The year is 1860. In Evanston, Illinois, a young, unassuming butcher, Ruse Blackburn, wants what every man wants, to earn a decent living and marry a lovely wife. With these goals almost in his grasp, the privileged stomp on his ambitions. Ruse, rightly accused of murder and tortured, sells his soul and ends up as General William T. Sherman s aide charged with keeping the general drunk enough to do evil but sober enough to conduct war. As Sherman s troops pillage Georgia, Ruse sinks deeper and deeper into madness. In the meantime, beautiful Anne Southern lives a life of lonely luxury with her two young sons at Meridian Plantation. Her husband, Allen, fires the mortar that begins the Civil War and abandons his family to fight for the Confederacy. Swept with her dependents to Atlanta by the winds of war, Anne must deal with a society in decline and a diminishing food supply. To feed her children, in an act of desperation and desire, she gives dearly to a suitor for ten pounds of jerky. Evicted from Atlanta, Anne returns to the plantation. There, she encounters Major Ruse Blackburn and his skinning knife a man with a grudge to settle and a proclivity for cutting pretty flesh. Anne finds herself completely without resources and must make difficult decisions.… A very entertaining, mile-a-minute style, and remarkably vivid characters. Diana Gabaldon, New York Times bestselling author of the award winning Outlander novels.
THE LEGEND OF ANNE SOUTHERN
First of The Legend SeriesBy J. Rivers Hodge Brenda HodgeiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2012 J. Rivers Hodge with Brenda Hodge
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4759-4597-3Contents
Preface...................................................................................ixPart One: Ruse Blackburn and Anne Southern September 1860 to May 1861.....................1Part Two: The Civil War May 1861 to October 1864..........................................153Part Three: War is Hell October 1864 and November 1864....................................321Part Four: The Crossroads Store November 1864 to January 1865.............................459AUTHOR'S NOTES............................................................................537
Chapter One
Ruse Blackburn At twenty-seven years of age, Ruse Blackburn was a good-looking devil and he knew it: over six feet tall; with straight, black hair slicked down and parted in the middle; penetrating, dark eyes; and a carefree grin.
Wearing a bloodstained white apron, Ruse stood behind the counter in his father's shop, his back to a dressed hog; two quarters of beeves; half a dozen smoked hams and an equal number of plucked chickens; four featherless geese; and numerous links of sausage, all hanging on a taut wire next to the back wall.
The mouth-watering odor of smoked meat, hampered by a metallic tint of fresh blood, clouded the air. A swarm of pesky flies buzzed around, most of them drawn to the stench of the scraps tub hidden under the far end of the counter.
Ruse wrapped a seven-bone beef roast in butcher paper for Mrs. Glenda Harvey and grinned for her, no longer an easy task. She smiled back, and he knew the words about to come from her mouth as sure as his surname was Blackburn. He set the package on the counter between them, leaving his hand on it. "There you are, Mrs. Harvey. Shall I charge it to your account?"
She placed her pudgy hand on his bloody paw. "Oh, please, my dear Ruse. I just now remembered, I must go from here to the church and discuss Sunday's hymns with Pastor Higgins. Could you deliver this package later tonight? My husband returns tomorrow afternoon, and I want him to have a grand supper."
Ruse winked at the stout, much older woman. This wasn't his first invitation today and probably not his last. He'd lost interest in intimate acts with women on the last Friday in June after a delivery to Mrs. Ridge, the wife of the owner of the Ridgeville Bank. For deliveries such as this, he sent his younger brother, Tommy. "Perhaps, but I'll have to come very late."
Mrs. Harvey's voice dropped to a coarse whisper. "You won't disappoint me again, will you? The last time your puny brother showed up with the damned meat. If you can't handle the job, I'll take my business to Murphy's."
He turned his back and spoke in the direction of the carcasses on the wall. "I understand Mr. Murphy's meat has been spoiled by age, but if you can tolerate the stench—"
"Listen, don't let me down," she hissed and stormed from the store.
Afternoon business would pick up soon. It was almost time for Ruse's father, out back butchering a steer, to wash up, put on a clean apron, and come inside to help. Ruse dug a slippery beef liver from a bucket, slapped it on the block, and cut thin slices for a customer's order. Blood pooled from the organ and dripped to the sawdust-covered floor.
The over-the-door bell rang as Miss Penelope Gardner, carrying a large straw basket on her arm, entered the shop. Ruse stood a bit straighter. He gave the young woman, now two years past her debut, his most brilliant smile.
Here was a delivery well worth making, and he enjoyed flirting with witty Penelope. He intended to take advantage of his good looks and marry up, this eligible beauty his prime target.
Her father's business manufactured wagons, carriages, coaches, and all the related equipment necessary to transport goods and people. They sat well above the Blackburns' roost on Evanston's social architecture. The trim, dark-haired woman's interest in Ruse seemed to be strictly a platonic verbal sparring, full of winks and grins and double entendres.
His fantasies included getting close enough to kiss her tempting lips, massage her jaunty breasts, and bed Miss Gardner proper and often. She represented exactly what he needed to regain the enthusiasm and necessary physiology for the act.
Ruse used his lowest octave, most masculine voice. "Good afternoon, Miss Gardner."
In her white eyelet afternoon dress, she strutted up to the counter and set the basket between them. "Miss Gardner, is it now? I thought I told you to address me by my familiar name."
His world tilted. Surely, he would remember such an instruction. "I was unsure if you meant it, Penelope."
"Not Penelope—Penny, you silly goose."
Ruse swallowed. "Penny?"
She gave him a coy look, a sweet smile on her pretty, narrow face. "Mother sent me here to obtain a goose for tomorrow's dinner. Do you have a goose, Ruse?" She giggled as soon as the words left her lips.
He stuck the butcher knife solidly into the block and laughed. "I get it, goose-Ruse. Very clever. As you can see, I'm a gander; but I have four geese-gooses, Penny. Which would you desire?"
Her brown eyes twinkled. She placed the index finger of her white-gloved hand on her dimpled chin. "How does one know, Ruse, which goose is grandest?"
Ruse grinned; he couldn't help himself. "In order to be eaten, a goose first must be properly plucked."
She licked her lips and leaned over the counter toward him. "By what measure does one determine when a goose is ready for the plucking?"
Turning quickly, Ruse grabbed a long pole with a hook at the end and lifted the fattest goose from the wire. He plopped the cleanly singed bird on the counter. He poked a blood-tinted finger on the bird's breast, raising his eyes from the dead goose to her ripe chest. "By the firmness of its breast, of course."
"So, what do you think, is firm more important than size?" Her most salacious grin displayed perfect ivory teeth. "I've always heard the fatter the goose, the sweeter its plucking."
Stunned and excited by her alluring display of one of Evanston's most heavenly bodies, he barely choked out, "I've never seen sweeter so amply explained before."
She patted her hair with one delicate hand. "Admit it, Ruse. You've never seen a finer goose."
His heart pounded. "Might I call on you, sweet goose?"
The sound of buzzing flies filled the shop. One of the bugs landed on Penny's pink cheek, a dark blot quickly swatted away.
"Socially, I mean." To Ruse, his voice sounded hollow.
The young woman flashed him a coquettish smile. "So, you want to pluck my little goose, eh?"
"Yes," he said, entirely too quickly. "No. It's the nature of the beast. I mean, I'd be pleased to court you if you would be agreeable."
"You, Ruse, pluck my goose?" Penelope Gardner whirled in a circle. She placed her hand over her mouth and giggled—then she giggled louder. Then she laughed—then she laughed louder.
Ruse's face flushed as the woman giggled, laughed, and danced around the shop.
Finally, she gained control. Penny pointed at him—her eyes now bottomless pits, and her teeth fanglike. She glared and said, "Look at you. Father would have your hide if you placed one bloody claw on a single pinfeather of my precious body. What makes you, the butcher's boy, think you can court me? I have class."
She stripped the glove from her left hand and displayed a diamond the size of a cat's eyeball. With a wicked grin, she met Ruse's eyes. "I'm engaged to be married on November the tenth."
His shame turned to anger. He gripped the butcher knife so hard, had it been alive, he would have squeezed blood from its handle. In his mind, he saw himself jump over the counter and cut her haughty throat. Nevertheless, he silently placed the goose on the scales, weighed, and wrapped it—all the time the power of her scrutiny causing his hands to tremble.
Ruse looked up, a forced smile fixed on the murderous mask covering his face. He placed the package in her basket. "There you are, Miss Gardner—a grand goose for a stupid goose."
Ingrid Ingersoll
Above Ingersoll's Bakery, in her daughter's bedroom, Ingrid Ingersoll placed a sturdy wooden chair next to the wall and sat. "Now back up, dear," she said as she admired Pearl's underwear. Silk drawers—never bought those for myself.
Due to an unfortunate set of circumstances, Pearl approached her twenty-first birthday in danger of becoming an old maid. Ingrid was determined to remedy the matter and see her daughter properly married. Moreover, she knew that Pearl was her most valuable asset and her ticket out of backbreaking chores—scraping a living off the quieter streets of Evanston.
Ingrid leaned forward and adjusted the whalebone corset snugly clinging to Pearl's middle. She wrapped one tie around each hand twice and positioned her bare foot on her daughter's back above Pearl's rump. "Ready?"
She pushed with her foot and pulled with her hands, her arms bunched with well-developed muscles from carrying firewood and kneading bread dough. She applied all her might, and Pearl's waist narrowed considerably. Resembling the sound of a bellows pumping, air rushed from the younger woman's mouth. Ingrid hissed, "Lean forvard, dammit. Ve must get your vaist down to eighteen inches."
Pearl coughed and breathlessly said, "Why?"
"As I've explained numerous times, ve're going to the Ridgeville Bank this afternoon to see the bank president, Mr. Thomas Ridge Sr. His son, Junior, is twenty-six and unmarried. A most unfortunate circumstance for the Ridges—a blessing for us—the son's betrothed ran avay to Virginia vith a buggy salesman." Ingrid strained and grunted, "One ... more ... inch."
Words leaked from Pearl. "Another inch and I won't be able to breathe."
"You got into it last year and the year before that. I have a considerable investment in your costume and vear it, you vill." Ingrid bound the ties. "There, how does that feel? Turn around and let me have a look."
Pearl's face flushed as red as a ripe apple. "It's much smaller than when we bought it two years ago. My bumpies are going to jump out."
"Yah, vell, let me try." Ingrid unsuccessfully attempted to push Pearl's breasts further below the binding. "Hmm. It'll have to do. I cannot help the fact your bosom vants to spill over this corset. Stand up straight at all times. Don't bend over. Now, slip on your best chemise and fetch the petticoats and dress. Ve don't have all day."
A young woman of exceptional beauty, Pearl was tall and statuesque, adorned with clear blue eyes and flawless, snow-white skin. Her expensive two-year-old dress perfectly displayed her bountiful figure. The off-shoulder bodice barely hid her well-cleaved chest and narrowed at the bottom, enhancing her once wasp-like waist. From there, the shiny emerald material flowed like a waterfall over voluminous petticoats and ended below her ankles.
As Ingrid folded Pearl's long curls off her neck and fixed decorative flowers in her honey-blonde hair, she lectured her daughter. "Since your papa died fifteen years ago, I've risen from bed every morning of every day of every veek, except Sundays, of course, vell before daybreak to provide for us. In the middle of the night, I've toted vood from the pile to fire the ovens, mixed flour, milk, sugar, and eggs to bake bread and make cakes. You don't have my constitution, dear, so you must marry vell."
Pearl bent her head as if contemplating prayer. "I hope Junior Ridge isn't at all like that sewing machine salesman you tried to marry me to last year. The man constantly broke wind at the dining table and rubbed up against my bumpies at every opportunity. An animal—distressing, most persistent, and, ah, difficult to get away from when we were alone."
Ingrid fluffed a flower. "Yah, vell, men are strange creatures, dear. It's vell-known they all have disgusting habits. Your papa farted at the most inopportune times and snored so loud he shook the building. Against the participation of men, civilization has advanced to get to the modern age. Had men their vay, I don't know vhere ve vould be."
Pearl squirmed. "Ouch."
"But, I do know you vill have to tolerate a man or end up killing yourself in this bakery, doing backbreaking vork for meager returns. Junior is our best bet. I'm putting all our resources into this venture."
"And I hope he's not like that boat captain you sponsored year before last—already married with three children."
"Ve all make mistakes, dear. Had your papa listened to me vhen ve arrived from Sveden years ago, ve'd be sitting pretty now. I suggested a building on Main Street, in the middle of the commercial district. But, no, Olaf had to go cheap, so ve ended up here on Church Street vith practically no foot traffic. That's vhy ve have to get by selling commodity-priced bread to restaurants and my reputation of decorating spectacular vedding cakes for society brides."
"Why can't I marry Harry Horne? He's a man experienced in the art—"
"That used-buggy salesman? Harry Horne vill never marry. Just because you've danced the devil's dance a time or two vith a notorious seducer isn't reason to be vulgar, dear. Best let demons lie. Ve must get you married before your condition begins to show."
"Have you ever actually seen Junior?"
"Of course." Ingrid smiled. "He vorks as a teller at his father's bank. He's rich and unmarried, polite, and a tiny-bit shy. Unlike Tom Sr., Junior hasn't quite reached his full potential. However, once he gets a look at you in this dress—vell, he'll be svept avay. I can see the church now—full of rich people, red rose petals being thrown at your feet as you stroll down the aisle."
"Why would any sane woman give up Junior for a buggy salesman?"
"She must be a capricious and stupid girl, dear."
* * *
Later that day, Ingrid and Pearl waited in the mahogany-lined lobby of the Ridgeville Bank for Thomas Ridge Sr. to invite them into his office.
Ingrid enjoyed talking to the bank's president. She loved the gentlemanly way Tom treated her and how he smiled when he looked at her. However, today was not about her; today was her daughter's day. Ingrid's intent was to broker a wedding, and she had brought her part of the bargain.
The prospect of marriage for Thomas Ridge Jr. seemed as dim as Pearl's. Junior had grown up puny with a pimple-scarred face, scraggly hair, and a wild, roving eye that made Ingrid uncomfortable. Surprisingly, the boy was not at his station.
Due to her condition and the restricting corset, Pearl's face shown a pale, pinkish tint. She touched her mother's arm. "I can't get any air, and my bumpies are going to burst out."
"Yah, vell, be patient, dear."
A young man dressed in a business suit approached. He touched his top hat and made a slight bow. "Mrs. Ingersoll, please follow me. Mr. Ridge will see you now."
Ingrid took Pearl's arm, because the girl could wander on occasion, and followed the man down the hall. He opened an ornately carved wooden door, bowed, and gestured for them to enter.
Tom Ridge came around the desk and greeted Ingrid as if they hadn't seen each other in years, when, in fact, they had met in this very office one week ago today. "Come in, come in. Welcome, Mrs. Ingersoll, and you too, young lady." He took Ingrid's arm and led the women to the two chairs sitting in front of his oversized desk. "Please have a seat. It's so good to see you again."
The sight of the president of the Ridgeville Bank always buttered Ingrid's bread. The man was tall and handsome, with a full head of wavy, chestnut-brown hair, and the most charming pencil-thin mustache graced his rugged face. He added, "I was going to see you."
His words intensified Ingrid's itch. She promptly sat, crossed her legs, and started a slow, lazy swing back and forth with her foot. "Yah, vell, Mr. Ridge, vhy vould someone as important as you come for me?"
The man returned to his side of the desk, adjusted himself, and sat. He picked up a large black ink pen, pressed the end on the top of the desk as his fingers slid to the bottom, then he twirled it around and repeated the action. "Ingrid, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Tom?"
She presented her best smile. "Vell, Tom. How have you been?"
He grinned, his special grin, nearly a sneer, and appraised Ingrid in the most libidinous manner. "I've been busy, but happy. How about you, Ingrid, and your lovely daughter?"
His look set Ingrid's foot in a quicker rhythm. "Oh, Pearl and I vere valking about town, shopping." She paused her foot and looked at her daughter. "Say hello to Mr. Ridge, dear."
Pearl smiled.
The moment of truth—the girl gets confused at times. In Ingrid's mind, birds sang when her daughter said, "Hello, Mr. Ridge."
Quick to take the initiative, Ingrid didn't hesitate. The foot set a furious pace. "And how is your fine son, Junior? Pearl vas telling me she's disappointed he's not here to join us."
Tom Ridge worked the pen repeatedly, causing a rhythmic thump, thump, thump, on the desktop. "At this minute, Junior is at the tailor's. He's having a suit fitted, and that's why I wanted to see you."
Ecstasy! Ingrid shuddered. "If Junior comes courting," she paused and turned to her beautiful daughter, "Pearl vill velcome him vith open arms.
Von't you, dear?"
Pearl blinked. "Why?"
Ingrid tried not to growl at Pearl. "Vhy, to entertain Mr. Ridge's son. Surely, you remember Junior. Ve talked about him only minutes ago."
The banker laid the pen flat and rolled it back and forth with his palm as one might roll a cigar. His brow wrinkled, and he cleared his throat. "I need to order a wedding cake and some petit fours. You see, Mrs. Ridge thinks we should buy our bakery goods from Delaney's, because that's what we've always done. However, for the life of me, I cannot convince Mr. Delaney to do his banking with me. So naturally, Ingrid, I thought of you."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from THE LEGEND OF ANNE SOUTHERNby J. Rivers Hodge Brenda Hodge Copyright © 2012 by J. Rivers Hodge with Brenda Hodge. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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