A Hope Divided by Alyssa Cole (10)

CHAPTER 9

Ewan gripped the rough wooden beam that bisected the attic space and pulled the weight of his body up, going slow enough that he could feel the burn in each muscle of his arms and abdomen. He reached the summit of the motion, exhaled, and lowered himself back to the ground. Then he did it again.

He tried to pull himself up again and his arms refused to follow through on the command. Since coming to Marlie’s home, he’d doubled and sometimes trebled the length of his exercise routine—modified to avoid jostling his ankle—not because he was vain but because it was the only outlet for the frenetic thoughts that ricocheted about in his mind. The letters passed back and forth between him and Marlie, slid beneath the door of the room that both protected and imprisoned him, were his lifeline to the world, and to Marlie. With each letter, she grew in his estimation, and the distance between wanting and having grew ever further, too.

Each time she asked him a question about what he’d done during the war, or what post he was returning to, was a reminder of why he needed to pull any unrequited feelings he had for Marlie out by the root. He didn’t regret what he had done for his country, but the fighting he did was different from shooting across a battlefield or wrestling in a trench. One could be morally right and yet still irrevocably stained, but he wouldn’t sully Marlie with the truth of himself.

Aristotle’s words were generally a bit too optimistic for Ewan’s taste, but the man had the right of it sometimes. Ewan was feeling very brave of late.

He’d already separated and organized all the dried plants that had been hanging in the room, again, using a different organization system. He’d asked Marlie what work needed to be done, and had set to labeling bottles and mixing to her measurements. After that had been completed, he’d gone through the books. Reading usually calmed him, drawing all his attention from reality and into the text, but being trapped in a room just out of reach of the person he most wanted and the person he most hated was bringing to the surface feelings that made concentration a hard thing.

The bothersome itch that seemed to emanate from deep within his skull had come back, driving him to distraction. He hated the feeling that had plagued him as a child; even in the prison camp he’d been able to work and barter and fix things to keep his mind clear. He hadn’t felt all turned around in such a way since before his father died. No—that wasn’t true. There had been one time since then.

The day he had first encountered Cahill was supposed to be calm; Ewan had been returning from another mission. The town was supposed to be free of Rebels, having been captured by the Union. The farmhouse was supposed to be safe—occupied by Negro men drilling for the day when Lincoln said they could fight in Union blues, officially. The sound of gunshots and panic had greeted Ewan and his fellow soldiers; a cowardly ambush.

There was a knock at the door in the wall, almost too quiet to be discerned, but pulling Ewan’s mind away from that horrific day all the same. He ran a hand over his sweaty face, unlatched the door, and pulled it open. It was only when he saw those dark, delicate brows raise toward the ceiling that he realized he wasn’t wearing a damned shirt.

“Pardon,” he said, turning to grab the shirt he’d tossed aside. He winced as he pulled his arms through the sleeves. “I may have overtaxed myself,” he said as he began buttoning.

When he turned, Marlie was still standing in the same position. Her brows were back at the proper longitude, but her lips were slightly parted and she stared at him as if he’d been wearing nothing but his boots. He heard a tinkling noise and realized it was the tray she held in her hand—the glass was brushing against a bowl of something delicious, on account of how her hands trembled.

He’d frightened her. Part of him wanted to soothe her, but it was better for her to be frightened. It showed she was as smart as he knew her to be.

“I—I brought your dinner,” she said. “Everyone else has gone to a town hall meeting, so if you’d like to come eat in my rooms, you can.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“No one can get in,” she said. “And we’ll hear them arrive.”

He looked into those strange eyes of hers, wondering why she’d ask him to dine despite the risk. They spoke through their notes during the day, and his nightly trips to the necessary had become nightly conversations. But his meals during the day were usually taken in the drying room.

As he looked at her, one corner of her mouth tipped up into an awkward grin and her shoulders hunched, only by a millimeter, but such things caught Ewan’s attention.

There was the strangest searing twist in his chest at that realization. Although solitude was his preferred state, he didn’t mind being around other people. He was adaptable, and even the crowded confines of prison camp had been bearable. Anything was bearable, when it came down to it—that was his personal philosophy. But there was a difference between bearable and tolerable, and knowing that Marlie had been lonely while he was just a few feet away was intolerable.

“Sure, if it’s not too bothersome,” he said. “Having a different set of walls to stare at wouldn’t hurt.”

“Your ankle is nearly healed, so we can start figuring out how to get you up North,” she said. “I’m sorry that you’ve traded one prison for another.”

Being cooped up so close to her was surely some form of torture, but not in the manner she imagined. “Marlie, you do yourself a disservice with that comparison.”

She smiled, just a twitch of upturned lips, but Ewan soaked it in as if she’d caressed him. Maybe he had some of the McCall charm in him after all. He stepped out into the room, and she stepped back, placed his tray on her desk, and then turned to her work.

“I ate downstairs in the kitchen with Lace and Tobias,” she said. “They insisted I take advantage of Melody being gone since I’ve been passing most of my time up here. Tobias also wanted to interrogate me about whether anything improper was going on between us.”

Ewan paused, thinking perhaps he’d misheard since she said it so calmly. Had she really just spoken those words so plainly? Perhaps she wouldn’t have if she’d known how much time he spent trying not to think about exactly what Tobias was asking about.

“What did you tell him?” He moved the chair to the side of the desk so he could watch her as she worked.

She poured a premeasured cup of distilled water into the bottle, then corked it and placed it onto the shelf of an instrument he hadn’t seen her use before. When she’d filled the small shelf, she used a strap to secure the bottles, then wound a key. The shelf slowly lifted and lowered on one end and then repeated the motion, slowly mixing the contents of the bottles. Ewan was almost distracted from the conversation by the ingenuity of the device. Almost.

“I told him we were living in sin in several ways, but that given our circumstances we didn’t have much choice,” she said.

Ewan tried very hard not to focus on the ways they weren’t living in sin. Taking the Lord’s name in vain, perhaps. We haven’t done that.

She glanced at him. “He wasn’t pleased that I sassed him, but I told him that you were an honorable man who wouldn’t take advantage of the situation.”

Ewan remembered the looks Tobias had given him. “Is he courting you?”

Marlie laughed quietly. “Tobias has never seen me as more than a sister, which would make his courting me quite uncomfortable. As would his marriage to Lace.”

Feelings of possession were infantile and not the sort of behavior Ewan indulged in, but if he were that kind of man, he would have been powerfully pleased by the fact that Marlie wasn’t attached to Tobias.

“What about you?” Marlie asked. She kept working, but Ewan noticed that her efficient movements slowed. She picked up the wrong bottle, then knocked a bowl of dried leaves askew.

“Well, I believe Lace would take exception to Tobias courting me, as well,” Ewan said, and was rewarded with Marlie’s delicate laughter as she collected the leaves that had been tossed onto her worktable.

“You know what I mean,” she said. “You’ve mentioned your parents, a brother and a sister, but no sweetheart or wife.”

Ewan didn’t quite understand. “Because no such person exists.”

Or has ever existed. And that’s how I like it, he reminded himself.

“Truly? From what I’d read in the papers, it seemed every soldier had a lady pining away for him at home.” She glanced at him, then back at her work. “Seems a bit hard to believe you’re not one of them.”

Ewan wasn’t sure, but she might have been complimenting him.

“I never found a woman I’d ask to wait for me,” he replied. No one had exactly petitioned for the role, either, after receiving a lecture or three.

She smiled full-out now. “Ah. I can only imagine the high standards you would have for a sweetheart.”

Why did she find this amusing?

“Let me guess,” she continued. “She’d have to have memorized The Enchiridion, be able to speak several languages, and shoot a Rebel from fifty paces—”

“If you think that’s the case, perhaps I’ve misrepresented myself,” Ewan said quietly, though warning signs were going off in his head. “I have exactly one.”

She tilted her head. “And what’s that?”

“Cognitive superiority.” He didn’t allow himself to expound on ways in which a woman might demonstrate such a thing; for example, teaching herself medical botany, designing her own still and constantly improving upon said design, and engaging in spirited philosophical debate. She needn’t know that.

Marlie let out a quiet laugh. “Actually, that fits you perfectly,” she said. There was no derision in her laughter or tone, nor was there any inkling that she was aware how perfectly it fit her, too.

“What are you making?” he asked before taking a bite of chicken, helpfully changing the subject. People not perceiving the obvious were a terrible bother to him, and he couldn’t risk pointing out this particular oversight on her part.

“There’s a fever going around in the children in nearby towns.” She didn’t take her eyes from the line of glass bottles she was filling. “I think they’re weak from hunger—so many of the farms have gone to seed because the husbands are either hiding in the woods to escape Cahill or off at war, by force or by choice. Conditions are perfect for a terrible sickness to set in, as if we haven’t had enough loss. Tobias will be carrying these out to families tomorrow.”

At Cahill’s name, Ewan couldn’t help but grip his wooden spoon more tightly.

“How has it been, with Cahill?” he asked. He hadn’t revealed his connection to the man. How could he explain that to Marlie? The last bit of his ego couldn’t have her thinking he was a monster. Not thinking—knowing.

Her shoulders rose on a sigh, and her posture was stiffer when they fell again. “It’s going as well as one could imagine. Melody treats him like a king while constantly berating her own husband for not joining the Confederate forces himself. She abuses poor Sarah every chance she gets, and hints at her Unionist leanings. It’s a miracle Cahill hasn’t questioned her, or worse.” Marlie paused in her work. “They say he does terrible things. Captures the wives and children of men who don’t report to muster and—”

She stopped and looked back at him.

Ewan swallowed the chunk of potato down a throat that had suddenly gone dry. He knew very well what Cahill did to get what he wanted. He’d allowed himself to be dragged down to the same base levels. He wasn’t proud, but the only regret he felt was that he had let Cahill live. If Ewan hadn’t, Marlie would have never encountered the man.

“I’ve borne witness to the type of terrible things you mention,” he said carefully. He considered telling her that he had witnessed such things because he had carried them out.

“Oh, how dreadful. I’m sorry.” Her expression was one of such tender concern for him that any idea of confessing was tossed aside. Telling her would only cause her to fear for her safety, and that wasn’t in question.

“A great many shocking things are carried out in the name of North or South. Sometimes, they’re necessary. I’ve had to inure myself to that truth.”

“Such cruelty doesn’t disturb you?” she asked. Her gaze roamed his face, likely searching for some indication that she had misunderstood him.

“Wanton cruelty disturbs me. Cahill acts not out of necessity, but because he enjoys hurting others. There is no logic behind his actions, simply a sadistic pleasure in the pain of others.”

Marlie’s eyes were wide, the muscles of her face tense. “Yes. You said he was dangerous, and I’m afraid you weren’t mistaken.”

Ewan had to take a deep, slow breath, as he had every time his mind traveled to the ugly possibilities Cahill’s presence had opened up. Marlie had the Lynch name, and her family, to protect her. He’d told himself that over and over again, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking. “I hope I’m not overstepping, but has he exercised such behavior toward you?”

Her lips pressed together. She shook her head, clutched the bottle in her hand a bit too tightly.

“Marlie.” If she had been hurt and hadn’t told him . . . His scalp began to prickle.

“He’s been . . . less than agreeable. That’s all.” She paused, considering her words. “It’s nothing I should say in polite company.”

“You just saw me without a stitch on above the waist. As you made clear to Tobias, we’re past polite,” Ewan pressed. Marlie turned back to her work.

“He said that the best place for a woman like me was working as a fancy maid.” Her voice was low and full of shame, as if she were somehow at fault for such distasteful behavior. “He’s taken to calling me ‘Fancy’ now, when he sees me around the house. And the way he looks at me . . . you’ll understand that I do not want to encounter him alone. That is why—”

Ewan dropped the utensil and it was only when he felt the twinge in his ankle that he realized he’d jumped to his feet as well. He lowered himself back into his seat when he saw the flash of concern in her eyes, but he didn’t pick up the spoon. He was worried he might snap it.

“Breathe in. Breathe out, Ewan.” His mother’s brogue drifted up into his mind.

He’d been sure that he had better control over himself—he’d worked so hard for every bit of that control—but the thought of Cahill degrading Marlie was too much to take, especially knowing what he knew of the man. But Marlie knew nothing, of either Ewan or Cahill, and he didn’t want to frighten her any further than he had.

Assuage her.

“I’ll kill him if he tries to hurt you,” he said. His words were calm, but her eyes opened even wider, and Ewan understood too late that death threats weren’t quite the way to make a woman feel safer with you. He was already imagining her telling him to leave, that she shouldn’t be cooped up in a house with two men she feared.

“You say that as if you mean it, and you know exactly how you’d do it.” She held his gaze.

“I’m sorry.” He looked down at his hands. He wouldn’t descend into Lady Macbeth’s madness, but his hands were stained with the blood of Rebels and traitors to the Federal cause. Some said that made him a hero, but Ewan simply felt empty.

“Did you?” she asked. “Mean it, that is?”

He couldn’t bring himself to meet her gaze, and the awful feeling was starting deep in his skull again.

“I don’t want you to be afraid, particularly because you and I are in much closer quarters than you and he.” Ewan forced himself to pick up his spoon from the ground, to hold it normally. “I wouldn’t hurt you, Marlie. Ever. But him? Yes, I mean it.”

Better for her to know what kind of man she was dealing with. He owed her that, at least.

He felt something light on his shoulder and almost shrugged it away until he realized it was her hand. It was warm through the rough fabric of his shirt, and when he looked up at her she wasn’t frightened. Her dual-toned eyes were glossy, but she regarded him as she always had.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Do you want to help me clean the still when you’re done eating? I could use the help.”

Ewan had been struggling against rage and anger but he was abruptly inundated with a dizzying combination of warmth and gratitude. She was giving him something to do with his hands, a distraction he desperately needed.

Ewan blocked those thoughts away. He recalled a line of Epictetus. “Destroy desire completely in the present. If you desire that which is not in your power, you will be wretched.” He already felt like a mangy wretch, plagued by impure thoughts that alternated between violence and passion. He’d not entertain such thoughts in Marlie’s presence.

He should have gone back into the drying room, but he nodded instead.

“I would like that.” He ate the last bites of his food, not because he was hungry, but because she had given it to him, and then moved to stand beside her as she began dismantling the still. He watched her carefully, helped her lay the pieces down, and tried to remember how to put them back in the right order. She spoke as she took it apart, her low voice calming him as she explained the pieces and what they did. He already knew for the most part— he’d already begun thinking of ways to improve the device after reading her books and hand-drawn schematics in the flyleaves. But as he listened to her talk, he realized she was already aware of every improvement he would have suggested and had come up with alternatives that he would never have been able to synthesize.

“It’s a pleasure to watch you work,” he observed as she refit the final tube back into the body of the still. He had nothing to do with it, but he glowed with a sense of pride at her knowledge and ability. “You’re so very . . . competent.”

Ewan blushed as he said the word, for truly he could think of nothing he held in higher esteem. He felt as if he’d just admitted everything, but she simply glanced at him with a grin.

“This is my life’s work, so I’d hope so,” she said. “I’ve spent more hours working in this room than I can count.”

“Didn’t your studies take up your time?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I had a tutor for a bit. I couldn’t continue my education otherwise; there was no school for free Negroes nearby, and I was too Negro for the others despite the family name. I don’t quite fit in anywhere but these three rooms. I don’t mind, though, so no need for the pitying look.”

Ewan didn’t think he was capable of pitying looks, but perhaps he had been mistaken.

“How did you make friends?” he asked, then wished he hadn’t. It was the way her smile faltered before she caught herself, like a bird with a hobbled wing trying to take flight.

“I have Sarah and Tobias and Lace and Pearl,” she said simply. “I have everything I need here at Lynchwood.”

Ewan had seen the way she moved through the prison camp, smiling at surly men, offering aid to everyone without judging whether they deserved her kindness, or even appreciated it. Her smile had made even the worst men among them respond in kind. He wondered now how many people besides the prisoners had ever been lucky enough to see it.

“I’ve never been terribly good at making friends,” Ewan commiserated.

“You had that Irish fellow chasing after you like a puppy at the prison, and I saw men stop and talk to you all the time.” She paused. “Not that I was paying much attention.”

A little bud of warmth opened in Ewan’s chest, and he tried to crush it. She was friendless and that was the only thing she saw in him—a friend.

“I suppose,” was all he said in response. He didn’t like to think of what had become of Keeley. “Why do you have a Polybius square?”

There was generally only one use for such a thing—decrypting private messages. Marlie had just said she didn’t have friends outside Lynchwood, yet the square sat at her desk beside correspondence. Ewan couldn’t imagine what use she would have for it though; Marlie was too open, too naive, to be engaging in espionage. Then again, she was brazenly sheltering him in an occupied home. Ewan considered that perhaps it was he who was the naive one.

She glanced at the corner of the decoding ring sticking out from under a pile of papers. “Oh, is that what this is? I found it in the pages of a used book. Are you in the habit of examining a woman’s personal belongings so closely?” Her words landed lightly, cushioned by her teasing smile. Ewan might have believed her if she hadn’t tried to distract him by pointing out his tactlessness—it was unnatural for her, even if she was correct.

He bowed his head, deciding not to press her. She owed him no explanation and demanding one would be bizarre, no matter how his curiosity was piqued. “I apologize. I have a hard time not noticing things, but that doesn’t excuse my rudeness. I saw it sticking out from under that account of a slave revolt.”

“You mean this?” She picked up the stack of papers, her gaze jumping back and forth between it and Ewan. “You speak French?”

Ewan shook his head. “I can’t speak it, really. I can read it, though. And Latin. One of my teachers gave me a set of books he no longer needed, and I found the exercises to be quite soothing.”

She was staring at him now—not really at him. Through him. She handed him the top page and then took up a pen and a fresh piece of paper. “What does that say?” she asked.

Ewan should have felt put on the spot, but this was an interaction he wouldn’t have to worry about. This was something in his control.

“ ‘The master beat another man that day,’” he began. His cadence was slow as he eased back into language. He’d translated a few intercepted correspondences in the last year, but they had been completely different from the vivid personal tale he was reading. “‘They wanted us to be afraid. We were not. When that is everyday life, fear becomes useless. All they beat into us is hope, because hope is our only chance for survival.’”

He looked up to see Marlie bent over her desk, dipping and writing, dipping and writing, her hand moving furiously but the expression on her face torn between happiness and something like wonder.

“Should I continue?”

“Please.”

They worked like that for the next two hours, stopping only when the sound of a carriage pulling up alerted them that the house would soon be occupied by the enemy once again. She rubbed her ink-stained hands against her apron. “Time for you to go back inside.”

Ewan reluctantly followed her. He was a refugee, not a guest, and he had been lucky to get out of that space for as long as he had. He still wished they’d had more time. It seemed he always wanted more when it came to Marlie.

“If you want to give me those papers, I can translate the rest,” he offered after he’d slipped back into the secret room. “A paltry repayment of your kindness. And I wouldn’t mind a task to keep me occupied.”

It was more than that. A light, unfamiliar sensation suffused his veins. His French had been one of the many courses of study he’d been told would serve no purpose, and now it had one—and no one was hurt in the deployment of it. Being able to read the text clearly pleased Marlie. He wanted to please her.

“No.” Her voice was harsh, but then she said more gently, “Perhaps you can help me again tomorrow. But I prefer to keep my mother’s papers with me. They’re all I have left of her.”

Something throbbed in his chest at the fact that those were her mother’s words, and she’d shared them with him. The door started to close, but then the thin line of light widened again.

“Ewan?”

“Yes, Marlie?”

“Thank you.”

Then there was only the soft scrape of the desk and darkness. Ewan didn’t want to conjecture why her thanks filled him up like an amphora. He was wretched enough as it was.