21. Lord, Grant Me Strength

1864 JUNE 8, WEDNESDAY

21

Iclosed myself in my room the moment I found respite from the dead and dying. Watching Private Baker exhale his last breath unsettled me, transporting me to Gettysburg and my mother's dying hour. It was all still fresh.

I sat at my vanity, examining my face in the mirror. I was twenty-one and looked as though I had aged ten years. My once-rosy cheeks were pale and dry. My lips were gray and cracked, dark circles shadowed my eyes, and my eyebrows arched into a worried expression that caused lines to pucker my forehead.

The black mourning gown aged me. I was tired of hiding, of feigning widowhood for a boy I would have never married. I was squandering my youth, letting fear and loss dictate. I needed to reclaim myself. I had to do it for Katie. If John never returned home, what then?

"What in heaven's name are you wearing, dear?" Mrs. Mathis asked, her eyes wide when I entered the dining room for supper.

"A dress," I simpered.

It was a blue organdy, suitable for the summer heat. Shiny, black buttons trailed from the starched, white collar down the bodice. Tucks and folds made the skirt full and becoming to my small waist, and the puffed sleeves made my arms look petite and white. I had released my hair from its everyday hairnet and made Kay, though reluctantly, curl my tresses and gather them at the sides and at my neck in the most fashionable way.

"You look mighty pretty, Ella," Seth said, pink staining his cheeks.

"Thank you, Seth." I beamed, ignoring the look Mrs. Mathis still gave me.

Nora sat across the table from me, an approving smile on her lips. "Ma, doesn't she look beautiful in my new dress?"

"Your new dress, Nora?"

"Yes. The one I picked up from the tailor. I daresay the dress suits her better." Nora gave me a wink.

I turned from Nora and looked firmly at Mrs. Mathis. "It has been nearly a year since Robert died, and we never wed. I've been hiding. I just don't think I can do that anymore." I didn't want to explain that I felt I needed to keep wearing black for their sake, when all they had done was embrace complete strangers into their family.

"I know, dear," she replied. "I just assumed you were loyal to that soldier. It seemed right for you to wear black—what with Katie and all. I only want to protect you."

I knew what she was thinking. She was thinking the same things John had been drunk enough to verbalize the first night of his furlough. Toting a child around with no husband would lead to speculations. Only Mrs. Mathis was too polite to say it aloud. All I ever wanted to do was deter that kind of unwanted attention and gossip. I couldn't burden Mrs. Mathis with the need to explain the circumstances of her guests.

"You did say propriety was another sacrifice we must make during wartime," I replied.

"Yes, I did say that once, but … what of your dear mother?"

The kitchen door swung open, and Louise and Kay deposited honey-glazed pork, boiled potatoes, green beans, and bread and butter on the table.

I did not reply to Mrs. Mathis's comment about my dead mother. My mourning period was over.

We ate in silence … Mrs. Mathis chewing her food thoughtfully, Seth cutting glances at me between bites, and Nora grinning in victory.

Kay rushed back in, her face pinched with worry. "Miss Coburg," she said in a small voice. "The Chisholms sent a servant over to request you immediately."

The blood drained from my face. The boys' conditions were improving; that was the only reason I had left. Something must have changed.

"Lord, grant me strength," I said under my breath.

"You must hurry and change," Mrs. Mathis advised.

"There's no time to change."

Mrs. Mathis groaned. "At least grab a kitchen apron!" she conceded with a sigh. "I sincerely hope it is not their boy."

Brett's face was flushed with fever, and his lips were parted by weezing breaths. His wavy hair stuck to his perspiring forehead. Lamplight made his clean-shaven cheeks glow. If not for the overpowering, sickly-sweet smell of infection, I would have appreciated his handsome, square jaw, dimpled at the cleft of his chin.

I picked up a rag from the water bowl beside his bed. I could feel the heat radiate off his skin while I wiped his neck and cheeks. He was as handsome as his sister was beautiful, the cut across his cheek only giving him a rugged appeal. I had yet to see him open his eyes, but I imagined they were the same azure as Clara's.

When I arrived, Clara and her mother were asleep on their feet, refusing to leave Brett's side. I insisted they eat and rest while I tended to him.

The room was quiet, except for the others' deep breathing. I hummed an Irish air I sang to Katie earlier that morning, when she had woken in tears. It seemed to settle my own nerves. I was not ready to watch another person die.

As I hummed the notes, Brett Chisholm's eyes fluttered open.

His eyes were clear and as blue as the sky. As Anna would say, "Blue eyes that go all the way back to heaven." Unlike his twin's piercing, deep-blue eyes, his eyes were calm and gentle and had a gray light to them. He looked almost awestruck as he gazed at me know.

Through dry lips, he whispered in a deep, gravelly voice, "An angel."

The corners of my mouth curled, trying to soothe his delirium. "No," I said, "I'm no angel."

His eyes dimmed in disappointment. "You must be an angel. I've never seen anything like you before in my life. Am I dead?"

"No, you are still alive."

"Then have you come to take me home?"

"No, I'm not here to take you to heaven." And I decided to humor him. "I'm here to tell you that you have many more years to live."

He scowled. "Must I return to the battlefield?"

"That I cannot answer. I'm not a fortune teller."

"Then I'm glad of it. Angels are far too beautiful to be fortune tellers."

He gave me a wane smile.

"Sing to me that heavenly song you were just singing."

I resumed my humming, while I continued to wipe his face and neck with the cool, damp rag.

His lips parted to reveal straight, white teeth. "Beautiful, just how I imagined an angel would sound."

His eyelids drooped, yearning for sleep. As I reiterated the chorus, his eyes sprang open as if to force himself to stay awake. I wiped the damp rag across his eyes and de crescendoed to a slight whisper as his eyes shut.

I couldn't help but smile. He thought I was an angel.