The Quaker and the Rebel by Mary Ellis

festivities.”
    “One could almost forget a war is going on,” Emily murmured. Mrs. Bennington nodded in agreement, but Mrs. Hunt slanted an odd expression. Emily concentrated on lunch while the two sisters shared news and gossip about mutual friends. There was absolutely no mention of Alexander during the meal. Perhaps he was estranged from his family and wouldn’t be making an appearance. Oddly, she found no relief at the thought. Though he wasn’t physically present, the laughing, mocking eyes that had caused her to blush in the barnyard seemed to follow her around her room. Would there be no escaping him, even in his absence?
    Finally, Mrs. Bennington struggled to her feet. “Shall we rest, Emily, until time to get ready for the ball?”
    After helping her employer to her room, Emily napped for several hours—something unheard of on her parents’ farm. Refreshed, she dressed carefully for the Hunt Farms ball. If she was to be of use, she must study her adversaries in this region of white columns and slave-tended fields. The aristocratic manners and genial hospitality of the slave owners couldn’t mask their evil, blackened hearts. She grew up poor, but she had also grown up knowing freedom.
    Because Lila had the evening off, Emily struggled into her underthings and the ball gown on her own. The deep sapphire color added depth to her pale blue eyes. With tiny pearl buttons down the front and hundreds of pin-tucked folds below the waist, the dress accentuated her slim figure. Slipping on dancing slippers, she pinned up the few stray locks that escaped her chignon. She refused to have her hair done by a slave maid.
    No one will be looking at me anyway . She had seen the steady stream of carriages for the past hour, delivering at least one belle and in some cases, several beauties on the arms of their fathers. Each wore a gown more exquisite than the last. A Paris fashion house during the spring shows wouldn’t offer such gorgeous selection. “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow…Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one ofthese.” For some reason, the Bible’s assurance that Christians shouldn’t worry about clothes failed to console her. Jealousy filled her heart and eroded her confidence. Just once, Emily wanted to feel pretty, self-assured, and carefree instead of backwoods, unsophisticated, and poor.
    Not wanting to be announced at the entrance, Emily slipped up the servants’ stairs to the third floor ballroom. The high-ceilinged, palatial space was crowded with revelers. Emily found an obscure spot behind a potted hibiscus to watch the festivities. Couples whirled around the polished marble floor with confidence, as though each fluid movement felt as natural as drawing breath. Miss Turner’s School for Ladies didn’t quite prepare me for this , she mused sourly.
    Along the wall conservatively dressed, silver-haired ladies and rakishly handsome aristocrats stood in clusters, sipping from long-stemmed flutes. From her position by the hibiscus, Emily spied her host across the room talking with several soldiers clad in Confederate butternut. As often the case when one stares long enough, Emily locked eyes with Alexander Hunt, who was apparently not estranged from his family after all. He stopped talking and grinned from ear to ear. She glanced left and right to see for whom the magnificent smile had been intended. No one had ever looked at her in such a fashion. Emily felt like a snared rabbit when Alexander bowed to the soldiers and crossed the room.
    “Great Scot, it is you, Miss Harrison. I thought I saw that potted plant move. I arrived home just a bit ago and didn’t know my aunt and uncle were visiting.”
    “If you’d been forewarned, Mr. Hunt, would you have leaped down on me from the balcony?”
    He threw back his head and laughed. “At the very least, Miss Harrison.” His voice turned several heads in their direction.
    “Would you be so kind, sir, as to lower your