“Oh, Mari.” Barbara took her arm and led her away from the panes of glass radiating cold, over to the settee by the snapping fire. They both sat. “Perhaps your emotions have been shifting because they hadn’t been aligned with the Lord’s will. Seek Him, and you will be able to trust where He leads you, whether that means remaining alone or loving again.”
The words sounded so simple, so wise. Yet never in her life had she given her future over to another, even One she knew to be so much bigger than she. But loving again…that implied she ever had, which she was none too sure of. Well no, that was unfair—she had loved Walker, as best as she knew how at the time. But when he hurt her…it had been so much easier to focus on more superficial things with Lucien and Dev. The breathless excitement, the glow of attraction, the sparkle of wealth.
The pride of knowing she could snag any man she wanted.
What a fool she was. Perhaps she had snagged them, snagged them both—but now she was caught in her own hooks with little hope of breaking the surface.
Seventeen
Devereaux swung down from the rented horse and tied it to the hitching post, his gaze sweeping over the large white house. The wooden sign planted just ahead said Appalachian Inn. Though on the direct road from Hagerstown to Cumberland, the coming of the rails had no doubt hit it hard since there was no stop here, twenty miles outside Cumberland and across the river from the rail line that went through West Virginia.
Perhaps that explained its dire need of a new coat of whitewash and neglected look. He had a very different image of it from his first visit here, with Father and Lucien, when he was a lad of eleven.
Ah, well. Times changed, fortunes rose and fell, and those who did not adapt were trampled.
A bell jangled when he opened the door, the brisk February wind gusting its way in with him. Devereaux cast his gaze around the entryway as vague recollections stirred. They had passed an entire month here in ’42, but most of his memories were linked to what he had done out of doors. All looked well-enough appointed, though, if worn to comfortable.
From deeper within the house came a call of, “Just a moment!” and then the soft tread of a female. He prepared a smile and tried to discern if the woman who emerged from the hall was the same Mrs. Jackson he had met before. Hard to say. Twenty-three years earlier, the proprietress had been a new bride. The woman before him now wore the black of mourning, had streaks of silver in her hair, and bore lines on her pleasant face.
Her smile was tired but welcoming. “Good morning. May I help you, sir?”
“Certainly. I’m Devereaux Hughes. I’d like to book a room for a few nights. Are you Mrs. Jackson?”
She headed around a high desk to where a book lay opened upon it. If she recognized his name, she gave no indication. “I am. Have you stayed with us before?”
“Many years ago when I was a boy. I have fond recollections of exploring the area with my brother. I believe your husband took us fishing one day.” He set his bag down by his feet.
Her smile turned wistful. “That sounds like Peter. He always took time for the guests.” She trailed a finger with a torn nail down a page in the book. “I will put you in the East Room, shall I? Our best.”
“Perfect.”
“I’ll have my niece ready it for you, and my nephew see to your horse. Please make yourself comfortable in the parlor for a few minutes.” She motioned him to the right and then disappeared back the hall once more.
Devereaux meandered into the parlor, his gaze flitting from faded painting to faded rug to faded sofa. Against such a backdrop, the newish-looking photograph displayed upon the mantel stood out. He moved toward it, frowning at the two men pictured in Confederate uniforms.
The one on the right looked somewhat familiar, but only because he expected to see him here. Peter Jackson, proprietor, he was fairly sure. Standing next to a man far more recognizable, though Devereaux had never met him.
Stonewall Jackson.
Interesting. He looked from one bearded man to the other, noting a resemblance. Interesting indeed.
But far more than who might be a relation to whom was the unexpected information that he was staying in a Confederate home. If he had needed encouragement to go about his task, this would have provided it.
The soft rustle of heavy fabric from the hall made him turn as Mrs. Jackson swished her way into the room. She came to a halt, a smile frozen upon her face when her gaze landed on him by the fireplace. Glancing from the photograph to him, she cleared her throat. “Would you care for some refreshment, Mr. Hughes?”
He could understand her hesitation to address the photograph. One never could tell, in their part of the country, where a stranger’s loyalties might lie. “Thank you, but I need nothing right now.” He motioned toward the picture. “I believe I recognize your husband. Was the esteemed general a relative of his?”
“Cousin.” Her shoulders were square, tense, though her face remained clear of shadows. “Are you of the railroading family of Hugheses, sir?”