by Diaz, Debra
She looked into his eyes…and could not look away. Their bodies moved as if they were one person, as though some invisible thread had somehow twined around and connected them, as though they had been created for each other…Stop, she thought, stop.
The music stopped, and there was a brief pause before it started again. Clayton slowly released her. She stepped back, staring at him dumbly. A small frown creased his brow and his dark eyes were suddenly unreadable. “Catherine—”
She put a trembling hand to her temple. “I have to go,” she said. “Please excuse me.”
She picked up her skirts and ran up the steps and the brick walkway, feeling ridiculous and thinking again of Cinderella, except she did not lose her slipper and he did not pursue her. She paused inside the doorway to catch her breath. No one saw her except a servant passing with a tray; he widened his eyes but didn’t stop. She made herself move slowly across the room to the hallway, asked another servant to find Ephraim, then hurried out the front door to wait for him.
***
As though in a dream, Catherine walked up the stairs toward her room. Night had fallen, but the brightness of the moon made it unnecessary to light a candle. She paused on the landing where a small, octagonal window looked down upon the Henderson’s backyard, which was completely enclosed not only by a tall fence but also by several trees and large bushes. She didn’t know how long she stood there, staring at nothing. If she had not been standing there at that particular moment she would never have seen him, and then—she thought later, appalled—it would have been too late.
A movement caught her eye, startling her. A man was climbing a tree to the second-floor balcony. He was agile for his size, swift, and stealthy. It was Clayton.
Her heart in her throat, she spun around and darted up the stairs. The fool! she thought. He had to be coming to see her. What other reason could he possibly have for sneaking about in the night and gaining access to the second floor? Oh, the cad!
She ran into her room and pressed her face against the rear window, straining to see. She saw him lift himself lightly over the wooden railing.
There was no time to plan. Catherine ran across the sitting room to the door that opened onto the balcony. The latch stuck; she twisted the knob frantically until it turned, and hurried outside.
Clayton stepped back at once into a deep band of shadow.
“Mr. Pierce, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Catherine,” he said, apparently recovering from his surprise. He moved forward into the light.
“Please don’t call me Catherine,” she said coldly. “My name is Mrs. Kelly. How dare you try to see me in this manner?”
He remained silent, his eyes probing into hers. At last he said, “I don’t blame you for being angry—”
“Angry! I am horrified. How did you know where…who told you…how could you—” She sputtered to a stop, unable to find the words to express her outrage.
He seemed to withdraw slightly, becoming as formal as when they had first met.
“I was mistaken, Mrs. Kelly. My actions are inexcusable, and I can only blame my own foolhardiness, and perhaps the effects of the moon and your…great beauty.”
She dropped her gaze and raised her chin still higher. “Whatever did you hope to accomplish, Mr. Pierce?”
He paused. “I wanted to tell you…that is, I wanted to ask you—”
She waited, knowing she should scathingly cut him off and send him on his way, but some purely feminine instinct would not allow it.
“Yes?” she prompted.
“You were distraught when you left me tonight. I had to see you. I knew everyone was out…Bart told me of their plans. I thought I could induce you to come out here and speak with me, so the servants wouldn’t know I had been here.”
“Indeed! I assure you I am not the sort of woman who meets strange men on the balcony.”
“It was not my intention to compromise you in any way. I have the greatest respect for you, Mrs. Kelly. I beg your forgiveness.”
Her shock and indignation fading, she could think of nothing further to say and merely stared at him.
“What happened tonight was not your fault. It will never happen again,” he said quietly.
It seemed a long time that they stood looking at each other, but must have been only a moment. Clayton turned abruptly, swung himself effortlessly over the balcony railing onto the nearest tree branch, and began climbing down as swiftly as he had ascended. Catherine did not wait to watch him but whirled to reenter the house.
Again the doorknob stubbornly resisted her efforts to open the door, and she knew from experience that this time it would not turn without the assistance of some kind of tool. She groaned out loud with frustration. She was stranded.
She looked over the railing. Clayton was nowhere in sight. The others would not return for another hour, at least.
Looking back toward the wall of the house, Catherine saw that the window to Andrew’s bedroom was up slightly. She would have to open it and climb through; if he heard her movements she would explain, truthfully enough, that she had been locked out of the house.
She tugged at the window. It must have been recently greased, for it made not a sound as it slid upward. She put one leg over the sill, struggling with her heavy gown, and finally half fell with a soft thud into Andrew’s bedroom.
The moonlight revealed him lying beneath the covers of the bed, his back to her, the black scarf on his head. Her heart lurched with pity. He even slept in it, or one of them…surely he had more than one. Holding her skirts tightly, she tiptoed across the room and let herself out the door.
When she reached her own room, she discovered her legs were shaking. From Cinderella to Romeo and Juliet, she thought rather hysterically…all in one evening. She felt, as she stripped off her clothes and heaped them uncharacteristically on the floor, as though she might burst into laughter at the absurdity of it all.
But no, she didn’t feel like laughing. She put on her nightgown and sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at nothing for a long time. By the time she crawled into bed and fell asleep, her pillow was wet with tears.
***
She found it difficult, the next day, to read to Andrew.
When she went in at her customary time, he told her that Mrs. Shirley had read some of the novel to him the previous night and that the page where she had stopped should be marked. Unfortunately, it proved to be the chapter where Sydney Carton more or less declared himself to Lucie Manette. Catherine found his words so poignant she felt absurdly close to tears.
“…think now and then that there is a man who would give his life…” Catherine gulped. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “…to keep a life you love beside you.”
“Is anything wrong, Catherine?”
“No,” she said. “No.”
“You sound as if you have a cold.”
“No. Well, the air was rather chilly last night.”
“How was the wedding?”
“It was lovely. I wish you’d gone with me, Andrew.”
He made no response.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I promised to help Hester with supper tonight.”
“Catherine.”
She had half risen. She stopped, startled, at the seriousness of his tone. “Yes, Andrew?”
“There is a certain part in that book you’re reading which you will come to shortly; I can’t remember exactly where it is. You see, I’ve read it before, though I did not enjoy it then half as much as I enjoy listening to your reading of it. In the part I’m referring to, Dr. Manette tells Lucie of his anxiety that, because she is young, she not waste her life caring for him.”
He turned a little away from her as he spoke. He continued, “Her life has changed; it’s no longer normal because of what has happened to him. He tells her that if her life is in any way incomplete, he cannot be happy.”
Catherine sat as if turned to stone. Her lips went dry and almost felt as tho
ugh they would crack as she forced herself to speak. “What are you saying, Andrew?”
He got to his feet and strode slowly across the room. “I know that…I have changed. I am not the man you once knew. I hope that things will improve. If not, I intend to release you from our marriage vows.”
She did manage to rise. “No, Andrew! You are my husband. Do you think I could live with myself if I let you go away just because…because you believed I couldn’t cope with your injuries?”
“I don’t want to be pitied, Catherine. You had thought of an annulment, hadn’t you?”
She gaped at him. “You heard what Sallie said!”
He shook his head. “Mrs. Shirley overheard the conversation and thought it best to let me know. I do appreciate your loyalty, more than I can say, but neither of us can possibly know where this will lead.”
“But where would you go?”
“To my family in Alabama, of course.”
Catherine shook her head. “You must give this time, Andrew. It takes time to build a marriage, even when there are no difficulties such as those we face.”
“My only concern is for your happiness.”
“I understand that, and I thank you for it. But I believe we can be happy together.”
“If you really mean that, then perhaps we can. I’ve said all this because I don’t want you to be in despair. You seemed sad when you came in. I could hear it in your voice. Rest assured that I will never stand in the way of your happiness. You have only to tell me.”
Catherine thought of the past night, and how in spite of her resolve to make a life with Andrew, she had longed for freedom, had wished that she had never married him. And here he was offering to sacrifice his own happiness for hers. Shame covered her from the depths of her soul.
She walked toward him resolutely. She reached out to touch his arm, a little surprised that he did not flinch or try to move away. She lifted her face and kissed his cheek where the black scarf covered it.
“You are my husband,” she repeated softly, before she left the room.
CHAPTER SIX
The next morning Catherine resumed her work at the hospital. Wounded soldiers flooded into the Virginia hospitals every day, and most able-bodied women helped to nurse them. It was grueling and dreadful, often heartbreaking work…but how much more dreadful, she often thought, for the men who bore such ghastly wounds. The less-seriously injured were sent to recuperate in private homes rather than hospitals.
Catherine often worked without even stopping to eat. She assisted the surgeons, ran errands, cleaned floors, changed bed sheets, fed soldiers who were too weak to hold a fork, held their heads to give them water, and prayed with the dying. When she arrived home at night she bathed, ate, then read for a while to Andrew and went to bed. By keeping herself busy, she hoped to be able to forget that she was, in fact, neither wife nor widow, but something in between.
One evening a few days later she came home earlier than usual, entering as she ordinarily did by the kitchen door so she could wash her hands and leave her apron to be laundered before going upstairs. Hester had just finished plucking a chicken.
“Lawd, Miz Catherine, I’m mighty glad you’re home. My hands is tuckered out and they hurt too bad to cut up this chicken. Jessie out with Miz Sallie to the dressmaker and I don’t know where Ephraim is. I ’spect he in the barn bawlin’ out Joseph for bringin’ mud in on his shoes.”
“I’ll see to it, Hester. Just let me go and change my clothes.”
Wearily Catherine went through the dining room and into the hallway. Bart stood there, taking off his coat and hat and hanging them on the rack.
“Good evening, Catherine,” he said, and his eyes went up and down her figure.
“Hello, Bart. I’m sorry, I just got in from the hospital.”
“You always look beautiful,” he said gallantly, “no matter what you’re wearing.”
He always delivered his compliments in a somewhat mocking way that annoyed her.
“Oh, Bart, Hester is waiting for someone to help her cut up a chicken. Could you do it? I’m afraid I’ll be a while and it may delay supper.”
“Of course,” he said with good cheer. “I think I’ve done enough hunting in my day to know what to do with a hen.”
He went off whistling to the kitchen. Catherine hurried upstairs, washed again and put on a clean dress. She had just finished brushing her hair when she heard Hester scream. By the time she opened her bedroom door, Hester had screamed again. Mrs. Shirley appeared at her own door.
“Come with me,” Catherine called, beginning to run downstairs. Mrs. Shirley followed, more sedately.
Catherine gasped as she ran into the kitchen. Huge splatters of blood covered the kitchen table and the bowie knife that lay upon it. Bart stood holding his hand, his face white.
“He cut hisself!” Hester cried. “Just about cut his thumb off!”
“Get a towel,” Catherine said. “Bart, let me see.”
“If I take my hand away, it bleeds too much,” Bart said in a thin
voice.
Catherine turned to Mrs. Shirley. “You’re a trained nurse. What can we do?”
Mrs. Shirley stepped forward, and to Catherine’s utter amazement, took one look at the situation, turned as white as Bart and dropped like a stone.
Catherine wrapped Bart’s hand in a towel. Sallie came running from somewhere just as Ephraim entered from the kitchen door; it was instantly decided that Ephraim would drive Bart to the nearest hospital so that a surgeon could sew up his hand. Sallie, surprisingly calm, went with them.
Catherine and Hester bent down to pull Mrs. Shirley to a sitting position.
“Put your head down for a moment, Mrs. Shirley,” Catherine directed, her voice shaking. She had been as much unnerved by Mrs. Shirley’s collapse as she had by Bart’s accident.
The woman’s eyes opened and she rested her head for a moment between her knees. She opened her mouth to take a deep breath.
“Do you need smelling salts?” Catherine asked.
Mrs. Shirley shook her head, saying at last, “I’m…sorry. It was the blood. I can deal with anything but the sight of fresh blood.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, madam, just give me a moment.”
Catherine set to work helping Hester scrub the kitchen. There was a lot of blood, but she would never have expected such weakness from Mrs. Shirley. It only added to the mystery that surrounded the woman.
***
The first of December brought a blast of bitter cold. Tad and Joseph were kept busy bringing in wood for the fires. A fireplace occupied every room and each one had to be carefully tended. Wood, suddenly in short supply, sold for twenty dollars a cord, but those who could pay for it usually found a way to get it.
Tad managed to contract one of his many colds just as the temperature dropped, leaving Joseph to drive, care for the horses, provide firewood and see to a number of other tasks. Sallie, too, had fallen victim to a sudden cold, which meant Catherine had to do Sallie’s share of the chores and oversee the servants—that part was not difficult because of Ephraim’s efficiency.
