He closed his eyes, and Annabelle’s face returned. She looked at him with questioning eyes, their blue depths flashing from uncertainty to disgust. He groaned and hung his head. Not only had he become a man tethered to the drink, he’d become a traitor, a coward, and a scoundrel—a scoundrel who ruined his first meeting with Annabelle’s kin and had since gone back on his word to her.
Whatever tomorrow brings.
He had meant it. He had. Why, then, had he disappointed her yet again? Why had he distanced himself? The answer prodded him like a hot iron. Because he’d failed. Again. And because he was too weak.
The raucous laughter swelled as a serving girl in a dress cut far too low giggled and plopped down onto the lap of one of the Union officers. Matthew watched as the man whispered something in her ear, and she gestured toward the staircase just off to Matthew’s right.
His stomach churned. He shouldn’t be here. What would Annabelle think of him? He’d come at the insistence of the other men in his detail, fellows who curiously had begun to act more friendly toward him as the trial dragged on, but he’d obliged only because he’d wanted to find something to relax him at the end of another tedious day, and his lonely room at the hotel held no appeal.
He slipped the flask free and tipped it to his lips as the couple slipped up the stairs, the woman’s bodice dipping low enough that he could see curves beneath he shouldn’t look upon. Matthew averted his gaze and stared at the scarred table in front of him.
Lord, help me.
Matthew had just begun to rise when something caught his attention. A feeling, like something thick and slimy settled on him, squishing its way through him and leaving a sick sensation. He shook his head. He had to get out of here. He rose and nodded to some of the men, two of whom lifted foaming mugs toward him, and then weaved through swaying patrons and smiling women.
Outside, he drew a deep breath of the night air, wondering how long he’d been inside. No matter. Enough of the night was gone that he could make it through until morning. He turned toward the hotel, the quiet streets in opposition to the noise of the building he left behind.
Matthew trudged down the street, his self-deprecating thoughts nagging at him. He turned a corner and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. He glanced over his shoulder. The feeling that had overcome him in the tavern followed him down the street, though each time he glanced back, he saw nothing but gray shadows. Matthew quickened his pace, increasing his stride until his legs stretched to their full length with every passing step.
“Hello, my friend.”
Matthew jerked to a halt, spinning around and staring at the empty street behind him. Impossible. He was hearing things now! He took another step forward.
“I see you were naught but a rat jumping a sinking ship. Ah, well, it is to be expected.”
Matthew turned toward the shadowed alleyway off his left shoulder. “O’Malley?”
Something moved, and the shadows parted. A figure stepped forward, a hat pulled low on his head. “What is left of him.”
The strange statement sent Matthew’s senses on edge, but he squared his shoulders and planted his feet. “Come forth from the shadows, man, if you have words for me.”
O’Malley chuckled and stepped forward into the wan light of a half-moon. A grin played about his mouth, but it only served to make Matthew’s throat turn dry. Despite himself, he took a step back.
O’Malley tilted his head. “No greeting for your brother in gray?” He clicked his tongue.
“Why are you here? I thought you were on the run. If they catch you about Washington, they will see that you are on trial with the others.”
O’Malley laughed, sending a chill up Matthew’s spine. “Daniels, you always were a slow one. Do you truly think I would be here if I feared for my skin?”
Matthew glanced down the deserted street, suddenly wishing others were near. O’Malley stepped closer to him, and Matthew caught a whiff of something most foul, as though O’Malley toted a dead rodent in his breast pocket.
“You see, they can’t do anything to me. My purpose is of a…different nature.”
Suddenly O’Malley’s hand shot out and grasped the sleeve of Matthew’s coat. Fear washed over Matthew, and he snatched his arm. O’Malley held firm, not even caught off balance. Matthew wrenched again, but O’Malley only laughed and started tugging him back toward the darkened alley.
“Come, come, my friend. I’ve something to show you.”
Sweat sprang onto his brow as O’Malley began to pull him toward the shadows. Matthew planted his feet into the earth, but the ground underneath betrayed him and he stumbled forward. When had O’Malley become so strong?
O’Malley pulled him to the edge of the opening, and the sick feeling Matthew had experienced in the tavern washed over him again, as thick as molasses. He could not go into the alley! With a desperate jerk, Matthew shrugged free of the Union coat and stumbled backward.
O’Malley turned toward him, a low growl rumbling from his throat. Not waiting for him to get another opportunity, Matthew spun and sprinted down the street. O’Malley spewed a string of curses that any sailor would deem foul, his voice following Matthew around the corner and onto the next street.
He dared a look over his shoulder, but no one followed. Matthew lowered his head and ran harder anyway, darting down the streets in a nonsensical pattern.
Sides heaving, he did not pause until the cold metal of the hotel doorknob filled his clammy palm. Ignoring the startled clerk and the comments of gentlemen enjoying their brandy in the lobby, Matthew took the main staircase two steps at a time.
Blood throbbed in his ears as he fumbled for the key, dropped it, snatched it from the plush carpet and finally forced his shaking fingers to thrust it into the lock. On the other side of the door, Matthew turned the lock and stood there glaring at it, fists clenched at his sides. He stared at the door until his pulse slowed and he was finally able to convince himself that O’Malley wouldn’t burst through it.
He stumbled over to the chair by the cold hearth and nearly fell into it. What had happened? A shiver ran over him, despite the warm evening. He rubbed his temples. Was he going mad, or had there been something malevolent lurking in that alley?
No. He’d not imagined it. Something was very wrong. Standing, Matthew began to pace. He could do this no longer! The ache, the fear, the shame. Too many emotions hung on him like boulders about his neck, and there was naught he could do to escape them. The red eye had promised relief, but had only brought him further grief. He clutched at his chest.
Would he ever find peace? Or would one war or another continue to rend his soul until naught remained? Then what of his Annabelle?
“I need You…” Matthew whispered, dropping down to his knees. How had he been so blind? His near misses at death, the miracle that saved George—all along the Creator had shown his presence, yet Matthew had ignored Him. Even this very night, his cry for help had been flung heavenward in desperation, though he had not expected it to fall on caring ears.
Nevertheless he’d escaped O’Malley—and perhaps something even worse. Matthew leaned forward and dropped his head to the floor, a gush of anguish exploding from within him. Memories of the men he’d killed in battle, the compromises he’d made, the false truths and a myriad of other failures flooded him until he thought he would crush beneath the weight of them all.
“Please, forgive me. Take my life unto You,” Matthew whispered, his voice raw with the emotions he could no longer suppress. “Make of me a better man, one who follows You, and one worthy of leading an honorable life.”
Matthew shuttered as peace began as a kernel, then sprouted in his soul and filled every dark corner he’d tried to conceal. He felt completely known, but no longer ashamed.
“Thank you.”
Matthew remained on his knees, and for the remainder of the night, poured out his heart to the One who’d created him.
“I find the Yankees are commencing what they call the tr
ial with closed doors. Secret plotting to take the life of a few poor victims, and one a woman. The people and the press will cry such a thing down, or I am much mistaken.”
John Surratt
Lilly Rose toyed with the lace on her fan and wondered again just how she’d ended up here. Oh, not to Miss Wesson’s again, that had been nothing but a train ride and unwavering insistence from her employer. No, what baffled her was this fan. The fan, the dress, and, yes…the woman in it. How had she gone from a dirty orphan struggling with her peers over too little food to this lady dressed in silks leisurely passing away the late afternoon hours?
Frankie plucked another bloom from Miss Wesson’s azalea and scurried over to her. My, but he had gotten fast! No longer did he wobble with teetering steps, but ran with a solid gate that spoke of how quickly the time passed.
“Mama! Pretty!” He thrust the snatched flower toward her face and she smiled.
“Thank you, baby.” She added it to the pile in her lap. “But let’s not pick more. We don’t want the bush to be bare, now, do we?”
His little forehead crinkled, and he looked back at the enormous bush covered in bright pink flowers. Then he grinned again and hurried over to another, grabbing a fist full of white petals from a blossom and yanking them from the stem.
She heard the door open and Miss Wesson bustled out, a tray of glasses with lemonade in her hands. Behind her, a young girl of about fourteen years hurried out, sputtering about how the lady shouldn’t be toting the tray.
Miss Wesson giggled in that childlike way she had. “Hush, Violet, and close the door. We don’t want any bees in the house, now, do we?”
The girl’s eyes widened and she leapt to pull the door closed. “I’s sorry, Mistress!”
“Oh, fiddle. No harm done, darling.” She swung around and looked at the girl. “And I’ve already told you, I’m not your mistress.”
The girl watched as Miss Wesson hummed to herself, placing the tray on a low table by the circle of chairs in the garden. The bits of chipped ice floated in the sunny liquid, and Lilly relished the idea of a cold drink.
Frankie spotted Miss Wesson and dropped the cluster of leaves in his hand and ran toward her with outstretched arms. “Missy! Cookie!”
Lilly made a move to reach for him, but he dodged out of her grasp. “Frankie! That was unmannered.”
Miss Wesson giggled and waved away Lilly’s concern. “Nonsense!”
Frankie tugged on her patterned skirt. “Cookie!”
Miss Wesson made a show of thinking, patting her skirts. “Now, where did I put that…?”
Frankie grinned and pointed to her pocket. “Cookie!”
“What? You think I have a cookie in my pocket? Why, what would a sweet be doing there?”
The joy on their faces kept Lilly from saying anything as they finished the game they’d already performed three times today. She produced the cookie and held it out to him.
He grinned. “Tank you!”
Miss Wesson beamed. “Why, you are quite welcome, young sir.”
Frankie plopped onto the grass at their hostess’s feet to enjoy his treat.
The older lady watched him with a hint of sadness in her eyes, and Lilly wondered if the lady regretted not having had little ones. As though feeling Lilly’s eyes on her, she glanced up and the sadness was gone, replaced by the childlike joy Lilly so loved about her.
“Now, then, let’s see…oh, yes. Refreshment!” Miss Wesson gestured toward the glasses. “Take a glass, dear,” she said as she retrieved one for herself.
Lilly grabbed one of the remaining three glasses. “Thank you, Miss Wesson.”
“Um hum. Of course, dear.”
Lilly tipped her glass and relished the feel of the cold liquid sliding down her throat. Such luxuries!
Miss Wesson glanced about, twisting in her chair until her eyes landed on the shy mouse standing behind her with downcast eyes. “Violet! There you are. What are you doing back there?”
The girl lifted her chin, her curious gaze darting over Lilly for an instant before her light brown eyes were hidden beneath thick lashes once more. She stepped around to the side of Miss Wesson’s chair with a rustle of gingham fabric. “Yes, mistress… I mean, ma’am…I mean…”
Lilly’s heart lurched. Poor girl. Had Lilly not been in the same state of confusion when she’d first arrived here? And Lilly had already been grown! This poor child seemed nigh on fainting.
Miss Wesson smiled gently and reached out to take the girl’s soft brown hand into her own pale one. Violet’s eyes flew wide, fear streaking across her face.
“Easy, sweet one,” Miss Wesson soothed. “No one is going to hurt you here.”
The girl flicked her eyes to Lilly again, and Lilly offered an encouraging smile. Violet’s shoulders relaxed, but she remained as still as a pine on a windless day.
Miss Wesson clicked her tongue. “Come sit over here by Lilly Rose, dear, while we wait on old Eudora to join us.”
Violet hesitated a moment and then dropped to the very edge of the chair, looking as though she might take flight any second.
Filled with empathy, Lilly reached across and patted the girl’s hand. “It’s nice here, Violet. You’ll see. You get a new life when you come to the flower house. Just as I did.”
Violet turned bright eyes on her. “You came through here, like me?”
“I did.”
Violet’s jaw unhinged for a moment before she found words. “But…but, you’s a lady.”
A sadness welled in Lilly’s chest that nearly sprung tears into her eyes, but she managed to shoo them away. “Oh, no. My momma was a slave. I was brought up in an orphanage, until Momma and I made it up through here and onto New York, where Mrs. Smith gave me a way to make my own pay.”
Violet glanced back to Miss Wesson. “That so?”
“Yes, dear.” Miss Wesson snapped open a feathered fan and waved it around her face. “Lilly Rose is one of my many precious flowers.”
Violet looked back at Lilly. “But…you’s…” She clamped her mouth shut.
“I’m what?”
“You’s a white lady.”
Lilly fought down emotions that struggled for freedom. “Partly, yes.”
Violet seemed to consider this, but said nothing more. A moment later Mrs. Smith flung open the door and waltzed outside in her self-assured way. Without awaiting invitation, she scooped up a glass of lemonade and settled in the chair next to Miss Wesson.
“My at this heat!” Mrs. Smith said, fluttering her hand in front of her face. Her gaze darted to Violet. “Why are you sitting there like a starched twig, girl? Get your glass and drink before all that good ice goes to waste.”
Violet jumped, but the gentle smile on Mrs. Smith’s face seemed to seep the tension from her, and she tentatively reached out to pluck the last glass from the tray. Lilly couldn’t help but smile when the girl placed the glass to her lips and surprise lit her willowy features. She’d probably never had a chilled drink before.
Thrilled, the girl settled back into her chair with her prize and savored each sip. Lilly took another sip of her own, again marveling at how she’d become so accustomed to such things. Fine silks, dainty fans, and an afternoon of leisurely company with cool refreshment had become nearly normal to her. What would the young girl she had been think of the woman she’d become?
Probably more than George thought of her. She straightened herself. Though he had cast her aside, she’d not let it steal away her happiness. No, she had been happy before he’d shown up at their door and rattled her finely crafted life. She would be so again. Someday.
The mention of her name brought her attention back to the two ladies across from her. “Isn’t that right, Lilly?”
Embarrassed, she snapped open her fan to hide the heat in her cheeks. “Oh, I’m sorry. What did you say?”
Mrs. Smith and Miss Wesson exchanged a glance. “She’s still lost in thought over that gentleman, isn’t she, Eudora?” Miss Wesson as
ked, though her gaze did not leave Lilly.
Glad for the fan to hide behind, Lilly pressed her lips to keep from spouting unkind words about minding one’s own business. That simply wouldn’t do. She owed both of these women too much to sting them with cross words. Unable to deny it without lying, Lilly chose to say nothing.
Mrs. Smith’s eyes swam with compassion. “That fool will come around, you’ll see.”
Lilly shook her head. “No, ma’am, I already done told you—”
“I already said, dear. Not ‘done told.’”
Flustered at another correction, Lilly sucked in a breath and began again. “As I have already said, there will be no sort of relations between Mr. Daniels and me.” She snapped her fan closed and dropped it on her lap, scattering flower petals to the ground.
“No, no, Mama!” Frankie scolded, crumbs clinging to his lips. He hurried over to her to pick up his offering and gently placed them all back into her lap.
She ran her fingers through his silky curls. “Thank you, Frankie.”
He beamed up at her and then caught sight of a blue butterfly and leapt after it. Lilly watched him chase it a moment before turning her focus back to the three sets of eyes that watched her.
“Men are stubborn things, dear. Sometimes it takes them a good knock of sense before they come around to what’s best for them.”
The compassion on her employer’s face only made Lilly love her all the more. Where would she have been without Mrs. Smith? Grasping at a change in subject, she looked to Violet. “Miss Wesson, have you found a new home for Miss Violet, or is she to stay here with you?”
Miss Wesson lowered the glass that was halfway to her pink lips. “Oh? You don’t know?”
The Liberator Series Box Set: Christian Historical Civil War Novels Page 80
