The Mirk and Midnight Hour

by Jane Nickerson

  I lifted the hem of her project. “Do you really think Pa—or any soldier—wants his underclothes trimmed with itchy gold braid?”

  “Why not?” she asked. “A gentleman should be distinguished both inside and out. Just as a lady’s underpinnings ought always to be as elegant as her outerwear.”

  I contrasted the gorgeous lemon-yellow satin chemise I had glimpsed Sunny wearing that morning with the plain, black-dyed cambric underclothes I wore and gave a little sigh of my own.

  The sound of the front door opening reached us just then, along with the thud of a carpetbag dropping to the hall floor.

  “Dorian’s back!” Sunny cried. The sparkle returned to her eyes as she hastily tugged down the lace on her neckline.

  He entered and surveyed the room.

  She rushed to his side and clung to his arm. “Did you have a nice time?” she asked, leading him to a seat.

  Dorian made a careless gesture. “Boring, really.”

  “Tell us everything you did while you deserted us for two whole long days, Dorian Rushton,” Sunny demanded.

  My cousin shook her off and moved back to the doorway. He glanced up the stairs, then back at us, as if he were having trouble focusing. “I’m not sure that’s any of your business, Anna Bess Sluder.” He spoke a little too loudly and was unusually flushed; I wondered if he was slightly tipsy. He seemed to remember himself and smiled. “I’ll answer anyway. Not much. The Baxters held a party in my honor, and a young relative, Maria something or other, hogged all my time. Wouldn’t hardly let anyone else near. She was pretty, but not pretty enough.” He winked.

  “Mmm,” I said.

  “ ‘Mmm,’ is it?” Dorian exclaimed. He strode to my chair and snatched my yarn away. “Is that any sort of response to my story?”

  “Did I say ‘mmm’?”

  “Quite distinctly, coz dear.”

  “Mmm …”

  “Maria deserves to be slapped,” Sunny said crossly.

  “Yes,” Dorian said. “That’s a better reaction to Maria.” He tossed back my yarn and fiddled with the folds of his paisley silk cravat. “I guess you heard New Orleans has fallen? Yanks will circle us soon. We’ll feel the squeeze.” He idly picked up the garment Sunny had been sewing and pretended to inspect it. However, I doubted he was really seeing it since he made no comment about the braiding. He dropped it abruptly. “No more talk of my doings or the war—do I assume nothing interesting happened while I was gone? Tell me what you ladies have been up to. I missed you.”

  “Prove it,” Sunny said boldly, tipping her head to one side.

  “Pardon?” Dorian said.

  “Prove you missed me.”

  His eyes narrowed and he advanced toward her. “Be careful what you ask for, my girl.”

  She giggled and I ducked out quickly as his hand slid low around her waist.

  Upstairs, a half hour later, I wrote in my journal, although there was little I dared put down on paper. A noise made me pause in mid-stroke. It was a soft, regular sound—stealthy footsteps crossing the upstairs landing. And then the faintest scraping of Sunny’s bedroom door opening, a giggle, breathy whispers, a shushing, the creak of the bed. I closed my ears.

  I had been asleep for a while when the patter of rain on the roof awoke me. Usually I loved to lie there listening, but now I worried. The Lodge was bound to leak. Lieutenant Lynd was alone in the pitch dark, unable to move away from dripping water. The aloneness was the worst part. If only his fellow soldier hadn’t died.

  I went rigid because another picture came to mind—that of the redheaded corpse lying in the courthouse yard with a gash across his throat. The memory sickened me as always, but now it had a new meaning: there had been a mojo bag about the neck, connecting the corpse with the VanZeldts. Did the lieutenant’s friend Jorgenson, who disappeared as Lieutenant Lynd slept, have red hair?

  I was swiftly certain that the body was Jorgenson’s. The VanZeldts had killed the poor man after rescuing him. Why? I sat bolt upright and had to stop myself from leaping out of bed and dashing off to warn Lieutenant Lynd.

  How easy it would be to slit the throat of a sleeping cripple in the night.

  I told myself that until two days ago I hadn’t even known Lieutenant Lynd existed. Nothing was any more likely to happen to him this morning than at any other time. However, the early chores had never seemed to take so long.

  As I swept the kitchen, my thoughts about the soldier were confusing, changing from moment to moment. Was I anxious to see him to warn him? To bring him more food? To show off the fact that I was not the disheveled hoyden I had appeared the day we met? Was I a traitor to the Cause because of all of these things?

  “King’s out in the barn,” Laney mentioned. “You better say something to him about that gun. It’s him got it down, don’t you reckon?”

  “Probably,” I said, making her move her feet so I could sweep beneath them. “I hate to accuse anyone, though, when we don’t know it for a fact. And even if he did leave it there, he would be devastated if he thought he almost hurt Seeley. He loves that boy.”

  “Don’t go accusing. Just warn him to be more careful.”

  When I went to the barn for the milking, King was indeed there. His lower lip hung down in concentration as he hunched on top of a barrel, painstakingly polishing his master’s silver spurs and bridle buckles. His shirt gaped open where buttons were missing, showing a massive belly.

  I spoke his name.

  The big man looked up sluggishly, as if it were an effort to switch his attention.

  “Did you hear that Seeley got hold of an old, broken rifle in here yesterday and it exploded when it fired?”

  King sat up straighter and his eyes bulged. “Master Seeley all right?”

  “Yes, he is,” I hastened to reassure him. “But he might have been killed. Someone had taken the gun from the rafters and left it down low.”

  He gave a shake of his bald head. “No, Miss Violet. Didn’t never hear ’bout that. That’s bad. Shouldn’t never leave them things lying around. No, sir.”

  Evidently he wasn’t going to admit that it was he who had taken down the gun. “Big people have to watch out for young ones.”

  His small eyes squinted as if in pain. “I always tries to look out for Master Seeley. He’s my little friend.”

  The spurs King was working on glinted in the morning light.

  “Don’t you think those are shiny enough now?” I said.

  There was a stubborn set to his lips. “No, Miss Violet. I gots to do it perfect. Master Dorian, he told me to make them perfect, and won’t do to get him mad. Won’t do at all.”

  I stood watching the poor man. Dorian, for all his laughter and winning ways, was persnickety and must be an exacting master. “Do you have another shirt? A second one?”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Will you go change into it now, while I’m milking the cows, and bring this one to me so I can sew new buttons on it?”

  He started to rise, heavy with reluctance, then sank back down. “Sorry to disoblige you, Miss Violet, ma’am, but can’t do that. Not till I finish this work. Master Dorian told me to polish them right quick. Can’t get him mad. No, ma’am.”

  “Is Master Dorian so very bad-tempered with you?”

  King made no response.

  I sighed. “Then bring me this shirt tomorrow, all right?”

  “All right, Miss Violet. I’ll do that. Thank you, ma’am.”

  Star nickered softly, and I gave her a pat.

  After finishing the milking, while Seeley drove the cows to pasture, I scurried upstairs to my bedroom and removed the figurines and packet of letters from their hiding place. I unwrapped the carvings to look upon them once more. Their eyes seemed to be upon me as well. Beautiful, fascinating, and somewhat disturbing. I would miss them.

  The string tying the packet was loose. Some of the letters had slipped out, and I caught another glimpse of the spritely Addie’s rounded handwriting. Hastily I stuffed the
m back in, retied the packet, and slipped everything into my pocket. Now that the owner was no longer a stranger, I was ashamed of reading the letter from his sweetheart. But I was glad I knew about her. It was the sort of thing a girl needed to know about a man.

  I still took extra pains with my grooming, combing my hair until it was silky smooth and adding a pale blue ribbon around my snood and dainty opal earrings to my ears.

  As I passed the sitting room on my way to the kitchen, Miss Elsa called out. She beckoned with one thin white hand so that the trailing sleeve of her gauzy gray dressing gown flapped. It was unusual for my stepmother to be awake so early; she must have come down expressly to catch me.

  “Violet, darling, could you speak to Michael about my poppies? They simply aren’t growing quickly enough. I only have two remaining bottles.…”

  “I’ll talk to him,” I said, entering the room, “even though I’m sure he’s doing whatever can be done. The buds are forming now. At what stage should you harvest them? Do you know?”

  She sighed. “Yes, I know. I’ve studied the article I clipped from the Ladies’ Monthly Home Companion most carefully. I must wait until the petals drop off naturally, and then the capsules ripen for two weeks after that. But oh, it has been raining, and the instructions say particularly that the plants must be kept dry during blooming time. Michael must do something.…”

  Sunny had been standing by the window, the curtain pulled back in her hand as she gazed out. She glanced over her shoulder. “Mama,” she snapped, “Michael can’t control the weather. You’d better ask Violet to speak to God instead.”

  Dorian stepped in then, still in his shirtsleeves and fumbling with the cuffs of his white linen shirt. “Morning, y’all.”

  “Good morning, kind sir,” Sunny said, sweeping up to him. “Here, let me do that.”

  He held out his wrists and she fastened one mother-of-pearl cuff link. She had begun on the other when, with a provocative look from under her eyelashes, she whisked the stud behind her back and scurried to the opposite side of the room.

  “What will you give me for it?” she asked, wide-eyed.

  “The devil!” Dorian rolled his eyes. “Not in the mood, Sunny. I’m in a hurry. I’ve business in Tennessee this afternoon. Be a good girl and hand it here.”

  She pouted. “You just got back. You’re smuggling from behind the lines, aren’t you? You promised you’d take me next time.”

  “And I will next time. But not this time. I’m meeting a friend and he doesn’t believe in mixing ladies with business.”

  “Does it matter to you what he believes?” she asked with scorn.

  “Yes,” Dorian answered.

  “How silly. I shouldn’t care a pin for it.”

  “I daresay not, since you haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

  “You said ladies make good smugglers because of their hoops to hide things under.”

  “So they do,” Dorian said with carefully controlled patience. “But not—this—time.”

  Seeley had entered during the confrontation and watched its course with wide eyes as he raised and lowered his bandalore. Up and down, up and down.

  Two spots of crimson showed on Sunny’s cheeks as she fixed Dorian with a fiery green glare. “You certainly don’t seem to mind me forgetting conventions when it suits you, Dorian Rushton. Well, I want to go and I shall go and you shan’t have your cuff link back until you say you’ll take me!”

  Dorian’s mouth thinned and hardened as his eyes glittered dangerously. No wonder King feared his master’s anger; I should have been terrified had I been its target.

  “Give it over, Sunny,” he said as he thrust forth his open palm.

  She looked daggers at him for a moment, but his expression, combined with the tone of his voice, was too much for her. She stalked across the carpet and slapped the cuff link down into his hand.

  “Here! Take the horrid thing!” she flashed. “You—you horrid thing! Nothing matters to you but yourself. Now go away!”

  Dorian strode out.

  Sunny’s eyes darted about the room searching for something to hurl after him. She lit upon poor little Seeley. No, she did not hurl Seeley, although she looked as if she wanted to. Instead she ripped the bandalore out of his hand and flung it hard at Dorian’s receding back. “And I told you this child would drive everyone daft with that thing,” she screamed.

  Dorian flinched at the blow but kept walking.

  My stepsister turned now to glower at me. “It’s true! He cares for no one and nothing but himself!”

  I had no response. Most of the time I liked my older cousin, but as I had come to know him better, it was plain he was indeed self-centered. He was kind now to Seeley, and could be sympathetic to others in an offhand, casual sort of way, if it suited him. He had no burning interests except frivolity. There was nothing noble about his blockade-running—he did it for the excitement and for the money. Still, he couldn’t be called completely shallow; he cared deeply about himself and his things.

  Sunny flounced from the room and burst into stormy tears halfway up the stairs.

  Seeley looked after her. “She better watch out,” he said softly.

  Throughout the whole exchange, Miss Elsa had been gazing off into nothing as if she hardly noticed it. “They’ll be all right,” she said now with complacence. “They’re falling in love with each other, and with such passionate personalities, as William Shakespeare said, the course of true love never … Oh, how does it go?”

  “Runs smooth,” I said. “Come, Seeley, pick up your bandalore and then let’s go pack our picnic lunch.”

  I had grown fond of Miss Elsa and Sunny and Dorian, but today I couldn’t bear to hear another word out of any of them.

  Luckily Laney was nowhere in sight, so we were free to prepare anything we wished in the kitchen without being questioned. We made egg sandwiches and gathered an entire sweet potato pie and leftover-from-breakfast corn dodgers.

  “You’re sure a good cook,” Seeley said.

  I smiled. He knew I hadn’t made the dodgers or pie. He was being kind. Or was he teasing me? I tweaked his ear.

  I took two candles out of the candle box and wrapped them up with several matches. Now Lieutenant Lynd could have some light. My hands shook a little as I tucked the bundle into the basket. Soon we would be with him, and I felt almost light-headed at the prospect.

  Napkins in hand, I paused. What exactly was I doing? Rather than anticipating seeing this Union soldier again, for whatever reason, I should be marching straight to the authorities. But if I did, it would all come to an end—for everyone. Our secret would be laid open, the Lodge would be abandoned, and the lieutenant would be sent off to some unknown but probably terrible fate. We would never see him again.

  Carefully I wrapped the napkins around a small brown crock of calf’s-foot jelly, which was supposed to be good for invalids. I would continue as planned—first Lieutenant Lynd must be warned of what I suspected about the VanZeldts and then he must be helped to grow strong enough to walk again. What would happen after that—to him, to me, to the South—was a mystery.

  “The lieutenant—” Seeley started to say.

  I brought my finger to my lips and whispered, “Later.” Dorian and Sunny were passing by the kitchen doorway, arms about each other’s waists and heads close together. Clearly they had made up. She looked up at him meltingly. “So you see why—” from him. “I didn’t mean—” from her. The front door slammed shut.

  Seeley and I made our way toward the little dock. A pair of raucous blue jays squawked and pecked at each other in a sweet gum tree, sounding just as my cousin and stepsister had sounded earlier.

  We ran across the happy couple again as we passed the scuppernong arbor. Dorian sat on the bench beneath it, and Sunny was balanced on his lap.

  He leaned around her in order to call out in a jovial voice, “Off for a picnic, are you? I’ve always found nature uncomfortable myself. So few soft seats and so ma
ny insects flying into people’s mouths.”

  Sunny giggled. “Y’all can see what a soft seat I’ve found.”

  Dorian grinned and tickled her waist, making her giggle louder.

  They were so annoying.

  “You’re not canoeing again?” Dorian said. “With the thunderheads piling up?” He pointed upward and Sunny nearly fell off his lap.

  Seeley nodded solemnly.

  Dorian shook his head. “Oh, well. What might deter some mariners evidently doesn’t sway you brave folks. For you, the dangers of lightning on water are vastly exaggerated. So what’s in the packs?”

  Seeley had been so impressed with the saddlebag discovery that he had insisted on carrying them both. He hugged them close now, his big eyes wary.

  “Equipment for collecting samples,” I said lightly. “The sorts of things we lovers of nature can’t do without. Good luck in Tennessee.”

  “And good luck to you with your nature loving—or whatever it is you’re doing.”

  “Are they exaggerated?” Seeley asked after we had taken our leave of Sunny and Dorian. “The water and lightning dangers?”

  “No,” I said, “they’re not. That’s why, at the first distant rumble, we’ll climb up on the bank.”

  “But then we’d be under trees in a thunderstorm. Isn’t that bad too?”

  Impatience rose in me. “Do you want to stay home today, Squid? You don’t need to come if you’re worried.”

  “Uh-uh,” he said quickly. “Maybe the dangers of standing under trees during lightning are overrated.”

  We paddled our canoe with a sort of nervous hastiness. Either Seeley was anxious on his own or he had caught my apprehension. Lieutenant Lynd was lying there, waiting for us to come or not to come. Unless the VanZeldts had done away with him in the night. I paddled faster and clenched my teeth to keep them from chattering.

  Part of the tension in the air came from ashen clouds pressing down, turning the river drab and steely. The rain held off as we canoed, with humidity swathing us like a clammy quilt.

  There was no talk of swimming when we beached our craft and no playfulness as we made our way through the forest. Seeley was weighed down by the saddlebags, and I by the basket. It was a relief when a light, misty rain finally fell. At first we were protected by the thick canopy of leaves. Soon, however, water seeped through and trickled beneath to penetrate our clothing and even my bonnet, making my hair cling drearily to my head. Sodden leaves and mud stuck to our boots. Seeley resembled a drowned puppy, and I knew I must look the same, only larger and less appealing. So much for a more refined appearance on our second trip.