Southern Belle. Fiona Hood-Stewart
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discreet waiter topped up their champagne glasses, he studied this beautiful, understated and elegant woman, simply yet chicly dressed in black velvet pants and a high-necked cashmere sweater that defined her excellent figure. Her jewelry was exquisite and unobtrusive. Apart from her obvious beauty there was something very enticing about her, he decided, something in that sexy, soft Southern drawl that charmed.
“Tell me about your home,” he said, interested in learning more about who she was, what she thought, how she felt. There was a rare unspoiled quality about her that struck a chord.
“Home? That’d be Oleander Creek, my family’s plantation.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “It’s a wonderful old place that belonged to my great-great-grandmother. It used to be in the country but now it’s practically on the outskirts of Savannah. Although I also have a town house in the city, Oleander Creek is my real home and I love it dearly,” she sighed, and twirled her glass, eyes soft. “It’s one of those rare places where it’s possible to find real peace.” She glanced at him and he nodded.
“I know exactly what you mean. It’s the same way I feel about Graney.”
“Graney.” She pronounced the word carefully. “That sounds dreadfully grand,” she countered, a smile hovering about her lips.
“Not really.” He shrugged. “It was originally a medieval Irish castle, so I suppose that makes it fairly impressive. But behind those thick stone walls lie a plethora of problems, believe me. Trivial things,” he grinned, “such as outdated plumbing and unreliable electricity. Helps scare off unwanted guests.” He took a sip of champagne and smiled when she let out a gurgle of laughter.
“Sounds just like Oleander. Believe me, I’ve scared off my share of unwanted guests, too.”
“Do you have many of them?” he queried, interested to learn more.
“In politics, they swarm like bees to honey.” She let out a little sigh. “Harlan, my hus—soon to be ex-husband—” she corrected hastily “—hates that the place is so old,” she added, blushing. “Decrepit is the exact term he uses.”
Johnny laid his glass down and pricked up his ears. She’d mentioned earlier that she was getting a divorce, and from her description of her husband, it was no wonder. “Likes things in good order, huh?”
“Oh, yes, only the best,” she said dryly, folding her hands on the table and staring absently at the cloth. “He considers Oleander rather shabby, despite all the restoration work I’ve put into it. He wanted to bring in a New York decorator to smarten the place up and make it presentable for his Washington cronies, but I refused.” She shrugged and their eyes met. “Maybe it was wrong of me—it really is an ideal spot to entertain—but I couldn’t bear the thought of it being picture-perfect and used only for fund-raisers, or as some kind of Gone with the Wind prop for PR purposes. It’s my sanctuary and I love it just the way it is, with the stairs that creak, the layers of old dust up in the attic, the shutters that bang relentlessly in the storms during the rainy season. To me it’s just home.”
“Sounds like the old place has a lot of stories to tell.”
Elm laughed. “Many more than you can imagine. I had some pretty outrageous ancestors. My great-great-grandmother Elma is practically a legend in Savannah—the original Steel Magnolia.”
“Steel magnolia?” Johnny repeated blankly.
“It’s an expression that means a certain combination of Southern grace and inner grit. In Elma’s case, she had both in spades.” He watched her take a quick sip of champagne and settle back in her chair. “As Sherman’s forces were advancing on Savannah, a forward scouting party of maybe a half-dozen soldiers made their way to Oleander Creek and were preparing to force their way into the house when one of them slammed his rifle butt into the front step and cracked the stone. Well, Elma thought this was unpardonably rude and confronted them at the door, saying there was no way they were getting inside unless they cleaned themselves up and remembered their manners. Apparently she gave those Yankees such a tongue-lashing that they left without even looking for the gold Elma and her slaves had hidden in the bottom of the well.” She smiled and took another sip. “The crack in the step is still there.”
“Sounds like Miss Elma was an enterprising woman. Do you take after her?”
“Me? Oh, no, although I’m named after her. But she was far more courageous than I’ve ever been or had to be.”
“Did she survive the war?”
“Oh, yes.” She smiled, her eyes soft in the candlelight. “The tale goes that the Brigadier General commanding the Yankee scouts was none too pleased when his men came back empty-handed. He arrived at Oleander later the same day, ready to do battle with the terrible harridan his men had described, and torch the place if necessary.” She leaned her elbows lightly on the pristine white cloth and continued the story. “Instead, he found Elma in the hall, decked out in a beautiful evening gown and welcoming him and his officers to dinner in the most ladylike fashion.”
He grinned at the image. “What did the general do?”
“What could he do?” She spread her hands and laughed. “He was just a Yankee—not up to all Elma’s Southern charm. According to local historians, he sat down to dinner, enjoyed a few glasses of excellent vintage brandy, then left, loudly proclaiming the graciousness of Southern hospitality. Of course, the uncensored story passed down by one of Elma’s slaves is that he spent the night with Elma after she’d extracted his promise to furnish her with supplies and protection when Sherman reached Savannah.”
“Ah, not just an enterprising woman, but a practical one, too. And did the general keep his promise?”
“Well, Oleander’s still standing, so I guess he did. My estate manager, Ely, who’s a direct descendent of Elma’s favorite slave, still insists you can’t trust a Yankee as far you can throw him, but even he admits that the general must have been a gentleman.” She smiled at him, then lowered her gaze to her empty dessert plate.
“Do you all have a thing against Yankees?” he asked casually. “That could pose a problem.”
“Why?” she asked, frowning.
“My mother’s a Yankee. Good Irish stock from Pittsburgh. I believe her family, the Rileys, didn’t arrive until after the Civil War, but still, I wouldn’t want you to think I was hiding my origins from you,” he teased.
“It’s certainly a thought,” she responded, eyes filled with laughter as she leaned back. “But I guess the general paved the way for you by holding his promises. Also, if I remember rightly, you’re an aristocrat. As far as Southerners are concerned, that’s definitely a plus.”
“You relieve my mind, madam,” he said, taking her hand and raising it gallantly to his lips. “For a moment there I thought I’d cooked my goose.”
Her laugh sparkled as their eyes met for a fleeting moment before Elm withdrew her hand. “Okay, your turn,” she said quickly. “What makes you spend the better part of your time at your castle, I wonder?”
“Same thing that sends you scuttling off to your plantation, I should think,” he murmured with a challenging grin, eyes seeking hers. “The desire to flee the madding crowd. Plus, I love the place. It’s home, just like Oleander is for you.”
“You never thought of moving to Pittsburgh?” she countered.
“Uh, actually, no. I love the States but I’m an Irishman through and through. Give me Dublin any day. Anyway, I have a business to run in Ireland.”
“Really?”
“Graney is a stud farm. I breed Thoroughbreds.”
“A stud farm. That must require a lot of patience.”
“It does. And I must warn you not to get me going on the subject of horseflesh. My mother claims that I can become a dead bore.”
Elm laughed and as