'I'm sure she wouldn't.' She excused herself prettily from Hobart Cheney, then linked her arm through Mr. Mayhew's, well aware that the gesture was overly familiar. 'Now, now. No long face, you hear? I was only teasing.'
'Teasing?' He looked as baffled as if she'd just announced she was going to ride naked down Fifth Avenue.
Kit repressed a sigh. The orchestra began to play a lively gallop, and she let him lead her into the dance. At the same time, she tried to shake off her depression, but a glimpse of Elsbeth's father made that difficult.
What a pompous fool! Over Easter, one of the lawyers at Hamilton Woodward's firm had drunk too much and accosted Kit in the Woodwards' music room. One touch of those slobbery lips, and she'd planted her fist in his belly. That would have been the end of it, but Mr. Woodward happened to come into the room just then. His business partner had lied and said Kit had been the aggressor. Kit had angrily denied it, but Mr. Woodward hadn't believed her. Ever since, he'd tried unsuccessfully to break up her friendship with Elsbeth, and all evening he'd been shooting her scalding glances.
She forgot about Mr. Woodward as she spotted a new couple entering the ballroom. Something familiar about the man caught her attention, and as the couple made their way to Mrs. Templeton to pay their respects, she recognized him.
'Mr. Mayhew, would you escort me over to Mrs. Templeton? She's speaking with someone I know. Someone I haven't seen for years.'
The gentlemen from New York, Boston, Philadelphia, and Baltimore noticed that Miss Weston had stopped dancing and looked to see what had caught her attention. With no small amount of envy, they studied the man who'd just entered the ballroom. What was it about the pale, thin stranger that had brought such an attractive flush to the cheeks of the elusive Miss Weston?
Brandon Parsell, former cavalry officer in South Carolina's famous 'Hampton's Legion,' had something of the look of an artist about him, even though he was a planter by birth and knew nothing about art beyond the fact that he liked that fellow who painted horses. His hair was brown and straight, combed from a side part over a fine, well-molded brow. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and conservative side whiskers.
It wasn't the kind of face that inspired easy camaraderie with members of his own sex. It was, instead, a face that women liked, as it brought to mind novels about chivalry and called up memories of sonnets, nightingales, and Grecian urns.
The woman at his side was Eleanora Baird, the plain, somewhat overdressed daughter of his employer. He acknowledged her introduction to Mrs. Templeton with a courtly bow and a well-chosen compliment. Listening to his easy Southern drawl, no one would have guessed the loathing he felt for all of them: the glittering guests, the imposing hostess, even the Northern spinster whom duty required he escort that evening.
And then-from nowhere, it seemed-he felt a sharp pang of homesickness, a longing for the walled gardens of Charleston on a Sunday afternoon, a yearning for the quiet night air of Holly Grove, his family's former home. There was no reason for the crush of emotion that tightened his chest, no reason beyond the faint, sweet scent of Carolina jasmine borne on a rustle of white satin.
'Ah, Katharine, my dear,' Mrs. Templeton called out in that strident Northern accent that jangled Brandon's ears. 'I have someone I'd like you to meet. A countryman of yours.'
Slowly he turned toward the evocative jasmine perfume and, as quickly as a missed heartbeat, lost himself in the beautiful, willful face that met his gaze.
The young woman smiled. 'Mr. Parsell and I are already acquainted, although I see by his expression that he doesn't remember me. Shame, Mr. Parsell. You've forgotten one of your most faithful admirers.'
Although Brandon Parsell didn't recognize the face, he knew the voice. He knew those gently blurred vowels and soft consonants as well as he knew the sound of his own breathing. It was the voice of his mother, his aunts, and his sisters. The voice that, for four long years, had soothed the dying and defied the Yankees and sent the gentlemen out to fight again. It was the voice that had gladly offered up husbands, brothers, and sons to the Glorious Cause.
The voice of all the gently bred women of the South.
It was the voice that had cheered them on at Bull Run and Fredericksburg, the voice that had steadied them in those long weeks on the bluffs at Vicksburg, the voice that had cried bitter tears into lavender-scented handkerchiefs, then whispered 'Never mind' when they lost Stonewall Jackson at Chancellorsville.
It was the voice that had spurred on Pickett's men in their desperate charge at Gettysburg, the voice they'd heard as they lay dying in the mud at Chickamauga, and the voice they would not let themselves hear on that Virginia Palm Sunday when they'd surrendered their dreams at Appomattox Court House.
Yet, despite the voice, there was a difference in the woman who stood before him from the women who waited at home. The white satin ball gown she wore rustled with newness. No brooch had been artfully placed to conceal a darn that was almost, but not quite, invisible. There were no signs that a skirt originally designed to accommodate a hoop had been taken apart and reassembled to give a smaller, more fashionable silhouette. There was another difference, too, in the woman who stood before him from the women who waited at home. Her violet eyes did not contain any secret, unspoken reproach.
When he finally found his own voice, it seemed to come from a place far away. 'I'm afraid you have the advantage, ma'am. It's hard for me to believe I could have forgotten such a memorable face, but if you say it's so, I'm not disputing it, just begging your forgiveness for my poor memory. Perhaps you'll enlighten me?'
Elvira Templeton, accustomed to the plainer speech of Yankee businessmen, blinked twice before she remembered her manners. 'Mr. Parsed, may I present Miss Katharine Louise Weston.'
Brandon Parsell was too much a gentleman to let his shock show, but even so, he couldn't find the words to frame a proper response. Mrs. Templeton continued with the amenities, introducing Miss Baird and, of course, Mr. Mayhew. Miss Weston seemed amused.
The orchestra began to play the first strains of
Kit smiled and presented her gloved hand. They moved out onto the ballroom floor and into the steps of the dance. Brandon finally broke the silence. 'You've changed, Kit Weston I don't believe your own mammy would recognize you.'
'I never had a mammy, Brandon Parsell, as you very well know.'
He laughed aloud at her feistiness. He hadn't realized how much he missed talking to a woman whose spirit hadn't been broken. 'Wait until I tell my mother and my sisters I've seen you. We heard Cain had shipped you to a school up North, but none of us speaks to him, and Sophronia hasn't said much to anybody.'
Kit didn't want to talk about Cain. 'How are your mother and sisters?'
'As well as can be expected. Losing Holly Grove's been hard on them. I'm working at the bank in Rutherford.' His laugh was self-deprecating. 'A Parsell working in a bank. Times do change, don't they, Miss Kit Weston?'
Kit took in the clean, sensitive lines of his face and observed the way his neatly trimmed mustache brushed the upper curve of his lip. She didn't let her pity show as she breathed in the faint smells of tobacco and bay rum that clung so pleasantly to him.
Brandon and his sisters had been at the center of a carefree group of young people some five or six years older than she. When the war started, she remembered standing at the side of the road and watching him ride toward Charleston. He'd sat his horse as if he'd been born in a saddle, and he'd worn the gray uniform and plumed hat so proudly that her throat had congealed with fierce, proud tears. To her, he'd symbolized the spirit of the Confederate soldier, and she'd yearned for nothing more than to follow him into battle and fight at his side. Now Holly Grove lay in ruins and Brandon Parsell worked in a bank.
'What are you doing in New York, Mr. Parsell?' she asked, trying to steady herself against the faint giddiness attacking her knees.
'My employer sent me here to attend to some family business for him. I'm returning home tomorrow.'
'Your employer must think highly of you if he's willing to trust you with family affairs.'
Again the self-deprecating sound that was nearly, but not quite, a laugh. 'If you listen to my mother, she'll tell you that I'm running the Planters and Citizens Bank, but the truth is, I'm little more than an errand boy.'
'I'm sure that's not so.'
