Girl in Disguise

by Greer Macallister

  Instead, she said, “I suppose, with your choices, you gave up your chance.”

  My voice strangled, I said, “I didn’t choose to have a dead child. That happened to me.”

  It was her turn to take things in stride. I had never spoken a word to her after the marriage, so it was unlikely she knew what had happened. But she didn’t seem to react as if the child’s death were news.

  In an even, almost scolding tone, she said, “You chose to do the thing that led to the child. I didn’t raise you that way.”

  “You didn’t raise me at all,” I said.

  Her hand flew to her chest, but it looked insincere to me, the most artificial of acts. “Why must you hurt me? I only want what’s best for you.”

  “Do you? Have you ever?”

  It was her turn to fall silent, remembering our surroundings. We stayed quiet while a strolling couple passed us, and we all inclined our heads to each other in acknowledgment, behaving as people in our position were expected to behave.

  I had so much more to say, but I’d already lingered too long, already allowed myself to be trapped and irritated by her, when I had important work to do.

  “I must go,” I said. “This conversation is at an end.”

  “It is not.”

  “You can’t—”

  “There you are!” Tim’s interruption would have been welcome at any other time, in nearly any conversation, but now, it was a catastrophe. He appeared at my elbow and heartily said, “Wife, at last. I’d been looking everywhere.”

  There was no way around it. “Mrs. Wells, this is my husband. Mr. Armstrong.”

  “Oh, is he now?” she replied, extending her hand in a slow, deliberate unfurling, like the movement of a snake.

  Tim was looking back and forth from my face to hers. Whether or not he knew the truth at a glance—we did still have that resemblance—he kept his aspect level.

  In many situations, we found ourselves perfectly aligned and were able to communicate without words. This was not one of those times. There were no signals, no expressions, for what I was trying to escape.

  He said, “Are you fatigued, Annie? Is it time for us to go?”

  “Annie?” my mother said, her eyes narrowing.

  “Husband, could you excuse us for a moment? I’d love a cup of punch.”

  “Certainly,” he said, his face not showing the suspicion he must have felt. Then he was gone, and I did not know how to escape.

  She spoke first, laying her hand on my arm, lightly enough that no one would suspect just from looking at us that our topic was deadly serious. I knew though. She was sending a signal.

  “I don’t know what you’re on about,” she said, “and I don’t know who you’re hiding from. That man, or someone else. Why don’t I tell him the truth and see what happens?”

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  She tilted her head and evaluated me. I knew that look of old. “Oh, but maybe he knows, or maybe he doesn’t. But I’m certain I can find someone who would be interested to know your real name. Mrs. Greenhow, perhaps?”

  Now, my world might come crashing down. I said nothing, showed nothing.

  She added, “So if you could see your way clear to smoothing my path with a few dollars, I think I could keep silent.”

  “That’s outrageous! Pay you?”

  “I’m destitute. Once your father and I parted ways—”

  I was shocked—and almost happy—for a moment. “You finally left him?”

  “Yes. More’s my shame. Now, I’m a woman alone.”

  “No shame in being alone.”

  “Not for you, I suppose. You’re proud of yourself? That’s why you’re hiding under an assumed name, living someone else’s life?”

  “I’m going,” I said, forcing my feet into motion.

  She called, “Do give some thought to what I said. You can find me at the Bellingham.”

  My stomach knotted, because I knew that although I wanted to ignore her entirely, knowing where I could find her was actually quite useful information. I hated that I needed to know anything at all about her, but there it was.

  • • •

  When Tim and I got back to our room, I confessed, telling him who she was and what she wanted. That my parents and I never spoke, and indeed, I had not even been sure she was still alive until I saw her, but that she wanted to extort money from me to keep my identity secret, and I hoped all was not undone. His reaction was swift.

  “Let’s leave,” he said, already standing before the second word was out of his mouth. “Just go. Tonight.”

  “We can’t,” I said with a sinking heart. “We spent all this time building our cover identities as the Armstrongs. We’ll never get this kind of access again.”

  “So what else can you do?”

  I could only think of one way forward. “Pay her.”

  “You have the money?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will it be enough?”

  I knew he was asking about much more than the actual amount. He was asking about her. I answered as best I could. “For now, it will, I think.”

  He looked unsure. “Kate,” he said. “You’re running a very big risk.”

  “We run a big risk every day. It’s worth it.”

  He drew me close. Usually, my body responded to his like tinder under a match, but today, his embrace felt different. It was warm and reassuring. I wanted to melt into him and never rise.

  Two days later, I found her at the Bellingham and counted the bills out into her outstretched hand. We spoke almost no words. I longed to strike her, to shove her, to do something outrageous that would help the anguish on the inside come out. Instead, I did exactly as she asked and walked away. I could not deny her the money, but I could deny her my voice. If she truly had any motherly feelings remaining, that at least might give her pause. But she had never had much in the way of motherly feelings, so I had to take comfort in the fact that however my silence made her feel, it made me feel I had some kind of power remaining, and I needed that.

  Three more days passed, then four, and there was no sign of my mother. It seemed she was keeping her word. She’d asked for a large enough sum that I expected it might keep her quiet for a good while. And since she only knew that I had a secret but not what it was, I knew what would happen next: she would come back and ask for more money. She wouldn’t reveal the secret before she knew who to sell it to—and for how much.

  The real questions were how long that would take and whether we could get our business here completed before time ran out.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  News

  After discussing it at length, Tim and I decided that we needed to let Pinkerton know about the complication. Our only communication with him since our arrival had been our reports, all sent in the same direction, with not a single response to any of them, good or bad. So we sent a report with the detail about her threat and how I’d dealt with it, even though it had no direct bearing on our work with Mrs. Greenhow. And we waited to see what would happen.

  Three days later, when there was a calling card from an E. J. Allen waiting at the desk for us, I put two and two together and said to Tim, “Allen? It must be Pinkerton.” And indeed it was.

  We made arrangements for him to come to our rooms under cover of night, as we could talk most freely that way. He wore no uniform, and when he signed the ledger, he used another name entirely, a Mr. A. P. Egan. We did our best to confuse the issue, not speaking his name at all in the hallway and arriving at separate times. He walked with a cane, which I had not previously seen him do. I wasn’t sure whether it was in reaction to an injury he’d suffered since last we saw each other or just part of a disguise.

  Once we were all in the room, I sat down on the bed, as there were only a few places to sit, and Tim took his seat next to me. His a
rm went around my back, whether automatically or not, I did not know. Pinkerton noticed immediately, and after our initial exchange of pleasantries was complete, he spoke up.

  “Well,” said Pinkerton. “You two are certainly cozier than I would have expected.”

  I looked at him and shrugged.

  “We’re husband and wife as far as Washington is concerned,” I said. “We play our parts well.”

  “And as far as real life is concerned?”

  “Is there such a thing anymore?”

  He looked at me, giving me an intense once-over, a thorough examination. Whatever he saw there, perhaps the firm set of my shoulders, made him grunt in displeasure. He turned to Tim.

  “Bellamy,” he said. “Tell me the truth.”

  Inside, I screamed at Tim not to tell. Nothing good could come of it. And somehow, I wanted to keep the secret for just the two of us, protected, sealed off from the world. But my unspoken words were, of course, unheard.

  “Kate and I are engaged to be married,” said Tim.

  At first, there was only a widening of the eyes to betray his feelings. Even that amount of reaction felt unexpected, and I began to fear what might be to come. The seconds slipped by in silence.

  With a thin veneer of calm, Pinkerton asked, “I’m sorry, I thought you said—engaged, you say?”

  Tim nodded.

  With no further warning, Pinkerton stood, snapping, “It is not allowed!” It felt like a cannon had gone off in the room or a clap of thunder. I had seen a great deal from him over the years, and I had never seen him react like this.

  “There’s no rule—” began Tim.

  “I make the rules. And I will not allow it.”

  “Allow?” I said acidly.

  “Keep your tongue,” Pinkerton answered back, brandishing a finger in my direction.

  “Don’t talk to her that way,” said Tim, beginning to step forward.

  “I’ll talk to her how I like. And to you too.”

  “This isn’t right,” Tim said. “If it were anyone else, you wouldn’t have word one to say.”

  Pinkerton glared at him. He was far shorter than Tim but more solidly built and gave the impression of being ready to brawl. He gripped his cane. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “If it were Hattie. Or any other woman. You wouldn’t care. It isn’t about fraternization.”

  “Of course it is,” said Pinkerton. He sounded convincing enough, but my head was in a whirl, so there was no knowing the truth of it, not in that moment.

  “No,” said Tim. “It’s just Kate. You want her for yourself. You always have.”

  I lost my breath. Could it be true?

  “That is a lie and a slander, and I should cut you loose just for having the gall to say it,” said Pinkerton, speaking in a low growl.

  “So do,” said Tim, not breaking.

  “Damn firing you. I should fight you.”

  I looked back and forth between the men. The two most important men in my life, dead set against each other, threatening violence. How could things have gone so wrong so fast?

  “Then let’s,” Tim said with a snarl.

  I didn’t know what to do, but I had to wade into the fray as best I could, which meant speaking up.

  “Damn you both to hell,” I said. “Keep your voices down. What are you thinking? What if we’re heard?”

  That seemed to rein them both in, if only for the moment.

  They scowled at each other, tense, still. I thought about Tim’s words. Was he right? Did Pinkerton want me for himself after all, despite his long marriage, despite never laying a hand on me? It seemed impossible, but why else would he react so fiercely? His wife had suspected us, had warned me away. What if she was right?

  If that was the case, there was no telling what our punishment might be. Real fear clawed its way up my throat.

  With a glance at the closed door, Pinkerton hissed, much more quietly, “You both stay put until I decide what to do with you.”

  “Whatever you decide,” said Tim, his voice velvet over steel, “know this. You can’t make me stop loving her. No matter what you do. And more important, you can’t make her stop loving me.”

  “She doesn’t love you, you fool.”

  I was surprised to find myself saying, “Yes, I do.”

  I had many doubts—whether Tim was really in love with me or just the woman he thought I was, whether our love could survive in peacetime after being forged in the fires of war, whether marriage was the right path for us at all—but I didn’t doubt that I loved Tim Bellamy, all the way at my core. Standing next to him, under assault, it seemed to me I could never have felt any other way.

  Stopped short, Pinkerton thumped his cane against the bed frame. I flinched at its loud report. Then he turned to go.

  As he passed me, he said quietly, “I thought better of you.”

  As much as I wanted to respond with the same words, I knew snapping back at him would only make things worse. As if things could be worse; as if the world weren’t already in tatters.

  All I could do was say, “I’m sorry, Boss,” as he left the room.

  At least he had the presence of mind to shut the door softly behind him instead of slamming it, just in case the wrong ears nearby were listening.

  When the boss left, the air went with him. It was deadly silent with just the two of us there. We looked the same from the outside—same people, same day, same clothes—yet everything felt different.

  Tim said, “Sorry?”

  I took a look at his beloved face. He looked stricken, hollowed out. Did he think I was taking Pinkerton’s side over his? The last thing I could bear was anger between us two.

  “Sorry it’s come to this,” I said, turned, and threw myself into his arms.

  He resisted for a moment, holding himself still, but then relaxed into me, and we held on for dear life.

  • • •

  Three days later, we received word of our fates. A messenger brought two papers, not just one—a bad sign from the start. The only good news would have been conveyed in a single message to both of us. Different messages meant different orders.

  We stared at our twin telegrams from E. J. Allen, both reading in silence, then looking up. I knew whatever happened, my heart would be broken.

  My telegram said:

  STAY PUT

  The extravagance of the extra letters was like a slap in the face. He did not want me to miss his seriousness.

  I looked at Tim. His blue eyes had gone cold, resolute. He was holding part of himself back again. Although I didn’t know the exact wording of his telegram, I knew the thrust of it.

  “When do you leave?” I asked.

  He folded the telegram into a tight square and creased it with his fingers. It disappeared into a pocket of his trousers. “Tomorrow morning.”

  I was unsurprised. “He at least gives us that, then.”

  “He gives us nothing but what we take. It’s only temporary, Kate. He can’t keep us apart forever.”

  Only one question remained. “Where?”

  “Richmond.”

  I felt like a weight had been dropped on my chest. For a moment, I convinced myself I had heard wrong, that there must be some other city that sounded almost the same, but my false hope didn’t last long. I could fool others but never myself.

  “Good God,” I said, tears already wetting my lashes.

  He reached out to fold me against his chest, and the last of my resistance was gone. I dropped my telegram to the floor. I closed my eyes tight and surrendered to his embrace.

  “Shh, shh,” he said. “It’s hardly more dangerous than here.”

  “No! It’s far worse! He’s not—you don’t think he’s”—I forced myself to say the worst—“trying to get you killed?”

 
He shook his head. I could feel it above me. “Maybe. Whatever he wants, it’s all the same. We’re the best he’s got, Kate. He’s not going to sacrifice the country for a petty jealousy.”

  “You really think he’s jealous?”

  “Unfortunately, I do.”

  I couldn’t agree, but neither could I disagree, not with the thought of Pinkerton’s fury so fresh in my mind.

  “Though I suppose I’m biased,” said Tim. “I don’t see how anyone could know you and not love you.” He pulled back a moment, cradling my cheek in his hand. He shot me a rueful smile, but I couldn’t return it. I couldn’t muster the humor.

  He went on, “Anyway, right now, I suppose it doesn’t matter why. I know how to follow orders.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Don’t I? If he says it’s what the country needs, whatever his motives, I’d bet money he’s not wrong. I’ll go to Richmond, as he commands, and meet up with Hattie—he says she’s already there—and we’ll do everything we can to finish this godforsaken war.”

  “I need you here.”

  “You want me here.”

  “Yes. I want…” Then my words finally failed me, and I pressed my face up to his for a kiss. Even in our sadness, the spark of passion was there. The fire had not gone out.

  One last night was ours. This time, we took advantage.

  At last, nothing lay between us. Removing our clothes—as we did in a rush, gasping and laughing, flinging each discard aside—was only part of it. I saw him for the first time, from head to toe and with nothing held back, in his gaze or otherwise. He ran his open palms over my shoulders and down to my hips, down and then up and then down again, murmuring so softly I couldn’t hear his words, but I gathered that they were complimentary. He gripped me and lifted me against him as if I were weightless, then lowered me to the bed. I thought, mischievously, of suggesting the couch instead, but any thoughts of mischief melted quickly away as his skin met mine. I poured my whole self into loving and being loved.

  When I welcomed him into my body, the relief and joy swelled so powerfully within me, I wanted to laugh just as much as I wanted to cry. Instead, I smiled into his neck and whispered his name into his ear, and I said at last, one time, “You’re home.”