by Diaz, Debra
“I don’t know,” said Clayton. “Is anything wrong, Ingram?”
Bart took a step backward, looking at Clayton, at the high, canopied bed with its tumbled covers, and then over his shoulder at Catherine. “I, uh, I came to see if Andrew wanted to go riding in the carriage after breakfast…just to get out of the house, of course.”
Where, no doubt, he would wrest any secrets from the “weaker” man with mental acuity or physical force, Catherine thought.
“Thank you,” Clayton said, “but no. I am very…content.”
“Then I’ll be going.” All of a sudden Bart regained his composure, a smoothness going over his face like a mask, and he smiled. “I’m sorry about the intrusion. I thought you’d be up. I didn’t know Catherine was here.”
“Where else would she be?”
“Er, yes. Well, good morning, then.” He made a shallow bow toward Catherine, avoiding her gaze, and walked past Mrs. Shirley, who gave him such a cool, blank stare that he visibly shuddered.
“Thank you, Mrs. Shirley,” Catherine said, when Bart had gone down the stairs.
The other woman looked younger, her face softer without its severely pinned bun. She looked at Catherine and, incredibly, smiled. It was so fleeting a smile that Catherine wasn’t sure she hadn’t imagined it.
“You must remember to keep the door locked at all times, madam,” she said, and turned to go.
Catherine shut the door and turned the lock. Clayton tore the scarf from his head and went to her, his jaw set, obviously in a state of barely controlled rage.
“Did he hurt you?”
She shook her head. She had never seen him this angry, had never been exposed to this sense of violence barely held in check. Even the day he’d fought Hadley’s soldiers, he had been self-possessed, had shown a calm, if deadly, efficiency.
“Clayton, he only pushed me a little. There’s no need to look as though you might kill him.” She put a hand on either side of his face and looked into his eyes. His face began to clear and she kissed him.
“I’m sorry, Catherine,” he murmured, taking her hands in his and lifting his head. “I’m beginning to grow impatient with this charade.”
“Bart was right,” she said.
At his quizzical look, she added, “You really should get out of the house.”
“Yes,” he said, and smiled. “But for now, this room definitely has its attractions.…”
***
As Catherine sat in church the next day, she felt her heart would overflow with the mixed emotions she felt being Clayton’s wife. Joy, contentment, security—and at the same time a terrible feeling of insecurity because of the conditions under which they lived.
Looking surreptitiously at the familiar faces around her, she thought there was probably not a person present who did not share that feeling. Every man there had a son or brother or grandson in the army; every woman had sent away a family member or sweetheart. None of them knew if they would ever see their loved ones again. But still they worshipped, they praised, they hoped.
What else can we do? Catherine wondered. Times like these were a kind of catalyst—either people discovered reserves of faith they didn’t know they had or they found in themselves an awful emptiness and knew they had never believed to begin with. The congregation had prayed for the safety of its members, as well as their families, but several had been wounded or killed.
She had talked to Ephraim about it only last night, as she helped him lay the table for supper. “What happens when a person believes in God and believes that He will answer their prayers, and then He doesn’t?”
The butler’s eyes were kind and wise. “Oh, God always answers the prayers of His children,” he said. “Just maybe not the way you want Him to.”
“But Miss Turner is such a good woman, Ephraim, and I know she prayed every day for her father, and he was killed at Sharpsburg. And they say he was shot in the stomach and suffered terribly before he died.”
“Well, God didn’t start this war, now, did He? Wars come when somebody forgets to obey God’s laws. And people suffer because of that. People die. The good Lord had a reason for letting Mr. Turner get shot. We can’t see it, but He can. He was with Mr. Turner in his suffering. And I reckon He wouldn’t have let it happen if he hadn’t known the lady could stand it.”
“But she can’t stand it. She hasn’t been the same since it happened.”
“Takes time,” Ephraim said. “She probably won’t ever understand it till she’s face to face with Jesus, but she’ll have to accept it and go on believing that God still loves her. It’s like Elijah, Miss Catherine. And Joseph and David and Job, all them—they didn’t know why things happened, but the reason their names is in the Bible is because they kept on believing, no matter what.”
Catherine had not replied. Ephraim had looked at her with understanding and said, “I don’t know what you’re afraid of, Miss Catherine, but it’s best to make up your mind before something bad happens that you’re not going to doubt God. Sometimes it’s only natural to ask why, but that don’t mean He’s going to answer us this side of heaven.”
Ephraim should know, she thought as she sat in her pew that Sunday morning. He had been a slave all his life. If he knew of the existence of the Emancipation Proclamation, which she was certain he did, he never mentioned it.
Slavery was to her and, she gathered, to most Southerners, simply the way things were. It was a way of life and had been for as long as anyone could remember. When it became such a politically volatile issue, Catherine had resented the North’s meddling and reassured herself that slaves were well treated; they were fed and clothed; the sick and infirm were cared for. No slave had ever been sold from her father’s house.
Yet one did hear of things—of beatings, families separated, squalid conditions, the birth of mulatto babies. Though she herself had never witnessed anything of the sort, her knowledge of human nature made it easy to give credence to such stories.
Was it really right for one race to be in servitude to another? Was it right to deny them the freedom to live their lives as they chose? Why hadn’t she ever questioned this? Perhaps she hadn’t wanted to; perhaps the questions raised by the slavery issue pricked a little too hard. Most Southerners didn’t like change, and they most certainly didn’t like outsiders trying to force it on them. Was that what Clayton had meant when he wrote that the South had been asleep…living in a dream world?
Maybe Clayton was right. Maybe slavery was like poison, a strange sort of poison that worked silently and slowly, infecting people with a false sense of superiority, causing others to feel drunk with power to the extent that they mistreated their fellow humans, sometimes in horrible ways.
Maybe slavery should be eradicated. But she remembered Clayton’s heartfelt declaration and agreed with it more than anything—not this way.
The congregation rose to sing a hymn. Catherine heard the door open in the back and was vaguely aware of someone sliding into the pew behind her, the only available spot since the church was packed. A nice baritone voice came to her ears. She flicked a curious glance over her shoulder, then bent her face over her hymnal and hoped no one could see her blush with surprise and pleasure.
He really shouldn’t have come here, she thought. How was she going to pretend he was merely a casual acquaintance when she wanted to put her arm through his and announce to the world that he belonged to her, and she to him!
She did not hear much of the sermon. When the benediction had been given at the close of the service, she gathered her Bible, book and reticule, and turned. Several people had surrounded Clayton to shake his hand and welcome him to the service. The aisle had become blocked and she was forced to wait.
“Oh, Catherine,” said Mrs. Gates, turning toward her. “Do you know Mr. Pierce?”
“Yes, I do,” Catherine said. “I believe he knows my aunt’s brother, Bart. Hello, Mr. Pierce.”
“It’s always a pleasure to see you, ma’am,” Clayton said, taking
her hand.
“Where have you been, Mr. Pierce?” asked the elderly woman. “We’ve not seen you around here since before Christmas.”
“I’ve been to the battlefield at Fredericksburg, Mrs. Gates.”
“Taking photographs, no doubt. You know, Mr. Pierce, I have a niece who’s getting married…would you be available?”
“I’m afraid not, ma’am. Unfortunately my camera is broken at present and I’m waiting for a new part to be delivered.”
Other people moved slightly back, and Catherine squeezed past them and left the church. At home she waited for Clayton, standing with arms akimbo while he climbed into the bedroom.
“Clayton Pierce, how could you do that to me? And how could you stand there and tell lies in church?”
“Lies?” he said innocently, taking her hands off her hips and sliding them around his waist. “What lies?”
“About where you were, and your camera being broken!”
“Ah, but I was at the battlefield, wasn’t I? I couldn’t help it if Mrs. Gates incorrectly assumed what I was doing there. And my camera really is broken.”
“Well, where is your camera anyway?”
“I still have a room at the hotel. All my equipment is there.”
She tried to remain stern but he said, “Come, Catherine, didn’t you tell me I should get out of the house? I wanted to be in church and I wanted to see you. Where else was I to go that fit both those requirements?”
She felt herself melting in his arms. “You are a rascal, Mr. Pierce. It’s hard to pretend I don’t know you very well.”
He grinned but before he could say anything, she went on, “And the very idea of your climbing trees so soon after—”
Someone knocked urgently on the door. Catherine moved quickly to open it and Mrs. Shirley came in. “They’re here. They’re early.”
At once Clayton removed his coat, loosened his cravat and took his place at the hole in the floor. Mrs. Shirley left to linger about downstairs to see if any new faces appeared. At Clayton’s gesture, Catherine brought him paper and a pen, but after a moment he shook his head and stood up, dusting off his trousers.
“They’re leaving. Bart told the others he’s received instructions to hold off on any plans until further notice.”
“I wonder why.”
“There could be any number of reasons.” He looked thoughtful. “Now that I’m well I can get around town more and try to find out where he’s getting his information. There have been too many distractions. I’m ready to get this over with.”
She said slowly, thinking, “It’s as if…as if there’s somebody in between them, Clayton. There has to be a leader, and I suppose that’s where the information comes from. But maybe there’s somebody else involved in getting the information to Bart…someone who hasn’t been under suspicion. Maybe you’ve been watching Bart when you should have been watching someone else.”
Clayton looked at her. “Someone in this house.”
“No! I didn’t mean that! Who would it be?”
“I don’t know.” Clayton walked around the room. “Obviously your uncle hasn’t been himself lately.”
“Well, no, he has seemed…preoccupied. But I think he’s worried about his business. He would never get involved in something like this.”
“Is there anything, any kind of information, that Bart could be using against him…to force him into it?”
“You mean blackmail? Good heavens, no! Uncle Martin has always been the soul of propriety!”
“What about Sallie?”
Catherine considered it. “She and Bart are quite close, and I know they share certain suspicions about you, but I really can’t see her taking part in anything so potentially dangerous. She has such a strong sense of—”
“Self-preservation,” he said when she hesitated. “Miranda? If she’s not Andrew’s cousin, she must be working for Bart. I don’t think she’s as breathless and addle-brained as she would have us believe. There’s a shrewdness about her, and I’ve seen her move around this house as furtively as a burglar.”
“Well, that doesn’t mean she’s a spy. I really can’t picture her sitting around the table with Bart and his cronies and a cigar sticking out of her mouth!”
Clayton gave her an odd look. “What about Ephraim? Or Jessie? They both read and write, don’t they? Not that it would be a necessity.”
“No,” she said firmly. “I mean, yes, they do read and write, but they’re not involved. I know it.”
“And the cook?”
“Hester’s too old and feeble for that kind of thing.”
“At least she acts that way.”
Catherine sighed. “Clayton, I really don’t think it’s anyone in the house. But it could be a friend, someone we’d never suspect.”
“To be frank, darling, I’ve suspected everyone except you. But we can’t watch all of them all of the time. Spying is not all adventure, you know…it can be tedious work. It takes time, and we’re running out of time.”
Mrs. Shirley knocked and came into the room. “I meant to tell you…I’ve been to headquarters this morning. They want to see you. Tonight at eight o’clock.”
She and Clayton exchanged a look that somehow excluded Catherine.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s probably that.”
“What?” Catherine asked, looking from one to the other.
“Well, there’s no use speculating,” Clayton said soberly. “We’ll know soon enough.”
***
Mrs. Shirley waited with Catherine in the bedroom in case someone should come and she would have to assume the identity of “Andrew.” Catherine read a magazine; Mrs. Shirley wrote on a long sheet of paper and never looked up.
The clock had struck half past nine when Clayton slid the window up and slipped through. He looked serious, and Catherine wondered anxiously what had happened.
“I left a package outside,” he said, after kissing her lightly on the cheek. “Margaret, would you get it? It’s directly below. I couldn’t carry it with me.”
“Certainly, Major. I’m almost finished with our report, if you’ll give me a moment.”
“I’ll get it,” Catherine said. She moved toward the door.
“Wait, Catherine. Yes, I suppose it would be better for you to bring it up. It’s a white box—you can’t miss it. Don’t let anyone see what’s inside…call for help if you need it.”
She nodded and left the room. The stairs and the rooms below were still brightly lit, but she saw no one. She went out the kitchen door, down the steps of the side porch and around the rear of the house. A long, shiny white box lay hidden in the shrubbery. She picked it up, surprised to find it quite heavy. She had progressed through the kitchen and dining room and was about to go up the stairs when Bart and Miranda came out of the parlor.
“Why, Catherine,” said Bart. “I thought you’d gone to bed.” He looked curiously at the package. “What is that?”
Fortunately, she had already prepared an answer. “It’s a dress I had altered. I picked it up yesterday and laid it down in the kitchen. I only just remembered it.”
“Altering a dress?” Miranda said archly, and her gaze went to Catherine’s midsection. “Could it be there is another little Kelly on the way?”
Bart’s eyes, too, were drawn to her abdomen and then lifted to meet her indignant gaze. “I’ll thank you to mind your own business, Bart Ingram,” she snapped, and marched upstairs, ignoring Miranda altogether.
