The Mirk and Midnight Hour by Jane Nickerson Page B

want to see the patients once more before they leave.”
    “Who are these Mobile women?” Miss Elsa asked idly.
    “And what makes you think the patients are leaving soon?” Sunny demanded.
    I tried to answer them both. “They’re volunteers with the Army of Tennessee’s hospital division. That’s why I haven’t gone much lately, since they don’t really need me. But Michael told me that this week all the patients are to be moved by rail to Corinth. They think there might be a battle near Okolona soon, and that’s too close for comfort.”
    “Ha,” Dorian scoffed. “There’ll be no such thing.”
    “How do you know?” I asked.
    “I have my connections. Y’all may rest easy. The boom of cannon shall not rouse us from our beds anytime soon.” My cousin had a talent for imparting confidence; somehow we believed him. “By the way,” he added, “if any of you like books, I’ve a new French novel for you. Les Misérables . Just finished it. Everyone’s wild over it. Not for you, though, Seeley-the-squid. Stick to your innocent schoolboy reading about heads banging along on saddles.”
    After supper that evening we gathered in the sitting room. Dorian was gentle with Miss Elsa, seating her in the soft lamplight and fetching her needlework. For the masculine attention she rewarded him with smiles. He then set himself to teach Seeley how to use the bandalore, and before long Seeley relaxed further and could even do a few tricks, while Goblin batted at the spool with her black paw.
    “You know, of course,” Sunny said, tugging at a knot in her embroidery, “the child will drive us all daft with that thing before he’s through.”
    “A boy needs a bandalore,” Dorian said comfortably.
    “Thank you for helping him,” I whispered to my older cousin, so Seeley couldn’t hear.
    “See? I’m following your advice,” Dorian whispered back as he squatted beside my chair.
    “And it’s working. He’s much more at ease with you now.”
    “Anything to make you look at me approvingly, coz,” Dorian said, peeking up mischievously.
    I rolled my eyes and looked down at the sock I was knittingfuriously to hide my blushes. As he kept watching me, I felt a silly, nervous grin stretch my lips.
    “When you smile so mysteriously,” Dorian said, “it makes me wonder what plots you’re hatching.”
    “None at all. I was wondering if this sock needs one more row before I cast off. All very boring.” I started on another row. “And you should be kind to people for their own sake, and not for anyone else’s approval,” I added severely.
    “I’ll try,” Dorian said, “if that will make you approve of me.”
    I snorted, and Sunny, who had been eyeing us vigilantly, immediately came to stand between us.
    “Dorian, would you help me with my necklace?” she asked. “The catch is stuck.” She smiled a little secret smile as she held up her curls above her long neck. He stood close behind, working on the clasp.
    Once he got it unhooked, Dorian settled himself to entertain, relating slightly scandalous and self-deprecatory stories of his recent dealings with high society in the Confederate capital of Richmond. With his bright hair and bronze skin, he glowed like one of the lamps. Miss Elsa quit feebly jabbing at her canvas and listened, entranced. From time to time she even commented on places she had also visited.
    “Have you actually seen President Jefferson Davis?” Sunny asked.
    “I have,” Dorian said. “And had a lengthy conversation with him. I could tell he was most impressed by me. I was crossing the road and Jeff Davis’s coach nearly ran me down. The great man himself poked his head out the window and said, ‘Watch yourself, young man. We can’t afford to lose Southern blood in such a way.’ Our president looked and sounded every bit the gentleman. Amomentous meeting. I wouldn’t have minded being nearly run over by the president’s coach at all except that I got grease on my new sack coat and