Beloved Enemy. Mary Schaller

she knew from her reading that the experience was enough to blacken a girl’s name forever. Whatever it was, she would find some nice Yankee boy—there had to be at least one there—to do it to her. That would knock Mother’s loathsome plan into a cocked hat.

      She barked a harsh laugh. “I have no idea what you mean, Carolyn.”

      Chapter Three

      Christmas Day 1863 was observed by the Chandler family with the same rituals that they had followed every other Christmas: services at St. Paul’s Church; a Christmas turkey stuffed with the traditional cornbread and oysters, and a crystal bowl full of cranberry sauce; gifts from Papa; eggnog and favorite carols sung around the piano with a few friends, whose political sympathies were in agreement with the Chandlers’ Confederate ones.

      On the morning of the Winstead ball, Julia and Carolyn pleaded joint headaches. “Too much Christmas frivolity,” Julia whispered to Mother when she came to inquire after their health. In reality, the girls were in a fever of excitement, while they attempted to rest up and prepare their clothes for the evening’s prohibited adventure. The daytime hours crept by at a snail’s pace.

      Hettie, by necessity, knew their plans since she had to let them in the back door upon their return from the party. Nevertheless, she gave the sisters a stern look when she brought up their suppers on a tray.

      “You are asking for trouble,” she scolded them in a low voice while she watched them wolf down cold turkey, buttered bread and pickles.

      “Yes,” replied Carolyn with glee in her eyes. “We are very wicked. Isn’t it grand?”

      Hettie examined the two black velvet half-masks that Julia had created from an old muff. “You be sure to act respectable, no matter what the devil tells you to do. That Winstead house will be full of no-good Yankees. I’ve heard stories about those men that would make your blood run cold.”

      Carolyn glanced up from her supper. “Oh, do tell one!”

      Julia didn’t want to know anything more about the Yankees. One of those men was going to “ruin” her tonight, and that was all she could stand to think about. She nudged Carolyn. “Not now. We have enough on our minds as it is. You can tell us the gruesome horrors when we get back, Hettie.”

      The cook picked up a silver-backed brush and began to rearrange Carolyn’s hair. With quick, expert fingers she wound her blond curls into fashionable corkscrews on each side of her face. “Neither of you has a lick of sense in your heads. I feel it in my bones that tonight’s foolishness will come to a bad end. You have no business going where you’re not invited. Virginia girls mixing with Northern trash is just like washing good china in a mud puddle. Like my mama always said: crows and corn can’t grow in the same field.”

      Julia’s skin felt dry and scratchy. She didn’t want to think about those Northern boys and their reputed evil ways—not yet. She placed her hand on top of Hettie’s. “Please don’t spoil our fun tonight. I haven’t been to a party since Christmas of 1860, and Carolyn has never gone to one at all.” She crossed her fingers behind her back before saying, “I promise that we will be as good as gold and twice as nice, won’t we, Carolyn?” she added in a warning note to her rambunctious little sister.

      Carolyn only nodded as she stared at herself in the looking glass. “First time I have ever had my hair put up. Oh, Hettie, you are a wonder worker.”

      Lively music and golden candlelight spilled out of the Winstead windows and flowed down the curving brick steps. Julia and Carolyn quickly handed over their velvet, fur-collared cloaks to the waiting maid in the side chamber that had been reserved for the ladies’ use. With suppressed giggles, they slipped on their low satin pumps and hurried into the wide central hallway of the Winstead mansion. Julia stretched her mouth into a false smile while her stomach roiled at the prospect of meeting a live Yankee soldier face-to-face.

      Great swatches of berry-rich holly looped up the carved wooden balustrade of the main staircase. Grave-faced servers passed among the revelers balancing silver trays of champagne glasses on white-gloved hands. Carolyn snatched one of the brimming crystal flutes before Julia could stop her.

      “Oh, it tickles my nose!” Carolyn giggled. She took a second sip.

      “Only one glass, mind you,” Julia cautioned her with faint trepidation. “You promised to behave. Remember, we must not draw any attention to ourselves or we will be caught. Tonight, you will have to be invisible—and don’t forget, we are supposed to be Yankees.”

      Carolyn made a face under her half mask. “Don’t be such a wet dish rag, Julia. I’ll be so good, you won’t recognize me.”

      With that, Carolyn slipped through the throng and disappeared from view before Julia could also remind her sister that they must leave by eleven-thirty so that Hettie and Perkins, who was warming his feet in the Winstead servants’ hall, could get the sleep they needed for the following day’s chores. With trembling fingers, Julia tightened the ribbons that held her mask in place. Holding up her glass of champagne to the light, she stared at it as if it were medicine, then drank it down in one gulp. Thus fortified to meet the enemy, she made her way into the double-wide reception rooms that had been cleared of heavy furniture and now served as a ballroom.

      A myriad of silver candelabra held a wealth of lighted tapers; their beeswax perfumed the air. The happy sounds of fiddles and banjos caught her like a sudden breeze on a sultry day. Her feet tapping to the lively music, Julia swept her gaze around the crowded room.

      Half of Alexandria must have been present tonight, but Julia had no intention of mingling with them. Everyone knew that the Chandlers were firmly Confederates, and therefore social outcasts among the Northern-leaning members of the citizenry. Julia told herself that she didn’t give a fig what other people thought of her. Tonight she was here to dance and laugh—and to be “ruined”. She lifted another glass of champagne from a passing tray. The bubbly spirits cheered her soul and tickled her brains.

      How deliciously wicked I feel! Clara Chandler would have fainted on the spot if she knew that her gently-bred daughters were drinking. Already the effervescence lessened her trepidation; her spirits felt giddy. She should not become too relaxed or she would start singing “Dixie” and that would be a disaster here.

      Up on the dais at the far end of the room, Alexandria’s renowned fiddle master, old Joe Jackson, led the small string ensemble in a never-ending parade of melodies; many of them were new to Julia. Most of the younger male guests wore coats of military blue, but she resolved to look only at their faces while she considered which one she would encourage. Her blood quickened with the excitement that permeated the ballroom. The war seemed a million miles away.

      Then she spied what she had fervently hoped would be there. A true smile of pleasure lit up her face as she wove through the dancers toward the buffet table in the adjoining dining room. A glistening mound of tan-colored caramels coated with powdered sugar beckoned to her from their silver dish.

      Rob Montgomery ran his gloved finger around the collar of his freshly starched shirt. When he had been in the field, he considered himself fortunate to have a clean shirt; starching could go to the devil. He preferred it that way. He rubbed his neck where his collar had irritated his skin. Then he fumbled for his pocket watch, snapped open the lid and squinted at the time. Quarter past ten. From his vantage point on the sidelines, he had spent the past hour watching his cousin and friends sweep laughing belles around the dance floor.

      The music was very good, he admitted to himself. Before the war, he would have taken the nearest pretty young thing out to the center and whirled her into giddiness. But now—He glanced down at his right coat pocket that hid his useless hand. Even though he had pulled a glove over the lifeless fingers, he knew in his heart that no young lady would want to touch such a dead thing as his smashed hand. Damn those Rebs!

      For want of something better to do than drinking too much of Winstead’s good whiskey, Rob picked his way around the dancers and wandered back into the dining room. To kill the first hour, he had already sampled enough of the sweet delights that graced