by Karen White
My eyes were immediately drawn to the grand piano in the corner, the highly polished mahogany lustrous in the yellow light. A bone-thin woman sat on the bench, her jawbones working as she plunked on the keys in an attempt to re-create Beethoven. I gravitated toward the instrument before I realized there were other people in the room and all were watching me. The music stopped abruptly as the woman looked at me, pale gray eyes staring coolly out from under ash-blond hair.
“I do not believe we have been introduced.” Her voice was flat and nasal, straight out of a New England town.
William emerged from a cushioned sofa and came to stand beside me, his long fingers, so much like Stuart’s, holding on to a short glass filled with amber liquid.
“Please, allow me. Mrs. Mary Audenreid, my sister-in-law, Mrs. Laura Elliott.” I inclined my head slightly in acknowledgment while she sat motionless, her expression cold. She was several years younger than me but her bearing was much older than she looked.
I saw three other gentlemen by the bookcase on the far wall, and each was introduced in turn. One was Mrs. Audenreid’s husband, Captain Joseph Audenreid, the officer I had seen General Sherman speaking with earlier. He was tall and fair, like his wife, but his eyes were warm as they appraised me. The other man on the general’s staff was Captain James McCoy, a man whose girth pressed his uniform taut, threatening to send the brass buttons into orbit. He bowed slightly, his graying hair falling forward over his forehead. His physical likeness to St. Nick belied the grimness of his eyes as he contemplated me.
William continued. “And you have already met General Sherman.” I gave him a warm smile, and wished fervently for a drink.
“Are you a rebel, Mrs. Elliott?”
I looked at Mrs. Audenreid, surprised to hear such a direct question.
Before I could respond, General Sherman stepped forward. “That would depend—would it not, Mrs. Elliott?” The creases in his face deepened as he regarded me, amusement apparent on his face.
I smiled back tentatively. “Yes. And since it is a Union captain’s wife who is asking the question, I would have to say no.”
The woman sniffed in response, holding a hanky to her nose. “Honestly, I do not see why we are fighting them. Let them have their miserable climate and torturous springs.” She sneezed loudly into her hanky.
I loved spring in the South, and I figured something had to be wrong with somebody who thought otherwise. “Oh yes. Cold and damp springs are much preferable to warm ones full of abundant blooms with a few sneezes. Perhaps you should speak to a few more generals, Mrs. Audenreid. To think that you have had the answer to ending the war all this time and have been keeping it to yourself.”
The tomblike silence was broken by Pamela’s entrance. She was dressed all in black, like a crow, and greeted everyone stiffly as introductions were made.
Mrs. Audenreid resumed her playing, this time a barely recognizable Chopin scherzo. A black manservant appeared with sherry for the ladies. I gulped mine quickly to still my nerves.
Mary Audenreid stopped playing. There was a small smattering of applause as she stood to take her glass of sherry. She came to stand next to me, a slight frown on her face. “That was Chopin, Mrs. Elliott. I am not sure if civilized music has made its way south yet. I am trying to educate these poor unfortunates with every bit of culture that I can.” She took a sip of her sherry, a pink tongue darting out to lick her lips. “It is to be expected, though, from a people who subjugate others and whip them to within an inch of their lives each and every day.”
I glanced over at William, who wore a tight smile on his face. “How very kind of you. Let me speak for all my unwashed brothers and sisters of the South and give you a heartfelt thank-you for all your selfless efforts. It is a wonder, isn’t it, that the North would want our participation in this country at all, with us being so backward and evil and all.” I let my accent slip into a redneck impersonation, eliciting a laugh from a male voice behind me.
I welcomed the anger that flushed through me, settling my nerves. And I had never been known to back down from an argument. I set my glass on a table and walked slowly over to the piano. “My. So many keys. Would you mind if I tried?”
With a condescending glance, she fluttered a pale hand at me. “Of course. But not too loudly, please.”
Pulling out the bench, I sat down and did a few short finger exercises to warm up my hands. Next came a few arpeggios, my hands racing up and down the length of the keyboard. Mary Audenreid’s mouth pursed itself into a perfect O. The color red appeared high on her cheekbones, then spread over her entire face. Enjoying the effect, I continued with the floor show.
“This is Debussy. He’s from France. That’s a big country across the Atlantic where they speak French. Have you heard of it?” I asked as I played a few bars of “Clair de Lune.”
“This is Mozart. He was from Salzburg—a beautiful city if you don’t go during the winter. He died tragically young but what a gift of music he has given to the world. Not that uneducated people like myself would ever realize.” I played a page of a Mozart sonata, my fingers frantic on the keys. Mary Audenreid sat as still as a piece of furniture, her cheeks and nose a bright pink.
“Have you ever heard of Beethoven? His ‘Für Elise’ is a bit overdone, as is his ‘Pathétique,’ but they are some of my favorites,” I said as I quickly ran through a sample of each.
I felt all eyes on me, but I was on a roll and couldn’t stop. I quickly broke into Scott Joplin’s “Heliotrope Bouquet” and pounded out the entire thing in record time. My spontaneous recital ended without applause.
Mary stood and walked slowly over to me and stated simply, “You, madam, are common and not fit to be in this room with us.”
I stood, careful not to knock over the bench with my skirts.
“And you, madam, are an insufferable boor. You prance around with your high ideals about Southern women and their atrocities to their slaves. But I’ll have you know that I speak to the slaves with a great deal more respect and kindness than you have just shown me.” I said this with great control, enunciating every word.
Her jaw was shaking as she regarded me, but she said nothing and turned and left the room. My corset stopped me from taking a much-needed deep breath, so I found myself gasping in tiny puffs of air. “I’m sorry,” I said, to no one in particular. “I usually have better manners.”
Her husband stepped forward, coughing into his hand. “No, she provoked you. Perhaps you would better understand it if I told you that her brother was killed at Gettysburg by a Confederate bullet.”
I studied his face and noticed a scar that started at the left jaw and neatly bisected his cheek. “It explains it, but it certainly doesn’t excuse it. My husband was shot with a Yankee bullet in his leg. But I can’t seem to hate all Yankees because of it.”
He set his face with a grim look. “Apparently. Or else you would not be here.”
I heard a grunt from Captain McCoy. I turned to find him closely examining his boots.
The manservant interrupted by announcing that dinner was served.
William offered me his arm, and I reluctantly placed my hand on it. As he closed his hand over mine, I repressed a shudder, much as I would have done if a large and hairy insect had been crawling up my arm.
We filed into the dining room, and I felt not a little guilty knowing a family had been evicted from the premises, that a family that should have been sitting around the dining table, talking about their day’s events.
I sat on General Sherman’s right, with Captain Audenreid to my right. His wife sat in stony silence across from me. Conversation was stilted, owing as much to the fact that I was a Southerner as to the fact that there were women present. At one point, a courier came in, and I could see General Sherman’s eyes alight with excitement. He ate faster, as I was sure he was anxious to share the news with his officers. No dou
bt it had something to do with his imminent plans to move his massive army southward toward Atlanta.
We eagerly turned our attention to the food—the abundance of which was truly amazing in this place and time. An entire chicken and roast beef occupied the center of the cherry pedestal table. They were surrounded by countless other dishes, including three different kinds of vegetables and all sorts of sauces. Eyebrows were raised at my heaping plate. I shrugged and took another helping of the honey-glazed yams.
Mrs. Audenreid appeared to be enjoying the spread as much as I was. “This is truly the most delicious food I have had since our honeymoon in Paris.”
Captain McCoy shifted in his seat and swallowed a mouthful of savory rice. “I shall take credit for that, Mrs. Audenreid. I brought my chef from home. Monsieur Fortin is indeed French.”
I eyed the captain’s girth and knew he spoke the truth.
Mary Audenreid continued. “I would truly like to thank him, but I do not speak a word of French. My mother thought it was pretentious, so it was never taught to us.”
“I speak French.” I smiled at her, an innocent enough expression. “I’ll be happy to give you an appropriate phrase to show your gratitude.”
She smiled primly. “Really? I am surprised. But thank you. I would appreciate that.”
I hid my grin by giving my attention to the chocolate torte, stabbing my fork into the rich, creamy layers. I washed it down with real coffee, savoring the taste and smell of it.
As we left the table, I approached Mrs. Audenreid and whispered in her ear. She gave me a quizzical look and repeated it back to me quietly. I nodded, assuring her it was perfect. When Monsieur Fortin appeared in the doorway to satisfy himself that all the guests were contented, she said, with an amazingly good French accent, “Monsieur Fortin, voulez-vous couchez avec moi ce soir.”
Pamela began coughing, choking on her last sip of coffee. Somewhere behind me a china cup dropped onto the wooden table, but I was unable to look anywhere else but the unfortunate chef’s face. Mary Audenreid looked around the room, from the beet red face of the chef to the mortified look on the officers’ faces. “What did I say? Was my accent wrong?”
A flash of lightning illuminated the night, followed shortly by a loud crash of thunder. Accepting the interruption as a sign that I should leave, I promptly excused myself and headed up toward my bedroom. I had hoped to feel amused and somewhat vindicated, but all I could feel was a sick feeling that I had done something wrong. She hadn’t deserved that. My only excuses were that I was exhausted and worried about Sarah and what I was here to do, and not a little bit drunk from the wine at dinner.
As I ran up the stairs, I heard hastily spoken French with a tone of righteous indignation from Monsieur Fortin, and a loud exclamation from Captain McCoy. The last thing I heard before slamming the door behind me was Mary Audenreid shrieking at her husband, and a gaggle of male voices speaking in a mixture of French and English.
I lay down on the bed and stared up at the intricately carved ceiling medallion surrounding the crystal chandelier. How could I shoot a man in cold blood? How could I not? Images of Annie sustained me—images of her as a baby and then as the little girl she had grown to be. I had made my choice, and there was no turning back. Reluctantly, I sat up, smoothing my hand absently on the pillow. I rolled off the bed and began pacing, waiting for an opportunity to present itself.
For a while, I heard the excited murmur of male voices, and then the house grew still. I stopped my pacing to listen to the leftover wind blow against the house. I pulled the curtain aside and saw only scattered debris on the deserted street. I longed to loosen my corset, but I needed help to do it. Pamela was nowhere to be seen. Surely she didn’t think I’d need our bedroom for a purpose other than sleeping. I rubbed my hands together and was startled to find that they were moist. I wiped them on my skirt and resumed my pacing.
I found myself standing in front of the dressing table, peering at the reflection of a woman I didn’t know anymore. My skin flushed pink against the glaring red of the gown, my dark hair an elegant contrast. I took a deep breath and almost laughed at the show of cleavage I revealed. At least I knew I had it if I needed it.
A whiff of cigar smoke tickled my nose. General Sherman must still be downstairs. Without thinking about what I was doing, I dug Pamela’s carpetbag out from under her bed and thrust my hand inside. My hand closed around the cold steel of the revolver. I pulled it out and examined it with an impartial eye. I pulled off my stockings, placed the garter around my calf, and tucked the gun in my garter. I straightened, smoothing my skirts. Giving the woman in the mirror a backward glance, I left the room and carefully made my way down the steps.
My skirts trailed behind me on each rise, until they pooled elegantly around me as I reached the bottom. The aroma of cigar smoke was stronger in the foyer. A triangle of light illuminated the floor outside the partially opened door to the library. I walked toward it, my steps purposeful, like a hunter stalking its prey. I heard the scratch of pen against paper as I gently pushed open the door.
I was relieved to find the general alone. He looked up as I entered, a new cigar clenched between his teeth. He sat at the desk, arm poised above a ledger. I could feel the gun rubbing against the skin on my leg. His jacket was completely unbuttoned and opened at the chest, displaying a dirty white shirt underneath. The red hair stuck up like a porcupine, as if he had been rubbing his hands through it as he pondered how to feed his troops off fertile Southern land.
I stopped in front of the desk, not sure how to proceed. I had the urge to perch myself on the edge but knew that with my voluminous skirts and hoop, I would cause considerable damage to the items on top.
He did not stand. “Good evening, madam. Are you looking for French lessons?” A flicker of amusement crossed his face.
I felt my cheeks flame and shook my head. Before speaking, I retrieved the whiskey decanter from the sideboard and refilled his glass to the top.
He studied the tiny rivulets running down the side of his glass and forming a small puddle on the desk. Pushing with both hands, he leaned back in his chair, quirking one ruddy eyebrow.
“Mrs. Elliott. Are you trying to get me drunk?”
I reached for an empty glass and sloshed whiskey into it. “No. I just don’t like drinking alone.” I took a long swallow, then came up for air, gasping.
He stood and came from around the desk, taking the glass from my hand, his callused fingers touching mine briefly. “Mrs. Elliott, why are you here? You do know I am a married man.”
My face heated again as the whiskey began to work its magic and swim through my head. His face was a mere foot away and I stared into gray-blue eyes, intelligent eyes and not nearly as cold as I would have expected. And that was when I knew. I couldn’t kill him. Nor could I jeopardize the outcome of the war. I was diminished in the grand scheme of things, and my wants and desires were merely grains of sand on the great beach of history—of no more consequence than an ant facing an army of soldiers.
“I need your help, and I’m trying to figure out the best way to ask you so that you’ll believe me.”
He placed the glass on the desk and led me over to the sofa. “Sit,” he commanded, his voice soft but stern. I sat, and he looked me over from head to foot before speaking again. “You will find that the best way to deal with me is to speak plainly. You are an intelligent woman, Mrs. Elliott. Please do not waste my time with social niceties.”
I took another drink from my glass and eyed him levelly. “There is a plot to assassinate you. And I’m supposed to pull the trigger.”
He stood stock-still, his widened eyes the only clue that he had heard what I said. “I see.” He raised his hand to scratch his face, the rasping sound loud in the quiet room. “And can I assume you have changed your mind?”
I stood and faced him. “You don’t think I’m serious. Look.” I leaned
over, jerked my skirts up, and pulled the revolver from the garter at my calf. He didn’t move.
“Do it, Laura. Now.”
I turned to the doorway where Pamela stood, pointing a small silver pistol at me.
Sherman showed no fear as I raised the revolver. I heard a buggy pass by on the wet street outside, voices dying as it drove away. I saw Sarah’s face and Stuart’s, and wondered if I had lost everything again.
Calmly, I pivoted, aiming the gun at her shoulder. Before I squeezed the trigger, I heard another blast and my arm exploded in fire. My arm jerked and my gun went off, the force knocking it out of my hand. I was thrown against the bookcase, toppling several volumes down on me as I slid to the ground.
I clutched at my upper arm in a semilucid state. General Sherman was leaning over me, his voice frantically calling out for help. I turned my head to find Pamela. I had seen her fall, but I needed to be sure she was still alive. I kicked myself along the floor toward the placid figure on the ground, the pistol still clutched in her hand. Blood and thick clots of tissue oozed from a ragged hole in her neck. It dripped onto the powder blue rug, saturating it and giving it an eerie shimmer in the lamplight. I remember thinking absently that it would ruin the Oriental carpet on the floor, and I stretched my hand toward it to stop the flow. Her eyes twitched and I realized she was still alive.
The general raced to the door, flung it open, and again shouted for help. I looked back at Pamela. Her lips moved, as if in slow motion. “Sarah’s dead.” The sound gushed from her mouth, the words bubbling with blood.
The last thing I saw before slipping into unconsciousness were dark, unseeing eyes, as cold as ice and still as death.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Angel of Death has been abroad throughout the land; you may almost hear the beating of his wings.
