Shadow of Dawn

by Diaz, Debra

  “Goodness,” laughed Sallie, delicately spooning sugar into her cup, “I believe you ought to be a preacher, Uncle Ephraim.”

  Ephraim did not wince but Catherine knew he hated to be called Uncle Ephraim. It was the custom to add Uncle or Aunt to the names of faithful servants once they had reached a certain age, but Ephraim believed the appellation sounded undignified, well meaning though it was. Sallie apparently never noticed she was the only one who addressed him by that term of affection.

  “He is a preacher,” said Catherine. “Do you still preach every fourth Sunday, Ephraim?”

  “Yes, ma’am. In fact, tomorrow’s my day, and I might just use Elijah. I’ve been mostly talking on Moses lately.”

  “About letting your people go, no doubt.” Bart Ingram came into the room and took the place next to his sister. “Isn’t there a law against that?”

  Again Ephraim refrained from comment, bowed, and left the room. Catherine kept her eyes on her plate so no one would see her annoyance. She could never tell if Bart deliberately tried to be obnoxious or if he just couldn’t help himself.

  Bart and Sallie looked a great deal alike, though Bart’s hair was more sandy than blond and his eyes more gray than blue. He kept his moustache and hair closely clipped, and his clothes always looked freshly ironed. He was keenly aware of his own good looks—another trait he shared with his sister.

  “How are you, Catherine?” he said cheerfully, helping himself to what was left of the eggs. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be here to meet Andrew. I take it he’s not up yet?”

  Martin cleared his throat. “Ah, Bart—”

  “It’s all right, Uncle Martin.” Catherine put down her fork. “Andrew’s injuries were worse than any of us imagined, Bart. He prefers to remain in his room, though I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you went up and spoke to him.”

  “Indeed?” Bart looked questioningly from one face to another.

  “Well, he’s blind,” Sallie said, with a glance at her husband. “And he…he wears a mask.”

  “A mask?” Bart’s eyes grew rounder and he looked at Catherine.

  “It’s a hood of some kind, to cover his eyes and face,” said Sallie. “There was a fire.”

  “I say, well, that’s terrible news,” Bart said at last. “I’m sorry, Catherine. Of course I’ll speak to him. I didn’t know Andrew that well, but it seems a terrible shame.”

  Catherine nodded. Her throat felt as if it were closing up and in a moment she would start crying. She rose.

  “I’m going to walk to the church, Uncle Martin,” she said evenly. “I forgot my class book last Sunday and I need to study it. I won’t be gone long.”

  “Take the carriage, my dear. Tad’s sick with a head cold but Joseph will drive you.”

  “Thank you, but it’s such a nice day I think I’ll walk.”

  Catherine went upstairs to get her shawl. As she was leaving her bedroom, she saw Mrs. Shirley come out of Andrew’s room carrying a tray. The plate was empty. Catherine turned, crossed the sitting room and started down the opposite hallway. Mrs. Shirley stood with the tray and did not move.

  “I’d like to see Andrew,” she said, confused by the nurse’s manner.

  “Not just now, if you please. He’s just eaten and he’s not ready to see you.”

  Taken aback, Catherine didn’t know what to say.

  “Perhaps after lunch,” said Mrs. Shirley.

  “Why, I suppose…very well.”

  Catherine turned to recross the sitting room, then slowly descended the stairs. She heard Mrs. Shirley following at some distance behind her.

  Well, that was odd. Maybe Andrew made a mess when he ate. He had said his throat was damaged, and maybe…maybe all his teeth had been knocked out. Catherine’s heart constricted and she tried not to keep thinking, Poor, poor Andrew.

  She hurried out the front door and down the porch steps. The sun spread a golden radiance over the November morning and the air was crisp with the slightest chill. She would much rather walk than wait for Joseph, the sixteen-year-old gardener, who was unfamiliar with the complexities of hooking up the carriage. In fact, she loved to walk to church, crossing the wide streets and strolling down the red brick sidewalks beneath stately oaks, their dry red and gold leaves crackling under her feet.

  The beautiful, once peaceful city had doubled in population since being named the capital of the Confederacy and had become something akin to one huge army camp. Soldiers could be seen at any hour rushing down Broad Street, either on foot or on horseback, toward the government buildings or the Executive Mansion occupied by President Davis. Regiments marched daily to the beat of military drums or to the music of a full brass band. Constant choking dust, the rattle of army wagons, and the drilling of troops were all commonplace now, all part of the frantic pace to which life had accelerated.

  The influx of government workers and their families, as well as job seekers of every description, crowded the city still further. With its paper mill, its many factories and iron works, Richmond was the only industrial city in the South and thus of crucial importance to the Confederacy.

  Hope had been running high since the early victory at Manassas. Even so, the alarm bell in the tower of Capitol Square had rung often that year, as the Yankees expended mighty, and futile, efforts to take Richmond. The United States Navy had made its way up the James River to within eight miles of the city. On land, federal troops had come within eleven miles. Each time they were driven back.

  There had been much excitement that summer during what came to be called “The Seven Days Battle.” The rapid firing of cannon could be plainly heard throughout the city, the battle again ending in victory. People had cheered in the streets; they’d laughed and reiterated the popular saying that one Southerner could lick a dozen Yankees. The Yankee war cry of “On to Richmond” became, at least for a time, “Away from Richmond!”

  Catherine climbed the long steps of the church and turned the doorknob of one of the great double doors. It was never locked. She went inside the foyer and through the sanctuary, passed through another door and entered the area where the classrooms were located.

  The rooms were dark and cold and smelled of chalk dust. She found her book, then took a few moments to look through a set of drawings to see if there might be a sketch of Elijah she could use. She found one where the prophet stood watching the pagan priests beseech their gods to send fire upon their offering, and went to place it in her classroom.

  A door creaked somewhere in a draft. Catherine glanced around the hallway and noticed that a window was not closed completely. She put it down with an unintended bang. Walking quickly, she went down the long corridor, through the library, and passed again through the huge sanctuary.

  The sun caressed her as she stepped outside, easing the chill from within. She carefully shut the door behind her, turned, and began descending the steps. On the last step she lowered the gloved hand that had been shading her eyes from the bright sunlight and looked up to see a group of people staring back at her.

  She recognized the church custodian, Mr. Humphreys, and two older ladies, Mrs. Gates and Mrs. Whiteside. A camera mounted on a three-legged stand stood directly in front of Catherine; two human legs bent at the knees were planted beside it, with the rest of the figure hidden beneath a black canopy. Her wide-eyed gaze moved from the camera to the small, covered photographer’s wagon that stood nearby.

  “Oh, Catherine,” moaned Mrs. Whiteside. “Of course you couldn’t have known. Mr. Pierce was just making a photograph of the church.”

  “For the historical society,” added Mrs. Gates. “Tomorrow, you know, is our seventy-fifth anniversary.”

  “Of the church.” Mrs. Whiteside thought it wise to be specific.

  “Well, of course, Beatrice, I didn’t mean—”

  “I’m terribly sorry,” Catherine said quickly. “Did I ruin the photograph?”

  “Not at all,” came a muffled voice from beneath the canopy. The cloth lifted and she
found herself looking up at a tall, black-haired man with eyes almost as dark as his hair. His black brows were neat with a slight curve, his jaw lean and firm, his nose straight. He was, she thought recklessly, the most handsome man she had ever seen.

  “In fact,” he said good-naturedly, “I’d say you enhanced it considerably.” He smiled, revealing a glimpse of even, white teeth, which gleamed in sharp contrast to his tanned skin.

  Catherine dropped her book. She knelt to retrieve it just as the man made the same gesture. Their hands touched. She released the book and straightened, knowing her face had turned as red as the scarlet ribbon on Mrs. Whiteside’s lorgnette, through which the woman now peered avidly.

  She kept her eyes downcast as the man handed her the book.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. She glanced at the two ladies and Mr. Humphreys. “I must be going. Good day.”

  “Good-bye, Catherine,” they said.

  “Good day, ma’am,” said the stranger.

  Catherine hurried away, knowing they must think her rude for not staying to be introduced, but she was too…embarrassed. No, embarrassed wasn’t the right word. She was mortified to her very soul for some reason she could not begin to fathom.

  She did not want to know who the photographer was, and hoped she would never see him again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  As Catherine moved to enter the house, Bart came through the doorway in a rush, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll be bringing a friend for supper tonight, Ephraim. Tell Hester

  to—”

  He stopped as he ran into Catherine, though she had tried to step aside. “Oh, Catherine!” He grabbed her around the waist to keep her from falling off the porch, but instead of letting go he kept his arm around her and guided her firmly to the front door. “Please forgive me,” he said in a smooth voice, looking down into her eyes. “How lovely you look in that green.”

  “Thank you.” She pulled away and went into the house before he could say anything else. He reminded her of a snake. He was always appearing unexpectedly, and she always wanted to run away at the sight of him.

  “Miss Catherine,” Ephraim said as she entered the vast central hall, “Miss Delia came to call while you were gone. She left you this.”

  Quick as a magician, the always-proper butler produced a tray with a small white envelope lying on it.

  “Thank you, Ephraim.”

  “Miss Catherine.”

  She looked up. “Yes, Ephraim?”

  “I’m real sorry about what’s happened to Mr. Andrew. The Lord willing, everything will work out for the best.”

  Catherine smiled and touched his wrinkled hand. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  When she got to her room, she laid her shawl across the bed and sat in a chair to open the envelope. She guessed the contents—yes, it was a formal invitation to Delia’s wedding, scheduled for next Friday evening at four o’clock. Her friend was marrying a soldier, a man she’d known since childhood. They had recently become engaged and decided to marry while he was on furlough. Delia had already asked Catherine to serve as one of her attendants. She turned the envelope over and looked at it again.

  Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Kelly.

  A wave of nostalgia and sorrow swept over her. No doubt she would have to go to the wedding without Andrew. She could barely remember her own wedding, could barely remember what Andrew had even looked like…before. Now she must go and try to share in her friend’s happiness when her heart was baffled and aching and, yes, grieving over the fate of her husband.

  She rose quickly, before she could think about it too much, and set to work studying the life of Elijah. By the time she’d made notes and organized them into a talk of acceptable length, it had begun to grow dark.

  Catherine thought guiltily of Andrew. He had been alone in his room all day. Swiftly she lit a candle and walked across the sitting room. After a brief hesitation, she knocked on his door.

  “Come in,” came the whispery voice.

  He’d been sitting in a chair, but he rose as she came into the room. A lamp burned low on a table near the chair, no doubt for the nurse’s benefit, and she watched as he set aside what appeared to be a book.

  “Andrew, are you all right? I’m sorry I’ve not been in sooner. I tried to see you this morning, but Mrs. Shirley told me to wait.”

  “I hope Mrs. Shirley has not been too…domineering. She only does what she believes I want her to do. She’s usually right.”

  “Well, she’s certainly…assertive. You will let me know if you want anything, even if Mrs. Shirley says you mustn’t?” she asked, smiling.

  “Yes,” he said soberly. “I will. Would you like to sit down?”

  She nodded and then remembered to say, “Yes, I’d like that.” She settled herself into a chair, wondering a little nervously what she would find to talk to him about. He resumed his seat.

  “You must be reading according to that new system. What is it called? I read about it in a magazine.”

  “The Braille system.”

  She nodded with interest. “I’ve never seen a Braille book. Do you mind if I look at it?”

  He reached for the book without moving his head and handed it to her. She opened it and flipped through the pages, which consisted only of upraised dots, all in different configurations.

  “How remarkable that a person can read this way. Did it take you long to learn it?”

  He hesitated. “I have some sensation in my right hand, enough to discern the order of the dots. It wasn’t difficult to learn. There was a woman at the hospital who was kind enough to teach me. Before the war started, she was a teacher at the Missouri School for the Blind in St. Louis.”

  “What good fortune that you met her. Was it Mrs. Shirley?”

  “No,” he said. “Someone else.”

  “What’s it about? The book, I mean?”

  “It’s the story of Louis Braille, the Frenchman who developed the system. It was actually created by a soldier named Barbier, to enable his men to read messages at night, but it was too complex, not practical at all. Braille simplified it and made it usable. He was blind himself, you know—blinded at the age of three when something he was playing with pierced his eye. Infection spread to his other eye and he lost his sight completely.”

  “How sad! Somehow when I read the article I pictured him altogether different, a rich old professor maybe, sitting around experimenting with dots.”

  Andrew tilted his head toward her. “He was only forty-three when he died of tuberculosis, caused by the terrible conditions under which he lived. He overcame many obstacles in his life, many setbacks and disappointments, but he was dedicated to the idea of devising some method to enable blind people to read and write.” He paused and added, quietly but with feeling, “A most admirable man.”

  “Why, Andrew, I’ve never heard you talk like this before. But then, we’ve never really talked about such…serious things. There’s so much about you I don’t know. Your life before the war, your family—”

  “I’ve changed. I’m not that man anymore. With all I’ve lost, how could I not change?”

  “You still have me.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I still have you.”

  “I would very much enjoy reading to you sometime, if you’d like.”

  His head moved in a barely perceptible nod. “Sometimes Mrs. Shirley reads to me but…it’s somewhat lacking in drama.”

  Catherine laughed. “Would you like me to read to you now? I just finished one of Mr. Dickens’s novels, though I don’t think it’s his most recent one. It’s very good.”