by Karen White
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 doubt 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.
—JOHN BRIGHT
I awoke in shadows, the forms of people around me dark ink stains against the pale wall. I groaned and tried to sit up, only to be held down by strong arms and the flaming pain in my arm. I thought of Sarah and of Pamela’s last words to me and I stopped struggling.
“Mrs. Elliott?”
I opened my eyes wider in an attempt to focus on the features looming over me. I recognized Captain Audenreid’s face as he leaned closer. “The doctor has given you a bit of morphine, so your head will be rather unclear, I am afraid.” A soft pillow cushioned my head, and I realized I was back in my bedroom.
Hands gripped my shoulder, and white bandages were being wrapped around my upper arm. A soft shawl that smelled gently of lavender was placed over me. Pain snaked its way back into current memory and I winced.
“You have been shot,” he said matter-of-factly.
I grimaced. “Yeah. I know.” My lips felt like paper, cracked and stale.
“But you are a very lucky young lady. There are no bone fragments to worry about. The wound has been cleaned thoroughly and I expect it to heal without incident. I have found a local physician to continue with your care.” He went to the door and whispered something to someone on the other side.
“Why isn’t an army surgeon taking care of me? I would think they would have more experience with bullet wounds.” I shifted, trying to ease the pain.
He paused by the side of the bed. “Mrs. Elliott, General Sherman has ordered all troops to move from Chattanooga tomorrow morning. He has been very strict with his orders—we have been stripped to our barest essentials, and no extraneous persons will be allowed. You will stay here and be under the care of a very good doctor.”
I dug my heels into the mattress, forcing myself to sit up against the headboard, heedless of the pain that radiated through my body. “I can’t stay here. I need to go home.”
The word “home” came easily to my lips, softening the ragged edges of my memories. Stuart would be there to comfort me, to help me. “I have to get back to Roswell. I need to find my daughter.” I refused to believe what Pamela said was true. I grabbed at the captain’s arm. “Please. I can’t stay here.”
A shadow emerged from the back of the room and William came to stand next to the captain. “As your closest male relation, Laura, I cannot allow it.”
“I want to speak to General Sherman.” I kicked the bedclothes off, then slid from the bed, the wall of pain pressing on my senses and making me light-headed. I hastily pulled the shawl over my nightgown, then stumbled for the door, but was restrained by a light hand on my uninjured arm.
“Mrs. Elliott. Wait. If you want to speak to the general, I will arrange it for you.” Captain Audenreid gave a stern look to my brother-in-law, who stood silent, his lips pursed. “But may I suggest changing your clothes first? I will send my wife in to help you.”
My legs gave out and I eagerly sought the floor, my bottom landing firmly on the rug. I held up my hand. “I’m all right—just a little light-headed.” I brought my knees up and rested my forehead on them. My voice sounded muffled but I couldn’t seem to raise my head to speak. “But I’m afraid that your wife might just finish the job Pamela started.”
I heard a smile in his voice. “No, you are wrong. We all know what you did. We are very much in awe of your bravery and are indebted to you for saving the general’s life.”
I put my head back between my knees as the room began to swim before my eyes. “But at what cost?” I whispered. I squeezed my eyes shut to keep the room steady. I wouldn’t allow myself to think about it.
Captain Audenreid and William helped me back to the bed and then the captain excused himself to get his wife.
I lay back on the pillow, exhausted from the physical exertion, and closed my eyes. I felt a tentative touch on my cheek. I lay still, not yet having the energy to open my eyes. The touch grew stronger as the unseen hand stroked my jaw. My eyes flew open. William’s face leered into mine, a mere few inches between us.
“You are an exciting woman, Laura. My brother is a fool to let you go so far from home.”
I moved my head back as far as it would go, recoiling from his touch.
His hand fell to my neck, and my body went rigid. “Stuart never did know how to control a woman. You need somebody stronger, Laura. Somebody who knows how to handle a woman.”
“I am your brother’s wife,” I said, trying to move away from his touch.
He leaned his face closer to mine, his blue eyes sparkling with malice. “Come away with me, Laura. We will go west—together. Build a new life away from this war. Let me show you the difference between a real man and a boy.” Light, feathery strokes caressed my collarbone. I cringed back into my pillow.
He continued, his voice low and teasing. “Besides, Laura, I doubt you will be welcome back at Phoenix Hall once Julia discovers what you did to Pamela. I do not think you have much of a choice.”
With my last effort, I gathered saliva onto m
y tongue and spat in his face.
He wiped his jaw with the sleeve of his coat as the door opened and Mary Audenreid entered, a steaming pitcher of water in her hand. William straightened and excused himself without a backward glance.
Mary Audenreid stood in front of the closed door, her eyes focused on the steam rising from the pitcher. “Mrs. Elliott. It would appear that I owe you an apology. I was hoping that even if we could not be friends, perhaps we could be civil to each other.”
I nodded. “If you help make me presentable enough to meet with General Sherman, I will make you my best friend.”
She gave me a hesitant smile and began pouring the water into the washbasin.
She helped me wash and then rigged a dress to fit over my bandages. My head still didn’t feel steady, and we needed her husband to help me down the stairs for my meeting with General Sherman. I froze at the threshold of the library, remembering what had transpired in there.
“It is all right, Mrs. Elliott. There’s nothing in there to disturb you.” Captain Audenreid gave me a gentle push on my back.
I was relieved to see the carpet had been removed, as had every trace of Pamela. I shuddered involuntarily as I moved to stand before the general’s desk.
He stood and regarded me with strong eyes, the ever-present cigar smoking in an ashtray on the desk. “Mrs. Elliott. It is good to see you on the road to recovery from your ordeal.” He indicated the chair behind me and I gratefully collapsed into it. “Tell me what I can do for you.”
I leaned my elbow on his desk for support. “I need to get home to Roswell, Georgia. I can’t do it on my own, especially since I know I would have to cross lines of battle. I would like your permission to travel with your troops.”
He stared at me as if I hadn’t spoken, then picked up his cigar and began pacing the room. “Mrs. Elliott, I am not sure you understand what you are asking. My troops will be traveling fast and light. We will be engaged in battle—a dangerous situation for anybody, even bystanders. I will have more than one hundred thousand men on this campaign—no women. Not even laundresses. I cannot think of a single reason why I should permit an injured woman to join us.”
