12. Homecoming

1863 DECEMBER 24, THURSDAY

12

The shrill whistle blew, and the brakes screeched to a halt. Steam hissed and filled the bitter air. Light flakes swirled around us. People bustled everywhere. Faces shone with excitement and anticipation to see their loved ones. Katie clung close to my skirts as people pushed their way toward the train, searching for familiar travelers.

"Come on!" Seth beckoned us to push closer.

"Well, let's not smother him," Mrs. Mathis cautioned, taking hold of her son's coat sleeve.

"Please, Ma," Seth pleaded, flashing his dimples.

She heaved a heavy sigh. "Very well, go ahead. We'll stay here, out of the way of this chaos."

Seth kissed his mother on her plump cheek and hurried off through the crowd, pushing his way toward the large iron engine. Soldiers and civilians poured from the cars. Loved ones cried with joy and grasped their visitor or returnee. Those who were wounded or ill dismounted the train on stretchers or crutches. The crowd cheered as the charismatic Governor John Gregory Smith exited his personal car. Governor Smith commonly traveled to and from Washington to conference with President Lincoln and Secretary Stanton for his valued war counsel. He shook people's outstretched hands as he walked toward his wife and children standing at the end of the platform, decked out in their holiday finery.

Then we saw him. His teeth flashed as he stepped off the train. At once, I realized how much Seth and John looked alike, their smiles nearly identical, as Seth pulled him into a hearty embrace.

"There he is!" Nora pointed, bouncing on her feet.

John's brown hair was longer than I remembered, tucked behind his ears. He was taller and broader than his gangly younger brother, but the resemblance was uncanny. The same charming dimples and sparkling eyes flickered with fervor. They exchanged words, Seth pointing in our direction. John's eyes followed, landing on us, connecting with mine. His smile broadened and my breath hitched.

Seth hoisted John's bag, following him as they weaved toward us.

"Son!" Mrs. Mathis opened her arms to John and buried her face into his shoulder.

John patted her back. "I'm here now, Ma."

Gathering her emotions, Mrs. Mathis stepped back from her son and examined him. "Your hair is so long! And you have a beard! You look much older than I remember."

"I'm glad I trimmed it before I left. Otherwise, you would have never recognized me."

She caressed his cheek. "I will eternally recognize my own flesh and blood."

John scooped Nora and Renny in his huge embrace, squeezing them.

"My little sisters!"

"Merry Christmas, John!" they both chimed.

John's eyes caught mine. I lowered my eyes, my cheeks reddening, feeling his perusal. Katie was looking up at me with a questioning expression, and I took her hand.

He released his sisters and came to me, his eyes examining my face.

Fidgeting under his gaze, I said, "Merry Christmas, Lieutenant Mathis."

John's smile faded, and I immediately wished I had not used his new rank.

"Merry Christmas, Miss Ella." He bowed his head.

His lips quirked as he knelt beside Katie. "Now, how are you?"

Katie sunk her face into my skirt.

"Do you remember me, Katie Moore? I was your brother's friend John."

Katie peeked out, giving him a tentative smirk.

"Attagirl! You've grown since I last saw you. I see Miss Ella and the Mathis women are taking good care of you." Her face bloomed pink, and she escaped back into the folds. John chuckled and stood. He looked at me once more, but feeling timid, I avoided his gaze.

"Ready to go home?" Mrs. Mathis asked.

John turned away from me and nodded at his mother. "I'm ready."

Mrs. Mathis took her son's arm. "Praise the Lord, my boy is home," she said in an audible whisper.

In the family cutter, Mrs. Mathis insisted John sit beside her, putting him across from me. I found the winter scenery outside very interesting as we rode home, unable to meet John's attention. My skin tingled with his proximity. I had never been known for shyness, but seeing John after all our letters made me nervous.

The Mathis women chattered, filling John in on the weekend's holiday festivities. Seth said something about how the war was affecting Christmas this year, and Mrs. Mathis gave him a stern look, shutting him up. John opened his mouth to respond to Seth when Mrs. Mathis changed the subject.

"Clara Chisholm has been moping around ever since Brett went South. When I saw Clara this morning, I told her you were coming home. She perked right up," Mrs. Mathis said. "She is quite looking forward to seeing you, John. In fact, we invited the Chisholms over for your welcome home supper. I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty to tell them you would call on Clara this afternoon and bring the whole family back with you for supper."

John rolled his eyes. "You always ‘take the liberty' to do as you please. Yes, Ma. I suppose I can call on her. Will the Chisholms be all right with that?"

"Time heals wounds, John."

With a heavy sigh, he conceded, "I suppose so. I ran into Brett the other day in Woodford. He seemed well. It was nice to see a familiar face. I barely recognized him at first. He must have grown a foot since I last saw him."

"Clara will want to hear that." Mrs. Mathis squeezed her son's hand.

"He was with Bradley House and Owen Childe." He turned to Nora.

Nora brightened. "Oh, how is he?"

"Bradley is doing just fine. He, of course, looked tired as all get-out. But then again, I'm sure we all look that way."

John's blue uniform was clean, but faded. Dark circles shadowed his brown eyes. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot. I remembered how red they had been in Pennsylvania, irritated from gunpowder, smoke, and fatigue. His eyes flickered toward me and I blushed, pivoting back to the window.

Always cheerful, Margaret Smith was the prettiest of the three Mathis sisters. Since discovering she was expecting, she seemed twice as exuberant, especially now that she had passed the early stages of sickness. Given that Margaret was married and kept her own house, I had spent little time with her, unlike Nora and Renny. I soon realized, however, through the duration of the evening, that she was close friends with Clara Chisholm, making it her duty to place John in her circumference.

While Margaret was pretty, plump, and warm in all the right places, Clara was beautiful with a thick mane of chestnut hair, a narrow waist all women pined for, and an ample bosom. Her fiery, blue eyes flickered coyly with each playful pout of her bow-shaped mouth. A sharp pang of jealousy shot through me seeing how easily she drew John's attention. Her charm and vivacity even caused young Seth to fluster.

Discomfited, I withdrew to a settee in the upstairs hallway. The words I had exchanged with John over the months were filled with a growing intimacy and affection, but now I was confused. I had hoped we could resume our last correspondence, but now, in each other's presence, I felt awkward.

Heavy footfalls sounded on the landing, and I looked up from where my sweaty palms crushed my dark skirt. John stepped out from the shadows. I was thankful for the dim lamps, hoping he did not see pink stain my cheeks.

"I was looking for you," John said. "May I?" He gestured to the space beside me.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. He took a seat, resting his hands on his thighs. The air seemed to heat and electrify around us, taking me back to a tent in Gettysburg where we rolled bandages.

"I was unsure about returning home," he confided. "I didn't know if I'd be received, but it was your words that gave me pause. Thank you. I'm glad now."

His little finger reached out as if he contemplated touching me. I smoothed my skirts, wiping the moisture from my hands.

"I'm glad you came home too, John. And that you're received."

"I wasn't sure how the Chisholms would greet me, but it appears I am forgiven."

"You needed their forgiveness?"

"Robby's death could have been avoided. I didn't realize how much I needed their forgiveness until now. But let's not talk about that."

We sat in silence for a moment, but it was not an uncomfortable silence as I'd assumed.

"I'm certain the rest of the community will be pleased to see you at Governor Smith's Christmas party tomorrow."

John scoffed. "That remains to be seen. Ma will insist I attend."

"There will be dancing," I prompted, but I immediately bit my lower lip, hoping I was not too presumptuous.

His eyes flickered to my mouth. "Will you save a dance for me?"

Heel clicks jarred my attention. "The parlor was becoming quite loud," Margaret announced.

I had been transfixed on John, not hearing Margaret and Clara approach.

John gave Margaret a smirk. "What a nice idea we share," he said to his sister.

"Yes, it's incredible how much we think alike," she teased.

"Now, John." Clara grinned. "I heard Mrs. Mathis just received a crate of leather-bound books from your father's collection at the law firm."

"Is that so?" John arched a brow, bemused.

"Would you like to go see which one's came in? I know I would."

Did she really?

John vacated the settee, taking Clara's arm. Envy scoured my insides, making me want to slap Clara's arm away from him.

Once gone, Margaret turned to me. "Would you like some spice cake? It's a family recipe."

Margaret did not wait for my reply, looping her arm with mine and leading us downstairs.

"It's so good to see Clara and John back together again," Margaret said.

I flinched. "Back together again?"

"Yes. It has been too long for both of them. Clara isn't getting much younger, and neither is John. They have gone through so much, and settling down would do them both some good. This furlough may be John's last chance." Margaret studied my puzzled face. "You do know they have been sweethearts for years, don't you?"

John and Clara? It stung to know he omitted the relationship from our communication, yet was that something I had a right to know?

Margaret patted my arm. "That's all right." She continued to talk about John and Clara's history together while I ate my cake. Their fathers were law partners in the firm, naturally bringing the families together. It made sense when John asked to court Clara, but when Robby died—Margaret mentioned in hush tones—it caused a rift in their relationship. He left without a word to anyone.

"What happened to Robby?" My curiosity piqued, but I wondered if I was betraying John's confidence.

"He was killed. The Chisholms were absolutely destroyed by his passing." A shadow crossed over her face, her eyes darkening. "John did not say a word to any of us before he disappeared. We didn't even know he'd enlisted until he sent a letter to Seth months later."

"And he hasn't been home since?" I asked, wanting to confirm all John had shared with me.

She shook her head. "He's refused all our pleading until now. I hope this furlough mends what was broken for him, especially with Clara. She still cares very deeply for him. If my brother had any sense at all, he would propose before he leaves."

The cake hardened in my throat. I swallowed, tears springing to my eyes. John was spoken for, promised to Clara. That putrid guilt swarmed me. Here I was, inserting myself into his life—his family's life—and I was allowing our intimate correspondence and private moments. Was I just lonely? Was I using John to comfort my grief?

"Excuse me." I put down my plate. I needed to be alone. I didn't belong here. Margaret did not stop me from walking away.

Passing the closed office door, a muffled conversation drifted into the hallway. Clara's voice was quiet and somber, and John's carried a stern edge. I didn't intend to eavesdrop, but my feet stopped just the same, my ears pricking at their words.

"You have no right, Clara. Don't make Robby's death an excuse. You have no idea what it's like to watch someone die and be unable to stop it. I've seen too much of that. Our courtship never lasted for a reason."

"John, please, I love you. I've always loved you."

"Clara, enough. Stop."

"Don't you love me too?"

Silence. I held my breath.

After a moment, Clara whispered in realization, "Oh."

Her heels clicked on the wood floor as she came toward the door. I hurried past, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, but it was too late. Clara's face was pale and tear-streaked. She kept her head down, and I pitied her embarrassment. John followed behind her, raking a hand through his hair.

His eyes found me in the dim light, heaving a sigh.

"How much did you hear?" he asked, an eyebrow raised in question.

"I—I'm sorry, John," I stammered. "I didn't mean … I was only walking by …"

He looked resigned, exhausted. "She needed to know."

"John," I took the hand that dangled at his side, but he withdrew it from my fingers and walked away. Making me feel even more alone.

Holding Katie after a long day was like coming home. She was the one constant I could depend on. Her cherubic, sleeping face, her soft-brown curls splayed across the pillow, made my heart glad.

It was impossible not to look at Katie and think of Robert.

His gray eyes twinkling with laughter. His lips curving in an impish grin. The boyish playfulness I had known since childhood when he wagged his brows in a knowing gesture. I had seen Katie make the same expression, the pang of longing crashing over me.

Tears came unbidden and trickled down my cheeks. I closed my eyes, hoping to squeeze the tears back. But having my eyes closed only punctuated and illuminated the memories—dead and dying scattered on the ground at Gettysburg, Robert lying on his cot, trembling with pain and fever, Robert saying goodbye one last time. The memory morphed to John. John kneeling beside me. Swearing his promise to Robert. Taking my face in his hands. His back muscles rippling as he dug Robert's grave. Those arresting eyes that seemed to see me, to make me feel …

"Ella?" John's presence darkened the doorway.

I started, sucking in my sob. I brushed the tears away from my cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I was passing in the hall and heard …"

I put a finger to my lips, nodding to Katie.

His shirt was untucked, and his sleeves were rolled to his elbows. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair.

"Sorry," he whispered sheepishly.

I tiptoed from the room. John backed up into the hallway, allowing me room to close the door softly behind me.

"I thought you retired for the night," I whispered. I could smell the whiskey wafting off him. He was drunk, and I knew now the danger it presented. He needed to go to bed.

"I had, but then I needed another drink … a nightcap."

"We should be quieter." The rest of the people were silent in their rooms.

John shuffled on his feet.

"You should probably go," I told him.

John huffed. "Go?"

"Go back to bed."

"You still love Robert?" he blurted.

His question surprised me. "I—I—I will always love him."

John's brow furrowed, his eyes dark and penetrating, flickering in the lamplight. He surveyed me from head to toe. "You aren't a real widow, Ella. Why do you feel the need to dress like one?"

The sting of his words was induced by liquor. I didn't feel like I needed to explain. I moved around John. His hand shot out to grip my arm.

"Now, my mother, she is a real widow. She was married and had children of her own and then lost her lovely husband to consumption. What a man, my father. Now, if I didn't know you and saw you were wearing black and had a child, I would think you were a widow. Thank God you are smart enough to wear black. Otherwise, seeing you with a child and no husband, Miss Coburg … well, only assumptions would be made."

The insinuation he made was exactly why I did it, but I had not expected him to throw it in my face.

"How could you say such a thing to me?" I hissed, wrenching my arm from his grasp. "Robert was an honorable man. Never in a million years would he … which you should know since you were his friend. He was man enough never to break a woman's heart." I should save my breath. I jerked my arm from his grip. "As for you, I'm certain you have done enough heartbreaking for one night—and enough drinking. You might as well retire while you're ahead." I wanted to ask him if he was in love with Clara. Jealousy fueled my anger. But fear won out. I did not think I wanted to know.

He harrumphed, his face becoming an emotionless mask in the shadows.

"Fine by me." He shuffled off, leaving me to storm to my own room.

How dare he? His sharp words were a slap in the face, making me realize I did not know John at all. Miffed, I tossed and turned in the bed, playing every possible insult and rebuff I wanted to throw at him.