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  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  ISBN: 978-1-7750676-9-6

  Cover designer: Victoria Cooper Art

  Website: www.facebook.com/VictoriaCooperArt

  Editor: Scripta Word Services

  WEBSITE: SCRIPTA-WORD-SERVICES.COM

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Reading Order for the Series

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  About the Author

  Novels:

  A Slave of the Shadows: Book One

  A Guardian of Slaves: Book Two

  Novellas:

  The Black Knight’s Tune: Novella One

  The Master of Ships: Novella Two

  The Promise Between Us: Novella Three

  The Fair Magnolia: Novella Four

  Novels:

  Whispers of War: Book Three

  For Home and Country: Book Four

  Novels can be read alone or with the novella series. The author’s shorter works are best read in the suggested order.

  Other works

  The British Home Children Series:

  The Forsaken Children: Book One

  Miss Winter’s Rapscallions: Book Two

  For those who faced oppression at the hands of others.

  And for Marg; your support and guidance helped me weave this series.

  Charleston, April 12, 1861

  CANNON-FIRE WHISTLED AND CRACKED, AND with each explosion, I jumped, my nerves spun tight since the onset of the battle taking place in the harbor. The roar and thunder of shells unleashed on Major Anderson of the US Army and his garrison at Fort Sumter had been going on for hours. The South Carolina militia, led by General Beauregard, controlled the beach and the surrounding forts. Citizens remained on rooftops and balconies, and gathered at the Battery and in the streets to witness the bombardment. Older men and boys too young to fight patrolled the streets, intent on protecting the city and keeping the Negroes under control.

  I paced the foyer of our townhouse, awaiting Bowden and Captain Gillies’s return with news on the damage to our warehouse and ships. The muscles in my neck and shoulders ached from the tension, aggravated by the relentless thundering of cannons.

  Jane, the butler’s wife and our housekeeper, walked down the hallway with a silver tray rattling in her hands. She and her husband—freed blacks—had managed the townhouse for as long as I could remember. “Missus Willow, you must rest. I’ve fixed you some coffee and breakfast.”

  I eyed the lanky woman of sixty or so. “I can’t possibly eat at a time like this.”

  She strode into the parlor and set the tray down on the sofa table. “You look ready to drop where you stand. Running to the window in hopes Mr. Armstrong and the captain have returned won’t make their arrival come any faster.”

  “The wait is unbearable.” I chewed on the corner of my mouth, now raw from gnawing.

  Another crack ripped through the morning, and I ducked as though expecting the shell to land in the room. Jane gripped the doorframe, her wide eyes flitting to the window.

  “I must return to Livingston at once.” I straightened and eyed the small retinue of house staff hovering in doorways and at the top of the stairs. “Folks would have heard the ruckus and concerns will be high.”

  Jane released her hold on the doorframe. “What do we do if the army takes the city?”

  The hissing of cannon-fire was loud in the silence as I thought. “Although Major Anderson seems to be at a disadvantage, circumstances could change. When Bowden and Captain Gillies return, we’ll know more of what is to be done—” The rapid-fire boom of shells lodged my heart in my throat, and Jane and I clung to each other.

  “Fort Sumter returns fire,” shouted an informant, a boy of nine or ten clad in a long gray coat, as he raced along the street.

  “Anderson has finally shown up,” a man shouted in his wake.

  I gawked at Jane, and we rushed to the parlor window and drew back the dark blue velvet drape.

  Atop his mount, Josephine’s husband, Theodore Carlton, garbed in a similar homespun coat, addressed the citizens. “This war will be over before you know it. General Beauregard has the advantage.”

  In the North, men had joined the US Army, while in the South, capable men formed militias and aided in the Confederate cause. Like Mr. Carlton, those too old took up policing, accompanied by boys not yet old enough to fight.

  “The South will persevere, and our menfolk will return.” He thrust out his chest. “Lincoln and his ambitions will fail to take hold. Let the North be reminded that the South won’t be defeated.” He struck at the heavens with a fist, and the citizens erupted in cheers.

  “There is no certainty in what you say.” Bowden’s voice rose, and I pressed my cheek against the windowpane to find him in the crowd. Locating him standing some feet from the front steps of our townhouse, I released the drape and raced for the door.

  Stepping outside, I descended the stairs to join him. He looped an arm around my waist without looking sideways. Soot and grime covered his face and hands, and the odor of smoke wafted from his clothing.

  “Providing hope for the people is one thing, but offering false hope is a pitfall.” He gazed at Theodore and the two young boys on either side of him. “If you intend to man the city and countryside, ensure your efforts will benefit those needing i
t. Our womenfolk need men they can count on.”

  Carlton turned his intense blue eyes on Bowden, and the men engaged in a standoff of glares until Theodore broke focus and turned to scrutinize me with open fascination. My legs trembled under a predatory gaze that defined me as the prey. He had earned a reputation for pressing himself upon women and quarter slaves. His attention unsettled me. With our men away, men like him would seek to rise in power.

  “And what the South needs is decent menfolk who are willing to defend our cause. Yet you’re still here, while the good men have already left. Why is that?” He leaned forward, resting an elbow on his thigh.

  Bowden tensed. “I will be gone soon enough.”

  Carlton smirked. “And, in your absence, I will see that your lovely wife is well cared for.”

  At that, Bowden gripped my elbow and turned to climb the steps. He hurried me inside and shut the door.

  “Jane.”

  “Yes, Mr. Armstrong?” She came forward.

  “Pack our things. We leave at once for Livingston.”

  She bowed and hurried away.

  “Uriah?”

  “Right here, Mr. Armstrong.” The butler held out a glass of whiskey, which Bowden took without hesitation and drained.

  The windowpanes vibrated with reverberations from the cannons.

  “In my absence, I hope that I can keep you employed to care for the place. Of course, until the threat to your safety makes that impossible.”

  Years had hunched Uriah’s towering frame; no longer did he have to duck to walk through doorways. “We stay as long as needed. Don’t have no place to go anyhow. We talked ’bout staying with our boy in Georgia, but don’t reckon any place is going to be safe after this.” Concern pulled at his face.

  “I fear you are right. I will leave a stable boy to tend the animals.” Bowden glanced around at the staff on the upstairs landing and the main floor, all waiting for answers. “All other employees are to return to your homes and family until we can bring you back. If there is a place to come back to.”

  Murmurs lifted.

  “Come, come.” Bowden made a brushing gesture with his hand. “We mustn’t delay.”

  The staff scurried to do his bidding.

  “Bowden?” I gripped his arm. “What is the situation at the docks?”

  He turned, and the look in his eyes hollowed my stomach. “Not good. The Olivia I has capsized, and all but one of our fleet is engulfed in flames. The warehouse remains, but the damage is severe. Our goods are ruined and unsellable.”

  I gulped, afraid to ask the question that had been governing my thoughts. “Is it as Captain Gillies said?”

  “You refer to Northern militia?”

  I nodded.

  He shrugged. “If so, they are long gone.”

  “And with what is unfolding in the harbor and your leaving, there is nothing we can do about it,” I said.

  “I’m afraid not. Now I must leave, and all of the madness is left in your hands.” He rested hands on my upper arms and held my gaze.

  “We will manage.” I offered reassurance while my insides roiled with uncertainty and fear. Reuben McCoy was out there, scheming, and with Ben and Bowden away, it would be up to Jones and me to manage and protect Livingston.

  “I will have the carriage readied, and we will return home,” he said before brushing my lips with his.

  As our carriage rolled toward Livingston, I sat closer to Bowden, enjoying his warmth as the battle in the harbor faded behind us. My ears continued to ring from the hours of explosions. The uncertainty of what was to come had captured our thoughts, and we sat in silence. The scent of smoke never faded, and when we were a few miles from home, Bowden’s body tensed. “Do you see that?”

  I looked to where he pointed. Smoke was rising above the trees. My heart thudded. “Livingston!”

  He lifted the reins to urge the team to greater speed, but paused at the sound of approaching horses. In one swift movement, Bowden grabbed the rifle under the seat.

  Two riders came around the bend, and I quickly recognized Mr. Sterling and a neighboring farmer.

  “Sterling, where does that smoke come from?” Bowden asked as the men reined in their horses.

  The look in Mr. Sterling’s eyes confirmed our fears. “Your place. Northern militia attacked about the same time as the sky lit up in the direction of Charleston.”

  “No!” I wailed.

  Bowden didn’t wait to hear more. “Out of the way!” He lashed the reins, and the team charged forward, forcing the men to touch heels to their horses to clear out of our path.

  Please, God, no. The team’s manes and tails snapped in the wind of our passage.

  “Dammit!” Bowden cursed.

  I clutched the side of the carriage to avoid being launched overboard as we charged toward Livingston at a bone-jarring speed. An invisible weight compressed the air from my lungs. We should never have left. Never. I eyed Bowden askance, and the panic clear on his face made my heart beat harder. Images of what we would find upon our arrival swarmed my mind. The next few miles seemed to move at a painstaking crawl. Whisking away blinding tears, I forced down the bile burning my throat. Please, God, I’ll do anything you ask of me.

  When we reached the main gates, I fought to clear the relentless tears obscuring my vision. As our buggy charged up the lane, I glanced over my shoulder to find Mr. Sterling and the farmer on our heels.

  “Good God!” Bowden leaned forward and whipped the reins harder.

  A wail escaped me as I beheld the smoldering main house—still standing, but its windows shattered and the exterior scorched. Our chamber and the nursery located on the left side of the house sat exposed to the heavens.

  Bowden slowed the team as we went around the house to the work yard.

  “No!” My agonized wail echoed off the ruined buildings as I viewed the rows of bodies covered by blankets.

  “Willow,” someone called, and hands reached for me.

  I sat numbly in my seat but turned my head to stare at the speaker, too dazed to make out their face or voice.

  “Come,” they said.

  My body moved, but I wasn’t sure if I’d been lifted from the carriage or advanced of my own accord.

  Somewhere Bowden conversed with someone, but I couldn’t make out his words.

  “Willow.” Hands shook me.

  I turned my head, frantically trying to concentrate on the person’s face. “Magnus?” My vision cleared as I came to my senses. “What happened?”

  Dried blood, soot, and grime marred his face. “They came out of nowhere.”

  “Mary Grace and the children. Are they—” Fear snatched my words.

  “We are fine.” Mary Grace rushed toward us and crushed me in her arms.

  My legs buckled, and I clutched her for support. “Why? Who?” I muffled into her shoulder.

  “It was as we feared. The McCoys advanced just before dawn.”

  I stiffened at the reference before withdrawing from her arms. “McCoys?”

  She bit down on her lip. “You need to see for yourself, or you will never believe me.” She took my hand and pulled me toward the lines of corpses.

  Jones stood next to Bowden, who crouched next to a body and peeled back the blanket. I frowned at the familiarity of the deformed face. It couldn’t be. I glanced at Mary Grace, and she swallowed hard and bobbed her head. But how?

  “It appears the bastard never died after all,” Bowden said.

  I gawked from him to the face and the distinguishing markings on the forehead. My hand rose to my throat. Rufus McCoy.

  “Angel gal?”

  I turned, and a sob lodged in my throat as I saw Mammy grip the sides of her skirt and bound down the back steps. I rushed toward her, not stopping until we clutched each other in an embrace.

  “Mammy. Oh, Mammy.” The strength of her embrace kept me from crumpling to my knees. “You’re alive.”

  “Yes, gal. I all right.” She pulled me back and cuppe
d my cheek. There was a profound sadness in her eyes. “Can’t say de same for others.”

  My breath caught as I thought of who may lie under the blankets. “Where is Ben?”

  “At de hospital, taking care of de wounded.”

  I glanced around at the weary folks sorting through the wreckage and ashes of outbuildings and cabins for survivors. My heart struck harder, and without looking at her, I said, “Sailor?”

  “He fine. De chillum and de womenfolkses dat made et to de river are all fine.”

  “And Jimmy?”

  “He at de sick hospital.” Her voice hitched, and I turned to look at her.

  “Providing my uncle aid?”

  She gripped my arm, tears welling in her eyes. “No, angel gal. He hurt real bad.”

  Pulling my arm free, I stumbled back, shaking my head. “No.”

  The concerned faces before me vanished in a river of tears, and without another word, I turned and fled. Pulse roaring in my ears, I pumped my legs faster. Pain radiated in my chest by the time the sick hospital came into view. Wounded quarter folk and Jones’s men lay on makeshift beds constructed of blankets spread out on the ground. Kimie looked up at me as I slowed my pace. Blood stained her apron, and she lifted bloodied fingers to smooth back her blond locks. Tears of devastation glittered in her blue eyes. Whitney knelt beside an injured woman offering her water, and our eyes met as I grasped the magnitude of the destruction that had befallen Livingston in my absence.

  “Willow,” Ben said, and I followed the sound of his voice to find him standing on the hospital stoop. Face tense, he waved me forward. As I met him on the stoop, he put his arm around my waist, and I leaned on him for support.

  “Is he…” Fear captured my voice.

  “He is alive, but barely. If he makes it through the night—”

  “No.” I shook my head. “It can’t be.” I collapsed against his shoulder, sobbing, my fingers grabbing at his shirt. “This is all my fault.”

  “You are not to blame,” he consoled me. “The McCoys are.”