pack in Baltimore had rioted and brought about the opening bloodshed of four years of war.
And for what good? Peter thought. The result was that a generation of America’s brightest and best were dead and the country was reunified in name only. Southerners hated Northerners and vice versa, and the freedmen who’d once been controlled by slave masters were now victims of an ineffective Federal bureaucracy. The promise of a more perfect union for all had yet to be fulfilled and Peter took that offense personally. He’d had two brothers give their lives in the hope of a better tomorrow and he was determined not to let their sacrifices be in vain.
Sadly he wasn’t surprised by Dr. Mackay’s report that the Federal escorts had deserted the wagon convoy, nor that a shipment of supplies had been stolen. Who’d taken it...well, of that he couldn’t be sure. He’d met more than one US soldier who’d rather see Southerners starve, and just as many Southerners who would steal or kill to prevent that from happening.
Clutching the derringer, he cast a quick glance at Miss Martin. And she has no idea what she has stepped into. This is no place for a lady. Mrs. Mackay has a husband to look after her. Peter knew that because Miss Martin was his employee, her welfare would now fall to him. And that’s the last thing I need. He already had a woman for whom he needed to claim responsibility—as soon as he could find her. Caroline. Caroline Carpenter. His brother’s widow.
His thoughts quickly returned to the Baltimore belle before him. Foolish woman, he thought. I never should have hired her. He told himself he should have known from the beginning that her naive boldness would be trouble. He remembered vividly the day she had stepped into his office. “My sister tells me you are in need of workers for your newspaper,” she had said. “I’m here to apply.”
He’d stared at her for a moment, half in shock, half in admiration over her straightforward approach. Most women seemed somewhat intimidated by him. Even now her sister Elizabeth still had a tendency to call him “sir.”
“What can you do?” he’d asked.
Miss Martin had confessed that, unlike her sister, she had no artistic talents, but that she had a good grasp of grammar and had won numerous spelling medals in school. “I thought you might be in need of a proofreader.”
In actuality, he had been, and he had offered her a position on a trial basis. She had excelled in her tasks, and soon Peter had offered her the position permanently. Truth be told, she had been a great help to him. Up until the point she pegged me for a husband. I thought I had put a stop to that. Evidently she did not take the hint.
In that instant Jack Zimmer rightfully reclaimed his attention. His voice was growing more emphatic with each word he spoke. “Look, preacher, we aren’t leaving here till you give us some food.”
Jones and O’Neil were armed with pitchforks. The others were lame, but taken collectively, they could still be a considerable force. Peter assessed his own strength. If he stayed on his horse he’d have the upper hand, but Zimmer knows my weakness. If he forces me to the ground I’ll be useless. He glanced at Reverend Webb. Preacher won’t fight. He’s a man of peace. And Dr. MacKay is closest to the women...
The derringer was his only safeguard. Although he despised the thought of firing it, he would do so if it came to that. Miss Martin had left him little other choice. Hopefully just showing it would be enough.
“We can give you all a little something now,” she suddenly announced.
Everyone, including Peter, immediately turned in her direction. That naive, hopeful look was on her face. Have mercy, he grumbled to himself.
“We packed small sacks of cornmeal,” she said. “We can give you some of that. They are at the back of Dr. Mackay’s wagon.”
Don’t tell them what you have! Peter thought. Let alone where it is! But much to his surprise, her offer seemed to defuse the tension.
“It be real flour?” Mr. Jones asked. “None a that ground-up chalk the carpetbaggers bring through?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Real food. Real cornmeal.”
While Jones and O’Neil were pleased enough to drop their pitchforks, Zimmer still didn’t look happy. Wheat had been the primary staple before the war. The cattle and the slaves ate the corn. But these people would have to settle for anything they could swallow.
Jones pressed his way to the front of the group. “Well, word or not, I’m not going to pass up the chance for some meal right now. I’ll take what’s offered.”
O’Neil stepped toward the wagons also. Reverend Webb encouraged the others to form a queue. On the principle that some food was better than none, Zimmer joined it, as well.
“What about medicines?” he asked. “People around here are sick.”
“Aye,” Dr. Mackay said, “but first we must reorganize our supplies. Come to the church. We will do our best by you there.”
The situation had been remedied, at least for now. Still Peter kept his guard. With one eye he watched the men. With the other he studied Miss Martin. She was smiling, no doubt pleased with herself and hoping he would be pleased with her. Well, he wasn’t, and at the risk of being ungentlemanly, he was going to let her know that.
* * *
The cornmeal had been distributed without further incident and the men were now returning to what remained of their homes. Emily was helping her husband resecure the oilcloth cover over their wagon while Trudy held the second one in check. Mr. Carpenter was still on his horse, his back ramrod straight as if poised for battle. Since there had been no skirmish with the hungry men, was he now about to engage her in one? Apparently so, for when the last local man disappeared over the knoll, her employer slid from his horse and lumbered toward her.
He had that look in his eye, the one he showed in the newsroom whenever a reporter missed a deadline or the proof sheets weren’t to his liking. Trudy’s thoughts tumbled nervously over one another. Inadvertently she tightened her reins. Her horse threw his head in protest. Quickly she tried to correct her mistake but only made matters worse. Now the horse seemed determined to back up.
“No... No... Don’t do that! Please, no.”
“Loosen the reins, Miss Martin!” Mr. Carpenter commanded as he muscled his way, albeit somewhat awkwardly, into the driver’s box. His ink-stained hands reached for hers. Forcefully he commandeered the reins.
“Stand!” he called to the beast.
The horse promptly obeyed. Trudy had no doubt that it would. Even she felt the sudden urge to sit bolt upright at attention.
“You must be more careful.”
“Y-yes...” She replied. For a split second she was tempted to call him “sir” but she knew he did not like that title.
“It’s Mr. Carpenter or Peter,” he’d always said, and although she had wanted to call him by his Christian name, she certainly would not do so now. He might think more of the familiarity than she actually meant.
“Miss Martin,” he said as he put on the brake and then turned to her. His probing brown eyes seemed to bore right into her soul. “Why exactly are you here in your brother-in-law’s place?”
Trudy swallowed hard. “Exactly?”
“Yes, Miss Martin.”
“Well... Mr. Collins is ill and cannot oversee the paper...”
Still the look... Elizabeth called it frightening, like standing before a judge who was eagerly awaiting confession so he might pronounce sentence. Trudy was beginning to understand. He uses this tactic to assert his authority, to intimidate. Why hadn’t she noticed this about him before?
Do not worry. I’ve no longer any interest in you whatsoever, she wanted to say, but she had been raised to be a lady. Even if at times she failed to live up to the standard, she was determined now to salvage some shred of dignity. And a lady wouldn’t dare broach the subject of romance with a man. So she was committed to explain in as few words as possible. After all, she had come here for other reasons—ones totally unrelated to him.
“Elizabeth is feeling very poorly—”
“And you thought it best to leave her and come here?”
Guilt threatened to creep back in but she lifted her chin. Elizabeth was fine. She didn’t need her help, but according to Emily, the people here did. “David was worried and Mr. Collins is now ill, so he will be caring for his wife and overseeing the paper in your absence.”
Mr. Carpenter rolled his eyes at that. She did not stop to ask why. Trudy then explained that her brother had been wounded here. “I wanted to express my thanks to Reverend Webb.”
“This is no sightseeing expedition, Miss Martin.” The look he gave her then made her wanted to leap from the wagon, run all the way back to Mount Jackson and climb aboard the first train to Baltimore, but Trudy steeled her resolve.
I have injected myself into his cause, wrongly, perhaps, but it is done and I will see this mission through. “I realize that, Mr. Carpenter,” she said firmly, “I am here to render aid, not play the role of a tourist.”
“Good,” he said in that commanding voice of his. “As a representative of my newspaper I expect you to do your job.”
“I shan’t do anything else.”
“Good,” he said once more. “Make certain of that.”
I will, she thought as she continued to hold his look. Believe me, the subject of romance is firmly closed. He had read her motives once before. Trudy trusted he had read between the lines now, for without further word, her employer disengaged the brake and urged the horse forward.
Chapter Two (#uae58ad75-4a40-589a-89b7-56d7b718c610)
It wasn’t the encounter with Zimmer and the rest of his rough-looking compatriots that had left Miss Martin silent. It was Peter’s remarks that kept her stone still beside him. He felt bad for speaking harshly to her, especially when he accused her of sightseeing, but he told himself it had to be done. She said she had come because of her brother, a desire to help him and the reverend who had tended him. He just wanted to be certain that was her only reason.
If she had put the idea of marriage to him out of her mind, then he had been successful. If he had made her reconsider marriage in general, then even better. If only Caroline had more carefully considered such things before my brother came along.
The wagon jolted and Miss Martin’s arm brushed his. Peter’s thoughts returned to her.
Romantic notions aside, he was genuinely concerned for her welfare. She does not belong here. Ideally they’d soon go their separate ways. Just as they’d resumed their trek to the church, Dr. Mackay had mentioned the possibility of sending for more supplies. Hopefully Miss Martin would be the one to return to Baltimore to do so. It’s the best place for her.
Miss Martin’s innocent, open nature was refreshing, but it was also unnerving. She believes the best about everyone she meets and thinks that love, faith and hope are enough to set the world right.
His brothers had thought the same.
But hope can’t reverse time or raise the dead, Peter thought. This world is no longer a Garden of Eden, not since jealousy, greed and murder entered it. And in this desolate place, there are too many who would take advantage of that innocence rather than protect it. Better by far for her to be on her way. He cast Miss Martin a glance as the wagon lurched forward. Silence still reigned.
Presently she was taking in the scenery, but it was not the majestic Blue Ridge Mountains or the rock-dotted Shenandoah River that held her attention. It was the imprint of war. For miles she had viewed charred remains of barns and stables, empty homesteads now covered with vines, but the nearer they came to the town of Forest Glade, the more evident the destruction.
The once prosperous little hamlet on the north fork of the river was now only a shell of its former glory. The flour mill had been destroyed. The sawmill was much the same. Remnants of warped and twisted machinery sat rusting into oblivion. Of the workers’ houses opposite the sites, not a structure remained intact.
“This makes me angry,” Miss Martin said suddenly.
“It should,” Peter replied.
After the space of a heartbeat she then said, “I can’t help but wonder what has happened to the people who lived here, who worked here? Are the men we met just now on the road the most desperate of the lot or are there others worse off than they?”
He could hear the emotion in her voice, the compassion. That was another thing he admired about her. At her age most Baltimore belles would be focused on replacing their outdated wardrobes as soon as possible. He gave her a quick once-over. Here she sat in homespun, protected from the rain by only a plain knitted gray shawl and an unembellished straw hat. She looked damp and uncomfortable but she was not complaining.
Again his conscience was pricked. I did speak harshly to her. Perhaps more harshly than necessary. “That’s what I’m here to find out,” he said, “and to hold those responsible who promised to make reparations.”
She looked at him with those wide, innocent green eyes. “I’ll help you in any way I can,” she promised.
Great. He sighed under his breath, for in his opinion she was still a little too eager to help him. Making quite the effort to keep his irritation from coming through in his voice, he then said, “Well, I’m not all that certain how much help you can be. I can’t have you going off investigating, gathering information on your own.”
She took no offense at that. Thankfully, she realized he didn’t doubt her research abilities but her physical safety. “That’s why you wanted David,” she said.
“Yes,” he said simply.
She turned her attention back to the road. So did he. The wagon rocked and bounced over the uneven ground. About a half mile beyond the crossroads stood the church. Its faded white steeple still pointed faithfully toward the rolling gray sky, but vines and thistles were fast consuming its foundation. Boards had been nailed across several broken windows to protect the panes from further damage. Peter couldn’t help but wonder what it had looked like when Daniel first saw it, or when Miss Martin’s brother had, for that matter.
Were they both here at the same time? Knowing that detail had no bearing on his personal mission, Peter pushed the thought from his mind. As they pulled into the churchyard, Reverend Webb’s wife, Sarah, met them. “Thank the Lord for your safe arrival,” she said. “I’m so pleased to see all is well.”
But not without incident, Peter thought.
Her husband, James, explained what had happened on the road. Peter then reported the lost cargo. The woman’s tired face fell even further. “What exactly remains of your supplies?” she asked.
“We’ll need to take inventory to be certain of that,” Dr. Mackay said.
“Never fear,” Miss Martin added, her optimism apparently rebounding. “We can still assist many with what remains.”
The Mackays introduced themselves, and then Miss Martin. Mrs. Webb offered her a smile. Eager to converse with the woman, Miss Martin climbed down from the other side of the wagon and hurried to where the reverend’s wife stood.
Having secured the reins, Peter gingerly made his way to the ground, listening as Miss Martin explained that her brother had lodged at the church facilities.
“Oh?” Mrs. Webb said.
“Yes, and I was eager to come and thank you and help you in any way I can.”
Her enthusiasm was obvious. Peter didn’t doubt it was sincere but he couldn’t help but think, You won’t be so optimistic when you see the inside of the church. I’m certain it’s a far cry different from your own.
Half of the pews were missing. According to Reverend Webb, they had been used for firewood, stretchers and crutches following the battle of New Market when the church had served as a field hospital. Looking closely at the floor, one could still make out the bloodstains that had seeped into the wood planks.
Miss Martin noticed them at once. Peter saw the look of horror wash over her face. However, it quickly passed. Apparently she was determined to soldier on, but still in her naive way.
“Are you in need of further seating for your congregation?” she asked the reverend. “Perhaps we can find someone to craft more pews.”
Peter couldn’t help but roll his eyes at that. Crafting pews would not be high on anyone’s list around here, not when homes needed to be rebuilt first.
“Thank you, miss,” Reverend Webb said with all the gentleness of a seasoned saint, “but we have all we need, at least for those who attend now. Many of our church members are no more.”
“No more?”
“Deceased, miss. The fortunate ones have relocated, reunited with family elsewhere.”
“Oh,” she said slowly. “I see.”
Do you? Peter wondered. Do you now see the real world? For I don’t have time to enlighten you.
There were articles to write on the local provisional authorities and missing supplies to locate. He also wanted to assist in the reunion of displaced family members, but there was one particular family member he was most desperate to find—his brother Daniel’s bride.
Caroline. The bride Daniel had no business taking.
Peter drew in a breath. How did one even begin to locate such a woman when no one around here, not even the reverend, seemed to know who she was?
* * *
Trudy couldn’t help but feel sorry for this poor country preacher. He obviously cared for his community, and the fact that he could no longer account for much of it weighed heavily upon his heart. She laid a hand on the parson’s arm, and his dark mustache lifted with a smile.
“We will do all we can to help those people who remain,” she said.
“Thank you, miss,” he said. “I am most grateful to you and the others. Your coming is such an encouragement.”
At least it is to someone, she couldn’t help but think, for despite what she had hoped had been a closing conversation, Mr. Carpenter still looked irritated with her. Or is it simply the circumstances in which we find ourselves? If that were the case, then she could understand a little of what he was feeling.
Trudy had promised Reverend Webb they would do all they could to serve this community but knew their ability to do so had been diminished severely. The crates that had disappeared en route were the most valuable they carried. The wheat, dried meat and medicines were lost. So was the seed they had brought for planting fall vegetables. Mr. Carpenter had ruefully noted that not only were these items the most valuable in aid but they would also fetch the greatest price on the black market.
“Whoever took them knew exactly what would bring the most profit,” he’d said.
Those and his previous words taunted her. “Only a foolish man would bring a child into this world.”
Whatever his opinion, it doesn’t negate the fact that there are children in this world, she thought, children who require assistance. In fact, Reverend Webb had already mentioned needy youngsters in his congregation, specifically a six-year-old boy named Charlie, and a baby named Kate. Both were now fatherless because of the war, and their mother was desperate for relief. Will we be able to provide such?
“We can wire for more supplies,” Emily said, as if reading Trudy’s thoughts.
“Yes,” she agreed, for Trudy knew the churches and aid societies back in Baltimore would again be generous. My dearest friends, Julia, Rebekah and Sally will spend long hours gathering and packing what they can. For four years now they, along with Trudy and Elizabeth, had knitted socks and sewed shirts and other items for those in need. She was confident they would again rise to the occasion.
“We will wire back to Baltimore,” Dr. Mackay said. “And we will do so straightaway. Reverend Webb says the telegraph office in Larkinsville is still in order.”
“It is indeed,” Mr. Carpenter said. “The question is, though, will the shipments arrive here intact and in time to help this community? Some of these people will not see August if they do not get regular, proper nourishment soon. If a second shipment goes missing...” He paused as if to let them consider that for a moment. “It won’t do us any good to order more supplies while someone out there is stealing them for their own profit.”
“We don’t know for certain that’s what happened,” Reverend Webb said.
“Shipments loaded on a train don’t just vanish between one rail station and another,” Mr. Carpenter insisted.
Trudy’s heart squeezed. She knew her employer had a tendency to lean toward cynicism, but she had never seen him quite like this before. His frustration over the lost supplies was now bordering on despair.
“Well, that’s where you come in,” Dr. Mackay said to him. “I trust you will discover this person or these persons responsible for the missing supplies.” He then gestured to Trudy. “And now you even have your experienced newspaper assistant to help you.”
She could feel the color rising to her cheeks. Although she had promised to help Mr. Carpenter in whatever way she could, she remembered what he had said earlier, “I can’t have you going off investigating, gathering information on your own.” Based on the irritated look he was still giving her, he obviously didn’t want to work alongside her. His words confirmed that.
“From what I have seen of the people in this community, I believe Miss Martin’s efforts will be better served in medical endeavors rather than journalism,” he said. “She was, after all, a nurse.”
“Oh?” Reverend Webb said as Mr. Carpenter left the circle of conversation. “Wonderful. Then I trust you and Mrs. Mackay will work well together.”
“We always have,” Emily said.
“Indeed,” Trudy replied.
Emily then looked to her husband. “Your orders, love?”
The barest hint of a smile tugged at Dr. Mackay’s lips. They are so much in love, Trudy couldn’t help but think. She couldn’t help but wonder if someday a man would look at her that way. It certainly won’t be Mr. Carpenter.
A self-pitying lump threatened to form in Trudy’s throat, but she swallowed it back.
“When the people arrive we will need to first assess their conditions outside,” Dr. Mackay said. “If there is even the slightest indication of typhus or smallpox, we must immediately isolate them.”
Trudy understood. She knew from experience that they could not bring patients bearing such illnesses into close contact with others. They must be quarantined. “Where shall we put them?” she asked.
“My house,” Reverend Webb said.
Trudy could tell Dr. Mackay did not like the preacher’s sacrifice any more than she, but if typhus or smallpox patients came to them, they had to be treated somewhere. Trepidation wiggled its way up her spine. What would happen if the reverend and his wife took ill? Who would nurse them? What would happen if the entire relief staff took ill?
She pushed those fears from her mind. Dr. Mackay was still speaking.
“We will need to prepare a treatment area for the noninfectious patients here inside the church,” he said. “I expect many cases of malnutrition, unhealed wounds and the like.”
Under the physician’s guidance, Trudy and Emily prepared a medical area for detailed assessment of complaints and treatment. Trudy hoped whatever they encountered would not be serious, given their minimal supplies. They had been left with plenty of soap and bandages, as well as basic surgical instruments, but the case of morphine and ether was gone.
After organizing the treatment area. Trudy helped Sarah Webb sort through what remained of the dry goods and fresh vegetables. They set allotments of equal portions for each potential visitor. Sacrificially, Mrs. Webb had also raided the last of what remained of her own supplies and prepared a soup.
“I’m sorry it isn’t more,” she lamented, “but between the Confederate requisition armies and then the Yankees, this was all I could hide.”
“You must have had a secret compartment in your larder to save as much as this,” Trudy said, trying to inject a little lightheartedness into the heavy situation, “or was it the root cellar?”
“Neither,” Mrs. Webb admitted, a hint of mirth in her face. “I reburied last year’s potatoes and rutabagas in sacks in the garden.” The smile then faded. “But I’m afraid this is the end of my resourcefulness.”
“You are out of food, as well?”
“Yes. Just about. I managed to save a few of our smallest potatoes for seed this year, but the harvest was very poor. I did come across a patch of ramps the day before you came, though.”
Trudy had never heard of ramps before, except for those used in the place of stairs. “What is that?” she asked.
Mrs. Webb again smiled. “It’s like a leek. You eat the bulb.”
“Oh?”
“They are excellent in soups.”
Trudy leaned over the pot. Even as thin as the mixture was, it certainly smelled excellent.
Across the way, Mr. Carpenter had set up a desk of sorts, one made out of a piece of salvaged wood and two sawhorses. According to Reverend Webb, he had been collecting names and basic information to locate missing family members, including reconnecting former slaves with loved ones who’d been separated during the war. Apparently he planned to publish notices about the missing in his paper, and convince fellow publishers in other cities to do the same.
It was hard not to admire a man who used his press in such a way. Trudy eyed him stealthily for a moment. Mr. Carpenter’s hair was as black as coffee. He had dark eyebrows, a slight cleft in his chin and a strong, handsome jaw. He could have passed for a rich statesman were it not for the crumpled collars and askew cravats he always wore. He had a tendency to tug at them when he worked. He disliked the confinement of frock coats as well, always preferring to roll up his sleeves. He had done so today. Trudy couldn’t help but notice once again his muscular forearms.
Catching herself, she shook off such thoughts, remembering that Peter Carpenter had proven he was not the man for her. Yes, he was handsome. Yes, they shared a belief in helping others, but he was not interested in marriage. He didn’t want a family.
And he isn’t exactly a churchgoing man, she reminded herself. Oh, she knew that he believed in God, but for some reason “organized religion,” as he put it, had “no practical use.” So how exactly has he come to know and be on such good terms with the Webbs? she wondered. Had it been some connection before the war? Her curiosity getting the better of her, she asked Mrs. Webb.
“My husband, James, nursed his brother Daniel after the battle of New Market.”
“Oh,” Trudy said, her eyes inadvertently going to the still stained floor. “Mr. Carpenter has never really spoken of him.” Although Trudy knew he had a brother. She had learned that detail during the time that she, her mother and her sister had taken shelter in Mr. Carpenter’s parents’ home outside Baltimore when the city had been threatened by Confederate attack. He has two, if I remember correctly. Daniel and Matthew.
“I suppose he wouldn’t speak much of him,” the preacher’s wife said. “It must be very painful.”
“Painful?”
“Daniel survived the battle, but wound fever took him and several other Virginia soldiers a week later.”
“I see,” Trudy said. A cold chill passed through her, but her feeling was not limited to her employer’s loss alone. Trudy knew very well that fever could have just as easily taken her own brother.
Mrs. Webb must have recognized it, as well, for she looked at Trudy sympathetically. “I thank the Good Lord that he spared your own brother.”
“Indeed,” Trudy replied. “And I shall be even more grateful when he is released from prison.”
Mrs. Webb patted Trudy’s arm. “I pray for him daily, and all those like him. May God grant them the courage and grace to return to peaceful society.”
“Amen,” Trudy said.
Mrs. Webb then continued with her previous story. “James wrote a letter to your Mr. Carpenter with the terrible news that his brother had passed away. Daniel wanted it that way. I remember him saying he didn’t want his parents to learn about the death of their youngest son by letter.”
Leaving Mr. Carpenter to deliver the dreadful story. “And Matthew?” Trudy then asked. “His other brother? Did he survive?”
Sarah Webb shook her head sadly. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about him, except that he was a Yankee.”
With that the woman walked away. Trudy resisted the urge to follow after her even if by eyes only. Mrs. Webb had been headed in the direction of Mr. Carpenter’s table. Instead Trudy picked up the nearby water pail and marched outside to the pump.
After collecting a bucketful, she took it to the fire to heat. They’d need plenty of wash water to clean and reuse the dishes once people began arriving. While waiting for it to boil, she again glanced heavenward. The sky that had previously been so threatening was beginning to brighten, but an eerie dampness lingered. Trudy remained at the fire for a few minutes more. Even though it was summer, the chill from her wet clothing had reached all the way into her bones.
Or is it my heart? She wondered. She told herself she must be careful with any display of compassion toward her employer, lest he assume she was still infatuated with him. Still, she couldn’t help but want to comfort a man she knew must be grieving.
And is he grieving for one brother or two? Trudy, along with most of her friends, had known divided loyalties. Why, her sister, Beth, had married a Boston man who’d served in the Federal army while her brother was being held in a Yankee prison. But George will gain his freedom and David and Elizabeth are blissfully happy. What had happened to Mr. Carpenter’s family? Was his brother Daniel a husband? A father? Was Matthew? Had he been killed, as well? Is that why Mr. Carpenter is so against having children of his own?
Trudy desperately wanted to know. Even though she knew it would be better for her to put the man and his troubles far from her mind. He wouldn’t appreciate sympathy or tenderness. Showing such would only further irritate him.
I must concentrate on my tasks at hand. I must be prepared. Reverend and Mrs. Webb had given all they had to help her brother in his time of need, and now their little community was facing malnutrition, disease, maybe even starvation. Trudy was determined to spend every ounce of strength she had helping them and their community in return.
Chapter Three (#uae58ad75-4a40-589a-89b7-56d7b718c610)
“It is almost one o’clock,” Dr. Mackay said as he glanced at his watch. “Our guests will be here soon.”
Peter looked up from the article he had been crafting about the need for the army to take a more serious role in protecting food shipments, just long enough to see Mrs. Mackay move to the front window. “They are already here,” she said, “and by the looks of things they have formed a line that wraps all the way around the building.”
Peter laid aside his pencil and pushed to his feet. He’d finish the piece tonight. Now was the time to be on alert. If the number of people looking for help was that large, there could be trouble.
He had already spoken to Reverend Webb about making certain the men from the road didn’t try to claim a second helping of cornmeal. The preacher agreed. As softhearted as he was, he realized better than anyone the necessity for stretching what they had to help as many people as possible.
A story from childhood scripture readings suddenly flashed through Peter’s mind, the one about how the Lord fed five thousand with only five loaves of bread and two small fish. Daniel’s favorite story. He quickly shoved the memory away. Reminiscing won’t help now.
“Before we open our doors,” Reverend Webb said, “let’s pray.”
Peter no longer believed in divine intervention, but he wouldn’t disrespect the reverend’s request. In his mind, God had created the world, then sat back and let it run unimpeded. Evil men had and would continue to have their way. The only thing a decent man could do was try to stem the tide of injustice and look after the people caught in its wake. People like Caroline and her child.
Fending off the despair that threatened to wash over him, he moved toward the center of the room, where the rest of the group had already converged, stepping up to the parson and his wife. Mrs. Webb shifted her position at the last second to make more room in the circle. Inadvertently she placed Peter between herself and Miss Martin. He saw the flush come over the young woman’s face when the reverend then requested that they all join hands.
What words the preacher actually prayed Peter couldn’t say. He was much too conscious of the slenderness and softness of Miss Martin’s fingers, testaments again of her sheltered life. She had no idea what heartbreak was waiting for her outside.
She will soon find out. Not that he wished to deliberately hurt her, but someone needed to educate her on the realities of the world today. Peace had been declared and the reconstruction of the Union had begun, but the people outside had been impoverished by their own country. Of the Confederate veterans who had managed to return, few were able-bodied. Arriving home, they found their lands in ruins, and no longer their own, for they had been confiscated by the Federal government.
The only thing taking root around here is the seed of resentment. What will they do if they are given the opportunity to avenge themselves? An angry man may be all too willing to lash out at anyone he can find—even someone as harmless and well-intentioned as Miss Martin.
Of course, not every man out there was a danger or a threat. Many were well-intentioned themselves, simply seeking a way to get on with their lives, but lacking the resources to move forward. The slaves were free, but the freedmen Peter had talked to had been told by Federal authorities to remain on the plantations, let their masters feed and clothe them until the end of this year. What kind of freedom is that? Their masters have no food to give them. The slaves had been promised forty acres and a mule of their own. Taking their chances, many were migrating north, seeking work in any form, desperate to be reunited with loved ones.
Peter couldn’t help but then think of the ordinary family farms, and the people on them who had simply disappeared. Who will gain their land? In time enormous profit will be made from these derelict farms, but it isn’t going to be claimed by the ones who had once labored on them.
The world was a cheap mess. Someone was going to profit, of that Peter was certain. Someone always did.
His lame leg was aching. It always bothered him when the weather was damp or he had stood on it for too long. He would have to remember to use his cane. Presently, though, he couldn’t remember where he had left it. He shifted his weight just as the reverend offered prayers for the regional garrison commander.
“Bless him, Lord. Give him the wisdom to look after those in his care...”
Peter couldn’t help but think that that request, if heard at all, would be better presented on behalf of Reverend Webb himself. In Peter’s time here, no leadership, save one overworked preacher trying to shepherd what remained of his refugee flock and protect it from encircling wolves, was doing anything to help.
But for so many, there is nothing to be done. Too many men had gone into battle never to return. Reverend Webb had told him there were at least a dozen surnames in this community that were destined to die out upon the widow’s death. Either her sons had perished, leaving her childless, or daughters alone would struggle to carry on a father’s legacy.
As for the children Peter had come upon, some weren’t even old enough to attend school, meaning they had been born since the start of the war. What had those men been thinking, fathering children while knowing hostilities were on the horizon? Deep down he knew he shouldn’t be angry with Daniel, let alone his brother Matthew, for being among them, but he couldn’t help it.
Inadvertently, he cast a glance at Miss Martin. Her head was bowed. Her feathery auburn eyelashes rested against her creamy skin. She was the picture of youthful innocence. The sooner she learns that romance breeds nothing but trouble, the better off she will be.
Peter released her hand the moment Reverend Webb pronounced his amen. He turned at once, bound for the front door. The preacher had already asked him to greet and give those outside their instructions. Dr. Mackay, however, stopped him.
“Take Miss Martin with you,” he said. “She can assess their medical conditions, then direct patients to either me or Emily.” He turned to her before Peter had a chance to object. “Remember, no typhus or smallpox inside the church building.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
Peter drew in a deep breath. He knew the effects of those two epidemics and didn’t like the idea of Miss Martin being the doctor’s first line of defense.
“Perhaps you should do the assessing, Doctor,” he said.
This time Miss Martin took immediate offense. “I’ve dealt with infectious diseases before,” she said before Mackay could speak.
“Indeed,” the doctor then said. He looked back at Peter. “And I’ve not time to explain to you how to assess patients.” He went on to deliver instructions to his brave little nurse. “Make them aware of our stations and send any with acute needs to me, the lesser ones to Emily. You know what to look for. Just like our days in the hospital.”
“Yes, of course.”
He then handed her several sheets of paper and a pen. “Take down their names, and the location and number in their household if they will divulge such information. It will be helpful to know for future ventures.”
“Certainly.”
Clearly the matter had been firmly decided. Peter wanted to press that point, but Miss Martin was already headed for the door.
* * *
The chill Trudy had felt previously evaporated the moment Mr. Carpenter had taken hold of her hand. She scolded herself for such a reaction, even though it was only a fleeting feeling. The moment Reverend Webb pronounced the amen, Mr. Carpenter gave her a look as if to tell her he thought the whole arrangement of the circle had been her idea. He then gave Dr. Mackay an almost icy stare when the physician suggested she accompany him outside.
He clearly does not want me here. Evidently he thinks I am unsuited for the task.
Trudy blew out a breath. Determined to prove him wrong, she marched to the front door before her employer could say or do anything else. Stepping outside, however, she gasped. Emily had been correct in saying that line wrapped all the way around the church building. It wasn’t the number of people, though, that disturbed Trudy. It was their condition. They were even more desperately downtrodden than the men on the road. Most of them were young women and children. The women were presumably now widows because no man was beside them, and by the looks of them, no man has taken care of them for quite some time.
The woman at the head of the line was so thin, so frail in appearance that Trudy wondered how she had remained standing. In her arms she carried a small baby. A little dark-haired boy, five or six years old, was standing beside her. The boy was wearing shoes but his clothing was tattered and full of holes. Through one particular spot Trudy could view his ribs.
Is this Charlie and baby Kate? Trudy wondered. Is this the family of which Reverend Webb spoke?
Her heart broke afresh, for there were many others just like them. Looking upon them, her confidence faltered. She had tended frail and malnourished bodies before, but this was quite different! These women and children hadn’t volunteered for the cause, yet they had been forced to suffer its cost. The reverend said there would be children, but somehow I suppose I was still expecting soldiers. I had no idea it would be like this!
Grief washed over her in waves and she could feel the tears gathering in her eyes. She was so overwhelmed that she didn’t know where to start.
“Hold firm, Miss Martin,” Mr. Carpenter commanded behind her, but in a voice only she could hear. “These are proud people. They need your assistance, not your pity.”
Knowing he was right, and determined to prove she could handle what was expected of her, Trudy drew in a deep breath, steeled her resolve. Just as she moved to descend the porch steps, he caught her arm.
“Let me go first,” he said.
“But I must assess—”
“What are the most prominent symptoms of typhus?”
Feeling her own irritation growing, she spouted off the list. “Severe headache, high fever, sensitivity to light, rash on chest and back...although if they have that, they probably won’t be standing.”
He nodded. “And smallpox?”
“Much the same, but the red spots will first appear on the face.”
“That’s what I thought,” he said. “Now, give me your list. I’ll take down their names and assess for those diseases.”
“But—”
“Don’t argue with me. Go see to that little boy right there. He looks well enough.”
He didn’t wait for her to respond. He simply took the pen and paper from her. Then he announced to those gathered who they were and what they were about to do.
Trudy knew full well she should not waste time feeling angry over his forceful, take-charge behavior, but she couldn’t help herself. Yes, I faltered for a few seconds, but I am fully capable of discharging my duties. Then the idea struck her, Is he trying to protect me?
Shaking off the thought before her mind could go further with it, she moved to the first mother and children in line. She offered her best smile. “My name is Miss Trudy,” she said, bending toward the boy. “What is your name?”
“Charles T. Jackson,” he said proudly. “The T is for Thomas, but Ma just calls me Charlie.” He gestured to the woman beside him. “This is Ma...and Kate.”
Trudy looked then to the woman who said that her name was Opal. Apparently she and the children had walked six miles this morning to come to the church. The distance had taken its toll on Opal’s feet. She was wearing makeshift shoes, a slice of hickory bark for each sole, secured by strips of cloth to her ankles. Her stockings, having been darned many times, were now threadbare. Trudy could tell her feet were bruised and blistered. Emily would need to tend them.
“If you’ll go just inside and see Mrs. Mackay,” she told Opal. “She’s the one with the white apron. She’ll see to your feet. Mrs. Webb will bring you some soup and I’ll see if I can’t find a pair of shoes for you.”
“Not me,” Opal said, “but for Charlie. His shoes are much too small.”
Trudy had seen the effects ill-fitting footwear had on the infantry, and if this boy had similar injuries... She pushed the thought away and smiled again at Charlie. “Better let Mrs. Mackay take a peek at your toes, too.”
He nodded obediently, but then his attention was stolen by Mr. Carpenter, who was working his way up from the line. Trudy’s was, as well.
“No smallpox or typhus,” he whispered as he bent his head toward her ear.
Trudy breathed a sigh of relief, then watched as Mr. Carpenter turned and started working his way back down the line. He was leaning heavily on his good leg. She knew his other must be hurting. Presently Mr. Carpenter was taking names and asking questions concerning the local authorities and the missing food.
“That lieutenant over there at the garrison don’t concern himself with our matters,” Trudy heard one man tell him.
“Wouldn’t want no help from him even if he was,” another said.
“That man a Yankee?” Charlie asked her, his eyes apparently still focused on Mr. Carpenter. Trudy quickly turned her attention back to the boy. She wasn’t certain of the best way to answer his question, given what had happened on the road. “He’s not a soldier,” she said. “He’s a newspaperman. He is trying to find fathers and brothers who are missing.”
“Oh,” Charlie said. “I wanna be a newspaperman when I git big.”
At that, Trudy couldn’t help but smile. She gave the boy’s dark hair a loving tousle, then moved to the next family in line.
Blisters and minor skin infections were common sights, but there were plenty of coughs, bleeding gums and bruising, as well. The people’s lack of nourishment was manifesting itself in ways beyond thin faces and prominent ribs. Despite the blessed lack of a potential epidemic, her hope was low by the time she reached the end of the line.
A few sacks of cornmeal and Mrs. Webb’s soup, generous as it was, aren’t going to stem the tide. These people need meat and a regular diet of good nutrition, but she knew full well there wasn’t a chicken to be found in all of Virginia, and as for fresh vegetables, there were few now to offer. Still, faith compelled her to remain positive.
If God by his grace will sustain them a few more weeks, Dr. Mackay will send for more seed, more food, more medical supplies. We just have to do the best we can until they arrive.
Lifting her skirt, Trudy marched up the porch steps, intent on helping Sarah Webb distribute the soup and rations. It did not take long. When the last of those in need had been fed, Mrs. Webb offered her and the others a cup. Trudy was most grateful for the meager meal, as were her friends. They eagerly ate what was given—all, that is, except one of them. Mr. Carpenter had accepted his portion, although Trudy noticed he discreetly gave his cup to little Charlie when he thought no one was looking.
* * *
By the time darkness had fallen, most of the people had been tended. Miss Martin had efficiently assessed and directed those in need. Peter was relieved. There had been no trouble, socially speaking—no attempt by Zimmer, O’Neil or Jones to collect more food than allotted to them. Reverend Webb had insisted Zimmer was a bit of a bully but not one of serious action. Blustering was about all he would do.
What man with a hungry family in these conditions wouldn’t do the same? he thought. As for Zimmer’s family, Peter had not met them. The distance across the mountain was too far for them to travel and, apparently having no pressing medical needs, they had remained at home. Peter would have liked to have spoken to Zimmer’s wife, but he had through his conversations today learned one important detail. Mrs. Zimmer’s name was not Caroline. Unfortunately, Peter hadn’t met any other Carolines today and no one he had talked to had ever heard of anyone by the surname Carpenter.
His leg was aching and his belly rumbling. Peter found a quiet spot in the corner of the room and sat down. The most serious medical cases, coughs and reinfected wounds, remained. Those patients were destined to sleep on the floor or pews softened by what blankets Mrs. Webb could spare. He glanced about. The place looked as pitiful as any wartime field hospital, except the majority of those in distress were not soldiers. They were women and children.
Two of the widows in relatively good health had remained for the night rather than risk walking home in the dark with their small children. Peter wondered if the real incentive wasn’t the opportunity to share in the church’s store of lamp oil and the hope that the reverend’s wife might produce more food come morning. If that was the case, he couldn’t blame them. Remembering his frock coat on the back of his chair, he picked it up, rolled it into a ball and gave it to a particular dark-haired little boy. He had seen the child eyeing him a time or two today. Earlier he had given him his cup of soup because he knew that more than likely, the boy was still hungry after eating his own share.
“Here, young man, this will serve as a pillow. The floor can get hard.”
The child offered him a crooked, albeit appreciative, smile. His mother, sitting beside him and cradling a small baby, looked up at Peter with a measure of surprise and thankfulness. “Bless you, sir,” she said.
Ignoring the “sir,” Peter crossed back to his makeshift desk, inadvertently casting a glance in Miss Martin’s direction. Despite his doubts about her abilities, particularly after her initial shock, she had done well organizing the people. It had made the day less confusing. After directing each person where they needed to be, she had served as a general steward, floating from station to station, serving food, washing cups and bowls, fetching bandage rolls and emptying basins.
Presently she was seated on the floor, her skirts spread out around her, tearing a piece of faded fabric into bandage strips. She was studying him, with a somewhat puzzled expression on her face, almost as if she were trying to decipher his actions.
No doubt she saw what I did with my coat. Peter offered her a look in return. One that said, No, I have not changed my mind on bringing children into this world. It had the effect he had hoped, for Miss Martin then quickly returned her attention to the bandage rolls.
He went back to his unfinished article, which he was certain would not remain unfinished for long. I have plenty to say and plenty of fire to fuel it.
He planned to work on it through the evening and then, as soon as it was light, ride to Larkinsville. From there he would wire the article back to his staff in Baltimore, and give notice of the missing supplies so that a new shipment could be arranged. Afterward he planned to have a chat with the local garrison commander. From that he hoped to discover what had happened to the Federal escorts that were supposed to protect the wagon convoy.
He settled himself at his desk and picked up his pencil. Words, however, would not come. His thoughts were in a tangle. Peter had expected his sister-in-law to be heavy on his mind, but for some reason Caroline’s image, the face he had tried so desperately to properly assemble based on his brother’s written descriptions, was hopelessly crowded out by the very real, very near and very maternal image of Miss Martin. She was now bending over the little boy he had just visited and she was kissing him good-night.
Chapter Four (#uae58ad75-4a40-589a-89b7-56d7b718c610)
Peter did finish the article, although it took much longer than he had anticipated. His thoughts didn’t clear until Miss Martin left the church building. She and Mrs. Webb went to the parsonage to gain a few hours of much needed sleep.
With the medical supervision squarely in the hands of Dr. Mackay and the night watch falling to Reverend Webb, Peter completed his article, then claimed the empty corner behind his makeshift desk. Curling up on the floor, he closed his eyes. Sleep however, came only in snatches. Thoughts of Daniel, of Caroline stole most of the night.
Daylight was just beginning to break over the Blue Ridge Mountains when Peter saddled his horse and prepared to mount. A polite greeting, however, kept him from doing so.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir. This be the place to git some help?”
Peter blinked, trying his best to focus on the figure emerging from the darkness. It was a freedman. The man was tall and lean with clothes as ragged and ill-fitting as those of the local white men.
“Yes, this is the place for help,” Peter replied. “Go on inside and the reverend will see that you get a hot meal.”
The freedman nodded. “That’s awfully kind of ya, sir, but I was most lookin’ for the newspaperman.”
“You’ve found him.”
The man stepped closer. He removed his slouch hat and laid it across his chest. “Name’s Robert, sir—”
Peter stopped him with an upturned hand. “Enough of this ‘sir’ business. I’m no army officer. The name’s Carpenter. What can I do for you?”
Brilliant white teeth shone in a smile for a fraction of a second. Then Robert looked down and fingered his hat before saying, “I’m looking for my wife, Mr. Carpenter. She went north some years back. I been to see the bureau agent over in Larkinsville but he weren’t much help. Then I heard about you.”
Peter wondered exactly what the man had heard. He waited to learn for himself.
“Folks say that you’re puttin’ notices in your paper. That you help find people.”
“That’s true.” Or at least, that was what he was attempting to do. “If you’ll give me your information, I’ll place the notice.”
The man nodded but then hesitated. “Thing is...well, I can’t pay.”
“If you could, you’d be the first,” Peter said.
“I can work, though,” Robert said. “You need somethin’ fixed? I can do that.”
“I’m sure you can,” Peter replied. “And believe me, there is plenty to do around here. Go on inside and see the reverend. Get yourself something to eat and we will talk when I get back.”
He mounted his horse, then clicked his tongue. The old mare reluctantly lifted her hooves. Peter didn’t look back to see with his own eyes, but he knew for certain that the freedman had entered the church. He’d heard the hinges on the front door groan, and then the soft, polite greeting from inside.
Miss Martin. Knowing her, she had probably been watching from the window and came to fetch the man the moment Peter started away. He shook his head but admitted to himself that if the world was different he would be flattered by her attention. She had a comely face in a fresh, pure sort of way. She wasn’t a woman taken by powders and rouge. And she isn’t vain enough to try to hide her freckles. She’s content with the looks the Creator granted her. Peter allowed his thoughts to linger there a moment or two longer. Her eyes were green. Her hair was red, not screaming with the intensity of an out-of-control fire but warm, rich, like a slow August sunset.
His brother’s description of Caroline’s hair then came to mind. “Like Virginia soil when it is first turned...that rich reddish brown...”
His jaw inadvertently tightened. If Daniel had paid less attention to the woman standing beside that freshly turned Virginia soil and simply marched through it, Peter wouldn’t be looking for a widow and a child. Daniel had written that her father and younger brother had both died early on in the war and her mother had been taken by typhus some years before that.
Peter wondered if Caroline and her child had been able to survive the hardship of war, the sicknesses, the privations. Had she found a family elsewhere? Had she married quickly and passed Daniel’s child off as the offspring of another?
A child should know his own father, Peter thought as he broodingly plodded along. And he will if I have anything to say about it. He planned to move Caroline and the child in with his parents back in Baltimore, provide for them personally. And if she has remarried? Then he would see to it that she and the child were properly cared for and he would keep in contact to make certain it remained that way. I owe that to my brother’s child. It was hard, however, not to be discouraged. His printed notices in the local area papers concerning Daniel’s wife had generated no information. Was he only fooling himself that he could find her?
He thought then of the freedman who had approached him earlier. Am I only fooling him as well? Can I really hope to find anyone?
Peter urged the mare to hurry along, although she continued to step gingerly. Where the ground wasn’t rocky it was spongy from yesterday’s rain. It seemed a metaphor for his state of mind. Hard facts and muddy uncertainty. Such is life.
After two hours navigating roots and ruts, he saw the town of Larkinsville ahead. This tiny hamlet had fared better than the others in the surrounding area. The buildings were still standing. The telegraph office was operational. Any damage the town had suffered during the war was being quickly repaired. The smell of fresh lumber was everywhere.
I suppose the presence of a Federal garrison has something to do with that, Peter thought.
He went straight to the telegraph office to dispatch his article to Baltimore. Then he wired David Wainwright personally concerning the lost supplies. “Don’t wire yet with delivery plans,” Peter telegraphed. “More information to follow.” He knew the charitable citizens of Baltimore would act quickly to fill the present need, but it would take them several days at least to collect another shipment of supplies. In the meantime, Peter hoped to discover what had gone wrong with the first.
Having finished with the telegraph office, Peter then rode to the garrison. A scar-faced sentry forced him to dismount at the gate. After securing the mare, another Bluecoat directed him to the officer in charge, Lieutenant Glassman. The lieutenant was a fresh-faced lad who more than likely had ridden out the war in the comfort of a senior officer’s shadow, perhaps a father or uncle. He probably sheltered in a command post while other men of his age were dying in ditches.
Still, Peter did his best to cultivate a respectful relationship with the young lieutenant. Not everyone had been able to do his proper duty. He knew that better than anyone. And Glassman is, after all, the local man in charge. Animosity won’t serve me or Reverend Webb’s community well.
“Ah, Carpenter,” Glassman said as he laid aside the cigar he’d been puffing and leaned back in his desk chair. “I see you are back. Trouble?”
It was only then that Peter noticed the well-dressed man in the corner of the room. The stranger was wearing a silk vest and a brushed cutaway coat. His cravat was adorned with a jeweled pin. Peter sized up the man at once. The clothes and that superior lift of the chin told him he was either a politician or a carpetbagger. No doubt I’ll determine which in a matter of minutes.
“I hope not,” Peter said, in reference to Glassman’s remark concerning trouble.
The officer smiled, then cordially gestured toward the guest in the corner. “This is Mr. Johnson.”
Peter offered him a nod. Glassman then asked, “So what brings you to see me?”
“Questions,” Peter said.
Glassman chuckled softly. “I’d expect nothing less from a newspaperman.” He then gave Johnson a toothy grin. “Mr. Carpenter runs a nice little press up in Baltimore.”
The word “little” irked Peter, as did the shared laugh between Johnson and the lieutenant. His business here was no laughing matter, and as for his paper, he had churned out more news than many of the big Eastern papers combined. At least, real news...not war propaganda or plays on public fears.
“My question...” he said slowly, doing his best to constrain his irritation as he drew the men’s attention back to real discussion.
“Yes, yes,” Glassman said.
“I’ve come to find out what happened to the escorts that were supposed to meet the food shipment in Mount Jackson.”
Glassman blinked. “Escorts?”
“Yes. I arranged for them here in this office just last week. They did not arrive at the station, and as a result my party had to travel unaccompanied.” He then added for emphasis, “There were ladies in the party.”
“Egad!” Glassman exclaimed, looking positively chagrined. “Did they arrive safely?”
At least his concern for the ladies does him credit, Peter thought. “They did, but not without several tense moments along the road.” He explained what had happened, but he did not give any of the men’s names. The lieutenant might decide to arrest the men for unlawful assembly or worse, trying to incite a riot. Peter did not want that. Zimmer and the men of the valley had suffered enough already. What Peter did want was to know what had happened to the escorts and, more importantly, the missing supplies.
“Rebel thieves,” Johnson said sneeringly when Peter told Glassman about the lost crates.
The lieutenant held his judgment in reserve for now. “I am sorry to hear of your loss,” he said. “If you’ll see the sergeant out front, he will help you file the proper paperwork for registering complaints.”
Peter would do that, of course, if for nothing more than for the sake of proving to Glassman that he operated within the law, but he placed no faith in the army finding the missing supplies. He was certain they had already been eaten or sold. “Thank you, lieutenant, but at this point the escorts are more my priority. If,” he said, choosing purposefully to be vague, “I wire for another shipment of supplies, I must be assured of your men’s protection.”
“Of course. Of course,” Glassman said. He shuffled the stack of papers in front of him. “Date of delivery?”
“For the first shipment?”
“Yes.”
“Yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” Glassman said, eyebrows raised. “Well, that explains it.”
“Explains what, exactly?”
“The detail detachment was transferred to guard Mr. Johnson’s shipment of lumber and dry goods.” The lieutenant then added, “It was, of course, larger than yours.”
Peter could feel his anger brewing. “And that made mine less important?”
“No, not at all,” Glassman insisted, “but we are limited in numbers. We must prioritize. Mr. Johnson has important government contracts—ones which will grow the economy.”
And I am trying to feed homeless war veterans and their families. Confederate veterans. Is that the issue here? “And are his supplies for sale?” Peter asked. Although he already knew the answer.
“I’m afraid not. They have been promised to others. But if you need more supplies, you might try the stores here in Larkinsville in a day or two.”
So I may pay even higher prices for less, Peter thought, his anger rising. He cast Johnson a furtive glance, knowing he had read him right. The carpetbagger aimed to be rich, if he isn’t already.
“I do apologize for any inconvenience this has caused you,” Johnson said.
“It isn’t my inconvenience,” Peter said, “but it is a great inconvenience to the people of Forest Glade.” He turned his eyes back to the young officer. “They are under your authority, lieutenant, and they are hungry.”
“As is most of our defeated foe,” Glassman conceded. “However, it is government policy, in the spirit of late President Lincoln’s wishes, that the rebels be welcomed back into the fold. As you say, they are my responsibility. Let me know when your next shipment is due to arrive. I’ll make certain the escorts are in place.”
For now, it was all Peter could do. He’d made his point, but he wasn’t certain how helpful it would be. Glassman could promise all the assistance he wanted but he saw where the man’s heart lay—with his pocketbook. Peter wouldn’t be surprised if Johnson and the lieutenant already had some sort of deal going, but what exactly and why? Was Johnson simply paying for assured protection of his own supplies or was he actively trying to sabotage any form of competition so he may hold the monopoly and charge higher prices?
Either way people will starve. Peter however kept his disgust hidden. There was no point in playing his hand now, even if all he got out of his silence was an eventual story on government corruption.
So he thanked the lieutenant for his time, offered a conciliatory nod to Johnson. He filed his formal complaint with the sergeant, then mounted his horse and rode back to Forest Glade.
* * *
Once the dampness from the previous day’s rain had evaporated, the weather grew quite warm. Trudy didn’t think anywhere could be warmer than Baltimore City during the summertime, but evidently July in rural Virginia could be just as fierce. Even with the church windows thrown open wide, the sanctuary had been stifling. Still, she and everyone else soldiered on.
Today Trudy had collected names for Mr. Carpenter’s list in addition to washing cups, fetching clean, cool water and washing and bandaging blistered feet. Now that the evening sun was sinking toward its mountainous horizon, she paused to glance out the window. She was feeling worried in spite of herself. Mr. Carpenter had left early this morning and there was still no sign of him.
She told herself she simply wanted to share with him the information she had gathered today, that her eagerness was a desire to help the freedman who had found his way here this morning.
Robert Smith had walked into the church anxious to find his wife. She had been separated from him almost twenty years ago.
“The war is over and slavery’s done away with now,” he’d said hopefully. “I thought...well, I hoped...”
Reason told Trudy that the odds of locating his beloved Hannah after so much time were slim to none, but hope in God and a determined belief that true love conquered all compelled her to take down his information.
“Mr. Carpenter said you could use workers,” Robert had also said. “I can do almost anything with my hands.”
“I’m sure you can,” Trudy said. “Let me fetch you something to eat first, and afterward you can speak with Reverend Webb.”
The big man eagerly accepted the small allotment of cornbread and tea even though it would hardly be enough to assuage the hunger he must surely be feeling. “I’m sorry I haven’t more to give you,” she said. “We haven’t the supplies we had hoped.”
“That’s alright, miss. I’m much obliged.” He didn’t seem that eager to be left on his own, so Trudy continued to engage him in conversation.
“Have you walked a long way?” she asked.
“From South Carolina, Miss.”
So far... “And you are headed for...?”
“Not really sure yet, ma’am. Figured I stay here a while, see if I git word. If’n that’s alright.”
“Of course it is,” she said.
Sadly there were a few disapproving looks from some of the townsfolk, but no one dared to argue why a man of color was getting food. Apparently deep down they either sympathized with him or they knew it would do no good to argue supremacy to Reverend Webb. The preacher had welcomed the freedman heartily.
The two of them were now repairing the church roof. Despite the valley’s scorching by General Sheridan’s men, red cedar trees still abounded and apparently the ex-slave was an expert in crafting singles. Trudy could hear him singing while he worked.
“I looked over Jordan and what did I see... A band of angels comin’ after me, comin’ for to carry me home...”
Trudy listened to the unfamiliar but stirring words while she continued to stare toward Larkinsville, eyes straining for the first glimpse of an approaching rider. Realizing, though, she shouldn’t be lingering at the window, Trudy whispered a quick prayer for Mr. Carpenter’s safety, then turned from the glass. As she did, she nearly tripped over little Charlie.
He, his mother and his baby sister had remained here at the church because Dr. Mackay wanted to keep watch on Opal’s cough.
“See my shoes?” Charlie said, proudly showing off a pair of ankle boots, slightly scuffed but of proper size. “Mrs. Webb found ’um for me.”
“Very nice,” Trudy said, kneeling down to his level. “I suspect your toes are much more comfortable now.”
He grinned. His poor teeth were crooked and misshapen, but the smile was heartfelt and happy. “Yes, ma’am. I can wiggle ’um now.”
“Very good,” Trudy said. “Then they’ll have lots of room to grow.”
Charlie’s cheerful expression shifted to a somewhat uncertain one. “Were you lookin’ for that man?”
She could feel the heat rising to her cheeks. “Which man?” Trudy asked, hoping he wasn’t wise to her actions. After all, men had been coming and going for the last two days, gathering supplies and seeking treatment for their families.
“The one who makes the newspapers,” Charlie clarified.
Oh dear. When am I going to realize that—
“Will he be back?” he asked.
That question eased her guilt a little, knowing she wasn’t the only one anxiously awaiting Mr. Carpenter’s return. Obviously the newspaper publisher had made an impression on Charlie. No doubt giving up his soup and frock coat are part of it.
She offered the boy a smile. “Yes. Mr. Carpenter went over to Larkinsville today but he will be back.”
The uncertain expression only grew. Trudy didn’t know why until Charlie then said, “My pa went to Larkinsville to ’nlist.”
She could almost hear the rest of the sentence, though it remained unspoken...and he didn’t come back. Her heart ached for the little boy. Tenderly she stroked his dark hair. It was the color of coffee, just like her employer’s. “The war is over now, Charlie,” she said gently. “No one is enlisting anymore.”
The sound of approaching hoofbeats drew both their attention back to the window. “Well, here’s Mr. Carpenter now,” she said.
Charlie stretched to the glass, pressed his nose against the pane. “He looks hungry,” he said.
No, she thought, he looks frustrated. His visit to the Federal garrison must have been less than satisfactory.
“I’ll get him some tea!” Charlie proclaimed.
Trudy was touched by his eagerness but thought it wise to rein it in. “Let’s give Mr. Carpenter a moment to settle.” The last thing she wanted was for him to think they had been waiting by the door, eager for his return. The boy, however, waited just long enough for her employer to dismount. Then he tore away from the window.
“Charlie!” Trudy moved to catch him but it was no use. Mr. Carpenter hadn’t even time to step completely into the building before Charlie had commandeered a cup of hot tea, raced back and held it up to the man.
His left eye brow arched. He looked at the boy, then at her. A frown came over his face. Trudy’s heart withered inside, partly for Charlie’s sake, the rest for her own. Does he think I prompted the boy’s actions? That somehow I’m trying to soften up his stance on children?
He looked back at Charlie. “No, thank you,” he said.
Trudy noted the heartbreaking expression on the boy’s face as he lowered the cup. Even though she knew it would only increase Mr. Carpenter’s perturbation, she stepped in.
“I think what Mr. Carpenter means is that he appreciates your tea, Charlie, but would rather you give it to your mother instead.”
She looked back to her employer. His hard expression softened. Apparently he realized how his words had come across to the little lad. “Yes,” he said quickly as he leaned forward on his cane. “You see, I had a meal in Larkinsville. In fact...” He reached into his pocket, drew out a biscuit. “Here. I couldn’t finish this. You take it.” He then offered Charlie an awkward smile.
The boy was thrilled and quickly accepted the biscuit. With a smile of his own he tottered back to his mother. Mr. Carpenter then returned his look to her. His eyes were dark and probing. Trudy couldn’t quite decipher the emotions she saw in them but she could read a storm brewing, not one of anger necessarily, but something...
“I didn’t put him up to that,” she said bluntly.
The man blinked. Given the confused expression now on his face, Trudy decided it best to be completely forthright. “I am sorry for any inconvenience I have caused you in coming here, but I promise you my scheming days have ended.”
He drew in a breath, hesitant to acknowledge the former feelings to which she was referring. She knew, however, he understood. She could read that in his eyes.
“It’s over and done with now,” he said. “I have made my position clear. If you will accept it then we will speak no more of it.”
Accept that he never wanted a family, that he didn’t want her? She would be lying to herself to say his rejection didn’t still sting, but yes, she had accepted it. “Very well,” she said.
He offered her a curt nod in return.
Remembering Robert, Trudy then told him about the information she had taken down for the paper. “I laid it on your desk,” she said.
“Excellent,” he said. “I’ll wire the notice next time I return to Larkinsville.”
She wanted to ask him how today’s venture had gone, but she knew him well enough to know that if he had received good news from the garrison commander, he would’ve proclaimed it. If the news was discouraging, he’d stew on it for a while, until he figured out a way to remedy the situation. So with no further business pressing, Trudy turned and went to check on Charlie and his family.
Chapter Five (#uae58ad75-4a40-589a-89b7-56d7b718c610)
Give her marks for candor, Peter thought as he watched Miss Martin walk away. And for grit. There was no doubt she had put in a long, hard day. Her face showed it, as well as her clothing. Her stained cotton skirt was sweeping the floor. The back of her apron was tied in a lopsided bow. It was stained, too. No doubt it had come loose on her more than once and she’d stopped whatever she was in the middle of in order to secure it. He wondered then why he noticed such details.
I’m a journalist, he told himself, and in truth, I admire her work ethic.
She was fast becoming his right-hand man—or woman, rather. The paper currently in his hand, the one she had given him, bore testimony to that. Not only had she gathered Robert Smith’s physical description and basic information for publication but she had also thought to include a personal note, something only Smith and his wife would have known—his pet name for her, Chickadee.
Peter would have thought to ask something of that sort but it surprised him that Miss Martin had. She was definitely staff material—efficient, free-thinking...but it comes at a price. He stopped that thought, reminding himself then that the matter had been settled.
Still his mind betrayed him. In another time, in another place, he told himself. He was nearing forty. A man at his age with his physical limitation and lack of gentlemanly polish didn’t get that many looks.
Shoving the thought away, he went in search of Reverend Webb. Unfortunately he’d have to tell him how futile his efforts with Lieutenant Glassman had been today and prepare him for the unlikelihood of any real help from the man or his soldiers in the future.
He found the preacher at the well, a bucket of water at his feet. Jack Zimmer was with him. This time so was his wife. Darkness was falling but Peter could see how awkwardly the woman’s clothing hung on her frame. Mrs. Zimmer wasn’t dangerously thin like some of the other women he had come across in these parts, but he wondered what her shape had been before Philip Sheridan’s army had set fire to the land.
Peter nodded to her and her husband.
“Ah, Peter,” the reverend said, releasing the pump handle. “How was your venture into Larkinsville? Have you returned with good news?”
Peter blew out a breath. “I’m afraid not. The lieutenant has no idea as to the whereabouts of the rest of our supplies.”
The reverend’s dark mustache drooped. Beside him, Zimmer kicked the dirt beneath his worn-out shoes. “I told you, you ain’t gonna get no help from him.”
“What about another shipment?” the reverend asked, as usual doing his best to look ahead to possibilities. Peter hated to dash his hopes but he had to be frank.
“Wiring for supplies isn’t the problem,” he said. “In fact, I did that today. Getting them here without having them...intercepted...is.”
Zimmer nodded affirmatively. “That lieutenant is too busy protecting the carpetbaggers to care about the real citizens of Virginia.”
The reverend sighed. “That may be, but we will just have to keep praying.” He picked up bucket and turned for the church. Peter watched him go. He wouldn’t discourage the man from praying—that, of course, was his job.
But more is needed than prayer, he thought. Zimmer’s right. Lieutenant Glassman isn’t going to be much help. I’ll have to concoct some sort of scheme of my own to make certain this second delivery arrives safely.
He’d leave that, though, for tomorrow. He was too tired to think tonight and his leg was hurting. But before heading inside he wanted to take advantage of Mrs. Zimmer’s presence and ask her a few questions.
“I wonder, ma’am, if I may speak with you for a moment.”
“Yes. Of course,” she said.
“It concerns a relative of mine,” Peter explained. “A woman named Caroline Carpenter. She lived somewhere in this valley. She married a soldier in General Early’s command sometime about—”
Mrs. Zimmer didn’t let him finish. “I’m afraid I don’t know any Carpenters,” she said.
Peter was unwilling to give up just yet. “Well, that would be her married name. Unfortunately, I don’t know her maiden one. Do you know of anyone in these parts named Caroline?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid not...but I’ll ask about.”
At least that was something. “Thank you,” Peter said. “I’d appreciate that.”
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Shannon Farrington
Father by DesignAfter the Civil War, newspaper editor Peter Carpenter insists he'll never marry or raise children in such a troubling world. His commitment to bachelorhood only intensifies as he and his lovely assistant, Trudy Martin, search the ravaged Shenandoah Valley for his missing widowed sister-in-law and her baby.Ever the optimist, Trudy refuses to embrace Peter’s bleak outlook. Unfortunately, that doesn’t diminish her deep feelings for him—feelings she knows he’ll never reciprocate. But when Peter and Trudy become responsible for two war orphans, will Peter still keep his heart closed to his newfound family…or can he find hope in fatherhood?
Father by Design
After the Civil War, newspaper editor Peter Carpenter insists he’ll never marry or raise children in such a troubling world. His commitment to bachelorhood only intensifies as he and his lovely assistant, Trudy Martin, search the ravaged Shenandoah Valley for his missing widowed sister-in-law and her baby.
Ever the optimist, Trudy refuses to embrace Peter’s bleak outlook. Unfortunately, that doesn’t diminish her deep feelings for him—feelings she knows he’ll never reciprocate. But when Peter and Trudy become responsible for two war orphans, will Peter still keep his heart closed to his newfound family...or can he find hope in fatherhood?
SHANNON FARRINGTON and her husband have been married for over twenty years, have two children, and are active members in their local church and community. When she isn’t researching or writing, you can find Shannon visiting national parks and historical sites or at home herding her small flock of chickens through the backyard. She and her family live in Maryland.
Also By Shannon Farrington (#uae58ad75-4a40-589a-89b7-56d7b718c610)
Her Rebel Heart
An Unlikely Union
Second Chance Love
The Reluctant Bridegroom
Frontier Agreement
Handpicked Family
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Handpicked Family
Shannon Farrington
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08446-8
HANDPICKED FAMILY
© 2018 Shannon Farrington
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
“I am sorry for any inconvenience I have caused you in coming here, but I promise you my scheming days have ended.”
Peter drew in a breath, hesitant to acknowledge her former feelings.
“It’s over and done with now,” he said. “I have made my position clear. If you will accept it, then we will speak no more of it.”
Accept that he never wanted a family, that he didn’t want her? Trudy would be lying to herself to say his rejection didn’t still sting, but yes, she had accepted it. “Very well,” she said.
He offered her a curt nod. With no further business, Trudy turned and left.
Give her marks for candor, Peter thought as he watched her walk away. And for grit. She was fast becoming his right-hand man—or woman, rather. She was definitely staff material—efficient, freethinking... But it comes at a price. He stopped that thought, reminding himself then that the matter had been settled.
Still, his thoughts betrayed him. In another time, in another place...
Dear Reader (#uae58ad75-4a40-589a-89b7-56d7b718c610),
Thank you so much for choosing Handpicked Family, my final book with Love Inspired Historical. Writing this Civil War series has been a wonderful journey, one I could not have completed without the help and support of many people. I am so thankful to my family for their prayers and loving encouragement, and also my church family and friends for their enthusiasm. I am especially appreciative of my extraordinary editor Elizabeth Mazer, who was willing to take a chance on me, all of my readers who picked up one of my books, and Wanda Lee and Melinda, my faithful pen pals, whose kind letters always arrived just when I needed an encouraging word! Most of all I am grateful to the God of Heaven and Earth who holds each of us in the palm of His hand.
Writing may require solitude but it is hardly a solitary process. Each of you has played a crucial role in the crafting of my stories and in my daily life. For that I will forever be thankful! May your lives be blessed as much as you have blessed mine!
I hope you enjoyed Peter and Trudy’s adventure. For information on any of my future writing endeavors, please follow me on Twitter @_SFarrington (https://twitter.com/_SFarrington).
Until we meet again,
Shannon Farrington
Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour. For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow... and a threefold cord is not quickly broken.
—Ecclesiastes 4:9–12
For Erin
A modern-day, mission-minded angel of mercy
Contents
Cover (#ufff2a0c6-c97a-54ab-9e98-ec918e94bf54)
Back Cover Text (#ufb2e7f01-764e-510e-b9f1-161b79767956)
About the Author (#u2e115b45-1d80-5cd3-8840-7a3729b2cac1)
Booklist (#ubc83b49e-383e-5600-9258-9c56f03307e2)
Title Page (#u4fa4a083-9536-5923-ad6e-99716d67b54b)
Copyright (#uaef39c41-4674-570f-ac8e-b791552c51fa)
Introduction (#ud93dd69e-4393-5cd5-bb90-04bb10398418)
Dear Reader (#ud35ba246-30a0-51d2-b68a-24c1907b0f1d)
Bible Verse (#u52b32bf8-39a5-548b-8205-ee2991f3d630)
Dedication (#u59b1a9c4-8aee-57d0-a826-fcbb349f57af)
Chapter One (#u4bd3961d-0b3f-51b8-8400-6aba04f236d8)
Chapter Two (#ud2bfbaf4-58f9-5224-a2d5-3a7fbe8c201a)
Chapter Three (#ubb6ca498-687d-5bb1-a28e-ea0e3db50c82)
Chapter Four (#u242ad473-fcba-5859-b3bb-f7787e0ba860)
Chapter Five (#ufff4c14a-e7e5-5cc8-bc29-952916c32369)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#uae58ad75-4a40-589a-89b7-56d7b718c610)
Shenandoah Valley, Virginia July 1865
Trudy Martin took one look at the ragtag collection of men blocking the road and pulled the wagon to an abrupt stop. She had not had much experience handling buckboards before. In fact, this was a first, and she had only learned to do so today out of necessity. Her friend Emily Mackay was teaching her because the teamster scheduled to drive had not showed. Neither had their armed Federal escorts, intended to protect this party from any thieves or malcontents they might meet along their journey.
How I wish for their presence now, Trudy thought.
Fear snaked up her spine, for even though the approaching crowd consisted mostly of gaunt-faced, frail-looking war veterans, some missing arms and hobbling on crutches, she saw the expression of determination on their faces.
They are just hungry people, she tried to tell herself, but Trudy knew full well that desperation often bred trouble.
Beside her Emily drew in a nervous breath. “They know we have food,” she whispered, “and I fear they intend to claim it.”
Emily’s husband, Dr. Evan Mackay, pulled a matching buckboard alongside them and paused. His lanky, rib-boned mare gave a snort as if to say she, too, was wary of the approaching men. With good reason, Trudy couldn’t help but think. Meat is meat no matter how poor the quality.
She scolded herself for the dark thought, but she knew from what the Mackays had told her, as well as from the articles she’d been proofreading for her employer’s newspaper, that here in western Virginia, food was scarce. The country had just endured four years of war and the Confederacy a humiliating surrender—but not before the land they had claimed as an independent nation had been ravaged by Federal forces. Families had been destroyed, and unemployment was widespread. Any soldier fortunate enough to return with his mind and body still intact was hard-pressed to find gainful work, but here, the devastation was particularly acute.
Desperation doesn’t even begin to describe this, she thought. How can the people expect to move forward when all they once had is in ruins? Nine months after the Federal army had scorched this land it was still as desolate as the moors of Scotland.
Trudy glanced heavenward, noting the angry gray sky. Rain is on its way, she thought, perhaps even a thunderstorm. She shivered, half because of the changing weather, half because of the still approaching men.
“Just keep on with the plan,” Dr. Mackay said calmly.
The plan had been to offer what help they could to a little community that had seen more than its share of hardship and horror. How exactly the town of Forest Glade had been chosen, Trudy could not say, but when she had learned this was to be the team’s destination, she’d jumped at the chance to be part of it. Her brother, George, had repeatedly marched and fought through this valley in his service to the Confederacy. He had also been wounded here. But for the grace of God and a kind minister named James Webb, he might not have survived.
George had been treated for his wounds at the church in Forest Glade. Her brother, who had told her about the events in subsequent letters, was currently in a Federal prison, still awaiting release. He could not come and express his thanks to Reverend Webb, but she could.
Also, as a former volunteer nurse from the Baltimore military hospital, Trudy had been confident that she could offer assistance. Dr. Mackay and Emily had thought so, as well. And yet while they had organized this relief mission, they had not initiated this trip. The original invitation had come by way of Trudy’s employer, Peter Allen Carpenter. As publisher and editor of The Free American, a Baltimore-based newspaper, Mr. Carpenter had taken it upon himself to report firsthand on the devastation leveled upon this once beautiful valley, and had sought to bring others who could provide different kinds of assistance.
He had asked for the Mackays’ help.
Mr. Carpenter had not asked for Trudy.
He had asked for assistance from Trudy’s brother-in-law, David Wainwright, wanting an additional writer to help with his coverage. What will he say when he sees that David has not come? she wondered. And worse, that I am here in his place?
David was a top-notch reporter with a nose for sniffing out corruption. He was as committed to justice and truth as Mr. Carpenter, but unlike their employer, he was also a family man. Elizabeth was now expecting her first child and suffering severe sickness. David, the anxious father-to-be, had been hesitant to leave his wife behind. For reasons not entirely concerning Elizabeth’s welfare, Trudy had persuaded David to remain in Baltimore and let her go to Virginia in his stead. Though she wasn’t a reporter, she should still be able to assist Mr. Carpenter in his work. She’d been doing so for quite a while, working for him at the paper.
She had boasted of her nursing and editorial skills as well as her ability to take orders and deal with privations. She had insisted Dr. Mackay and Mr. Carpenter would well protect her. She had assured her brother-in-law that she was the best person for the job. However, it wasn’t until Mr. Collins, the acting editor in Mr. Carpenter’s absence, contracted influenza that David finally agreed to remain in Baltimore. He would look after the newspaper, and all other concerns at home.
“This is best for everyone,” Trudy had told him, but now, admittedly, she was having second thoughts. Her brother-in-law had been a soldier. He knew how to marshal and manage unruly men. Her desire to help the people here was genuine, but her reason for wanting to come on this mission had not been entirely humanitarian. A romantic interest had initially played a part.
Her employer, Mr. Carpenter, was a sizable man with a commanding voice and a confident air. He was brave, honorable and wholly committed to the ideals of justice and truth. Never mind that he walked with a limp, an injury of birth. Never mind he was ten years her senior. She’d been smitten the moment she met him—right up until he had told her in no uncertain terms that he would never marry.
She had learned that the day before he had departed for Virginia, the day it had also become public knowledge that Elizabeth was with child.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Trudy had said to him when sharing the news.
“Wonderful?” he repeated. “Hardly. Unfortunate, I would say.”
Unfortunate? What kind of response was that? Trudy, though had tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Mr. Carpenter was a master with words when he put them on paper, not so always when addressing others. “You mean it’s unfortunate that your best sketch artist will now be limited in her newspaper duties?” Elizabeth and David made a formidable team, with him writing engaging stories and her sketching the images that brought them to life.
“No,” he said. “I was referring to the other matter. Only a foolish man would bring a child into this world.”
Trudy had gasped. “You can’t be serious?”
“I assure you, I am completely serious. This world is a dangerous, deadly place, Miss Martin. Apparently you’ve yet to realize that.”
Call her naive, for she knew she had a tendency to lean in that direction, but she’d seen her share of suffering. She told him so. Her father had died when she was but a child. Her brother had gone to war and then was left to rot in a Federal prison. She knew life had its struggles, but not all of it was bad. Families, children were the hope of the future, the promise of a better tomorrow.
Mr. Carpenter, however, thought just the opposite. “I’ll never bring children into this world.”
Pain, disappointment raked her heart, for she had felt all her aspirations concerning him going up in smoke. “Then you’ll never wed?”
“I’m wed to my paper,” he explained. “I’m committed to justice and reform. If you are going to work for me then you had better be likewise committed and put any other ideas you have out of your mind.”
Her sister, Beth, had teased her by insisting that Trudy’s interest in her employer had been written all over her face as clearly as a typeset page—a charge Trudy had denied. Apparently Mr. Carpenter, though, had read that news. Why else would he have spoken so adamantly about remaining an unmarried man?
Her embarrassment in revealing her feelings as well as her disappointment had been overwhelming. She wanted children. She wanted a home. As handsome, as courageous and committed to the truth as Peter Carpenter was, he was not the man for her.
By the time Trudy had learned this news, however, she had already convinced David to stay in Baltimore, and had promised the Mackays that she would assist them in his place. Whatever discomfort she felt concerning Mr. Carpenter and he her, they would simply have to overlook. She would not go back on her word. The Mackays were counting on her but admittedly, in this moment, she wondered how much help she could actually be to them.
The men were drawing closer. “We heard yun’s got food,” one of them shouted. “That true?”
“Aye, ’tis so,” Dr. Mackay called back. “Meet us at the church in Forest Glade at one o’clock and we will assist you there.”
“But we’re hungry now.”
“I realize that,” Dr. Mackay said as the raindrops began to fall, “but we’ve had some difficulty getting here and we must take stock of our supplies.”
Some difficulty indeed, Trudy thought sadly.
An entire wagon load of supplies had gone missing somewhere between Winchester, where they had previously counted a full shipment of goods, and the last rail stop in Mount Jackson. How that had happened Trudy couldn’t say. Her heart was grieved at the thought of what they had lost. Several Ladies Aid societies and Baltimore churches had raised the funds and supplies necessary for this journey. Trudy could only hope that whoever had commandeered their supplies had done so because they were in even more desperate need than the people in front of her.
“How do we know you’ll be there at one o’clock?” A tall man asked. “Don’t trust no Yankees.”
“Actually, we’re from Maryland,” Trudy said. Her announcement did not have the effect she had hoped.
“Even worse,” the man sneered. “Yun’s talk outta both sides of your mouth. You promise help and then don’t deliver.”
At that comment Trudy couldn’t help but take offense. She knew there was suspicion in the South toward the border states like Maryland—slave states that had not seceded from the Union. But she couldn’t help thinking it was unfair, especially when so many Maryland men had left to enlist in the Confederacy. My brother certainly delivered, she wanted to say. A knowing nudge from Emily, though, and a sharp, albeit well-meaning glance from Dr. Mackay kept her quiet. Obviously they thought the less she said right now the better.
Trudy reckoned that was wise advice, for as the group approached she studied the tall man who appeared to be the leader. Although his frock coat was full of holes and his boots had nearly just as many, Trudy recognized he was not to be tangled with. The look in his eyes scared her. She had seen it before in the faces of wounded soldiers at the hospital, the ones who had been through the worst of battle and were unable to forget. The ones who are haunted by hate, she thought.
Emily recognized it, too. “Perhaps it’s a good thing our planned military escorts did not arrive,” she whispered. “Their blue uniforms would only add fuel to the fire.”
Trudy swallowed back the lump in her throat. Had she already done so by announcing they had come from Maryland? The man with the vengeful eyes was studying her intently.
“Gentlemen,” Dr. Mackay said, “I understand your frustration.”
“You don’t know nothin’,” the leader retorted. “You’re a Yankee. You’re used to hot meals and warm beds.”
“Aye. ’tis true that I’m from the North,” Dr. Mackay admitted. “Pennsylvania. Before that, Scotland, but I’m not here as a soldier. I’m here as a Christian offering aid.”
“Well, we’ll see about that.”
The rain had stopped but still Trudy shivered. The other two able-bodied men in the group were carrying pitchforks. As for the ones hobbling on crutches, no one knew what they concealed in their clothing.
And here I sit helpless beside Emily. If David were here, he could help protect her. What real use am I? If something happens to her, to her husband, what about poor little baby Andrew?
Emily had sacrificed time with her precious seven-month-old son to come to Virginia. Andrew was home in Baltimore with Emily’s parents.
Determined to do her best by the baby and his mother, Trudy stole a glance to her right, then her left. The road on which they were presently parked was sunken, with high banks on both sides. Even the most skilled teamster would find escape impossible. She looked again at Dr. Mackay. Trudy knew he would do his best to defend them both, but he was severely outnumbered.
It was then that a pair of riders crested the knoll. One was dressed in the black garb of a parson. At sight of the other, Trudy’s heart skipped a beat. She would have recognized those broad shoulders anywhere. Peter Carpenter was riding toward them.
Oh Lord. Thank you!
“Gentlemen,” Peter called in his typical commanding voice as he approached. “It was determined that you should come to the church this afternoon to receive assistance.”
“We don’t want to wait,” the tall leader retorted.
“I realize that, Mr. Zimmer, Mr. O’Neil, Mr. Jones,” he said, addressing the two with the pitchforks, as well, “but it’s only fair to the other folks in the area to wait. Come to the church at one and we will see to your needs.”
Trudy felt her anxiety slipping away. They will listen to him, she thought.
The parson had caught up to him. The poor man looked as weathered and threadbare as his parishioners. While he continued the conversation with the disgruntled men, Mr. Carpenter urged his horse toward Dr. Mackay’s wagon.
“Where’s the other buckboard?” he asked.
“Part of our shipment was mislaid,” Dr. Mackay said.
“Stolen?” Mr. Carpenter clarified.
“It looks that way.” Dr. Mackay then explained how the Federal escorts had never arrived. “I thought it more foolish to remain idle at the station, so we started for our destination.”
Mr. Carpenter grumbled in agreement. Then he noticed her. His left eyebrow arched. “What are you doing here?”
She was used to his curt tone and unpolished manners. But this is not surprise speaking, she thought. It was obvious disapproval. It wasn’t as though she had expected open arms, but still...did he think she had followed him here purposefully, relentlessly intent on claiming him as a husband? That certainly wasn’t the case now.
But will he believe that? “David couldn’t come,” she said with all the steadiness of voice she could muster.
“So I see.”
She started to tell him why but he clearly didn’t care to hear it now. “I’ve already plenty of responsibility, Miss Martin,” he said. “I’ve no need for more.” And at that he whipped his horse back in the direction of the men.
* * *
Irritated couldn’t even begin to describe what Peter was feeling in that moment. Furious perhaps was more like it. No doubt Miss Martin had some plausible excuse for deliberately inserting herself into these events, but he didn’t have time for it now, not when a pack of unruly, hungry men were pressing their grievances.
Reverend James Webb, the underfed and overwhelmed parson of these parts, was still trying to assuage the fears of those gathered. “I assure you, Jack, Tom, Arthur, there will be food for all, if you’ll only let these people get it organized.”
“How d’ we know if you’ll still have food by one o’clock?” Jack Zimmer yelled.
“How do we know ya won’t give it to someone else?” Tom O’Neil added.
As the men continued to pepper the parson with questions, Peter stealthily felt for the derringer tucked discreetly inside his frock coat pocket. Yes, this was a mission of mercy but he was not about to be at the mercy of a riotous mob. He’d seen what desperate men could do before. Back in 1861, an unruly pack in Baltimore had rioted and brought about the opening bloodshed of four years of war.
And for what good? Peter thought. The result was that a generation of America’s brightest and best were dead and the country was reunified in name only. Southerners hated Northerners and vice versa, and the freedmen who’d once been controlled by slave masters were now victims of an ineffective Federal bureaucracy. The promise of a more perfect union for all had yet to be fulfilled and Peter took that offense personally. He’d had two brothers give their lives in the hope of a better tomorrow and he was determined not to let their sacrifices be in vain.
Sadly he wasn’t surprised by Dr. Mackay’s report that the Federal escorts had deserted the wagon convoy, nor that a shipment of supplies had been stolen. Who’d taken it...well, of that he couldn’t be sure. He’d met more than one US soldier who’d rather see Southerners starve, and just as many Southerners who would steal or kill to prevent that from happening.
Clutching the derringer, he cast a quick glance at Miss Martin. And she has no idea what she has stepped into. This is no place for a lady. Mrs. Mackay has a husband to look after her. Peter knew that because Miss Martin was his employee, her welfare would now fall to him. And that’s the last thing I need. He already had a woman for whom he needed to claim responsibility—as soon as he could find her. Caroline. Caroline Carpenter. His brother’s widow.
His thoughts quickly returned to the Baltimore belle before him. Foolish woman, he thought. I never should have hired her. He told himself he should have known from the beginning that her naive boldness would be trouble. He remembered vividly the day she had stepped into his office. “My sister tells me you are in need of workers for your newspaper,” she had said. “I’m here to apply.”
He’d stared at her for a moment, half in shock, half in admiration over her straightforward approach. Most women seemed somewhat intimidated by him. Even now her sister Elizabeth still had a tendency to call him “sir.”
“What can you do?” he’d asked.
Miss Martin had confessed that, unlike her sister, she had no artistic talents, but that she had a good grasp of grammar and had won numerous spelling medals in school. “I thought you might be in need of a proofreader.”
In actuality, he had been, and he had offered her a position on a trial basis. She had excelled in her tasks, and soon Peter had offered her the position permanently. Truth be told, she had been a great help to him. Up until the point she pegged me for a husband. I thought I had put a stop to that. Evidently she did not take the hint.
In that instant Jack Zimmer rightfully reclaimed his attention. His voice was growing more emphatic with each word he spoke. “Look, preacher, we aren’t leaving here till you give us some food.”
Jones and O’Neil were armed with pitchforks. The others were lame, but taken collectively, they could still be a considerable force. Peter assessed his own strength. If he stayed on his horse he’d have the upper hand, but Zimmer knows my weakness. If he forces me to the ground I’ll be useless. He glanced at Reverend Webb. Preacher won’t fight. He’s a man of peace. And Dr. MacKay is closest to the women...
The derringer was his only safeguard. Although he despised the thought of firing it, he would do so if it came to that. Miss Martin had left him little other choice. Hopefully just showing it would be enough.
“We can give you all a little something now,” she suddenly announced.
Everyone, including Peter, immediately turned in her direction. That naive, hopeful look was on her face. Have mercy, he grumbled to himself.
“We packed small sacks of cornmeal,” she said. “We can give you some of that. They are at the back of Dr. Mackay’s wagon.”
Don’t tell them what you have! Peter thought. Let alone where it is! But much to his surprise, her offer seemed to defuse the tension.
“It be real flour?” Mr. Jones asked. “None a that ground-up chalk the carpetbaggers bring through?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Real food. Real cornmeal.”
While Jones and O’Neil were pleased enough to drop their pitchforks, Zimmer still didn’t look happy. Wheat had been the primary staple before the war. The cattle and the slaves ate the corn. But these people would have to settle for anything they could swallow.
Jones pressed his way to the front of the group. “Well, word or not, I’m not going to pass up the chance for some meal right now. I’ll take what’s offered.”
O’Neil stepped toward the wagons also. Reverend Webb encouraged the others to form a queue. On the principle that some food was better than none, Zimmer joined it, as well.
“What about medicines?” he asked. “People around here are sick.”
“Aye,” Dr. Mackay said, “but first we must reorganize our supplies. Come to the church. We will do our best by you there.”
The situation had been remedied, at least for now. Still Peter kept his guard. With one eye he watched the men. With the other he studied Miss Martin. She was smiling, no doubt pleased with herself and hoping he would be pleased with her. Well, he wasn’t, and at the risk of being ungentlemanly, he was going to let her know that.
* * *
The cornmeal had been distributed without further incident and the men were now returning to what remained of their homes. Emily was helping her husband resecure the oilcloth cover over their wagon while Trudy held the second one in check. Mr. Carpenter was still on his horse, his back ramrod straight as if poised for battle. Since there had been no skirmish with the hungry men, was he now about to engage her in one? Apparently so, for when the last local man disappeared over the knoll, her employer slid from his horse and lumbered toward her.
He had that look in his eye, the one he showed in the newsroom whenever a reporter missed a deadline or the proof sheets weren’t to his liking. Trudy’s thoughts tumbled nervously over one another. Inadvertently she tightened her reins. Her horse threw his head in protest. Quickly she tried to correct her mistake but only made matters worse. Now the horse seemed determined to back up.
“No... No... Don’t do that! Please, no.”
“Loosen the reins, Miss Martin!” Mr. Carpenter commanded as he muscled his way, albeit somewhat awkwardly, into the driver’s box. His ink-stained hands reached for hers. Forcefully he commandeered the reins.
“Stand!” he called to the beast.
The horse promptly obeyed. Trudy had no doubt that it would. Even she felt the sudden urge to sit bolt upright at attention.
“You must be more careful.”
“Y-yes...” She replied. For a split second she was tempted to call him “sir” but she knew he did not like that title.
“It’s Mr. Carpenter or Peter,” he’d always said, and although she had wanted to call him by his Christian name, she certainly would not do so now. He might think more of the familiarity than she actually meant.
“Miss Martin,” he said as he put on the brake and then turned to her. His probing brown eyes seemed to bore right into her soul. “Why exactly are you here in your brother-in-law’s place?”
Trudy swallowed hard. “Exactly?”
“Yes, Miss Martin.”
“Well... Mr. Collins is ill and cannot oversee the paper...”
Still the look... Elizabeth called it frightening, like standing before a judge who was eagerly awaiting confession so he might pronounce sentence. Trudy was beginning to understand. He uses this tactic to assert his authority, to intimidate. Why hadn’t she noticed this about him before?
Do not worry. I’ve no longer any interest in you whatsoever, she wanted to say, but she had been raised to be a lady. Even if at times she failed to live up to the standard, she was determined now to salvage some shred of dignity. And a lady wouldn’t dare broach the subject of romance with a man. So she was committed to explain in as few words as possible. After all, she had come here for other reasons—ones totally unrelated to him.
“Elizabeth is feeling very poorly—”
“And you thought it best to leave her and come here?”
Guilt threatened to creep back in but she lifted her chin. Elizabeth was fine. She didn’t need her help, but according to Emily, the people here did. “David was worried and Mr. Collins is now ill, so he will be caring for his wife and overseeing the paper in your absence.”
Mr. Carpenter rolled his eyes at that. She did not stop to ask why. Trudy then explained that her brother had been wounded here. “I wanted to express my thanks to Reverend Webb.”
“This is no sightseeing expedition, Miss Martin.” The look he gave her then made her wanted to leap from the wagon, run all the way back to Mount Jackson and climb aboard the first train to Baltimore, but Trudy steeled her resolve.
I have injected myself into his cause, wrongly, perhaps, but it is done and I will see this mission through. “I realize that, Mr. Carpenter,” she said firmly, “I am here to render aid, not play the role of a tourist.”
“Good,” he said in that commanding voice of his. “As a representative of my newspaper I expect you to do your job.”
“I shan’t do anything else.”
“Good,” he said once more. “Make certain of that.”
I will, she thought as she continued to hold his look. Believe me, the subject of romance is firmly closed. He had read her motives once before. Trudy trusted he had read between the lines now, for without further word, her employer disengaged the brake and urged the horse forward.
Chapter Two (#uae58ad75-4a40-589a-89b7-56d7b718c610)
It wasn’t the encounter with Zimmer and the rest of his rough-looking compatriots that had left Miss Martin silent. It was Peter’s remarks that kept her stone still beside him. He felt bad for speaking harshly to her, especially when he accused her of sightseeing, but he told himself it had to be done. She said she had come because of her brother, a desire to help him and the reverend who had tended him. He just wanted to be certain that was her only reason.
If she had put the idea of marriage to him out of her mind, then he had been successful. If he had made her reconsider marriage in general, then even better. If only Caroline had more carefully considered such things before my brother came along.
The wagon jolted and Miss Martin’s arm brushed his. Peter’s thoughts returned to her.
Romantic notions aside, he was genuinely concerned for her welfare. She does not belong here. Ideally they’d soon go their separate ways. Just as they’d resumed their trek to the church, Dr. Mackay had mentioned the possibility of sending for more supplies. Hopefully Miss Martin would be the one to return to Baltimore to do so. It’s the best place for her.
Miss Martin’s innocent, open nature was refreshing, but it was also unnerving. She believes the best about everyone she meets and thinks that love, faith and hope are enough to set the world right.
His brothers had thought the same.
But hope can’t reverse time or raise the dead, Peter thought. This world is no longer a Garden of Eden, not since jealousy, greed and murder entered it. And in this desolate place, there are too many who would take advantage of that innocence rather than protect it. Better by far for her to be on her way. He cast Miss Martin a glance as the wagon lurched forward. Silence still reigned.
Presently she was taking in the scenery, but it was not the majestic Blue Ridge Mountains or the rock-dotted Shenandoah River that held her attention. It was the imprint of war. For miles she had viewed charred remains of barns and stables, empty homesteads now covered with vines, but the nearer they came to the town of Forest Glade, the more evident the destruction.
The once prosperous little hamlet on the north fork of the river was now only a shell of its former glory. The flour mill had been destroyed. The sawmill was much the same. Remnants of warped and twisted machinery sat rusting into oblivion. Of the workers’ houses opposite the sites, not a structure remained intact.
“This makes me angry,” Miss Martin said suddenly.
“It should,” Peter replied.
After the space of a heartbeat she then said, “I can’t help but wonder what has happened to the people who lived here, who worked here? Are the men we met just now on the road the most desperate of the lot or are there others worse off than they?”
He could hear the emotion in her voice, the compassion. That was another thing he admired about her. At her age most Baltimore belles would be focused on replacing their outdated wardrobes as soon as possible. He gave her a quick once-over. Here she sat in homespun, protected from the rain by only a plain knitted gray shawl and an unembellished straw hat. She looked damp and uncomfortable but she was not complaining.
Again his conscience was pricked. I did speak harshly to her. Perhaps more harshly than necessary. “That’s what I’m here to find out,” he said, “and to hold those responsible who promised to make reparations.”
She looked at him with those wide, innocent green eyes. “I’ll help you in any way I can,” she promised.
Great. He sighed under his breath, for in his opinion she was still a little too eager to help him. Making quite the effort to keep his irritation from coming through in his voice, he then said, “Well, I’m not all that certain how much help you can be. I can’t have you going off investigating, gathering information on your own.”
She took no offense at that. Thankfully, she realized he didn’t doubt her research abilities but her physical safety. “That’s why you wanted David,” she said.
“Yes,” he said simply.
She turned her attention back to the road. So did he. The wagon rocked and bounced over the uneven ground. About a half mile beyond the crossroads stood the church. Its faded white steeple still pointed faithfully toward the rolling gray sky, but vines and thistles were fast consuming its foundation. Boards had been nailed across several broken windows to protect the panes from further damage. Peter couldn’t help but wonder what it had looked like when Daniel first saw it, or when Miss Martin’s brother had, for that matter.
Were they both here at the same time? Knowing that detail had no bearing on his personal mission, Peter pushed the thought from his mind. As they pulled into the churchyard, Reverend Webb’s wife, Sarah, met them. “Thank the Lord for your safe arrival,” she said. “I’m so pleased to see all is well.”
But not without incident, Peter thought.
Her husband, James, explained what had happened on the road. Peter then reported the lost cargo. The woman’s tired face fell even further. “What exactly remains of your supplies?” she asked.
“We’ll need to take inventory to be certain of that,” Dr. Mackay said.
“Never fear,” Miss Martin added, her optimism apparently rebounding. “We can still assist many with what remains.”
The Mackays introduced themselves, and then Miss Martin. Mrs. Webb offered her a smile. Eager to converse with the woman, Miss Martin climbed down from the other side of the wagon and hurried to where the reverend’s wife stood.
Having secured the reins, Peter gingerly made his way to the ground, listening as Miss Martin explained that her brother had lodged at the church facilities.
“Oh?” Mrs. Webb said.
“Yes, and I was eager to come and thank you and help you in any way I can.”
Her enthusiasm was obvious. Peter didn’t doubt it was sincere but he couldn’t help but think, You won’t be so optimistic when you see the inside of the church. I’m certain it’s a far cry different from your own.
Half of the pews were missing. According to Reverend Webb, they had been used for firewood, stretchers and crutches following the battle of New Market when the church had served as a field hospital. Looking closely at the floor, one could still make out the bloodstains that had seeped into the wood planks.
Miss Martin noticed them at once. Peter saw the look of horror wash over her face. However, it quickly passed. Apparently she was determined to soldier on, but still in her naive way.
“Are you in need of further seating for your congregation?” she asked the reverend. “Perhaps we can find someone to craft more pews.”
Peter couldn’t help but roll his eyes at that. Crafting pews would not be high on anyone’s list around here, not when homes needed to be rebuilt first.
“Thank you, miss,” Reverend Webb said with all the gentleness of a seasoned saint, “but we have all we need, at least for those who attend now. Many of our church members are no more.”
“No more?”
“Deceased, miss. The fortunate ones have relocated, reunited with family elsewhere.”
“Oh,” she said slowly. “I see.”
Do you? Peter wondered. Do you now see the real world? For I don’t have time to enlighten you.
There were articles to write on the local provisional authorities and missing supplies to locate. He also wanted to assist in the reunion of displaced family members, but there was one particular family member he was most desperate to find—his brother Daniel’s bride.
Caroline. The bride Daniel had no business taking.
Peter drew in a breath. How did one even begin to locate such a woman when no one around here, not even the reverend, seemed to know who she was?
* * *
Trudy couldn’t help but feel sorry for this poor country preacher. He obviously cared for his community, and the fact that he could no longer account for much of it weighed heavily upon his heart. She laid a hand on the parson’s arm, and his dark mustache lifted with a smile.
“We will do all we can to help those people who remain,” she said.
“Thank you, miss,” he said. “I am most grateful to you and the others. Your coming is such an encouragement.”
At least it is to someone, she couldn’t help but think, for despite what she had hoped had been a closing conversation, Mr. Carpenter still looked irritated with her. Or is it simply the circumstances in which we find ourselves? If that were the case, then she could understand a little of what he was feeling.
Trudy had promised Reverend Webb they would do all they could to serve this community but knew their ability to do so had been diminished severely. The crates that had disappeared en route were the most valuable they carried. The wheat, dried meat and medicines were lost. So was the seed they had brought for planting fall vegetables. Mr. Carpenter had ruefully noted that not only were these items the most valuable in aid but they would also fetch the greatest price on the black market.
“Whoever took them knew exactly what would bring the most profit,” he’d said.
Those and his previous words taunted her. “Only a foolish man would bring a child into this world.”
Whatever his opinion, it doesn’t negate the fact that there are children in this world, she thought, children who require assistance. In fact, Reverend Webb had already mentioned needy youngsters in his congregation, specifically a six-year-old boy named Charlie, and a baby named Kate. Both were now fatherless because of the war, and their mother was desperate for relief. Will we be able to provide such?
“We can wire for more supplies,” Emily said, as if reading Trudy’s thoughts.
“Yes,” she agreed, for Trudy knew the churches and aid societies back in Baltimore would again be generous. My dearest friends, Julia, Rebekah and Sally will spend long hours gathering and packing what they can. For four years now they, along with Trudy and Elizabeth, had knitted socks and sewed shirts and other items for those in need. She was confident they would again rise to the occasion.
“We will wire back to Baltimore,” Dr. Mackay said. “And we will do so straightaway. Reverend Webb says the telegraph office in Larkinsville is still in order.”
“It is indeed,” Mr. Carpenter said. “The question is, though, will the shipments arrive here intact and in time to help this community? Some of these people will not see August if they do not get regular, proper nourishment soon. If a second shipment goes missing...” He paused as if to let them consider that for a moment. “It won’t do us any good to order more supplies while someone out there is stealing them for their own profit.”
“We don’t know for certain that’s what happened,” Reverend Webb said.
“Shipments loaded on a train don’t just vanish between one rail station and another,” Mr. Carpenter insisted.
Trudy’s heart squeezed. She knew her employer had a tendency to lean toward cynicism, but she had never seen him quite like this before. His frustration over the lost supplies was now bordering on despair.
“Well, that’s where you come in,” Dr. Mackay said to him. “I trust you will discover this person or these persons responsible for the missing supplies.” He then gestured to Trudy. “And now you even have your experienced newspaper assistant to help you.”
She could feel the color rising to her cheeks. Although she had promised to help Mr. Carpenter in whatever way she could, she remembered what he had said earlier, “I can’t have you going off investigating, gathering information on your own.” Based on the irritated look he was still giving her, he obviously didn’t want to work alongside her. His words confirmed that.
“From what I have seen of the people in this community, I believe Miss Martin’s efforts will be better served in medical endeavors rather than journalism,” he said. “She was, after all, a nurse.”
“Oh?” Reverend Webb said as Mr. Carpenter left the circle of conversation. “Wonderful. Then I trust you and Mrs. Mackay will work well together.”
“We always have,” Emily said.
“Indeed,” Trudy replied.
Emily then looked to her husband. “Your orders, love?”
The barest hint of a smile tugged at Dr. Mackay’s lips. They are so much in love, Trudy couldn’t help but think. She couldn’t help but wonder if someday a man would look at her that way. It certainly won’t be Mr. Carpenter.
A self-pitying lump threatened to form in Trudy’s throat, but she swallowed it back.
“When the people arrive we will need to first assess their conditions outside,” Dr. Mackay said. “If there is even the slightest indication of typhus or smallpox, we must immediately isolate them.”
Trudy understood. She knew from experience that they could not bring patients bearing such illnesses into close contact with others. They must be quarantined. “Where shall we put them?” she asked.
“My house,” Reverend Webb said.
Trudy could tell Dr. Mackay did not like the preacher’s sacrifice any more than she, but if typhus or smallpox patients came to them, they had to be treated somewhere. Trepidation wiggled its way up her spine. What would happen if the reverend and his wife took ill? Who would nurse them? What would happen if the entire relief staff took ill?
She pushed those fears from her mind. Dr. Mackay was still speaking.
“We will need to prepare a treatment area for the noninfectious patients here inside the church,” he said. “I expect many cases of malnutrition, unhealed wounds and the like.”
Under the physician’s guidance, Trudy and Emily prepared a medical area for detailed assessment of complaints and treatment. Trudy hoped whatever they encountered would not be serious, given their minimal supplies. They had been left with plenty of soap and bandages, as well as basic surgical instruments, but the case of morphine and ether was gone.
After organizing the treatment area. Trudy helped Sarah Webb sort through what remained of the dry goods and fresh vegetables. They set allotments of equal portions for each potential visitor. Sacrificially, Mrs. Webb had also raided the last of what remained of her own supplies and prepared a soup.
“I’m sorry it isn’t more,” she lamented, “but between the Confederate requisition armies and then the Yankees, this was all I could hide.”
“You must have had a secret compartment in your larder to save as much as this,” Trudy said, trying to inject a little lightheartedness into the heavy situation, “or was it the root cellar?”
“Neither,” Mrs. Webb admitted, a hint of mirth in her face. “I reburied last year’s potatoes and rutabagas in sacks in the garden.” The smile then faded. “But I’m afraid this is the end of my resourcefulness.”
“You are out of food, as well?”
“Yes. Just about. I managed to save a few of our smallest potatoes for seed this year, but the harvest was very poor. I did come across a patch of ramps the day before you came, though.”
Trudy had never heard of ramps before, except for those used in the place of stairs. “What is that?” she asked.
Mrs. Webb again smiled. “It’s like a leek. You eat the bulb.”
“Oh?”
“They are excellent in soups.”
Trudy leaned over the pot. Even as thin as the mixture was, it certainly smelled excellent.
Across the way, Mr. Carpenter had set up a desk of sorts, one made out of a piece of salvaged wood and two sawhorses. According to Reverend Webb, he had been collecting names and basic information to locate missing family members, including reconnecting former slaves with loved ones who’d been separated during the war. Apparently he planned to publish notices about the missing in his paper, and convince fellow publishers in other cities to do the same.
It was hard not to admire a man who used his press in such a way. Trudy eyed him stealthily for a moment. Mr. Carpenter’s hair was as black as coffee. He had dark eyebrows, a slight cleft in his chin and a strong, handsome jaw. He could have passed for a rich statesman were it not for the crumpled collars and askew cravats he always wore. He had a tendency to tug at them when he worked. He disliked the confinement of frock coats as well, always preferring to roll up his sleeves. He had done so today. Trudy couldn’t help but notice once again his muscular forearms.
Catching herself, she shook off such thoughts, remembering that Peter Carpenter had proven he was not the man for her. Yes, he was handsome. Yes, they shared a belief in helping others, but he was not interested in marriage. He didn’t want a family.
And he isn’t exactly a churchgoing man, she reminded herself. Oh, she knew that he believed in God, but for some reason “organized religion,” as he put it, had “no practical use.” So how exactly has he come to know and be on such good terms with the Webbs? she wondered. Had it been some connection before the war? Her curiosity getting the better of her, she asked Mrs. Webb.
“My husband, James, nursed his brother Daniel after the battle of New Market.”
“Oh,” Trudy said, her eyes inadvertently going to the still stained floor. “Mr. Carpenter has never really spoken of him.” Although Trudy knew he had a brother. She had learned that detail during the time that she, her mother and her sister had taken shelter in Mr. Carpenter’s parents’ home outside Baltimore when the city had been threatened by Confederate attack. He has two, if I remember correctly. Daniel and Matthew.
“I suppose he wouldn’t speak much of him,” the preacher’s wife said. “It must be very painful.”
“Painful?”
“Daniel survived the battle, but wound fever took him and several other Virginia soldiers a week later.”
“I see,” Trudy said. A cold chill passed through her, but her feeling was not limited to her employer’s loss alone. Trudy knew very well that fever could have just as easily taken her own brother.
Mrs. Webb must have recognized it, as well, for she looked at Trudy sympathetically. “I thank the Good Lord that he spared your own brother.”
“Indeed,” Trudy replied. “And I shall be even more grateful when he is released from prison.”
Mrs. Webb patted Trudy’s arm. “I pray for him daily, and all those like him. May God grant them the courage and grace to return to peaceful society.”
“Amen,” Trudy said.
Mrs. Webb then continued with her previous story. “James wrote a letter to your Mr. Carpenter with the terrible news that his brother had passed away. Daniel wanted it that way. I remember him saying he didn’t want his parents to learn about the death of their youngest son by letter.”
Leaving Mr. Carpenter to deliver the dreadful story. “And Matthew?” Trudy then asked. “His other brother? Did he survive?”
Sarah Webb shook her head sadly. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about him, except that he was a Yankee.”
With that the woman walked away. Trudy resisted the urge to follow after her even if by eyes only. Mrs. Webb had been headed in the direction of Mr. Carpenter’s table. Instead Trudy picked up the nearby water pail and marched outside to the pump.
After collecting a bucketful, she took it to the fire to heat. They’d need plenty of wash water to clean and reuse the dishes once people began arriving. While waiting for it to boil, she again glanced heavenward. The sky that had previously been so threatening was beginning to brighten, but an eerie dampness lingered. Trudy remained at the fire for a few minutes more. Even though it was summer, the chill from her wet clothing had reached all the way into her bones.
Or is it my heart? She wondered. She told herself she must be careful with any display of compassion toward her employer, lest he assume she was still infatuated with him. Still, she couldn’t help but want to comfort a man she knew must be grieving.
And is he grieving for one brother or two? Trudy, along with most of her friends, had known divided loyalties. Why, her sister, Beth, had married a Boston man who’d served in the Federal army while her brother was being held in a Yankee prison. But George will gain his freedom and David and Elizabeth are blissfully happy. What had happened to Mr. Carpenter’s family? Was his brother Daniel a husband? A father? Was Matthew? Had he been killed, as well? Is that why Mr. Carpenter is so against having children of his own?
Trudy desperately wanted to know. Even though she knew it would be better for her to put the man and his troubles far from her mind. He wouldn’t appreciate sympathy or tenderness. Showing such would only further irritate him.
I must concentrate on my tasks at hand. I must be prepared. Reverend and Mrs. Webb had given all they had to help her brother in his time of need, and now their little community was facing malnutrition, disease, maybe even starvation. Trudy was determined to spend every ounce of strength she had helping them and their community in return.
Chapter Three (#uae58ad75-4a40-589a-89b7-56d7b718c610)
“It is almost one o’clock,” Dr. Mackay said as he glanced at his watch. “Our guests will be here soon.”
Peter looked up from the article he had been crafting about the need for the army to take a more serious role in protecting food shipments, just long enough to see Mrs. Mackay move to the front window. “They are already here,” she said, “and by the looks of things they have formed a line that wraps all the way around the building.”
Peter laid aside his pencil and pushed to his feet. He’d finish the piece tonight. Now was the time to be on alert. If the number of people looking for help was that large, there could be trouble.
He had already spoken to Reverend Webb about making certain the men from the road didn’t try to claim a second helping of cornmeal. The preacher agreed. As softhearted as he was, he realized better than anyone the necessity for stretching what they had to help as many people as possible.
A story from childhood scripture readings suddenly flashed through Peter’s mind, the one about how the Lord fed five thousand with only five loaves of bread and two small fish. Daniel’s favorite story. He quickly shoved the memory away. Reminiscing won’t help now.
“Before we open our doors,” Reverend Webb said, “let’s pray.”
Peter no longer believed in divine intervention, but he wouldn’t disrespect the reverend’s request. In his mind, God had created the world, then sat back and let it run unimpeded. Evil men had and would continue to have their way. The only thing a decent man could do was try to stem the tide of injustice and look after the people caught in its wake. People like Caroline and her child.
Fending off the despair that threatened to wash over him, he moved toward the center of the room, where the rest of the group had already converged, stepping up to the parson and his wife. Mrs. Webb shifted her position at the last second to make more room in the circle. Inadvertently she placed Peter between herself and Miss Martin. He saw the flush come over the young woman’s face when the reverend then requested that they all join hands.
What words the preacher actually prayed Peter couldn’t say. He was much too conscious of the slenderness and softness of Miss Martin’s fingers, testaments again of her sheltered life. She had no idea what heartbreak was waiting for her outside.
She will soon find out. Not that he wished to deliberately hurt her, but someone needed to educate her on the realities of the world today. Peace had been declared and the reconstruction of the Union had begun, but the people outside had been impoverished by their own country. Of the Confederate veterans who had managed to return, few were able-bodied. Arriving home, they found their lands in ruins, and no longer their own, for they had been confiscated by the Federal government.
The only thing taking root around here is the seed of resentment. What will they do if they are given the opportunity to avenge themselves? An angry man may be all too willing to lash out at anyone he can find—even someone as harmless and well-intentioned as Miss Martin.
Of course, not every man out there was a danger or a threat. Many were well-intentioned themselves, simply seeking a way to get on with their lives, but lacking the resources to move forward. The slaves were free, but the freedmen Peter had talked to had been told by Federal authorities to remain on the plantations, let their masters feed and clothe them until the end of this year. What kind of freedom is that? Their masters have no food to give them. The slaves had been promised forty acres and a mule of their own. Taking their chances, many were migrating north, seeking work in any form, desperate to be reunited with loved ones.
Peter couldn’t help but then think of the ordinary family farms, and the people on them who had simply disappeared. Who will gain their land? In time enormous profit will be made from these derelict farms, but it isn’t going to be claimed by the ones who had once labored on them.
The world was a cheap mess. Someone was going to profit, of that Peter was certain. Someone always did.
His lame leg was aching. It always bothered him when the weather was damp or he had stood on it for too long. He would have to remember to use his cane. Presently, though, he couldn’t remember where he had left it. He shifted his weight just as the reverend offered prayers for the regional garrison commander.
“Bless him, Lord. Give him the wisdom to look after those in his care...”
Peter couldn’t help but think that that request, if heard at all, would be better presented on behalf of Reverend Webb himself. In Peter’s time here, no leadership, save one overworked preacher trying to shepherd what remained of his refugee flock and protect it from encircling wolves, was doing anything to help.
But for so many, there is nothing to be done. Too many men had gone into battle never to return. Reverend Webb had told him there were at least a dozen surnames in this community that were destined to die out upon the widow’s death. Either her sons had perished, leaving her childless, or daughters alone would struggle to carry on a father’s legacy.
As for the children Peter had come upon, some weren’t even old enough to attend school, meaning they had been born since the start of the war. What had those men been thinking, fathering children while knowing hostilities were on the horizon? Deep down he knew he shouldn’t be angry with Daniel, let alone his brother Matthew, for being among them, but he couldn’t help it.
Inadvertently, he cast a glance at Miss Martin. Her head was bowed. Her feathery auburn eyelashes rested against her creamy skin. She was the picture of youthful innocence. The sooner she learns that romance breeds nothing but trouble, the better off she will be.
Peter released her hand the moment Reverend Webb pronounced his amen. He turned at once, bound for the front door. The preacher had already asked him to greet and give those outside their instructions. Dr. Mackay, however, stopped him.
“Take Miss Martin with you,” he said. “She can assess their medical conditions, then direct patients to either me or Emily.” He turned to her before Peter had a chance to object. “Remember, no typhus or smallpox inside the church building.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
Peter drew in a deep breath. He knew the effects of those two epidemics and didn’t like the idea of Miss Martin being the doctor’s first line of defense.
“Perhaps you should do the assessing, Doctor,” he said.
This time Miss Martin took immediate offense. “I’ve dealt with infectious diseases before,” she said before Mackay could speak.
“Indeed,” the doctor then said. He looked back at Peter. “And I’ve not time to explain to you how to assess patients.” He went on to deliver instructions to his brave little nurse. “Make them aware of our stations and send any with acute needs to me, the lesser ones to Emily. You know what to look for. Just like our days in the hospital.”
“Yes, of course.”
He then handed her several sheets of paper and a pen. “Take down their names, and the location and number in their household if they will divulge such information. It will be helpful to know for future ventures.”
“Certainly.”
Clearly the matter had been firmly decided. Peter wanted to press that point, but Miss Martin was already headed for the door.
* * *
The chill Trudy had felt previously evaporated the moment Mr. Carpenter had taken hold of her hand. She scolded herself for such a reaction, even though it was only a fleeting feeling. The moment Reverend Webb pronounced the amen, Mr. Carpenter gave her a look as if to tell her he thought the whole arrangement of the circle had been her idea. He then gave Dr. Mackay an almost icy stare when the physician suggested she accompany him outside.
He clearly does not want me here. Evidently he thinks I am unsuited for the task.
Trudy blew out a breath. Determined to prove him wrong, she marched to the front door before her employer could say or do anything else. Stepping outside, however, she gasped. Emily had been correct in saying that line wrapped all the way around the church building. It wasn’t the number of people, though, that disturbed Trudy. It was their condition. They were even more desperately downtrodden than the men on the road. Most of them were young women and children. The women were presumably now widows because no man was beside them, and by the looks of them, no man has taken care of them for quite some time.
The woman at the head of the line was so thin, so frail in appearance that Trudy wondered how she had remained standing. In her arms she carried a small baby. A little dark-haired boy, five or six years old, was standing beside her. The boy was wearing shoes but his clothing was tattered and full of holes. Through one particular spot Trudy could view his ribs.
Is this Charlie and baby Kate? Trudy wondered. Is this the family of which Reverend Webb spoke?
Her heart broke afresh, for there were many others just like them. Looking upon them, her confidence faltered. She had tended frail and malnourished bodies before, but this was quite different! These women and children hadn’t volunteered for the cause, yet they had been forced to suffer its cost. The reverend said there would be children, but somehow I suppose I was still expecting soldiers. I had no idea it would be like this!
Grief washed over her in waves and she could feel the tears gathering in her eyes. She was so overwhelmed that she didn’t know where to start.
“Hold firm, Miss Martin,” Mr. Carpenter commanded behind her, but in a voice only she could hear. “These are proud people. They need your assistance, not your pity.”
Knowing he was right, and determined to prove she could handle what was expected of her, Trudy drew in a deep breath, steeled her resolve. Just as she moved to descend the porch steps, he caught her arm.
“Let me go first,” he said.
“But I must assess—”
“What are the most prominent symptoms of typhus?”
Feeling her own irritation growing, she spouted off the list. “Severe headache, high fever, sensitivity to light, rash on chest and back...although if they have that, they probably won’t be standing.”
He nodded. “And smallpox?”
“Much the same, but the red spots will first appear on the face.”
“That’s what I thought,” he said. “Now, give me your list. I’ll take down their names and assess for those diseases.”
“But—”
“Don’t argue with me. Go see to that little boy right there. He looks well enough.”
He didn’t wait for her to respond. He simply took the pen and paper from her. Then he announced to those gathered who they were and what they were about to do.
Trudy knew full well she should not waste time feeling angry over his forceful, take-charge behavior, but she couldn’t help herself. Yes, I faltered for a few seconds, but I am fully capable of discharging my duties. Then the idea struck her, Is he trying to protect me?
Shaking off the thought before her mind could go further with it, she moved to the first mother and children in line. She offered her best smile. “My name is Miss Trudy,” she said, bending toward the boy. “What is your name?”
“Charles T. Jackson,” he said proudly. “The T is for Thomas, but Ma just calls me Charlie.” He gestured to the woman beside him. “This is Ma...and Kate.”
Trudy looked then to the woman who said that her name was Opal. Apparently she and the children had walked six miles this morning to come to the church. The distance had taken its toll on Opal’s feet. She was wearing makeshift shoes, a slice of hickory bark for each sole, secured by strips of cloth to her ankles. Her stockings, having been darned many times, were now threadbare. Trudy could tell her feet were bruised and blistered. Emily would need to tend them.
“If you’ll go just inside and see Mrs. Mackay,” she told Opal. “She’s the one with the white apron. She’ll see to your feet. Mrs. Webb will bring you some soup and I’ll see if I can’t find a pair of shoes for you.”
“Not me,” Opal said, “but for Charlie. His shoes are much too small.”
Trudy had seen the effects ill-fitting footwear had on the infantry, and if this boy had similar injuries... She pushed the thought away and smiled again at Charlie. “Better let Mrs. Mackay take a peek at your toes, too.”
He nodded obediently, but then his attention was stolen by Mr. Carpenter, who was working his way up from the line. Trudy’s was, as well.
“No smallpox or typhus,” he whispered as he bent his head toward her ear.
Trudy breathed a sigh of relief, then watched as Mr. Carpenter turned and started working his way back down the line. He was leaning heavily on his good leg. She knew his other must be hurting. Presently Mr. Carpenter was taking names and asking questions concerning the local authorities and the missing food.
“That lieutenant over there at the garrison don’t concern himself with our matters,” Trudy heard one man tell him.
“Wouldn’t want no help from him even if he was,” another said.
“That man a Yankee?” Charlie asked her, his eyes apparently still focused on Mr. Carpenter. Trudy quickly turned her attention back to the boy. She wasn’t certain of the best way to answer his question, given what had happened on the road. “He’s not a soldier,” she said. “He’s a newspaperman. He is trying to find fathers and brothers who are missing.”
“Oh,” Charlie said. “I wanna be a newspaperman when I git big.”
At that, Trudy couldn’t help but smile. She gave the boy’s dark hair a loving tousle, then moved to the next family in line.
Blisters and minor skin infections were common sights, but there were plenty of coughs, bleeding gums and bruising, as well. The people’s lack of nourishment was manifesting itself in ways beyond thin faces and prominent ribs. Despite the blessed lack of a potential epidemic, her hope was low by the time she reached the end of the line.
A few sacks of cornmeal and Mrs. Webb’s soup, generous as it was, aren’t going to stem the tide. These people need meat and a regular diet of good nutrition, but she knew full well there wasn’t a chicken to be found in all of Virginia, and as for fresh vegetables, there were few now to offer. Still, faith compelled her to remain positive.
If God by his grace will sustain them a few more weeks, Dr. Mackay will send for more seed, more food, more medical supplies. We just have to do the best we can until they arrive.
Lifting her skirt, Trudy marched up the porch steps, intent on helping Sarah Webb distribute the soup and rations. It did not take long. When the last of those in need had been fed, Mrs. Webb offered her and the others a cup. Trudy was most grateful for the meager meal, as were her friends. They eagerly ate what was given—all, that is, except one of them. Mr. Carpenter had accepted his portion, although Trudy noticed he discreetly gave his cup to little Charlie when he thought no one was looking.
* * *
By the time darkness had fallen, most of the people had been tended. Miss Martin had efficiently assessed and directed those in need. Peter was relieved. There had been no trouble, socially speaking—no attempt by Zimmer, O’Neil or Jones to collect more food than allotted to them. Reverend Webb had insisted Zimmer was a bit of a bully but not one of serious action. Blustering was about all he would do.
What man with a hungry family in these conditions wouldn’t do the same? he thought. As for Zimmer’s family, Peter had not met them. The distance across the mountain was too far for them to travel and, apparently having no pressing medical needs, they had remained at home. Peter would have liked to have spoken to Zimmer’s wife, but he had through his conversations today learned one important detail. Mrs. Zimmer’s name was not Caroline. Unfortunately, Peter hadn’t met any other Carolines today and no one he had talked to had ever heard of anyone by the surname Carpenter.
His leg was aching and his belly rumbling. Peter found a quiet spot in the corner of the room and sat down. The most serious medical cases, coughs and reinfected wounds, remained. Those patients were destined to sleep on the floor or pews softened by what blankets Mrs. Webb could spare. He glanced about. The place looked as pitiful as any wartime field hospital, except the majority of those in distress were not soldiers. They were women and children.
Two of the widows in relatively good health had remained for the night rather than risk walking home in the dark with their small children. Peter wondered if the real incentive wasn’t the opportunity to share in the church’s store of lamp oil and the hope that the reverend’s wife might produce more food come morning. If that was the case, he couldn’t blame them. Remembering his frock coat on the back of his chair, he picked it up, rolled it into a ball and gave it to a particular dark-haired little boy. He had seen the child eyeing him a time or two today. Earlier he had given him his cup of soup because he knew that more than likely, the boy was still hungry after eating his own share.
“Here, young man, this will serve as a pillow. The floor can get hard.”
The child offered him a crooked, albeit appreciative, smile. His mother, sitting beside him and cradling a small baby, looked up at Peter with a measure of surprise and thankfulness. “Bless you, sir,” she said.
Ignoring the “sir,” Peter crossed back to his makeshift desk, inadvertently casting a glance in Miss Martin’s direction. Despite his doubts about her abilities, particularly after her initial shock, she had done well organizing the people. It had made the day less confusing. After directing each person where they needed to be, she had served as a general steward, floating from station to station, serving food, washing cups and bowls, fetching bandage rolls and emptying basins.
Presently she was seated on the floor, her skirts spread out around her, tearing a piece of faded fabric into bandage strips. She was studying him, with a somewhat puzzled expression on her face, almost as if she were trying to decipher his actions.
No doubt she saw what I did with my coat. Peter offered her a look in return. One that said, No, I have not changed my mind on bringing children into this world. It had the effect he had hoped, for Miss Martin then quickly returned her attention to the bandage rolls.
He went back to his unfinished article, which he was certain would not remain unfinished for long. I have plenty to say and plenty of fire to fuel it.
He planned to work on it through the evening and then, as soon as it was light, ride to Larkinsville. From there he would wire the article back to his staff in Baltimore, and give notice of the missing supplies so that a new shipment could be arranged. Afterward he planned to have a chat with the local garrison commander. From that he hoped to discover what had happened to the Federal escorts that were supposed to protect the wagon convoy.
He settled himself at his desk and picked up his pencil. Words, however, would not come. His thoughts were in a tangle. Peter had expected his sister-in-law to be heavy on his mind, but for some reason Caroline’s image, the face he had tried so desperately to properly assemble based on his brother’s written descriptions, was hopelessly crowded out by the very real, very near and very maternal image of Miss Martin. She was now bending over the little boy he had just visited and she was kissing him good-night.
Chapter Four (#uae58ad75-4a40-589a-89b7-56d7b718c610)
Peter did finish the article, although it took much longer than he had anticipated. His thoughts didn’t clear until Miss Martin left the church building. She and Mrs. Webb went to the parsonage to gain a few hours of much needed sleep.
With the medical supervision squarely in the hands of Dr. Mackay and the night watch falling to Reverend Webb, Peter completed his article, then claimed the empty corner behind his makeshift desk. Curling up on the floor, he closed his eyes. Sleep however, came only in snatches. Thoughts of Daniel, of Caroline stole most of the night.
Daylight was just beginning to break over the Blue Ridge Mountains when Peter saddled his horse and prepared to mount. A polite greeting, however, kept him from doing so.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir. This be the place to git some help?”
Peter blinked, trying his best to focus on the figure emerging from the darkness. It was a freedman. The man was tall and lean with clothes as ragged and ill-fitting as those of the local white men.
“Yes, this is the place for help,” Peter replied. “Go on inside and the reverend will see that you get a hot meal.”
The freedman nodded. “That’s awfully kind of ya, sir, but I was most lookin’ for the newspaperman.”
“You’ve found him.”
The man stepped closer. He removed his slouch hat and laid it across his chest. “Name’s Robert, sir—”
Peter stopped him with an upturned hand. “Enough of this ‘sir’ business. I’m no army officer. The name’s Carpenter. What can I do for you?”
Brilliant white teeth shone in a smile for a fraction of a second. Then Robert looked down and fingered his hat before saying, “I’m looking for my wife, Mr. Carpenter. She went north some years back. I been to see the bureau agent over in Larkinsville but he weren’t much help. Then I heard about you.”
Peter wondered exactly what the man had heard. He waited to learn for himself.
“Folks say that you’re puttin’ notices in your paper. That you help find people.”
“That’s true.” Or at least, that was what he was attempting to do. “If you’ll give me your information, I’ll place the notice.”
The man nodded but then hesitated. “Thing is...well, I can’t pay.”
“If you could, you’d be the first,” Peter said.
“I can work, though,” Robert said. “You need somethin’ fixed? I can do that.”
“I’m sure you can,” Peter replied. “And believe me, there is plenty to do around here. Go on inside and see the reverend. Get yourself something to eat and we will talk when I get back.”
He mounted his horse, then clicked his tongue. The old mare reluctantly lifted her hooves. Peter didn’t look back to see with his own eyes, but he knew for certain that the freedman had entered the church. He’d heard the hinges on the front door groan, and then the soft, polite greeting from inside.
Miss Martin. Knowing her, she had probably been watching from the window and came to fetch the man the moment Peter started away. He shook his head but admitted to himself that if the world was different he would be flattered by her attention. She had a comely face in a fresh, pure sort of way. She wasn’t a woman taken by powders and rouge. And she isn’t vain enough to try to hide her freckles. She’s content with the looks the Creator granted her. Peter allowed his thoughts to linger there a moment or two longer. Her eyes were green. Her hair was red, not screaming with the intensity of an out-of-control fire but warm, rich, like a slow August sunset.
His brother’s description of Caroline’s hair then came to mind. “Like Virginia soil when it is first turned...that rich reddish brown...”
His jaw inadvertently tightened. If Daniel had paid less attention to the woman standing beside that freshly turned Virginia soil and simply marched through it, Peter wouldn’t be looking for a widow and a child. Daniel had written that her father and younger brother had both died early on in the war and her mother had been taken by typhus some years before that.
Peter wondered if Caroline and her child had been able to survive the hardship of war, the sicknesses, the privations. Had she found a family elsewhere? Had she married quickly and passed Daniel’s child off as the offspring of another?
A child should know his own father, Peter thought as he broodingly plodded along. And he will if I have anything to say about it. He planned to move Caroline and the child in with his parents back in Baltimore, provide for them personally. And if she has remarried? Then he would see to it that she and the child were properly cared for and he would keep in contact to make certain it remained that way. I owe that to my brother’s child. It was hard, however, not to be discouraged. His printed notices in the local area papers concerning Daniel’s wife had generated no information. Was he only fooling himself that he could find her?
He thought then of the freedman who had approached him earlier. Am I only fooling him as well? Can I really hope to find anyone?
Peter urged the mare to hurry along, although she continued to step gingerly. Where the ground wasn’t rocky it was spongy from yesterday’s rain. It seemed a metaphor for his state of mind. Hard facts and muddy uncertainty. Such is life.
After two hours navigating roots and ruts, he saw the town of Larkinsville ahead. This tiny hamlet had fared better than the others in the surrounding area. The buildings were still standing. The telegraph office was operational. Any damage the town had suffered during the war was being quickly repaired. The smell of fresh lumber was everywhere.
I suppose the presence of a Federal garrison has something to do with that, Peter thought.
He went straight to the telegraph office to dispatch his article to Baltimore. Then he wired David Wainwright personally concerning the lost supplies. “Don’t wire yet with delivery plans,” Peter telegraphed. “More information to follow.” He knew the charitable citizens of Baltimore would act quickly to fill the present need, but it would take them several days at least to collect another shipment of supplies. In the meantime, Peter hoped to discover what had gone wrong with the first.
Having finished with the telegraph office, Peter then rode to the garrison. A scar-faced sentry forced him to dismount at the gate. After securing the mare, another Bluecoat directed him to the officer in charge, Lieutenant Glassman. The lieutenant was a fresh-faced lad who more than likely had ridden out the war in the comfort of a senior officer’s shadow, perhaps a father or uncle. He probably sheltered in a command post while other men of his age were dying in ditches.
Still, Peter did his best to cultivate a respectful relationship with the young lieutenant. Not everyone had been able to do his proper duty. He knew that better than anyone. And Glassman is, after all, the local man in charge. Animosity won’t serve me or Reverend Webb’s community well.
“Ah, Carpenter,” Glassman said as he laid aside the cigar he’d been puffing and leaned back in his desk chair. “I see you are back. Trouble?”
It was only then that Peter noticed the well-dressed man in the corner of the room. The stranger was wearing a silk vest and a brushed cutaway coat. His cravat was adorned with a jeweled pin. Peter sized up the man at once. The clothes and that superior lift of the chin told him he was either a politician or a carpetbagger. No doubt I’ll determine which in a matter of minutes.
“I hope not,” Peter said, in reference to Glassman’s remark concerning trouble.
The officer smiled, then cordially gestured toward the guest in the corner. “This is Mr. Johnson.”
Peter offered him a nod. Glassman then asked, “So what brings you to see me?”
“Questions,” Peter said.
Glassman chuckled softly. “I’d expect nothing less from a newspaperman.” He then gave Johnson a toothy grin. “Mr. Carpenter runs a nice little press up in Baltimore.”
The word “little” irked Peter, as did the shared laugh between Johnson and the lieutenant. His business here was no laughing matter, and as for his paper, he had churned out more news than many of the big Eastern papers combined. At least, real news...not war propaganda or plays on public fears.
“My question...” he said slowly, doing his best to constrain his irritation as he drew the men’s attention back to real discussion.
“Yes, yes,” Glassman said.
“I’ve come to find out what happened to the escorts that were supposed to meet the food shipment in Mount Jackson.”
Glassman blinked. “Escorts?”
“Yes. I arranged for them here in this office just last week. They did not arrive at the station, and as a result my party had to travel unaccompanied.” He then added for emphasis, “There were ladies in the party.”
“Egad!” Glassman exclaimed, looking positively chagrined. “Did they arrive safely?”
At least his concern for the ladies does him credit, Peter thought. “They did, but not without several tense moments along the road.” He explained what had happened, but he did not give any of the men’s names. The lieutenant might decide to arrest the men for unlawful assembly or worse, trying to incite a riot. Peter did not want that. Zimmer and the men of the valley had suffered enough already. What Peter did want was to know what had happened to the escorts and, more importantly, the missing supplies.
“Rebel thieves,” Johnson said sneeringly when Peter told Glassman about the lost crates.
The lieutenant held his judgment in reserve for now. “I am sorry to hear of your loss,” he said. “If you’ll see the sergeant out front, he will help you file the proper paperwork for registering complaints.”
Peter would do that, of course, if for nothing more than for the sake of proving to Glassman that he operated within the law, but he placed no faith in the army finding the missing supplies. He was certain they had already been eaten or sold. “Thank you, lieutenant, but at this point the escorts are more my priority. If,” he said, choosing purposefully to be vague, “I wire for another shipment of supplies, I must be assured of your men’s protection.”
“Of course. Of course,” Glassman said. He shuffled the stack of papers in front of him. “Date of delivery?”
“For the first shipment?”
“Yes.”
“Yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” Glassman said, eyebrows raised. “Well, that explains it.”
“Explains what, exactly?”
“The detail detachment was transferred to guard Mr. Johnson’s shipment of lumber and dry goods.” The lieutenant then added, “It was, of course, larger than yours.”
Peter could feel his anger brewing. “And that made mine less important?”
“No, not at all,” Glassman insisted, “but we are limited in numbers. We must prioritize. Mr. Johnson has important government contracts—ones which will grow the economy.”
And I am trying to feed homeless war veterans and their families. Confederate veterans. Is that the issue here? “And are his supplies for sale?” Peter asked. Although he already knew the answer.
“I’m afraid not. They have been promised to others. But if you need more supplies, you might try the stores here in Larkinsville in a day or two.”
So I may pay even higher prices for less, Peter thought, his anger rising. He cast Johnson a furtive glance, knowing he had read him right. The carpetbagger aimed to be rich, if he isn’t already.
“I do apologize for any inconvenience this has caused you,” Johnson said.
“It isn’t my inconvenience,” Peter said, “but it is a great inconvenience to the people of Forest Glade.” He turned his eyes back to the young officer. “They are under your authority, lieutenant, and they are hungry.”
“As is most of our defeated foe,” Glassman conceded. “However, it is government policy, in the spirit of late President Lincoln’s wishes, that the rebels be welcomed back into the fold. As you say, they are my responsibility. Let me know when your next shipment is due to arrive. I’ll make certain the escorts are in place.”
For now, it was all Peter could do. He’d made his point, but he wasn’t certain how helpful it would be. Glassman could promise all the assistance he wanted but he saw where the man’s heart lay—with his pocketbook. Peter wouldn’t be surprised if Johnson and the lieutenant already had some sort of deal going, but what exactly and why? Was Johnson simply paying for assured protection of his own supplies or was he actively trying to sabotage any form of competition so he may hold the monopoly and charge higher prices?
Either way people will starve. Peter however kept his disgust hidden. There was no point in playing his hand now, even if all he got out of his silence was an eventual story on government corruption.
So he thanked the lieutenant for his time, offered a conciliatory nod to Johnson. He filed his formal complaint with the sergeant, then mounted his horse and rode back to Forest Glade.
* * *
Once the dampness from the previous day’s rain had evaporated, the weather grew quite warm. Trudy didn’t think anywhere could be warmer than Baltimore City during the summertime, but evidently July in rural Virginia could be just as fierce. Even with the church windows thrown open wide, the sanctuary had been stifling. Still, she and everyone else soldiered on.
Today Trudy had collected names for Mr. Carpenter’s list in addition to washing cups, fetching clean, cool water and washing and bandaging blistered feet. Now that the evening sun was sinking toward its mountainous horizon, she paused to glance out the window. She was feeling worried in spite of herself. Mr. Carpenter had left early this morning and there was still no sign of him.
She told herself she simply wanted to share with him the information she had gathered today, that her eagerness was a desire to help the freedman who had found his way here this morning.
Robert Smith had walked into the church anxious to find his wife. She had been separated from him almost twenty years ago.
“The war is over and slavery’s done away with now,” he’d said hopefully. “I thought...well, I hoped...”
Reason told Trudy that the odds of locating his beloved Hannah after so much time were slim to none, but hope in God and a determined belief that true love conquered all compelled her to take down his information.
“Mr. Carpenter said you could use workers,” Robert had also said. “I can do almost anything with my hands.”
“I’m sure you can,” Trudy said. “Let me fetch you something to eat first, and afterward you can speak with Reverend Webb.”
The big man eagerly accepted the small allotment of cornbread and tea even though it would hardly be enough to assuage the hunger he must surely be feeling. “I’m sorry I haven’t more to give you,” she said. “We haven’t the supplies we had hoped.”
“That’s alright, miss. I’m much obliged.” He didn’t seem that eager to be left on his own, so Trudy continued to engage him in conversation.
“Have you walked a long way?” she asked.
“From South Carolina, Miss.”
So far... “And you are headed for...?”
“Not really sure yet, ma’am. Figured I stay here a while, see if I git word. If’n that’s alright.”
“Of course it is,” she said.
Sadly there were a few disapproving looks from some of the townsfolk, but no one dared to argue why a man of color was getting food. Apparently deep down they either sympathized with him or they knew it would do no good to argue supremacy to Reverend Webb. The preacher had welcomed the freedman heartily.
The two of them were now repairing the church roof. Despite the valley’s scorching by General Sheridan’s men, red cedar trees still abounded and apparently the ex-slave was an expert in crafting singles. Trudy could hear him singing while he worked.
“I looked over Jordan and what did I see... A band of angels comin’ after me, comin’ for to carry me home...”
Trudy listened to the unfamiliar but stirring words while she continued to stare toward Larkinsville, eyes straining for the first glimpse of an approaching rider. Realizing, though, she shouldn’t be lingering at the window, Trudy whispered a quick prayer for Mr. Carpenter’s safety, then turned from the glass. As she did, she nearly tripped over little Charlie.
He, his mother and his baby sister had remained here at the church because Dr. Mackay wanted to keep watch on Opal’s cough.
“See my shoes?” Charlie said, proudly showing off a pair of ankle boots, slightly scuffed but of proper size. “Mrs. Webb found ’um for me.”
“Very nice,” Trudy said, kneeling down to his level. “I suspect your toes are much more comfortable now.”
He grinned. His poor teeth were crooked and misshapen, but the smile was heartfelt and happy. “Yes, ma’am. I can wiggle ’um now.”
“Very good,” Trudy said. “Then they’ll have lots of room to grow.”
Charlie’s cheerful expression shifted to a somewhat uncertain one. “Were you lookin’ for that man?”
She could feel the heat rising to her cheeks. “Which man?” Trudy asked, hoping he wasn’t wise to her actions. After all, men had been coming and going for the last two days, gathering supplies and seeking treatment for their families.
“The one who makes the newspapers,” Charlie clarified.
Oh dear. When am I going to realize that—
“Will he be back?” he asked.
That question eased her guilt a little, knowing she wasn’t the only one anxiously awaiting Mr. Carpenter’s return. Obviously the newspaper publisher had made an impression on Charlie. No doubt giving up his soup and frock coat are part of it.
She offered the boy a smile. “Yes. Mr. Carpenter went over to Larkinsville today but he will be back.”
The uncertain expression only grew. Trudy didn’t know why until Charlie then said, “My pa went to Larkinsville to ’nlist.”
She could almost hear the rest of the sentence, though it remained unspoken...and he didn’t come back. Her heart ached for the little boy. Tenderly she stroked his dark hair. It was the color of coffee, just like her employer’s. “The war is over now, Charlie,” she said gently. “No one is enlisting anymore.”
The sound of approaching hoofbeats drew both their attention back to the window. “Well, here’s Mr. Carpenter now,” she said.
Charlie stretched to the glass, pressed his nose against the pane. “He looks hungry,” he said.
No, she thought, he looks frustrated. His visit to the Federal garrison must have been less than satisfactory.
“I’ll get him some tea!” Charlie proclaimed.
Trudy was touched by his eagerness but thought it wise to rein it in. “Let’s give Mr. Carpenter a moment to settle.” The last thing she wanted was for him to think they had been waiting by the door, eager for his return. The boy, however, waited just long enough for her employer to dismount. Then he tore away from the window.
“Charlie!” Trudy moved to catch him but it was no use. Mr. Carpenter hadn’t even time to step completely into the building before Charlie had commandeered a cup of hot tea, raced back and held it up to the man.
His left eye brow arched. He looked at the boy, then at her. A frown came over his face. Trudy’s heart withered inside, partly for Charlie’s sake, the rest for her own. Does he think I prompted the boy’s actions? That somehow I’m trying to soften up his stance on children?
He looked back at Charlie. “No, thank you,” he said.
Trudy noted the heartbreaking expression on the boy’s face as he lowered the cup. Even though she knew it would only increase Mr. Carpenter’s perturbation, she stepped in.
“I think what Mr. Carpenter means is that he appreciates your tea, Charlie, but would rather you give it to your mother instead.”
She looked back to her employer. His hard expression softened. Apparently he realized how his words had come across to the little lad. “Yes,” he said quickly as he leaned forward on his cane. “You see, I had a meal in Larkinsville. In fact...” He reached into his pocket, drew out a biscuit. “Here. I couldn’t finish this. You take it.” He then offered Charlie an awkward smile.
The boy was thrilled and quickly accepted the biscuit. With a smile of his own he tottered back to his mother. Mr. Carpenter then returned his look to her. His eyes were dark and probing. Trudy couldn’t quite decipher the emotions she saw in them but she could read a storm brewing, not one of anger necessarily, but something...
“I didn’t put him up to that,” she said bluntly.
The man blinked. Given the confused expression now on his face, Trudy decided it best to be completely forthright. “I am sorry for any inconvenience I have caused you in coming here, but I promise you my scheming days have ended.”
He drew in a breath, hesitant to acknowledge the former feelings to which she was referring. She knew, however, he understood. She could read that in his eyes.
“It’s over and done with now,” he said. “I have made my position clear. If you will accept it then we will speak no more of it.”
Accept that he never wanted a family, that he didn’t want her? She would be lying to herself to say his rejection didn’t still sting, but yes, she had accepted it. “Very well,” she said.
He offered her a curt nod in return.
Remembering Robert, Trudy then told him about the information she had taken down for the paper. “I laid it on your desk,” she said.
“Excellent,” he said. “I’ll wire the notice next time I return to Larkinsville.”
She wanted to ask him how today’s venture had gone, but she knew him well enough to know that if he had received good news from the garrison commander, he would’ve proclaimed it. If the news was discouraging, he’d stew on it for a while, until he figured out a way to remedy the situation. So with no further business pressing, Trudy turned and went to check on Charlie and his family.
Chapter Five (#uae58ad75-4a40-589a-89b7-56d7b718c610)
Give her marks for candor, Peter thought as he watched Miss Martin walk away. And for grit. There was no doubt she had put in a long, hard day. Her face showed it, as well as her clothing. Her stained cotton skirt was sweeping the floor. The back of her apron was tied in a lopsided bow. It was stained, too. No doubt it had come loose on her more than once and she’d stopped whatever she was in the middle of in order to secure it. He wondered then why he noticed such details.
I’m a journalist, he told himself, and in truth, I admire her work ethic.
She was fast becoming his right-hand man—or woman, rather. The paper currently in his hand, the one she had given him, bore testimony to that. Not only had she gathered Robert Smith’s physical description and basic information for publication but she had also thought to include a personal note, something only Smith and his wife would have known—his pet name for her, Chickadee.
Peter would have thought to ask something of that sort but it surprised him that Miss Martin had. She was definitely staff material—efficient, free-thinking...but it comes at a price. He stopped that thought, reminding himself then that the matter had been settled.
Still his mind betrayed him. In another time, in another place, he told himself. He was nearing forty. A man at his age with his physical limitation and lack of gentlemanly polish didn’t get that many looks.
Shoving the thought away, he went in search of Reverend Webb. Unfortunately he’d have to tell him how futile his efforts with Lieutenant Glassman had been today and prepare him for the unlikelihood of any real help from the man or his soldiers in the future.
He found the preacher at the well, a bucket of water at his feet. Jack Zimmer was with him. This time so was his wife. Darkness was falling but Peter could see how awkwardly the woman’s clothing hung on her frame. Mrs. Zimmer wasn’t dangerously thin like some of the other women he had come across in these parts, but he wondered what her shape had been before Philip Sheridan’s army had set fire to the land.
Peter nodded to her and her husband.
“Ah, Peter,” the reverend said, releasing the pump handle. “How was your venture into Larkinsville? Have you returned with good news?”
Peter blew out a breath. “I’m afraid not. The lieutenant has no idea as to the whereabouts of the rest of our supplies.”
The reverend’s dark mustache drooped. Beside him, Zimmer kicked the dirt beneath his worn-out shoes. “I told you, you ain’t gonna get no help from him.”
“What about another shipment?” the reverend asked, as usual doing his best to look ahead to possibilities. Peter hated to dash his hopes but he had to be frank.
“Wiring for supplies isn’t the problem,” he said. “In fact, I did that today. Getting them here without having them...intercepted...is.”
Zimmer nodded affirmatively. “That lieutenant is too busy protecting the carpetbaggers to care about the real citizens of Virginia.”
The reverend sighed. “That may be, but we will just have to keep praying.” He picked up bucket and turned for the church. Peter watched him go. He wouldn’t discourage the man from praying—that, of course, was his job.
But more is needed than prayer, he thought. Zimmer’s right. Lieutenant Glassman isn’t going to be much help. I’ll have to concoct some sort of scheme of my own to make certain this second delivery arrives safely.
He’d leave that, though, for tomorrow. He was too tired to think tonight and his leg was hurting. But before heading inside he wanted to take advantage of Mrs. Zimmer’s presence and ask her a few questions.
“I wonder, ma’am, if I may speak with you for a moment.”
“Yes. Of course,” she said.
“It concerns a relative of mine,” Peter explained. “A woman named Caroline Carpenter. She lived somewhere in this valley. She married a soldier in General Early’s command sometime about—”
Mrs. Zimmer didn’t let him finish. “I’m afraid I don’t know any Carpenters,” she said.
Peter was unwilling to give up just yet. “Well, that would be her married name. Unfortunately, I don’t know her maiden one. Do you know of anyone in these parts named Caroline?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid not...but I’ll ask about.”
At least that was something. “Thank you,” Peter said. “I’d appreciate that.”
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Shannon Farrington
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Father by DesignAfter the Civil War, newspaper editor Peter Carpenter insists he′ll never marry or raise children in such a troubling world. His commitment to bachelorhood only intensifies as he and his lovely assistant, Trudy Martin, search the ravaged Shenandoah Valley for his missing widowed sister-in-law and her baby.Ever the optimist, Trudy refuses to embrace Peter’s bleak outlook. Unfortunately, that doesn’t diminish her deep feelings for him—feelings she knows he’ll never reciprocate. But when Peter and Trudy become responsible for two war orphans, will Peter still keep his heart closed to his newfound family…or can he find hope in fatherhood?