Whatever force had propelled her into the past, it must require that all the buttons be fastened. She frowned. She didn't know quite what she had expected, and was left feeling deflated. What did she do now? Look for the button? But did she really want to go back to her own time yet? Maybe she should see if she could undo the damage caused by the family feud. If she managed to prevent it, then she could go back home with a clear conscience.

When she heard Deborah's voice on the attic stairs, her head jerked up. She didn't want to be found in the dress, and she removed it hastily. She'd just tied the last lace on the robe when the attic door swung open and Deborah entered.

"Oh. I didn't know you were up here," Deborah said in obvious surprise. "I came to find you something to wear, but I see that you've already been looking in the trunks."

"Yes." Amanda flushed and added lamely, "I couldn't help noticing this beautiful gown."

"That was my wedding dress," Deborah said with a smile as she smoothed the satin folds.

"Your wedding dress?" Amanda echoed. "It's so beautiful. What's it doing up here in the attic?"

"I hid it up here when the Yankees came through last week. Sometimes they take whatever strikes their fancy, and I have a special hiding spot. I suppose Tangie must have taken it out to clean it for me. Michael has already paid for my portrait to be painted in it. An extravagance, I know, but he was quite insistent. The artist is to arrive next week- Are you all right?"

"Yes. No." Amanda managed a smile. "I still feel a bit dizzy; that's all."

"Understandable. You must have had a dreadful time of it. I've sent for Dr. Higdon, and he should be here soon. There have been so many stragglers through here lately, soldiers with wounds from the battle, that he's been very busy. Why don't you go back to bed, and I'll find you something suitable to wear."

"Yes. I think I will. I… I'm feeling very odd." Moving ›lowly, Amanda made her way back to the room she had been given. An ominous echo reverberated in her mind- the wedding portrait had been painted after Michael Scott's death. That meant that sometime in the next week, Deborah's husband would die. Unless she could prevent it.

Chapter Six

Sunlight drifted between magnolia leaves to highlight Amanda's pale hair and the steps of the front porch. Jesse stepped outside, eyeing Amanda where she sat on the top step. She didn't turn around or give any indication that she knew he was there, but remained with her arms clasped loosely in front of her. The simple cotton gown she wore had once belonged to his sister, and was almost too snug. Of course, that was because Amanda refused to wear proper undergarments, Deborah had reported with a scandalized lift of her brows. Even in these times, a corset was considered necessary. He'd always thought corsets foolish and dangerous, but then he much preferred females wearing only scanty garments.

"Are you going to just stand there staring at the back of my head all day?" Amanda demanded in a cross tone. She half turned to glance at him, and Jesse grinned.

'I'm trying to figure out your best angle," he said as he moved to sit beside her on the top step. She didn't offer to move over, and he wedged his frame into the tight space between her right hip and the porch post. He could feel the warmth emanating from her, and found it tantalizing.

She turned to look at him with a wary expression. "Have you figured it out yet?"

"Figured what out?"

"My best angle." She pushed at a loose strand of golden hair, her green eyes narrowing slightly. There was a faint spray of freckles on her nose, and he found that somehow endearing.

"There isn't a best angle," he said when she kept staring at him, and was amused by the indignant way she wrinkled her nose and glared. "If I was going to be chivalrous, this is where I would claim that all of your angles are of matching beauty and perfection, that your fair face has no equal this side of heaven, and that-"

"Rubbish," she said firmly, and some of the indignation in her eyes faded into amusement. “You really are a rogue, aren't you?"

"Among other things. And you?"

"Me? What about me?" She looked wary.

"What did the doctor say about you?"

"That I'm sound as a mule and twice as stubborn."

"My thoughts exactly."

"Liar." She looked down, then slanted him a glance from beneath her lashes. He found it extremely provocative.

"I'm still trying to make up my mind exactly how to classify you, Mrs.-"

She paled. "We were married such a short time, and now he's dead and we had no children… I'd feel more comfortable if you'd call me Miss Brandon."

"All right, Miss Brandon. What do you suggest?"

"Number one: Don't try and classify me."

Jesse grinned. "And number two?"

"Who said there had to be a number two?"

"It's generally required."

Her mouth curved slightly. "I see. I wasn't aware of the proper guidelines here. All right-suggestion number two: Realize that I'm just like everyone else here. I want to survive, to be happy."

"You make that sound impossible. It isn't, you know."

She looked surprised. "I find it rather astonishing that you seem to consider happiness possible, under the circumstances."

Shrugging, Jesse said, "Only a fool or a dog can be completely happy. Happiness inherently carries with it a measuring stick by which to judge other events in your life. In comparison, other incidents can be less happy, more happy, or devastating, depending upon your point of view."

"That's a novel notion. I never looked at it that way."

A slight frown puckered the delicate line of her brows, and Jesse had the overwhelming urge to smooth it away. Instead, he leaned over to rub at imaginary dirt on the scuffed toe of his boot. "It's only my opinion, you know. War makes me too introspective. At night, hiding in the woods and hoping no Yankee stumbles over me, I've got a lot of time to think."

He felt her gaze on him as she murmured, "I imagine you do. What else do you think about?"

Women," he replied promptly, and laughed when she made a rude noise. "Well, you did ask."

“I should have known better. But I suppose men never change through the ages."

"And women do?"

When he glanced up at her, he saw her eyes widen. She stared at him from beneath the dark, lush curve of her lashes, and he was reminded of green woodland pools. Then she glanced away, the frown returning.

"No," she said slowly, "women don't change either. We want the same things now as women wanted a hundred years ago: Love. Security. Maybe even children."

"Do you want children?"

Looking rather startled, she stared at him, blonde wisps of hair clinging to cheeks that were damp with perspiration. He resisted the impulse to stroke them away as she said, "I haven't thought about it in a long time. He-he didn't want any children."

"I'm sorry. If there had been enough time, your husband may not have had a choice about children. Sometimes they come whether you want them or not."

"Oh, no, I take the pill. I mean-" She halted, cheeks flushing pink with confusion as she stammered,' 'I m-mean. I had to take precautions."

There was something here he didn't understand, some plane of the conversation that was on a different level. Jesse studied Amanda's face for a moment, trying to sort through the myriad of impressions he got every time he talked to her. It didn't matter what they discussed, there were always little things that caught his attention, some slight discrepancy that on the surface sounded normal, but studied closely, failed inspection. It was more than just her claim that she was from England; he'd been abroad, and had never met anyone with her eccentricities.

Looking down again, Jesse said mildly, "I see."