Her alternate plan was to take herself to the summer kitchen. She would be essentially out of sight of the soldiers in the yard and not apt to run into any of the ones who still wandered over the house. She took the basket of ironing with her, giving thanks as she went that the Markhams had once been well off enough to have this alternate place to cook and work in hot weather. There were a number of windows she could raise to catch whatever breeze might at hand. The important thing was that she would be alone there. She could work and she could think—or not think, as she chose.
It took her only a short while to get the cast-iron stove going and the dampers adjusted and the butter beans rinsed and in the cook pot. She put two sets of irons on the stove to heat, and then dampened the clothes with water and rolled them tightly and put them into a pillowslip.
She had to go back into the house once because she’d forgotten the old sheet she used to pad the table when she ironed. Her stomach had finally settled, and she went down into the cellar to get herself an apple. She could hear that the colonel’s staff meeting was in session—and from the sound of it, things were not going well.
All the more reason for her not to tarry, she thought. Her only wish was to stay out of his way. She returned to the summer kitchen and ate the apple—and actually enjoyed it. Perhaps there was something to the lemon juice “cure.”
When the irons were hot enough, she began pressing her damp petticoats and chemises. From now on, when she did the wash, she’d have to find somewhere inside to hang them to dry. She did not want her underpinnings blowing in the breeze for Union soldiers to see.
She kept ironing, kept worrying about how she could get to Suzanne and how she could thwart Colonel Woodard. She could hear the buzz of insects at the open windows and the murmur of the soldiers still working on their pen. She hummed softly to herself to keep her thoughts from going in a direction she wouldn’t be able to endure.
It was so hot. If they hadn’t been in the yard, she would have done the ironing in the shaded walkway between the house and the summer kitchen. After a time she shed her pinafore and rolled up her sleeves. Then she took off her shoes and stockings, savoring the feel of her bare feet against the cool stone floor. Even so, she still had to wet her face and neck with cold water from time to time in order to stand the heat.
At one point, she looked up at a different sound. Colonel Woodard stood in the doorway.
“I’ve spoken to your father,” he said without prelude—something he did often, she was beginning to realize, as if it didn’t matter how he came to a particular point, only that his ultimate demand was met and with total compliance.
She didn’t say anything, partially because she had no idea what direction the conversation was taking and mostly because she was mortified that he would see her bare feet. She bent her knees slightly to make sure her skirts touched the ground.
“Your father agrees that it might not be expedient to allow you to go see about your friend under a pass. You will be escorted at his request.”
“I will speak to my father about it myself,” she said. She wasn’t about to take his word for anything.
“I believe he is resting now—”
“I will speak to him, anyway.”
“Fine,” he said, turning to go. “But put your shoes on.”
She could feel her face grow even hotter, and she stood there, her mortification giving way to absolute indignation. If the iron in her hand hadn’t been so heavy, she would have thrown it at him.
“Hurry it along, Miss Markham,” he said as he walked away. “The Army of the Republic waits for no one.”
She slammed the iron down—only to pick it up again because an arrogant Yankee colonel wasn’t worth a scorched sheet. She slung the iron onto the stovetop with a loud clang. Then she set about getting her shoes and socks and her pinafore back on, muttering under her breath all the while. When she straightened up, two soldiers were looking in the window, both of them grinning from ear to ear.
“Would you be needing anything, miss?” one of them asked innocently.
She needed a loaded pistol, but she didn’t say so. She ignored both of them and walked swiftly back into the house, her head held high.
Colonel Woodard and Perkins stood in the kitchen.
“Sergeant Major Perkins, tell Miss Markham where her father is,” Colonel Woodard said when he saw her.
“Mr. Markham is asleep on the daybed in his sitting room, miss,” Perkins replied dutifully. “He has had a bit to eat, and he has no complaints—except that he is tired and would like to rest now.”
Maria looked from one man to the other. She had every intention of speaking to her father herself.
“I’m leaving now, Miss Markham. You are still concerned about your friend?” the colonel asked when she headed for the back stairs.
She stopped, realizing that he was once again deliberately trying to provoke her. She closed her eyes for a moment in a monumental effort to keep her temper in check. She would not let him win.
“Yes,” she said, turning to look at him. “I am still concerned. I want to go see about her—if you please,” she added, though it nearly killed her to do it.
“Excellent—Perkins, you know what to do.”
“Yes, Sir!” Perkins said, hurrying away.
Maria moved to get her straw hat down from the peg by the back door, then she stood and waited for her instructions from the colonel and tried not to shred the brim.
“This way, Miss Markham,” Colonel Woodard said.
He went ahead of her into the center hallway. A number of Yankee officers stood around, and all of them stared as she passed. The colonel opened the front door for her—in what had to be purely a token gesture of courtesy on his part. No matter how it might appear on the surface, there was nothing civil about the man. But she had no doubt that her father had been fooled or that he had sanctioned her going.
A carriage sat in front of the house—the same one that had brought his belongings yesterday—and the colonel was going to win after all. She was suddenly overcome with consternation at the sight of it. She simply could not bear to be seen in public with this man two days in a row.
He was halfway to the street when he realized she was no longer trailing after him.
“What is it?” he asked, waiting for her to catch up.
She made no attempt to do so.
“I can’t,” she said, trying not to sound as hysterical as she felt. “My father would not want me to be seen about town with you like this.”
“He didn’t seem to mind yesterday when he sent you to the train station,” the colonel said. “That aside, I told you I had spoken with him. He feels that my escorting you personally to see about Mrs. Canfield is an excellent plan. I must go to my office, anyway. You can remain with Mrs. Canfield until I—or Perkins—can fetch you home again. Unless you prefer to stay here in the company of a bunch of…I’m ashamed to say, very poorly disciplined officers, who may or may not adhere to the letter of my direct orders and remember that they are gentlemen by military decree, if nothing else. Your choice, of course.”
“My choice? It is not my choice! You have me in a corner and you know it!”
“Yes,” he said agreeably. “Are you coming along or not?”
She was, and he knew that, too. She picked up her skirts and walked purposefully by him and climbed into the carriage, ignoring Perkins’s outstretched hand. She had already learned from yesterday’s buggy ride that Colonel Woodard would do whatever he pleased, and she moved into the far corner of the seat to keep him from parking himself on her pinafore and skirts.
But