by Diaz, Debra
If the Union, that would mean Dr. Edwards had also deceived her, and that she could not believe. She’d seen the old doctor battle for the lives of Confederate soldiers until he could barely stand on his feet.
But what if he, too, were a Yankee spy?
No! her mind screamed. No!
She had married Andrew impetuously, but then, as if learning nothing from that mistake, she had married Clayton just as impetuously. Did she really know any more about him than she had Andrew? All her supposed knowledge, all her opinions, had been formed solely by things he had told her. And he had told her, in no uncertain terms, that Andrew was dead.
Confusion reigned over her like a demonic presence, settling in a cloud of darkness over her heart. But one thought swirled round and round, and she clung to it as she would to a raft caught in a raging flood. She loved Clayton, and she believed that he loved her. That meant that he was who he said he was, because he could not love her…and lie so convincingly.
***
She had fallen into a chair, and when she rose, the clock was striking three o’clock in the morning. She felt as though she had been on a long journey, down tortuous roads and through dense jungles, with her feet dragging through quicksand and branches snatching at her from the brush like hands of murderous intent. She removed her clothes, put on her nightgown, and crawled into bed.
At dawn she woke, still exhausted, her mind running uncontrollably on. She must somehow let Clayton know about Andrew’s return. She would tell Dr. Edwards, who would tell Mrs. Shirley, and Mrs. Shirley would find Clayton, who would straighten everything out. However, all this would take time—time that would wear on Andrew’s patience.
Time was her enemy.
She washed and put on one of the old dresses she wore to the hospital. She tiptoed downstairs, shivering, and went into the kitchen. There was cornbread and cold ham from the night before. She made herself eat, drank a glass of milk, and went to the hall rack for her cloak.
The front door opened, startling her. She twisted around to see Bart, barely visible in the dimness. An odor of whiskey and cheap perfume permeated the air around him.
“Catherine,” he said, slurring her name so that it came out “Cashrin.” He stood weaving back and forth in the hallway. “Where are you going in the middle of the night?”
“It’s morning,” she said coldly.
He took the cloak out of her hands and clumsily held it out for her. “Lemme help you.”
She didn’t think she could take it back from him forcibly, so she turned and let him slip the cloak over her shoulders. His hands lingered on her upper arms and slid down them in a clumsy caress. She jerked away from him.
“Don’t be so standoffish!” He looked offended. “You’ve got nothing to be shy about. We both know—”
“You’re drunk!”
“Shh!” He grinned at her. “Don’t want Sallie to see me. Now com’ere—”
Catherine pushed him into the coat rack. His coat sleeve hung on one of the hooks, and when he jerked it back the entire rack toppled forward and crashed to the floor, with him underneath it. She left him sprawled there, cursing and trying to extricate himself.
Tad was in the barn sleepily putting out fresh hay for the horses. He hitched the animals to the carriage and drove her to the hospital with such a lack of dispatch that she was nearly beside herself with exasperation by the time they arrived. She went through the rear entrance and hurried to Dr. Edwards’s office. He was not there, which didn’t really surprise her at that hour of the morning.
At ten o’clock, he still had not arrived. Catherine changed bandages, washed wounds and delirious faces, carried instruments back and forth, and still he did not come.
None of the other doctors had seen him. None of the orderlies had seen him, nor had any of the other nurses. At last she caught one of the older doctors in his study.
“Dr. Taylor, do you know where I can find Dr. Edwards?”
The old man peered at her abstractedly. “Young woman, you are one of the nurses, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I’m Catherine…Kelly.”
“Dr. Edwards has gone home to Atlanta. His grandson has been killed. He found he could get there just in time for the funeral.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” Catherine’s spirits sank. “Do you know when he’s coming back?”
The white head wagged back and forth. “He may not come back at all. He said he expected to stay there a while and work in one of the Atlanta hospitals. Now I was looking up something in my book, young woman, if you will excuse me.”
“I’m sorry. Thank you, Dr. Taylor.”
Catherine retreated into the corridor and leaned against the wall. Now what was she to do? She had depended on Dr. Edwards to contact Mrs. Shirley for her. Should she go in search of the woman herself? Clayton had told her not to do that.
Suddenly it seemed odd that Dr. Edwards should disappear at the same time that Clayton and Mrs. Shirley received new assignments. What if—but stubbornly she pushed the thought back, exhausted by all the “what ifs” that assailed her.
Give Clayton the benefit of the doubt, she told herself. Give him time to come back and explain everything.
If she had to, she could always go to Atlanta and search for Dr. Edwards. She could always go to the Executive Mansion and demand to see Mrs. Shirley. And if neither of them could be found, then she would know.…
But as long as she could, she would wait. Life was full of strange coincidences. It would take more than circumstantial evidence to make her believe that Clayton had used her, lied to her, and left her.
***
The wretched wife of the innocent man thus doomed to die fell
under the sentence, as if she had been mortally stricken.
The waiting proved to be interminable. February had always been a slow month, in spite of its brevity in length, but now it seemed to drag by like a corpulent slug. The weather was extremely cold; she had to heat the water in her basin every morning before she could wash her face. March arrived in a gust of wind and a false promise of spring.
Andrew now read Dickens’s novel. He had taken over for Sallie when she tired in the middle of a chapter, and it was tacitly agreed that he should be the new narrator of the household. He had a deep, well-modulated voice…it was one of the things about him that had attracted her.
He had put on weight under the influence of Hester’s excellent cooking. He was unfailingly polite and patient with Catherine, not exerting any pressure to assume her wifely duty to him. He went with her to church; he made it clear that any mention of the black-hooded man who had claimed to be Andrew was strictly off limits. His presence and his acceptance of Catherine stilled the gossiping tongues and, as a matter
of fact, saved her reputation.
For that, Catherine was grateful. Still, she knew in her heart that there would come a day of reckoning. Every minute that ticked by on the noisy grandfather clock reminded her of that. Why didn’t she hear from Clayton? Where was he, and was he all right? What should she do?
It was a note addressed to Bart that spurred her to action…a note she found by chance while helping Jessie clean the formal parlor. Obviously it had fallen from his pocket as he sat at the card table with his cronies. She had not been aware of any recent meeting, so it must have taken place one day when she was out of the house.
The little paper was folded, and on the outside had been scrawled the name “Ingram.” She opened it to read the words: “Four p.m. Ides Mar. The old house.” In the margin the word “clay” had been scribbled.
Ides, she thought—Ides of March. Was Bart to meet someone at four in the afternoon on March fifteenth? It was then the twelfth. She had no idea which “old house,” however. Did the word “clay” refer to an adobe house? She had never even seen one.
Well, she would follow Bart. If there were a meeting and she discovered any information that could help identify Bart’s leader, she would have a perfect excuse to take the news to
the offices of the War Department. Perhaps then Clayton’s fellow agents would contact him and let him know of Andrew’s return.
She knew that her plan was daring, even dangerous—but she did not expect to encounter cold-blooded murder.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Ephraim, I need to ask a favor of you.”
The old man’s face turned toward her expectantly. He stood on a short ladder in the dining room, cleaning the glass globes of the chandelier.
“Yes, Miss Catherine?”
“Can you come down from there for just a moment?”
Ephraim carefully replaced one of the globes and stepped off the ladder. Catherine gestured for him to join her close against the wall and began to whisper.
“I need something, and I need you to get it for me. I know it seems curious, but you’ll just have to trust me.”
The servant looked mystified.
“I need some boy’s clothes—trousers and a coat and a cap. And I want them right away. Here’s the money.” She pressed some bills into his hand.
Ephraim eyed her dubiously. “Now Miss Catherine, you know I trust you. Never in your life have I had cause to scold you about anything, except a few times when you lost your temper. But I just can’t see any good reason why you need to put on some boy clothes.”
“Well, there’s a good reason. And please don’t tell anyone. If anything happens to me—” She stopped as he began to look alarmed. “A soldier may inquire for me. You may tell him that I was out…investigating a…a possibility.”
Ephraim forgot his grammar. “Miss Catherine, I ain’t gonna stand for it. You spying for a soldier! Putting yourself in danger—no ma’am, I just won’t have it.”
“Ephraim, lives may depend on it. Believe me, there’s nothing you can do to stop me. I’ll get those clothes if I have to go down to the men’s store myself!”
He raised his eyebrows and after a moment let out a sigh. “My, you do take after your father. He was proud and stubborn, but a good man…an honest man.”
They looked at each other for a moment with understanding, then Catherine gave him a quick hug and said, “Thank you, Ephraim.” She left the room before he could question her further.
That evening she found a package of brown paper tied with string lying on her bed. The trousers fit her quite snugly; it was a good thing the short coat came to below her hips. She had forgotten to ask for shoes but she had some old brogans she wore when nursing at the hospital.
She tucked the items away and locked the armoire. There was a discreet knock on the bedroom door.
“Catherine, it’s Andrew.”
She pulled the door slightly ajar. “Yes?”
“Won’t you come downstairs with me? I expect we’ll finish the book tonight.”
Catherine hesitated. She needed time to think, to plan, but it seemed just as important that she behave as normally as possible. She nodded and preceded him down the stairs.
The others had already gathered, except for Bart, who had not joined them the last two nights. They talked perfunctorily for a while, and then Sallie asked Andrew to begin reading. Catherine’s mind wandered far afield, and she heard only a sentence here and there as Sydney Carton’s final sacrifice began to unfold.
“Are you dying for him?” she whispered.
If the meeting took place at four in the afternoon, it would no doubt be dark by the time she returned to the house. Perhaps there would be a bright moon. She would have to rent a horse and not risk taking one of Martin’s. She would send Ephraim to the livery in the morning to make the arrangements. Bart kept his horse there as well; she would make sure she arrived before he did so she would be mounted and ready to follow him.
Already her heart was pounding.
The man cries, “Down, Evrémonde! To the Guillotine all aristocrats!
Down, Evrémonde!”
What if she were caught? What possible explanation could she give? Perhaps she should simply tell the truth—that she had found the note, had been suspicious about Bart and so had followed him. Would Bart suspect she knew more than she let on? What would he do? He had never made any secret of the fact that he found her desirable, but she knew he was not in love with her. So if he were really involved in all that Clayton said he was, he probably wouldn’t hesitate to kill her.
“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done.…”
Miranda was frankly sobbing. Andrew came to the end of the book and set it aside. “For the love of heaven, Miranda,” he said, a little irritably. “It’s only a story.”
“Such pathos,” gulped Miranda. “Such h-h-heroism.”
“I hardly see how giving one’s life for the love of a woman who loves another man can be called heroic,” said Andrew.
Catherine was sufficiently roused to offer a rebuke. “That is precisely what is heroic about it. It was completely unselfish.”
“Greater love hath no man,” Miranda quoted, dabbing at her eyes.
Andrew looked thoughtfully at Catherine. She was relieved when Martin drew him into conversation, taking his regard off of her. Sallie glanced at Catherine over her sewing and said quietly, “I expect it’s a great comfort to have Andrew home.”
“Of course.”
“Except he’ll probably be leaving soon.”
“I don’t know.”
“You mean he hasn’t heard when he’s to go back into the army?”
“Why, no. At least he hasn’t said so.”
“Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
Catherine could think of nothing to say. Andrew turned away from Martin and rose to stand beside her.
“Come, Catherine,” he said, with an air of authority. “I’m ready to retire.”
On knees that suddenly shook, Catherine stood up and took Andrew’s proffered arm. She couldn’t look at anyone. She had a distinct feeling that her time of waiting had come to an end.
At the entrance to her room Andrew said, “Pay no attention to Sallie. She’s a cat looking for someone to scratch.”
“Oh,” said Catherine.
“I’ve spoken to my commanding officer. I’ll probably be leaving sometime next month.”
“I see.”
“Catherine—”
She braced herself. She would have to think of some excuse. “Yes, Andrew?”
“Nothing. There’s still time, isn’t there?”
“Time?” It came out as a squeak. She cleared her throat. “Time for
what?”
“To…know each other.” He smiled into her eyes, said good night, and left her.
***
The fifteenth of March dawned overcast and windy. Catherine kept hoping the weather would clear, but to no avail; at three o’clock the sky still threatened a deluge and the wind howled around the eaves of the house.
She tucked one of Clayton’s black shirts into the dark trousers, rolled the sleeves up to her wrists, and then looked at her reflection. Scandalous! There was no denying her feminine curves in spite of the boyish attire. Luckily the coat would cover her. She plaited her hair in one long braid, then pinned it on top of her head. She pulled on the visored cap and looked at herself again. She could only hope no one would scrutinize her, for she did not look much like a boy. But how wonderful it felt to be free of the constriction of corset and innumerable petticoats!
