Did Mother Hughes have any idea in what her sons were involved? Marietta smoothed the napkin flat again and let the images run through her mind. None gave her decisive answers. She had always defended her mother-in-law’s loyalties, but really, why would the woman be loyal to anything but the society she had been born and raised a part of? All the rest of the Fortiers were fighting for the Confederacy.
“Mari!”
Her father’s voice brought her head up and a smile to her lips. She stood and rushed to meet him. “Daddy! I’ve missed you.”
His arms closed around her as he chuckled. “And I you. How has my little girl been?”
“Well enough.” She pulled back to take his measure. He was thinner than when last she saw him, with new lines around his mouth. But still he was the same Jack Arnaud she had always equated with solidity. “When will this war be over so you can come home?”
Weariness saturated his exhale. “Soon, I think. I hope. Though we were only putting in for supplies and repairs, and then back out we must go to our place in the blockade. Sorry I missed you yesterday.”
“I would have stayed longer, but we had that aid meeting—”
“I understand.” He clasped her shoulders before planting a resounding kiss on her forehead. “But you will join us for dinner this evening, won’t you?”
“Of course.” It would give her an excuse to miss sharing a meal with Dev and Mr. Osborne.
“Good.” He looked past her, to Mama, and his smile shifted as it always did when he saw his wife.
As she had thought Lucien’s did for her. Thought Dev’s did too. But it wasn’t quite the same, was it? Daddy’s had something more…and something less. Crucial somethings.
“I need to go see your father for a few minutes, Lenna. Would you care for a walk?” Daddy was the only one to ever call her that. Most everyone else called her Julie, except for Grandmama, who called her Julienne. But when Marietta heard her talking to herself, Daddy’s nickname was the name she chose. Come now, Lenna, she would say. Where did you put it?
Evidence of the kind of love they shared. That even in that, they identified.
Mama smiled but made no move to rise. “I shall stay inside where it’s warm, but perhaps Marietta would enjoy the exercise.”
“I would indeed.” More, she hoped she might get her grandfather alone for a few minutes, so she could ask him if he knew how long Slade Osborne would be invading her world.
“Well, so long as I have at least one beautiful girl to accompany me.” He winked and went over to his wife, no doubt to exchange a kiss or quiet word. Marietta smiled as she stepped out in search of her cape and bonnet.
A few minutes later, she and her father were out in the crisp air, her hand secure in the crook of his elbow. Neither spoke until they reached the corner, at which point he looked down at her with somber eyes.
“Your granddad said he paid you a visit yesterday. A rather startling one.”
She sucked in a breath. “He told you?”
“I should think so. I am as much involved in the family trade as he is himself, and as my father.”
Granddad had said as much yesterday morning, but those words had been lost amidst the others. Now they reemerged. Her father, her uncles, who were spread all about the country now, Hez, and even Grandpapa Alain. “It is so difficult to believe we even have such a thing as the Culpers.”
He hummed and led her around the corner, heading for the house Thaddeus Lane had called home for more than fifty years. “I’m sorry we had to involve you. We wanted to avoid it if we could. But given the Hugheses’s affiliations…”
Her hand tightened around his arm. “Did you know, Daddy? Before I married him?”
He patted her fingers. “Thad found it out the day of your wedding. A bit late to step in. Especially,” he added, grinning down at her, “given your stubborn refusal to listen to any of our concerns.”
“I’m so sorry. For so much.” So much he didn’t even know about.
“As are we. We have been trying these four years to put a stop to the war, and to the so-called ‘fifth column,’ without your needing to know. But the times are dire, Mari.”
“I know.” They had been dire for years. And while much of the reality of war had become routine, some parts never did.
Like the casualty report that said Stephen Arnaud.
“Still, we’ll not ask much of you. Just distract Dev when you can. That ought to suffice. Let this young man poke about wherever he might need to. If you call to mind something that might be useful for him, perhaps leave it where he can find it.”
An exasperated breath eked past her lips. “But he is not one of…of us.” Us. “How is it you trust him to handle this?”
“We will make sure he does what he ought with the information. But we must be certain to otherwise stay out of sight. The last thing the Culpers need is the attention of either the KGC or Pinkerton’s detectives. We operate successfully because we operate anonymously. Even the president does not know we exist. None has since Washington himself.”
A chill swept up her spine. From the wind or the talk? “What if I hear something or find something? Do I tell Granddad? Mr. Osborne?”
He glanced around the street. Few pedestrians were out, though carriages rumbled by now and then. “Your granddad can advise you on whatever you find. If it is something he feels Osborne should know about, he will direct you on how to get it into his hands. And while we are there today, we will…” He paused, drew in a deep breath, and pulled her closer. “There is a code and vials of invisible ink. If ever you need to get a written message to him, you must use those.”
Codes, invisible ink, spies, secret societies. They belonged in the pages of a Gothic novel, not in her life. “Did Stephen know?”
He made no hesitation as he shook his head. “Nor did Walker until Stephen sent him to your house. Knowing what we did by that time, we thought it wise to educate him. Mari.” He paused, thereby making her pause with him, and looked down into her eyes. “You mustn’t seek anything out. You mustn’t put yourself in undue danger. We’ve already lost Stephen.”
“I will be safe.” Even if Dev somehow found out, he wouldn’t harm her. She didn’t think so, anyway. He wasn’t a violent man.
But he would be hurt when she broke things off, not to mention if he found out she was aiding someone against him. Would he feel the same heartbreak that held her immobile on the floor last night? The same suffocating weight of the one you thought you loved proving to be someone else entirely?
Part of her hoped he would. He deserved to hurt, deserved to learn what it felt like to be lied to. Deserved to be told he was the most important thing and then find it wasn’t so.
That is the beauty of grace. Stephen’s words, spoken so many long years ago, echoed. He’d been reclining on their parents’ couch, his Bible on his lap. Gray trousers, crisp white shirt, his frock coat long abandoned. She could still see the wave of his dark hair, just like Daddy’s, the gleam of his warm brown eyes, and ink stains on his left middle finger. We all deserve punishment, but He gives us instead forgiveness. Redemption.
She hadn’t wanted redemption. She knew too well what it meant. If the Lord redeemed her, He would pay for her, buy her, and she would be His. A slave to Him, bound to do His will above her own. And she had liked her own far better.
Today redemption sounded very different. Today she didn’t much like where her will had taken her. Today she had slaves under her roof when she’d been taught all her life slavery was a vile practice.
Who was she? Yetta, the girl without a lifetime of memories to plague her? Mari, the young lady who could charm any man she set her sights on? Marietta, the rich widow who had too many ghosts rattling around in her head?
I don’t want to be any of those anymore, Lord. Maybe…maybe it’s time to see who You would make me. Redeem me, Father. Purchase me from this life of which I’ve made such a mess. Make me someone new.
“I’ve lost you.” D
addy’s smile had a sad note as he led her onward. “To the past?”
“Is there anything but the past?” She matched her step to his so she could lean over and, just for a moment, touch her head to his shoulder.
“There is. There is a whole future ahead of us. One that can be as bright as we’re willing to make it.”
Or as dark as they let it be.
Six
Slade stepped on stocking feet into the hallway and paused, listening. From below came distant kitchen noises, and a muted humming sounded from down the hall. He hadn’t the time to waste trying to pinpoint it. He had already been trapped here half an hour talking to a reminiscing servant. Satisfied no one was about, he headed down the stairs.
Five days in Baltimore already, and this was the first time he had been left alone in Devereaux Hughes’s house. Every other day he had been expected to go to the rail office and play the part of detective out to ensure the security of the rails.
Under normal circumstances, it would have been a fine job. But it was a cover story on top of a cover story, and it had kept him from what he was really here to do.
The evenings had been spent across the street. The elder Mrs. Hughes had made it downstairs for dinner twice now, apparently the first time in months, and a big to-do had been made over her. Slade had barely managed to be polite, knowing as he did that she was the one who had raised her sons to be snakes.
But tonight he and Hughes would dine in, so he had gone now to visit his mother—and his molly, if that’s what the younger Mrs. Hughes was. Didn’t much matter to Slade. Whether accomplice or ignorant of his dealings, she was still Hughes’s woman. She still set Slade’s nerves to twitching, and she still unsettled him with that feline gaze of hers. He’d been quite happy to stay here this afternoon.
He crept down the hallway as if headed for the library, satisfied no one was nearby. A few days ago he’d seen his host leaving the corner room, locking it behind him, so he assumed that was the one he wanted. A study, he would bet.
It was, of course, still locked. Hence the pick in his pocket. He inserted the tool into the keyhole, his watchful gaze on the hallway and ears on alert. But the only sound he heard was the faint click of the tumbler. A moment later he eased open the door, slipped in, and shut it behind him.
Twilight possessed the room. This window overlooked the street at the Hughes family home, which meant he would see when the man was returning, but there was little light left to shine upon the mahogany desk and matching shelves, and he certainly wasn’t daft enough to bring in a lamp.
He would just have to be quick, before the last of the day faded away.
Not that he knew what he was looking for. Given their desperation in bringing him into the circle, they likely had no firm plans. But they would try something sometime, as they had before. Surratt and Booth had regaled him the other night with the tale of their first botched attempt to kidnap Lincoln on his way to his inauguration.
Kidnap. Pinkerton had thought it an assassination plan and had recommended Mr. Lincoln separate from the rest of his group, that he go through Baltimore under cover of darkness and in disguise rather than risk the triumphant arrival he had planned.
And so when the two Johns and their compatriots arrived at President Street Station, waiting for “King Abraham” to debark from the train and board a carriage to take him to the next one at Camden Station, they found only Mrs. Lincoln and her entourage.
Slade had managed to hide his smirk in his coffee, but it had been close. The papers had lambasted Lincoln for his so-called cowardice, apparently convinced there had been no attempt on his life because, well, there had been no attempt on his life.
They didn’t seem to realize that was an indicator of a job well done on the part of Slade and his colleagues.
Now to do the same again. Ideally he would find something here to indicate future plans.
The desk seemed the most logical place for anything of interest to reside, so he headed there first. The top was cleared of all but a single sheet of paper with a list of railroad employees. He sat in Hughes’s chair and reached for the bottom drawer.
Unlocked—not a good sign. He pulled it open anyway, but a growl formed in his throat. More railroad documents. Employee records, complaints that had been filed, ledgers. “Blast.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face and made himself pause. God, You sent men into the Promised Land to scout it out, right? And You sent me here. So please, if You could help me find what I need…please.
He rolled the kink out of his shoulders and surveyed the dim room. Where to look next?
Bookshelves lined one wall. Not filled, but enough tomes took up residence that the thought of paging through each and every one made his pulse keep time to the clock. Seeing nothing else in the room of promise, though, he headed for them. His breath whooshed out when three letters on one of the spines caught his eye. An Authentic Exposition of the KGC.
They had a book. What kind of secret society actually had a book? Slade pulled it out and flipped to the first page. Four years old, and who knew how accurate. It could have been produced by the group to put out misinformation. Still, it was worth looking through.
Movement out the window caught his eye, and he flattened himself against the shelf. Hughes was on the opposite sidewalk, strolling arm-in-arm with his brother’s widow as if it were a fine summer’s day and not a frosty winter’s eve. They paused where the walkway to her door intersected their path, and it seemed from the angle of his body that he would bid her farewell and cross the street.
Blast it to pieces. Even if he hurried, there was no way he could make his room again before Hughes gained the door. He could duck into another room down here, but his host was the type who would notice his lack of shoes and wonder about it. And tearing through the house wouldn’t escape the servants’ notice.
He had to try something, though. He moved but then froze again when Mrs. Hughes looked past her companion. To his house. At the very window Slade stood beside. Had his movement caught her eye? Was she even now readying to point him out to Hughes? Maybe she assumed it a servant. Please, Lord. Please.
Or maybe she hadn’t seen him at all, for she smiled up at Hughes and motioned toward her own house as she tugged on his arm.
Slade took a breath, aware only then that he had been holding it. Hughes was walking with her toward her front door.
Thank You, Lord. He replaced the book—a good thing he hadn’t darted out of the room with that still in his hand—and made for the door.
Two minutes later he was back in the relative safety of his own chamber. As close calls went, that hadn’t been too bad. There had been no weapons aimed at his head, no enemy a mere hair’s breadth away. But it had still been a close call.
And he still didn’t like them.
Fool man. Marietta stood at her bedroom window on Saturday morning and watched the carriage roll away from Dev’s house with him and Mr. Osborne inside. He wouldn’t work long today, but that just meant he would likely spend the afternoon here, and his guest with him.
The guest who would have gotten caught in Dev’s study last night if she hadn’t urged Dev back into her house.
Why had Mr. Osborne waited to search? He’d surely known Dev wouldn’t be long gone.
Though she had her doubts he had found anything there. If Dev were now the captain of the castle under her house, he had only assumed the role after Lucien’s death. Which meant that if there were any documentation pertaining to the group, it would have originated with Lucien. Would have been, if anywhere accessible, in his study.
Her fingers slid down the edge of the velvet drape. She hadn’t even ventured into that room since the funeral. It still shouted Lucien in its every appointment, and she hadn’t wanted the reminder of him while his brother secretly courted her. The household accounts were already in her small desk, and she had asked Norris, the aging butler, to fetch the bank ledgers for her. She knew there had been business records there too, whic
h were obviously Dev’s domain now.
But he hadn’t moved them, at least not many of them. She had offered to have it all crated up and sent across the street, but he had just taken her hand and said he would rather have the excuse to visit.
No doubt he wanted to keep his roots firmly planted within these walls that meant so much to him.
If those were still here, though, what else was?
She turned when the door opened and Cora slipped in. Perfect. She would dress and do a little investigating of her own.
“Morning, Miss Mari.” Cora eased the door shut behind her and headed toward the boudoir, though she paused beside the bed.
Marietta frowned. The woman had been moving slower of late. Not just from her changing shape, but in a way that bespoke distress. “Are you well?”
Cora’s startled gaze flew her way and then darted back to where it had been—the Bible on her bedside table. “I’m fine, ma’am. You want the lavender or the gray this morning?”
“Gray.” And was it that unthinkable that she would have a Bible out? Granted, it had been on her shelf all these years. But she had still read it regularly, more or less. The pages had merely been in her mind rather than before her physical eyes.
She sighed and sank down onto the edge of her feather-filled mattress. Perhaps it was unthinkable. Which spoke to her need for it. Hence why she had fetched it last night. She had wanted the feel of leather. The weight of pages.
She had wanted it to be real. Not just memory. Not just words.
“Here we are.” Cora reemerged, her arms full of fabric. As she set the layers on the floor—hoop, petticoat, bum roll, more petticoats, and finally the dress itself—Marietta shrugged out of her dressing gown and positioned her corset over her chemise, hooking it up the front.
The laces remained well tied, so she slipped the corset cover overtop and turned back to Cora.
The woman still knelt on the floor straightening petticoats. Her hair hung in perfect midnight spirals, her complexion smooth and even. She was a pretty girl. A fact Marietta had noted upon joining the family, yes, but had then pushed from her mind. She hadn’t wanted to consider that her husband owned a beautiful young slave girl. The worry had been somewhat put to rest when Walker strode back into her world and married Cora within a fortnight, the first baby following directly.
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