Chrismas Reclaimed
Part Two

HATTON WILLOWS, DECEMBER 1862

Colonel Francis Clay Mosby banged again on the front door of his house.

"There's still no answer, Robert. Where could they be?" Drawing his gun, he peered through the portico window but Hatton Willows was as dark as the moonless night.

Captain Robert Shelby shivered on the snowy Christmas Eve and shook his head. "Maybe they're holdin' the ball somewhere else this year.

"Clay arched an eyebrow sarcastically. "Where? Shelby Hills? It's not even midnight. I don't understand this."

Robert thrust his hands deeper into his pockets and stamped his feet. "Well, I'm tired and hungry and freezin' and just as confused as you. Don't you have a key?"

"The door is obviously barred from within."

He waved his gun helplessly. Returning from delivering routine dispatches to their brigade commander in the Shenandoah Valley, the two newly-promoted young soldiers had been allowed to make a short stop to visit for the holiday, especially in deference to the death of Clay's brother and the crippling injuries his father received at Sharpsburg. Settling their horses in the nearly-empty stables, they strode eagerly up the shadowy brick path to the house, only to find it ominously quiet.

"This doesn't make any sense." Clay retraced his steps down the path and around to the side of the house, replacing his gun in its holster. "Come on, we'll have to get in the old way." Robert blinked up at the sky and grimaced at the thought.

During their adolescence, the two childhood friends concocted a way to get in and out of the house without his parents knowing. Climbing a now-shaky trellis enabled them to swing over to and then walk across a window ledge perpendicular to the Doric column outside the second floor balcony. Two hidden footholds kicked into the back of the white-washed pillar allowed them to climb high enough to grasp the upper floor's balustrade and give them access into any room on the west side of the house. Robert's clumsy physical ability had bruised both his pride and his bottom many times over the years and he worked his way up carefully, almost slipping on the snow-slick sill.

Finally managing to pull himself over the balcony rail, he grabbed for his friend. "Wait! Not the bedroom."

"Why, do you think Mary has a lover in there?" Clay spat out.

"More than likely a knife. I just don't want you to give her a heart attack. Let's go through the playroom." Silently, they darted forth, employing the military-style tactics they made up as children, now being used in real-life battles instead of pretend ones. Counting the windowsills to himself, Clay found the one he wanted and grunted as he raised the ice-stuck casement. Cautiously, he straddled the window sash, trying to recall the arrangement of furniture in the room so he wouldn't bump into any, but just then Robert catapulted into the room behind him, accidentally knocking both of them to the floor.

"Are you all right?"

"You idgit!"

"Sorry! I slipped!"

"Who's there?" Suddenly they were blinded by an orange flash and deafened by a thunderous boom. Pulling out their guns and staggering to their feet, Clay and Robert were shocked to see Mary standing before them, holding her grandfather's musket, as Katherine Mosby lit a candle.

"Clay!"

He glanced at the hole in the wall behind him, exactly at head-level had he been standing.

"Nice shot," he replied shakily.

Mary dropped the gun and flung herself into his arms, sobbing on his shoulder.

"Shhhh, darlin', it's all right, it's all right." Clay's hands scrolled up and down her back, trying calm her down. "What is goin' on here?"

Katherine Mosby placidly handed her candle to Robert and lit several others in the room.

"You surprised us."

"I understand but...greetin' us with a gun? And what happened to the Christmas Eve ball?

His mother took a deep, shuddery breath. "Two weeks ago, a Yankee division passed by a little too closely for comfort. We felt precautions needed to be taken." She gestured towards the door. "We're all sleepin' in the back of the house now, so when we heard the noise on the balcony...well..."

Mary hiccuped a last sob and pulled away from her husband. "I'm sorry, Clay. We didn't know what to expect."

"As I didn't expect you to be such a crackfire shootist. >Better not tell Armistead or he'll enlist you for our brigade."

Surveying her handiwork, she finally smiled. "Yes, that was nice shootin', wasn't it?"

Clay's eyes widened in astonishment. "You almost murdered your husband and now you're braggin' about it?"

"Close the window, please, Robert. And, Francis, pick up the gun and we'll join your father downstairs." Katherine Mosby's calm manner imparted a steadiness all around and they followed her instructions without question. "Permilla can find some food for you, if you're hungry."

Robert's stomach grumbled in response but Clay shook his head as they headed down the hall. "Thank you, but we can wait 'till mornin', Mother. Let's just retire for the evenin'." He squeezed Mary's shoulder in a teasing reassurance. "I'd like to be well-rested for whatever excitement might greet me in the daylight."

Clay crossed his arms behind his head as he lay back, watching admiringly as Mary sat at the rosewood vanity, brushing her titian curls. Her movements had a dignity and maturity to them he found unfamiliar but pleasing. Her bare arms were sun-browned and more muscular than he remembered, though her breasts seemed softer. Her hips had a fullness he didn't recognize but couldn't wait to sink into. She didn't seem a girl to him anymore, the beauty before him was truly a woman.

"When did the ball end? It must have ended early."

"We didn't have one." She swiveled to face her husband, setting the brush on her lap, her voice low and dreamy. "Your mother and I didn't think it appropriate. After church service, we had a small soirée, with just my family and Venetia's and the Herricks. You understand why, don't you?"

Clay nodded, biting his lip. "Father looked good, I thought. I've seen what those butcher doctors can do..."

"I don't want to talk, Clay."

"What?"

She lay the brush down on the dresser and came to him, enfolding herself into his arms under the covers.

"I don't want to talk about you or me or the war or our families. I don't want to talk about anythin'. I just want to lie here with you and pretend that it will last forever."

"Is everythin'...all right?"

"Hush, Clay. I just don't want to talk, that's all. while we have so little time and while I need you so badly." Her embrace was tighter, hungrier than in the past, and Clay responded in kind. Rising, she straddled his waist and let her flowing hair sweep over his chest, balancing herself above his hips as she lowered herself onto him. He clutched at her waist, then pressed her closer, watching as she maneuvered atop him, lost in concentration. There was something new and unknown in her eyes, but he became too distracted to pursue it, succumbing to the urgency in her movements.

In the moonlit stillness, he cradled her in his arms, tracing lazy patterns through her hair with his fingers. He hadn't slept at all, confused by the gravity of her need, and in his tiredness, was hypnotized by the snap and flutter of the cotton curtains as they swayed in the night's chill breeze. Finally, he closed his eyes and fell into restless dreams.

Early morning light played on the starched white sheets as Mary entered the bedroom to find Clay bare-chested and silhouetted against the window, lathering his face with his shaving brush.

"You still have not grown the beard."

He turned and smiled at his wife, then, stepping in front of the hanging mirror, bent over the washbowl, razor in hand.

"It itched too much each time I started, so..." he shrugged, scraping the blade over his cheek. She handed him a clean towel to catch the dripping froth.

"Robert has a nice goatee." "Robert is quite the dandy. He's relentlessly pursued by the camp followers, you know."

"Then I'm glad you have defied fashion and remained sleek and true."

Finishing up, he dropped the razor into the basin defiantly.

"There's somethin' you're not tellin' me, Mary."

"Not now, dearest. After breakfast."

"I'm losin' my appetite, for you're worryin' me." Turning back to the wash stand, he cleaned the remaining lather from his face and put away his shaving supplies. From behind, Mary wrapped her arms around his waist and regarded him in the mirror.

"I love you. That's all you need to know." She helped him into his shirt and vest and combed back his unruly hair as he fastened the buttons. "Now let me go show off my handsome husband." With a kiss on his brow, she led him down to breakfast.

Rounding the corner to the dining room, he paused, reluctant to enter.

"Dearest?" Mary took his hand and brought it to her cheek for comfort.

Clay shook his head. Last night had been difficult enough when he looked into his father's eyes and finally accepted in his heart a loss he only understood on paper until then. John had been in his father's command at Sharpsburg, and Lawrence Mosby watched his eldest son struggle for hours in his death throes, nable to save him. His father had lost a hand and a leg in battle as well, and his frustration was palpable as he limped around the downstairs back parlor, converted into a bedroom after his return.

Now Clay had to face the rest of his dwindling family, and he was overwhelmed by the thought of having to bear through it for their sake, though his own strength was rapidly waning. Mary could sense his despondency and she kissed his hand, bringing him into the present.

"It will be all right, Clay. You'll see." "How bizarre it is to me, to be here at Christmas when there is no right for Christmas to be here."

"No right?" He pointed at the wreaths twining round the staircase.

"That should be black crepe, not green pine. How can there be music or ridin' parties? How can we celebrate at this time?

"But John would have wanted it that way, surely."

"How could Mother have decided to hold a gala tonight? Fillin' the house with strangers."

"They're not strangers but friends you've known all your life, and they miss John as much as you and I, dearest. They're family, blood or no." She took both his hands in hers. "And they have their own losses to deal with. We must not allow our sorrows to cause more grief for them."

Clay scowled. "Twitterin' about presents and dancin' as if nothin' has happened. Smilin' and laughin'. We defame his memory by our actions."

"My poor foolish husband, to be so mistaken. We cherish his memory the more by our actions."

"And so we pretend that this is a time for joy? We honor our memories with sham and artifice?"

"No! We honor them with sweet expectancy. That's what Christmas is about, Clay. It's about hope. It's about beginnings. Or beginnin' again." Her grip tightened on his hands. "You mustn't ever forget that."

Suddenly, Venetia slid open the doors of the dining room. "John!" She flung herself at Clay, digging her nails into his shoulders. "John, you've come home!"

Gently, he peeled her away as she pawed him, struggling to find some sense in her dull eyes. Confused himself, he looked to his family for help.

Katherine Mosby's spine stiffened against her chairback. "This is Francis Clay, darlin'. John is dead, don't you remember?" She glanced at her only remaining son. "It must be the resemblance," she said weakly.

"Oh," Venetia worried a government medal clutched in her hands. "Oh, yes. That's right." She turned back towards her brother-in-law. "We buried him." A guilty look spread across her face as she whispered, "We couldn't wait for you, you know."

"You have my heartfelt condolences, Venetia." He faltered, his lower lip quivering. "I...John was...I miss him..." Struggling, Clay regained his composure, swallowing hard. "We will all miss him very much."

Elisabeth helped Venetia back into her seat, then turned and took her brother in her arms. "She keeps expectin' him to return. We can't seem to be able to convince her otherwise." She swept a lock of hair off his forehead. "And I'm so sorry for you, sweetheart."

Clinging to her, Clay saw a fearful glance between his wife and mother, but before he could question it, Venetia interrupted him by running out the door towards the front of the house. "There's John now!"

Elisabeth broke her grip and ran after her sister-in-law. "Venetia!"

"We'll be goin' out to John's grave after breakfast," Mary said.

"Good." His mother nodded briskly and stood. "I'm goin'to bring some food to Lydia." She placed a gentle hand on Clay's shoulder before leaving the room. "Miss Mathers is quite infirm now, Francis. Please go see her before you leave."

He sat down heavily, his head swimming with the turmoil of his return. Permilla, one of the few servants remaining, prepared a plate, but it was tasteless to him and he moved the food around aimlessly during a stilted breakfast conversation.

When Robert Shelby arrived after visiting his family that morning, Clay felt a little better about the order of things; his friend's return was a source of familiarity to the upheaval he was feeling. He was surprised when Mary asked that he not accompany them to John's grave.

They rode out in silence, a chilling wind ribboning the orange and red oak leaves into crimson swirls around the tree trunks. Before them lay a lawn of frost-tipped brown grass and as they swung around the front of the estate the mid-morning sun lit the white-washed walls of Hatton Willows into an incandescent beacon. For the infinite time, he counted the five columns that framed the plantation house. Three for the children, he had fancied as a youth, surrounded by two for the parents. He absent-mindedly supposed that one would crumble, now that John was gone.

Set near the grove of weeping willows the plantation was named for, the Mosby family graveyard was an accumulation of burial markers and graves from over 150 years of tenancy. Rough hand-hewn stones from the first occupants mingled with weather-ravaged monuments erected by their more monied descendants. Several tall obelisks framed the corners of the wrought iron-fenced cemetery. White marble benches formed a square in the center and provided a comfortable place for contemplation. Clay could not have conceived of a more beautiful resting place for his brother and was grateful John had died in loving arms and not alone and unclaimed on the bloody battlefield like so many others.

Dried leaves crackled beneath their feet as they approached the unblemished tombstone and he read the inscription.

John Matthew Mosby Born March 20, 1836 Died September 17,1862 Duty on Earth Reward in Heaven

He smiled at the carefully chosen tribute, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his coat. Reverently, he knelt and traced the chiseled words with his finger, mouthing them silently, still not wanting to believe their import. How could his brother be gone? The brother who taught Clay to tie his shoelaces and to whistle and spit. Who instructed him so patiently to ride and fish and multiply fractions. The boy who tormented him so when they were children but who had also comforted him and kept him safe from monsters at night. The man who stood by his side at his wedding. The heir to all the Mosby's hopes and dreams.

And then he noticed the small white marker to the side of his brother's grave. "Francis Russell Mosby, June 24, 1862. He sleeps with the Lamb of God."

A wave of queasiness swept over him and he whirled around to face his wife. "Mary...?

"Forgive me, Clay. I didn't know how to tell you. I didn't know how..." She sank to her knees onto the ground beside him, desperately reaching for the shelter of his arms. He gripped her shoulders as she wept, trying to stay upright, trying to accept the horrific thought that pierced his soul. "I wanted to, so many times but...I didn't know how...Forgive me..."

Anguish roiled in his stomach and he swallowed hard to quell the sickening. "Mary, oh my God, Mary..." The gravestones spun before his eyes as he held her, stroking her hair, murmuring soft, wordless comforts. He lifted her up and carried her over to a bench, rocking her gently. Her lamentations softened into squalls, then sobs, then dry snivels as she recovered.

Clay waited patiently, shivering in his misery. Finally, Mary calmed enough so she could speak and drew away, turning the garnet and diamond ring over and over on her finger as she stood and walked among the graves.

"When you left last Christmas, dearest...you left me with child."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was goin' to, I just...I waited to make sure the babe would stay, and then we kept gettin' word of battles and I didn't want to distract you..."

"Distract me?" Clay rose up, trembling with anger.

"I...I...after a while I thought it better to wait until the child was born, so you would have no cause to feel conflicted. I know you, Clay. You would have found a way home, whether it was allowed or not."

He nodded, tears obscuring his vision, and he wiped them away with his cuff.

"I was so happy, in spite of everything. Elisabeth and I sewed shifts and shirts and your mother found your christening gown, from way back in the attic. Miss Mathers even tried to start a quilt, though her hands were too stiff to run the needle through. And then...one morning...I couldn't stop it..." She lay her hands on her flat stomach, in remembrance. "He was born too soon."

Clay struggled to remain standing, numb of all feeling at the thought of his wife having to endure this tragedy. Numb at the thought of not being there for her.

"And so tiny, I could hold him in one hand. He looked up at me and smiled and then closed his eyes." Seeing him sway, Mary rushed to his side as Clay collapsed back onto the bench.

Overcome with grief, he dropped his face into his hands and she curled around him, holding him fast to her. His body shook and shuddered in her arms as he choked on hot tears.

"Shhh, now, it's all right. It's all right. He's at peace, dearest. He's at peace." Her warmth enveloped him and at last he took hold of his emotions long enough to face her.

"If not for the war..."

"This war had nothin' to do with it! This was just God's will. And maybe...it's better this way."

Clay could barely spit out the word. "How?"

"What kind of world is this to bring a child into? Truly it terrified me to think how could I protect him from however long the war goes on. Now he's safe from all this pain." Calmly, she brushed a fallen leaf off the bench. "I'd rather see him in God's army than Jeff Davis's."

"You can't honestly feel that way, Mary."

"No," she answered softly, "but it helps to lie to myself sometimes, when I think of his sweet face. He had your curly black hair, Clay, and blue eyes. Of course, I'm told all babies are born with blue eyes, but..."

He lay his head upon her bosom and wept. "Mary...I should have been here for you." Mary stroked his hair and whispered soothingly.

"We had a son. Clay, we had a son. And we'll have so many more." Then the only sound was the quiet rustle of the leaves around the small white stone.

Much later, he fell into his mother's embrace upon their return. "Francis. We just didn't know how to tell you." She put her arm through his as they ascended the stairs to the house. "Now, you must remember that I lost two babies before John and another before you." Her lips pursed stoically against rendering any further emotion as she led him inside.

"I should have been here."

"You're here now for us, dear." Katherine Mosby touched his cheek tenderly. "What could you have done then?"

Before supper, he found his father in the solarium, shadowed in the ebbing winter light. Holding both a pen and a cigar in his right hand, he was lost in concentration, his thick silver curls falling over his face as he checked sums in a house accounts book. Clay noticed that he had surreptitiously slipped his maimed left arm into his coat pocket, hiding the loss of his hand.

"Sir. Forgive my interruption."

Lawrence Mosby looked up and a smile crossed his youthful face. "I am always happily interrupted by my children." He gestured for Clay to join him, patiently watching with amusement as his youngest son tried to find a comfortable spot on the lumpy chair that matched his own from the tattered set that had been farmed out after years of service in his study. Placing down the pen and cheroot on the cluttered table, he reached into his vest pocket and took out the silver cigar case his wife had given him on his fortieth birthday. "From last year's yield. I'm surprised we have any left. After General Lee professed his likin' to our crop, I swear there wasn't a brigade commander south of Richmond who wasn't placin' a double order for Mosby tobacco."

Clay took the smoke and reached over for a match from the table. "Business has been good?"

"War is always good for business." With a refined polish, his father replaced the case and pulled the material down to straighten his vest as Clay dolefully lit the cigar. "You have paid your respects at John's grave?"

"Yes, Father."

"And you have paid your respects at another, as well." The elder Mosby closed the ledger and turned awkwardly in his seat to face his son.

Clay nodded assent, the lump in this throat blocking any speech. Then a small laugh escaped his lips. He shook his own long curls at his father's patient gaze. "I was just thinkin', how I always wanted so much to be like you." He started to raise the cigar to his lips, then stopped.

The Mosby patriarch nodded consolingly. "And now, we have both lost sons."

Barren of tears, Clay could only release a shaky breath.

"That is a sadness that will never cease. You would have been very proud of Mary. Katherine tells me..."

"I should have been here." Clay sliced down with his hand, cutting off his father's consoling words. "I should be here now. Now, more than ever!"

"Now, more than ever, you cannot! You have sworn an obligation to serve your country. That is an unbreakable oath. We must grant our faithfulness and constancy as we have declared..."

"Haven't the Mosbys granted enough to that constancy?" Clay stood up and angrily paced in front of the window's sullen light. "The eldest brother cold and dead, leavin' as his legacy an addled and deranged wife. The succeedin' generation already diminished before it even has a chance at existence." He furiously swept the ledger books off the table, then kicked them across the tiled floor with his spur-heeled boot. "And you, butchered and crippled, well enough for paperwork, but who will provide..."

"Enough!" Lawrence Mosby banged his good hand down on the table. "You're speakin' from sorrow and fear, not from sense. Calm yourself, sir!"

Clay turned his back on his father, his shoulders heaving as he swallowed deep breaths, trying to compose himself. Shakily, he placed his elbows on the leaden glass wall and curled forward, resting his forehead on clenched hands. He stood that way for some time, as the room darkened from the early winter twilight. Behind him, Lawrence Mosby lit a whale-oil lamp, casting skeletal silhouettes from the surrounding plants and furniture. Finally, pivoting on one narrow boot heel, Clay turned around, smoothing down his vest like a bird rearranging ruffled feathers.

His father smiled, recognizing the gesture. "Now, hear me, son. You're no longer just a foot soldier, you're a Colonel, in charge of over six hundred men. Men with wives and families like yours." He leaned in towards his son and an icy caution took hold in his gaze. "How dare you put your own family above the rest of them."

"What?"

"You heard me. How dare we think ourselves more important than others. I have spent my life in their service, as you yourself have professed desire in doin', and I hold that trust too dear to sacrifice it for selfish reasons. Need I remind you of what has been the strength of this family since your great-great-grandfather first subdued this land. Duty and responsibility are what make us gentlemen. I thought I had raised you to be a man of honor..."

"You have!"

"Then honor your vow to your country." Gently, he placed a cool, firm hand atop his son's and squeezed it affectionately. His eyes softened. "I know what you're feelin', you think I don't? I don't disagree with your thoughts. Now that I have lost one son, I am consumed with fear about the other. No one wants you back here more than I do. 'Cept Mary, of course." He winked.

"And I should have been here. I should be here now to protect my family."

His father's reply was interrupted by the appearance of his mother at the doorway, holding out a supportive hand. "Mr. Mosby. You promised an hour ago to greet our guests as they arrived."

The elder Mosby tweaked his son's ear. "And we honor our promises, mmm?"

Clay helped his father stand and placed him in his mother's protective arms.

"Francis?"

"In a moment."He watched as they left, discordant thoughts clattering in his head as he sought an escape from reason. He tried to convince himself that no one would think the less of him if he left after two years at war. Two years stained with blood and fear, fighting for a cause few understood. Two years away from a comfortable home and devoted family. Two years separated from his lovely and loving bride. No one would, no one could think the less of him.

Except for one person.

Himself.

That night, the gala Clay feared would be disrespectful was more subdued than he anticipated and he finally relaxed, the knot in his stomach unraveling enough so he could try to enjoy the company of his family and neighbors. There were no musicians this year, no carols sung by anxious children, even Elisabeth was too busy watching over Venetia to provide music on the pianoforte, so the affair was a hushed event, the quiet punctuated only by the occasional pop and sputter of wet wood hissing on the fireplace.

The quantity and quality of the food at dinner had changed as well. Mock oysters made of eggs and flour fried in oil replaced real ones, and the hams were smaller, the game more wild fowl than tender stewing birds. Coffee was dispersed judiciously and the milk came from a can, their cows having been slaughtered or traded for other staples, or stolen by the roving bands of raiders that plagued the area. Clay flushed at the pointed comments some of the guests made about the lack of food, for he had led his own company in similar raids upon farms and plantations upstate.

"Still in all, you can't be dreamin' of Army fare." Shelby jostled his elbow as he reached for another biscuit, awakening Clay from his reverie.

"I was thinkin' about all the food the Yankees were destroyin' as we came upon that Union depot durin' Seven Days. I'll never forget the smell of all that burnin' bacon and crackers and vegetables..."

"Desiccated vegetables," Robert reminded him, pinching his nose.

"Desecrated vegetables, more like." Clay chuckled. "Or the time at Second Manassas when we found all those rich foods and supplies at the Junction after the retreat."

"And no wagons to bring it with us."

"What a sight. Hundreds of men in tattered clothes, nary a shoe between them, eatin' lobster salad and sippin' fine wines."

"And you made sure every one of them had a clean linen handkerchief to wipe their mouths after the feast."

Clay placed his plate down on the table. "And we didn't see that much food again for weeks. Not from our own, anyway."

Shelby clapped his hand on his shoulder and squeezed affectionately. "You're doin' your best for the men, you know. You can't do any more. And as much as you like to remind us of your similarity to God, if you find three loaves and three fishes, they're goin' to stay just three loaves and three fishes. And we'd be glad to have them."

"I'm glad to find that much some days." He gestured towards the sparse spread before them. "Now, every time we "appropriate" rations from local merchants or land owners, I'm goin' to think of his."

"What are we supposed to do, Clay? Our men have got to eat."

"I know, it's just...It's hard to stomach sometimes."

His friend raised a teasing eyebrow at his pun and smiled. "Not for me." Spearing another piece of meat and placing it on his plate, he turned to walk away but Clay caught him by the arm.

"Robert..."

Pivoting around, Shelby regarded him patiently, discerning the seriousness in his friend's manner.

"If I never said this to you before, I'm sorry." He rubbed his thumb over his lower lip, anxious to say his piece with the right words. "I may have lost John at Sharpsburg, but I feel...I still...I have another brother, you know? In you."

Robert let a small smile play on his lips as he clasped Clay's arm in return. "I am very honored you feel that way, because I could not think of a man I would be prouder to call my brother."

Clay nodded and they backed away from each other slowly, Robert calling out. "However, as much as I love you, you're not goin' to get my dessert."

As the evening went on, Shelby kept the party light-hearted, regaling their attentive neighbors with tales of their regiment's misadventures during the latest battles. They marveled at anecdotes explaining methods of fooling the Yankees into thinking their force larger than it was, by walking around in circles to show themselves to the enemy in as many different places in a location as possible, or by standing plainly in open areas, as if there was simply no further cover to hide the numbers of soldiers present. They laughed at his accounts of their scrambling from post to post, laying out "Quaker" guns, those phony cannons made of wood painted black with tar, and their desperation during one battle when they mistook their own fake guns for a line of defensive relief. And at Clay's decision to simply chuck the sticky timbers at the enemy, allowing them a reckless but successful escape. A hushed awe greeted a description of a spectacular skirmish at Second Manassas that ended when both sides allowed the stunning sight of an horse peacefully chomping on the grass in the middle of the blood-stained field to bring an unexpected but well-deserved stop to their actions, for neither side wanted to be guilty of possibly injuring, or at the very least, distracting the unconcerned animal. Finishing his account, Shelby allayed their informed concern with the success of the Confederates to eventually obtain the sorely needed mount.

Even Clay found he could laugh with feeling at some of the stories, though he felt a twinge of guilt about his temporary happiness. But too often he was reminded of the final outcomes of these same clashes. The fog of artillery smoke that would lift to reveal thousands of fallen soldiers, enough of them alive to give the battlefield a singular crawling effect. Thundering charges which forced them to find footing among the discarded bodies of slain comrades. The shock of fighting at Second Manassas among the rusted equipment left from the previous year's battle and the horror when the night's rain washed over the field to reveal skeletal hands thrust up through the muddy ground like clusters of white flowers.

Seven Pines. Seven Days. Second Manassas. Fredricksburg. Second Fredricksburg. All the battles were melting into one and the same constant struggle to deafen himself against the screams and moans of the dying. To deny the frustration and helplessness at not being able to fulfill their shrieking pleas, begging for water or begging for comfort when neither was at hand. To conceal the selfishness delight of surviving one more day when others more worthy did not. Without realizing it, Clay stood and staggered out of the room, heading blindly down the hallway, towards the open expanse of the back garden. The black velvet sky was scattered with diamonds and the moon hung low on the horizon, gilding the trees with a silver dross. He gulped at the cold air, numbing his lungs, stinging his eyes, deadening his thoughts. Sinking to his knees on the stony ground, he pounded at the frozen earth over and over and over, unable to control his flailing limbs until he felt them caught in the strong grasp of his wife, who had stolen up from behind and bound him to her.

Turning him in her arms, Mary softly kissed the top of his head as he wept, holding her lips on his black curls for long minutes, reluctant to release him. Parting only briefing, she kissed him again, then tipped his chin up in her hand and kissed his forehead, her love and comfort tempering the chill in his soul. At length, he opened his tear-stained eyes to hers and she smiled, kissing him rakishly on the nose, bringing a small smile to his own lips.

Suddenly, his grin disappeared and Clay snared his mouth in hers, trapping her in a crushing embrace. His arms bruised her, his hands clenched her tightly, forcing her head up by pulling on her hair, drawing her as close as possible to him. Though he heard her cries of pain, he let her struggle at his assault, until she managed to jab an elbow into his chest, propelling him away. Sprawled on the ground, he gasped for air, his eyes downcast with shame at his violation.

His chest heaved as he croaked out an apology. "I'm so sorry, Mary...please...I don't know why...I couldn't stop...I never meant to hurt you." Fearfully, he looked at her. "Please forgive me." Drawing his knees to his chest, he traced a scrape on his hand and mumbled in wonder. "It seems I have lost all gentlemanly decency."

Shakily, Mary rose to her feet, wiping away a small drop of blood that crested on her lower lip. The shock on her face bore through him and he closed his eyes against it. When he opened them again she was gone.

Clay stumbled back into the house, escaping the remaining guests, making his way circumspectly up the stairs to their bedroom. When Mary finally entered, he was standing at the window in his uniform, holding his packed army roll, mired in the dark thoughts that came to him more and more frequently.

She cleared her throat to get his attention. "Dearest?"

Clay kept his gaze averted from hers. "I should leave now. We were goin' to go soon anyway, so a few hours..."

Crossing to him, Mary stayed his hand as he held the bag tightly, then eased it deliberately from his clutched fingers. "A few hours? You would begrudge me our remainin' time together?"

"But, my behavior...," he shook his head meekly. "You should be furious."

"I am."

Turning sharply, he recognized her angry, crossed-arm stance around the bag but was confused by the wistful smile that played on her face.

"You hurt me, Clay. Though I'm sure you didn't want that to happen. Still...I cannot ignore it."

"I am so sorry..."

"I know, dear heart. And I am sorry, as well." Mary dropped the army roll on a chair and lay her head on her husband's slumped shoulders, encircling her arms around his waist. "I'm sorry I believed this war wouldn't change anythin'. our family and us. I was wrong." She tilted her face towards his. "How could I think you would not be affected by the fear and brutality you must endure daily? By the cruelty. By the death." Reaching up, she traced his lips with her finger. "You're not the boy I married, Clay. But you are more than ever the man who I love."

"You can forgive me?"

"Have you already forgotten what I said about Christmas? It's about bein' able to begin again." Her hand slid down to his arm and her grip held him fast. "You mustn't ever, ever forget that."

He kissed her softly, tenderly, then pulled away.

"What is it?"

"What if you conceive another child?" Clay shook his head, sighing. "I couldn't think of you goin' through that and me not bein' here..."

"...So you will never make love to me again?" Mary stuck out her lower lip coyly, one hand traveling slowly down his chest, unbuttoning his coat. He gasped as her hand slipped inside and down his suspenders to disappear beneath his trouser waist. "Well?"

"You have my...attention."

"Yes...I thought you might be persuaded to change your mind."

Clay cradled her head in his hands as he brought his lips to hers. "I love you, Mary. I love you so much." Gently he drew her into his embrace, desperate to replenish his depleted, tortured psyche with the strength he felt in her slight body.

"I love you, too, Clay. I could not abide to live without you, so you must take care." Her words bit fiercely into his heart. "You must come back to me, for I am so lost when we are apart. Promise me we will be together when these terrible trials have ended."

"I promise, dearest. I promise." CURTIS WELLS, DECEMBER 1880

The pounding of his heart thundered in his ears as Mosby placed the Colt on his temple. He could not have planned it better, he thought. All his business affairs completed for now, all his plans set into a forward motion that could continue without him. And finally, Robert Shelby was not around to stay his hand, as he had always been before. At last he would get the sweet release he had sought for so many years.

The pounding sound increased as he cocked the gun and cavalierly laughed at his presumptuousness. If God had not seen fit to act judiciously in the lost cause of Francis Clay Mosby, then it was left to him, as always, to take action. 'A gentleman honors his responsibilities,' his father taught, and he was, after all, a man of honor. He fulfilled his promises. And this was the only promise he had yet to keep.

The pounding increased until he realized it was not his heart, but the front door, clattering with the beat of a fist repeatedly banging against the wood frame.

"We're closed!"

"Mr. Mosby, it's Bill."

Holding the gun behind his back, Mosby strode to the door angrily and shot the bolt open. Barring the entrance with his body, he regarded Bill expectantly, incensed at the interruption.

"I'm...I'm sorry, Mr. Mosby," the musician gulped. "I wanted to play the new Chopin etude I got but I'm still learning it and the sheet music's here and..." His voice petered out.

Mosby pivoted to the side and with a broad sweep of his free hand, impetuantly gestured to the piano. Bill scurried to the instrument under his boss's glaring eyes and grabbed a handful of papers from the bench.

"You sure they're not just sendin' you over to check on me?"

"Of course not, Mr. Mosby. Why would they do that?"

"Why indeed." A crooked grin wound around his lips while his thumb ran over the smooth bore of the gun he held. "Why indeed."

"Here it is," Bill rifled through the papers and pulled a clean white score from the stack. "I would have brought you a plate of food but the turkey's being difficult, so Miss Carpenter thought we should stall for time with more music."

Mosby spiraled around the room, forcing Bill back towards the open door. "Will you indulge me a favor, then, upon your return? Will you play 'Greenselves'? You know that one, don't you? 'Alas, my love, you do me wrong, to leave me so discourteously...'"

Bill laughed nervously. "Of course, I do, Mr. Mosby. Although I played it earlier, well, the other song with that tune. Do you know 'What Child is This?' It's the same melody." His eyes lowered to the empty holster on his employer's hip, then glanced up sharply at his cut cheek. "Are you all right, Mr. Mosby? Everyone keeps asking about you."

"What are they askin'?" The words dripped from his lips like heated honey. "You tell me the truth, now."

Cornered by his declaration, the youth stammered out his reply. "Tr...truth is...they're asking how you could consider yourself so high and mighty as to not join them."

Mosby huffed a cheerless laugh, his eyes widening in wonder at how far the mark was to the target. His cheeks flushed with the bitter anguish that burned through him. He should not be surprised by the distorted perception of his behavior, he knew. He deserved it. He didn't trust people to like him, because he didn't like to trust people. But a stinging anger traveled up his spine. Not at them, at himself. Slowly, he fashioned a quiet composure and responded smoothly to the young man who, since his arrival in Curtis Wells, had so unbiddingly attempted to soothe his torments. "You must convey my ardent thanks for their concern. As Miss Shaw is well aware, I do not consider myself amiable company tonight." He flashed the dazzling smile that always pacified uninvited interrogations. "I feel the better for their courtesy and regard for my well-bein'. Please return my best wishes for the holiday." Mosby's eyes narrowed and he crooked his head to the door. "Now, go."

"But, sir..."

"Go. Please!"

"Merry...Merry Christmas, Mr. Mosby." Once again, the only response from his employer was a lowering of his hazel eyes and Bill hurried out of the Ambrosia, almost colliding with a bob-sleigh as he sloshed through the muddy street.

Mosby's arm was cramping as he brought the gun around from behind his back and he shook out the kinks. Shaking off the disturbing interruption as well, he smoothed down his vest and returned to the table, sitting down wearily. The encounter only served to vindicate his concurrence to the most unreversable decision any man could make.

He felt calm and untroubled as he held the gun, images of Mary flowing through his mind. Mary's trust as they first made love in the tobacco shed. Mary's grace as they sang a duet. Mary's sorrow at their child's gravesite. Mary's eyes flashing in anger and lust and happiness. Mary's sweet heart-shaped face smiling at him.

"Mary," he sighed. "You told me more than once that Christmas was a time to begin again. But you never told me how."

 

 

 
 

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