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Dulcie's Gift. Ruth Langan
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She glanced at the graceful curve of staircase that led to the second story. Perhaps they would be allowed to sleep here, curled up on the floor in front of the fireplace. If their hosts insisted upon seeing them to beds, she hoped she could just drift up, rather than climb, those stairs.
The voices seemed to fade. The half-empty glass was eased from her grip.
She must have slept, for when she opened her eyes, the fire had faded to embers and the candles had been snuffed. Against her will her lids flickered, then closed.
In the silence that followed, Dulcie felt herself being lifted in strong arms and cradled against a wall of chest. She smiled, remembering the way it had felt when Papa would carry her to her bed.
“Oh, Papa. You’re home at last.” With a sigh that arose from deep within her, she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her lips against his throat, breathing deeply. The male, musky scent of him filled her heart and soul and brought her the first real peace she’d known in so many years. Years filled with uncertainty and hunger and fear. But now, all that was behind her. Papa was home.
She felt herself being lowered to her bed. The edge of the soft feather mattress shifted as he sat beside her and tucked the covers around her shoulders.
As he started to move away, she caught his hand and brought it to her lips. At once she heard the quick intake of breath and the muttered oath. Her lids fluttered open.
The figure was as tall as her father and as broad of shoulder. But where Papa’s hair had been streaked with gray, this hair was as black as coal. The face unlined with age. The eyes hard, unblinking.
“You!” As before, she recoiled and felt her cheeks flame when the realization dawned. Sweet heaven. She had just made a fool of herself in front of a scowling, furious Cal Jermain.
Without a word he turned and stalked from the room, closing the door firmly behind him. Leaving her alone with her burning shame.
Cal shed his wet clothing and picked up a towel. As he dried himself, he moved to the window and watched the play of lights far out to sea. A torch flickered then died.
Only a fool or a villain would be out on such a night, he thought. So what did that make the women and children he’d rescued? Fools or…?
He leaned a hip against the sill. It was obvious they were frightened. He’d seen the same dazed looks in the eyes of hundreds of survivors across the South. Still, these seven seemed especially secretive. And what of Dulcie Trenton? There was a toughness to her. As though she was ready to challenge anyone who threatened those in her care.
The war had done that to a lot of people, he thought with a growing sense of rage. It had torn this great nation apart, destroying entire families, turning them into something less than human.
He tried, without success, to put the dark-haired woman out of his mind. In that first instant when he’d seen her, he’d thought…God in heaven, what a fool he was. There was no place in his life now for a woman. Any woman. But especially one who reminded him of the past.
Still…
She’d called him Papa. And in her sleep she’d kissed him. A natural enough mistake. But his reaction to that kiss had been totally unexpected, and not at all paternal. Fool. With a hiss of anger he tossed the towel aside and strode naked to his bed. But sleep was a long time coming. As he tossed and turned, he could feel the press of her lips against his throat. And was forced to admit to himself the humiliation of his sudden, shocking arousal.
Dulcie slipped from bed and crossed to the window. A spectacular sunrise was just visible on the horizon, and the land spread out below was still gilded with dew. She caught her breath at the sight of a herd of deer on a distant hill-side. A cow was lowing nearby, and the birds had begun their morning symphony.
The newly plowed fields, a deep rich black, were divided by rows of gangling palmetto trees. Their fronds waved in the gentle breeze. An occasional live oak, dripping with Spanish moss, spread its branches in a graceful arc.
She had just discovered heaven. After the battle-scarred countryside she had left behind, this peaceful pastoral setting brought tears to her eyes.
Her prayers had been answered a hundredfold. And now she must find a way to remain in this Eden. Hadn’t Papa always said that any fool could seize opportunity, but it took a wise man to create opportunity where none existed? She would have to get busy creating.
Dulcie turned away from the window, and for the first time noticed that her clothes were now washed and draped over a chair. Her chemise and petticoats were as clean as the day they’d been made. Her gown, though shabby, had been carefully pressed. Beside it were her old scuffed kid slippers, polished to a high shine.
She made her way to a basin of water that stood atop a low chest of drawers. Beside it was a cake of lavender soap and a soft linen towel. With a little smile of delight she set about washing herself.
Bless the Jermains, she thought. For all their stern posturing, they were being most kind. Now if only she could persuade them to be charitable, as well.
“She’s lying.” Cal’s voice was rough with anger. In the thin light of morning he joined his aunt and brothers around the elegant dining-room table and filled his plate with corn bread, eggs and slabs of roasted pork.
“And the children?” Aunt Bessie whispered. “How do you explain their answers?”
“They’re all lying.”
“People have been caught unawares by storms before,” Barc said logically.
“True—if the storm comes up unexpectedly. But this one gave plenty of warning. The skies over Charleston were black for days.”
“So why do you think they took to the boat?”
“They’re on the run. They refuse to talk about Charleston. Or the war. Most refugees are eager to talk about the people they lost, the homes, the belongings. I suspect something…”
“Something illegal perhaps?” Barc asked.
“Miss Trenton seems like a fine Southern lady,” Aunt Bessie protested.
“And a fine Southern lady can do no wrong?” Cal gave a hollow laugh. “Look around you, Aunt Bessie. The war has made something less of all of us.”
“Speak for yourself,” Barc said with a sneer. “I rather like what I’ve become.”
“You would. How much did you lose on your last trip to Charleston?” his older brother snapped.
“Enough to assure me an invitation to their next round of poker.”
“I’m sure Nellie Simpson is thrilled at your patronage of her sporting house.” Cal’s features tightened.
“I only go for the games of chance,” Barc insisted.
“I’ve heard a man gambles every time he samples Nellie’s women,” Dar put in.
At the young man’s remark, Aunt Bessie’s eyes flashed fire. “I’ll not have such talk in my home, Darwin.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry.” Chastised, he lifted his cup to his lips and fixed his gaze on the spotless lace tablecloth.
“As for you, Barclay.” The older woman turned her full wrath on the smiling charmer who was her middle nephew. “How can you stand to visit Charleston and see what General Sherman has done to that lovely city? It’s—”
“We were talking