Begin: Paracelsus II
   
  *~*~*~*
  
  My Dear Melly, 
   
  Perhaps idealism is the final luxury of youth, as my father says -- a
  romantic's way of refusing to see life as it is: short, nasty, and
  brutish.  According to Father, I am an idealist, among other distressing
  things.  I search for the best in this world, like the Greek philosopher
  who carried an unlit lantern in his quest for the truth.  Unlike
  Diogenes in Athens, sometimes I find it, but always were I least expect
  it.  In long afternoons of physical labor under the sweltering southern
  sun; in newborn babies mewing and steaming mugs of coffee at dawn; in
  lingering twilights and cool breezes off the swamp and quiet
  conversations about nothing of importance, to my surprise, there is
  peace.
  
  In my mind, I can see you wrinkling your pretty forehead in
  bewilderment.  You do not need to understand my rambling, only that I
  have set down my lantern for a moment so I will not drop it in
  exhaustion.  For a few heartbeats, I have a comfortable life, or lie,
  and a hundred excuses not to leave it.  Normalcy, with its gentle
  routine and placid smiles, is as seductive as any woman, and I let it
  envelope me as if I belong.
   
  Earlier, my friend saw a daguerreotype of you - the one where you were
  irritated with me and look as though there was ice water in your veins -
  and commented on how beautiful you were.  I opened my knapsack and
  eagerly showed her the rest of my photograph collection of you and Sam,
  and she said I had a lovely family.  I agreed, not knowing what else to
  say.  I had a lovely family, Melly, especially in the photographs.  She
  wrinkled her forehead at me, just like you did, and I wish I could bring
  myself to explain, because I think she might understand.      
  
  I already know I won't mail this letter, but I'll sign it anyway, with
  my love,
  
  Mulder  
  
  *~*~*~*
   
  He wasn't eloquent around women - never had been - but usually he could
  stammer out something better than, "Good day, Ma'am.  I brought you
  cows, among other things."
  
  Yes, she was pleasant to look at; he wasn't blind.  Yes, he was lonely
  and they had briefly shared as much romance and intimacy as an old
  slave's bed, moonlight, and a placenta could offer.  Just because she
  was willing to listen to his Sam stories and give him a shoulder to cry
  on didn't mean she felt anything more than gratitude and friendship
  toward him, just as he felt toward her.  She had her bed and baby - and
  husband - and he had his barn and pictures of Melly, and never the twain
  would, or should, meet.   
  
  "Those are not my cows, Mr. Mulder," Dana told him, carrying a basket of
  fresh eggs as she emerged from the chicken coop. "I thought you were
  going to Savannah.  Have you returned or have you been wandering the
  swamps, lost, since Tuesday morning?"
  
  "I did go to Savannah.  Then, as I was returning to continue my search
  for Samuel, I found these cows near the river.  Do you know who owns
  them?" he asked, one hand on each of the rope halters he had fashioned. 
  When she nodded "no," he announced, "Then, until the cows say otherwise,
  they are yours.  I thought they would be good: for the baby."
  
  "I do not know that she likes cows, Mr. Mulder."  
  
  "For milk," he added, as though she might really think he had brought
  them to be pets. "For Emily."
  
  She crossed her arms over her breasts, and he cleared his throat,
  finding something else to look at.  That was an underhanded trick: her
  being a woman on purpose just to distract him.   
   
  "Thank you, but that cow does not have any milk, Mr. Mulder. She will
  not until she has a calf.  And your other new friend-" She gestured to
  the big creature contentedly chewing on his sleeve, "Is a bull."
  
  "I know that," Mulder said defensively, jerking his wet sleeve away.
  "They do seem fond of each other, though.  In time, a calf – and milk -
  should be forthcoming."
  
  "I apologize for my ignorance, but I come from a family of sea
  merchants.  Please tell me, Mr. Mulder: how does one tell if cows are
  fond of each other?"
  
  His first impulse was to respond saucily, "Ma'am, I can't say in polite
  company," but he restrained himself.  Instead, he bit the left side of
  his tongue between his teeth, knowing there was a "why buy the cow when
  you can get the milk for free" pun in this and afraid it would slip out
  if he wasn't careful.  
  
  "All right.  You can put them inside your posts," Dana decided, leaning
  on one he had already set. He'd found various repair projects to keep
  himself occupied as she recovered, and rebuilding the corral had seemed
  like a fine, time-consuming idea.  Unfortunately, he'd only gotten as
  far as setting the fence posts; it still lacked any actual enclosure.
  "Just explain to them where the rails should go.  I am sure they will
  understand.  From what I have observed, cows are bright, obedient
  creatures." 
  
  "You are a very difficult woman, Ma'am.  Do you know that?" he said. "I
  did bring you cows.  And coffee beans."
  
  "Did you really think I desperately needed cattle, or did you just need
  an excuse to come back to check on me?  I promise my daughter and I can
  breathe without your supervision for a few days."
  
  "I noticed the cows wandering, realized I was near your place, and I
  thought you could use them.  And you can't have cows without a corral. 
  And I do not like going off and leaving my fence half-done," he said,
  using a tone that he'd always thought sounded like he meant business.
  
  "I thought that was the case," Dana answered, somehow managing not to
  collapse into a puddle of pliant womanhood.
  
  "Are you telling me you want me to go?  I will finish my corral and then
  go," Mulder said firmly, crossing his arms in imitation of her posture
  and hoping he didn't look like a child threatening a tantrum.
  
  "I did not invite you to stay in the first place and I am not telling
  you to leave now.  You just come and go like the tides.  I could stand
  on the shore and yell all I liked, but the ocean would still ebb and
  flow as it pleases.  I might as well save my breath."
  
  "It doesn't seem like you save your breath," he mumbled just low enough
  for her not to hear.
  
  She surveyed him a moment, then shifted her basket of eggs to her other
  arm. "I am glad you returned, Mr. Mulder," she said more warmly, her
  Irish accent lilting prettily. "I was not certain you would.  Where is
  your horse?"
  
  "Shadow's tied near the first river crossing."
  
  "With the coffee beans in your saddle bags?" she asked.
  
  "And some white sugar I just happened across," he added tantalizingly. 
  
  She considered another moment before she said, "Tie the cows up, then
  come inside and eat before you go back to get your saddlebags.  And your
  horse."
  
  "You would have preferred I brought the coffee first and gone back for
  the cows?" he said, teasing her.
  
  "I would, but I suppose I will take you as you come."
  
  He grinned at her, wiped the cow snot off the back of his hand, and
  followed her inside the house.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  He finished his letter, folded it, and tucked it safely inside his
  knapsack before adding just enough kindling to the fire in the stove to
  keep it burning.  As August ebbed away, the days were still stifling,
  and the nights only slightly less so.  The windows were open, so for the
  moment the breeze from the coast cooled the house enough that it was
  bearable.  Mulder sat on one wooden chair and propped his black boots up
  on another, watching the little flames dance behind the cast iron grate. 
  As he waited for Dana to put the baby to bed and return downstairs, he
  looked around the kitchen, idly taking stock.
  
  The wallpaper behind the stovepipe was stained and peeling, and the
  stove itself could use a good polishing.  The kitchen window and floor
  were scrubbed clean, but the kindling box was almost empty; he'd need to
  chop more firewood before he left for Savannah again. Dana had planted a
  small garden in the spring that was keeping her in vegetables, for the
  time being.  The plantation was so isolated that the army hadn't raided
  it for supplies, so there were still a few hams in the smokehouse and
  chickens in the coup.  There was cornmeal and some flour, but the
  supplies were dwindling.
  
  Stray pigs and cows roamed the swamps, but she lacked the strength and
  probably the skill to butcher one.  There was plenty of wild game if
  she'd known how to hunt.  The steams were full of fish.  Theoretically,
  she could make lye soap and tallow candles and other necessities, but
  that was time-consuming and hard, dirty work.  Eventually, she would run
  out of old sheets and blankets to cut up for clothing for her and the
  child.  The barn was ancient, and already the main house was falling
  into disrepair.  He'd patched the roofs, but there were already more
  tell-tale brown stains on the upstairs plaster ceilings in the house. 
  Outside, the front steps of the plantation house bowed, the paint
  peeled, and weeds sprouted in the yard where the lawn should have been.  
  
  He had entertained thoughts of returning to every so often to replenish
  her pantry and help with repairs, but it must have taken dozens upon
  dozens of slaves to run the plantation.  He might be able to keep her
  supplied with food and firewood, but in truth there was little one man
  could do to stop the advancing decay.
  
  He heard Dana making her way down the stairs, and he stood as she
  entered the kitchen, carrying a basket of soiled diapers on her hip and
  looking tired.
  
  "She is asleep?" he asked.
  
  She nodded. "Yes.  Finally."
  
  "Are you wanting to wash those now, Ma'am?  Would you like me to carry
  in some water?" he asked.
  
  "Thank you, but they can wait," she replied. "I am sure there will be
  more by tomorrow morning."
  
  "I am sure." He gave her a slight grin as he took the basket from her
  and set it aside. "It never ends, does it?"
  
  She looked up at him quizzically as she rubbed the small of her back.
  
  "The work around here."
  
  Dana straightened her back and rolled her shoulders, then squared them.
  "No, it does not seem to.  But it does pause for a moment," she replied,
  then invited, "I think I will sit outside for a bit.  Will you join me,
  Mr. Mulder?"
  
  He nodded that he would, and followed her through the house and to the
  broad front porch.  The rockers on the porch had been sacrificed for
  firewood at some point, so she sat on the steps.  He put his knapsack
  aside and sat on the step above her, a decent distance away.  In the
  distance, the sky was mottled with violet and orange clouds as the sun
  sank down.  Vines crept up the pillars and moss grew over the stones
  around the empty flowerbeds, slowly taking back the big house.  
  
  "You finished your corral," she observed, seeing it beside the barn,
  railings and all.  The two cows were penned inside it, chewing their cud
  contentedly.
  
  "I have finished your corral," he corrected. "I covered the window
  upstairs with paper; I will get more glass the next time I am in town. 
  I saw the kindling box was getting low, but it was getting dark; I will
  have to see to that tomorrow."
  
  "Thank you.  I am grateful for all you do, Mr. Mulder."
  
  "I am glad to be of some service, Ma'am," he answered politely. "I wish
  I could do more."
  
  "I wish I could repay you.  If you will permit me, I will speak to my
  husband about compensating you – when he returns, of course."
  
  He didn't respond immediately as he tried to think of a tactful way to
  say that, firstly, he wasn't looking for payment, and secondly, after so
  many months, he doubted her husband would ever return home.
  
  She turned, looking up at him quizzically.
  
  "It is kind of you to offer, but I would not permit you," he said
  finally, then added with mock seriousness. "Charity is a virtue and
  physical labor cleanses the soul; please do not tempt me from the path
  of righteous purification."
  
  Her blue eyes twinkled. "Mr. Mulder, I know there is an English word for
  so much sarcastic nonsense in one sentence, and I wish I could remember
  it right now."
  
  He grinned at her impishly, then supplied: "Malarkey.  Hooey.  Hog-
  wash."
  
  "I think my brothers used a different word.  They were sailors."
  
  "I'm sorry; I was only in the cavalry, Ma'am.  We weren't as colorful."
  
  She laughed.
  
  The chickens clucked to each other in the henhouse as they settled in to
  roost.  Somewhere in the shadows of the empty slave quarters, a bullfrog
  sang.  The step creaked as he shifted.
  
  "There is a way you could repay me, Mrs. Waterston."
  
  There was the tiniest hesitation before she asked lightly, "How is that,
  Mr. Mulder?"
  
  "Ease my mind.  Allow me to take you and your daughter to Savannah, and
  to find a safe place for you to board until your husband can come for
  you.  Ma'am, you cannot continue to stay here alone," he said earnestly.
  "You must know that.  The swamps are full of deserters and criminals,
  and you are defenseless.  Sooner or later, someone will stumble onto
  you.  Even if, by providence, you remain undiscovered, you cannot manage
  this place alone.  Not and care for your daughter as well."
  
  "But I am not alone.  I have my sarcastic friend Mr. Mulder, who has
  appointed himself my intermittent champion, midwife, carpenter, and
  cattle wrangler," she replied, looking back at him with a smile.  
  
  His expression was serious, and her smile faded. She turned away,
  looking out at the darkening swamp.
  
  "I do know, Mr. Mulder.  I have been thinking about that since you left. 
  I did not realize how much work there was in caring for a child, or how
  much you were helping me until you were gone.  As you say, it never
  ends.  I do understand your concern, but, regardless, my husband told me
  to remain here."
  
  "Ma'am, I understand you want to follow his wishes, but I cannot believe
  he would want you putting yourself and your daughter in harms way.  If
  you were my wife, I would have expected you to go to Savannah as soon as
  you learned you were expecting," he said. "Your responsibilities to your
  husband include your responsibility for the safety of his child, do they
  not?" he asked sternly.
  
  She continued to study the horizon and didn't respond.
  
  He noticed his jaws aching, so he unclenched his molars and exhaled
  slowly.
  
  "I am sorry.  I was impertinent.  You are not my wife and Emily is not
  my child.  It is not my business and, of course, you are free to do as
  you like.  I only wanted to express my – my concern.  Again."
  
  She still didn't speak, and he shifted uncomfortably, making the warped
  step groan again.
  
  "But I am not free to do as I like, Mr. Mulder," she said finally. "Am
  I?"
  
  "I don't understand."
  
  "After so long with no word, I know it is unlikely my husband will ever
  return.  I know how vulnerable I am here.  But, Mr. Mulder, I also know
  that in America, once I leave this place, there are rules for women in
  society.  I have no family, no resources, nowhere to go, and a
  respectable woman cannot make her way alone.  There must be a man to
  speak for her, however superficially.  I understand those rules, but…
  But for now, I would rather remain here."
  
  "You mean that if your husband is dead, you do not relish marrying
  again," he said when she didn't. "But yet you know, as a young woman and
  a mother, with no other prospects, you cannot be alone."
  
  In answer, she adjusted her faded skirt, folding it over so a patched
  place didn't show.
  
  "So you hide out here in the swamps?"
  
  "And you return to hide with me," she responded. "Intermittently."
  
  "Intermittently," he agreed, then studied on her profile a while. 
  
  "I do not mean to, to, to cast aspersions against Dr. Waterston," she
  added, seeming uncomfortable. "Or against the sanctity of marriage or a
  husband's right to have dominion over his wife."
  
  "I would never think that was the case, Ma'am," he responded politely.
  "You are correct, though: society has rules, and you have your
  daughter's future to consider."
  
  "Yes."
  
  Her posture remained tense, and she stared at the horizon, avoiding eye
  contact with him.
  
  "I am not judging you, Ma'am – only trying to think of something that
  might be helpful."
  
  Her profile nodded slightly.
  
  "Men follow a leader who is worth following.  My father taught me that. 
  A worthy commander: his soldiers will defend him until their dying
  breath.  If he is not worthy, though – if he is merely a noisy fool or a
  bully or another man's puppet - no oath can hold their allegiance. Yes,
  I know you are not a soldier," he said as she opened her mouth to remind
  him of that fact. "I only mean this: perhaps it is not the following,
  but the man you follow."
  
  "Perhaps," she agreed carefully.
  
  "The woman is the weaker vessel, yes, but some are weaker than others. 
  I expect to guide my wife, but she needs guidance.  I would think being
  married to you would be like driving a stubborn team of oxen: the man
  must watch the direction they choose carefully, then yell it out in a
  loud, authoritative voice to give the appearance he is in charge."
  
  She laughed slightly, and he saw her shoulders rise and fall as she
  exhaled and relaxed. "You are a smart man, Mr. Mulder."
  
  "I'm a man who tries to pick his battles carefully," he responded
  saucily. "And a husband who knows on which side his bread is buttered."
  
  She paused, still amused but furrowing her brow uncertainly.
  
  "It's an American saying," he explained. "An idiom.  It means I know
  what my priorities are: which of two things is the most enticing.  In
  this instance, it means I would rather have a woman's respect than her
  perfect obedience. In my experience, one follows the other; it is that
  way with soldiers as well."
  
  "On which side my bread is buttered," she repeated, as if committing the
  saying to memory.
  
  "And there's also knowing ‘which end is up' and ‘where I hang my hat'
  and ‘where I park by boots' and many, many more American idioms that
  aren't fit for polite company."
  
  She laughed again.
  
  He leaned back, propping his elbows on the step above and crossing his
  ankles.  The lightening bugs flashed at the edge of the yard, signaling
  each other.  Above the trees, there was still a broad stroke of violet
  on the horizon, but the first stars had appeared.
  
  "I know an American phrase, Mr. Mulder.  You coming all the way out here
  again to bring me coffee beans, and spending a pretty evening speaking
  with me: if there were neighbors, they would gossip that we were
  ‘courting.' Is that correct?"
  
  His posture didn't change except that he turned his head away, looking
  at the shadowy trees. 
  
  "Oh, it is not correct, is it?" she said regretfully, when he didn't
  answer. "I am sorry.  Is, is it vulgar? It's something else my brothers
  said.  I thought it meant a man and a woman spending time together; does
  it mean, does it mean they are lovers?"
  
  "No.  No, the phrase is not vulgar." He exhaled slowly and sat up,
  reaching for his knapsack. "Your usage is correct."
  
  "But my usage is wrong in this instance, yes?"
  
  "I wouldn't know about courting, Ma'am," he responded coolly, knowing he
  was being an ass but unable to stop himself. "As I said, I married very
  young, and I remained married.  Like you, I know something of how
  societal constraints dictate our lives."
  
  She gathered her skirts, preparing to stand as well. "Mr. Mulder, I am
  sorry.  I did not mean to suggest your intentions were dishonorable.  I
  have said something wrong, but I am not sure what."
  
  He looked down at the steps, embarrassed. "And I have said far more than
  I should have."
  
  Seeming flustered and upset with herself, she said, "Mr. Mulder, I know
  you are devoted to your wife.  I understand married people do not
  ‘court,' if that is even the right word.  I only meant to make a joke:
  what the neighbors might say if they saw us… Saw us enjoying each
  other's company."
  
  He stood, slinging his pack over one shoulder and descending a few
  steps. "I'll bid you goodnight, then, Ma'am.  Your reputation with the
  neighbors and all."
  
  She stood, and, since she was now on the step above him, she was eye-
  level with him. "There are no neighbors, Mr. Mulder.  Not for miles."
  
  "Even more reason.  Goodnight, Mrs. Waterston," he said softly. "I'll
  see you in the morning."
  
  "Goodnight, Mr. Mulder," she responded just as softly, and then he
  turned away from her and toward the old barn.
  
  *~*~*~*
   
  "Why did you not wake me?" Dana asked, each word draped in velvet by her
  Irish accent, then yawned, stretching sleepily.  He stood briefly as she
  smoothed her skirt under her hips and then over her knees before she sat
  on the porch steps.  The air had changed, electrified.  A storm was
  approaching, and she had brought a shawl with her against the chill. 
  Dana tried several times to drape it around her shoulders, but it
  twisted and wouldn't cooperate, so she stared at it in sleepy
  bewilderment.
  
  Mulder sat down again and leaned back against a peeling white column as
  he smiled at her drowsy disarray. "Emily's still sleeping; she's no
  trouble," he explained, gesturing to the tiny form in the homemade
  cradle beside him. "I didn't want to disturb you unless I had to.  You-" 
  
  He stopped short, wisely leaving off the words "needed to sleep." Dana
  wasn't a woman who welcomed being told what she needed to do, unlike
  Melly, who had taken his lightest utterances as Gospel.  If he'd said
  the sky was falling, Melissa would have agreed.  
  
  An hour ago, he'd discovered Dana asleep on the sofa, a pillowcase she'd
  been mending crumpled on her lap and the baby asleep in a blanket at her
  feet. "You were resting," he said finally.
   
  "Where did you find the cradle?" she asked, putting her shawl over the
  baby against the breeze starting to murmur through the swamps.
  
  "I'd thought I would make her one, but this was in the slaves' quarters. 
  I scrubbed it and let it dry in the sun," he added, not sure how she
  would feel about having her baby sleeping in a Negro child's cradle. "It
  is simple, but she seems to like it.  If she was my daughter, I'm sure
  there would be pink satin bunting and gilded carving, just so I could
  say she had the best.  I am foolish like that."
  
  "Yes, if she were your daughter, I am sure there would be: pink satin
  and gilded inscriptions and fireworks to announce her arrival." Dana
  looked past him, watching the ominous clouds rolling in from the sea,
  toppling over each other in their hurry to reach the shoreline. "You
  have a son."
  
  "It would not matter if I did not," he responded truthfully. "Son or
  daughter: I would welcome any child my wife gave me, and I would thank
  God for her and the baby's safe delivery."
  
  "Again, I am not your wife, Mr. Mulder," she said softly.
  
  It was the first time she'd said it directly, but he'd sensed her
  husband wasn't going to be pleased to find a daughter instead of a son
  when he returned, if he ever returned.  Every man wanted a boy, but it
  wasn't reasonable to demand one, as if the woman had any control over
  the sex of the child.  Any husband who actually chastised his wife for
  having a girl was a fool, at least in Mulder's reckoning.                
  
  "Ma'am, I did not mean… Your child is just as content in her this bed,
  covered with your shawl, as she would be in the fanciest cradle money
  could buy.  She is cherished, shielded from all the evil in the world,
  and that is more precious than gold.  Her mother loves her, protects
  her.  If a child has that, it's foolish to give it more just for show. 
  And no gilt and satin can equal a mother's love.  That is what I meant. 
  I lavished poor Samuel with everything but silk diapers and pet
  elephants until he was old enough to fight back, and I'm sure I would
  have done the same if my daughter had been born."
  
  He closed his mouth, once again having said more than he intended, and
  found Dana watching him with gently inquisitive blue eyes.  
  
  Mulder knew she wondered about the lanky, often moody stranger who
  frequently took up residence in her barn.  Dana had been out of bed two
  days after Emily came and back to her chores in less than a week, and
  yet August had blended into September and hedged at October and Mulder
  still hadn't ventured very far away.  He chopped firewood, hunted,
  fished, mended fences, helped with the baby, and fixed the hole in the
  roof of the barn, much to the owl's dismay.  There had been several
  trips to send telegrams home and continue his search for Sam, but he
  always found an excuse to return to the Low Country to check on her.  As
  she said, she let him come and go as mysteriously as the tides, as
  though he was something she accepted rather than tried to control.   
  
  "Melly became ill after Sam came," he finally said, his words barely a
  whisper. "I told you that.  Even with the best doctors, it was a long
  time before she was well.  At least, I thought she was well, but then,
  with this last baby, it came back again even worse than before."
    
  She blinked and he looked away, clearing his throat and fiddling with
  his wedding band.    
  
  "There's a storm coming," he observed, squinting at the black sky as the
  winds began to pick up. "A bad one.  You're shivering.  Take the baby
  inside before the rain starts.  I'll carry in some firewood and water
  and close the shutters."
  
  "Mr. Mulder…"
  
  "Yes, she is dead," he said. "She died last summer, and the baby died
  with her."
  
  She tilted her head, puzzled. "But you write to her; I see you write to
  her all the time."
  
  "Just because I write letters doesn't mean anyone will ever read them."
  
  "I am sorry," she said after a pause, putting her hand on his forearm,
  then sliding it down until their fingers intertwined.
  
  "Now you think I'm insane," he mumbled miserably.
  
  "No.  The war claimed both my brothers and my father with a single
  torpedo.  All three were on the USS Tecumseh when it sank in Mobile Bay,
  and for months I was certain there had to be some mistake.  I was sure
  God would not do that to my family.  No, Mr. Mulder, I do not think you
  are insane," she said gently. "Do you know of Samhain?"
  
  He shook his head from side to side.
  
  "On Samhain, at summer's end, some people still believe the fairy gates
  open for the night, and the dead can roam between this world and the
  next.  In Ireland, we light candles so our loved ones can find their way
  home.  I think that is all you are doing, Mr. Mulder: summer is ending
  and you are holding a candle in the darkness for lost souls.  Death does
  not stop love; it only changes its form, and you loved your wife and
  daughter very much, just as I loved my family."
   
  She squeezed, then released his hand, picking up the baby as she began
  to wake and disappearing into the house.
  
  *~*~*~*
   
  He didn't even have his house key, Mulder had realized as he stepped
  from evening train onto the platform.  His key was back in Georgia along
  with everything but his wallet, his revolver, and the blue uniform on
  his back.  When the telegram had arrived, he'd gone straight from the
  officers' tent to the train station and then straight to Washington.  If
  his commanding officer had refused his request for emergency furlough,
  Mulder would have shot him and told the entire Federal Army where they
  could shove their damn war.
  
  "Mother ill stop come home now stop," Samuel had telegraphed, and Mulder
  had had two days on a series of excruciatingly slow trains to imagine
  all the words that had been left out.
  
  Spotting the carriage approaching through the crowd, Mulder looked twice
  at the young man at the reins, unaccustomed to seeing a teenager. 
  According to his internal clock, Samuel should be about eight or nine,
  and yet the calendar insisted he'd just turned thirteen.
  
  "The train was late," Mulder said, stating the obvious as he climbed in.
  "I thought it would never get here.  I was ready to jump off and run the
  last ten miles."
  
  "The station master said a freight train derailed near Alexandria," Sam
  responded.
  
  As soon as Mulder's backside met the padded seat, Sam clucked to the
  horses, nervously forgoing any formal greeting or embrace.
  
  "Thank you for waiting," Mulder said, not sure what else to say. "I came
  as quickly as I could."
  
  The road in front of the depot was crowded with buggies and light gigs,
  and Sam chewed his lower lip as he waited for a slow-moving wagon to
  pass. After that, he had to stop short to avoid for a group of matrons
  paying more attention to their gossip than the buggies.  After that,
  there was no need to ask how Melly was; Sam keeping the horses at a
  racing trot through the congested streets and the tired purple shadows
  under his eyes was answer enough.
  
  "I didn't know what to do," Sam said eventually, not looking away from
  his driving. "The doctor came, but she won't let him near her.  Poppy
  can't come to work right now.  I didn't want to send for Grandfather; I,
  I was afraid he'd send her away.  Maybe that's what she needs, but-"
  
  "No, you did the right thing.  I promised she wouldn't go back there. 
  Why isn't Poppy at the house?" Mulder asked. "Has her time come
  already?"
  
  Sam nodded slightly, hesitant about acknowledging such a thing, even to
  his father.  Their long-time housekeeper – who was Sam's former
  nursemaid - was unmarried and, as of late, quite pregnant.  Such a thing
  was grounds for her dismissal, but there was a war on.  And Poppy was
  family, more or less.  And Melly was expecting as well.  It was a sticky
  situation Mulder needed to rectify somehow, but had been successfully
  avoiding.
  
  "Poppy didn't happen to find a husband, did she?"
  
  "No sir," Sam answered as he drove.
  
  "I'm not going to send her away, Sammy.  Not Poppy nor her child.  I'm
  not quite sure what I'm going to tell Grandfather when he hears of this,
  but I'm not sending Poppy away.  We need her, especially now."
  
  Sam exhaled, letting the horses slow a bit and tilting his head as
  though his neck ached.
  
  "You're tired, Sammy," Mulder said, again observing the obvious.
  
  "Yes sir," Sam answered, and didn't elaborate.  He took another deep
  breath, still upset but seeming calmed a bit by his father's presence.  
  
  Mulder laid his arm along the back of the seat, his hand resting on
  Sam's shoulder. "You did the right thing," he said again. "I'm proud of
  you.  And, despite the circumstances, I'm so glad to see you.  My God,
  you're so grown up. You've grown a foot since Christmas.  You must be
  almost as tall as I am."
  
  "Poppy says I look like a string bean and eat like a draft horse."
  
  Despite his exhaustion, Mulder snickered, and got a slight, hesitant
  smile from Sam.
  
  "Next time she says that, you tell her that you also draw like
  Michelangelo and play like Mozart.  She won't know who either of those
  men are, so she won't be able to say a thing."
  
  His son nodded, liking that.  He glanced sideways, noting his father's
  full beard, and commented, "You look like a grizzly bear, Father."
  
  "You look like the war's caused a scissor shortage.  When was the last
  time you had a haircut, son?"
  
  Sam flicked Mulder's beard and Mulder swatted gently at the back Sam's
  black hair, which was past his collar.
  
  "Try not to grow up until the war's over, all right?"
  
  Sam nodded that he would try his best.
  
  "It seems like I was home a few weeks ago instead of months.  Melly must
  be…" Logically, she must be big by now, but he still had a hard time
  imagining it. "Is she, Sam?" he asked awkwardly.
  
  Sam nodded again and said, "I sketched her yesterday.  I know I
  shouldn't right now, but I don't think she noticed me.  I thought… I
  didn't know how long it would be before you could come, and if… I
  thought you would want the drawing," he finished.
  
  "Thank you.  Yes, I do want it.  But nothing's going to happen, Sam. 
  Everything is going to be fine. Your mother's going to be fine."
  
  Sam considered a moment and asked, "How long will it be, do you think,
  until she notices me?"
  
  "It's hard to say, Sammy.  Maybe a few days.  Maybe longer.  Maybe a
  long time."
  
  "But she's going to have a baby soon."
  
  "I know that, Sammy," Mulder said softly, and they passed the next
  several blocks in silence.
  
  "How is the campaign?" Samuel asked, looking for something else to talk
  about.  His father owned the Washington Evening Star and the boy spent
  his days sketching amidst reporters and newspaper presses; Sam already
  knew how Sherman's campaign was going.
  
  "We have Atlanta under siege; it should fall in a matter of months. 
  Once we take Atlanta, we've cut the Confederacy in two, destroyed their
  supply lines, and there's no place else for them to run.  I should be
  home for your and Melly's birthday," he promised. "I won't miss it
  again."
  
  Next year Sam would be fourteen and Mulder would be thirty, almost
  thirty-one.  At an age when other men were just considering taking
  wives, Mulder had been married for almost half his lifetime.  He'd been
  sixteen when Sam came, so they'd grown up together, just the two of
  them, with Mulder floundering along as best as he could.  Melly had been
  there, of course, but also, in her Melly way, often not there.
  
  "Father?" Sam said uncertainly, stopping the buggy in the circular drive
  in front of a brick mansion. "Will she really be all right?"
  
  "I'll see to her," Mulder responded, one foot already on the ground. "It
  will be fine.  You did a good job, Sammy.  You did the right thing." 
  
  His son nodded, barely moving his dark head, and waited.  Mulder was the
  father, so he was supposed to say something that would be of great moral
  comfort.  Some pearl of wisdom for the ages.
  
  "Go rub the horses down.  You've been pushing them hard and it's hot. 
  They could catch a chill."
  
  There was another nod, and the buggy rolled away, swaying toward the
  carriage house and stable.
  
  Meeting him at the front door and taking his cap, Melly's nervous young
  maid whispered, "She's upstairs, sir."  
  
  People always whispered when Melly was ill, as though that was going to
  help.  The servants should have known better by now, but everyone had
  gone home for the night except Melly's ladies' maid, who was seldom in
  charge of anything more important than hairpins.  She waited at the
  bottom of the front staircase as he hurried up, twisting her hands in
  her apron and watching him expectantly.  Some days he felt much too
  young to have so many people look to him with that trusting, Mulder-
  will-take-care-of-it expression.
  
  "Honey?" he said softly, pushing open the door of their bedroom a moment
  later. The lamp wasn't lit and the sun was going down, so the room was a
  contrast of the fiery red sunset and the encroaching shadows. "Melissa? 
  Melly?  Where are you, honey?"
  
  There was a frightened whimper, and he saw her toes peeking out from the
  space between the dresser and the bed.  The toes led to bare feet and
  shapely bare calves, and her arms were wrapped around her knees, pulling
  them as close as possible to her chest.  Except for her hair, which
  covered her back and veiled her face with black mist, she was nude.  She
  huddled against the wall as though she could disappear into it,
  terrified.
  
  "What are you doing down there, honey?" he asked gently, leaning against
  the foot of their bed.
  
  She shook her head frantically, sending her hair flying. "Shush; he'll
  come back," she whispered, childlike. "Be quiet.  Fox's gone and he'll
  come back." 
  
  "He won't come back, Melly.  Your father's dead.  He's been dead for
  years."
  
  "No.  No, no, no, no," she repeated mechanically, rocking back and
  forth. "He'll come back."
  
  "Do you know who I am?  Look up at me."
  
  "Fox?" Melly guessed in a tiny voice.  
  
  "That's right; it's Fox.  I'm not going to let him hurt you.  Come on
  out from there.  Right now, Melly.  I don't like it and you're scaring
  Samuel."
  
  She stared up at him with huge, frightened eyes, her chin quivering. 
  She nodded "no" again and huddled even tighter. "Go ‘way.  He's bigger
  than you are."    
  
  "I doubt that.  I'm not going to let him hurt you.  Trust me, Melly."
  
  Mulder offered his hand, but didn't make any move toward her.  He could
  grab her and wrestle her out, but that only ended up making things
  worse; he'd learned that a few weeks after Sam came.  After a minute,
  she reached for his hand, grasped it like a lifeline, and let him help
  her to her feet.
  
  As much as he would have liked to look at her, especially now, putting
  on a nightgown or chemise often helped calm Melissa.  It was as though
  clothing was armor and she could never have enough.
  
  "That's my good girl.  We'll get you a bath, let you get some rest, and
  you'll feel better," he assured her, slipping her arms into her dressing
  gown and tying the sash high to accommodate her belly. "Look at this,"
  he murmured wondrously, running his hand over the swell. "What do we
  have here?  What have you been up to while I've been off preserving the
  Union?"  
  
  Melly had been leaning her forehead against his shoulder, but looked
  down at his fingers drifting over the silk fabric.  She covered his hand
  with hers for a few seconds, then backed away. 
  
  "What's wrong?" he asked.
  
  "No.  No, no, no," she started again, looking through him.
  
  "What, honey? ‘No,' what?" 
  
  She stroked her belly, staring at it as though it hadn't spent seven
  months in the making and had just appeared.  Then she started to rub
  harder, like the pregnancy was a wrinkle she could smooth away, and then
  harder and harder until she was kneading so roughly it frighten him.
  
  "Whoa; easy," he cautioned her, stopping her hands. "What's wrong?  Try
  to tell me.  Talk to me, Melly."
  
  "He did this.  He did this.  He did this.  Get it out.  Get it out, Fox. 
  And don't tell.  It's bad.  Bad, bad, bad, bad."
  
  "Shush," he murmured. "No, he didn't do this.  Calm down and try to
  remember.  We did this, Melly.  Not your father.  Your father is dead. 
  He's been dead a long, long time.  This is our baby; I was home for
  Christmas, remember?  I was wounded.  We talked about a little girl and
  now we're going to have one; you wrote you were certain it was a girl. 
  We did this, right here.  This is our bed, in our house.  This is our
  baby, our baby girl.  You wanted this; you were so happy when you wrote
  to me.  Do you remember at all?  Try to be my big girl and remember.  I
  need my big girl back."
  
  With his fingers still loosely around her wrist, she lowered her hand
  back to her belly, rubbing at it like a stain on the rug.  She shook her
  head, her face crinkling to cry again.      
  
  "Then just trust me.  We did this.  Don't hurt the baby.  I want you to
  take good care of the baby."   
  
  "What did he put inside me?" she sobbed in horror, and he had to stop
  her hands again. "What did he do?"
  
  "No, your father is dead.  We did this."  He kissed her forehead, then
  trailed his nose down her cheek. "Try to remember.  This is our baby
  girl.  I'm not your father.  You're not a child anymore.  You're my wife
  and I love you and we didn't do anything wrong.  I'd never do anything
  to hurt you, honey."
      
  "You did this?" she said shakily, easing her rubbing. "You did this to
  me?"
  
  He pushed her long black hair back from her pretty, tear-streaked face,
  smiling slightly. "I suppose I did."
  
  "You did this?  What's Daddy going to say?"  
  
  Mulder exhaled tiredly and put his arms around her, rubbing her back. 
  She stayed very still, like a trapped wild animal when it realizes
  there's no escape.
  
  "It's fine. You let me deal with him.  You take care of the baby.  Will
  you do that?"
  
  She nodded that she would. "You're still my friend?" she asked in that
  sing-songy babyish voice that made his stomach twist.   
  
  "Yes, we're still friends."
  
  "She probably needs to eat," Mulder told the hovering young maid, who
  was still twisting her hands as he led Melly down the front stairs. "And
  she needs a bath.  And would you also heat some water for me to shave?"
  he added, "I think my beard is scaring her.  And then you can go home."
  
  Recognizing her as someone she knew, Melly started to follow her maid to
  the kitchen, then looked back at him and stopped.
  
  "Go on," Mulder told her. "Go with her.  It's all right.  I'll be right
  there."
  
  "You did this to me?" she asked numbly, one arm cradling her belly. "You
  put this inside me?"
  
  The sixteen-year-old maid's face turned scarlet.
  
  "I did that to you." He'd say whatever it took to keep her calm; they
  could discuss propriety another night.
  
  Her maid tugged on her hand, and Melly followed hesitantly, seeming
  unsure what was happening.  Melly was obedient by nature, and once she
  understood what he wanted, she'd spend hours trying to do it perfectly. 
  He'd probably have to lift her out of the bathtub and carry her to bed
  to get her to stop scrubbing.
  
  Mulder moaned as he sat down on the sofa, then pulled off his boots for
  the first time in three days, and lay down for a few seconds.  He heard
  hot water gurgling from the stove reservoir in the kitchen and the
  murmur of the maid talking to Melly, trying to get her to eat.  The
  stable door opened and closed; Samuel was taking care of the horses.  As
  the world grew dark and hazy, Melly's maid asked if he still wanted to
  shave, and then covered Mulder with a blanket when he didn't respond.
  
  "Mother?" Samuel's voice asked sharply, and then screamed, "Father! 
  Daddy!" Mulder bolted upright in the dark parlor, on his feet before he
  even had his eyes open. "Daddy!" he heard again.  
  
  When Mulder got to the back of the big house, his son was staring
  through the open doorway of the little room off of the kitchen that they
  used for bathing.  Melly liked to soak until she pruned, so Mulder had
  installed the biggest bathtub he could find, much to the chagrin of the
  Poppy and maids, who had to heat and carry the water to fill it.  There
  was a basin and a mirror too, and the inexperienced maid had laid out a
  towel and his shaving brush, lather, and the strap to sharpen the razor. 
  A lamp was burning in the window, casting a gentle, peaceful yellow glow
  over the calm water filling the bathtub almost to the top.
  
  He thought for a moment that the young maid hadn't been able to find his
  straight razor.    
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  "Get the doctor!" he yelled into the blackness. Sam was crying.  Melly
  was hurt and Sam was crying.  He could hear it all around him.  The pain
  was so tangible he could taste it in his mouth, and it encased his world
  like a shroud.
  
  Sitting up, Mulder scanned the dark barn as he tried to get his
  bearings.  Army revolver in hand and naked to the waist, he scrambled to
  his feet, listening and trying to place the noises in some context.  His
  breath came hard and fast as his body prepared to take on whatever was
  out there.  He'd kill it if he could find it.
  
  It was just the storm - just the wind and rain punishing the thin roof
  and walls.  It howled like a tormented soul, but it was just the storm. 
  Exhaling, he stared into the darkness and waited to relax.  His fingers
  tingled around the Colt revolver and a trickle of sweat ran down between
  his shoulder blades.  Every nerve was alive and alert, waiting,
  watching.
  
  One of the shutters on the house had worked loose and was banging. 
  After listening to it slam back and forth for a few minutes and
  realizing he didn't want to go back to sleep, Mulder got up and dressed,
  planning to get an early start on his day.  
  
  To his disgust, after he'd gotten his shirt soaked running to the house,
  stubbed his toe in the darkness, and had the parlor window refuse to
  stay up and bash him on top of the head, the shutter had the indecency
  to fall off.  He leaned out the window, still holding it, his hair
  getting plastered to his skull by the rain.  With both hands full and
  the window sash threatening to brain him again, he blew a drop of water
  off the tip of his nose and considered his options.  So far, the day was
  not looking promising.  He wasn't going to get a ladder and fix it right
  that second, and the worst of the storm had passed, so he let the
  shutter fall to the ground.
  
  As he closed the window and contemplated making himself a cup of coffee,
  he heard it again: the baby crying.  This time he recognized it as Emily
  and, without thinking, trotted up the steps to get her.
  
  He stopped in the hallway when he saw Dana's bedroom door open,
  realizing he was intruding.  She'd never expect him to be in the house
  hours before breakfast, and she would certainly never expect him to be
  upstairs unannounced for any reason.     
  
  Through the doorway, he saw a woman's silhouette pick up the wailing
  baby and carry her to the window, fiddling with the front of her
  nightgown as she walked.  One handed, Dana raised the window and
  unfastened the shutters, looking out at the black and gray sky.  The
  wind was blowing the wrong way for rain to come in the window, but there
  was a sudden swirl of damp, electrified air into the room that made the
  curtains billow like the sails of a ship.  Holding the unhappy baby
  against her chest, she tilted her head back and inhaled like some primal
  creature, enjoying the lighting-scrubbed wind as though she was a part
  of it.  
  
  He liked that he wasn't the only one who got up to watch thunderstorms
  at night.  He never would have guessed she'd do something so frivolous
  or sensual; she had her secrets, this woman.      
  
  She laid the baby down again, making Emily squall even louder, and to
  Mulder's wide-eyed surprise, Dana gathered her nightgown up and pulled
  it over her head, revealing nothing underneath.  No, there was certainly
  something underneath; he could tell, even in the shadows.  There was
  something very nice underneath.  
  
  The droplets of water streaming down the back of his neck started
  turning to steam.
  
  Dana wrapped a blanket around her and picked up Emily again, then sat
  down in a rocking chair beside the window to nurse.  The baby stopped
  crying immediately and he heard greedy suckling sounds as her mother
  murmured to her.  Dana's profile looked up and stared out the open
  window again, watching the storm rolling over the treetops as she
  rocked.       
  
  Mulder realized he hadn't moved in a very long time.  He exhaled
  silently, blowing every bit of air out of his lungs.  The baby was safe. 
  That was all he'd come upstairs to check.  He should never have been
  upstairs in the first place.   
  
  Without a sound, he turned, slipped down the shadowy hall, and descended
  the staircase, avoiding all the squeaky steps.  Except for a few drops
  of water on the floor where he had been standing, there was no evidence
  of his presence outside her bedroom.  
         
  He needed to go home.  She was married, she had a new baby, and he was
  starting to make a fool of himself.  
  
  "Starting?" his conscience asked, recalling her joke about courting and
  labeling him a voyeur instead of a concerned friend who'd stumbled into
  an embarrassing situation.  A friend would have left when he realized
  she was unfastening her nightgown.       
  
  And he wasn't entirely sure it wasn't reciprocated, at least in some
  manner.  She didn't strike him as a woman who casually shared any part
  of herself, and yet she'd told him of her brothers' and father's deaths,
  of worrying about having no word from her husband in months, and of her
  concern about her husband's reaction to their daughter.  Except for the
  night Emily came and yesterday evening when she'd taken his hand, they'd
  never touched.  They hadn't said or done anything improper, and maybe he
  was imagining it.  And maybe he wasn't.  Of course they were good
  friends, but Mulder wouldn't have been happy if his wife had been so
  friendly with a strange man while he was away.
  
  He needed to go home, he thought, laying down on the lumpy sofa in what
  had once been the front parlor.  He told himself he was staying in the
  house because of the storm and he'd get up long before she did and she'd
  never know.  Another shutter could work loose or the roof could blow off
  or, well, something.  He wasn't picky.  Truth could be beautiful, but so
  could lies.  
            
  *~*~*~*
  
  There was a very important and proper reason he was standing in her
  bedroom staring at her asleep in her nightgown.  
  
  And he would remember that reason any second now.
  
  It wasn't really a nightgown, but an old chemise designed to fit under a
  corset but below the neckline of a dress, so it draped low, revealing
  the tops of her breasts and the slopes of her shoulders.  She could have
  easily untied it to nurse, but she must have preferred to take it off so
  the baby could be against her skin.   
  
  Just any second now.  
  
  It was thin cotton, washed over and over and dried in the wind and sun
  until it was almost transparent and probably soft as silk.  It should
  have reached her knees, but it had twisted around her hips so it barely
  covered her thighs.  And, as if to torment him, she shifted, bending one
  knee up while the other fell outward.  
  
  Any second now.
  
  A thick braid of auburn hair fell over one shoulder, but countless
  strands had slipped out of place during the night and curled around her
  face and shoulders.  Against the patched white sheet, she was a study in
  pale ivories and the crimsons of her hair, her lips, and under her
  chemise, the dark suggestions of her nipples and Mons Venus.    
  
  He swallowed, noticing he couldn't feel his lips or his fingertips. 
  Dana should really learn how to close a door.  If she were his wife,
  he'd teach her how to close a door.
  
  She shifted again and the lace hem of the chemise crept up a little
  farther and Mulder, fearless soul that he was, started feeling woozy.    
  
  For his own preservation, he covered her with the top sheet she'd kicked
  off, managing not to touch her or make a sound.  Then he backed slowly
  to the hallway, closed the bedroom door, took a deep breath, and knocked
  loudly.
  
  Luckily, by the time she woke and answered, he'd remembered what had
  been so important in the first place.
  
  "It's Mulder," he called to her, as though she might have been expecting
  someone else.  
  
  The door opened a crack and she peaked out, smoothing the stray auburn
  wisps back from her face. "What is wrong, Mr. Mulder?"
  
  "There are people coming up road from the river: a mulatto man and a
  white woman with two boys and a toddler.  The man has a rifle.  Could
  the woman be one of your friends?  A neighbor coming to call?"
   
  "There are no neighbors." She stopped to yawn, forgetting to cover her
  mouth. "Maybe they are lost."
  
  "They'd have to be very lost.  No one comes this far out in the swamps
  without a reason.  What about the man?  Could he be one of your people
  coming home?"
  
  "You mean one of my husband's slaves?"
  
  He nodded. "Some of the freemen who couldn't find work in the cities are
  returning to the plantations.  He doesn't look like a field hand, but
  maybe a valet or a butler?"   
  
  She had the sheet wrapped around her torso so it covered her from chest
  to toes, and she adjusted it tighter before she opened the door another
  few inches.
  
  "He is not one of my husband's slaves."
  
  "How can you know without looking?  It must have taken a hundred people
  to run this place."
  
  "Because this is my husband's country house and his overseer ran it, Mr.
  Mulder.  We lived in Savannah, but he sent me here during the war so I
  would be safe.  When the Yankee Army got close to Savannah, his overseer
  left to join the fighting.  That left me in charge, and as soon as the
  proclamation came from Mr. Lincoln, I had the Negroes to take everything
  they could carry and get as far away as possible, in case the overseer
  came back.  Luckily, he did not."
  
  "You little abolitionist." He leaned against the doorframe and grinned
  at her. "I wondered where everything went: the china, the silver.  I
  know our Army got out this far to loot.  And I wondered why this was the
  only plantation house I've seen that didn't have an old cook or mammy
  still with the family.  What does your husband think of this?"    
  
  "He does not yet know."
  
  Mulder added a raised eyebrow to his grin before returning to the topic
  at hand.
  
  "So if this man isn't one of your servants, and the woman isn't your
  friend or neighbor, who are they, Ma'am?  Look and tell me if you know
  them." 
  
  He held up his binoculars, and she rewrapped the sheet around her one
  last time and opened the door. 
  
  "Do you have a dressing gown?" he asked, feeling uncomfortably warm as
  he trailed into the room after her.
  
  "I did.  Now I have clothes for the baby," she answered, going to the
  window she'd opened a few hours earlier. "No, I do not know them," Dana
  said, handing the binoculars back to him.
  
  Mulder looked again, watching the light-skinned Negro man carrying a
  rifle and leading two little boys on a horse.  A stunning, dark-haired
  woman followed, also on horseback, riding sidesaddle with a toddler in
  her arms. "I'd say those are her children, but he's not the father. 
  They are close, though: the man and woman.  And the boys know him.  What
  could they be doing out here?  Oh shit," he said under his breath.  
  
  Mulder shifted the binoculars, adjusting the focus.  On the man's hip
  was a sleek pearl-handled pistol.  He hadn't been worried about the
  rifle, but that was a dueling pistol and he wore it as a regular
  sidearm, not stuck in his belt the way he would if it was new to him. 
  
  "What is it, Mr. Mulder?"
  
  "Wait here."
  
  When he returned from the barn, she was still at the window, looking
  like someone gave the Venus de Milo a pair of binoculars. "The man just
  pointed to the smoke coming from the chimney.  He is having the woman
  and children wait at the edge of the trees.  He kissed her, Mr. Mulder,
  and now he is coming this way.  He has a pistol, Mr. Mulder."
  
  "I know.  Ma'am, look at me.  Look at this.  Just in case." He held up
  the .40 caliber single-shot Derringer he'd carried in his boot during
  the war.  It was small enough to fit in his pocket, hence the nickname
  pocket pistol. "You only have one shot and then you need to reload. 
  It's ready to fire now.  If you need to, just aim like you're pointing
  your finger and pull the trigger.  You can't shoot very far, so wait
  until he's close, and be prepared for it to knock you backward.  It's
  just a precaution."
  
  After handing the Derringer to her, he checked the Colt Army revolver,
  making sure all six cylinders were loaded with a ball and powder, and
  the pressure caps were in place, and then replaced it in the holster on
  his hip.  His bowie knife and saber were on his other hip, and, except
  that he hadn't worn his uniform jacket in weeks, he looked the part of a
  Federal Cavalry officer once again.
  
  "All I get is this little gun?  You get that gun and two knives and all
  I have is this?" she asked uncertainly, holding the Derringer by the
  handle with two fingers. "Do you have anything else, Mr. Mulder?"
  
  Mulder stared at her, not sure whether he was insulted or amused. "What
  would you like, Ma'am?"
  
  "I do not know, but I feel like I should just throw this at him, pick up
  the baby, and run."
  
  He pondered for a second, then retrieved the rifle he'd left in the hall
  and unfastened the cartridge and cap boxes from his belt.  From the
  expression on Dana's face, it was a more acceptable means of self-
  defense. 
  
  "It's a .52 caliber Sharps carbine, made to be loaded and fired on
  horseback.  It will stop a buffalo at two hundred yards, and I can
  verify it will more than stop a man.  And probably knock you back about
  ten feet.  Would this be better?"
  
  She handed the pocket pistol back to him, still held daintily between
  her index finger and thumb.
  
  "Well, I'll have to load it, then.  Watch." In rapid succession, he
  pulled a linen cartridge from his cartridge box, opened the breech,
  shoved the cartridge in, closed the breech to automatically ram the
  bullet and powder in the cartridge, opened his cap box, fished out a
  cap, and placed the percussion cap on the nipple.  Cocking the hammer
  back, he told her, "The cavalry standard is one shot every twelve
  seconds, so in battle you'd have five seconds left to aim and fire.  And
  then reload.  Do you think you could reload it if you had to?"
  
  "I think I can hit him the first time," Dana promised, taking the rifle
  and seeming surprised at how heavy it was.  Still wearing her Greek
  Goddess toga, with her loose braid hanging down her back, she held it
  up, looking through the sights. "Am I doing this the right way?"    
       
  "You're, uh, close enough.  I'm going to meet him in front of the house;
  I'll find out what he wants.  I'll handle this, and it's probably
  nothing.  Maybe they're just very lost.  Don't shoot unless you have to,
  and for God's sake don't shoot me."            
  
  She nodded, squinting through the rifle's sights again and spreading her
  legs a little farther apart to stay balanced.  She tilted her head
  sideways, biting her lower lip in concentration and sliding her fingers
  over the long ribbon of polished steel as though it was human skin. 
  Mulder left the cartridge and cap boxes on the windowsill on the off
  chance she could manage to reload, and, looking at her again, cleared
  his throat and went downstairs to confront something less dangerous. 
  Somewhere in the world, Samuel Colt and both Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson
  suddenly became aroused and weren't sure why.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  "That's far enough," Mulder said from the porch, coming down the front
  steps slowly. "What's your business?"
  
  "I am looking for Dr. Waterston's place," the light-skinned Negro man
  said politely in a New Orleans drawl with the faintest hint of French
  behind it.  
  
  "You've found it." Trying to intimidate him, Mulder looked at him
  steadily, taking his measure, and the man's brown eyes stared back, not
  hostile, but not flinching either.   
  
  "Doctor Daniel Waterston of the Chatham Volunteers?  Surgeon in Company
  E of the 47th Georgia Regiment?"
   
  "Under Colonel's William and Edwards," Mulder added from memory. "This
  is his land."
  
  "You are not Dr. Waterston."
  
  "I'm close enough for you."  Mulder's hand casually nudged the handle of
  the pistol on his hip. So far, the man hadn't made any move toward his
  own weapon. "What is your business?"
  
  "Did you know Dr. Waterston?  Is this his land?"
  
  "I think I've already answered that," he responded, keeping up his end
  of the razor-edged banter. "What is your business with him?"
  
  "I have his wife and family with me."
   
  "I doubt that.  His wife and family are upstairs."
  
  The man's eyebrows twitched in surprise.  There was a pause before he
  clarified, "His other wife and family.  His Colored family from New
  Orleans."
  
  "Oh," Mulder said, backing toward the house to clear the way in case
  Dana decided to shoot after all.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  She was beating those biscuits as though she had a personal vendetta
  against them.  He waited for her to cry, but she didn't. And the more
  Dana didn't cry, the more Mulder wanted to.
  
  "She seems nice," he said, trying to sound optimistic. "Just quiet,
  which is always nice in a woman."
  
  Dana exhaled loudly and didn't look up from making a late breakfast for
  seven.  The kitchen table was floured and the biscuit dough was dumped
  out, then attacked with a rolling pin and a biscuit cutter.     
  
  That probably hadn't been the most comforting thing he could have said.
  
  Mulder scuffed his boot against the edge of the wood burning stove and
  stared at the kitchen floor. "Do you understand what she is saying? 
  What ‘placage' is?  She was not really his wife. She was his legally
  contracted uh-" He worried the word around his mouth before he said it
  aloud. "Mistress."
  
  "She was his wife and they have three children.  Yes, I understand very
  well."
  
  "No, she is an octoroon.  One-eighth Negro.  She was brought up to, um,
  please wealthy white men.  Une femme de couleur.  They are legendary. 
  In New Orleans, very light-skinned Negro girls are placed, placage, with
  white men and kept as mistresses, sometimes briefly, but often for
  months or years.  Sometimes for life.  The woman gets a house and
  servants, and the children of the, uh, arrangement are educated and
  inherit just as the man's white children do.  But she was not his wife. 
  He could not have legally married her before the war.  Do you
  understand?"
  
  "I understand she has a ten-year old son, a six-year old son, and an
  eighteen-month old son. I understand my husband and I had been married
  six years.  I understand his commanding officer wrote to her that he had
  died, but did not think to write to me.  Yes, I understand."
  
  "She did not come here to hurt or insult you, only to see what her sons
  had inherited and make a fresh start.  She never knew you existed, just
  as you never suspected she did.  In New Orleans, every wife is sure her
  husband is the exception: the one man in the city who does not keep a
  placage mistress.  And every mistress is sure her benefactor either will
  never marry or married out of duty, not love.  Do you understand?  It
  is-"
  
  "Stop it!  My English is very good.  Thank you, but I understand, Mr.
  Mulder.  Please do not explain anything else to me."
  
  "I'm sorry," he mumbled, hanging his head. "I'm not sure what to say."
  
  "Why not launch into one of your lectures about how you would not be
  happy if I was your wife?" she said angrily, shoving her pan of biscuits
  into the oven. "Because that is just what I would like to hear right
  now."
  
  "If you were my wife- I would never have done this to my wife.  She was
  too delicate to be hurt like this."
  
  "How nice for her," she snapped, slamming the cast iron oven door
  closed.
  
  At a complete loss for anything to say, wise or otherwise, he turned and
  walked quickly out of the kitchen without looking at her.
   
  *~*~*~*
  
  For a woman who'd become both a wronged wife and a widow in one day,
  Dana was holding up much too well.  Aside from some very well-mashed
  mashed potatoes at dinner and a tendency to talk without moving her
  lips, she was acting normally.
  
  Which worried him.
  
  Benjamin, the light-skinned mulatto man, had been the doorman at the
  quadroon balls where white men came to choose and mingle with their
  mistresses.  That explained the contrast between his graceful,
  gentlemen's gentleman demeanor and the dangerous glint in his eyes: he'd
  been watching a woman he loved follow Dr. Waterston into a bedroom for
  the last twelve years.
  
  The breathtaking, silent woman, Dori, was exactly what Mulder had told
  Dana she was: the daughter of a quadroon slave and a white Haitian
  plantation owner bought and paid for by Dr. Waterston at the age of
  seventeen. She'd been kept comfortably in New Orleans until Dr.
  Waterston suddenly stopped visiting her after Christmas.  Emily was two
  months old, so the good doctor must have been home to see Dana last
  fall.  All that and fighting a loosing civil war, too; he had been a
  busy man.   
  
  Mulder heaved himself up the ladder, into the loft, and flopped on his
  back on his bedroll.  Sighing, he folded his hands behind his head and
  crossed his ankles, staring up at the crossbeams of the barn roof.  It
  was too early to go to sleep but too late to find some chore to keep him
  out of the house.  Normally, he would have gone to the kitchen and read
  a newspaper or book aloud to Dana, or watch the baby while she had a
  chance to bathe or take a quick nap, but he felt awkward around her
  tonight, as though it was somehow his fault she was hurting.      
  
  Something rustled in the corner and he turned his head, thinking he and
  that owl were going to have it out again.  Instead, he saw Dana sitting
  with her knees pulled up to her chest and her face buried in her folded
  arms.  Only the black tips of her shoes and the auburn knot of hair at
  the back of her neck were visible; everything else was obscured under a
  huddle of faded calico fabric.  
  
  His heart stopped for a second, hiccupped, and then restarted.  He
  opened his mouth to say "Melly," but managed to reform it into "Ma'am? 
  Ma'am," he repeated, scrambling to his feet and bashing his head into
  one of the crossbeams of the roof, adding a companion goose egg to the
  one from his predawn encounter with the window. "Are you all right,
  Ma'am?  Mrs. Waterston?"
  
  Of all ludicrous things, she shook her head earnestly that she was fine
  as she sobbed, trying to catch her breath.  
  
  "Oh," he mumbled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 
  Ducking to avoid any more headaches, he went closer and, squatting down,
  asked again, "Are you sure you are all right?"
  
  "I am fine, Mr. Mulder," she said through her tears, still not raising
  her head. "Why would I not be?"
  
  "Where is the baby?" 
  
  "With the woman.  Dori."
  
  "Is Emmy all right?  Is anything wrong?"
  
  "No, nothing is wrong with Emily.  Why do you always ask me that?" she
  asked in frustration. "Do you think something is wrong with my baby?"    
  
  "No, I-" He swallowed, rubbing his fingers nervously over his trouser
  legs. "You have just had such a horrible day.  Do you want me to take
  the baby for a little while?"
  
  She inhaled shakily, the worst of her tears seeming to have passed. "No. 
  She will be hungry soon." 
  
  "Well, do you want me to go away and leave you in peace?"
  
  "Yes," she said, so he sat down.
  
  "I have been thinking of something, Ma'am.  I understand Dr. Waterston
  left this place to Dori's sons, but also that he did not know about
  Emily.  Is that right?  He did not know you were expecting?" He waited
  for the nod, then continued, "Mr. Lincoln freed the slaves, but Congress
  hasn't yet made them citizens.  We will, of course, but the war just
  ended and the Constitution will need to be amended and that takes time. 
  Until it is, the freedmen are not American citizens.  They are in limbo. 
  Since the system of placage no longer exists, the contract your husband
  made to care for Dori's children is invalid; he made a contract
  regarding a slave and she is no longer a slave.  And her sons are not
  yet citizens who can hold property.  If you contest his will in court,
  you will most likely win."
  
  Dana wiped her eyes and raised her face enough that he could see her
  flushed cheeks. "I had some choice about marrying him; she did not.  If
  she wants this place, with the shutters falling off and the roof falling
  in, she can have it.  I never want to see it again - this house or the
  one in Savannah."
  
  "I fixed the shutter. And my roof is not falling in."
  
  "It is not your roof, Mr. Mulder." 
  
  "Yes, I know that," he mumbled, picking at a mended place on the sleeve
  of his shirt.   
  
  She raised her head higher, staring at the sun setting between the
  cracks in the barn wall. "I tried," she said slowly, stopping to sniff.
  "I tried to be a good wife.  I thought I understood what men wanted in
  marriage.  I did whatever he asked."   
  
  "Some men just want any woman they aren't supposed to have," he said
  before he thought. "We cut off our nose to spite our face."
  
  "But you are you not one of those men?"
  
  "Na- no I am not, I suppose," he said. "I have been tempted, but… No. It
  was not worth what it would have cost me.  To have to face Samuel, with
  him knowing I had betrayed his mother… To have to live with myself. 
  There was too much at stake for too little pleasure."
  
  He clamped his mouth closed, promising himself it would stay that way
  until he thought of something proper to say. Eventually, he arrived at
  the obvious. "I'm sorry, Ma'am.  I'm sorry about your husband.  What an
  awful way to find out."
  
  "It is a relief to have an answer, at least.  I know I should not feel
  that way, but I do. I feel relieved to at least know he is dead.  The
  hardest part was the not knowing, the wondering."
  
  "Yes," he said more to himself than to her.  
  
  "I think deep down I have known for some time that he was not coming
  back.  I wanted to do the right thing, to wait, but there comes a time
  when you have to stop waiting and go on with life.  Which was what you
  advised me to do some months ago."
  
  "Yes," he repeated simply, wrapping his arms around his knees in
  imitation of her posture.  She tilted her head to the side and he
  thought for an instant she was going to lay it against her shoulder, but
  she didn't.  Through the cracks of the old barn wall, the sun crept a
  little lower, painting the heavens with its last dying traces of scarlet
  and amethyst.     
  
  "I am going home, Ma'am.  And I am not going to return.  I cannot hide
  in the swamps forever." He hesitated, watching the sun teasing them
  through the weathered gray boards. "I have a house, a business to run. 
  My mother is alive.  Life will go on.  It will just be very different."
  
  "I will miss you," she said without looking at him.
  
  "I will miss you as well.  Very much." 
  
  "Very much?"
  
  "Very much.  You are my friend.  And Ma'am-" He inhaled, didn't think,
  and said it all in one breath: "Mrs. Waterston, despite what I have
  said, I do think I would be happy if you were my wife."
  
  Turning her head, she stared at him, and Mulder re-wrapped his arms
  around his knees and continued staring purposely at the hints of amber
  sunset flickering in from outside.  
  
  He cleared his throat.  Damn dusty barn. 
  
  Dana continued to gape, and the lack of romance in the air made Cupid
  shake his head in disgust and throw up his hands.
  
  When she still didn't answer after epoch-like seconds, Mulder said
  quickly, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked you so suddenly, and I
  shouldn't ask you to decide so quickly.  I just worry; you and Emily are
  all alone.  The world is not a nice place right now, Ma'am.  I have a
  great big house in DC with no one to live in it now but me, and I do not
  want to be alone.  There is a housekeeper, a cook, a half-dozen
  servants.  You and your daughter would never want for anything.  It is
  very nice, and I promise I am not as odd as I seem."
  
  "Do you love me?"
  
  He considered, trying to find the right way to say it. "I like you very
  much.  I like being with you and talking with you.  And I care for your
  daughter; she fills a void inside me.  I care for you and I want you as
  my wife, but want and love: for men they are not the same."
  
  "I would settle for being wanted."    
  
  "Are you saying yes, then?"
  
  "Yes, I think I am," she answered unsteadily.  He hadn't managed to
  sweep her off her feet, but he had confused her into matrimony. 
  
  He nodded as though they had just agreed on a price of a horse. "Good. 
  Well then.  That is, that is fine, then.  We can be married tomorrow in
  Savannah before we leave for Washington."
  
  "All right," she agreed, looking a little unfocused. "Mr. Mulder…"
  
  "Yes?"
  
  "What is your first name?"
  
  "Fox.  Fox William Mulder.  I am Bill Mulder's son."
  
  "Oh."
  
  She must have no idea what that meant.  After graduating at the top of
  his class from West Point, Senator Mulder had served in Congress for
  decades, as had Representative Kavanaugh: Sarah and Melissa's father. 
  The majority of the literate population of the United States knew who
  Bill Mulder's boy was.
  
  "Do you want me to call you ‘Fox'?"
  
  "No," he said immediately.  Sarah, Melly, and his parents had called him
  Fox. "My friends call me Mulder.  You are my friend."
  
  "All right.  I should check on the baby," she mumbled after a bit.
  
  "Yes, you should."
  
  He stood, offering his hand to help her up and cautioning her to watch
  her head, although she was a good six inches below any of the
  crossbeams.  She kept hold of his hand as they made their way across the
  loft, brushing her thumb lightly against his palm. 
  
  "If I had known you wanted to marry me, I would have been nicer to you,"
  she said as he helped her down the first few steps of the ladder. "I can
  be a little more biddable."
  
  "I doubt that, but you are welcome to try," he answered sarcastically,
  finally letting go. "I will see you in the morning.  I want to leave
  early."
  
  "I will be ready," she answered, looking up at him for a second and then
  climbing down the ladder to the floor.   
  
  He waited until she had closed the barn door and was walking to the
  house before he wiped his sweaty palm on his backside.
  
  "Well then," he told himself, feeling strangely calm.
  
  He'd get up early and bathe and put on clean clothes, although it would
  be nice if he had a suit.  And he should telegraph from Savannah to let
  Poppy, the housekeeper, know he was coming home and bringing a woman and
  a baby.  A wife.  He was bringing a wife and a stepdaughter.  They could
  stay at a hotel in Savannah tomorrow night, and he should see if there
  was a ship bound for DC; there was no need to bounce the baby around on
  a dirty, noisy train, and Dana needed more rest than she'd been getting.
  
  He laughed at himself, realizing only he would plan a honeymoon with an
  eye toward the bride getting some sleep, and then felt his face getting
  warm.  Without bothering to undress, Mulder lay back again, folding his
  arms behind his head and crossing his ankles: his favorite position for
  contemplation.  He stared up at the rafters, knowing he would never get
  to sleep and, for the first time in months, perhaps years, was eager for
  morning to come.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  End: Paracelsus II