The Edge of War

By Mary Adams-Legge

On the Eve of the Civil War, the Shenandoah Valley will reap a different harvest —of murder.

Unable to enlist due to a childhood injury, medical professor Cornelius Baldwin is called one night to examine a dead body in a livery stable. When a family friend is also attacked, Cornelius is forced to search the past for clues—to find a killer from the Mexican War and to accept his feelings for Hannah Walker, the victim’s best friend.

Recently returned home from the North, Hannah struggles on a turbulent sea of conflicting loyalties — her heart versus duty, her friends versus family, her personal dreams versus expectations. As Hannah and Cornelius race to capture the killer before he strikes again, they must decide what matters to them most before either the killer, or the war, destroys them all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Adams-Legge
• Release date: Apr 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301774012

Book preview

Prologue

Jacob stood in the door of the livery stable, peering into the gloom.

Clarkson? he whispered.

The horses, nervous, shuffled in their stalls at his voice. The darkness distorted the edges of things—shapes murky, uncertain. To breathe felt like wading through water, the air more solid than vapor, redolent with horse sweat and hay. One dim lantern glowed from a back corner, weak and quivery in the wet night.

Clarkson? Jacob said louder, stepping inside. Something just didn’t feel right. Haints. Maybe there was a haint in here, and he crossed himself.

There are no such things as ‘haints’, Jacob. He could hear Miss Hannah in his mind, their small hands clasped in the dark attic of her parents’ home, his legs weak with fear, sure they would be grabbed by the ghost—the pioneer bride who had been scalped by a Shawnee. Our minds like to imagine things. Thee mustn’t worry when you hear a little scuffling. It’s just a mouse, or maybe a squirrel. Those aren’t scary, are they? But when alone, he still had moments of terror that smothered him, quilts of fear that made him feel buried alive.

Yet he was a man now, and not a child. He took another step forward.

He heard a small scuffling sound from the back stall and more nervous movement. A horse. Probably.

You ain’t here then? He walked to the back stall and lifted his lantern. He patted the chestnut’s flanks.

What you so jittery about, boy? It’s just a little ole mouse. You too big to worry about something that tiny. Why, you... His voice died as he saw a rat’s tail move near the gelding’s hoof. But it wasn’t the rat that stopped his speech and caught his breath. The rat gnawed on a man’s cheek. A dead man. A dead man whose eyes gazed right at Jacob, as if awaiting a reply, steely and cold even in death.

Here was his haint staring at him, but all Amos could do was stare back.

I

White male, late thirties, shoulder length blonde hair and touches of gray. Dr. Cornelius Baldwin dictated to Andrews, the medical student scribbling beside him. Jacob, a hand at the livery stable across the way, had knocked on his door at the Winchester Medical College half an hour before, shivering and stammering that he had found a dead body. Cornelius had sent an orderly to fetch the sheriff, and then he had picked up Andrews at his rooms. Now they stood over the dead man, Andrews looking only in quick glances, his body tense, his face pale.

Breathe evenly, Andrews. Think of the poor devil as tissues. You can’t help his pain, but you can help others by learning from him. Dr. McGuire, his former medical professor, had taught him that. Building medical objectivity took time and some students never managed it. This would be good practice for Andrews.

The man before them lay sprawled on his back, his hair spread behind him on the floor and stuck in the large pool of congealing blood, his clothes soaked with it. His eyes were open, his feet toward the door of the stall, but his mouth hung slack in death. He wore leather riding gloves; presumably he had either just arrived or was leaving. Cornelius looked at the horse next to him. It looked fresh, without the telltale road dust, sweat, or dried slobber around the mouth of a recently ridden horse.

Going out late then? But where? He mumbled aloud and threw back the bottom of the heavy overcoat. These were rough riding clothes, not evening clothes—for a longer journey then.

Andrews, step over and look in those saddle bags. List what you find there.

Andrews nodded and stepped over the outstretched leg of the man, then grabbed the saddlebag slung on the stall wall. He rifled through it. A hunk of bread, a large chunk of bacon, a canteen, a gun, a bowie knife, and a fresh collar.

That’s it?

That’s it, what? Sheriff Correll said, moving inside from the dark doorway.

Hello, Sheriff. Pardon me if I don’t shake your hand. Cornelius said. The sheriff frowned down at the body and stepped back, revulsion contorting his face. Cornelius knew the sheriff would rather be anywhere than close to a corpse, especially in the middle of the night, dragged from his sleep. Despite his rugged appearance and calm demeanor, the sheriff was a bit squeamish when it came to dead bodies.

’That’s it’ as in he wasn’t going very far —not with so little food or clothes.

The sheriff peered at the man’s face.

Any idea who he is?

No. We’re still looking for something to identify him.

Andrews still studied the saddle bags. The leather on these bags is different, Doctor— peculiarly thick, yellow, with carved designs. Western, I think.

Write that down then.

The sheriff carefully knelt beside the body, and Cornelius looked back down at the victim. His skin looked soft and white, not that of an outdoorsman. If the man had traveled out West, it had not been recently. He felt his arm; rigor mortis was starting. He examined the floor around the body, but saw nothing except straw and blood.

The sheriff glanced at Jacob. Have you seen him before?

Jacob shook his head. No sir. Maybe Zeke had though. The horse was here this morning when I come in.

Help me flip him over. Cornelius said. He slid his hands under the stiffening bulk. I need to see his back.

The sheriff reluctantly helped to push him on his side, the victim’s hair pulling where it stuck in dried blood. Andrews’ face paled. Cornelius stifled a grin, and then peered closely at the victim’s back. It too was soaked in blood, but was that a rip in the coat?

Look, Sheriff. See there?

Sheriff Correll looked quickly and nodded, shifting his eyes away. They eased the body back down and the men stood. The sheriff took a deep breath, then looked keenly at Cornelius.

What does it mean, Doctor?

It means that we need to search for a very sharp weapon. It’s probably a knife, but in a stable, it could be many things. Jacob, Andrews – go slowly, but start looking through the stalls. There’s a chance the weapon’s still here.

They shuffled around the stable, wading through the hay around them. Cornelius found dirt, straw, loose corn, an apple core, a snip of halter leather—nothing unusual for a livery stable floor. He moved into the next stall and something glinted from the floor in the lantern light. He reached down, brushed the wisps of hay away, and saw the shiny glimmering of a black knife. A stone knife.

He picked it up. It was cool and smooth, almost like glass, its edges chipped away to surprising sharpness, like the arrowheads that he used to find on the banks of Opequon Creek.

That’s obsidian, Andrews said, looking over Cornelius’s shoulder. It’s a volcanic rock, very rare around here. Cornelius stared at him, and Andrews shrugged. I collected rocks when I was younger.

Hmmm. You’re a fount of surprising knowledge, Andrews.

Cornelius looked again at the weapon. The handle fitted perfectly in his hand, a precision instrument. He walked back into the stall, the others following, and they looked down at the body again. He opened the front of the overcoat and caught his breath. Vaguely, he heard Andrews groan and Jacob run out the door. Cornelius and the sheriff just stared at one another over the dead man. The dead man with a large hole in his chest—and no heart.

Cornelius and Andrews hauled the body in a cart to the Medical College, where it lay on a table in the dissection hall, packed with ice to keep it fresh. Both were exhausted. The sheriff had gone home, but promised to return in the morning. Jacob too had returned to the livery stable.

Will he keep, do you think, Doctor? Andrews asked, looking at the water dripping from the melting ice.

I hope so. We’ve done all we can. Regardless, we’ll have to wait a day at least before we can use his cadaver, to give people time to identify him — unlikely though that might be.

"Who do you think he is, Doctor? Any ideas?

I have no idea. He looks like no one I know. And I’ve not heard of anyone expecting a guest from out West, but with so many strangers in town, that means little or nothing.

Doctor, Andrews hesitated, looking at the body and shuddering. Why the heart? Why would anyone do such a thing? And with such a knife?

It is curious and grotesque, and therefore, probably very important. The heart holds great importance in most cultures. Could it be connected with something out West? An Indian ritual? Or simply an act of anger or impulse? And why the livery stable? Was he traveling alone or did someone know that he would be there at that time?

A lot of questions, Doctor.

Yes, and too little information for answers.

Could he have something to do with the war? Mr. Thompson, another medical student, walked into the room and stood beside Cornelius, peering at the body in the table. About Cornelius’s age, with glasses and thinning hair, he kept to himself more than most of the students, but Cornelius had never been disappointed in his work.

Quite possibly, Mr. Thompson, and perhaps, given the circumstances, even highly likely. But how can we know?

He must have been staying somewhere. Was he coming into Winchester or leaving? Thompson asked.

He appeared to be leaving, but only for a short time. He carried little on him.

So a trip to Harpers Ferry or Cumberland could not be ruled out?

No.

Andrews looked puzzled. Why do you mention those two places in particular, Thompson?

The B & O Railroad. If he had wanted to send information secretly, those would have been the most likely places for him to go.

But that’s assuming he was a spy for the North. What if he was a spy for the South?

Strasburg? Manassas Gap? Cornelius said. With the little in his saddle bags, I don’t think he intended a destination further than that.

All three men looked down at the victim again. A spy? An innocent victim? It was just too early to say.

It had been a long day. Andrews and Thompson soon excused themselves, and Cornelius too heard the siren song of his bed. He walked across the inner courtyard to his rooms. which consisted of a sitting room and an inner bedroom. He headed toward the small fireplace, warmed his hands, and then meandered into his bedroom, knocking against his night table. A book fell off the precarious tower sitting there, and he cursed silently. He threw his clothes toward the wardrobe, splashed some water over his face, dried it with a towel, and then fell onto his bed. At last.

He loved the freedom of his rooms. Away from home and his parents’ loving scrutiny, he could finally breathe. His parents had been reluctant to let him go far from them, always worried about his leg. Sometimes, he thought, their concern was more crippling than the leg itself. They always tried hard not to show their doubts of him, tactful and kind as they were, but their very over solicitude spoke louder than if they had simply chained him to the porch. Worry was a habit like any other, he supposed.

Still, the rooms at the college had been a nice compromise, a first step in loosening the chains. His mother had not been happy about it, but his father had finally made her see reason. It was far more convenient for him to be here, without having to walk the several blocks home. He was a doctor after all, his father had mildly stated, and he smiled, a trifle bitterly, at the memory of the look on his mother’s face. After all his years of study, it was as if she finally grasped that he was an adult: finally, and most reluctantly. Here he could feel the competent doctor, sure and erudite –not a cripple, an arrested child in his parents’ keeping.

He lay on his back in his bed, feeling the breeze from the open window lift his hair. He liked to lie like this for a few minutes before falling asleep, gathering his random impressions of the day like a sticky finger lifting grains of cornmeal. His students, lectures, a new medical article, meetings—these comprised the normal routine of his days. He stayed busy—too busy to dwell on the might have been’s, and if he was honest, too busy to dwell on his loneliness. He may have to live on the edges in some ways, but he still longed... for what?

A wife? A home?

Children?

But he also knew, no matter how tempting the thought, that he was crippled, and a slave to his work. Work was certain; work was real.

And, tonight, a victim to figure out, savagely killed.

He thought back over the livery stable. The victim was a traveler, but was he coming or going? He thought it likely that he was going; his clothes and body were clean, his provisions fresh. The horses were all rested and curried; none looked as if they had spent much time on the road today. None of them had recognized the man either, and while that was nothing unusual while so many were traveling through Winchester, most people just passing through weren’t too worried about the livery stable; they were on foot or carried their horse’s provisions with them. The locals used the livery stable more than anyone else, but Cornelius knew most of the locals. He had lived here his whole life, and the idea that he would not know a middle-aged man from this town was so unlikely as to be dismissed out of hand. No. This man was a stranger, newly come and quick to go, and if that were true, then someone knew him, killing him literally before he had taken a step out of town. Someone desperate to keep his face or his words from becoming known.

So where had he come from? And when? Someone must have seen him enter the town, but would he have been noticed? And by whom? Cornelius assumed that the obsidian knife was the murderer’s, so that was no help, despite the oddness of it. The unusual leather work— South American, Mexican, Texian? All suggested some traveling in the more frontier areas of the country, but that might mean anything or nothing. Many men traveled, or were given gifts by those who did. Still, middle-aged men tended to be more particular about what they actually used, through habit or utility. The needs of youthful finery usually gave way to practicality, so it would make sense to assume that the rider had liked his tooled leather saddle and bags. He made a note to himself to examine them more carefully later.

Finally, worn out enough to sleep, Cornelius rolled over and pounded his pillow. There would be time enough for thinking tomorrow, and whether he solved this problem or not, it would help to fill the void at least for one more day.

II

Oh, stop thy gloom, Abram. Hannah smiled at her father’s head shepherd, who drove their wagon heading south toward Winchester. They traveled against a strong current of men — some walking, some riding —heading north toward Harpers Ferry. I know thee would rather be with the ewes today, but Eli can do the work. In fact, he will relish the chance to prove his worth. How can he test his knowledge when thee never leaves his side?

’Tisn’t that which bothers me. Eli will cope just fine.

Well, what then?

He crossed his arms over his chest and looked her up and down, then pointedly away. Gyp, her dog, lay nestled at her feet, and looked up at both of them.

Oh, Abram. She huffed. Don’t be so ridiculous. It’s one new dress.

Tisn’t plain, he said, slapping the reins, irritated.

No, ‘tisn’t, she agreed. She wore her new bonnet and dress, periwinkle flowers on a field of black muslin. The colors accentuated her long eyelashes and blue eyes, as well as her auburn hair, tucked neatly under her bonnet except for the one curl that always wrested free over her left eye. She knew she looked well, as she could see from the admiring glances of the men they passed. Unfortunately, Abram saw them, too.

But look around you. She swept her hand across the peaceful valley before them, the soft hills of the Blue Ridge to the east, the sharper Alleghenies to the left. Look at the orchards, the green grass, the flowers. Neither is this plain. Nature isn’t plain.

Tisn’t our way, he grumbled.

Tisn’t your way, she said. She knew that he did not like changes, especially the mellowing of the Friends’ rules. He believed in traditions—sober grey clothes, plain food, hard work, strict worship. And he did not like it that she had grown up over the last three years, away at school. Westtown was a favorite Quaker school outside of Philadelphia and very forward thinking. Unfortunately, Hopewell, her family’s meeting, was not so.

I know I’ve changed, Abram, she sighed, laying her hand on his arm. But our culture is changing, too.

Too much.

Mayhap. But don’t you see? If the Friends don’t change at least some with the world around them, we’ll become cut off entirely from our fellow man. Are words and clothes more important than the spirit?

But we need to stay apart, to stay uncorrupted by the violent ways of men.

Yes, I know you believe that. This man was like her grandfather, and she knew her words pained him. But I don’t. What is God’s will if not to love one another? And if my saying ‘thee’ or ‘thou’ or wearing a plain dress makes me separate from others, is that not also a kind of prideful affectation?

That’s not pride. That’s modesty. He glared at another young man who was grinning widely at Hannah as they passed him.

So when I’m with my family and other Friends, I will live simply, for that will make them comfortable. And when I’m in the world, I will dress and talk as they do, which will make them comfortable. But I will still behave as a Friend in my deeds.

Thy family? But thee has been banished from the meeting.

Yes.

Because thee believes in this war.

No.

Then why? She saw the pain in his eyes. Her banishment hurt him, too.

Because I cannot turn on my friends.

But thee can turn on thy family and faith?

She gasped. How can thee say that?

His words stung, and tears welled in her eyes, tears she had held back for the past week since her public banishment from the Meeting. They changed into tears of anger.

It is they who have turned on me. We have always believed in following God’s light as revealed to the individual, but it seems that’s only true if I agree with everyone else.

But it is not the sense of the meeting, he said gently.

I know that. But when did we let the rule of consensus slip away, Abram? There are many who feel as I do. A sense of the meeting takes time, to weigh and meditate the issues until all can join in a common view.

You deny the sense of the meeting?

Yes. And so do others. And so will more. They are afraid.

Aye. They are afraid. Abram gazed at her with love and squeezed her hand. Ahh, little chuck. We’re all afraid. And fear always fogs God’s light.

Please try to understand, Abram, she said, her voice calmer now. I abhor war, but I cannot, in my heart, abandon my friends. I must follow my conscience. Thee taught me that. She squeezed his arm. Please.

Abram sat very still on the seat beside her, the reins in his hand. Finally, he patted her hand and sighed.

Aye, thee must follow thy conscience.

They drove in silence for the next mile, the road growing more crowded as they entered Winchester. Men walked or rode in wagons and carts. Conestogas lumbered along, brim full of supplies; hostlers drove horses, cattle and sheep. Chickens pecked in the streets, children dodged in and out, freed blacks and slaves scurried about with their errands, women and men watched from their porches— the town pulsed with excitement and movement.

Abram edged the wagon down Kent Street, finally crossing into the alley behind the Barton’s house and to their stable. Abram eased from the wagon and reached for her reins.

Thee should go in. I’ve some errands to run for thy father.

Hannah almost picked up her skirts and jumped, but caught herself in time to allow Abram to hand her down.

Hannah!

Hannah looked down the walk to the back door and saw Lily Barton, her dearest, oldest friend, coming toward her. Lily looked as graceful as her name, tall and slim, with pale blonde hair gathered in a braided chignon at the back of her head, curls framing her forehead, blue eyes, and a sprinkle of light freckles on her nose. Her yellow dress, her signature color as she called it, waved over her hoop skirt in a cloud of muslin as she sashayed gently down the walk, a paisley shawl draped over her shoulders.

Hello dear! I finally made it!

So I see. Lily wrapped Hannah in a hug, her graceful arms surprisingly strong and lithe. You look wonderful, as always, and I love the dress. Is it new?

Indeed. I couldn’t resist the fabric.

Nor should you. You look like Persephone rising in that dress. They heard a slight growl from behind them, and they both turned.

And how are you, Abram? I hope you are well. Lily said, suddenly solemn. In a moment, though, she bubbled again. And here’s Gyp. How are you, boy?

Lily rubbed Gyp’s fur and scratched his ears; Gyp barked and wriggled with pleasure.

I am well, thank thee kindly. Abram smiled—a slight turning at the edges of his mouth. Hannah scowled at him. He scowled back.

Thee looks well. How does thy family?

Well, too, although they say there is sickness in the town already. We’ve been putting herbs in all the rooms to help ward off the bad air. Abram’s face clouded over again, and he looked about to say something, but Hannah turned deftly back to Lily.

It’s so good to see you, she said. With all these soldiers in town, we were afraid that it would take us all day to get through.

We haven’t dared go to the market in this mess, Lily laughed. And I doubt there is anything left worth buying.

There are a few men about, Hannah said, turning back to the wagon, but I might be able to help with your market needs a bit. She pulled a large hickory basket from behind the front seat.

Let’s see what Ikey packed for you... looks like ham biscuits, buttermilk, canned peaches, applesauce, potato salad, and a lemon jelly cake. Oh… and here are some fresh eggs, butter, new greens from my hot bed, and a leg of lamb.

Hmmmm. That sounds wonderful. Lily took the handle, and they both turned toward Abram, who had piled Hannah’s trunk and bags on the sidewalk.

Thank thee for bringing me. Hannah laid her hand on his arm, the blue linen cool under her fingers. Go with God, my friend.

And thee, my child, patting her hand on his arm, his face softer and thee. He climbed back in the wagon, and with a hah and a slap of the reins, drove away.

Hannah turned to Lily, also taking the basket handle, and they swung it between them as they strolled back to the house.

I am so glad you are come, Lily gushed. There’s been such excitement in the town, and I’ve so much to tell you. People are in such a lather –one minute it’s been secede, secede and the next minute stay, stay. Other folks just kind of look on, waiting to see on which side of the fence the peach drops before they decide. Mrs. Lee has been positively giddy— hardly ever leaves her porch ‘cause she’s so afraid of missing something. Mama’s over there most of the time, too, and the boys are just chomping at the bit to go.

They will fight then? Hannah asked, as they walked into the cool hallway.

Of course. I don’t think we could hold them back if we had to. They’ve been ready to go since South Carolina left back in December.

Hannah followed Lily into the kitchen, where they hoisted the basket onto the table. The kitchen was separated from the main house by a small breezeway—most kitchens were—to help protect the main house from fire, a fairly common occurrence. The brick floor and fireplace gave a rosy, warm glow to the room, and a large walnut table stood in pride of place in the center. From the ceiling rafters hung bundles of herbs, strings of dried apples, beans, and more pots. On the far wall was the fireplace, with alcoves for bread baking built into its sides, a large iron pot on a hook extended over the fire, and a Dutch oven and two stools on the hearth. On the left were the supply shelves, which burgeoned with pots, pans, crockery, and bowls of provisions. To the right and under the window, a smaller table sat with a large bowl for washing up and beside it, another door, which led directly out to the back kitchen garden. There were red check curtains at the window and a red rag rug on the floor. Hannah sighed with contentment.

I see Sophie is as wonderful as ever. Except for Ikey’s kitchen, this is my next favorite room anywhere. Hannah said. Things always feel so ordered here, like everything is right with the world. I think I’ll just hide in here for the duration.

Lily laughed. You are the one. You just love someone else’s cooking!

Well, there’s that, too, she grinned. Try as she might, cooking was one household chore for which she had no real fondness. Hannah could watch sheep for hours, or knit, or dig in the garden, but there was something about the transitory nature of cooking and cleaning that always irritated her. Bread, for example, took all day, and while she could tuck into the finished product with gusto, the result never seemed worth the effort it took.

Hannah? Someone called her from the front of the house.

In the kitchen, Mama! Lily yelled and Mrs. Barton walked in.

Hannah! How lovely! She strode to her and wrapped her in a hug. We’ve missed you! She was in her early 50s, small and sturdy, with light brown hair braided and tucked at the back of her head, similar to Lily’s. Her head came to Hannah’s nose, but Lily stood a whole head above her mother. Like her five brothers, she had also inherited her father’s height, but Lily had Mrs. Barton’s eyes – luminous and blue, with long lashes that framed her sense of humor. Funny Fanny as a girl, Mrs. Barton also exuded strength of will. With five boys, a daughter, a house in town and in the country, several woolen mills and a farm to run, she had long ago developed into an efficient manager. It was hard to imagine a situation she could not handle.

How was your journey? And what have you brought us? Mrs. Barton walked over to the basket, lifting out the viands and putting them on the table.

That Ikey spoils us, Lily laughed.

I don’t really think she trusts you town folk to feed me, Hannah said. She can’t figure out how you get food if you don’t live on a farm.

These days, me too, Mrs. Barton said, her face clouding. With this war coming, food will be a problem. It already is.

Surely, this is temporary, Mama. All these soldiers in town have made things scarce, that’s all.

I hope so. Mrs. Barton pulled her shawl closer around her. No one knows what to expect, but we’re already feeling the shortages, and prices going up, too.

But won’t that also be good for business? Lily asked.

Perhaps, dear, perhaps. Mrs. Barton still looked troubled. Hannah changed the subject.

Lily, I’m dying to see your dress for tonight. Will you show it to me?

Of course. Do you mind, Mama?

No, you two go on. I’m sure y’all have lots to talk about. She turned back to the food, and Lily tugged Hannah up the polished stairs and down the hall into her room.

Lily’s room looked out over dust-filled Market Street, a north-south thoroughfare on the eastern side of Winchester. The house was set practically on the sidewalk, and if they had chosen, Hannah and Lily could dump water on the heads of passersby below. As it was, they snuggled comfortably by her windows and peered out over the pulsing throng.

I know this war is serious and all, Lily said, leaning out her window, but I still find it so exciting! Have you ever seen so many people, Hannah?

Certainly not in Winchester. Hannah looked over the mass of movement in the street below. As Hannah looked over the crowd, she saw a soldier on horseback heading up the street on the edge of the roiling mass.

Lily, look at him. Lily craned her head and looked where Hannah was discreetly pointing.

Oh my, doesn’t he look dashing.

Do you know him? He sat on a beautiful chestnut gelding, and in his grey uniform with long brown boots, he sat his horse well. He had a brimmed hat that curled up on one side—and a plume. The hat looked a bit silly, but the set of his shoulders suggested authority.

No, I don’t, but I’d certainly like to meet him.

Do you know what those symbols on his shoulders mean?

I haven’t an idea. He looks like an officer, though.

I suppose we’ll have to start learning all about ranks and uniforms and whatsits like that, Hannah said. She looked at Lily, who had left the window and seemed to be throwing all of her dresses across her bed. Do your brothers know anything about this military mumbo-jumbo yet?

Dear heavens. That is all they seem to know anything about—or pay any attention to. They are constantly gone, gone, gone, and when Mama finally insists that they stay home for two minutes together, all they talk of is whose getting what rank and why and who knows whom and what color uniforms would be best. Father was approached by one of the quartermaster’s people about buying up our cloth and it’s all gone. The only thing we have left is the fabric for the VMI cadets, but Father wouldn’t let that go.

They wanted wool, in this heat? Hannah turned from the window and watched Lily as she twittered around the room, finding this earbob and that fan. Lily, slow down. We have all afternoon to get ready.

I know, but I want you to see my ensemble. I’ve been stewing for days about what to wear, and I want it just right. Lily tapped a fan against her mouth, then rushed across the room to her wardrobe again.

Just right, is it? Hannah said. And why is that so important, pray?

Lily stopped puttering and rushed over to grab Hannah’s hands.

Oh, Hannah—it’s too wonderful! I think I’ve found him!

Him?

Yes. Him! The one! She leapt up, twirling around the room. My cara mia! My dear esposa! The love of my life! She stopped twirling and looked right at Hannah. Him.

Of course. How silly of me. Him. Hannah took a deep breath. Lily, you …

I know, I know. But I can’t help it. There was just this feelin’ when we were talking and we just …connected. I can’t explain it. I didn’t even like him at first. Maybe that’s why. Since I didn’t like him I didn’t feel shy, and so when he said something stupid, I shot him down just like I do my brothers, and the next thing you know we were talking all evening and…

Whoa! Slow down! Who is he?

Lily drew herself up. Was that a drum roll in the room? Teddy Porter.

Teddy Porter. And just what is this ‘Teddy Porter’ like?

Oh, I know what you’ll say, Hannah. Lily bounced over to the mirror, biting her lips to bring more color to them. And it doesn’t matter. He’s all the usual things—tall, blonde, and handsome—but you know at the end of the day it’s more to do with something else. I don’t know what it is, but there’s just… something. I know that I want to be with him, and after a while, I don’t even think about the tall, blonde, and handsome part. He’s simply ‘Teddy.’

And where does Teddy come from? How did you meet him?

Lily skipped over and practically jumped up on the bed beside her. He’s from Pennsylvania originally, but he’s lived all over the place. Hunter McGuire met him in New Orleans. Teddy’s grandfather was an admiral or something–sounds absolutely terrifying—but Teddy grew up with lots of cousins, aunts, and uncles. He can sail boats and rides beautifully and …

Lily prattled on, about