Innocent Deceptions

by Gwyneth Atlee

But the sight of Tillie, carrying a tray laden with food and drink, brought resentment bubbling to the surface. She wanted Mama Ruth and not this haughty mulatto, who had the nerve to criticize the Randolphs’ relationship with their beloved Negroes despite the fact that she would never understand it.

  “You gonna step aside and let me through?” Tillie asked, “This tray ain’t feather-light, you know.”

  As usual, her words and tone were so blunt they couldn’t cut through butter.

  Instead of moving, Charlotte took the tray and placed it on the table she used for Alexander’s lessons. The scents of roast pork, vegetables, and peach pie conspired to remind her that she and Alexander hadn’t eaten since this morning, and her mouth watered at the pale yellow of the lemonade inside the pitcher. She paused to pour herself a glass, eager to ease the dryness of her throat.

  When she straightened, Tillie remained standing in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. It occurred to Charlotte that she was waiting for something. A dismissal? Tillie never bothered with that formality downstairs.

  “Thank you for bringing this,” Charlotte ventured. A moment later, she realized that she had never before said those words to anyone of color.

  Tillie smiled as if she knew it and counted it some sort of victory. “Well, now,” the woman said, smugness loading the two words.

  Charlotte swallowed hard. “You may not – may not know this, but today I learned that my – my father died.”

  Shame scalded Charlotte. Why had she blurted that out? Did she think to buy the woman’s sympathy, her kindness?

  Tillie nodded. “Them people that lived out in that shack where I been sleeping – does his dyin’ make them free?”

  “Get out!” Charlotte demanded. “Get out of my sight now!”

  Tillie spun on her heels and started toward the staircase. As she walked, she muttered, “Guess we can work on please some other time.”

  Before Charlotte had time to form a coherent thought, the glass had shot out of her hand. It smashed against the wall behind Tillie a split second before Charlotte understood that she had been the one to hurl it. She stood still as one of the stone goddesses in the entryway, her jaw unhinged in disbelief.

  Her father’s death had made her a stranger to herself, a wild creature who slapped men across the face and threw tumblers against walls. A being who had passed beyond its boundaries.

  As terrible, as frightening as the thought was, Charlotte had a moment’s satisfaction in the bright tinkle of exploding glass and the tattoo of Tillie’s footsteps receding down the stairs. The moment ended when Charlotte turned to see Alexander watching her, his shoulders drawn up stiffly, his eyes wide with alarm.

  She thought of how she had punished him when he’d thrown clots of mud at Mrs. Martin’s dress, how she had not even allowed him the apple pudding Ben had brought.

  “I guess you’ll be eating my share of dessert tonight,” she told him.

  His shoulders sagged, and he turned away to face the window. “You can have it, Charlotte. I ain’t hungry anyway.”

  Charlotte walked to him and placed her hands upon his shoulders. She meant to tell him something, to offer him some words of comfort or remind him that he should eat. But the moment she looked past him through the window, she forgot whatever she had been about to say.

  Mrs. Martin was walking up the front path. She was holding some kitchen offering in her gnarled hands, but Charlotte suspected she was visiting the officers for a very different reason. The old gorgon had come to carry tales.

  Charlotte wanted to scream, to rage at fate or God or the Yankee nation for heaping disaster after disaster upon her. She had already lost her father. How much more could she bear?

  Mindful of Alexander, she tipped her head forward and allowed her pooling tears to flow. Like her weeping, her prayer was silent.

  Please, God, don’t let Mrs. Martin tell them. Please don’t let her ruin everything.

  o0o

  As Ben was leaving his assigned bedroom, where he’d gone to replenish his cigar supply, he heard Charlotte’s furious exclamation, following by the sound of breaking glass. He met Tillie at the bottom of the staircase that led to the third floor.

  “Charming our guests again?” he asked her.

  The woman scowled at him.

  “Or doesn’t Miss Randolph appreciate your cooking?” he continued, unable to resist.

  The scowl changed to a glare as Tillie crossed her arms before her. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with my food.”

  “It’s a good thing, too, or there’s not a soul who’d put up with you.”

  Her lips twitched, and Ben could swear that she was trying not to smile.

  He reached into a pocket and drew out two cigars, then offered one to her. “Why don’t you come out on the porch with me and have a smoke? You look like you could use one.”

  A corner of her mouth pulled upward. “Now what would you say, cap’n, if I take you up on that invitation?”

  He shrugged. “I guess I’d say to grab a little more of that peach pie on your way out – and call me Ben, not captain.”

  The threatening smile finally burst forth, along with a chuff of laughter. She raised the cigar, which she’d clenched in her fist. “You can get your own danged pie, Ben Chandler. I got my prize already.”

  A minute later, Ben commandeered a chair on the front porch but didn’t bother smoking. He was glad that Tillie hadn’t deigned to join him, for it turned out he needed time alone more than he’d needed the cigar.

  The fate of Colonel Franklin Randolph had cast a pall over this evening’s dinner. Even though Randolph was the enemy and none of them had known him, his death reminded the Union officers that during wartime, life could end violently and without warning. Both General Branard and Ben had seen it happen, had lived with the horrifying realization that it could happen to them, too. Jonathan Snyder, who had returned that afternoon, was only beginning to comprehend that fact. In addition to the reminder of their own mortality, the notion that they were living in a dead man’s home and sitting around a dead man’s table weighed heavy. Especially since upstairs his children mourned his loss.

  Ben stared out into the fading sky. He could not forget the feel of Charlotte as she’d slumped into his embrace, the surge of tenderness he’d felt when he had offered comfort. Her absence from the evening meal had left a gaping hole, turning the conversations of those remaining flat and meaningless. Though Alexander normally said little as they ate, Ben also found he missed the small exchanges that they shared. A week ago, he never would have guessed such things could still hold meaning for him. He’d been so wrapped up in his losses -- in the amputation of his leg, the deaths of men in his command, the trouble with his ranch in Texas -- that he’d almost forgotten there had been another time, another life. A time when a woman’s laughter or a child’s smile could mean more than the angry sentiments of opposing political beliefs, more even than his hunger to preserve the things his father fought and died for.

  He felt like a man awakened from a long, nightmarish sleep. He was grateful for it, but he reminded himself that it would be foolish to mistake his gratitude for more. Clearly, Charlotte despised his decision to fight for the Union, even if she claimed to understand it. Even if she’d been forced to deal with the enemy so she and Alexander would have a place to live.

  If that was all there was to it. At times she was nearly able to convince him of her story. Nearly, but not quite. Something about the things she said or the way she said them rang false. Or perhaps the suspicion was somehow linked with her actions. For example, the manner in which she’d received her message from the washerwoman nagged at Ben. Which was why he’d decided to investigate the woman and made arrangements to have her movements watched.

  One thing was for damned sure: He could not allow emotion to affect his judgment regarding Charlotte. He could not forget that she might well prove to be a danger he must deal with, even if that meant that Alexander would be left without –


  No. That thought didn’t bear close scrutiny. Not now. Not unless circumstances forced the issue.

  Ben’s thoughts were interrupted by the approach of a diminutive, black-clad woman. The neighbor, Mrs. Martin, unless he missed his guess.

  She came carrying an offering of cookies and a smile that wrinkled around a mouthful of teeth like tiny pearls. And undoubtedly gossip regarding her enemies, the Randolphs.

  “Mrs. Martin, what a delightful surprise,” Ben lied as he used his cane to rise and then re-introduced himself. He accepted the plate of cookies and thanked her for her generosity before adding, “The general will be delighted. I’m sure he’d want to thank you personally, but he’s meeting with an official at the moment.”

  “That’s perfectly fine, Captain Chandler. I’ve really come to speak with you.”

  He put the warm plate down on a small table and invited her to sit with him. “May I get you something? Tea or lemonade?”

  He hated the necessity of treating her politely, but he had to put aside his personal dislike. He’d been remiss when he hadn’t followed up with her before. He’d be downright negligent if he didn’t listen to whatever she had risked returning to tell him. Even if he didn’t want to hear it.

  Mrs. Martin perched on the edge of one of the painted iron chairs that lined the porch. “I’ve come to warn you about that she-devil you were speaking with the other day.”

  Ben couldn’t help but smile at her description. “Miss Randolph? A she-devil? That seems a bit extreme.”

  “You don’t know much about Franklin Randolph, do you?”

  “Only that he’s a rabid secessionist and a colonel for the rebels,” Ben chose to answer. In truth, he had learned a great deal more since coming here: that Randolph was a formidable man, charismatic and well liked, articulate enough to whip others into a frenzy of Southern “patriotism.” What he could not accomplish with persuasion, he’d been known to buy. He was a man other men would die for, and his son was reportedly no less dangerous. In confiscating Randolph’s personal property, the general hoped to keep him from using his wealth to buy information and bribe dishonest Union officers, as he’d reportedly been doing.

  “The man speaks Latin, Greek, and heaven knows how many other languages,” Mrs. Martin told Ben. “He does calculations in his head that an accountant couldn’t do on paper. He believes in mind as weapon, in business as well as warfare. And he has always made his children’s education his top priority.”

  “His daughter’s as well?” Ben asked as he wondered where all this was leading.

  The old woman nodded. “His daughter’s especially. He used to boast about what an apt student she was. So if you value your life, you’ll stay well away from her.”

  Charlotte’s warning sprang to mind: “She’s crazy as a betsy bug. You can’t believe a word she says.”

  The old woman certainly did seem crazy, or at least highly dramatic. Mrs. Martin was probably one of those old-fashioned shrews who thought of a woman with scholarly learning as unnatural. Yet that did not explain her vehemence, which seemed far more personal.

  “You think I’m insane,” Mrs. Martin guessed correctly. “Maybe I am, just a little. But it’s because she’s made me that way. Because she killed my son.”

  Murder? The idea of Charlotte committing such a crime was laughable. As he thought about her upstairs, tending to her little brother in their grief, the accusation seemed not only ludicrous but cruel.

  Ignoring the old woman’s suggestion, Ben said, “A message arrived today. Charlotte and Alexander’s father was shot to death.” If the woman had an ounce of decency – or sanity - she’d express regret, even shame for the way that she had spoken.

  Instead, Mrs. Martin paused for several moments before saying, “Her father, not the boy’s.”

  Ben straightened in his chair, his scalp prickling with unease. Something about Mrs. Martin’s words nudged a suspicion that had been growing in his mind, a nagging doubt he hadn’t been able to express even to himself.

  “What are you saying?” he asked.

  “I’m saying that Alexander Randolph is Charlotte’s son and not her brother.”

  The idea fell into place, the rightness of it overruling Ben’s dislike of Mrs. Martin. Yes. That explained all, the deception he had sensed in Charlotte, the way she hovered over Alexander. Still, he wanted more.

  “Why would you think that?” he asked.

  Mrs. Martin smiled, relieved, perhaps, to have an audience for her grievances against Charlotte and the Randolph family. She leaned back in her chair, relaxing.

  “As I’m sure you’ve noticed, Charlotte has a certain way about her,” Mrs. Martin said, settling into her story as if she had been rehearsing it for years. “She entices men, enthralls them even, though I can’t say I understand the attraction. Even at fifteen, she preened like a self-satisfied cat around my poor son, my Edgar. He might have been seven years older than Charlotte and handsome enough in his own right, but Edgar was always so naïve when it came to the ways of women.”

  Ben wanted to remind her that, at fifteen, Charlotte Randolph had not been a woman but a girl. But Mrs. Martin did not give him the opportunity to interrupt her story.

  “I tried warning him about her,” she said, “but I could no more keep him from her than I could keep the moon from rising.”

  The old woman’s eyes closed, but she continued speaking. “Charlotte’s mother, Genevieve, was very ill, and for a while Charlotte looked almost as unhealthy. Everyone said she’d exhausted herself in nursing her mother and looking after the household. Or at least that was Genevieve’s explanation when she sent the girl off to visit some aunt or another for several months. About the time Charlotte returned, Genevieve supposedly gave birth to a son, a boy they called Alexander, though no one had seen any evidence the woman was expecting.”

  “And you believe the child was Charlotte’s?” Ben commented, still trying to comprehend. The charge that Charlotte might have borne a child out of wedlock, serious as it was, still fell far short of the suggestion that she had killed Mrs. Martin’s son.

  “Genevieve was dead of cancer within the month,” Mrs. Martin said. “She was far too weak to have given birth, especially to such a robust infant.”

  Ben shrugged, not entirely convinced. “Perhaps the strain was what killed the woman.”

  “Nonsense. Alexander is Charlotte’s bastard – and my son’s.”

  Was her conviction based on a desire to believe some part of her son yet lived? “What makes you so certain?”

  “Charlotte’s brother, Michael, thrashed my Edgar within an inch of his life. Edgar wouldn’t admit he was the one who did it. He said it was a gang of miscreants down by the riverfront. At first I believed him, but the pieces didn’t fit. For one thing, Edgar had been a close friend of Michael’s until a few weeks before Charlotte disappeared. Neither of them discussed their falling out, but I overheard the two of them shouting at each other not long before Edgar was beaten. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but they both sounded furious. A few days later, our carriage house caught fire and burned right to the ground.”

  Ben nodded. If Mrs. Martin was right and Edgar had gotten Charlotte with child, it came as no surprise that her brother would have punished him. Nor did Ben especially blame him. Ben couldn’t credit Mrs. Martin’s implication that Charlotte bore the blame for her son’s actions. She might have been well educated, but she’d also been a fifteen-year-old girl, not a worldly-wise seductress. Edgar Martin had been a man of twenty-two.

  “So what happened to your son?” he asked. “I know it might be difficult for you, but you’re suggesting Charlotte Randolph is a murderess. The more you talk about it, the harder I find it to imagine.”

  The woman’s mouth shrank into a pucker, and she shook her head. “Oh, I’m not saying that she murdered him, only that she might as well have. After Edgar was attacked, he suddenly announced his desire to sell our hotel, the one his father had worke
d his whole life to establish, and move west to California. He said he’d given it a great deal of thought, and he believed a young man who knew the hotel business could do quite well in San Francisco.”

  “Sounds reasonable enough.”

  She shook her head, tears gleaming in her dark eyes. “Edgar had never mentioned such a thing before. And he was a very devoted son. He never, ever would have left me here alone.”

  Yet he had, thought Ben, though he saw no reason why the woman’s “devoted son” could not have packed her off to San Francisco, too. From what he understood, the place was no longer the frontier sin pit it had been in the first days of the Gold Rush.

  Mrs. Martin produced a kerchief edged with black lace from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. “My Edgar joined a wagon train and began the journey west. But he never made it.”

  “Indians?” Ben guessed. Some of the tribes had grown less tolerant of the stream of whites crossing their hunting grounds.

  She shook her head. “According to the wagon master’s letter, one of his fellow travelers imagined Edgar was cheating at cards – as if my son would commit such a low crime. The man – the man st-stabbed Edgar through the heart.”

  She was weeping in earnest now, and the dainty handkerchief could not stanch the flow.

  Ben understood now, even pitied the old woman. She could not accept the fact that she had raised a son who had impregnated a young girl and then fled the state instead of doing right by her. She could not believe the boy she’d loved had turned out to be no more than a card cheat. Someone had to be at fault, and it could not be Mrs. Martin. So instead she had settled upon Charlotte and her family.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he told her, and he meant it, even if he wasn’t certain she was right. If she was, however, he didn’t especially regret that Edgar Martin had been killed.

  “I’m very sorry,” Ben repeated, “but don’t you think that --?”

  “Don’t I think what? Don’t I think about it night and day, watching her playing with her – with her son, knowing that I’ll never see or speak with mine again? Because she’s taken him from me. She took my Edgar.”