by Diaz, Debra
“You’ve not been to the hospital lately,” he observed, in a casual tone.
“No. I’ve been taking care of…of Andrew.” Thinking about the game, she had almost said “Clayton.” If she hadn’t been sitting down, her knees would surely have given way at the thought of so deadly a slip!
“He seems much improved, but I thought I noticed him limping the other day.”
“It’s one of his old wounds. He had a shattered kneecap.”
“Really? I should think he would limp all the time.”
“Oh, they fixed it, more or less.” Another potential mistake. I’m just no good at this, she thought.
“I’m sorry, Bart, I don’t think this was a good idea. I can’t seem to get my mind on it. If you’ll excuse me, Andrew and I will retire.”
“Of course.” Bart leaned back, took a cigar out of his pocket and lit it, all the while watching as she walked over to Clayton, took his arm, and led him from the room.
In his bedroom Clayton pulled off the scarf and saw at once that something was wrong. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever get through this without ruining everything. Bart makes me so nervous!”
“He likes to play games, and I’m not talking about chess.” He took her arms in his hands. “You’re doing fine, Catherine. He wants to be suspicious of me, and I think the only thing that confuses him is your obvious conviction that I am really Andrew.”
“I almost called you Clayton tonight!”
He laughed a little. “Now that truly would have put an end to it.” He put his arms around her. “Stop worrying. It can’t last too much longer. If we don’t find out what we need to know, we’ll find another way.”
“Something’s wrong with Uncle Martin. And I believe Sallie is just as suspicious as Bart. I think Bart told Sallie to let Miranda stay here just because he wants to find out more about you!”
“Catherine.” He held her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. “You mustn’t worry. If you’re afraid of making a mistake, then don’t say anything at all. Refuse to play along with Bart.”
“And Sallie! What was she doing? Watching to see if your head would follow her movements? You see, everyone suspects something!”
“Darling, listen to me. It doesn’t matter what they think. What interests me is how they behave, each and every one of them, and I must say it’s getting more interesting all the time.”
He released her and changed the subject as he dragged off his gloves. “I liked what you said about Lucie Manette,” he said, chuckling. “You really are something of a little rebel, aren’t you?”
“Well,” she said, lifting her brows and turning away to stand near the fireplace. “It is possible to love two men. I think I had started falling in love with ‘Andrew’ before I knew he was you, and I was falling in love with you, too.”
“But we’re one and the same.” He came to stand behind her and slid his arms around her waist. “I think somewhere inside your heart you must have known that.”
“All I knew was that I had to make a choice.”
“And you chose your husband. You made the right choice, Catherine, the only choice.” He turned her around to face him. “Please forgive me for putting you through that.”
“Oh, I’ve forgiven you. But don’t put me on a pedestal, Clayton Pierce. If I hadn’t liked ‘Andrew,’ if I had really been repelled by his injuries, I don’t know what I would have done.”
“I do. You would have done the same thing.”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “You had a face I could see, and strong arms to hold me.…”
“Shh,” he said. “I know you too well.”
They looked at each other and the magnetic bond surged between them. He kissed her, then set her from him and said, a little shakily, “I think we’d better say good night, my love.” She swayed toward the door, her hand going up to rest on her flushed cheek. She stopped when he spoke again, with a quiet urgency.
“Do you know how much a temptation you are to me, Catherine Kelly? Do you know how many times, when you thought I was Andrew, I wanted to hold you, to touch you, to comfort you? And now that you know the truth, it only becomes more difficult every day. I really have no right to ask you to marry me. When the war is over, I don’t know what property I’ll have. I can’t promise you that I will even—”
“Clayton, don’t, please. It doesn’t matter if we have any money or not, or any place to stay, as long as we’re together. Together we can face anything. Why do we have to wait?”
His look sharpened. “You don’t want a public wedding?”
“I’ve had one of those. Of course, we’ll have to figure out something once you’re finished being Andrew. Andrew will die, I suppose, and then I’ll have to start courting Clayton Pierce.”
He shook his head. “That would take too long. You’d have to wait at least a year if you didn’t want to be a social outcast for not properly mourning your husband.”
“Well, the war’s not going to end any time soon, is it?”
Clayton smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile. “You’re right. The war is far from over. By the time I get back, Andrew will be just a distant memory to everyone—except, perhaps, to Miranda.”
“Do you think she’s really Andrew’s cousin?”
He said, after a brief hesitation, “I can only agree with your original assessment of her. Either she is his cousin, or she’s an actress of exceptional skill.”
Catherine sighed. “It seems like everyone is pretending—about something!”
He came toward her and took both of her hands. “There is one thing that is real, one thing we can always depend on, and that’s how we feel about each other. Catherine, are you sure this is what you want to do?”
She nodded emphatically. “Very sure.”
“So,” he said softly. “Tomorrow? I’ll arrange it somehow.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes.”
He kissed her on the cheek and stepped behind the door as she left the room. She floated on a cloud of happiness to her own bedroom, struck a match to light a candle and then saw that it was already lit. She had lit it herself, earlier in the evening.
She shook her head and laughed at herself. Being in love affected the mind just as much as it did the heart.
***
Mrs. Shirley did not approve. It showed in her unchanging grim expression, in her stiff acknowledgement of Clayton’s announcement the next morning. Catherine remembered that she had suspected the woman was secretly in love with Clayton herself. Now she wasn’t sure. Certainly Mrs. Shirley didn’t seem heartbroken, in spite of her disapproval. She was very difficult to figure out.
“Very well, sir. I expect you’ll want me to sign as a witness. I shall watch the door as usual to prevent anyone from eavesdropping during the ceremony.”
Clayton did not seem to feel there was anything unusual in Mrs. Shirley’s demeanor. “Thank you, Margaret. I’ll need you to deliver a message for me.”
“Yes, Major.”
Catherine thought she ought to say something. “Mrs. Shirley.”
The woman stared at her. “Yes, Mrs. Kelly?”
She was completely unapproachable. Catherine looked away. “Never mind.”
Later in the day while she was helping Jessie polish the furniture in the dining room, Ephraim approached her with a puzzled expression. “Miss Catherine, Dr. Edwards and another gentleman have come to see your husband.”
“Oh.” Catherine dropped her polishing cloth on the floor, to Jessie’s mystification. She went at once into the hallway.
“I was coming to check on my patient and look who I ran into,” said Dr. Edwards with a twinkle in his eye. “You know my friend, Reverend Owen, don’t you, Mrs. Kelly?”
“Yes, we’ve met. How are you, Reverend? May I offer you both something to drink?”
“We can’t stay, but thank you.”
“Shall we go up, then?” She led the way
upstairs, her heart thudding in her ears. She had not expected it so soon.
Mrs. Shirley waited in the sitting room. “Everyone is away from the house,” she said curtly. “I’d advise you to hurry.”
They went into the bedroom and closed the door. Clayton turned from where he’d been standing at the window.
He greeted the men and shook hands. Dr. Edwards noticed Catherine’s look. “Oh, the reverend’s a friend of mine. I told him what he needed to be told. He’ll keep your secret.”
Reverend Owen smiled at Catherine. “I think she knows me well enough to believe that, even if I am a Methodist.”
The minister took out his marriage book, though during the ceremony he never even glanced at it. After the vows were said, he sat down and filled out the marriage certificate; the doctor and Mrs. Shirley signed as witnesses.
“Here’s your copy,” he said, handing it to Clayton. “I’ll see that this one is registered, though it may not be exactly…proper. Dr. Edwards tells me it’s not to be made a matter of public record for some time.”
“I am much obliged to you, Reverend. And you, Dr. Edwards.”
“You don’t have to thank us, son.” Dr. Edwards put his hand on Clayton’s shoulder affectionately. There were more handshakes and words of congratulation. Reverend Owen took Catherine’s hand and said, “God bless you, Catherine. Let me know if I can be of any further service.”
“Thank you,” she breathed, still unable to believe what was happening.
Suddenly they were gone. Catherine and Clayton looked at each other, and he smiled broadly and took a step toward her when the door opened.
“If I may make a suggestion,” said Mrs. Shirley, “you might want to move Mrs. Kelly’s—I mean Mrs. Pierce’s things in here before everyone returns. The fewer people who enter this room the better. I’ll watch the stairs and warn you if anyone comes.”
“Yes,” Catherine said quickly. “I’ll say Mrs. Shirley helped me. And I want to change clothes.”
Clayton agreed, rather crossly she thought, and they began the lengthy ordeal of moving her belongings. Besides her many dresses, petticoats, underclothes and toiletries, Catherine wanted to move a chair and her desk into the other room. The oak desk was heavy and Mrs. Shirley was obliged to help them with it.
Clayton took one last look around the room. “What about that?” he asked, nodding toward a large box lying on Catherine’s bed.
“No, that stays for now,” Catherine said. “Mrs. Shirley, will you tell Ephraim I’ll be dining with my husband tonight?”
“As you wish.” Mrs. Shirley disappeared.
They heard the front door open and Sallie’s lilting voice echoed through the passageways. Dusk had fallen and soon it would be time for supper. Catherine firmly sent Clayton back to their room, then shut the door to her former bedroom.
She washed scrupulously, brushed her hair, and pinned it in a loose knot on top of her head. She opened the box lying on her bed, setting aside tissue paper, and took out the silk peignoir set she had bought for her wedding night with Andrew. It had never been worn. It was tight in the bodice, sea green in color, with white lace inserts in the sides, and a flowing skirt. She put it on, and over it the matching robe.
It had grown too dark to see without lighting the lamp, but she was finished. She stuck her head out the door to make sure no one—Bart, in particular—was lurking nearby, then hurried across the hall and knocked on the door. Knowing her knock, Clayton opened the door and she moved swiftly inside.
Mrs. Shirley had already brought up their supper. It was laid out on a table in front of a blazing fire. The lamps had not been lit, but candles flickered throughout the room—on the table, her desk, the bedside chest of drawers. The window was slightly open to dispel the heavy aroma of food in the room, and the draft made their shadows waver on the far wall.
Clayton had changed from a black shirt to a white one, open at the collar. His eyes seemed almost as black as his hair. An air of leashed intensity, of strength and purpose held in restraint, emanated from him. By contrast she felt utterly feminine, and utterly at his mercy when he said quietly, “Catherine, how beautiful you are.”
Though she was far from hungry, Catherine ate her supper, not even aware of what she was eating. They dined without interruption, and Mrs. Shirley prudently refrained from coming to collect the dishes as she usually did. They watched the fire and sipped their wine. The flames reflected in Clayton’s eyes, shone on his hair, picked out the buttons of his shirt, the brass candleholders and her own silver-backed brush on the dresser.
Then he rose, went around to her chair, and drew her gently to her feet. He released her hair, and it, too, glowed red in the firelight, and his hands moved over it. She felt his arms go around her, and before his lips met hers he whispered, “My true wife, my beloved, always and forever.”
In the tiny, obscure region of her mind that remained aware of anything except Clayton, a thought intruded—unbidden, unwelcome, touching her faintly with unease—this night, this man, this moment, it’s all too good to be true, until even that last, rational thought was swept away.…
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Catherine woke in the morning as the rising sun began to light the far corners of the room. Beside her, Clayton still slept. She pulled on her robe and went to stand, with the curiosity of a bride, before the mirror.
Her face was rosy, her eyes large and bright in spite of having slept little. She couldn’t help smiling foolishly at herself. She noticed that her hair was wildly tangled and grabbed her brush to put it into some semblance of order before Clayton woke up and saw her.
Someone knocked briskly on the door. With the vague idea that it must be Mrs. Shirley, Catherine stepped quickly to open it. She looked up to see a clearly astonished Bart looking down.
“Catherine!” Taking in her disarray with a sweeping glance, he couldn’t have looked more stupefied had she sauntered from the room naked.
Swiftly she shut the door behind her. “What do you want?” she asked, whispering. “Do you know what time it is?”
“What—” he said. “You…what are you doing in there?”
“I’ve moved into my husband’s room,” she said loftily. “If it’s any of your business.”
Mrs. Shirley’s door opened a crack. She peered at them, eyed Catherine’s attire impassively, and shut the door again.
Bart seemed to recover from his astonishment. “I’ve come to see Andrew.”
Before she could move, he had swept her aside with one powerful stroke of his arm and walked into the room, causing Catherine to lose her balance and half fall against the door. She clutched her robe tightly closed and scrambled to regain her footing.
Clayton stood on the opposite side of the bed. He wore a lounging robe with his hands stuck deep in the pockets. The scarf was over his head.
“Catherine,” he said calmly, “are you hurt? I thought I heard you fall.”
“I’m all right,” she said, glaring at Bart, then thought to add, “Bart is here.”
The hooded figure waited. Bart, for once, seemed at a loss for words.
From just beyond the threshold Mrs. Shirley said, “Is anything wrong, Mr. Kelly?”
It was Catherine’s turn to stare. In her nightgown (though buttoned to the chin) and with her long hair hanging down her back, Mrs. Shirley looked almost human.
