Mary Schaller - Beloved Enemy

Rob swallowed his impatience. “Miss Julia dropped her fan this evening. I wish to return it,” he fabricated, itching to be off now that he had made up his mind for action.

The doorman gave him a fishy look. “The Chandlers were not invited to this here party. That’s a fact.”

Rob controlled himself. He had never before spoken directly to an African servant, and he was afraid to press the man lest he lose his temper. Instead, he lowered his voice as if to impart a great secret. “Miss Julia and her sister, Carolyn, came in disguise. They haven’t been to a party in years. No harm done—except, of course, Miss Julia losing her fan.” He hoped the man wouldn’t ask to see the nonexistent item.

The doorman considered Rob’s explanation for a moment, then nodded. “That’s what old Perkins said down in the hall. Said old Mrs. Chandler would have had a fit if she knew what her girls were up to, but I didn’t think he meant this party. Miss Julia, as I recollect, was a nice enough child, very polite to everyone. If she lost her fan here, I expect she’ll feel mighty low about it.”

When the man paused for breath, Rob added fuel to his plea. “I hope for Miss Julia’s sake that the fan does not belong to old Mrs. Chandler.”

The doorman shook his head. “Lordy, that child will be in a world of trouble if that be the case. You go along now, Major, sir, and see that Miss Julia gets it back right quick.”

Elation made his blood flow faster. “Which way do I go?”

The doorman pointed to the right. “Down to the corner, turn left. That’s Prince Street. Go on two blocks. The house is in the middle on the left side. Red brick with black shutters. Got a double door in front.”

“And the number on the house?” Rob prodded.

“Now how am I expected to know that, Major, sir? I’m not allowed to read, you know.” The doorman’s face turned as blank as an ebony mask.

Rob considered bribing the servant with a twenty-five-cent piece, but thought better of the idea. He might be insulted or he might be telling the truth, which would be a waste of Rob’s time and money. Thanking the fellow, Rob got his greatcoat from the antechamber, then departed the Winsteads without a formal goodbye to the host, or telling his cousin Ben where he was going. Since the way sounded short, Rob chose not to retrieve his horse from the warm stable just yet. No point in allowing Buster to catch a chill while Rob made his apologies to the lovely Miss Julia.

He didn’t stop to think that for the first time in many months, he was running to something, rather than away from something.

Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the double bed she shared with her sister, Carolyn brushed out her hair. “What a divine time! I don’t believe I have ever had a finer night in all my born days. And I didn’t step on too many toes, either.”

Julia sat at their vanity table, also brushing her hair, though her strokes were not as vigorous as Carolyn’s. Her head throbbed with a dull ache—the champagne’s aftereffects. When she stared into the looking glass, it was not her face that she saw, but that of the handsome Major Robin Goodfellow, or whomever he was. She wished she knew his real name. She chewed her lower lip. No, it was better that she didn’t, since she had made such an idiot of herself. At least, she would never see him again.

As if reading her thoughts, Carolyn asked, “Who was that Yankee you spent the whole evening with?”

Julia shrugged and massaged her neck. “I have no idea. We traded names from Shakespeare, not our own. I thought it was safer that way.”

Carolyn shook her head. “Julia, you are a caution! Even at a party, you can’t forget all that heavy reading. You think too much to enjoy yourself.”

Julia smiled ruefully at her reflection. What she was thinking would shock Carolyn to fits, and it had nothing to do with English literature. Her cheeks grew warm. He said he would kiss me many times and in many places.

Carolyn persisted. “It is a good thing that Mother didn’t see you. She would have locked you in here for a month of Sundays for being so free and easy with that man.”

Julia turned around and stared at her sister. “Me? And who was dancing and flirting—and drinking champagne—with flocks of the enemy?”

Carolyn stuck out her tongue at Julia. “Pooh! I had to let those poor boys see what they are missing by living up North. I hear that Yankee girls are sour in looks and disposition. They wouldn’t know how to have a good time even if it came knocking on their front door.”

Julia only half-listened to Carolyn’s explanation. She preferred to muse over the devastating smile of her mystery man. And his lips! The ones that refused to ruin her. She tingled with a delicious thrill at the idea of his mouth pressed against hers. But it would never happen, she reminded herself. No proper girl should be kissed like that until she’s engaged, and Julia would never consider engaging herself to a Yankee.

Carolyn tossed her brush on the daybed, then slipped under the satin eiderdown quilt. “Well, I am going to sleep. All those Yankee boys wore me to a frazzle. Ooh, my toes will ache so in the morning!” She giggled as she snuggled deeper into the covers.

“Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Julia intoned absentmindedly, reciting the little rhyme that had been their bedtime ritual since both girls were small children.

“’Night,” Carolyn murmured from under the quilt.

Julia returned to the mirror. Once again, Rob’s face rose in her mind. Again, she recalled his firm, sensual lips. She ran her finger over her own, then sighed. She wished there had been more time at the ball. He might have tried to kiss her if he had drunk some of that eggnog. She shivered, not with the night’s cold, but with the speculation of forbidden delights. She sighed again. I should have thrown myself at him….

Rob studied the front of the Chandler house. The dark windows facing the street indicated that the family had all retired. Much to his surprise, he felt a sharp stab of disappointment, though he had no firm idea what he would have done had the lights still been on. A gentleman didn’t make social calls at midnight.

A large cat, silver-gold in the street’s gaslight, brushed against his boots, then ambled down the narrow cobbled alleyway that ran between the Chandlers and their next-door neighbors. Rob watched the animal disappear around the corner of the house, drawing his attention to a faint glow in the rear garden. His heartbeat accelerated. Without considering the consequences, he followed the cat’s path down the alley. In a brick archway of the rear garden wall, a narrow wrought iron gate opened to a brick path that led up to the Chandlers’ back door. Sitting on the kitchen steps, the cat licked its paws with an air of ownership.

Rob traced the glow to one of the second-floor windows; its light fell gently on the garden. His sense of adventure stirred. He pressed down the latch and swung open the gate. The cat looked up, but did not hiss or give any other sign of alarm. Drawn by the light, Rob stole into the garden, and closed the gate behind him. He slid along the high brick wall and stopped when he came to the privy house in the furthermost corner. From this darkened vantage point, he could just make out the indistinct shape of a woman sitting before a mirror with her back to the window. An oil lamp flickered beside her; the looking glass caught the light and reflected it out—to him.

Rob gave a slight start. The woman looked like Julia. Her hair color was unmistakable. Yet there could be other members of her family who bore her resemblance. “Turn around,” he whispered in the darkness. “Come to the window.” What would he do if she did look out?