by Diaz, Debra
Andrew had gone for his customary afternoon ride on one of Martin’s horses. Bart had been in his room for some time; she could only assume that he was waiting until time to leave for the meeting.
The moment had come. She whispered one final prayer for safety and remembered to lock the bedroom door. Then she let herself out the window and stepped onto the balcony, bending to peer over the railing. Clayton had made it look so easy. Her mission might very well end here and now, with her broken body lying facedown in the backyard!
Shaking, she climbed over the railing and stepped cautiously out onto the nearest tree branch. Holding on tightly to other branches, she worked her way to the trunk and began to let herself down, step by careful step. All the limbs seemed strong and sturdy. She reached the ground, ran to the gate, and let herself into the street, where she veered in the direction of the nearby livery.
A blast of wind almost carried off her cap. She held it on with one hand and clutched her coat closed with the other. Fortunately the weather kept most pedestrians away, and she met no one on her way to the livery. One of the doors was swinging back and forth when she went inside, where she was suddenly assailed by the pungent odor of manure. An elderly man with a shovel came out and looked at her.
“Name’s Kelly,” she said, her voice low and her face down.
“Over there.” He turned without a backward look.
She walked carefully in the direction in which he had pointed. A short brown mare stood saddled and waiting.
Catherine deepened her voice and called out, “Mind if I ride around in back a little first? Ain’t used to ridin’ much.”
“Go ahead,” came the reply.
She walked the horse to the enclosure outside, then mounted it. Thank goodness Ephraim had thought to ask for a gentle horse. She rode back and forth, waiting for Bart to appear.
She did not have long to wait. She heard his voice talking to the man inside. Looking around, her heart raced when she saw him glance at her before mounting his own horse. Her cap was pulled down low.
There was no recognition in his brief glance and in a moment he and his horse were trotting briskly down the street. Catherine waited a few moments before following at a much slower pace.
She only just managed to keep him in view. Thankfully, the wind had died down a little and she did not have to hold onto her cap, for she needed both hands on the reins, in spite of the docility of the animal beneath her. She had heard that horses could sense the skill of their riders, and some of the more spirited ones seemed to take pleasure in ejecting novices from the saddle.
Since Bart had seen her once, it would not do for him to see her again. She held far back, even at the risk of losing him altogether. His horse had a cropped tail, which was easy to spot. He made his way west to the James River and began following it southward.
The riverfront had always been plagued with criminals of every description and she grew increasingly nervous. Bart avoided the alleys, staying for the most part on one of the main thoroughfares. Finally the factories and warehouses began to thin, and they entered a forest.
A recent rain had soaked the dead leaves and twigs and pine needles, and Catherine’s horse made no sound as they went deeper into the woods. There were enough evergreens to make her feel fairly concealed, but a strong sense of passing the point of no return had fallen upon her like a dead weight.
She could barely keep Bart in view. If he should turn around, she believed that she would remain unseen if she could manage to keep her horse from moving. Bart had, in fact, turned several times to look around him, but never directly backward. Perhaps, too, he had had a few drinks and was not as alert as he should be.
Bart stopped and got off his horse, looping the reins around a tree branch. Instantly Catherine nudged her horse sideways and traveled a distance of several yards before stopping, slipping from the saddle and tying up the reins. She then ran back to her former position. Bart had disappeared.
She knew the house must be nearby. She walked slowly forward until she reached Bart’s horse. It whinnied and shook its head, as though to say, Go back!
Catherine shook all over. She kept going, careful to stay behind trees as much as possible. A small, crumbling white house came into view. She stopped and stood watching it for several moments.
So, there was a meeting! That meant that Bart really was a spy for the enemy and that Clayton had been telling her the truth. Surely there could be no other reason for such clandestine activities!
Already darkness was creeping into the woods due to the density of the trees and the overcast sky. A single candle flame wavered in one of the windows. A movement she caught in the corner of her eye made her freeze with apprehension. When she slowly turned to look, she saw another horse, tethered far back through the trees. She forced herself to turn carefully in all directions, and saw still another horse. Frightened, she stepped behind a tree. It had never occurred to her that the men would spread out over so wide an area. It was a wonder she hadn’t been seen by one of them.
Maybe there was someone behind her; maybe she herself was being followed. Maybe—and the sudden thought nearly knocked the breath from her lungs—maybe Bart had dropped that note on purpose and led her here to trap her.
Her spine against the tree trunk, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes for a moment. She had to get hold of herself. Somehow she had to find the courage to approach the house and try to hear what was being said.
“Dear God,” she said in her mind, “I don’t know if I should have done this or not but here I am. I’ve got to go through with it. Please help me.”
She felt no sudden rush of boldness, but at least her knees stopped shaking so she could move. She began to make her way toward the house. A mass of overgrown shrubbery grew at one side; she could hide there when the meeting was over and the men began to leave the house.
However, there was nowhere to hide while she listened. She crouched close against the side of the house directly opposite the candlelit window. Surely they could hear her movements, she thought. Surely in a moment they would come out and discover her. Already she could picture Bart’s fury. Or maybe he would only laugh at her. At any rate, it seemed quite possible she would never leave the place alive.
The window above her was open the slightest crack. It was difficult to hear, to make out any words from the low murmur. The hollow emptiness of the building seemed to encourage the men to speak quietly, and distorted their voices so that she did not recognize any of them, even Bart’s. But she felt certain the others must be Bart’s Sunday afternoon cronies, and maybe, just maybe, their elusive leader. If only she dared to raise her head and take a peek inside.
She caught the words “General Lee.” Frustrated, she pressed hard against the wall and strained to hear. The wind had begun to pick up in velocity and she could only make out a word here and there.
“…near Fredericksburg…next engagement…hit during confusion…hire rifleman…April or May…”
A sudden gust swept the cap from Catherine’s head, and it flew away into the woods as though it had a life of its own. She dashed after it, knowing that if someone found it, a search would be made for its owner. She caught it and breathlessly made her way back to her post, only to hear the sound of chairs scraping against the floor. They were leaving.
She scrambled up and saw to her horror that a door between her and her sanctuary of shrubs was opening slowly and with a loud rasp of rusty hinges. She slid sideways in the opposite direction until she reached the other end of the house and slipped around it, flattening herself against the wall as if she could make herself invisible. Muffled footsteps told her that someone else was coming around the other side of the house.
Trapped, she thought. It didn’t seem real. She felt a strange sense of familiarity, as though she had done all this before, or dreamed it, and now it was coming true and she was powerless to change the outcome—except she couldn’t remember the outcome.
Did this mean sh
e was about to die?
Her knees shaking, she peeked over the right side of the wall. Two men were striding away, toward the horses farther back in the woods. The man on the other side, who in a moment would be in viewing distance, stopped at a call from within and went back inside the house through the front entrance. She took the opportunity to scoot around to the opposite side, passed below the windows, and knelt down inside the heavy, prickly brush.
She could hear nothing but the rise and fall of voices, then a sound exploded shockingly in her ears, rattling the windows and scaring her so badly she fell backward, pricking herself on the nettles.
It was so dark now that she could no longer see the other two men, but they did not return to investigate. A third man left the house hurriedly and she could only make out the dim outline of a figure wearing a hat. He must have left his horse at such a distance that she had not seen it.
She waited a long time but no further sound came to her ears. The silence within the house was ominous. She knew there had been four men, and only three had left.
The wind whistled and flapped a loose board somewhere on the dilapidated structure. No one returned to the house. Now the darkness was on her side, for she felt certain she could no longer be seen. She climbed out of the bushes, still clutching her cap in her hands. The braid had come loose from the top of her head and hung down her back; the wind tugged out wisps of hair that tickled her face. She couldn’t seem to get a full breath of air, even without her corset.
Catherine propelled herself to the side entrance and without hesitating went through the doorway, wincing as the hinges squealed in protest. But she was safe now; no one could hear anything with the wind roaring through the woods. She stopped to look and listen.
The interior of the house was as still and gloomy as a tomb. She stood in a tiny passageway, rooms leading off from either side. The room where the candle had been lit was to her right. She made herself move in that direction.
A figure darker than the darkness lay huddled on the floor. She could make out the shape of a table near the window. She went toward it, unpleasantly aware of the musty, dank smell of the house and the acrid scent of gunpowder. She groped for the candle and found it, and next to it a box of matches. After two tries her trembling fingers managed to strike one and she lit the candle. Quickly she moved away from the window. Staring downward, she walked completely around the motionless shape on the floor. He lay on his side, one arm thrown out, his eyes open and fixed on nothing. It was Bart.
At the same time she became aware of some stealthy sound in front of the house. The door creaked open.
One of them had come back.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Instinctively she blew out the candle. There was no way to leave the house without the rusty hinges betraying her. She moved backward into the passageway. The space was so small that from where she stood she could still see much of the front room.
A figure moved cautiously forward. The masculine form of the intruder wore a dark cape and a slouch hat, pulled low. She could barely see him moving about. The sound of a match being struck made her flinch and she saw the man, his hat shielding his face, go down on one knee beside Bart.
Why did he come back? she thought—but then it seemed obvious. He meant to dispose of the body.
She had not been conscious of making any sound when she saw the man stiffen. He dropped the match, but not before she saw a pistol appear in his other hand. He got instantly to his feet.
She threw her cap at him, dimly aware that he ducked to avoid it. Taking advantage of the brief opportunity, she pushed open the door and darted outside where she hoped she could lose herself in the woods. But he was too fast. She could hear him closing the distance between them. She turned to let the thick candle she still clutched in her hand fly toward him and thought it must have thudded off his chest. It didn’t stop him, but she had lost momentum; she felt him grab her arm, jerking her around so forcefully her feet almost flew out from beneath her.
Panting, she whirled again to run but he had her in his grasp. Catherine felt his hands clamp around her waist, his upper arms touching her breasts. She sensed his surprise and felt his grip relax a little. She surged forward and he let go, with the result that she stumbled and swiftly descended to meet the damp, leafy ground.
“What the—” he began, and after a moment said, “Catherine, is that you?”
She must be hallucinating. She pulled herself up on her knees and turned to look behind her, her coat hanging half off. She could not see him, but she would have known his voice anywhere.
“Clayton?” It came out so plaintively that she thought she might as well go ahead and burst into full-fledged tears—and did. He came to her at once and pulled her to her feet, gathering her in his arms while she sobbed into his chest. He fished a handkerchief out of some inner pocket and handed it to her. She wiped her nose and felt his arms go around her again. She was safe at last; she could have stayed there forever.
Finally he said quietly, “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. The wind whipped around them, shrieking through the branches over their heads. Without another word he picked her up and carried her back to the house, setting her gently down by the door so they could walk inside. He left her standing in the passageway while he searched for another candle and apparently found one, for the little room flickered into life. Swiftly he returned to her and led her into the opposite room. He set the thick, flat-ended candle on the seat of a broken stool.
Clayton looked down at her for a long moment, his eyes taking in everything, his hands smoothing her hair and pulling the half-shed coat back into place. Then he kissed her, pulling her tightly against him.
When he finally raised his head, he murmured huskily, “Are you really here? Or am I dreaming all this?”
“I wish it were a dream,” she whispered. “And that tomorrow we would wake up in our own bed, in our own house, and there was never any war, and never—” Her voice trailed off and she hiccupped.
“Wait here,” he said. He turned and went back into the other room.
She heard him moving about and in a moment he returned with two straight-backed chairs, which he placed close together. He seated her in one and himself in the other.
“Tell me everything,” he urged. “What are you doing here?”
The moment she looked into his eyes she knew she had been wrong to doubt him, wrong to suspect he would lie to her about something so vital as Andrew’s supposed death, wrong to even entertain the thought that he might be secretly working for the Union. She didn’t know how she knew. She just knew.
“I was following Bart,” she answered. “But, Clayton, what are you doing here?”
“As a matter of fact, I just got back into Richmond today. We already knew about this place. One of our men found out through one of Bart’s friends that there was to be a meeting here this afternoon. He wasn’t sure about the time. I got here as soon as I could.”
“And your other mission? It’s finished?”
He looked away for a moment, leaning back against the chair. “I got the information Lee needed. He’s asked me to take command of a regiment.”
“You mean…no more spying?”
Again, he seemed to hesitate. “I had a rather…narrow escape. I would be recognized. I think my days of spying are over.”
“Oh, Clayton, I’m so glad!” She jumped out of her chair and into his lap, hugging him heartily. He laughed a little and held her close. She looped an arm around his neck and rested her cheek on top of his head.
“How I’ve missed you, my beloved wife.”
Beloved wife.
He must have sensed the change in her, a sudden stillness, and he looked up at her, puzzled. “What is it, Catherine?”
