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Savannah, Georgia July, 1864
“TARA!”
Tara Maclay jumped at the booming sound of her father’s voice. She hurried out of her room and out to the top of the stairs. Her father, Reginald Maclay, stood expectantly at the bottom of the landing. His dark gray suit highlighted his silvery hair and ruddy complexion. He was dressed to his southern gentleman best.
“Yes, Daddy?” she asked.
“Hurry up, child! The general and his staff will be here any moment,” he urged.
Tara shook her head in understanding and ran back into her room. She looked at herself again in the mirror and began to fuss. She bobbed the blond curls at the sides of her face and then fluffed at her pale yellow hoop skirt. Satisfied she appeared the perfect southern daughter, Tara rapidly pitter-pattered down the stairs and waited for her father’s inspection.
He smiled at her broadly. “You look an absolute vision, my dear,” he hummed.
“Thank you, Daddy,” she replied, inordinately pleased with his approval. “How long will General Hardee and his staff be staying with us?” she asked.
“I don’t rightly know, Tara,” he replied. “I suppose until the war is over or another change is made in command.”
Reginald Maclay was about to elaborate when the butler came into the room. “They’re here, sir,” he said simply. Tara smiled at Samuel. He too was dressed in his southern best, the white jacket making his ebony skin appear even darker.
“Thank you, Samuel. Please show them in,” Reginald murmured.
General Hardee entered first. He was a short man of about middle age. His grey uniform accentuated his lean frame and his curly blond hair was closely cropped. His blond goatee and mustache hid his expression, but his brown eyes held a weariness. A handful of other soldiers followed him. They were of varying ages and shapes, all in slightly rumpled grey uniforms and all of them thoroughly non-descript as far as Tara was concerned. She knew it was a great honor for her father to house the central command of Savannah, but, as a whole, boys just bored her. These boys in their grey uniforms were especially boring in her estimation, until the last one entered the room.
He was by far the smallest, Tara thought he couldn’t be much taller than herself, and looked the youngest as well. He had no hair on a face that Tara thought best described as elfin, and when he removed his hat he revealed a head full of short wavy red hair. Tara stared openly, ignoring the noise her father was making in greeting to the General. The young redheaded soldier was slightly built and his uniform was more firmly pressed than the others. He stood slightly apart from the rest with his hat tucked under his left arm, waiting timidly to be introduced. He looked up shyly and smiled at Tara. Tara returned the smile dreamily, lost to everything else except this young man standing in her father’s receiving room. He stuck his tongue out at her and crossed his eyes. Tara realized with a start that she was staring and dropped her head.
“And this is my daughter Tara,” she heard her father say.
“Miss,” the General rasped with a surprisingly graceful bow. Tara curtsied in return. “These gentlemen comprise my staff,” he said in his deep gravelly voice, the twang of the Deep South coloring his words. One by one the grey soldiers stepped forward. Tara curtsied with each name, rank and duty description, studiously avoiding eye contact with the younger soldiers who were bold enough to kiss her hand. Finally, the young man she was waiting for stepped forward and Tara looked up to make direct eye contact with him.
“Finally, may I present Lieutenant Wiley Rosenberg. He is one of our finest strategists.”
Tara delicately held her right hand out to the young Lieutenant. “It is a pleasure, sir,” she hummed.
“The pleasure is entirely mine, Miss Tara,” he replied, gently taking her hand but making no move to kiss it.
Tara wondered at his small rough hands, scattered with freckles much the way his smooth open face was. His voice was soft and soothing if a bit high. He had arresting green eyes that Tara was quite certain she could get lost in. He stared back and smiled slightly before ducking his head, suddenly realizing he was staring at the daughter of a man who was no more than three feet away.
Reginald cocked an eyebrow at the brief exchange, but announced, “Samuel will show you all to your rooms. Dinner is served promptly at six.”
The soldiers mumbled their thanks and followed the butler up the winding stairs and into the recesses of the mansion. Reginald waited until he was certain the officers were out of earshot before turning a mischievous grin on his daughter. “I saw that Tara Josephine Maclay.”
Tara lowered her head but grinned. Reginald hugged his daughter to him. “It’s nice to see you showing an interest,” he teased, “even if he is the runt.”
“Daddy!” Tara scolded with a giggle. “He seemed nice,” she defended.
“Mmmmm,” her father growled, “just make sure he stays that way,” he said.
Tara pushed away and gave her father a knowing look. “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, Daddy,” she said.
He smiled at her lovingly. “I know, my dear, but I get to worry about you no matter what,” he said. “Now go occupy yourself till dinner,” he said. “And stay out of the kitchen!” he yelled after her as Tara glided out of the room.
**
Lieutenant Rosenberg thanked the young man who had brought up his bag, Albert, he remembered, and quietly closed and locked the door behind him. He sat down on the bed with a heavy sigh and looked around the room. The iron bed was big enough for four people at least and the down comforter felt soft under his hand. He was infinitely grateful to have the opportunity to sleep alone in a real bed for once. While his officer’s quarters in the field where much better than most of the other soldier’s, nothing could replace the privacy of your own room and the comfort of a real bed.
He walked across the room to the small sitting area and looked out the window at the fast dying light in Savannah. He had never been here before. What little he had seen thus far was beautiful. Pillared testaments to fine southern architecture lined the streets and the city seemed barely touched by the War Between the States, no doubt due in part to the citadel that was Fort McAllister to the south and the ocean to the east.
He closed the heavy tapestry curtains and pulled off his jacket. He then removed his boots and socks, curling his toes against the cool wood floors. Next he unbuttoned his white uniform shirt and removed it. A lightly padded binding was wound tightly around his chest. He too removed this to reveal small pert breasts. Willow Rosenberg sighed in relief and moved over to the bed, flopping down on the cool comforter.
**
“Did the soldier boys finally get here, Miss Tara?”
Tara looked up from her book at the house’s cook, Lydia. The woman was a walking testament to her own cooking. She didn’t walk actually so much as bustle, her dresses and aprons swishing as she turned from one pot to the next, scolded other servants and chased Tara good naturedly from the kitchens. Her café-o-lait skin held a perpetual sheen of sweat from the humidity in her kingdom. Tara loved her immensely. She would listen to Lydia tell stories and sings songs from Africa for hours. It made her father crazy; he called it godless and improper and a lot of other things that Tara secretly thought of as little more than noise from the old man. She knew his heart was bigger than that.
“Yes, and quite a troop of them at that,” Tara replied.
“Any of them pretty enough for you?” Lydia asked, peering at her young friend out of the corner of her eye.
Tara blushed and ducked her head, but made no effort to hide her smile. Lydia knew her better than anyone, including what had happened with Megan, one of the house girls. “Maybe,” she whispered.
“Mmhmm,” Lydia hummed skeptically. “He musta been somethin’ else to have caught your eye, Miss Tara.”
Tara looked up and smiled broadly. “You peek in at dinner tonight,” she said. “He’s the little redhead.”
Lydia grinned and shook her head as she stirred a pot of stew. “They says those redheads are nothing but trouble.”
“He seemed harmless enough,” Tara replied. “He was much shyer than the other young ones.”
“Mmhmm,” Lydia hummed again. “Sounds dangerous to me,” she teased.
“Lydia!” Tara scolded, but then began to giggle.
Lydia smiled and turned away from her pots. “Now you go on before your father sees you in here,” she said, shooing at Tara. “I’ll take a look at your little boy at supper tonight. Go on now!”
Tara sighed dramatically and flounced out of the kitchen, stealing a cookie off one of the cooling racks as she went. She picked up her pace out of the kitchens when she heard the cook’s squawk of protest.
**
Willow could not believe her good luck. She had come down to dinner to find herself seated directly to Tara’s left. She had been all Willow had thought of since moving upstairs to her room. Her blond hair and sparkling blue eyes had completely captivated Willow. She tried to sit still now however and remember her charade.
“So, how long have you been with General Hardee?” Tara asked. She had to remember to give Lydia a big hug and a new book for making sure Lieutenant Rosenberg was seated next to her.
“Since the battle at Shiloh,” Willow replied in a near whisper, her accent marking her from farther north and her vocabulary speaking to education. “My company was on the right flank, but we were in disarray. Our commander as well as our color bearer had been struck down, so I took up the flag and rallied everyone to me. We regrouped and renewed our attack, joining up with General Hardee’s company and taking the flank.” Willow blushed, but continued. “I was made a lieutenant shortly after the battle and after a few private conversations with General Hardee, he saw fit to add me to his staff.” *unfinished mid-scene*
_________________
Learning to be unrepentantly me.
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