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Maria. Then he couldn’t seem to walk and talk at the same time. He’d turned into
an awkward, inelegant boy who couldn’t put two words together without sounding
like a dunce. It was strange what a certain kind of woman could do to a man when
he ardently believed her to be unattainable. He himself had suffered the same
affliction when he’d been courting Eleanor and perhaps still would, had not a
war intervened. But absence hadn’t made her heart grow fonder; it had made it
grow more discerning. So much so that shortly before the disaster at Gettysburg,
she had written him a letter—her final letter to him—telling him plainly that
she had decided that their reckless personalities, hers as much as his, would
make for nothing but misery if they wed. He had been stunned at first, and then
resigned—because he couldn’t deny that their relationship was as volatile as she
said it was. He’d lost the letter along with all the rest of his belongings
somewhere on the Gettysburg battlefield, where it must have lain, who knew how
long, soaked in blood and rain, and unreadable.
    “He was killed at...” he said abruptly, aloud without meaning
to.
    “Who?” the woman sitting on the footstool asked. He had
forgotten she was there. She was looking at him intently.
    “Mrs. Russell’s son. James Darson—Jimmy,” he said with some
effort, not remembering if she knew who Mrs. Russell was or not. “She was one of
my mother’s friends. Mrs. Russell and Mrs. Justice. And Mrs. Kinnard,” he added
as an afterthought. He deliberately called up the women’s names because he’d
lost his place in the conversation—if there had actually been a conversation—and
he didn’t want her to think he was any more addled than he was.
    “Jimmy Russell had red hair—the good luck kind—a carrot top. I
used to chase him down and rub his head before every card game and every horse
race. He was always threatening to have his head shaved—just to break me of my
gambling habit. Once, though, he hunted me down—because he heard I was going to play poker with Phelan and Billy Canfield’s
Up North cousins—do you know the Canfield brothers?”
    “No—except by reputation,” she added. He thought there was a
slight change in her tone of voice, enough to signify something he didn’t
understand.
    He looked at her for a moment. Yes. Her eyes were sad.
    “Harvard men, these cousins were,” he continued without really
knowing why he should want to tell her—or anybody—about any of these things.
Perhaps it was because he was starved for the company of another human being. Or
perhaps it was the fact that she seemed to be listening that made his rambling
recollections seem—necessary. “You could say they were arrogant.”
    “I can imagine,” she said.
    “Almost as arrogant as I was,” he said. “It was important—a
matter of honor—to win, you see.”
    “And did you?”
    “I had to. Jimmy said he’d shave my head if I...didn’t. Billy and Phelan would have helped him do it, too. I
can’t believe he’s gone...so many of them...” His voice trailed away. He had to
force himself to continue. “Jimmy’s life was full of burdens, but he was always
laughing...” He trailed away again, overwhelmed now by the rush of memories of
the boy who had been his friend. He shook his head despite the pain. He had
something important to do; he had to pull himself together. “I can’t seem to
recall where it happened—what battle. Early in the...war, I think. He was Mrs.
Russell’s life. It must have been...hard for her.”
    “It still is,” she said quietly.
    Footsteps sounded in the hallway again, but they continued past
the door toward the back of the house. “I always...liked Mrs. Justice,” he said
when it seemed that they were safe from any outside intrusion.
    “I believe the feeling is mutual.”
    “I liked all my mother’s friends...but it was a little harder
with...Mrs. Kinnard.” He supposed that she must know