Annabelle relaxed. He only sought to protect her. “Oh, not to worry. Father himself already approved him.” When confusion lined Uncle’s features, she added, “Mr. Matthew Daniels. The youngest of the Daniels brothers.”
Recognition did not lighten his features. “We shall see.” Then, as though the matter were settled, he smiled at her again. “Now, then. Come along, my dear. I want to take you for supper.”
Casting one longing glance at Peggy and the baby, but knowing she could not refuse him, Annabelle rose and inclined her head. “Certainly, Uncle. I shall be pleased to have your company.”
Satisfied with her response, he offered his arm. As he led her out into the hall, Annabelle prayed that all would be made right. An idea struck her. “Mr. Daniels is staying here as well. Perhaps we should fetch him so that the two of you might become acquainted?”
Uncle Michael took so long in answering that Annabelle feared he did not hear her. Finally he patted her hand. “Of course, my dear. The sooner I see what this man is about, the better.”
Annabelle led Uncle to Matthew’s room and tapped on the door, but no one answered. She lifted her shoulders. “I suppose he has gone out.”
“Then we shall go on without him,” Uncle announced, sounding oddly pleased.
Annabelle drew her lip between her teeth. Where could Matthew have gone?
Matthew rubbed the glass between his hands, the damp condensation blending with his clammy palms. The visions were getting worse. No sooner had George stepped out than a shadow had darted just outside his vision. He’d spun around, but no one had been in the room. He knew, because he had nearly torn it to shreds with his searching. His hands had started trembling, so he’d come downstairs for something the ease his nerves.
One glass had done nothing more than warm his belly. Glass two, and he still saw shadows slinking just outside of his vision, disappearing every time he turned to look. This third glass, sparkling with amber liquid, had to be his ticket to relief. Throwing it back, he downed the entire thing in one gulp. The scotch burned its way down his throat and seared into his belly.
There. Now he could return to his room and get some rest. He rose from his seat and swayed. Surprised, he gripped the back of the chair. Before the war, a few glasses would not have affected him so.
Straightening himself, he carefully strode toward the hotel lobby, and then froze when he saw Annabelle. His beautiful Annabelle—on the arm of another man! She laughed, placing her hand on the stranger’s arm and looking up at him with sparkling eyes. Fury swirled in Matthew’s veins and he pushed forward like a lion that had spotted a rival entering his pride.
One chair fell over as he shoved past it, toppling to the ground with a thud that drew the attention of the patrons in the restaurant. Annabelle’s eyes turned to him, surprise blooming on her face.
How could she betray him so? Was this the reason she had begged off his company tonight? So that she might entertain another man? The scoundrel looked down at Annabelle with confusion, then narrowed his eyes at Matthew. Blood pounded in Matthew’s ears, drowning out the other sounds around him.
He reached the man, who audaciously still clutched to Annabelle’s arm, and grabbed onto his black cravat. The man’s eyes widened, and then his gaze darted to Annabelle. So, not only a lecherous fool after another’s intended, but a coward who looked to a woman to save him as well! Matthew put his face only inches from the scoundrel’s. “What do you think you are doing?”
“Matthew!” Annabelle shrieked, clawing at his arm. “Unhand him!”
He glanced at her, her defense of the rogue searing him with equal parts pain and fury. The muscles in his jaw tightened and he squeezed the man’s neck tighter. “Are you aware, sir, that this lady is already spoken for?”
Understanding dawned in the man’s eyes, followed by disgust. “Unhand me, you drunk fool.”
Matthew’s fist clenched at his side, and he prepared to knock the smug look off this charmer’s face. Annabelle desperately clawed at his arm, her words finally breaking through the pounding in his skull and exploding in his brain.
“Stop! This is my uncle! My Uncle Michael!”
Matthew dropped his fist, but still held tight to the man as he stared at Annabelle, her words slowing taking hold.
She blinked at him rapidly, her feathery lashes batting like a butterfly in a windstorm. “What is the matter with you, Matthew?”
The man, her uncle, shoved away from Matthew’s grasp. “He’s drunk, that’s what. You can smell it from here.” He tugged on his jacket, looking at Matthew with a haughty smirk. “I guess now we know where he ran off to.”
Annabelle’s delicate brows dropped, pulling his heart down with them. Fool! How could he have so quickly assumed her a scandalous woman? He reached for her, but she stepped back out of his grasp. Pain swirled in her winter eyes, but she castigated him with pithy words nonetheless. “Perhaps you should return to your room. We can discuss this on the morrow.”
Shame washed over him in a fiery wave. Swallowing his pride, he stuck out a hand to her uncle. “My deepest apologies, Mr. Ross.”
The man eyed his hand and sniffed, looking away. Matthew clenched his jaw, his clipped words having to fight their way through his teeth. “Good evening, then.”
He glanced at Annabelle again, but she only shook her head, ashamed of him. Feeling the stares of everyone he’d startled from their meals, Matthew stalked out of the room and back to the private prison of the shadows that haunted him.
“To prevent accidental discovery, I will disguise myself by dying my hair and staining my skin. I must remain here for a time, and when opportunity offers, sail for Europe.”
John Surratt
Conspirator’s trial
Washington
May 12, 1865
Annabelle watched Matthew from the corner of her eye. He seemed as uneasy as the other people crammed into the room, with shifting feet and darting eyes. The moderate temperature seemed to do little for the nervous energy of those brought before the military commission. Several ladies fanned themselves while men tugged on collars and cravats.
Matthew’s gaze swung across the space between them and landed on Annabelle. Her heart constricted.
Whatever tomorrow brings….
His words echoed in her head yet again, pounding in rhythm with her aching heart. Had he truly meant them? She twirled the ring on her finger and pushed the thought aside. She tried to pour love into her gaze and shroud any doubts, but Matthew’s eyes swam only with remorse and shame, just as they had every time she’d gazed upon them in the last week.
She offered him a gentle smile, but he only hunched his broad shoulders and averted his gaze. He’d left a scrawled note under her door the morning after the incident with her uncle that begged her forgiveness, but she’d not had a chance to discuss it with him. Since then, he’d been busy with the trial and Union company he’d been assisting, though she couldn’t be sure if it was because they needed him or he simply wanted to avoid her. The thought made her stomach churn.
She snapped open her lace fan and stirred a breeze around her face, but it did little to cool the heat radiating up her neck and into her cheeks. Oh, she wished Peggy were here. Or Grandmother, at least. The strict rules of the court had not allowed for anyone to enter who was not directly involved in the case against the accused. Providing witnesses with comforting support apparently had not been considered adequate reason to attend. She stifled a sigh.
Mumbling drew her attention off of Matthew’s profile and to the door, where two guards ushered in Mrs. Surratt, David Herold, George Azerodt, Lewis Payne, Michael O’Laughlin, Edward Spangler, Samuel Arnold, and Samuel Mudd. Suspiciously absent was David O’Malley, whom Annabelle could not believe had not been captured. Booth himself…well, Annabelle couldn’t be sure the man hadn’t been murdered. Rumors swirled about what had happened that day, but she’d gleaned little. Yet knowing how fervently the Unionists wanted revenge…
Ann
abelle bit her lip and turned the thought aside.
A line of Union officers entered after the accused and took its place at the head of the room, each man in a decorated uniform that designated him as an officer of significant rank. Annabelle closed her fan and placed it in her lap, the somber atmosphere making her fear too much movement might cause any one of those officer’s stony eyes to land on her.
A tall man with a groomed beard stepped forward. “By order of the President of the United Sates, we hereby convene on the day of our Lord May 12, 1865, to continue in the presentation of testimony of the accused implicated in the murder of the late President Abraham Lincoln, and the attempted assassination of the Honorable William H. Seward, Secretary of State, and in an alleged conspiracy to assassinate other officers of the federal government at Washington City, and their aiders and abettors.”
Annabelle swallowed the lump gathering in her throat. Her eyes sought out the detective, Mr. Fitch, but could not find him in the crowd. The officer had assured her this morning that she would not be charged and said only that she must give all her information to the military commission and then she would be free to go. Still, her heart fluttered about like a sparrow in a windstorm.
“Brigadier General Joseph Holt, Judge Advocate General of the United States Army is appointed the Judge Advocate and Recorder of the Commission, by order of the President.”
With that announcement, the men all took their seats, and the prisoners settled on stiff chairs in front of the assembly. Annabelle’s gaze landed on Mary Surratt, whose calm demeanor was in contrast to the oppressive tension that sat heavily on the countenance of the others. Did she perhaps believe she would not be found guilty? Annabelle chewed her lip as the solicitors from two opposing sides rose and began a series of proceedings that seemed to follow a strict code of operation. Men and women were called to bear witness to all manner of questioning, and Annabelle thought some of those questions seemed to have little to do with the assassination.
One witness was interrogated extensively about stealing a false mustache, presumed to be Booth’s, with such intensity that Annabelle might have found the absurdity of such a thing quite humorous under different circumstances. As it were, the probing questions only added to her unease.
Annabelle glanced at Matthew again, but his eyes remained forward. She bit back the frustration welling in her and fingered the ring on her hand. How could she marry a man who refused to face their problems? She clenched her jaw. Though after his display at the hotel, Annabelle feared Uncle Michael would never approve of the match.
“Ross? Is Miss Ross not present?”
The voice pierced her thoughts and Annabelle jumped. “Oh!” She rose and brushed at her skirt, heat rising in her face. “I am here.”
The solicitor at the front narrowed his eyes at her as she made her way forward. Oh, gracious! They’d think her a dolt. She smiled sweetly at him, but the solicitor did not return the gesture, and instead motioned for her to take a seat at the head of the room. Annabelle eased onto the chair, her eyes skittering over the prisoners and landing on Matthew, who could not help but look at her now. The concern brimming in his stormy eyes did little to drown the unease churning in her stomach.
The solicitor tugged on the lapel of his gray broadcloth jacket with black velvet trim and studied Annabelle. She shifted in her seat and dared a glance at the presiding Union officers, but finding their harsh gazes unnerving, looked down at her trembling hands instead. Be calm, Annabelle!
“Please state your name, miss,” the solicitor, Mr. Stone said, nodding toward the military commissioners.
She swallowed. “I am Miss Annabelle Ross.”
“Miss Ross, can you please inform the commission of your whereabouts on the night of the assassination?”
So they would not ask about her involvement in the attempted kidnapping? She almost let out a sigh of relief, but held it in and straightened her posture, regarding the man in front of her with a steady gaze. “I was present in Ford’s Theatre on the night of the assassination. I was sitting in the lower floor, and saw when the man leapt to the stage.”
“And why, exactly, were you there, Miss Ross? It wasn’t simply to enjoy the acting, was it?”
Annabelle clamped her hands. “No, sir. We were there because we feared there would be another attempt to abduct Mr. Lincoln.”
The man raised his eyebrows, though Annabelle knew the information had not come as a surprise. “Another? What do you mean, Miss Ross?”
“I became aware of an attempt to kidnap the president and take him to Richmond earlier in the year. The man who planned the attempt was seen with Mr. Booth, and we thought perhaps they would seek to try to abduct Mr. Lincoln at the theatre.”
“I see. And you thought your presence would stop such an attempt?”
Annabelle ignored the sarcasm in his tone. “No, sir. But we had given Mr. O’Malley’s description to the lawmen, who were to be on the lookout for the man. My grandmother, Mr. Daniels, and I went to the theatre in order to help look for him.”
The man stroked his mustache and paced in front of her. She spared a glance at Matthew, who offered a small nod of encouragement.
“And was this man, O’Malley, at the theatre that eve?” Mr. Stone asked, turning back to face her.
“No, sir. Mr. Matthew Daniels detained him in Philadelphia. Though, we did not know that at the time. When I saw the assassin leap onto the railing of the president’s box, I first thought it to be Mr. O’Malley.”
“Though clearly it was not. What happened after you saw Mr. Booth jump onto the stage?”
“My grandmother and I went to the president’s box.”
The man nodded as though he already knew her answer. “What for?”
She twisted her hands. “We feared for him, and wanted to see if we could be of any help.”
“And what help could a lady provide?”
Annabelle sought to keep the annoyance from her tone and lifted her chin a fraction. “I spent two years tending wounded soldiers, sir. I am not without skill.”
The solicitor seemed mollified and placed his hands behind his back. “I see. Was there not a doctor about?”
“There was. He ran up right after us and went straight to the box, though the door was locked. It took some time before Mr. Rathbone opened it.”
The solicitor looked to the presiding officers. “Let the records show that the surgeon, Charles Leale, has confirmed this report.” Mr. Stone turned back to Annabelle. “Once the door opened, what did you do?”
“I offered to help Mr. Rathbone, who had a long gash that ran the length of his arm, but he and the doctor sent me out, so I remained in the hallway.”
The man questioned her about nearly every minute thereafter, including when she went to the police to give her account. Then, as she had feared, his questions circled back to the abduction plot and all that had brought her to become involved in it. Annabelle chose her words carefully, fearing the man might be slowly wrapping her in the silky threads of confusing questions like a spider preparing its kill.
“So, Miss Ross,” Mr. Stone said, pinning her under his gaze. “You were present for the attempted kidnapping of the late president on the seventh of March and present for the assassination, including following the president over to the boarding house where he later died?”
She forced herself to hold his gaze. “Yes, sir, that is correct.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Yet you say you were not involved in the conspiracy?”
The spider pulled his threads close, choking Annabelle’s thoughts. She drew a long breath. “No, sir.”
Suspicion flared on the solicitor’s face. She straightened her shoulders. “Not directly. Once I became aware of these men’s intentions, I did everything in my power to stop them.” She lowered her eyes, knowing her attempts to convince him had likely been for naught.
The solicitor resumed his pacing again, each thud of his shoes heavy in the quiet room. Then, with what seemed an
air of finality, he came to a halt in front of her. “Tell me, Miss Ross, Where did you first hear of these plots?”
Her gaze darted over to Mrs. Surratt, who stared at Annabelle with open accusation. Did the commission notice as well? Annabelle swallowed. “At the Surratt Boarding house, sir. I overheard the men discussing their abduction plan in the parlor there.”
Mr. Stone gestured to the widow. “And is this the woman who owns that boarding house?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded his satisfaction. “Miss Ross, is it your opinion that Mrs. Surratt was aware of these plots and perhaps even aided in them?”
Annabelle pressed her lips into a line, her heart galloping. Mary Surratt glared at her.
“Miss Ross?”
She snapped her gaze back to the solicitor. “I…well, she was often present with the men when they spoke in private. As to the nature of those conversations, however, I am afraid I cannot comment, since I was not among them.”
She looked at Mrs. Surratt again, who regarded her evenly.
Mr. Stone glanced between the two women. “But if you were to guess, Miss Ross, would you say that you ever felt that Mrs. Surratt played a part in these events or was at least aware of them?”
Annabelle looked into his serious eyes, seeing his suspicion of her rise. She must tell the truth. “Yes, sir, I must say that I did have that feeling. I also know that Mr. O’Malley stayed on with her, and that Mr. Booth visited her on a few occasions. I believe it is quite possible, though not definitive, that she at least knew of their intentions.”
The man seemed satisfied once again, as though Annabelle had done little more than repeat his own thoughts. She had not been the first to offer up Mrs. Surratt’s connections, but it seemed her testimony only added to the mounting accusations.
After questioning Annabelle about her acquaintance with Booth—when she saw him at the National Hotel, and if she was certain he was present on the day of the attempted abduction—the solicitor finally seemed to grow tired of her and turned her over to another solicitor, a Mr. Ewing.
The Liberator Series Box Set: Christian Historical Civil War Novels Page 76
