Love, Come to Me Read online

  “You’re always so concerned about the way things should be,” Lucy said hollowly, the passionate desperation dying in her eyes. “What about the way things are right now . . . what about the way I feel?”

  “You won’t have to wait much longer. We’ll set a date—”

  “Soon. I know.”

  “I promise.” He bent to kiss her on the forehead. Suddenly Lucy wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips hard against his, her young, ardent body molding to him. He froze in surprise, then slid his arms around her, beginning to respond to her feverish kisses. Lucy quivered in triumph, tilting her head back and clinging more tightly to him. She felt his masculine body, firm and well-exercised, tauten against hers. Against her abdomen there was a rising pressure and throbbing that she knew was the physical evidence of his desire for her.

  Daniel pulled his hips away instantly. His face was flushed and uncomfortable. “Not now,” he said hoarsely. “I told you, Lucy, we’re going to wait.”

  Some part of her rejoiced in the fact that she had affected him so strongly—at least she knew now that she wasn’t alone in her frustrated need—but another part of her sank in disappointment. When Daniel made a decision, he stuck by it no matter what. “All right,” she murmured, looking down at the floor. Shame was beginning to wash over her as she sensed his disapproval.

  “You’ve got to learn not to be so impulsive. It’s difficult enough in moments like that to keep from taking advantage of you. But I respect you, Lucy, and in the end you’ll be glad for it.”

  “I guess I will.”

  “Of course you will.”

  The snow from the February storm melted a little. The snowdrifts became solid and compacted around the stripped elm trees that lined Main Street. Lucy worked with her father in the store, which was unusually busy as people bought supplies to restock what they had used while being snowed in, everything from coffee and tea to beeswax and milled soap. There was little time to think about Heath Rayne and the small house on the other side of the river, where she had lived for two days in secret. But occasionally Lucy would pause while some detail of the Southern stranger would pop into her mind, like the exotic turquoise color of his eyes, or the way he had called her “honey,” and his sense of humor, sometimes dry, sometimes whimsical. It bothered her that she sometimes thought of Heath while Daniel was nearby, for then she had to think up various explanations for her blushes or her quietness.

  Saturday morning in the store, Daniel and his friends were gathered as usual around the Seavey stove, talking, smoking the cigars that General Grant had brought into vogue, reliving battles they had been through. Lucas Caldwell was polishing the glass case where the knives were kept, while Lucy helped Mrs. Brooks select material for an everyday dress. As Mrs. Brooks left and the bell above the door swung back and forth jauntily, another customer came in. Folding a length of linen, Lucy paid no attention to the newcomer until she realized that Daniel and his friends had grown strangely quiet. Glancing at the doorway, she saw the flash of gold-shaded hair and the glow of deeply tanned skin, and she dropped her eyes to the counter hurriedly. Her hands shook as she picked up the linen and stacked it on top of other bolts of cloth.

  “Good morning, Mr. Rayne,” Lucas Caldwell said easily. “Come to check on your order? It came in yesterday.”

  “That and the mail,” came the distinctively accented reply. The sound of his voice, as warm and drawling as she had remembered, caused a silky ripple down Lucy’s spine. Unobtrusively her hands went to the sash of her Irish poplin dress, neatening the large bow that tied in back and straightening the ribbons so that they trailed properly over the plain overskirt and striped underskirt.

  “Lucy, will you take care of that?” Lucas asked.

  “Mornin’, Miss Caldwell.”

  She forced herself to meet his gaze and saw a smile in the blue-green depths. Had he seen her checking her sash? And if he had, did he think that it was for his benefit? Conceited scamp! “Mr. Rayne,” she acknowledged him coolly. Her fingers were all thumbs, but she managed to go through the glass-partitioned boxes near the front door. There were two letters for him, one addressed in feminine handwriting. Resisting the urge to look at it more closely, she handed it to him. Their eyes locked again, and her heart beat faster at the fact that he was there, that the two days they had spent together had not been a dream, that he and she and Daniel were all standing in one room together.

  “Thank you, Miss Caldwell.”

  “Mr. Rayne,” Daniel suddenly said—his voice so different from usual, so filled with contempt, that for a second Lucy didn’t recognize it—“is our resident Confederate, Lucy.”

  “My fiancé, Mr. Daniel Collier,” Lucy said to Heath, who fixed Daniel with an interested look, then turned back to her.

  “Really,” Heath murmured dryly. It was all Lucy could do to keep her lips from curving into a smile, because she knew exactly what he thought of Daniel. She felt as if they were sharing a private joke. The amusement was wiped from her expression abruptly as Daniel walked over to her and stood side by side with her.

  “Look close, Lucy.” A sneer pulled at his lips. “You’re always asking questions about the war and the Rebs we fought. This is one of those men who wounded and killed so many of our friends, and kept boys like Johnny Sheffield in filthy prisons until they died of smallpox.”

  “Daniel!” Lucy looked at him in amazement. Surely this couldn’t be her gentle, polite Daniel—a man who hated to argue—trying to pick a fight! All of the softness in his brown eyes had disappeared, and he looked so cold and angry that she instinctively took a step back from him. His shoulder had brushed against hers, and it had been as rigid as steel.

  “I wouldn’t have thought a Southerner would pick up his own order,” Daniel said, staring hard at Heath. “Why don’t you have one of your niggers do it?”

  “Because I’ve never believed in slavery,” Heath replied softly.

  Two of the men lounging in chairs by the stove stood up quickly. “You can say that,” one of them said tightly, “but you fought for it, didn’t you? You believed in it enough to slaughter thousands of good men in order to keep it.”

  “I had my own reasons for fightin’.” The Virginian accent became more pronounced, contrasting sharply with the flat Northeastern voices. “Mostly I didn’t like a bunch of Yankees tellin’ me what to do, when they didn’t know what the hell—”

  “Lucy, why don’t you take Mr. Rayne to the downstairs shelves to get the glass pane he ordered?” Lucas Caldwell suggested, his face set in a way that promised a lecture for the men gathered around the scene. A businessman first and foremost, he would never tolerate this kind of upset in his store. His words would be listened to and respected by the men there. Lucas was a trusted and popular figure in Concord, and almost everyone owed him a favor or two. He wasn’t above reminding them of that, either. Lucy looked into her father’s eyes, read his intentions, and nodded slightly.

  “I don’t want her going anywhere alone with a Reb,” Daniel said.

  “I believe my daughter is safe enough with him. Isn’t she, Rayne?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then go on with him, Lucy.”

  Lucy led Heath to the back of the store and down a narrow flight of stairs. As they left, she heard her father’s voice—“Now in my store, boys, a customer is treated with respect, whether he’s a Northerner, a Southerner, a Frenchman, or an Eskimo, and if you don’t like the way I run my business—”

  They reached the cellar and stopped in front of the wooden shelves, piled with paper-wrapped packages. Lucy’s nostrils flared slightly as she fumed with agitation. “I’m sorry. I apologize for Daniel—for all of them. Daniel isn’t usually such a . . . such a . . .”

  “Intolerant, high-minded jackass?” he suggested politely.

  “I’ve known all of them since I was little. None of them would have said anything to you if it was just one-to-one, but when they’re in a group—”

 
; “I know that. And I won’t try to tell you that the same thing wouldn’t have happened had one of them been in the same situation down South. Except down there, he would have been lynched before he got to answer back.”

  She looked up at him and some of her anger faded. Apparently Heath was not upset. He didn’t even seem bothered by the scene upstairs, while she was the one carrying on! Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to calm down. It wasn’t seemly for her to take up for another man against Daniel, especially when the other man was a stranger.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. I didn’t even have a cold after . . . after you-know-what.”

  He smiled at her vague reference to the misadventure at the river. “Good. Wouldn’t want Daniel to catch anything from you.”

  “No.”

  “Did you and he settle whatever it was you argued about?”

  “Well . . . not really.”

  “What a shame.”

  “Please,” Lucy said, starting to laugh. “So much sympathy just overwhelms me.”

  “I’ll admit something—he’s about what I expected. But you didn’t mention anything about his mustache.”

  “Very distinguished, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe I’ll grow one.”

  “No!” Lucy said quickly, her face all sincerity, and then her cheeks colored as he laughed.

  “Whatever you say. So you’re not particularly fond of mustaches—”

  “Except on Daniel.”

  “He’s put quite a spell on you, hasn’t he? Or is it just that he’s had a while to work at it? Maybe . . . given a little time . . . someone else could make you care just as much.”

  “Absolutely not. Daniel and I have been together forever. We’ve . . . well, we’ve grown into each other. Nothing could break that kind of bond.”

  “Nothing could break it? If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past few years, honey, it’s that you can’t be certain of anything.”

  She gave him a long, expressive glance, effectively warning him that the conversation was becoming much too personal. “I would rather you didn’t call me that anymore.”

  He grinned at her. “Would you hazard a guess as to which one of those is my package, Miss Caldwell?”

  Silently she turned to the shelves and reached up for one of the parcels on the end, rising on her toes. Getting a hold on the edges, she started to pull it down. His hands nearly covered hers as he reached from behind her and lifted the wrapped pane away from her faltering grasp. For one shattering moment, she felt the hard, lean length of his body press against her back, and Lucy whirled around instantly. “Don’t,” she said fiercely. “You leave me alone, do you understand?”

  “It wasn’t intentional. Seeing you wobble on your toes while holding a windowpane that I’ve had on order for almost a month was more than I could stand.”

  “I wasn’t wobbling!”

  “I see. You would prefer to think that I was so enthralled by your charms that I would use any convenient excuse to—”

  “No, I wouldn’t! . . . I . . . oh, get out of here!”

  He indicated the stairway with a gesture that was at once mocking and deferential, his eyes shining with amusement. “After you, Miss Caldwell.”

  She preceded him regally, walking back into the main part of the store and stopping at her usual spot behind the counter. Accepting his money without bothering to count it, Lucy went over to the cash drawer.

  “Now if you’d like to wait for one more minute,” Lucas Caldwell said to Heath, “while I write out your receipt—”

  “Obliged, but I don’t need a receipt.”

  They all watched in silence as the tall Southerner strode towards the doorway. George Peabody, a hotheaded boy who couldn’t resist making one remark from the safety of the corner, muttered an insult under his breath.

  Heath stopped and turned around, giving him a measuring glance, but before he could make a reply, Lucy rounded fiercely on the boy. “George Peabody, you button your mouth!”

  “He’d better see to his britches first,” Heath said, and touched the brim of his hat respectfully to Lucy before slipping out the door.

  Automatically they all looked at George’s trousers, discovering that one of the buttons did indeed need to be fastened. The tension broke, and as the flushed boy spun around to restore his injured dignity, they all chuckled. Even Daniel had to smile. “Impudent Reb,” he said ruefully, and no one disagreed.

  The purpose of the latest series of intellectual meetings, which were held in various parlors in Concord, was to talk about Reconstruction with objectivity, sensibility, and a lack of prejudice. As everyone had expected, the meetings were far from objective, seldom sensible, and never unprejudiced. Still, the highly charged discussions were well attended and interesting. The parlor debates were solely the province of the men, though the women who wished to listen were allowed to sit quietly along the sides of the room. Men like the long-winded, methodical Bronson Alcott and the insightful Ralph Waldo Emerson traded observations about the war and Reconstruction with other townspeople. This time the meeting was being held in the Caldwell parlor, which was scarcely large enough to hold the gathering that had accumulated this week.

  Lucy surveyed the kitchen while the meeting was in progress. Quickly, she filled the urn of water on top of the shining cast-iron stove, so that moisture would disperse through the dry air, and then she cast a glance at the trays of tea cakes that would be brought out to the parlor later. Satisfied that everything was in order, she smoothed down the muslin and lace apron front of her dress and tiptoed towards the sound of voices. At this moment Bronson Alcott was standing at the front of the circle of people, his gray hair flowing to his shoulders, his broad hands making moderate gestures as he spoke with the attitude of a man who loved the art of oration.

  Cautiously Lucy stood in the shadowy doorway and looked around the room. There was her father at the back, checking his pocketwatch and no doubt wondering when the tea cakes would be served. Daniel, his legs crossed and his hands resting on one knee, was in the innermost circle of the group, gazing raptly at the speaker. In the far corner of the room, Heath Rayne sat in a patch of darkness, the shadows dimming his hair to a muted wheat color. His legs were crossed ankle over the knee, his arms folded casually across his chest—the perfect picture of boredom—but Lucy knew somehow that he was listening intently to everything that was being said.

  She wondered why he would want to come to the meetings on Reconstruction, when he was the only Southern contingent. True, in Concord there were occasional traces of pro-Southern sentiment when it came to the issue of Reconstruction. But Heath Rayne was an outsider here—he and everyone else knew it. His presence had definitely inhibited the first few meetings or so. Everyone kept looking at him, wondering when he was going to jump up with the Rebel yell and start brawling, yet he had been gratifyingly quiet during every discussion so far. Now they had almost forgotten that he was at the meetings at all. He arrived, made pleasant small talk with those who dared to approach him, listened quietly to the lecture, and then left, as if he were a disinterested observer and had had no experience with the war! Lucy didn’t understand him at all. She comforted herself with the fact that no one else did either.

  “And to those that say the conflict should not, in retrospect, be viewed as a confrontation between the absolute wrong and the absolute right,” Alcott was saying, “my reply is for them to examine in the cold light of objectivity the evil of slavery. A sympathy for those who supported slavery and a wish to grant them leniency . . . must be considered in terms of the highest treason . . .”

  Having heard the speech countless times before, Lucy had to fight back a betraying yawn. Delicately she raised a hand to her mouth and stifled it, blinking to clear away her weariness. Glancing at Heath again, she saw that this time his blue eyes were resting on her steadily. She held his glance for a long moment, unable to look away, and as his mouth curved in the faintest of smiles
, she felt one coming to her own lips. Then Mr. Emerson was adding to what had just been said, his green-gray eyes cast with a dark sheen. His words, as always, gained the attention of everyone in the room. “Leniency to the Southerners should not and cannot be given, not if we wish to uphold the ideals for which the war was fought. Rebels should be pounded and not negotiated into a peace, if we are finally to realize our aspirations. War is not a game. It should be conducted without mercy to the opponent, if any moral inspiration is to be gained by the men who fight it.”

  “Without mercy?” Lucas Caldwell echoed humbly. “But shouldn’t we try to—”

  “Man is made pure by war, scourged of shiftiness and putridness,” Emerson stated flatly. “In some ways, war is good for man. That—and the rightness of our beliefs—is why I encouraged our young men to fight.”

  Suddenly a new voice cut through the air with deceptive softness. “You’re wrong . . . sir. Man is robbed by war . . . of his humanity.” All eyes turned to the corner, where Heath Rayne still sat with deceptive laziness threaded through his posture. One side of his mouth lifted in a mocking echo of his usual smile. “Easy,” he continued even more gently than before, “easy for a man like you to tell the young ones to fight, when you’re too old to tote a rifle and your son is just a babe. Easy to throw them into the lions’ den when they’ll believe anything that’s wrapped up in the flag.”

  A low rumbling of voices grew after the initial shock had faded away. Lucy twisted her hands in her apron, clenching the folds of it tightly as she stared at Heath. She was filled with sympathy and acute fear for him. She understood why he couldn’t keep quiet any longer, but she was afraid that he had just bought himself trouble at doubled value. No one dared to tell Emerson, one of Concord’s most beloved and respected men, that he was wrong. And no one, least of all a Southerner, implied that Emerson was a coward. Oh, what have you done to yourself? she wailed silently, wishing she could turn back time and stuff a handkerchief in the stubborn Confederate’s mouth before the words had been said.