Counterfeit Courtship. Christina Miller

      She spun in the direction of the sound and faced a uniformed man, his left eye covered with a black patch and a scar across his left cheekbone. Ellie sucked in her breath. In the flickering gaslight, his gaunt face and form looked as if he had come back from the grave.

      “Ellie,” he rasped, reaching for her hand. “I’m glad I lived to see you again.”

      She instinctively pulled back from him. Then recognition hit her like shrapnel. “Leonard Fitzwald...”

Chapter Four

      Graham’s fists clenched at his sides as his memories of this man brought out every fight instinct he’d developed during four years at war. Of all the men he would have expected to die of sheer cowardice on the battlefield, Leonard Fitzwald would have topped the list.

      “I trust you received my letter,” Fitzwald said, his wheezy voice sounding like an eighty-year-old man’s.

      This weasel had dared to communicate with Ellie? The thought ignited a searing flame deep in Graham’s gut. Fitzwald had no right to correspond with any decent woman. “Why did you send Miss Anderson a letter?”

      Fitzwald took a half step back and ran his finger over the edge of the eye patch. “Business. With the potential of a social visit afterward.”

      “You’re mistaken, Fitzwald. You’re not visiting Miss Anderson, and you’re going to do your business now, in front of me.” He looked the man over. The Confederate uniform on his back did nothing to make him look like a soldier. “And no more letters.”

      “Graham!”

      He was aware of Ellie’s high-pitched voice, but all he could see in his mind was Leonard Fitzwald calling on Ellie in the months before Graham laid his heart at her feet. “I know things about this man that you don’t know, Ellie. You have to trust me.”

      “Colonel, let it go.” The weasel turned to her. “I’ll call at your house Friday at eight, as planned.”

      “Stay away from her, Fitzwald. I haven’t forgotten how to fight.”

      Ellie wouldn’t know he wasn’t talking about the war. Her gaze snapped from Graham to Fitzwald and back again, her mouth open as if she didn’t know what to say or whom to say it to.

      But Fitzwald remembered the incident Graham referred to. He could see it in the man’s weasel eye.

      “Tell me your business now, Leonard,” Ellie said, her voice quivering a bit. “Graham is an old friend, and you can trust him with whatever you have to say.”

      “Fine way to treat a veteran.”

      He had to be joking. “You’re no veteran. You’re a coward—at home and at war. I know what you did at Antietam.” So did every Confederate from colonel on up. The story had spread fast—how Fitzwald had crumpled on the battlefield, whimpering like a baby crying for its mama. Even Betsy didn’t act that way. Only Fitzwald’s father’s money and political influence had gotten him a desk job instead of the firing squad.

      “Let him speak his mind,” Ellie whispered, still the peacemaker.

      Graham let out his breath with a low growl. He crossed his arms in front of himself and waited.

      The weasel drew himself up to his full height. “I’ve inherited my father’s property and investments. Ellie, your uncle—”

      “Call her Miss Anderson.”

      Fitzwald glared at him as if he was a Yankee. “Ellie’s uncle owed my father thirty thousand dollars. The loan comes due two weeks from today.”

      “Two weeks?” Ellie’s voice turned shrill. “That’s not true. Uncle Amos was careful to set the due date a month after harvest. And he owes fifteen thousand, not thirty.”

      “That was before he took out a second loan and attached it to the first. If you doubt my word, I can arrange a meeting with my lawyer.”

      Graham had had enough of this. “Fitzwald, it’s time for you to go home.”

      “My attorney will come with me on Friday.”

      As the weasel retreated into the darkness beyond the gas lamps, Graham sat down again and motioned for Ellie to join him. The bench that had seemed inviting and comfortable minutes ago now felt rigid under his still-tense body. He took a few deep breaths in hopes of calming his jangling nerves and slowing his heartbeat.

      Ellie eased onto the bench beside him, keeping as much distance as her hoops allowed. “Why are men as hateful as Robert Fitzwald allowed to have children?”

      “I’ve wondered that for years.” After Fitzwald’s shocking news, it probably would have been appropriate to comfort her in some way. But wouldn’t that add to the awkwardness already surrounding them every time they were together? He scooted a little closer to the end of the wrought iron bench and away from her, but that felt strange too, so he reached over and patted her hand. But that only made his discomfort worse. He’d better just talk and not touch. “Noreen told me about your uncle’s illness. I was sorry to hear about it, but now I’m even sorrier. You shouldn’t have to deal with Fitzwald’s buffoonery.”

      “It’s part of doing business. But I’d be glad to hand this over to Uncle Amos if he was able.” She glanced to the right and the left, and then she leaned toward him. “He had a stroke of apoplexy when he heard Lee surrendered to Grant. He refuses to get out of his bed. I think he could, with help, but he’s so melancholy, all he wants to do is lie there.”

      That news was the biggest surprise he’d had since coming home. Seeing her downcast eyes and the way she bit her lower lip, he thought it might be best to change the subject. Courtship was one thing, but he had no idea how to deal with a crying woman. “Do you think there’s any truth to Fitzwald’s story?”

      “None at all.”

      “Good. Then he’ll have no reason to continue bothering us.”

      He had barely rested his hand back on his thigh when the sound of chattering females once again assaulted his ears. What now? He turned toward the offensive noise. The full moon revealed a bevy of hoopskirts and curls flouncing down the stone steps toward them. He wasn’t sure, but they may have added a girl or two to the original pack.

      He stood as dark-haired Susanna led the girls to the bench, although he would rather have hidden behind the giant live oak to their left.

      “Colonel Talbot, Miss Ophelia requests your presence in the ballroom.” Susanna eyed them in the moon’s shadowy light. “I won’t apologize for intruding, because it doesn’t look as if we interrupted much of anything.”

      She was probably right. Ellie had kept a rigid distance from him and, other than the moment he’d made his friendship-only promise to her, he’d done the same. Anyone watching would have thought they were cousins or siblings, not a courting couple.

      This charade wasn’t going to work—not with Susanna around.

      Ellie rose with as much dignity as he’d once seen in Mary Custis Lee. “Please tell Miss Ophelia that we will be in momentarily.”

      Susanna stood speechless for a moment, which was almost as much of a surprise as Ellie’s sudden poise. The silence didn’t last long, though. “You’d better do as she says.”

      Graham rested his hand on the waist of his “intended.” “As Ellie said, we’ll be along. Please give us a moment alone.”

      “If you’re brave enough to defy Miss Ophelia, that’s your business. And I still say this is the most peculiar courtship I’ve ever seen.” The leader of the gang glared at Ellie for a moment and then stalked away, her troops following her as always. Apparently, his colonel voice worked better on Susanna than it did on Ellie.

      As soon as they were out of earshot, Graham leaned