by John Jakes
Ashton was clever enough to realize he had introduced an element that had no bearing on what preceded it. Warned, she immediately raised a defense—a brittle smile—and looped her left arm through his while he finished the limp sandwich. She drew him toward a quieter part of the office, where she spoke to him like a pretty, puzzled child.
“You used the word deceit. Is that a reference I should understand?”
“Possibly. It could apply to your associate Mr. Powell, for instance.”
She dropped his arm as if it were spoiled meat. “Cooper told you? I suppose it’s logical that he would, the moralistic prig.”
“This has nothing to do with Cooper. When I mentioned Powell, I wasn’t referring to your little maritime enterprise, but to the group which formerly met at the farm downriver.”
Surprise crumpled her composure for a second, before she masked it. Standing as erect as possible so his height would add to the intimidation, he bore in. “Surely you know the place I mean. Wilton’s Bluff—where the sharpshooting rifles are stored? The .45-caliber Whitworths?”
A laugh of desperation. “Really, Orry, I’ve never heard such raving. What on earth is it all about?”
“It’s about your presence in that gang of conspirators. I went to the farm. I saw James there, and I saw you.”
“Nonsense,” she snarled through her smile, then darted a step beyond him. “There’s Mr. Benjamin arriving.”
Orry turned. The plump, suave little man was already surrounded by admirers. He seemed more interested in greeting Madeline. He strolled straight to her side.
Ashton’s last words had been quite loud. Huntoon noticed, excused himself from the debate, and approached Orry from the left. Ashton spun back to her brother in the aisle, exclaiming, as if she felt obliged to reinforce her denial, “What you’re saying is absurd. Ludicrous.”
“Call it what you want,” he said, shrugging. “I saw and heard enough to learn the purpose of the gatherings. God knows how you got involved in such business”—Huntoon stopped next to him, goggling with shock as the nature of the conversation sank in—“and I realize most of you have covered your tracks. But it’s only temporary. We’ll catch you.”
Orry had underestimated his sister, never expecting a serious counterattack. She smiled charmingly.
“Not if we catch you first, my dear. I’ve been meaning to find an opportune moment to discuss the nigger in your own woodpile. Or is it boudoir?”
Orry’s palm was ice; his face, too. He peered around the vaulted office. The party grew noticeably quieter, some of the guests realizing a quarrel was in progress, although the only person who could hear particulars was Huntoon. He looked as if he might die within the next few seconds.
Ashton tapped Orry’s wrist with her fan. “Let’s bargain, brother dear. You maintain a discreet silence and so will I.”
A blood vessel appeared under the skin of Orry’s temple. “Don’t threaten me, Ashton. I want to know the whereabouts of Lamar Powell.”
Sweet venom: “You can just go to hell.”
Benjamin heard that, Madeline as well. She flashed a surprised, anxious look at her husband. The three women in her conversational circle noticed. Voices began to fade away in mid-sentence. Heads turned.
“Ashton,” Orry warned, his voice raw with anger.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you, dear,” she trilled. “How did you manage to conceal the truth so artfully all this time? You certainly hid it from me, you sly fox. But a certain Captain Bellingham showed me indisputable proof. A portrait, which I believe formerly hung in New Orleans—”
Bellingham? Portrait? The first meant nothing, but the second brought a sudden memory, hard as a blow. Madeline’s father, Fabray, had told her before he died that a painting of her mother existed, though she had never seen it.
Sensing victory in the making, Ashton grew increasingly animated. Rising on tiptoe, she grasped Orry’s forearm and whispered, “You see, I do know all about her. There’s more than a touch of the tar brush on your lovely wife. You were a fool to accuse me.” She dug her nails into his gray sleeve, then let go.
Whirling and raising her skirts, Ashton ran down the aisle to Madeline, Benjamin, and the circle of women, speaking gaily as a belle prattling of a beau, a hairstyle, an aunt’s favorite recipe for conserve:
“Darling, do tell us the truth. When my brother married you, did he know your mother was a New Orleans quadroon?” Benjamin, who had been holding Madeline’s hand in both of his, let go. “Employed in a house of ill repute?”
A woman on Madeline’s right sidled away from her, frowning. A second woman began to scratch a facial mole nervously. Madeline threw Orry another look. Her dark eyes brimmed with tears. He had never seen her lose control that way. He wanted to run to her and, at the same time, murder his sister on the spot.
“Come, sweet,” Ashton persisted. “Confide in us. Wasn’t your mother a nigra prostitute?”
Orry seized Huntoon’s shoulder. “Get her out of here before I do her bodily harm.”
With all the strength of the right arm he had built up to compensate when he lost the left one, he flung Huntoon down the aisle. Huntoon’s spectacles fell off. He nearly stepped on them. Ashton was spitting mad; she had been holding the stage and he had taken it away.
Spectacles replaced but not straight, Huntoon lurched up to her. “We’re leaving.”
“No. I am not ready to—”
“We are leaving. “ His near-scream piled a new shock on all the others. He pushed Ashton. When she complained, he did it again. That told her Huntoon was hysterical, dangerously so. Refusing him, she could lose all she had gained. She gave Orry a swift, cold smile, flung her shoulder forward to release herself from Huntoon’s hand, and walked out.
He hurried after her, frantically rubbing thumbs against the tips of his fingers. “Good evening—excuse us—good evening.” And he was gone down the stairs.
Away toward Petersburg, artillery fire began. The office chandelier swayed. Memminger watched Orry with bleak, speculative eyes while Benjamin, once more suave and smiling, comforted Madeline.
“I have never witnessed such shameful behavior. You have my sympathy. I naturally assume that boorish young woman’s accusation isn’t true—”
Madeline was trembling. Orry strode up the aisle, disgusted by the transformation taking place in Benjamin. The secretary slid from his role of friend to that of government representative by adding two words:
“Is it?”
Orry had never loved or admired his wife more than when she said, “Mr. Secretary, does the law require that I answer your discourteous question?”
“The law? Of course not.” Benjamin’s eyes resembled those of a stalking cat. “And I certainly meant no discourtesy. Still, refusal may be construed by some as an admission—”
The woman with the mole huffed, “I for one would like to hear an answer. It would be disgraceful if a member of our own War Department was married to a colored woman.”
“Damn you and damn your bigotry, too,” Madeline exclaimed. The woman stepped away as if stung. Orry reached his wife, somehow managing to bridle all the chaotic, conflicting emotions—surprise, anxiety, wrath, simple confusion—the past few minutes had generated. Quiet and strong, he touched her.
“This way, darling. It’s time we went home, too.” Gently, he slipped his arm around her. He could tell she was about to collapse.
Somehow they got past the frowsy wives in last year’s gowns, the overdressed clerks, Memminger, the assistant comptroller slack-jawed at the punch bowl. A hot, grit-laden wind blew through Capitol Square, whirling paper and other debris. The dust was so thick, the edges of buildings blurred.
“How did she find out?”
“God knows. She said something about a Captain Bellingham. I’ve never heard of him. The rank could mean army, navy, or it could be self-bestowed. I’ll start a search of the records, though they’ve gotten so jumbled we don’t know the names of half of those curr
ently in the services. But you can be sure I’ll try. I’d like to find the bastard.”
“I didn’t have to answer the secretary. He had no right to ask!”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Will it hurt your position in the department?”
“Of course not,” he lied.
“Was it the same as an admission when I refused to answer?”
When he remained silent, she seized him and shook him, her hairpins unfastening, her dark locks streaming and tossing as she cried into the wind, “Was it, Orry? The truth. The truth!”
The wind howled in the silence.
“Yes. I’m afraid it was.”
107
THOUGH HER MONEY WAS running out, Virgilia asked for one of the better rooms at Willard’s. “We do have less expensive ones,” the reception clerk said. “With smaller beds.”
“No, thank you. I require a large bed.”
To conserve her cash, she avoided the dining room that night. Hunger and nerves made it hard for her to fall asleep, but eventually she did. Next morning she ate no breakfast. About ten, she set out along the wrong side of the avenue, weaving through a throng of Negroes, peddlers, clerks, and the wounded soldiers who were a permanent part of the Washington scenery. Ahead, she observed that the scaffolding had finally been removed from the Capitol dome. The statue of Armed Freedom crowning the dome gleamed in the June sunshine.
The morning was warm, her clothing too heavy. She was awash with perspiration by the time she climbed all the steps, entered the Capitol, and slipped into the House gallery. After some searching, she located Sam Stout at his desk on the floor, lanky legs stretched out while he sorted documents.
Would he come, she wondered as she slipped out again. If he didn’t, she was lost.
She left the sealed envelope at his office. On the face, she had inscribed his name and the words Confidential/To Be Opened Only by Addressee. Nervous, she strolled on the shabby mall for half an hour. Wandering cows chewed what little grass grew there; pigs rooted in the many mudholes. Finally she returned to Willard’s and threw herself on the bed, flinging a forearm over her eyes. But she couldn’t doze, couldn’t even relax.
At noon she bought two day-old rolls from a street vendor. One served as her midday meal in her room. At three, she undressed and bathed. After drying off, she chose a dark skirt and snug linen blouse with puffed sleeves, buttons down the front, and a stylish tie she could fasten in a bow. She fussed with her hair for three-quarters of an hour, then ate the second roll.
Last night she had bought a Star, which she now tried to read. She had trouble concentrating. The official front-page War Department dispatch, dealing with Petersburg and signed by Stanton, might have been printed in Chinese. She was repeatedly distracted by visions of the vindictive Mrs. Neal whispering to government officials.
Sounds in the next room drew her attention: a creaking bed, a woman’s strident cry, repeated rhythmically. Virgilia’s room seemed hot as a furnace. She dabbed her lip with a handkerchief, which she had tucked into the cuff of her blouse. The cuff was damp.
She picked a roll crumb off the bedspread, pulled and patted until it was perfectly smooth. She paced to the window to look at the wagon and horse traffic on the avenue but never saw it.
In the note, she had asked him to come at seven. At half past nine she was seated by a small table near the gas mantle, slowly rubbing her forehead with her left hand. Despair had eaten away her hope and her energy. She had been an idiot to suppose that—
“What?” she said, her head jerking up. Her heart started racing. She rose, hastily pushed her wrinkled blouse into her waistband, tightening the linen over her breast. She ran to the door, patting her hair.
“Yes?”
“Hurry and let me in. I don’t want to be seen.”
Weakened by the sound of the rich, deep voice, she fumbled with the door. She finally got it open.
He hadn’t changed. His brows were still black hooks on his white face. His wavy hair, dressed carefully with fragrant oil, glistened as he made that unnecessary stooping movement that always accompanied his passage through a doorway; he liked to emphasize his height.
“I do apologize for my tardiness,” he said as she closed the door.
“Please don’t, Samuel. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.” She could barely keep from touching him.
His gaze lifted from her blouse to her face. “I wanted to see you again. And your note said it was an emergency.”
“You didn’t show that to—?”
“I read the envelope. No one saw it but me.”
He sat down, crossing his thin legs. He smiled at her. She had forgotten how crooked his teeth were. Yet she found him beautiful. Power was never homely.
“I’m late because committee work is so heavy these days. But let me hear about this emergency. Is it something that happened at Aquia Creek?”
“Falmouth. I—” She took a breath; the linen stretched even tighter. He played with the fob of his pocket watch. “There’s no way to tell you but straightforwardly. I’ve left the service. At the field hospital at Falmouth, they brought in a young Confederate officer, badly wounded.” She plunged. “I let him die. Deliberately.”
He drew out his watch. Opened and glanced at it. Shut it with a snap. Pocketed it again. Even when it was out of sight, she heard, or thought she heard, the maddening tock-tock of the movement; that and nothing else. The silence grew unendurable.
“I thought I was doing a good service! He’d only have gone back to kill more of our boys—” She faltered.
“Are you waiting for me to condemn you?” He shook his head. “I commend you, Virgilia. You did the right thing.”
She broke then, rushed forward and dropped on her knees beside his chair. “But they’re going to punish me.” Unconsciously fondling his leg, she poured out the story of Mrs. Neal and her threats. He listened so placidly she was terrified. He wasn’t interested.
Just the opposite was true. “Is that all you’re worried about, some damned Copperhead widow? There’ll be no investigation started by anyone like that. I’ll speak to a couple of people I know.” His hand crept into her hair. “Put the whole matter out of your mind.”
“Oh, Sam, thank you.” She rested her cheek on his thigh. “I’d be so grateful if you could prevent trouble.” Despite that moment of fright, the scene was playing out exactly as she had hoped. She had felt sad planning it, because circumstances forced her to accept less than what she wanted. But perhaps she could one day turn the compromise to greater advantage.
He cupped her chin and raised it, teasing with his smile but not his eyes. “I’m happy to help, Virgilia. But in politics, as I’m sure you know, the rule is quid pro quo. I’m still a family man. Much as I personally might like to alter that, it’s impossible if I’m to stay in Congress. I want to stay—I plan to be Speaker of the House before I quit. So if you want my assistance, it must be on my terms, not yours.”
What she had once hoped to bargain with, she was now trapped into surrendering. Well, why not? She was confident Sam Stout would rise and wield power and help trample out the weaknesses of Lincoln and his kind. Having part of such a man, like having half of the proverbial loaf, was better than having nothing.
He patted her hand. “Well? What’s your answer?”
“It’s yes, my darling,” she said, rising and reaching to loosen the tie of her blouse.
108
THE DAY AFTER STANLEY’S philandering was discovered, he wrote a letter to Jeannie Canary saying that urgent business called him out of town. He enclosed a one-hundred-dollar bank draft to soften her grief and fled to Newport.
To his amazement, Isabel showed hardly any surprise when he alighted from an island hackney at the door of Fairlawn. She asked how he managed to get away. He said he had trumped up a story about one of the twins being injured. It might come true; out on the lawn they were attempting to brain each other with horseshoes. How he despised those obnoxious
boys.
During the night, he wakened grumpily to see Isabel passing the open door of his bedroom on the way to hers. “Was that someone at the downstairs door?”
“Yes. They mistook this house for another.” Her voice had a peculiar, strained quality. The lamp chimney rattled in her hand as she said good night and disappeared.
Early next morning, before breakfast, she handed him his coat. “Please take a walk with me on the beach, Stanley.” Though the request was phrased politely, her tone left him no option. Soon they were alone on the seashore. The air was cool, the water calm, the tide running out. A few spotted sandpipers pecked about, hunting tidbits. Sunlight turned the Atlantic into a carpet of silver beads.
Isabel spoke suddenly and with unexpected ferocity. “I would like to discuss your new friend.”
A witless smile. “Which friend?”
She bared her teeth. “Your doxy. The performer at the Varieties. The person who came to the house last night had the correct address.” She pulled a crumpled flimsy from a pocket of her skirt. “And this telegraph message.”
So quickly? “My God, who—who informed—?”
“It isn’t important. I’ve known about the woman for weeks, and I’ll give you no explanations there, either. I understand she’s hardly talented enough to be called an actress, though I suppose she has other, less public, talents.” Except for the moment when she brandished the flimsy, Isabel maintained perfect control, which somehow made her assault all the more threatening.
Stanley bit his knuckle and wandered in an agitated circle, like one of the shore birds. “Isabel, if you know, others must. How many?” She didn’t answer. “I’m ruined.”
“Nonsense. As usual, you misunderstand the way the world operates. You’re dithering over nothing. No one cares if you philander, provided you’re discreet and sufficiently well off.” She took several steps away from him while, with vacant eyes, he watched the wind ripple sand ribbons along the beach. “It doesn’t matter to others, and it doesn’t matter to me. You know I loathe that part of marriage anyway. Now I want you to pay particular attention to what I’m going to say next. Stanley?”
