Constance couldn’t breathe, and her whole world seemed to darken and close in. What were the chances? Dear God, what were the chances?
“Miss Lemagne, what are you doing here?” said Mr. Quinn as he came to stand next to the wagon.
She couldn’t speak; had no idea what to say.
“Lemagne? She said her name was Wisteria Jones,” said the soldier. All at once his rifle was pointing at her. “What’s your name, ma’am?”
Her mouth was dry and her heart was pounding. What am I going to do?
Next to her, Buck was tense and had even stopped chewing on his tobacco. At least he had the sense not to say anything.
“Miss Lemagne, why don’t you let me help you down from there,” said Mr. Quinn.
It was not a request.
She had no choice.
She offered him her hand, relieved that it was gloved so he wouldn’t feel how icy it was, and was shortly on the ground. Her knees were weak and trembly and it was all she could do to keep them from buckling.
Why had she given the wrong name? If she’d only given her real name, she could easily have made up an innocent excuse for crossing the bridge. But to give a false name in the presence of someone who knew better was a very big mistake—an indicator of something to hide.
Oh God, she was going to vomit. Right here.
“I need to be getting on now,” said Buck, picking up his reins.
“I don’t think so, mister,” said one of the soldiers. “We’re going to need to search your cart. Step down and step away.”
Constance didn’t look at her driver, nor could she bring herself to look at Mr. Quinn, who’d taken her arm and was firmly escorting her off the bridge. She wasn’t fearful for the tanner, for he was truly who he said he was and while she’d been with General Bonham, he’d loaded up his wagon with supplies, just as he’d said. There was nothing suspicious about him.
Unless they forced him to tell the truth about her.
A hot wave of nausea rushed over her, and she stumbled. Mr. Quinn’s strong arm was the only thing that kept her from spilling to the ground. Buck Riffler knew exactly who she was and what she’d done. Dear God, I’m a spy.
“Miss Lemagne, what were you doing crossing the river?” Mr. Quinn had taken her off to the side and now he loomed over her, hat in hand. It was a testament to his standing and trustworthiness with the soldiers that he’d been left to deal with her privately—whatever that “dealing” might end up being.
“I . . .” Her mouth was so dry she could hardly form words. “I was just visiting a—a friend. On Pimmit Road.”
He looked down at her, and for the first time, she was afraid of Adam Quinn.
Not because she felt violence or even anger emanating from him, but because she knew he had power and influence, and that he was filled with integrity and an unwavering black and white honesty. And that, above all, he was loyal to Mr. Lincoln and to the Union.
“Why did you give a false name?”
The question hung between them for a moment. Constance battled with herself—she must not appear guilty or nervous, even though she was. Oh God, she was.
She thought quickly, so quickly. And at last the words fell from her tongue. “I was visiting . . . someone . . . and I didn’t want anyone to know, Mr. Quinn.” Though splitting hairs, it was actually the truth.
“And the man you’re with?” The raw suspicion made his voice sound cold.
“Just—just a ride across the river. I couldn’t ask anyone I knew to take me,” she added quickly. Again, truth. “I was . . . Mr. Quinn, you must understand how shameful it is to be—that is, that you . . . know,” she swallowed hard, trying to make herself sound frightened and mortified—which wasn’t the least bit difficult. Better to ruin her reputation than to be arrested for spying. “Or might guess. I was meeting someone,” she said again, hoping he’d get the wrong idea—in fact, the very idea that she wanted him to get. “In secret. Please. I wanted to keep my reputation . . . intact.” She looked up at him with eyes as guileless and pleading as possible.
Mr. Quinn looked down at her for a long moment, and it was all Constance could do to try and appear innocent and yet guilty at the same time.
“I’ll escort you back” was all he said, and that left her with an ugly pit of uncertainty in her stomach.
He didn’t say “home”; he said “back.” Did he mean to take her to jail? To wherever they took spies? Where did they take spies?
Constance’s stomach hurt so badly she could hardly move as he spoke to the other soldiers while he kept a firm grip on her arm.
A short time later, she was back in Buck Riffler’s cart, and Mr. Quinn was riding along with them, across the Chain Bridge and into Washington City.
What would happen once they got to the Avenue, she didn’t know.
CHAPTER 13
Adam might have believed Constance Lemagne’s story if Sophie hadn’t put the idea of Rose Greenhow being a spy into his head.
But he couldn’t dismiss the things Sophie had told him about Mrs. Greenhow’s comments in the Senate Gallery, and the fact that it was common knowledge the elegant widow entertained both Unionists and Southern sympathizers. He also remembered the last time he and Sophie had talked about the Union forces in Miss Lemagne’s presence—back in April, when they were expecting an invasion at any day—and how there’d been that glint of interest in the southern belle’s eyes.
Fortunately, Sophie had pretended to give out confidential information, inflating the number of troops purposely. He didn’t know whether that information had ever gotten to the Confederates or whether it had been believed, but now he was even more suspicious that it had since they’d never invaded.
But would Constance Lemagne actually risk her pretty head to deliver military secrets across the river and into Virginia? Was she really that devoted to the cause? Someone like Sophie Gates, who’d been dressed as a man the first time he met her, and who’d infiltrated an all-men’s club meeting, would certainly do such a thing if she believed in something strongly enough.
But Constance Lemagne, with all of her lace and flounces and yards and yards of skirts? He just didn’t know.
Thus he struggled with his conscience as he rode alongside the tanner’s cart, wondering how to proceed when they arrived at Miss Lemagne’s house.
It was only dumb luck that he’d been there on the Chain Bridge tonight anyway. There’d been ongoing problems with rifles for the troops being stolen from certain regiments—or possibly even being sold by some of the enlisted men—and then either resold to civilians or, worse, shipped down to the Confederates. Mr. Lincoln had asked him to investigate, and he’d been talking to the guards at the bridge when he saw Miss Lemagne.
He hadn’t decided what to do by the time they reached the Billings house on G Street. There was only a small, low light shining in the front window, which Adam found mildly surprising, as it was after nine o’clock. Had no one realized the young woman was gone?
He dismounted and tied up his horse, then helped her from the cart. Then he walked to the other side and, taking the bridle of one of the mules, gave Buck Riffler, the tanner—who’d proven to be a real tanner, with a solid business in the city—a measured look. “I don’t think you’ll be needing to drive Miss Lemagne to visit her friend again.”
The tanner didn’t say a word, but as soon as Adam released the bridle, he whipped his mules up as fast as they would go—which was to say, not very fast at all—and his cart rattled off.
Miss Lemagne was just as silent until they reached the door. “I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Quinn, for seeing me home,” she said, not sounding obliged at all.
She reached for the handle and he put out a hand to stop her—one of the very few times he’d ever acted so discourteously to a woman. He thought his mama would understand in this case, yet nonetheless, he felt a trifle guilty. But not so much that he removed his hand.
“Miss Lemagne, I’d like to remind you that we are a c
ountry at war. It’s your right to have sympathies that lie with your seceded statesmen, and even to help with any of the wounded who are here in the city. But if your actions include the sharing of confidential information with the Confederates, you can and will be arrested as a spy.”
She pressed a hand to her throat and gave him a wide-eyed guileless look from beneath her bonnet. “I’m certain you don’t need to tell me that, Mr. Quinn. And I don’t know why you even should think to do so.” Her southern accent had become more pronounced, and that told him he’d upset her.
Good.
The last thing Adam reckoned he ever wanted to do was arrest a woman—especially Constance Lemagne—as a spy.
But he wouldn’t hesitate to do so if necessary.
He’d made certain she understood.
* * *
Constance darted into the house and locked the door behind her, panting with relief. She listened to make sure Mr. Quinn actually left, and then once he was gone, called for Jelly.
She needed her motherly Jelly. She needed someone who loved her, who would understand how frightened she’d been, who’d hold her and stroke her. She was safe, she was home, but her knees felt like custard: wobbly, weak, and a little wet.
“Jelly!” she called again, then went in to see her daddy. If only she could tell him what she’d done today—but he was so besotted with Mrs. Billings that even he might not understand.
She was relieved to find that Daddy was sleeping peacefully, but with the lantern still turned up. The tray with the remains of his dinner on it was on the table next to the bed. That was strange. Why hadn’t Jelly taken care of it? James and Louisa would have gone home for the night some time ago, but Jelly was still here, of course.
Alarmed now, she hurried up the stairs and swished past Mrs. Billings’s room where a low lamp burned and there was nothing to see but the lump of the woman sleeping in her bed.
“Jelly!” she called, bursting into the bedchamber that had been given to her—of course much smaller than the one she was used to down in Mobile, but certainly larger and more comfortable than at the St. Charles. “Where have you be—”
The room was empty. A lamp was on next to the bed, but her night rail wasn’t even laid out. And the shawl she’d discarded before leaving for Rose’s was still in a puddle on the chair.
Now she was frightened, and worried. What had happened to Jelly? Where was she?
She went to her maid’s pallet on the floor in the corner of the room—there were no servants’ quarters in this house—and flipped through the bedding there.
Jelly’s things were gone.
She was gone.
Constance sank onto her own bed, numb with shock.
Jelly had run away.
Wednesday, July 10
Sophie had intended to visit Constance and Mr. Lemagne before now, but time had simply gotten away from her. Not only had she wanted to find out how the injured man was recovering, but she also wanted to try and find out more about Rose Greenhow—and hopefully get invited by Constance to one of her salons. Sophie hadn’t been able to forget that snide, knowing smile Rose Greenhow had given that morning in the Senate Chamber.
Since Sophie felt so badly that it was nearly a week since Mr. Lemagne’s accident, she came laden with gifts for the household: a chicken pot pie she’d made with the help of her aunt, a knitted lap blanket she’d worked on over the winter and meant to send to her father but decided to bring to Mr. Lemagne instead (not being an invalid, her father had no real need for a lap blanket), a container of strawberries from the market, and a tiny box containing two chocolates for Constance.
Because she’d waited for the pie to come out of the oven and cool enough to pack into a flat-bottomed wicker basket, Sophie wasn’t on her way from the Centre Market until after three o’clock. That was just as well, for afternoon was a much more appropriate time for social calls than the morning.
Since she’d moved from New York to Washington and left high society behind her, Sophie had come to love the mornings. When she’d been engaged to Peter and interacting with the crème de la crème of the city, the mornings were for sleeping in after very long, late nights at balls, dinner parties, the theater, or other engagements. She’d seen more sunrises since moving to Washington six months ago than she’d ever seen in her life.
Because of her burdens, Sophie rode on the omnibus as far as she could to the Billings house. She generally preferred not to sit in the very crowded, unpleasantly close and aromatic bus—especially since it didn’t run on any time schedule to speak of—but today she managed to squeeze into a seat on the edge of a row. The basket rode on her lap, the tantalizing scent of the pot pie helping to mask the malodorous smells on the vehicle.
It was with relief that she climbed down several blocks later and walked the rest of the way to Constance’s house. She was surprised and pleased to see that Felicity Monroe’s carriage was parked out front of the house as well, and hoped that she’d have the opportunity to speak with her privately about the case before they parted ways.
James, the butler and manservant of the household, greeted Sophie at the door and brought her in to the parlor where Constance and Felicity were having tea.
“Sophie, how nice to see you,” said Constance, rising to greet her.
“I wanted to stop by and see how your father was doing,” Sophie said, setting down her basket as she moved to embrace the other woman. “I should have come before now, and I apologize for not calling sooner. Hello, Felicity. What a lovely frock you’re wearing! Pink looks wonderful on you.” She hugged both of them, then took a seat on the divan next to Felicity. “How is your daddy doing, Constance?”
As soon as she got a good look at her friend, Sophie realized something was wrong. She hoped Mr. Lemagne hadn’t taken a turn for the worse.
“Daddy’s doing much better, Sophie, thank you. He should be able to walk in another week or two. That Dr. Hilton was able to put his leg back in place. In fact, he was only just here an hour ago, checking up on him.”
Constance’s response was perfectly polite and correct, but there was something about her that was different. She seemed . . . hard. Brittle, even. There was an underlying sharpness to her, something very at odds with the normal personality of the gracious and sweet southern belle. It was as if something bad had happened, and the other woman was trying to hide it. Nevertheless, it showed in the tension at the corners of her mouth and a hard glint in her eyes.
Sophie wondered what was wrong, but she wasn’t certain whether to ask. After all, she and Constance weren’t terribly intimate friends.
Fortunately, Felicity spoke up, “Poor Constance has had another problem to deal with today. I’m so glad I was able to help, but it’ll take some time for things to settle back into place.”
Sophie, who’d been pouring herself a cup of coffee, raised her eyebrows in question at both ladies.
“My maid, Jelly, has run off,” said Constance, fury underlying her words. “That ungrateful, conniving, lazy darky has run away!”
Sophie was shocked at the venom in her friend’s voice. For once in her life, she didn’t know what to say, and focused on adding lumps of sugar to her coffee. “That must have been quite a shock to you,” she said after a moment.
“It’s been quite a shock,” Felicity said soothingly. “However, I was able to help Constance get a new maid right away. She’s in the kitchen right now with Louisa,” she added. “She’ll be out in a few moments. So far, she seems to be settling in quite well.”
“Felicity has been wonderful,” Constance said. Her voice was still hard, but not nearly as venomous as before. “I’ve never had to get a maid before—Jelly has been taking care of me since I was a baby. And after my mother died . . .” Her voice shook a little, and this time Sophie recognized hurt and betrayal instead of anger. Constance picked up her coffee and brought it quickly to her mouth as if to hide the fact that she was nearly in tears.
Felicity seemed to realize t
hat their friend needed a moment to collect herself. “I knew what it was like to lose a nanny I’d had from childhood, and so when I heard about Jelly, I had a brilliant idea. Mr. Townsend”—she blushed, of course—“had a housemaid that was going to be my ladies’ maid when we got married. To replace my Dodie, who . . . passed away back in May.” Her voice trembled a little, but she pressed on. “But he’s not been very happy with her lately—she’s been moping around because her brother died in an accident a while back. Mr. Townsend was going to sell her and let me find my own maid after we got married—I’ve been sharing with my mama since Dodie passed on, which has been quite a trial, as you can imagine—and when I heard about Constance needing a new maid, why I thought Brilla would be just perfect for her. Getting her away from the house where her brother died might help her get over the mopes, and she could start immediately for Constance.” Felicity gave her a quiet smile.
Sophie, who’d only ever had her mother and their housekeeper to help with her hair and dress—even when Peter was courting her, and they went to very elite parties and other fancy engagements—and who’d certainly never had servants that were bought or sold could hardly relate to this speech. Nonetheless, she merely nodded, and picked up a cookie to shove in her mouth before she said something regrettable—which was something she often did.
Which was how she’d ensured she’d never marry Peter Schuyler, and never need a ladies’ maid herself.
“She’s quite timid,” Constance said, in that same brittle tone. “But she’ll do for now, I suppose.”
Sophie supposed she could understand the hurt—and perhaps even a sense of betrayal—Constance was feeling, over losing the woman who’d been like a mother to her. But . . . the fact that Jelly had run away spoke volumes about her perspective.
“Oh goodness, I almost forgot,” Sophie said, rising to retrieve her basket. “I brought some things for you.”
Murder at the Capitol Page 24
