Girl in Disguise

by Greer Macallister

  So when someone turned the doorknob of the study from the outside, we both heard.

  He gestured for me to run toward him, and I did, as fast as I could, but the couch was between us. Without a moment’s hesitation, he pulled me over it, and I landed hard on the cushion. He threw his body on top of mine. I didn’t know what he planned until I felt his hand tearing pins from my hair and his mouth suddenly on mine, taking my breath away.

  He tasted like tobacco and flesh and heat.

  My mind was spinning in three different directions at once, but the most important direction was linked to my ears—listening for whoever was coming in the door. I couldn’t see, not with Tim covering my entire body with his own. The side I’d landed on throbbed under my corset; I could barely breathe. And even with all of that, I found myself caught up in passion. My body arched against his, pressing closer as he pressed down, and his other hand came up to my waist, even though it wasn’t visible from the doorway.

  A sliver of light fell across us when the door was opened.

  “Pardon!” exclaimed a man’s voice.

  We looked up, and Tim pulled away from me, leaving my neck and chest suddenly cold. My mouth felt bruised and raw, swollen from his fierce kisses, and the pain was not entirely without pleasure.

  “Do you mind?” Tim said with superior frostiness. Even in my current state, I could appreciate what a good actor he was. No one would take him for anything other than a man in lust, interrupted.

  Then he raised himself on his elbows, and his weight shifted, and as his hips pressed mine into the soft couch, I could feel the evidence that his lust was not entirely an act.

  Mrs. Greenhow’s butler stood in the doorway, his silver hair glinting in the half-light. He appeared undeterred. “I’m afraid you can’t be in here, sir.”

  “We are. And we’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t stand there gawking.”

  The butler’s expression did not change. He was well trained. “Of course, sir. But I have to ask you and your companion—”

  “My wife.” Tim’s indignant sneer was spot-on.

  “I have to insist that you and your wife rejoin the other guests in the drawing room. Mrs. Greenhow does not care for visitors in her study.”

  Sensing that the man would not relinquish his position, Tim backed down from his. “All right then. We meant no harm.”

  He swung his legs off the couch and stood in one fluid motion, running one hand through his disarrayed hair to smooth it—I realized that was my work—and then turned to offer me his hand.

  At that moment, I realized I had left my lock picks. The entire packet lay under the desk behind me, the short metal bars in their sleeves, and the one I’d been using when we were interrupted likely lay exposed and glinting on the carpet. I couldn’t leave them. Even if the servant didn’t notice as he escorted us out, someone would, and only a fool could look at the set of tools and not know what they were for. It wouldn’t take a spy to realize that we, the couple interrupted in the study, had left them. Then all would be over.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Dear?”

  “I need a moment, please, needs must—” I looked down at my disarrayed bodice, then up at Tim, through lowered lashes.

  “My wife would like some privacy, please,” he said firmly.

  “Of course. Sir, ma’am. I’ll wait for you outside and escort you back.”

  As soon as the door was closed, I rose from the couch, swept the packet and loose pick from the floor, and tucked them back into my bodice. I then took a half minute to array the bodice flat, tugging and smoothing it into place, so nothing would show. The drawer remained stubbornly closed, and with the butler aware of our presence, it was now too dangerous to attempt to break in. We’d missed our chance.

  I did not meet Tim’s eyes as we left the room. I knew we were both disappointed that we’d found nothing we could use yet satisfied that our cover identities were still intact. At least not all was lost.

  And if we both felt something else—rattled, confused by pleasure, clouded by the discovery of what seemed to be a mutual lust—we did not discuss it. We lay in the same room in separate beds, across a narrow but steady distance, breathing in the dark.

  • • •

  There were a few steps forward, a few steps back. The war felt like war—surging and sinking, grinding on forever. Washington was a city that would not let us forget. Perhaps back in Chicago, things were different, but in Washington, there were troops in the streets and uniforms in every room we entered, large or small. The city was under martial law, and every stroll down the street carried some small risk of erupting into violence, though thank goodness, it happened less often than we feared. We learned the identities of Mrs. Greenhow’s frequent visitors and dutifully relayed all we learned in long reports to Pinkerton. But we still had no real evidence, nothing we could use to hasten Mrs. Greenhow’s arrest or name her conspirators. All we knew for sure was that she was likely a spy—and a careful one.

  There were reasons to despair, but even in this thin soil, hope grew, in an unexpected direction.

  In the midst of all this, after the night we’d failed to burgle Mrs. Greenhow’s study, I began to recognize what had been growing between myself and Tim. Back in Chicago, I never would have guessed it. But after so many days and nights in each other’s company, we’d developed an ease, a rhythm, I’d never known with Charlie. That marriage had been real, according to God and law, and this one was only a fiction. And yet, I was happier in this sham of a union than I’d ever been, even for a day, in the other one.

  I learned to dance. Tim was an excellent dancer, a talent I’d had no reason to suspect. I began to look forward to the balls and galas, not just as an opportunity to watch Mrs. Greenhow at work, but also for my own private enjoyment. I became amazingly aware of Tim’s hands. How one felt alongside my waist, the other entwined with mine, as we danced a waltz. The strength of his fingers. How it felt when his wedding band pressed against my flesh, warm from his touch. We always did our best to keep up conversation when we danced, since there were so many listening ears nearby.

  “Mrs. Armstrong,” he said one evening, “I should tell you how fervently I admire you.”

  “You should,” I said with a laugh.

  He looked around the room, subtly enough that I doubted anyone else noticed, and then spoke again, more softly. “I should tell you so…Kate.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. He was clearly making an effort to reach out, a wholly unexpected one. “Shall I thank you? It seems like I should thank you.”

  “We know each other much better than we did before. I’ve learned a great deal. My earliest impressions of you were…mistaken.”

  Our feet continued to move in the same pattern, one-two-three, one-two-three, as I considered what to say. I was glad at what I heard, but at the same time, I was not inclined to let him off easy for how he’d acted toward me in those days. “Once upon a time, you told me I would never be able to do what was needed.”

  He said softly, “That was a long time ago. I didn’t know you then. I know you now.”

  “You do,” I said and squeezed his hand as we made a lazy circle among our enemies.

  • • •

  That night, when we returned to our room, we started off as usual. He put his hand on my shoulder, following me in, and I closed the door behind us. His hand was still there. I closed my eyes, feeling furtive, enjoying his touch, even as I knew he’d pull his fingers away in a moment and walk over to the far side of the room to give me what little privacy he could in our shared space.

  But he didn’t.

  Instead of lifting his fingers from my shoulder, he drew them across my back, toward my neck. I felt his fingertips move upward, teasing the lace at the top of my collar, and then go skittering across the bare skin just under m
y hairline. I shivered. He placed the whole palm against my skin, enveloping the back of my neck with a gentle pressure.

  His touch was like fire.

  I said, unable to keep my voice steady, “We’re alone now. There’s no need to pretend.”

  He said, “I’m not pretending.”

  I held my breath.

  Into the silence, he added, “I haven’t been. Not about you.”

  There were so many things I wanted to say. They all died in my throat before I could speak them. The air was so heavy, so laden with danger and promise, and I was terrified of losing that feeling. I wanted it to go on and on in perfect balance. But I also wanted what might come after it, the dazzling, dizzying possibility. I wanted it with every part of me. I raised my eyes to look at Tim.

  I saw my own torment reflected in his face—fear and longing, too fierce to resist.

  His lips came down on mine, and my arms were around his neck before I even registered that he’d moved.

  We had kissed before, in the name of subterfuge, but this kiss was only for us and our true selves, and the passion of it was indescribable. Never had there been anything in my life so powerful. I wanted to throw off the shackles of our lives, our responsibilities, anything that didn’t involve me and this man right here, pressed against each other, now and for all time.

  “Sweet Lord,” he said, his voice rich with wonder. In the half-light of our supposed marriage bed, he looked as stunned as I felt.

  “Hush,” I said and kissed him again.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Mrs. Wells

  And so the world was new. In the midst of such terror, there were still joys, and it helped us redouble our efforts in the spy game. We worked flawlessly as a team, paying visits to house after house, where I would gossip my way into information and he would mentally map every location, every name, every word. Our reports to Pinkerton were written together, as it now seemed one of us could not have a thought without the other. I still went alone on my afternoon social calls, but evening always found us together, and then the nights afterward.

  Nights had become sweet torture. Living as husband and wife in the eyes of the world, retiring to a single room with a single bed every night, there was no one to keep us from each other but ourselves. He was stronger than I. I would have given myself to him that first night if he’d asked and every night after. But each night, we fell into each other’s arms even in the act of walking in the door, poured our passion into kisses, and then like clockwork, he pulled away, groaning, “God, Kate, we can’t,” and stumbled away with a grimace that was almost a smile.

  Was it a distraction, or a better, more compelling level of deception for our enemies? Who knew? The next time we saw Mrs. Greenhow at a dinner and had to part to take our seats at table, he brushed his lips over my hand and smiled slowly at me before walking away. She leaned over my shoulder and whispered conspiratorially, “How many women can say their husbands still smile at them like that?” I blushed like a schoolgirl.

  One night, as we tangled on the bed fully dressed, I began unbuttoning the front of my bodice. Tim put his hand over mine to stop me, and I moved his hand to my breast, pressing against him. He did not move his fingers to caress the flesh there, but neither did he move his hand away.

  “How long can we keep on like this?” I asked.

  “Don’t ask,” he said, groaning.

  “We’re married in the eyes of the world, you know. There’d be nothing wrong with that, to almost everyone.”

  “But to me—”

  “I know, I know,” I said, kissing his cheek, his ear, his neck.

  He said, “I want to be a true husband to you. Not just as the Armstrongs. I’m sure you know that.”

  “I know you want to be my husband in bed but you won’t let yourself.”

  “Not just that.”

  He pulled his hands off me then and took my own hands in his.

  “Kate Warne,” he said. “I want you to be my wife.”

  I was truly speechless.

  “When the war is over,” he said. “We can be together then. The two of us, as ourselves, in front of everyone. We can share a life. Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy. We’ll be done with this spying, this skulking around, and we can go back to good, honest casework.”

  “Was it so different?” I asked. “Deceiving criminals, pretending to be people we’re not?”

  “You know it was. And will be.”

  “Yes,” I admitted. “And I miss it. Solving things. Having the answer. In this life, there are no answers, are there?”

  “Someday, we’ll know,” he said. “But not today. All I know today is that I can’t imagine living without you. And you’ll marry me, won’t you?”

  He twisted the wedding band that was already on my finger, his eyes as warm and tender as I had ever seen them, promising so much beyond his words.

  “I will,” I said. “And you’ll marry me? Whoever you are?”

  He laughed the most beautiful laugh.

  I kissed him and entwined my limbs with his. When we woke in the morning, we were still in a tangle on the bed, fully dressed.

  • • •

  At the next night’s gathering, I was floating in a pleasant haze. Tim and I kept finding moments to squeeze each other’s hands or rest our fingers elsewhere on each other’s bodies, tiny moments of connection that never failed to send a zing of pleasure through me.

  “You two are simply the loveliest couple,” said Mrs. Horrow.

  “So kind of you to say so.”

  “You’ll have the most beautiful babies.”

  “A lot of them, I hope,” said Tim, squeezing my waist, and though of course I kept Mrs. Armstrong’s sweet smile on my face, I fell to pieces on the inside.

  Of course he would want children. He wanted me, sure, but didn’t he really want a family? I couldn’t give him one. I’d never told him about the child I’d lost or what the doctor had said after. We had never conversed so honestly; there had never been a reason either to intentionally withhold the information or reveal it. He knew about Charlie, about his death, but not how my parents had forced me into the marriage nor how unhappy I’d been in it. I’d been playing a role with him too, without intending to.

  He didn’t truly know me. He had whispered that to me when we were waltzing—I know you now—but it wasn’t true. The rush of thoughts that followed made my gut twist. If he didn’t truly know me, it was more than possible he didn’t truly want me. It was all just another lie. The bottom dropped out of my confidence.

  Someone called him away, and he leaned over to kiss my cheek before he went. I almost couldn’t look at him. So trusting, so loving, and what was I good for? Only deception and deceit.

  The hostess was jabbering away, ignorant of my turmoil. She steered me by the elbow over to the table of sweets and then conducted me into the next room, gabbing all the while.

  She stopped and said, “Oh, let me introduce you to another lady from Charleston! This is Mrs. Armstrong.”

  I curtsied as I had a million times, looking down to the ground and then raising my eyes to my conversation partner, as I’d done over and over. But this time, I got a shock. If she wasn’t literally the last person I expected to see at that moment, she was certainly on a very short list.

  My mother.

  “Mrs. Armstrong, this is Mrs. Wells.”

  She had aged, as I had, but it was unmistakably her. I had always resembled my father more strongly, but she and I had the same mouth. Hers was agape. Mine was not, but I was far more accustomed to controlling my reactions, or at least I assumed so. Her roles in my father’s schemes had never required much in the way of range. In any case, I certainly doubted she’d had as much experience as I had.

  Even with my inner life in complete turmoil, I took charge. I was used to it.

  “Oh, do l
et’s talk about Charleston!” I said gaily. “I miss King Street so! Have you tried the oyster palace off Anson?”

  I tucked her arm through mine and steered her away from the hostess. We arrived in a side parlor, and I strove to maintain an air of calm, as if she were barely just an acquaintance. Which, after all this time, she truly was.

  I looked her over more closely. Aged, yes, and possibly come down a touch in life, not that she’d ever been in high society to begin with. Her gown, striped robin’s-egg blue and dove gray with a contrasting border circling the skirt just above the floor, was several seasons past fashion. Mine was flashier, a rich shade of purplish-red achieved with beet dye, although of course, that was only the role I played. The true me wasn’t meeting the true her. But I might not have survived it if it were really me. The momentum of playacting was all that was keeping me upright.

  “Armstrong?” she said. “You’ve married again, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t that funny? You used to call yourself Annie Armstrong as a child. How strange you should be an Armstrong at last.”

  I betrayed no discomfort. Lying was breathing now. “There are many Armstrongs in the world. My husband and I have had a good laugh about it. I promised it wasn’t the only reason I loved him.”

  “Well, you always did like to draw attention to your own cleverness. Where is this man? I’d love to meet him.”

  “I doubt that will be possible,” I said frostily.

  “You have more children, I hope?”

  “More? No.”

  She eyed me, but instead of asking the natural question, she chose to needle me once more. “You’re hardly young. Be a shame if you missed your chance. A woman’s family is her legacy.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “I didn’t ask what you believed. I told you how things are.”

  Her eyes blazed, and I knew we were dangerously close to giving ourselves away. I said nothing in hopes she would collect herself.