“Not a soul, you say?”
“Not a single, solitary person left to her. Piteous, isn't it?”
Rebecca Thatcher shifted in her seat, her dark brown eyes trailing towards the mist at the window. Fog rolling up from the river covered the town of St. Petersburg in a soupy blanket that morning. She hissed as her finger slipped, stabbing her pointer finger with her embroidery needle.
“Becky?”
The judge's daughter blinked over at the three young women across from her. Childhood friends, Louisa Cook, Amy Lawrence and Mercy Landry. All four of them had been raised to be accomplished young ladies in a civilized world. The war between the states had erased much civility and left their accomplishments as useless trinkets. More causalities of war. Like most of the young men they had grown up alongside in their small Missouri town on the Mississippi.
Tom. Huckleberry.
Becky shoved the names from her mind and fashioned a calm simper on her face. “I'm sorry, what were you saying?”
“The Widow Douglas and her ward,” Mercy replied with a smirk on her lean face. “What a dreadfully old fashioned word but that's the one she used when she was speaking with my mother.The girl is little more than a penniless relation, begging at doorsteps-”
“No need for such bitterness, Mercy,” Louisa commented snidely. “At least the girl has been married, which is more than the rest of us can say.”
“Widowed at nineteen though. How gothic.”
Becky fought rolling her eyes. “This day in age, its more common than not. In St. Petersburg alone, there are more widows than I care to consider.”
Mercy leaned forward in her seat to pour herself another cup of coffee. Chickory coffee. With wartime shortages there was no real coffee to be found for miles. Though they were better off than others who made theirs from acorn grounds.“There is quite the drama surrounding it. Her mother was Missouri born but married a man from Massachusetts, the girl was raised in Boston-”
“But then she went against her father's wishes and married a boy from Virignia right before the war. She was only fifteen! A forbidden elopement,” Amy interrupted excitedly. Clearly, she had already heard the story.
Mercy's expression soured as she lost her chance to be the one to spread the gossip. Shooting a glare at Amy, she settled back into the faded settee.“It was quite the scandal by all accounts. But it doesn't matter now because the girl's father and husband were both killed in battle.”
“How is she related to Widow Douglas?” Becky asked, tugging a thread through her linen handkerchief.
“A great niece, I believe. On her mother's side, of course. She's not due in town for another couple weeks, if she makes it at all with how dangerous the roads are now. Though I have no doubt she will be nothing but an eastern snob. Putting on airs as though we were a Confederate state.” Mercy sniffed, glancing down at the shawl she was crocheting. “Well at least we can return to stitching something lovelier than those ghastly bandages for the soldiers. I swear, the cloth gave me callouses that I still cannot smooth out.”
At least those are the only wartime hardships you've suffered from; rough hands. Thought Becky, the words sizzling in her exhausted brain. The children at the school had been particularly trying that week. Since the old school master's retirement, she had been the only one left to teach in St. Petersburg. It was a profession her father still had yet to accept.
The door to the Landry's parlor banged open, Mercy's younger brother Todd huffing in the doorway. The young women jolted in their seats, Amy chirping a squeal of surprise.
“More soldiers home, five of them!” Todd gasped before his older sister could scold him.
Becky's heart dropped, her sewing falling to her lap and then to the floor as she rose. She had been disappointed so many times before in the months following the surrender at Appomatox. Only five this time, five chances to see the two faces she longed for, the two men who had left her torn when they had marched to war nearly three years earlier. Louisa shot a look at her friend and Becky fought off the impulse to reach for her hand. She couldn't let the other two know what she was feeling, the gossip about her own failed love affairs would resurface and that would only leave her more bereft.
The girls crowded around the nearby window. Becky stood off to the side, gripping her trembling hands behind her back.
“Can you see from here?” Amy tucked back the curtains, “Maybe we should go outside to get a better look. The crowd in the street is making it difficult-”
“What? And look like a gaggle of desperate gawkers? It's not like we have anyone to be waiting for to come home. Well...not all of us...” The edge to Mercy's voice was subtle enough to be ignored but still noticed by everyone.
Becky wondered why she still attended their sewing circle meetings with the girl. Mercy had never forgotten that both Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, the richest boys in St. Petersburg, had been monopolized by Becky as war had broken out. Rumors had abounded about a love triangle, most were false. But a few had been true.
Becky rested a hand on the window frame as a familiar figure came into view. Dressed in shabby union blue, he used a crutch made from a tree root as he hobbled into town. One boot with the toe burst open and the pant leg where his other foot should have been was pinned at the knee.
“Joseph Harper? It couldn't be...” Amy breathed.
But it was. One of Tom's best friends. The surgeon's saw had butchered him as well, his leg left behind somewhere on a gory battlefield. Becky's vision sparked with gray spots, the back of her neck prickling with anxiety. She had forgotten to breathe.
Wordlessly, the girls turned and rushed to the door. Even Mercy had set aside her pride, a rare occurrence. Only Becky stood frozen at the window.
Louisa paused at the parlor door after the other two had left. “Becky?”
“I'll be along shortly,” she muttered, running a hand over her damp throat, sweat dotting her forehead. The door closed behind her and Becky was left in blissful solitude to collect herself.
Countless nights, she had tossed in bed. Plagued by nightmares after word had reached town of a dead husband or brother, another maimed in the body or the mind, mothers dressed in black for sons that were still only children of fourteen years old. She hung on to the few letters she was able to receive from them. Both of them.
Huck with his hurried scrawl, one yellowed sheet smeared with something that resembled blood.
Tom with his easy going script of lies. So many lies. Well fed. No action yet. Safe. As though she didn't know any better.
There were fewer and fewer men coming home now. In May, they had seen veterans hobble home on a daily basis, either returning to St. Petersburg or passing through to other townships down river. They heard tell that the last of the fighting rebels had surrendered and the country was finally at peace. A festering, confused peace, but brothers weren't killing each other anymore.
Being a border state, Missouri saw both colors on their boys. Everyone in town knew who went to fight for the north and who for the south. Resentment would certainly grow in coming years but for now, everyone was quiet with exhaustion.
“Just let them come home,” Becky breathed a familiar prayer, drawing a hand over her head and smoothing it down to the low bun of black hair at the base of her skull. “Clear the way.”
The crowd outside parted briefly, giving her a better view. She caught sight of a long limbed veteran in blue, his face obscured by a scruffy beard and his clothes in tatters. It was only a moment but she knew him at once. On the street, Louisa whipped towards the window where Becky stood. She met her eyes, her friend's mouth was tight with emotion.
Finally the prayer had been answered. At least half of it.
ns 172.69.6.159da2
and then Add to home screen.