by Diaz, Debra
“My accommodations are more than adequate. I must thank you.”
“I…oh, certainly. Mrs. Shirley, will you tell me about my husband?”
The nurse strode purposefully into the room, standing very straight with her hands at her sides. She was tall for a woman, an inch or two taller even than Catherine, who was above average in height. “You will find him much changed, madam. You must try not to mind too much.”
“Why—” Catherine searched for words. “Why does he cover his head? Is it because of his eyes?”
A moment of silence passed as Mrs. Shirley gave her a long, measuring look. “Your husband conceals his face out of concern for others, Mrs. Kelly. A bursting shell destroyed his sight. However, the brush caught fire where he lay wounded. He is not…recognizable.”
Catherine could not conceal her horror. She turned quickly away, clutching the curtain at the window. After a moment she said, “Is he not healed? Is that why you tend to him?”
Again Mrs. Shirley paused before answering, but this time there seemed to be a hint of sympathy in her voice. “Captain Kelly’s wounds are fresh in his mind, madam. They may ever be so. He trusts me. I am a good nurse. He will of course take meals in his room and I will assist him. He does not have good use of his hands. He requires assistance to dress. His burns are mostly healed, but there is always a chance for infection.”
Catherine swallowed and faced Mrs. Shirley again. “How long do you think it will be necessary for you to stay?”
A sparse black eyebrow went up. “That is difficult to say, madam. He is dependent on me. If he wants me to stay for the remainder of his life, considering my own continued good health, I will do so.”
“I see.”
“And there is something else. His memory has been somewhat affected.”
“Do you mean…he doesn’t remember me?”
“He remembers you and most of the important people in his life, but there are details, things he has forgotten. He hopes you will understand.”
Tears came to Catherine’s eyes. “But why weren’t we told, Mrs. Shirley? I could have been with my husband all this time. I don’t understand this long delay.”
“There was nothing you could have done,” the nurse said quietly. “And when he became aware of who he was and what had happened to him, he did not wish you to see him.”
“I want to help him,” Catherine said, her hands tightly clasped in front of her. “But I don’t know how. I hardly know what to say to him. I don’t want to hurt his pride. You probably know him better than I do, by now. Will you help me…to help him?”
“Of course, madam. At this time he desires nothing more than privacy. He must become accustomed to this thing that has happened to him. You must not feel neglected if he stays in his room a great deal of the time. I believe that eventually he may be able to return to a normal life.”
“What’s this?” Martin and Sallie entered the room. Mrs. Shirley’s head turned on her shoulders, though the rest of her body remained motionless.
“Did I hear you say Andrew is to be kept in his room?” Martin asked, releasing Sallie’s hand as she took a seat on the sofa.
“I said that he prefers to stay in his room and will be taking all his meals there. Of course he wants no one present when he removes his head covering.”
“But why does he wear that thing?” Sallie asked, in her lilting, little-girl voice—which for some reason always irritated Catherine.
Mrs. Shirley continued looking at Martin. “Captain Kelly has been burned. I’ve explained everything to Mrs. Kelly.”
Sallie gasped.
“I suspected as much,” Martin said. “Of course we’ll do everything we can to make him comfortable. As you probably know, Mrs. Kelly is my niece and has made her home here since the death of her parents several years ago.”
Mrs. Shirley inclined her head.
“And as to your, er, payment—”
“Captain Kelly provides adequate compensation for my services, Mr. Henderson. You needn’t concern yourself.”
“Ah. Of course.”
“If you will excuse me.” Mrs. Shirley did not wait for permission, but with seemingly no effort propelled her long body from the room.
“You’re all right, my dear?” Martin said anxiously.
Catherine started to answer but saw he was looking at his wife. Sallie smiled a little, her eyes downcast, and nodded.
“Then I shall go to my office. Catherine, I’m sorry about Andrew. This war…well, none of us knows what will happen, but as long as I’m able I shall continue to take care of both of you.”
Catherine stiffened her spine. “Andrew does have a home in Alabama, Uncle Martin. When he’s better, perhaps it would be best if we went to live there, though I’m very grateful to you.”
“Perhaps it would be best,” Sallie said, her blue eyes round and concerned. “Perhaps he’d prefer to be among his own people.”
“Well, we’ll see. Now I must be off.” Martin kissed his wife on the cheek, took his hat from the rack near the doorway, and left the room.
Sallie glanced at Catherine. “Well, I’m sure you’ve thought of this, but there’s always the possibility of an annulment.”
CHAPTER TWO
Catherine stared. “Annulment?”
Sallie lowered her eyes and adjusted the sleeve of her gown. “Why, yes. Do you know what your life is going to be like? Andrew is blind. You’re only nineteen. Why, that’s only three years younger than I am, and I know I wouldn’t want to spend the rest of my life with a man who’s completely helpless, even if there is someone else to take care of him.
“And what if Mrs. Shirley leaves and it’s left up to you? What if the war comes here and we all lose everything? How is Andrew going to support you?”
Catherine sat down abruptly. “Sallie, Andrew is my husband. I promised—”
“Yes, I know all about marriage vows, dear. But if you get an annulment, you’d be free to marry again.” Sallie raised a delicate brow. “You were only together for one day before he left, and you were sick. Of course it’s none of my business, but it seems that—”
“Yes, you’re quite right. That is, about it being none of your business. Excuse me, please. I must go see my husband.”
She got to her feet again, making a supreme effort to control her temper. How dared Sallie say such things? Of course she was not going to leave her husband. She would not listen to such talk. Only…only it seemed that Sallie’s suggestion, for just a moment, had lifted an intolerable burden…had given her a tantalizing glimpse of a certain freedom that would never be hers again.
Catherine felt ashamed. How could she be thinking of herself after what had happened to Andrew? How lonely and despondent he must have been all these months!
She steeled herself as she went up the long staircase, her hand sliding along the polished wooden banister. This situation would take some getting used to. What would she say to him? She gathered from what Mrs. Shirley had told her that he did not expect her to share his room, and she felt guiltily relieved.
The large area at the top of the stairs had been made into a sitting room. A central window looked down upon the street in front of the house. On either side of the sitting room, railed hallways ran parallel to each other, with three bedrooms on each side. One belonged to Martin and Sallie, one to Sallie’s brother, Bart Ingram, one to herself, and now on the opposite side, one each to Andrew and Mrs. Shirley. Not sure
which bedroom Andrew had been given, since she had expected him to use hers, she paused in the sitting room and listened.
Someone said at her side, “Your husband is waiting to speak with you, madam.”
Catherine’s eyes, a light gray-green now in the dimness, widened as she turned around. Mrs. Shirley was also going to take some getting used to.
“He’s in that room,” the nurse said, with a quick gesture. “My room is next to his.”
“Thank you,” Catherine said, trying to appear unruffled.
Mrs. Shirley stood and watched as Catherine moved down the hallway and knocked on the door, then she turned and went down the stairs. Not even her skirts rustled.
“Come in,” came a low voice from within.
Catherine turned the knob and stepped into the room. The shades had been pulled and the lighting was dim. Apparently all his clothes had been put away, for the empty bags sat near the armoire. The covers on the massive four-poster bed were folded back, as though he were about to take a nap.
Her husband stood near the doorway. She looked up at him and realized she would never even be able to see his eyes—though, of course, she did not know if he still had eyes. Again she was touched by horror and fought a feeling of queasiness.
Catherine unconsciously twisted her hands together. “Andrew, I hardly know what to say, or…or how to tell you how sorry I am all this has happened and I wasn’t there to help you. Mrs. Shirley said you didn’t want me to see you, but Andrew, I would have come in a moment and it wouldn’t matter what you looked like. You’re my husband.”
“You’re very kind,” he said, without moving. “I knew you would be. We still don’t know each other very well. Can you hear me, Catherine? My throat was damaged and it’s difficult to speak.”
She nodded, and again felt tears start to her eyes. She bit her lip to stop them, then remembered he couldn’t see them. Nor could he see her nod. She managed to say, “Yes, I can hear you.”
“For a while I’ll need to spend a lot of time alone. I require a great deal of sleep. Mrs. Shirley will see to everything, so you needn’t worry about me. I ask that you be patient with me, Catherine, and perhaps it won’t be long before I begin to feel more…normal…more human.”
Catherine knew he would be able to hear the tears in her voice. “I’ll be patient, Andrew. You’ve suffered so much. I…I wish there was something I could do to help you.”
“Thank you, Catherine. And now, I must rest.”
She wondered if she should embrace him, but decided it might be painful for him. “Can I help you to the bed?” she asked, dashing her hands over her wet cheeks.
“No,” he answered. “I’ve already memorized the room.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“No. Thank you.”
She went to the door. “Andrew?” she said softly.
“Yes, Catherine?”
“I’m glad you’re home.”
***
Catherine woke the next morning with a sense of having gone to bed with a heavy heart. It seemed no lighter today. However, she had many things to do—besides her regular chores, she had to prepare to give a talk on the prophet Elijah in her Sunday school class tomorrow—and she realized there was little to be gained by moping about the room.
She washed and dressed and, as usual, struggled with her hair. Waist-length, auburn in color and contrary in temperament, she could never coax it into a neat roll or braids and it refused to suffer the indignity of curling tongs, at least in her inexperienced hands.
And as she did every day, she gave up with a growl of exasperation and stuffed it into a net, choosing a color to match her dress. The neck and short sleeves of the olive green dress were edged sparingly with lace; she did not like ruffles and bows and dresses which fairly dripped with ornamentation. She left such furbelows to Sallie, who usually managed to look like a well-wrapped Christmas gift. And, Catherine thought as she made her way downstairs, that’s just about what she was.
Martin’s first wife had died not long before both of Catherine’s parents had succumbed to an outbreak of typhoid three years ago. Catherine had come to Richmond to live with Martin, her mother’s brother. She had finished her formal education by then, but read avidly, especially anything to do with history, and secretly wished to be a teacher.
She was never sure how she was to accomplish this, since girls of her social standing did not work outside the home. They married, had babies, and ran the household—which usually involved not only their husbands and children but a number of servants as well. But then she’d married Andrew and knew she would probably never become a teacher.
Sallie Ingram, a distant cousin of Martin’s first wife, had stopped by on her way to visit New York and never left again. It was Christmas, two years ago, when rumors of war were already flying across the nation.
Sallie had seen that Martin was wealthy, had a lovely home, and while still handsome at sixty-three, was probably too old to go into battle. The sweetly ingenuous Miss Ingram instantly captivated Martin, too long a widower. Catherine was embarrassed for him, but she really had nothing against Sallie and was glad Martin seemed happy.
Sallie’s older brother, Bartlett, whom she called Bartie and everyone else called Bart (Catherine had, more than once, mentally referred to him as Bratty) had moved in with his sister and brother-in-law just after the onset of the war. He worked as a clerk in the attorney general’s office.
A delicious aroma of bacon and coffee wafted into the main hallway. Catherine went through the dining room and into the kitchen where Hester, the cook, was beating eggs in a bowl.
“Good morning, Hester.”
The elderly black woman did not look up but answered warmly, “Good mornin,’ chile. Lawdamercy, I can see this won’t be ’nough eggs an’ I already done sent Jessie to town to get some more butter.”
“How many do you need?” Catherine asked, looking into the bowl.
“’Nough for two more people.”
“Well, use my helping. I’ll not eat eggs today, and give someone half of Bart’s. He never eats all of his.”
“I was hopin’ you’d say that.” Hester gave a characteristic cackle, along with an engaging, semi-toothless grin.
“I wanted to remind you to send Andrew a tray. I’m not sure if he’s awake yet. Perhaps Mrs. Shirley will let us know. And I don’t know if she’ll want to eat with us or in her room.”
“I’ll see to it, Miz Catherine.”
When Catherine returned to the dining room, Martin and Sallie were just seating themselves. Ephraim appeared, his brown face bearing the lines of age and a long-held, pleasant patience, his medium frame held proud and erect, his white hair adding to the impression of quiet dignity. He transferred the dishes Hester set on the sideboard to the long mahogany dining table and began to pour the coffee into porcelain cups. Plates were filled with bacon and ham, scrambled eggs, biscuits and gravy, buttered grits and hotcakes dripping with honey.
“Ephraim,” Catherine said, “what would you say is the most important characteristic of the prophet Elijah?”
Ephraim reflected. He knew most of the Bible by memory, having been taught to read by Catherine’s grandfather. He’d belonged to her parents and he, with his granddaughter, Jessie, had been imported to the Henderson residence along with Catherine. Martin’s housekeeper had recently died, and Ephraim proved to be worth his weight in gold. The butler never spoke until he knew exactly what he was going to say, and when he did speak it was with precision and a clear enunciation, scorning both the dialect of most slaves and the southern drawls of the white people. He did occasionally have a lapse of grammar but never of good manners. Nor had he, since arriving in Richmond, ever missed a service at the First African Church.
“I believe,” he said slowly, replacing the silver coffeepot on the sideboard, “that Elijah’s most important trait was his faith, Miss Catherine. After everything he did for the Lord and after what that old Jezebel put him through, and even if he did feel sorry for hisself sometime, he kept the faith. And that’s what life’s really all about, Miss Catherine.”
