Yankee Wife by Linda Lael Miller

Quade's distant comfort was quite as intoxicating as opium; she realized she could come to need that comfort to live, the way she needed water and air and food.
    She set the brandy down with a shaking hand, pushed back her chair and bolted. In the doorway she turned back, watching as Mr. Quade rose slowly, gracefully to his feet.
    â€œLydia,” he said, and that was all. Just her name. And yet she felt as though he had somehow reached out and caressed her; her blood thundered in the pulse points behind her ears and at the base of her throat.
    She shook her head, somewhat wildly, backing away.
    Mr. Quade did not pursue her when she fled the room.
    Â 
    In the morning, Lydia awakened to a room full of summer sunshine, feeling abjectly foolish. The first thing she remembered was Brigham's handsome face, close to hers, when he'd crouched beside her chair in the dining room the night before. Looking back, she had the strange feeling that he would have listened to every ugly memory she had, and she felt a peculiar ache in her heart. Few people were strong enough to bear the true realities of war, even secondhand, and because of that, she still carried much of the burden.
    She jumped out of bed, having long since learned that action was the only remedy for melancholy thoughts, and put on one of the dresses she'd purchased in San Francisco. She looked sensibly pretty in the gray gown lined with faint pink stripes, she decided, as she unbraided her heavy hair, brushed it, and arranged the tresses in a loose knot at the back of her head. The narrow trim of lace around the cuffs and high collar of the dress added just the right touch of femininity.
    The house was very quiet when Lydia descended the stairs, and when she passed the long-case clock in the entryway, she was chagrined. It was nearly ten o'clock; Devon and Brigham had probably been about their business for hours, and there was no sign of the children, Polly, or Aunt Persephone.
    Worst of all, Lydia thought, with wry grimness, she'd missed breakfast. She'd never get these jutting bones of hers covered with womanly flesh if she didn't catch up on all the eating she'd missed in recent years.
    In the kitchen, Lydia found cold toast and eggs. She brought a plate from one of the shelves and ate, aware of the many times, during the war and after, when she would have felt dizzying gratitude for such a feast.
    Immediately after, she washed her plate and silverware. There was a cracked mirror on the wall above the pump handle, and she looked quickly to make sure she was presentable. Then Lydia hurried outside.
    The land seemed determined to redeem itself, following yesterday's rainstorm. The dense and seemingly endless multitude of trees was rich green, and the sky was a powdery shade of blue. The waters lapping at the shore reflected the heavens, seeming to harbor the light of sleeping stars in their depths, and towering mountains beyond jutted upward, rugged and heavily traced with snow.
    Lydia, who had left the house by a rear door, stood stricken on a rock walkway, staring, wondering how even a rain as fervent as yesterday's could have shrouded such beauty. It was as though God had taken a deep breath, pushed up His sleeves, and made a new Eden here, a glittering emerald of a place trimmed in the sapphire of water and sky.
    She felt as though her soul had gone soaring like some great bird, out beyond the chain of mountains. A rustling sound high in a nearby cedar tree brought her back with disturbing abruptness.
    â€œExcuse me,” Millie said, from somewhere in the dew-moistened leaves above, “but I wonder if you couldn't help me down, Miss McQuire? I seem to have gotten stuck.”
    Lydia calculated the distance between the treetop and the flagstone path and raised the fingers of one hand to her mouth. “Hold on very tightly,” she said, when she could manage to speak, and then she proceeded toward the tree.
    â€œMillicent can climb like a monkey,” a