Captain Hart ignored him. He lifted his rifle and held it in the crook of his elbow, pointed at the ground, the very image of power under control. “Miss? Can I have a word?”
Elise pressed her lips together, wishing her mouth wasn’t so dry. Why on earth is he here? How did he find me? My uncle will thrash me proper if I leave my station … And yet, when Captain Hart motioned with his head toward the door, she found herself wanting to follow him, curiosity winning over all.
“Yes.” She wiped her hands on her apron and slid off her stool. As she edged around the dog, Captain Hart moved between her and her uncle.
“Heel, boy.” The dog relaxed and came to his master’s side. Uncle Zeb pushed himself off the wall, rubbing his sore hand, scowling.
Captain Hart stepped out into the alley behind the factory and away from the door, his stride long and confident. Elise had never had the opportunity to observe him upright and healthy before, and his height struck her. He must be well over six feet. Near six and a half, maybe. And lithe as a cat.
The alley stank of discarded refuse, rotting cabbage, and old smoke. Grimy brick walls rose on either side, blocking out the sun. He turned to her, and behind him on the street, New Rochelle, New York, bustled and hurried, indifferent to the sadness and suffering around it, intent on its own purposes.
Elise stuffed a stray lock under the kerchief covering her hair, and folded her hands at her waist, wishing that her apron was clean at least. Sniffing and snuffling the plethora of odors and smells in the alley, the dog nosed from one pile of trash to the next. The captain looked down on her, saying nothing, and she forced herself not to fidget under his intent stare.
Finally, he spoke. “Is that man your husband?”
Elise blinked. “No.” As if I would marry such a contemptible tyrant, and twice my age or better?
“But you live with him? He said he took you in.”
“He’s my uncle, though admitting it brings me no joy.” She twisted her fingers at her waist.
“Are you married to anyone?”
She almost laughed. A spinster of thirty years whose uncle had long ago discouraged any man from courting her lest he lose his unpaid servant, she’d given up hope of marriage and family. Who would want her anyway, a penniless factory worker? It was a question with which her querulous uncle often taunted her. Old maid, plain as a slice of bread, useless hanger-on.
“No, sir. I am not married to anyone.”
Something in him seemed to ease. He shifted his weight and adjusted the rifle in his clasp. “Do you want to be?”
Elise’s hands went slack, and she raised her eyebrows. “Pardon me?” What kind of question was that, and to be asked so abruptly by a man she hadn’t seen in ten years or more?
He sucked in a deep breath, expanding his already broad chest. The presses in the factory began their familiar thumping and banging, and Uncle Zeb’s shout berating his workers pierced the fall air. “Is there some place quiet we could talk?” Captain Hart had to raise his voice.
She nodded, knowing her uncle would be watching the clock, ready to punish her for every second away from her work. Still, she might as well be hung for a sheep as hung for a lamb. Edging past Captain Hart in the dingy alley, she led the way out on to the street and down toward the waters of Long Island Sound. The small strip of green grass and trees that the city called a park was the only refuge Elise had when her life threatened to overwhelm her. Directing him to a bench, she looked out over the water, letting the lap and scrape of the waves against the rocky shoreline calm her.
The dog charged to the water’s edge, scattering the gulls and barking, high-stepping along the shore, his tail wagging.
The captain took the near end of the bench, stretched his long legs out, and crossed his booted ankles. His rifle rested against the bench at his side. Elise paused before stepping over his legs to sit, smoothing her skirts, wishing she’d thought to grab her shawl as the brisk mid-October wind blew in over the water.
When he made no move to speak, she said, “I never thought I would see you again.” Glancing up at his profile, she realized he’d put her on his right so the damaged side of his face was away from her. She recalled the last time she had seen him, weak and bandaged, being dragged from his hospital bed and shoved into a train car for the trip to Fort Delaware and the prisoner of war camp. He and so many of his fellow Confederates. Though she had protested their treatment, knowing many were still too sick and injured to survive the journey, the surgeon had ignored her, shunting them off like so many cattle to the slaughter. All she could do was press a few pieces of hardtack into his hand as he was shoved away from her.