Slowly he turned toward the evocative jasmine perfume and, as quickly as a missed heartbeat, lost himself in the beautiful, willful face that met his gaze.
The young woman smiled. "Mr. Parsell and I are already acquainted, although I see by his expression that he doesn't remember me. Shame, Mr. Parsell. You've forgotten one of your most faithful admirers."
Although Brandon Parsell didn't recognize the face, he knew the voice. He knew those gently blurred vowels and soft consonants as well as he knew the sound of his own breathing. It was the voice of his mother, his aunts, and his sisters. The voice that, for four long years, had soothed the dying and defied the Yankees and sent the gentlemen out to fight again. It was the voice that had gladly offered up husbands, brothers, and sons to the Glorious Cause.
The voice of all the gently bred women of the South.
It was the voice that had cheered them on at Bull Run and Fredericksburg, the voice that had steadied them in those long weeks on the bluffs at Vicksburg, the voice that had cried bitter tears into lavender-scented handkerchiefs, then whispered "Never mind" when they lost Stonewall Jackson at Chancellorsville.
It was the voice that had spurred on Pickett's men in their desperate charge at Gettysburg, the voice they'd heard as they lay dying in the mud at Chickamauga, and the voice they would not let themselves hear on that Virginia Palm Sunday when they'd surrendered their dreams at Appomattox Court House.
Yet, despite the voice, there was a difference in the woman who stood before him from the women who waited at home. The white satin ball gown she wore rustled with newness. No brooch had been artfully placed to conceal a darn that was almost, but not quite, invisible. There were no signs that a skirt originally designed to accommodate a hoop had been taken apart and reassembled to give a smaller, more fashionable silhouette. There was another difference, too, in the woman who stood before him from the women who waited at home. Her violet eyes did not contain any secret, unspoken reproach.
When he finally found his own voice, it seemed to come from a place far away. "I'm afraid you have the advantage, ma'am. It's hard for me to believe I could have forgotten such a memorable face, but if you say it's so, I'm not disputing it, just begging your forgiveness for my poor memory. Perhaps you'll enlighten me?"
Elvira Templeton, accustomed to the plainer speech of Yankee businessmen, blinked twice before she remembered her manners. "Mr. Parsed, may I present Miss Katharine Louise Weston."
Brandon Parsell was too much a gentleman to let his shock show, but even so, he couldn't find the words to frame a proper response. Mrs. Templeton continued with the amenities, introducing Miss Baird and, of course, Mr. Mayhew. Miss Weston seemed amused.
The orchestra began to play the first strains of The Blue Danube waltz. Mr. Parsell came out of his stupor and turned to Mr. Mayhew. "Would you very much mind fetching a cup of punch for Miss Baird, sir? She was just remarking on her thirst. Miss Weston, can an old friend claim the honor of this waltz?" It was an uncharacteristic breach of etiquette, but Parsell couldn't bring himself to care.
Kit smiled and presented her gloved hand. They moved out onto the ballroom floor and into the steps of the dance. Brandon finally broke the silence. "You've changed, Kit Weston I don't believe your own mammy would recognize you."
"I never had a mammy, Brandon Parsell, as you very well know."
He laughed aloud at her feistiness. He hadn't realized how much he missed talking to a woman whose spirit hadn't been broken. "Wait until I tell my mother and my sisters I've seen you. We heard Cain had shipped you to a school up North, but none of us speaks to him, and Sophronia hasn't said much to anybody."
Kit didn't want to talk about Cain. "How are your mother and sisters?"
"As well as can be expected. Losing Holly Grove's been hard on them. I'm working at the bank in Rutherford." His laugh was self-deprecating. "A Parsell working in a bank. Times do change, don't they, Miss Kit Weston?"
Kit took in the clean, sensitive lines of his face and observed the way his neatly trimmed mustache brushed the upper curve of his lip. She didn't let her pity show as she breathed in the faint smells of tobacco and bay rum that clung so pleasantly to him.
Brandon and his sisters had been at the center of a carefree group of young people some five or six years older than she. When the war started, she remembered standing at the side of the road and watching him ride toward Charleston. He'd sat his horse as if he'd been born in a saddle, and he'd worn the gray uniform and plumed hat so proudly that her throat had congealed with fierce, proud tears. To her, he'd symbolized the spirit of the Confederate soldier, and she'd yearned for nothing more than to follow him into battle and fight at his side. Now Holly Grove lay in ruins and Brandon Parsell worked in a bank.
"What are you doing in New York, Mr. Parsell?" she asked, trying to steady herself against the faint giddiness attacking her knees.
"My employer sent me here to attend to some family business for him. I'm returning home tomorrow."
"Your employer must think highly of you if he's willing to trust you with family affairs."
Again the self-deprecating sound that was nearly, but not quite, a laugh. "If you listen to my mother, she'll tell you that I'm running the Planters and Citizens Bank, but the truth is, I'm little more than an errand boy."
"I'm sure that's not so."
"The South has been raised on self-delusion. It's like mother's milk to us, this belief in our invincibility. But I, for one, have given up self-delusion. The South isn't invincible, and neither am I."
"Is it so very bad?"
He moved her toward the edge of the ballroom. "You haven't been to Rutherford for years. Everything's different. Carpetbaggers and scalawags are running the state. Even though South Carolina's about to be readmitted to the Union, Yankee soldiers still patrol the streets and look the other way when respectable citizens are accosted by riffraff. The state legislature's a joke." He spat out the last word as if it were venomous. "Living here, you can't have any idea what it's like."
She felt guilty, as if she had somehow shirked her duty by deserting the South to go to school in New York. The music ended, but she wasn't ready for the dance to be over. And maybe Brandon wasn't, either, because he made no move to release her. "I imagine you already have a partner for the supper dance."
She nodded, then heard herself saying, "But since you're a neighbor and leaving New York tomorrow, I'm certain Mr. Mayhew won't object to stepping aside."
He lifted her hand and brushed the back of it with his lips. "Then he's a fool."
Elsbeth swooped down on her the moment he took his leave and dragged her to the sitting room that had been set aside for the ladies to tidy themselves.
"Who is he, Kit? All the girls are talking about him. He looks like a poet. Oh, my! Your bows are coming untied, and you already have a spot on your skirt. And your hair…" She pushed Kit down in front of the mirror and snatched out the filigreed silver combs she'd given her last year as a birthday present. "I don't know why you wouldn't let me put it up for tonight. It looks so wild like this."
"For the same reason I wouldn't let you lace me into a corset. I don't like anything that takes away my freedom."
Elsbeth gave her an impish smile. "You're a woman. You're not supposed to have any freedom."
Kit laughed. "Oh, Elsbeth, what would I have done without you these last three years?"
"Gotten expelled."
Kit reached up and squeezed her hand. "Have I ever said thank you?"
"A hundred times. And I'm the one who should thank you. If it hadn't been for you, I'd never have learned to stand up for myself. I'm sorry Father's being so beastly. I'll never forgive him for not believing you."