Chapter One
SAVANNAH, GEORGIA
MAY 1861
Cordelia Owens had dreamed of this day a hundred times. This moment. This story just waiting to happen. While the picnic was in full swing, she slipped away to her favorite spot in the backyard. The live oak towered here, its Spanish moss dripping inspiration. The music from Old Moses’s fiddle danced through the air, setting the stage perfectly. A better setting for a romantic tale she couldn’t possibly imagine. She swayed a bit to the music, relishing the feel of her hoops and petticoats moving along with her. She wore her favorite pale blue-green dress, with its tier of white lace matching her gloves.
Maybe today, finally, she would get to play the part of the heroine. Her true love would find her here and sweep her off her feet before he charged into battle, swearing that his undying devotion to her would see him through the months ahead.
Yes, it would make the perfect story. Only one thing was missing—the hero of the tale.
“Miss Delia.”
For a second—one glorious, heart-pounding second—she thought it had really happened. That all the dreams, all the tales she’d whispered to herself when sleep was but a haze on the horizon of her mind, had finally come true. Phineas Dunn, newly signed up in the Confederate navy, had finally shown up to her family’s annual barbeque, and he’d sought her out here in the back garden, just as she’d always wished he would. She’d turn around and find him in his beautiful uniform of pearly gray, his eyes positively gleaming . . .
She turned. And saw indeed a man in a gray uniform. But his hair was three shades too dark, his frame two inches too tall, and his girth a bit too burly. She sighed and pasted a polite smile onto her lips. “Thomas Bacon. How good to see you.”
“Before I go, you mean.” Thomas strode to her side. “I’m going to miss you so. But thoughts of you will get me through each battle. I’ll imagine your beautiful face and be capable of anything.”
The words were right. Perfect even. Nearly exactly what she’d imagined Phin saying to her. But the right words couldn’t change the fact that it was the wrong man saying them.
Of course, Phin couldn’t exactly deliver the right line of dialogue when he didn’t even bother to show up, could he?
And now look at the pickle he’d put her in. How was she supposed to be kind to Thomas Bacon and yet make sure she didn’t send him away with false hope? Somehow she’d have to give him a picture to cherish without either crushing his spirit or lifting it too high. She’d just have to act like Ginny, that was all. Her older sister never had a problem answering with that modest tone that left a man utterly clueless as to whether she was simply being polite or in fact felt some affection.
Delia attempted Ginny’s demure grin, which was undoubtedly ruined by her squinting into the sun, since she had left her bonnet on the blanket. In her story, Phin had brushed his fingers through her golden curls and mentioned how they shone like the very sun—and now, of course, reality was making a mockery of her imaginings. And, given a few more minutes, she’d probably break out into awful freckles, too, which would send Mama into a tizzy. She could already hear the admonition that would come. Oh gracious, Cordelia, why can you not maintain clear skin like Lacy? Your sister’s complexion is like magnolia blossoms, while yours is freckled as a strawberry.
She turned to present her profile to Thomas, largely to relieve her eyes and also because that’s what Ginny would do. Ginny never held a man’s eye for more than a few seconds. “Oh, Mr. Bacon, you flatter me so.”
He pivoted to face her again. “It would have to be untrue to be flattery.”
False. He ought to have said it would have to be false to be flattery, the alliteration would have been—
“Oh!” Whyever was his head lowering toward hers with such determination? Thank heavens he hadn’t dared to slip an arm around her waist. She sidestepped him and tried to head for the front garden again. Ginny never reported this happening.
He stepped into her path.
Cordelia planted her fists on her well-cinched waist. She didn’t want to crush a poor young man’s heart before he headed off to war, but to try to steal a kiss, then not allow her to leave? A true gentleman would relent. “Mr. Bacon, do remove yourself from my way.”
“Now, Miss Delia, just one kiss is all I ask. To sustain me through the long war ahead.” He gave her a smile he probably meant to be charming, though it made her wish she had stayed on the blanket with her sisters and not chased a silly dream.
“I’m afraid I’m not in the habit of giving out kisses to every young man who enlists.” She lifted her chin and dared him to take a step closer to learn how hard she could slap. Not that she’d ever had to slap anyone, but she surely possessed surprising strength for someone of such small stature. A proper heroine always did. “Now, I suggest you make way. I don’t want to turn you into a villain, Thomas Bacon, but I will if I must—and best of luck finding another young lady to give you the time of day after I’ve finished my tale.”
“No need for that.” He backed up a step, a smile still teasing the corners of his mouth but with his hands lifted in surrender. “Can’t blame a fella for trying, though, can you? You are the prettiest thing in all of Georgia. May I walk you back to your sisters?”
Well. At least his good breeding had come to the surface again. “You go on ahead.” She’d stay here a moment and compose herself before returning to the picnic and its crowds of friends and neighbors.
Thomas gave her a short bow and hustled away, leaving her to draw in a deep breath. This was not the way she had hoped the afternoon would go. But then, nothing ever went like she imagined it would in her stories. Why, just once, couldn’t reality play along?
“Don’t you know you’re supposed to wait for your hero to rush to the rescue? I had it all worked out, but you handled it yourself too quickly.” This new voice came from the garden’s opposite entrance and sent a sweet trill of pleasure tripping through her veins.
So, Phineas Dunn apparently had deigned to come.
He stood under the trellis, sporting his new Confederate uniform. And, if she might say so, he wore it a far sight better than the dreadful Thomas Bacon. His hair glinted the perfect shade of honeyed cypress, and he stood at the ideal height—a full head taller than she, but no more.
Now there was a man worth telling a tale about. She had no need to force her grin as she sashayed his way—she couldn’t have stopped the lifting of her lips had she tried. “Why, Phineas Dunn. We were beginning to think you had already left for New Orleans.”
“Without saying good-bye?” The warm—no, no, simmering—smile he gave her made anticipation dance a quadrille in her stomach. “You know me better than that. Even if you did just withhold the chance for me to play your hero.”
Oh, that would have been perfect. Her, distressed and desperate, him rushing in ready to duel for her honor. Not that her honor had been in particular peril, but still. “Well, had I known you were here . . .”
Perhaps the situation could yet be redeemed. While he sauntered toward her, she debated what pose she might strike to set his heart to pattering. Ought she to twirl one of the curls spilling over her shoulder? No, too flirtatious. She could fold her hands and wait quietly as Ginny was wont to do. But no, he would never believe that of her. Should she lean over to smell one of the few blooming roses? Worth a try, she supposed.