I watched to see if Mr. Colchester was observing her unusual performance. He stood near the fire, deep in conversation with a man I eventually learned was Colonel James Eshton. Colonel Eshton had dark hair he wore parted on the side and a silky mustache that turned up at the ends. One of the women who took up some of the knitting was his wife, Caroline. She was handsome and smiling and seemed to enjoy the comfort of the party. Her daughter, Amber, a small and childlike young woman, chose needle and muslin and sat herself near Belinda, where they proceeded to whisper in confidence. An older woman, Sally Morgan, joined Missus Eshton at the knitting. She was the wife of Mr. Thomas Morgan, who sat on the couch across from the hearth and smoked a cigar. He had attended West Point with Colonel Eshton but, owing to some failure of health, had not fought in the Mexican War with his classmate. He had two firebrand young sons, Robert and Colson, and from his conversation I gathered he was eager for them to experience what he had missed out on.
These sons played at billiards with Nicholas Parma, the heavy, round-faced son of Mr. Parma, the farmer. I’d seen Mr. Parma before in the village, and Mr. Nicholas was the spitting image of his father. Both were stout men with thin hair on their heads but thick scruffy beards on their chins. Between shots he sipped from a glass of whiskey he kept perched on the corner of the billiards table.
Sitting opposite from Mr. Morgan was Miss Belinda’s father, Phillip Chamberlain. He was a tall man with white hair and a thin body that reminded me of a grasshopper’s when he sat and bent his long legs to cross them. His son, Joseph, with eyes like his sister’s, stood behind the couch with Mr. Parma drinking brandy.
Miss Belinda, employed with her elegant cutting and whispering to Miss Eshton, gave me the opportunity to quietly study her. Her gold ringlets shone in the light. Her face was open and unfurrowed. She was confident in her expressions. I detected a trace of haughtiness. Nay, more than a trace—how else would she have the nerve to enter the room and order me about without knowing my name or position in the company?
Very carefully, I turned my gaze to Mr. Colchester. It had been weeks since the night he had saved my life and Jelly’s, and I had not seen him since. I wanted to take the vision in slowly lest I be overwhelmed and thrust into emotional confusion. But I had underestimated what I would see. Mr. Colchester in formal clothing was a new sight to behold. Though his person and features were the same—the striking eyes, the dark hair, now beautifully tamed, and the strong figure—they were all now polished in this costume. Add to this the energy that came of being in communication with a group, much as I had seen in the village, and I found myself drawn to him yet again. As much as I resisted, I felt attached to him and knew this attachment to be more than fondness, more than kinship. I loved him.
I compared him with his guests. What was the gallant grace of the Morgans, the languid elegance of Mr. Chamberlain, even the military distinction of Colonel Eshton, contrasted with Mr. Colchester’s look of authentic expression? Yes, anyone else would call this assembled dozen attractive, beautiful, handsome, gracious, imposing. They would deem Mr. Colchester acceptable, but with an alien nature and a heart not easily touched. But I took pleasure in his smile and the way he looked by the light of the candles. When he spoke, the eyes that were often so wild and disconcerting seemed searching and sweet.
And I will say this about Belinda Chamberlain: For all her beauty and intelligence, she did not attract him. He allowed her a share in the conversation, which she attended to carefully, tossing in comments during pauses in her talk with Miss Eshton. He deferred to her whenever there was a disagreement. But she seemed more concerned with pleasing him than he was concerned about pleasing her. I felt certain it would be difficult for her to secure his affection. There was something lacking in their connection.
He is not to her what he is to me, I thought. He is not of her kind. I believe he is of mine—I am sure he is. I feel akin to him; I understand the language of his looks, the odd bents of his humor. We can never be attached in the world, but I have to confess to myself an aspect of my body and my being will always be drawn to him by a natural, irrefutable force. This is how it must be, though it breaks my heart to think it. While I breathe and function upon this earth, I must love him.
These thoughts were overtaken by the conversation of the room when Mr. Colchester and Colonel Eshton’s discourse on the war drew in everyone.
“The South will strike first,” Colonel Eshton was saying. “Lincoln, as president, would never invade another state without a clear declaration of war, no matter how many Southern states secede.”
“A mistake in my opinion,” said the young Mr. Parma. “We should march straight to Alexandria and give those rebels a good spanking.”
Mr. Colson agreed. “Finish it all before it gets started.”
“In that case,” said Mr. Ingram with a broad smile, “our ladies are working too hard. The army won’t need so many provisions for a war that will be over within a month.”
There was some general laughter over this, but then Mr. Colchester said, “You underestimate the Southern spirit.”
“Ah, that’s right!” Mr. Nicholas rapped the end of his billiards cue upon the floor. “You know something about it. Them rebs may as well be your brothers, ain’t that right? Do you know what side you’re on, Colchester?”
“You wouldn’t be guests in my house if I didn’t.”
The elder Mr. Parma gave his son a hard, cold look, and the young man bowed his head slightly in Mr. Colchester’s direction.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir. I didn’t mean to offend.”
Mr. Colchester returned the bow. “I only meant to say some folks don’t know when they’re whipped. The South is full of them.”
Captain Morgan shook his head. “But if the fighting grows hot, come winter they will freeze—and starve. Their farms are planted with cotton and tobacco, unlike the bounty we enjoy here. We have the wheat and the corn.”
I had a thought in response, and it seemed like it walked through my mind and emerged from Mr. Colchester’s mouth:
“But the South has sugarcane,” he said. “Molasses, sweet flour, cane juice, soup, even rum. Not a good diet in the long term but enough to keep an army on its feet.”
“Colchester’s right,” said Mr. Morgan. “Our advantage lies in our factories, the ability to manufacture artillery, ammunition, footwear, and uniforms.”
Coffee was set out, and the ladies left their stations to fill their cups and join the men. Missus Livingston and two of the maids who came with the guests slipped in silently to replace them. No one took up Miss Chamberlain’s task, however, and I saw I would soon be done rolling the strips she had cut.
“How will you get your wares to the soldiers in the field?” Mr. Colchester asked Miss Belinda, who had taken a seat near him.
“Yes, they are hers, aren’t they?” Mr. Chamberlain beamed at his daughter. “For those of you who don’t know, my Belinda raised the funds for these provisions herself.”
“I suppose it is my duty, then, to see that they go to those who are intended to use them.” She swept an elegant arm through the air. “I will drive them to the battle lines myself if I must.”