~ The Vivandiere ~

by

Sandra J. Dugas

 Union Encampment, 10 Miles South of Spotsylvania Courthouse, March 1861

Prologue

“Malcolm!”

He turned and she was there, like always, running toward him across the barnyard, laughing brightly, her long, auburn hair flowing behind her like a banner of silk. He caught her up and swung her around, gazing into her beautiful brown eyes touched with gold, and glittering with love. Slowly he lowered her down, his eyes never leaving her face. A face he would know anywhere.

“Malcolm.”

She said his name softly, seductively. Dear God, how he wanted her. He lowered his mouth to hers. She stretched up on her toes, pressing her breasts into his chest, teasing him, enticing him. Their lips met. Fire upon fire. His tongue found hers and desire consumed him. He had to possess her. He had to have her. He pulled her closer, crushing her to him...

KA-BO-O-OM!!

The first explosion caught him unawares. Malcolm jerked away from the girl and turned. Behind him the confusion of a battlefield erupted. Canon smoke, soot, dust and dirt, screaming, and the field littered with men caught up in war. He heard the shrieking, saw men falling to gun fire, smelled the acrid smoke wrought by shell fire, and the rusty scent of blood. Another explosion, too close.

Behind him, she screamed. He turned back. The farmhouse was gone, but she was still there, staring at him with horror in her eyes. He grabbed her hand and began to run toward the trees. He had to get her to shelter. He had to save her.

She stumbled over her skirts and fell. He fell with her.

He got back to his feet and pulled her up, but it was too late. He heard the horseman gaining on them and turned. The rider raced toward them, saber raised over his head. Malcolm reached for his revolver. He aimed and fired, but nothing happened. Perspiration beaded his forehead; the rider was almost upon him. He reached for his saber, but his scabbard was empty.

Dear God, he was unarmed, and the rider was on him now. He could do nothing but stare up into the cold, pale eyes of the man who was about to cut him down.

“Malcolm, no!” the girl shrieked. She pushed him aside just as the saber sliced downward.

“No-o-o!” The cry ripped from his throat and Malcolm sat bolt upright, his lungs heaving, his body covered with sweat.

“Major! Major MacInnes, are you all right?”

Malcolm looked up at the young man running toward him. Corporal Lester. Then he glanced around himself. Camp. He gulped in a deep lungful of air. It had only been a dream. Thank God. But...it was the dream. It was back.

  He raised one unsteady hand to wave assurance to the corporal, and ran the other through his damp hair. “I--I’m fine, Corporal.”

“Yes, sir.” Corporal Lester halted, then ambled away.

Malcolm held one hand in front of his face and stared at it. He couldn’t will the trembling to cease. He dropped it to his lap and glanced at the camp around him. He hadn’t had the dream in such a long time. Why had it come back now?

He tried to shake off his lingering uneasiness, but the dream had been so vivid this time, and terrifying. And the girl. She had been so...real. The oddest part of the whole thing, however, was the persistent feeling that he knew her. She felt familiar somehow. Surely that was only because he'd dreamed of her often enough. She wasn't real. Certainly he'd never met her. If he had, he would have remembered.

He lay back on his bedroll and closed his eyes. From past experience he knew the dream was over and it wouldn’t come again tonight. Thank God he’d reach Washington by tomorrow evening. Then he could look forward to a nice long stretch of peaceful leave...

 

Handelman's Mercantile, Fredericksburg, Virginia, March 1861

Chapter 1

            “Five inches deep and shipped all the way from New Orleans!"

“It’s beautiful, Mrs. Handelman.”

“And it would look so nice with that blue dress you’re making. Ja?”

It would indeed, but...Abigail released the delicately scalloped lace she’d been fingering and shook her head. “Thank you, Mrs. Handelman, but I--I can’t afford it. What with our winter crops doing so poorly...”

  The plump woman patted her shoulder. “Na, do not worry over that. Papa and I want you to have it. Come, let me wrap it up for you.”

Abigail’s eyes widened with pleasure, but just as quickly an image of her father's disapproving scowl evaporated her elation. She shook her head again. “I couldn’t possibly--”

  “You can, liebchen, and you will. Here now--you wait right here une Augenblick.” Winking, Mrs. Handelman pulled the bolt from the shelf and trundled off behind the counter to disappear in the back.

Abigail could scarcely suppress her giddy grin and, clasping her hands together, she pressed them to her lips to stifle a giggle. Just what she needed to finish her dress in time for Peter’s return. And what a dress it would be.

Thinking of the silky blue satin gown awaiting her under a dust cloth back home in her bedroom, she slid one hand over the bodice of her plain, green cotton gingham. She'd never owned anything so fine, so expensive, so fashionable as that satin dress. She smiled to think her father would likely have an apoplexy over the bodice, cut daringly low, but it was the style women were wearing these days, and she was near enough a woman. She traced her full bust approvingly with her hand. Eighteen years and eight months...and every bit as shapely as the women she'd seen at Mrs. Barnaby's House of Repose, a place for men of certain vice.

Strolling to one of the freestanding shelves laden with toiletries, she picked up a bar of soap and lifted it to savor the sweet lavender scent. Just as hushed voices from the other side reached her ears, and pricked her feelings.

“Imagine that! Alma Handelman giving her all that lovely lace.”

“Well the woman never had any common sense.”

“I've never understood how Alma can dote on her. Everyone knows what kind of a girl she is."

“Yes. Wild and wanton as any of those ladies at Mrs. Barnaby's. Abigail O'Connor is a trollop, that’s what she is, and it’s too bad her poor old Papa doesn't know it. She's going to disgrace him, and put him in an early grave--”

“Oh, you're so right, dear. Look how she's been chasing after that Gallagher boy. Why, I've heard she's already given him what he's after and that's what keeps him sniffing around her door.”

“Well, he'll never marry her.”

“He most certainly will not. You did hear, didn’t you, Iris dear? He's become engaged to a girl over to Halifax County way.”

“Peter Gallagher is engaged? I hadn’t heard.”

“Oh my, yes! His parents are simply delighted with the girl. She comes from a very good family. Her father is involved in cotton or peanuts, or some such, and they’re very well off.”

“Well, won’t Miss Abigail O’Connor be shocked to hear about this.”

“Hmphf. No surprise to me. I knew he would never have her.”

“And what gentleman would? She’s a tramp.”

  “That’s right. And why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?”

Abigail stood stock still several long moments after the whispers ended, her ears ringing in the silence and her eyes throbbing with the presence of tears. The names didn't truly bother her; she’d heard them all before. Growing up on the outskirts of society without a mother to curb her enthusiasm, she’d quickly been branded a hoyden. No, it wasn’t the cruel names that stung, but...Peter was engaged? It wasn’t possible. It couldn't be true! Lying old biddies. She sucked in a hard, painful breath. Peter would never betray her--he wouldn’t! He’d sworn he loved her. Carefully, she replaced the bar of soap, fighting back the sob that ached to escape. Then, as quietly as she was able, she walked to the end of the shelf and peeked round the end.

The three women had moved closer to the front counter. She could probably reach the door without being noticed, though she had to cross that open space...She took a deep steadying breath, gathered her skirts and started toward the back of the store.

  “Abigail, where are you going?”

Abigail halted, bright crimson creeping up her face. Humiliating titters erupted behind her. Slowly, she turned back. Mrs. Handelman was bustling toward her with a wrapped package, but behind the German woman...the three women at the counter were sharing smug grins and whispering behind gloved hands. Abigail’s cheeks flamed brighter still, but she held her ground and waited for Mrs. Handelman. She accepted the package with a wan smile. Lace for the dress she was making to wear for Peter--which suddenly weighed as much as an armload of bricks.

“Thank you, Mrs. Handelman,” she murmured, crushing the package to her chest as another panicky sob rose inside her. She had to get out. She had to flee. She turned and practically ran through the door, but the sunshine blinded her the moment she stepped outside. Stumbling to a halt, she had to squint to see across the broad porch front. Down below her father’s wagon waited, already loaded with supplies and sacks of seed. Her safe haven.