2. Self-Preservation

1863 JULY 1–3

2

To my chagrin, and despite the town's Rebel occupation, wedding festivities continued. Our neighbor, Mrs. LeDoux, hosted an afternoon of refreshments in her garden in honor of my approaching nuptials.

A new lawn game was set up for the men with rackets and something called a shuttlecock—a rounded piece of cork with feathers—and a string strung across the yard between two trees. Her son, Daniel, who brought the rackets and shuttlecock home from the university, said the game was popular among the students. Shoulders square and beaming, Daniel explained the rules and demonstrated his exceptional batting skills. Ethan, of course, refused to play, calling it a children's game, his eyes shooting daggers at Daniel over his liquor glass.

I stifled a laugh at Ethan's own childish obstinacy, while the ladies and I sat around a table, painting with watercolor.

The pleasant afternoon encapsulated us from the war, the soldiers marching in the town square, and the distant boom of artillery in the small town of Gettysburg.

Like thunder in the distance, the explosions reminded us our joy was temporary and fragile. With each cannon blast, my breath caught, and I said a silent prayer for Robert—wherever he was in all of this.

I glanced at Mother, her bow-shaped lips pinched, her green eyes, like my own, large. Knowing how this wore on her nerves. Knowing I was a disappointment. Knowing she was sick. Knowing as soon as one festivity ended, she would retreat to the darkness of her bedchamber, complaining of a headache. She had been a force to be reckoned with before the loss of my younger brother years ago. Now she was a husk of the mother who raised me. I suffered a smile to ease her worries.

I tried not to think of the impending wedding, numbing my senses to protect myself. If I spent too much time thinking about it, I knew I would succumb to fear and grief. So I played my role and pushed dire thoughts down deep, where they could not hurt me, where I could preserve myself and my dignity.

This was how it was supposed to be. It was the natural order of things, was it not? Pa and Mother seemed to think so. Ethan was the most eligible for their eldest daughter. The employer of my father, and the owner of York Ironworks and the large Etherton Estate property. It made sense. Ethan's late father had been Pa's good friend, orchestrating his standing in town, providing him with a home—Woodhue—for his young family.

When I accepted his proposal, I thought I was doing right by everyone. Pa was loyal to Ethan. After tragedy struck with the unexpected deaths of his brother and father, Pa stepped in to run the Ironworks—a business Ethan knew very little about. It was all to go to his elder brother, and now it was thrust upon him. He took him under his wing, teaching him the business and treating him like a son. There was no hesitation when Pa gave Ethan his blessing to ask for my hand.

And I just wanted Mother and Pa to be proud of me.

I also thought I was doing right by me.

I had accepted Robert's call to duty. I convinced myself he was not the right choice for me. He lacked the social standing and wealth with which Ethan was born. But my heart could not accept it. My heart ached with what I was doing, my muscles constricting as if telling me I was going the wrong way.

Engagement feasts were hosted at our home and the Etherton Estate. As each hour ticked by, I felt disassociated with what was going on around me, floating above. It was necessary self-preservation, I convinced myself. Was I weak? Why wasn't I fighting? Should I do something to stop this? No, this was strength. None of this was in my control now.

Something more was happening here.

I saw it in the growing shadows beneath Pa's eyes, the creases in his forehead when he glimpsed at Mother and me, worried. Was that guilt? Was that heartbreak? Was that fear? A secret I was not privy to? It was concealed in the triumphant gleam in Ethan's eyes and the whispers to his employee, Mr. Pocket. They huddled together in dark corridors during social gatherings. They would conference in quiet, and then Ethan would send him off on an errand.

Our guests were oblivious to the darkness as they toasted the soon-to-be-wed and gorged themselves on roast pig and cottage pie.

How could this all be real? How could we celebrate when men were dying in the next county?

Two nights of feasting, two nights of toasts, two nights of forced smiles. I was tired. I was numb. I was an empty shell.

"You can at least pretend to be full of wedded bliss," Ethan accused.

But I knew myself. I knew the fire and strength I possessed. I would protect it, and I would do what I could to protect those I loved.

When the nights were over, I was glad of it. I was one day closer to finishing this. Once I was Ethan's bride, I would no longer have to feign happiness. There was some freedom in that, wasn't there?

Sleep no longer came. The acrid scent of campfires and gunpowder lingered on the evening breeze. Even in the darkness, distant rifle cracks punctuated the silence. Warm and sticky, I suffocated in the quiet solitude. Harsh whispers of anxiety and fear filled my mind, and I could do nothing to silence them.

Walking helped quiet my nerves. Each night, I would tiptoe through the sleeping house, out the front door, and walk Woodhue's twelve acres. No one bothered me then, and the exercise drained the thoughts from my head.

Two days until the wedding, and I desperately needed fresh air. I inhaled deeply, but the smoke stung my lungs. Muffling a cough to not wake the house, I hurried down the front steps until I could bury my toes into the cool grass. I lifted my heavy hair off my back and let the breeze tickle my neck, cooling beads of sweat.

Hoofbeats sounded on the road, and I stilled. It was late, and no one should be on the road, but there were enemies about. I stilled my breath, listening and praying it was not a Rebel soldier. Even on my own property I was vulnerable, standing barefoot on the lawn in nothing but my nightgown.

The horse turned into our drive, and I froze. I momentarily thought to yell for Pa but knew it would wake Mother, and I'd never hear the end of it. What was I thinking, wandering around in the dark in my nightgown?

I readied myself to flee to the house when the approaching rider took off his hat and moonlight cast light on his features.

"What are you doing here, Ethan?" I whisper-shouted, annoyance overshadowing my momentary fear.

His blond hair was disheveled and his face pale. He cracked a smile—a knowing, lazy, drunk smile. A dangerous smile.

"I was just coming to survey what will soon be mine." A slight slur marred his words.

He dismounted the horse, walking toward me. His gaze traversed the front of the house and the lawns and paddock beyond, then came to rest on me, surveying me from head to toe. His brow lifted at the sight of my bare feet. It dawned on me that he wasn't just talking about me, but of Woodhue as well.

"Woodhue was always meant to be mine. Something of my own, separate from my father. It was stolen from me," he continued. "Etherton and the factory were meant for Jeffrey. He would have ruined it all if he had lived."

I took a step back, closer to the house. Drinking made men like Ethan dangerous. At the mention of his brother, Jeffrey, I knew where his mind was. Many versions had been told of their deaths. Anna had shared, in secret, that Jeffrey had ended his life after killing their housemaid, Emilyn Murphy. There was speculation they were lovers, and it had ended badly. Mr. Harris, prostrate in grief, succumbed to failing health, leaving Ethan with what remained of Etherton Estate, the ironworks, and fortune. He had already sold Woodhue to Pa by that point.

"Father would be proud to know what I turned his business into." Ethan was rambling now. "He wouldn't have foreseen this war, but there is much profit in it, more than I could ever imagine." He continued to survey Woodhue around us and then came back to look at me, stepping closer. He was close enough now I could smell the whiskey wafting off him. "You love Woodhue, don't you?"

"My father is proud of what he's built here. It has been my home," I explained, retreating into myself. The less I said, the better.

"Yes, your old man is a proud man, a man who would do anything to protect his family, no matter the cost."

The cost? I narrowed my gaze on him, suspicion rising.

"This war. It makes people desperate. And there is always a cost. A cost to protect. A cost to preserve. Someone has to profit. Someone has to keep this world afloat. It might as well be me." His eyes searched mine, heated, yearning.

I shuddered, a chill washing over me in the muggy night.

"What do you mean?"

Ethan chuckled. "You're a simple one, aren't you, my dear? I should have known you would not understand." He gripped my arm, bringing me closer to him. "We were meant for each other. The moment you were born at Woodhue, the moment your father came to work for mine, our lives were intertwined. This was all preordained. A way to break the curse."

Curse?

"I knew it would come full circle. I knew we were both meant for greater things. This country is meant for greater things, and I am not about to let anything or anyone stand in my way. And if I have to do everything myself, I vow I will. This world has too many simple people; I was really hoping you were not one of them."

He dropped the horse's reins, wrapping his arms around me and hoisting me off my feet. Taken aback, I did not protest while he carried me across the lawn, toward the copse of trees beside the barn and paddock. Then I found myself and started kicking and writhing in his grip, my arms pinned to my sides.

"Let me down," I demanded, finding my voice, willing what strength I had to rise.

"I've wanted you for a long time, and I've wanted Woodhue for even longer. Wouldn't it be apropos to lay together in the soils of Woodhue?" he asked, his voice gruff, stinking of liquor and desire.

"We aren't wed yet. Let me go," I squeaked. Cringing inside at how small my voice sounded.

He laughed deep in his throat. "Whether we share our marital duties now or two days from now, what's the difference?"

"Ethan, please," I begged. I hated myself for begging. "My chastity. I would like to retain something for you on our wedding night."

He laughed again, louder this time. I was afraid someone might hear us, yet also wished for someone's intervention. "Your chastity? You are far from chaste, my dear, and I know it." His eyes flashed dark with rage and jealousy.

"Why would you say that?" I snapped, shocked, trying to draw him into conversation, hoping to stall from what was inevitable.

"You know damn well what I mean," he growled, then laid me on the ground, pinning me beneath him.

It dawned on me then that he knew of Robert. He knew more than I thought and was jealous of whatever affection was between us. But Robert was honorable—more honorable than Ethan ever could be—and never forced himself on me. Anger welled up like blood from an open wound.

"You're drunk, Ethan. Get off me," I implored under his weight. I tried to remain quiet, not wanting to wake the house to find us here in the dark, under the trees, on the ground. Shame and embarrassment rose up with the anger, and I knew I had to do something to stop this.

"No, my dear. I know you want me just as much as I want you," he breathed in my ear. "This has to happen. A way to end it."

End what? He was not making sense.

"And if you are as chaste as you claim, it's only a bit of blood, Ella. Nothing to fear."

We both squirmed—he, undoing the holster belt at his waist, and I, moving my legs and pushing him away with my arms, trying to escape.

He set his belt beside us and began to open his pants while he hiked up my nightgown. His hand scaled my leg. He leaned in to kiss my throat and my jaw. His sour breath made me gag. Was this really happening? I turned my face away from him, if only to shield myself from his kisses, and then it was like a message from God. A cloud passed across the moon, revealing a bright streak of moonbeam. A glint of a pistol in his holster caught my eye. I reached out. It was in arm's reach, and I wrapped my fingers around the grip. Before I could think this through, I pushed the revolver between us, pointing the barrel into his sternum.

Ethan jumped back.

I propelled myself to my feet, still aiming the gun at him.

Surprise washed over his face, followed by a confident smirk. "You wouldn't dare. Do you even know how to cock that thing?"

"It's loaded, is it?" I asked, curious but also feeling my own confident smirk creep across my lips. I knew how to cock a rifle. I had seen Pa do it dozens of times. A Colt revolver was no different. I cocked it. "Whatever you think you know of me, Ethan, you have yet to find out. You may be gaining a bride, but know that I will hate you for the rest of your days if you do this. And do not think for one moment that you are safe from ruin."

A flicker of fear crossed his eyes, and I wondered what he thought I knew. The alcohol seemed to evaporate from his glazed expression, his jaw clenching. Let him think I knew the truth. Something scared him, and now I knew it. Once we were married, I would sleuth it out, and the truth would protect me, my family, my home, Robert, and Katie.

Running his fingers through his hair, his rage and passion evaporated. He looked weary. Whatever alcohol still coursed through him dissolved. He did not touch me as I scrambled to my feet, the revolver still heavy in my hand as I aimed at him.

"In two days, you will be mine, and nothing will stand in our way. Nothing!" His horse had wandered toward us and was only a few steps away. Ethan picked up his discarded holster, turned, and headed to mount. Once on his horse, he looked back at me. His anger flared. He was fuming, but he did not ask for the return of his pistol as he turned his horse around and galloped away into the night.

I stood there in the dark, my breath heavy and rapid in my chest. I wanted to panic, to do something rash and dangerous. I wanted to run. But I did neither. Instead, I stood there, waiting for my breath to calm and the sweat to cool. My hands trembled as I uncocked the gun. I held it close to my side and hurried back inside.

When I was finally safe in the quiet of my bedroom, I saw the ivory grip engraved with JPH.

I collapsed on the bed, exhausted. Ethan was calculated. He wouldn't just leave me with his brother's gun. He knew he left it with me. But why? I shuddered. Was this the pistol that took his brother's own life? I recoiled, dropping the revolver on the quilt. I had to hide it.

I spent the night thinking where to put it. There was a loose floorboard beneath my vanity. I grabbed my nail file and pried at the board, but it refused to budge. Dawn lightened the horizon. Birds chirped, welcoming the coming sun. Sweat beaded my forehead and chest.

"Sumter," I murmured. Hiding the pistol in the folds of my nightgown, I tiptoed through the quiet house and back out the door.

The sky was rose gold when I reached the barn. The cows mooed, eager to have their utters milked. Sumter, my chestnut filly, shifted, her nose poking out from the stall in greeting.

"Hello, girl," I responded, her eyes watching me curiously as I entered her stall. She sniffed my hair, her nose tickling my neck. "This will be our little secret." Reaching up to the saddlebag hanging on the tack wall, I stuffed the pistol inside, eager to be rid of it.

I scooped a handful of oats from the bag outside the stall. "A reward for your silence."

I would be ready to defend myself next time.