Delia’s fingers were in his hands again, her eyes bright and glistening. “Don’t go.”
He tried to hold on to her—had to hold on. But he didn’t want to pull her down with him, did he? Not here. Not into the gunfire and convulsing sea. He relaxed his grip.
“Dunn! No!” Hudgins?
No, Delia. Don’t go, Phin. Don’t go.
The water enfolded him, warm as a dream, and silenced the thunder of traitors.
“Not in there, Cordelia. Not today.”
Cordelia came to a halt on the sidewalk, unable to tear her gaze away from the shop specializing in books, old and new. “But, Mama—”
“Please, daughter.” Mama lifted a hand to her forehead and adjusted the angle of her parasol as their servant boy waited behind them. “Do I not indulge your unfashionable whims often enough? Do you not spend a shameful number of hours each day closeted up with your inks and papers and novels? You needn’t drag me in these places with you when we are supposed to be seeing what silks the runners have managed to bring us.”
Guilt pricked her as she noted the flush on her mother’s cheeks and the genuine distress on her face. Yet she needed the written word, needed it like Mama did her smelling salts. Especially on a day like today, when a second dream, identical to the first, wouldn’t leave her mind. Was a few hours’ escape such a terrible thing to ask? “But, Mama, I’ve read all the ones at home, and Daddy said I may buy a new one.”
“Not today.” Mama’s eyes snapped and crackled like blue flames. “I do declare, Ginny never asked me to take her such places, and Lacy wouldn’t either, if you didn’t drag her along wherever you go. Don’t you realize people are talking, Cordelia? Why, according to Ellen Young, the Dunns hope Phin does, in fact, not propose to you, as you’re so eccentric. She claimed Willametta Dunn said as much last week.”
Eccentric? People really thought her eccentric just because she enjoyed reading and telling stories? Cordelia’s throat went tight. Not everyone, surely. People always seemed so entertained by her tales, and she didn’t lack for friends—friends who often asked her to regale them with a yarn. And there, right across the street, was a band of officers staring at her. She wouldn’t lack for beaux either, if she encouraged any of them.
But then, the Dunns’ opinions meant more than those of any random passersby. If Mrs. Dunn had really said that, if it weren’t just the sour musings of a dour-faced Mrs. Young, then Mama was right to be concerned. She’d never considered that her reputation may be in danger because of her love of literature.
“I’m sorry, Mama.” Her voice came in a hush, no doubt as low and pained to her mother’s ears as to her own. “I didn’t realize.”
Mama sighed and reached over to brush a gloved hand along Cordelia’s cheek. “What the Dunns think is not all that important—there are better men out there for you than Phin—but you must take care. In proper measure your oddities can be endearing, but you must remember to temper it with the grace and breeding we have worked so hard to establish in you, and not ruin it by too-frequent trips to bookstores.”
Better men than Phin? Never! Yet if anyone’s advice on what would keep a man’s attention could be trusted, it was Mama’s. Emeline Owens was still regarded as an outstanding beauty and had grown only more elegant with age, according to the portraits in their home. Daddy had been the catch of the generation, she knew—and Mama had captured his heart with enviable skill. Even foul-tempered Great-Grandmama Penelope had liked her, which was such a feat that stories were still told of it at family gatherings.
“I shall endeavor to do better, Mama.”
“That’s my girl.” Mama fastened on a smile and nodded them onward with a huff. “Oh, this wretched heat. It’s livable only to the slaves. How I wish this dreadful war hadn’t ruined our summer plans.”
“I’m sure Daddy would be happy to send us elsewhere.” She said it largely because she knew exactly what reaction she would get.
Mama didn’t disappoint her. She rolled back her narrow shoulders and lifted her sculpted chin, looking as though she could face down the enemy army singlehandedly. “Fiddle-faddle. It’s one thing to summer elsewhere when all is well and we are free to enjoy ourselves, but let it never be said that Emeline Owens flees from trial the moment it presents itself. No Yankee fleet will force me from my home, and if I must remain in it to be certain it remains mine, then so be it.”
Cordelia smiled, though her eyes went unfocused. Mama could make a perfect heroine with a bit of editing. She could see her now, standing on a . . . a windswept moor. Or perhaps a bluff overlooking the sea, an ancient castle behind her. Yes, that was it—a crumbling castle that had stood long and proud on the promontory, held for centuries by some noble family, of which she was the sole survivor. An enemy king had his ships just outside, and an army surrounded her on land too. But she would go out to face them down, her golden hair tossed by the wind, eyes glinting with a brave determination that would, obviously, capture the warrior-king’s heart.
“Cordelia!”
She snapped back to the present and saw that they had arrived at her mother’s favorite shop, and that Mama stood impatiently in the doorway while their boy held the door open. A flush heating her cheeks, Cordelia rushed past young Micah and decided to be grateful that another lecture wouldn’t be forthcoming inside the store.
When had she last come in here? Definitely not long ago, but she nearly gaped at how bare the shelves were. They’d felt no lack in matters of food, produce arriving from the plantations without hindrance, but the blockade was obviously interfering with the textiles and lace Mama so loved.
Mama muttered a choice phrase about the Yankees that included a word Cordelia had been forbidden to use under normal circumstances. Somehow she suspected she’d be forgiven its use in the same context.
Of course, she would have to deliver it correctly. Could she muster such total disdain in two little words? Convey such antipathy in the syllables of Yankee, and condemn them to the devil with such calm assurance? She would have to practice to get it right.
Except she wouldn’t dare. Perhaps she could compromise with Blasted Yankees. Though even that was a stronger word than she was wont to use.
Mama motioned her over and held up a bolt of pale pink silk under Cordelia’s chin. Then shook her head and replaced it. “Blue or green would suit you better, but they haven’t any. What are you planning to use as costuming for your tableaux vivants?”
“Lacy and I were going to have Salina help us remake some of Grandmother’s old gowns. Assuming it goes ahead, which it may not if Annaleigh won’t take part.”
“Oh, never mind her.” Mama waved a dismissive hand and sorted through the sparse selection of lace. “She’ll never allow herself to be excluded, so will fall in line. And your father promised he would see about having it at the Pulaski House.”
The thought of her tale being performed in the city’s most famous hotel was enough to send her into palpitations. “That would be . . . if we could, I . . . words fail me.”
Mama laughed, bright as a chime. “Now that, my dear, is a landmark event. Come.” She headed toward the front of the shop again. “There’s nothing here worthwhile. Let’s head over to Pulaski House now to remind ourselves of its layout, and we can have a lemonade while we’re there. I do hope the Morgans will have delivered Lacy home by the time we return.”