Bubbling over in a way the staid, practical matriarch of the Burtons never had—the excitement of all these wonderful announcements, her newly disclosed pregnancy, or a combination thereof?—she bustled toward her workplace, with her nonplussed sisters trailing after.
The four men, ordered to sit around like statues, obeyed. But all with smiles or broad grins or expressions of wonderment that, in this whole world, such a coincidence could happen. From the kitchen came fluttery murmurings of, “I just can’t believe it!” and “Who would ever think—?” and “Truth is stranger than fiction!” (although it was never quite clear just where that last comment might fit in.)
At one point, in the wait for servings of whatever to be brought in, Ben reached out, clasped his brother’s hand, and shook hard. Then emotion got the better of him. Swiping a sleeve across his eyes, he shambled over to stir the fire into greater flame and turn up the wick on several lamps for more illumination.
At last, a tray with hot tea, cups, and all the trimmings was brought in, and Camellia, spreading her green-sprigged skirts, settled in beside her husband like a little broody hen. “There,” she said with satisfaction. “The best we could do on short notice. Letty, dear, would you pour?”
Ben took in the elaborate preparations of silver and china, and his heart almost melted into mush. “Cam, darlin’, we don’t really need to—”
“We do, indeed. With everything that has happened here tonight, all the incredibly good things coming to this family of ours, it is a cause for celebration. Now. Letty. Pour.”
No one dared disobey a request (command?) made by Camellia in that tone of voice. She would certainly prove to be a strong, disciplined mother to her child, thought Letitia somewhat disconcertedly, as she came forward to comply.
Despite being distracted by all the drama taking place here and now, Letty couldn’t help feeling a smidgen of pride that she looked her best, and she could but wish that Reese had found time to take heed of her appearance. Bountiful hair tied back with a pretty beige silk bow; three-piece dress of warm burgundy and ecru, bodice built with lace and covered buttons; striped underskirt and slightly poufy cream-colored short overskirt only adding to her allure (she hoped).
Reese was the last to be served. Her hand did not tremble, as she passed the cup and saucer to him; her grasp did not allow the porcelain to rattle; her fingers did not touch his in anticipation and anguish. No. After all, she had coldly ordered him, just three days previously, to stay away until he was ready to share. That might be in the works, but it hadn’t happened yet.
“Is everyone at ease?” Camellia, looking around the room, asked brightly.
Not long ago, Camellia, foreseeing an ever expanding circle of family gatherings, based upon her experience of the last six months, had decided to order a second divan from her husband’s store. Unless she did, she had reasonably argued, there would be no place for guests to sit. Accepting her logic without much fuss, he had sighed and acquiesced.
Now Molly, as usual no slave to decorum, was curled up next to her betrothed, with his arm happily encircling her waist and her head resting against his shoulder. In the corner of this newest addition to the parlor furnishings, Hannah, feeling plainly discomfited by such a public display but reluctant to make any fuss during important proceedings, was installed.
Ben and Camellia had more circumspectly taken the settee opposite, with Letitia squeezed stiffly in beside them. Then there were Gabriel and Reese, settled into their single upholstered chairs—one of carved mahogany and tufted red velvet, the other an oak rocker padded in rose needlepoint.
All sat quietly, sipping tea. Waiting.
Camellia beamed. “Very well, Reese. Or—Cole, if you prefer. Please begin, because we’d very much like to hear your story.”
A muscle flickered along the line of his jaw as he stared down at his half-empty cup. “I thank you, ma’am, but I ain’t rightly sure where to start.”
Carefully Ben cleared his throat. Clearly the sudden reappearance of this prodigal brother was not only stunning, but also very welcome. Witness to that was the smile that simply would not, could not, leave his face, and brightened the softly lit surroundings like a shaft of sunshine. “We saw each other, partway through the war, that last time I left the farm forever. Start there.”
If the younger Forrester felt some sense of intimidation by laying his soul bare (so to speak) in front of strangers he’d met such a short time ago, he was encouraged by Ben’s immediate acceptance. “Fair enough.”
Reese began with the bit of family history with which Camellia was already familiar: their parents’ home in Memphis, and the strife there almost as contentious as the War itself.
“Our oldest brother, Jackson, got involved at the very beginnin’,” he reminisced quietly. “Joined up with the Confederate army, right after the surrender at Ft. Sumter, and eventually fell at Gettysburg in ’63. Meanwhile Ben, here, took the Union side and fought at the Battle of Shiloh, and somehow found himself mixed up in Antietam, both in ’62. And then,” the register of his voice lowered, “we know what happened after that.”
Molly, still snuggled close to her swain, looked up with widened eyes. “What happened?” she whispered.
The clear green gaze lifted to meet hers. “Ben came home on leave, just for a couplea days, and the folks turned him in. They called the local authorities, who hauled him away in chains.”
Those who had not been aware of this fact—the ladies—gasped in horror. “Their own son?”
“Reckon you were too young, or too far away, to realize what all went on b’tween family members at that time,” Reese reflected. His attention swiveled to Ben, and for just a moment a flash of understanding deepened their bond. “Ma and Pop—well, they were rabid believers in the Cause. The idea that one of their own might put on a blue uniform like to drove ’em crazy, and they couldn’t wait to get this traitor locked away.”
“And hanged,” was Ben’s almost inaudible comment.
Shivering, Camellia took his big hand between both of her own to hold fast.
“He escaped?” This was Hannah, entirely caught up in the harrowing recital.
“He did. By the grace of God he got away, and he never went back. I, myself,” mused their storyteller for his audience, gently swirling what little tea was left in his cup, “joined up the next day. Union, just like my big brother.” He managed a thin smile. “My parents had called me a coward, made me feel lower‘n a snake’s belly b’cause they figured I didn’t wanna bleed and die in a wrongful war. I decided to show ’em.”
“You never told the old man what you were doin’?” Ben showed his surprise.
“Naw. Didn’t see any reason to. Got this—” One finger brushed lightly against the scar on his face, “—at The Wilderness, in ’64. Nasty bayonet, and a nasty man b’hind it.”