North Carolina, 1865.

He was angry.

Angry and hot. The cool mountain breezes he was promised were not nearly strong enough to ease the stifling humid heat that seemed to lay like a damp blanket over him. He flapped the edge of his Prussian-blue coat violently, thoughts of tossing the suppressing wool garment into the fiery pits of hell amused him. Propriety and U.S. Army regulations be damned. He squinted up towards the unyielding sun, hoping to find it lower in the sky, instead disappointed to find it no farther along than it was ten minutes prior. The terrible hard, red earth of the dirt trail seemed to stretch in front of him as endless and unrelenting as the North Carolina heat; winding and hopeless. A dead road through a dead land, such as it was. His horse stumbled and snorted, clearly as miserable as he was and he felt a camaraderie with the poor beast. The world seemed lost and dying here and he felt as unmoored as ever. The entire country had been living under the tumultuous storm clouds of the war only to reemerge and wander aimlessly amongst the destruction. The South groaned under her consequences, weary and furious, and he just wanted to go the hell home. Home to Philadelphia with her cobblestone streets and home to Katy with her soft smile and delicate hands.

He knew why he was given this assignment, which made the indignity of it burn brighter. His father and General Stoneman were old enemies and when news came that Senator Halpert’s youngest son was being sent under his command at the end of the war, he was sure he could think of no better task than to send him on a meaningless escort mission into the desolate wilderness of Carolina backcountry. Stoneman had just returned from his post-war plundering of the area himself and no doubt enjoyed the look of dismay on the young colonel’s face when he told him to ensure the safe return of his wife’s nephew. The long ride from New Bern to Asheville was not an easy one and the farther west one rode the more lawless it became. The young man’s family lived among the pockets of Union sided families in the far mountains of North Carolina. The rebellious towns that dotted the landscape between them necessitated his presence, he reasoned. He found most southerners he encountered to be ambivalent to his Union uniform. They either looked on him as Satan, ignored him entirely or spit in his direction; all three were likely to happen at any moment.

James Halpert had served the entirety of the war as a Cavalry officer, and despite his father’s efforts to keep him from the front lines, had served and survived many battles. The experience had irreparably changed him and he was certain that upon his return he would be unrecognizable as if the scars of war would somehow be as visible as the patches of rank on his shoulder; his mere survival an expiation of his sins. He and his two brothers all went to West Point and even though James was well-learned and cultured, he never cared much for the pretentious Philadelphia society like they did; the gentleman he was and the expectations thrust upon him after graduation, more of a burden. The war came as a welcomed distraction even if it took him far from home and away from the girl we wanted so desperately to marry. Her family was elated when he had announced his intentions at Christmas dinner before he rode off to join General McClellan's troops. He assumed Katy would be in agreement. She was an agreeable woman and always seemed to want to please him. It all seemed far away from here, the war-torn land he now rode through and the man he was now after four long years of that war.

“When do you think we will arrive, Colonel sir?” The young man was scrawny with wisps of sweaty blond hair sticking to his face. His somewhat effeminate features irritated rather than endeared James. If the boy was more brawny then perhaps his presence would not be needed and he would be halfway through Virginia by now.

“Soon enough. I imagine our scout here can tell us specifically.”

The scout rode ahead on a painted mare, both leftovers from the confederate Cherokee that had fought under Watie and surrendered at the end of the war. James had recruited him in Concord to help him navigate the unfamiliar mountain trails leading to Asheville. Desperate for pay, the man had tenuously agreed although he had barely spoken ten words the entire duration.

“Four leagues.” The man spoke suddenly with a strong Native accent.

“Four leagues,” James repeated to the boy riding behind him. Now it was twelve words.

The sun was dancing on the treetops by the time they pulled their horses up to the boarding house near the main town square, weary and hungry. The building seemed to have survived the plundering done by Union troops in the middle of the night not five months prior. Based on the hate in the eyes of everyone he spoke to, the pain of those raids had not been forgotten. James acquired their accommodations and paid the Cherokee man what he owed him, of which he was quite sure to never to see again.

He leaned down slightly to speak to the young woman at the front desk of the boarding house, his tall, muscular frame towering above her, “Can you tell me, ma’am, where I might find the Morgan family? I have been sent to deliver their son and, as I am sure, they are anxious to know of his safe arrival.” He flashed his best smile at her cold expression.

The woman looked at him sternly, her deep brown eyes large on her small face. “They are living here in town. You best ask my husband to send word.” Her strong mountain accent was minimally helpful which was likely due to his clothes and not his charm. He nodded his thanks, “Then perhaps you can tell me where we might get a suitable meal?”

She tilted her head back slightly, her eyes moving down his uniform, “You will be most comfortable at Madison's, across the street.”

He was thankful to find Madisons to be a small piece of civility in a rather beat down, war-weary town. He downed his whiskey quickly and motioned for another. He had sent word, as instructed, to the Morgan family to alert them to the fact they were in town and needed to fetch their son. He was tired of this damn affair and wished to be rid of his young ward as soon as possible. In the meantime, he would enjoy his meal and drink.

He was halfway through his fourth whiskey when a wealthy family drew the attention of the entire room as they entered and were immediately taken to a large table near the window. It had to be the liquor swirling now in his blood or perhaps it was that he had not seen a proper lady in many months but he was drawn inexplicably to the fair, curly-haired woman having her chair pulled out for her by the Maître D'. She was not as strikingly beautiful as his Katy was but the way her brown-auburn hair twisted in curls at the base of her neck caused a warm feeling flow through him. It had to be the whiskey, he convinced himself.

“Colonel Halpert?”

“Father!” The young Morgan boy jumped up from the table and threw himself at the man, James assumed, was Mr. Morgan.

The shorter but fit man grabbed his hand with exuberance, “I thank you for delivering my son safely. George wrote and said he was sending one of his best. I trust the journey went well?”

“It was uneventful, sir, which is as much as one can hope for these days.” James finally spoke, trying his best to not speak like a man who just downed four whiskeys.

“Indeed it is,” he slapped James on the arm, his voice revealing a slight southern lilt, “You must come for dinner tomorrow evening. I insist.”

“No sir, I will be leaving for Philadelphia as soon as possible.”

“Nonsense. That is a long journey from New Bern, you must stay for at least a day. To rest your horse if nothing else. Where are you staying? I will send my carriage to fetch you tomorrow.”

Seeing how arguing was fruitless, and rude at this point, he relented, “I am staying across the way, at The Chateau.”

“Ah very well, I will see you then.”

James finished the last of his whiskey and ordered another.


As promised, the carriage arrived promptly at seven. He was not particularly in the mood to be genial and cordial but his upbringing pulled at his sense of obligation like a tether he was never quite free from. He would much rather be dull and entertained by a bottle of whiskey, instead, he found himself in a grand receiving room, smiling at poor jokes with a glass of warm brandy in his hand. The Morgans were upper class, old railroad money, and were quite obviously Union sympathizers in a place where that was a risky proposition. James found the conversations comfortable and when he discovered Mr. Morgan was well-read in Whitman and Flaubert, he found he had several things in common with the businessman.

“Mr. William Beesly.” The servant announced suddenly and everyone turned to see the same family he had seen in Madisons, now being welcomed into the receiving room.

“Colonel, allow me to introduce Mr. Beesly, his lovely wife Helene, and their two daughters, Miss Pamela Beesly and Miss Penny Beesly. This is Colonel James Halpert. He assisted us by returning Emerson home safely from New Bern.”

James nodded his head politely at each one.

“William, Colonel served under General Stoneman. I believe you know him, do you not?”

“Ah, yes many years ago. A fine gentleman.”

“It is a connection that caused Mr. Beesly’s home to be spared after the Battle of Asheville, no doubt.” Mr. Morgan looked at James with a conspiratorial tone. Clearly, this family’s history with prominent Northerners had been fruitful in the aftermath of the war.

He continued to discuss war politics with Mr. Beesly and Mr. Morgan as the ladies excused themselves. Despite his efforts, his eyes continued to drift back to Miss Beesly across the room. He scolded himself internally at his weakness. The war had made him as desperate as a pubescent boy at a debutant ball apparently and he was embarrassingly distracted. Her evening dress transfixed him, its striped pattern flared in a ‘V’ shape and made her waist look impossibly small. The low, square laced bodice, fashionable for the day, revealed the sight of her creamy décolletage and it was his undoing. He turned his back to her, pretending to note a painting framed above their heads, complimenting their host on its striking composition.

Mercifully, he was placed on the same side of the table as her in the Morgan’s large dining hall, forcing him to converse instead with Mrs. Beesly and Mr. Morgan across from him.

“Colonel Halpert, Mrs. Morgan tells me you are to marry upon your return to Philadelphia.” Mrs. Beesly’s intrusive question brought all the eyes of the table to him and he shifted nervously under their scrutiny, clearing his throat before speaking.

“Yes, ma’am. Her family, the Moores, are quite prominent in Philadelphia. They have been planning furiously, I am sure.” Nods and positive murmurs came from around the table.

“I trust they will be pleased to see you home and in good health.”

“Yes ma’am, I am certain they will.”

Mrs. Beesly, seemingly bored, moved on to question Mrs. Morgan and her choice of centerpiece, much to his relief.

After dinner, he excused himself to the veranda, the collar on his Dress Blues becoming unbearably tight. The stars were bright here, much brighter than in Philadelphia and he wondered sometimes when the southerners said this was “God’s Country” if that is what they meant. He inhaled deeply feeling the drastic change in temperature drifting up from the riverbed below the house; the whippoorwills making their nightly calls to the heavens.

“Are you trying to escape my mother’s poor humor or Mr. Morgan’s political rants?”

Her voice startled him but it was warm and smooth like whiskey and sent a jolt of excitement through him that he cared not examine too closely.

“Neither. Just enjoying the cool air.”

“You are not very good at deception, Colonel Halpert.”

“No Colonel. The war is over.”

“Thank the heavens above. I’ve never understood why a country would be so eager to send its boys and young men off to slaughter.”

He turned to her, mildly surprised, “That is quite a strong opinion for a lady.”

“Well, I do have my own mind Mr. Halpert.” Her smile was pleasant and stirred something inside him akin to falling off a horse. He shifted nervously, waiting to hit the ground.

“Indeed.”

She sighed and smoothed out the top of her skirt needlessly, “My fiancé thinks I should not have opinions and if they happen to enter my treacherous mind by accident, to keep my eyes down and my mouth shut.”

James shook his head and swirled the brown liquid in his glass.

“Most gentlemen think a woman is not capable or entitled to opinions beyond her husband and children,” he glanced at her, trying to read her face in the dim light, “I happen to not agree with that sentiment.”

“Does your fiancée speak her mind often?” Guilt washed over him like cold water at the mention of her. He hadn’t thought of Katy the entire evening. His thoughts had been wrapped up in the woman in the striped skirt currently looking up at the stars. Her lovely neck a soft ivory color in the moonlight. He cleared his throat in a lame attempt to refocus.

She looked back at him now, realizing he hadn’t answered, “I am sorry, that was inappropriate. Forgive my intrusion.”

“No, no it is quite fine Miss Beesly. She does not opine very often, no.”

He desperately wanted to talk about anything other than Katy.

“I plan on leaving tomorrow for Philadelphia if the weather holds.”

“Oh,” she murmured softly. She suddenly looked disappointed and he tried not to read too much into that. He felt like what it must feel to lose one’s mind, every glance at her lips made him feel dizzy; every sigh she made, lightheaded. He gripped the railing with his left hand harshly in an attempt to stay grounded.

“Have you ever been there, Miss Beesly? Philadelphia?”

“No, I have never been further north than Richmond. My father has and I am sure he would love to regale his time there with you before you leave.”

“Ah, you must visit some time. It is particularly lovely in the fall.”

“I am sure it is. I doubt I will ever see it though.”

He dared to look her in the eyes again, the sadness in her voice bothering him far too much.

“They have trains, Miss Beesly. Trains that will take you straight to Philadelphia.”

A smile pulled at her lips, “Did you discover that on your own Mr. Halpert, or was that information given to you?”

He realized quickly that he was being teased and a chuckle came unbidden from his chest. He was accustomed to the obedient woman that never showed a sense of humor and certainly not with the opposite sex, lest they be deemed a harlot and decidedly not marriageable.

He squinted at her mirthfully, “You are not very biddable, Miss Beesly. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“I would much rather be memorable than biddable, Mr. Halpert.” She blinked slowly, her eyes held an unspoken challenge and he felt his grip slipping.

Before he could stop his mouth from betraying his thoughts, “You are memorable, Miss Beesly. Very much.”

She looked up at him, her green eyes filled with something he could not place; something he did not dare contemplate. His eyes drifted lower of their own volition, first to her lips, slightly parted, then lower to the tops of her breasts heaving in her bodice. Her corset must make it difficult to breathe, he thought briefly, or perhaps the planet was suddenly bereft of air because he too found it suddenly difficult to take a breath. He exhaled shakily, his thoughts drifting to what she must look like in her corset and he blinked, mentally reprimanding himself.

It suddenly felt like they were closer. He wasn’t sure if the movement was him or her or a bit of both but he was thankful. Now her perfume, and something that was distractingly female, enveloped him and he, brave man that he was, felt as though he had lost all reason; all he could think of was more. Warmth trickled down his spine and pooled in his stomach and he knew with certainty that he was going to hell.

“William!”

Her mother’s shriek shot them apart like cannon fire. He stood there, shell shocked, for a moment only to be brought back to the present by the swishing of her skirts as she ran inside.

_____________________________________

William Beesly had died of a sudden arrest of his heart or ‘attack’ as the town physician had called it. The town, along with the family, was in shock, and even for a place so familiar with death and destruction, it seemed to be significant. He had been a prominent man, owning several businesses as well as the rifle factory, one of the first factories in the area.

He stood in her parlor watching her as inconspicuously as he could get away with. The house was filled with mourners, coming to pay their respects. The amount of black silk and crepe in one place must have left the dressmakers scrambling to find more. Even the less fortunate of the town’s citizens wore their special black attire. Mourning dresses, he imagined, had been worn with saddening frequency in recent years. The fact that there were no men between the ages of fifteen and thirty present, besides himself, was not lost on him.

Her modest black dress was the one that interested him the most. It made her brown-red curls stand out even more and the pale, ivory skin of her neck seemed to be painfully distracting. For a woman who had just lost her father, she was holding up quite well.

Which worried him.

She spotted him and he dumbly looked away as if he could fool her. He turned back in her direction and she was there in front of him, like a petite, haunting, curly-haired ghost he could not escape.

“I thought you were leaving, Mr. Halpert. You stated, rather adamantly, that fact.”

He shifted nervously on his feet. Damn this woman, and her effect on him, he mentally cursed.

“I thought I might stay and help your family with any arrangements before I go. What with your lack of a brother or male relative to assist…” he finished lamely, struggling to find an excuse.

“Do you think my sister and I not capable, sir? That we would undoubtedly need a man to help us navigate the perilous waters of funeral arrangements?” Her tone was serious and offended but there was a gleam in her eye that gave her away.

He huffed slightly, looking at his boots momentarily to regain composure, “No, not at all. I do not mean to offend, I just wanted to —“

“Mr. Anderson.”

“Miss Beesly. Pamela,” his voice lowered slightly as he uttered her informal name, “I am devastated to hear about your father. He was a great man.” The tall, bulky man reached for her hand and kissed it. James could not help but notice she pulled it from his grasp quickly, either from embarrassment or something else, he could not quite be sure.

“Mr. Anderson, this is Colonel Halpert. He assisted the Morgan family with young Emerson and he was at dinner the evening…” She stopped, bringing her black lacy kerchief to her face instead and he felt the overwhelming need to help her.

James turned to him, diverting attention from her distress momentarily and offering his hand, “It is a pleasure, Mr. Anderson.”

“The pleasure is mine, sir,” his meaty hand gripped his own harshly. The recent years had been good to him, his well-fed form filling out his suit coat completely; a sharp contrast to most southerners in the days following the war. “So, you are a Yankee. What brings you to Asheville?” His suspicious eyes belied his cordial tone.

James wondered if he had even listened to Miss Beesly at all, seeing how she had already explained his presence. “I was on a special assignment for General Stoneman.”

“Well, you are coming out with us tonight then, and entertain us with your war stories over cigars and brandy.” He did not seem to be the least affected by Mr. Beesly’s passing and James was appalled by his lack of decorum.

“No, I really should not, I have to—“

“What? Are you going to stay with the women?” Anderson meant it as an insult but James thought spending the evening with Miss Beesly sounded endlessly more pleasant than spending it with this brute.

“Very well then.” He answered emotionlessly and Anderson was satisfied, leaving them both and moving towards the door having completed what he came to do; being seen by Miss Beesly.

He looked back to her finding her eyes already meeting his.

“That is my fiancé,” she said almost apologetically.

“I gathered. By the name, of course.”

“His father and mine were old friends. They started the rifle business here in town together. They have planned our marriage since childhood.” She stated all this with a sense of detachment, similar to how one reads a recipe or directions.

“I see. He did not fight in the war?”

“No, he was Home Guard. His father deemed him too valuable to spare to the war effort.”

James’s eyebrows rose at this. The Confederate Home Guard had a terrible reputation in the Union Army and mostly consisted of invalids and cowards in his opinion. Lesser men, too weak to fight, stayed home and took advantage of the absence of authority left by the men who went off to war. Maybe he could come down with a sudden illness this evening instead.




“Halpert!” Anderson’s voice bellowed as he reined his horse roughly to the railing, dismounting clumsily. How could this idiot be drunk so early in the evening? His opinion of the man was declining by the minute and it had nothing to with his betrothal to Miss Beesly. Nothing at all, he convinced himself.

“Anderson. Would you like help securing your horse?”

He draped the reins over the post. “No, the incorrigible bastard. Maybe he will run away and I can see fit to purchase a new one.” James looped the reins in a knot anyway.

“Let us go find some entertainment.”

He was beginning to regret his decision to not feign illness already.

The evening found them at Miss Mary Halls, a brothel on the edge of town. James was no prude and had been in a house of ill repute before but he had no interest in Anderson’s particular taste tonight, instead, he turned his attention to the intense poker games and his endless glass of whiskey. Society men in Philadelphia frequented such places and he had accompanied his father there many times. Business and political relationships were often forged in the parlors of high-end Madams and it was no secret that they all returned home to their wives at the end of the night. He had never seen much value in paying for a woman’s attention, and while he certainly enjoyed the view, it wasn’t something that particularly appealed to him. Roy Anderson, on the other hand, appeared to be a very good customer of Miss Halls. The more intoxicated Anderson became, the more he boasted about being the soon-to-be owner of the Enfield Rifle Company.

“Now that her father is gone" he stumbled slightly over his words, "Once I marry her, it will all be mine.” He leaned over to James at the poker table, a scantily clad woman perched on his lap, her breasts all but threatening to spill out of her red satin corset, “Pamela is not much to look at but she is amicable. I suppose it will be worth it to marry her for her father’s company. She will give me some sons, too.”

He looked at him in disgust. Anger simmered in his veins at Anderson’s blatant insults. She was disarmingly beautiful and even though he had only just met Miss Beesly, he certainly knew she was not amicable. He pushed aside why it bothered him so much for dissection later and took a long drink of his whiskey while he studied his cards. What he was sure of, however, is that he was beginning to grow weary of Anderson's brash behavior and loose tongue.

“It is your turn, Mr. Anderson.”

“Ah, yes.” He separated himself from the woman and drew a card, “I have to tell you, Mr. Halpert, I have had a sampling of her…” he gestured vulgarly at his chest and James shook his head slightly in annoyance, “and they are lovely, indeed. I bet you can’t wait to get home to your fiancée after being gone for so long. Let me buy you a girl tonight.”

“No, thank you. I will be leaving soon. I have an early morning.”

“Ah come on, what is wrong with you? Did you leave your balls at Sharpsburg or did the war take them all together?” Everyone at the poker table chuckled and he turned coldly to Anderson.

“It is assumed one has balls if they go to war, Mr. Anderson, and that those left behind… do not.” There was a soft whistle from across the table at the thinly veiled insult.

He met his stare for a brief moment before Anderson broke it, lifting his voice, “Well, I know the ladies here do not doubt the presence of mine! Another round!” Claps and laughs came from around the table and all attention was refocused on the game.


He was restless. The whiskey he had had at Miss Halls had done nothing to temper his mood and Roy Anderson had aggravated him beyond measure. The ignorant brute was nothing if not a perfect example of why he should leave the South at the first light of dawn and never look back. He was going to be a terrible husband to Miss Beesly, only marrying her for her money. A thought that troubled him more than he was willing to admit. She was an intelligent woman and must know his intentions. If she was his wife, she would not have to worry about her father’s money or finding him at Miss Halls every evening. Why did he just think that? He tossed again. His bed at The Chateau was decent enough, but when he closed his eyes, he saw her. She did not strike him as a woman who shared much of herself to anyone, but she felt oddly familiar to him. A distressing mix of satisfying comfort and stimulating heat.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered to himself and the ceiling.

She is betrothed. His mind kept repeating but his own thoughts did not seem to listen.

She is betrothed.

He tried a different tactic.

I have a fiancée.

I have a fiancée.

She was beautiful and lovely and she was waiting for him. Katy was a classic, stunning beauty that would make him a happy man, provide him with a satisfying marriage. He should be thinking about her. He closed his eyes, convinced he had conquered the rebellious thoughts in his mind, but instead saw her green eyes, her soft curls, and the way she smiled when he told her she was not biddable. Something most ladies would take offense to, but instead, she found it humorous, saw it as a challenge.

God, he was in trouble.

At some point, he must have fallen asleep because he was awoken suddenly by screams and shouts out his bedroom window. He rubbed his face confused as the darkness in the room was broken by orange firelight from outside. Men were running by with buckets and someone started ringing the bell in the center of the square. He looked in the direction people were running from his point of view on the second floor and when he did, his blood ran cold.

The Beesly home was engulfed in flames.