by Diaz, Debra
“There are a lot of strangers in town,” Andrew said, with a thoughtful frown. “Thieves, pickpockets…”
“Oh!” Miranda cried again, waving her hands. “What if it was that man? The man who pretended to be you, Cousin!”
Andrew darted a glance at Catherine. She only shook her head.
“I think,” Andrew said, “that is rather unlikely.”
“Catherine, I’m glad you weren’t seriously hurt. I’m going back to bed.” Sallie rose and marched from the room.
“I’ll report this to the authorities tomorrow,” Martin said wearily.
He bent and kissed Catherine’s cheek. “Thank God you’re all right,” he said, and followed his wife. Miranda scurried after him.
The servants drifted back to their rooms, with Ephraim lingering behind. Andrew said, “I’ll see to her.” Ephraim glanced at Catherine. She nodded and he, too, left the room.
“Come, Catherine.” Andrew took her hand. She walked beside him, still trembling. In the hallway he bent and lifted her in his arms and carried her up the stairs. He put her down on the bed. “I’m staying with you tonight.”
“Oh, no, really—” She stopped, staring at the bedroom window.
“What is it?” he asked quickly.
“The window! I’m sure it was closed when I left the room.”
The glass of the window had been shoved almost halfway up. The room was icy cold.
Andrew walked over to the window, leaning forward to put his head out. He looked all around.
“He could have come in this way, after you left the room. It would be hard to get up here, but he could have climbed that tree. I suppose it could be done by a very athletic person.”
Catherine’s hand went automatically to her throat. Andrew stood up and closed the window, locking it. He dropped another large log on the smoldering fire.
“Get into bed now.”
Catherine simply stared at him. He had not yet undressed for bed. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing muscular, powerful-looking forearms. When she did not move, he went to her, made her lie back, and pulled the covers over her.
“I’m staying here.” He reached around her and seized the other pillow, then went to one of the large chairs and settled himself into it, putting up his booted feet on the footstool. He reached for the lamp on the table beside him and turned down the wick. The room plunged into darkness.
Somehow she slept, but it was a troubled sleep. She heard Andrew get up at one point and stir the fire. She began to dream; she walked in darkness and there was something in that darkness, treacherous and hidden; she felt hands on her throat and cried out. Suddenly there were hands on her, shaking her shoulders urgently. She bolted up and Andrew sat beside her, the moon shining in and turning his hair to silver.
“You’re having a nightmare, Catherine.”
She grew calmer at once but wondered uneasily how to convince him to leave the room. He leaned forward and his lips touched hers, softly and then with increasing force. Her neck cramped. She tried to turn her face away but he took both sides of it in his hands and kissed her more deeply. She began to struggle against him.
He released her, his breath coming rapidly. He looked at her for a moment, then closed his eyes and shook his head. “No,” he said harshly. “I won’t take advantage of you tonight.”
He got up and stood by the window, staring out for a long time. “Catherine,” he said, his voice now under control, “I’ve been thinking. Bart was murdered. Tonight there was an attempt to kill you. Murder doesn’t often strike twice in the same family, unless the incidents are related.”
“What are you saying?”
“Only that it seems to me that, maybe, the same person who killed Bart tried to kill you tonight.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know.” He turned to face her. “Is there anything you know of Bart or his activities? He always struck me as a nefarious sort.”
She hesitated a long time before answering. “I’m sure he must have been involved in something. But how could I know anything about it? You mean you don’t think it was a thief tonight? You really think that someone wanted to—murder me?”
Her voice sounded incredulous. But she believed it. She had not thought of it until Andrew’s questioning, but it had to be true. Someone believed she knew something about Bart’s murder.
There had been someone listening behind the door the day she talked to Ephraim! That would mean, then, that her would-be murderer was someone in the house. Martin, Sallie, Andrew himself, Miranda, one of the servants. Wait—there was the open window to consider.
It seemed that the world she knew rocked and split apart.
“Sweetheart,” Andrew said, moving toward her swiftly. He went down on one knee beside the bed. “Don’t look like that. I’m sure whoever killed Bart will be caught soon. In the meantime, we’ll see that you’re well protected. I don’t think anyone would be foolish enough to try something a second time.”
“Andrew, please.” Catherine drew up her knees, put her folded arms on them and laid her head on her arms. “Please, I just want to be alone. You can lock the door. You have the key, don’t you?”
“Yes, I have the key. Catherine, look at me.”
She raised her head. He put his hand under her chin.
“I’ll do as you ask. But you must learn to trust me.”
He placed a kiss on her forehead, then rose to a standing position. He returned her pillow to the bed and left the room. Catherine heard the click of the lock.
She opened the drawer of the bedside table and took out the pistol Clayton had told her to put there. She checked it to make sure it was still loaded, then slid it under the extra pillow, pointing away from her.
She did not sleep for the rest of the night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Bart’s service took place at the graveside the following day. The snow had all but disappeared, leaving the ground sodden and covered in patches with brown slush. Catherine’s black dress (with its high neckline covering the bruises on her throat) kept her warm, but already the hem was ruined and her shoes kept sticking in the mud.
She stood with the other family members as the minister read the service. He was, she thought, having a hard time with the eulogy. Bart had rarely attended church and no one knew much about him. Sallie had supplied his birth date and a few personal comments to the effect that he had been a good and devoted brother. The minister made mention of that, then immediately began reading from his book of funeral sermons.
“I am the resurrection and the life.…” She listened to the familiar words from the Bible and felt a strong sense of the tragedy of Bart’s death. He had not been ready to die; she felt sure he had not made his peace with God. She wished, now, that she had been nicer to him.
Standing straight and tall beside her, Andrew reached out and took her hand. Catherine let him hold it, unwilling to make a scene when most of their friends and neighbors were standing directly behind them. The words he had spoken the night before played over and over in her mind. Bart’s murder…her attempted murder. Yes, they had to be connected somehow.
Who had opened her bedroom window?
Andrew and Martin had checked the upstairs. Catherine asked her uncle if perhaps he had opened the window to look out on the balcony. He and Andrew both said they had not noticed the window being open. But anybody in the house could have opened it after she left her room to make it seem as though an intruder had entered, or exited—just as anyone in the house could have attacked her.
She felt numb with the horror of it. Murder must be the result of hate or fear or greed, she thought. She could think of no one who hated her, and she did not have enough wealth or possessions to inspire anyone to kill her. Someone had to fear her because he or she believed Catherine knew something about Bart’s murder. It was the only logical explanation.
Martin had suggested a thief. A thief would,
of course, be drawn to the dining room where the silver was kept. But why would he try to kill her? Why not simply wait quietly until she went back upstairs? She wanted to believe Martin’s theory, but she just couldn’t.
At the same time, it was almost impossible in broad daylight to believe that her assailant was a member of the household or anyone she knew. She certainly could not believe that and continue to live there. Maybe it was one of Bart’s associates—maybe she had been seen that day in the woods, and they believed she knew too much! That, too, would explain the open window.
Her uncle had reported the attack and an officer had come out to question her briefly. Martin had said not to expect quick results. Martial law had been declared a year ago and certainly the military had plenty to do besides investigate attempted murders.
She realized suddenly that people were bowing their heads for prayer and quickly bowed her own. The minister began to shake the hands of the family members, saying a comforting word to each. After he had passed, Catherine turned to look behind her, touched by the number of people who had come to offer their support. There were so many funerals being held these days.
If not for the war, none of this would have happened, she thought. Bart would never have come to live in Richmond and work in a government office. No one would have pulled a stocking around Catherine’s neck and tried to choke the life out of her. Why, she would never have married Andrew!
And Clayton would not be involved in the most dangerous occupation in the army. Somewhere she had read an article on spies, in which a certain general stated he would rather march into ten battles than go on one secret service mission. Although Clayton said his “spying days” were over, she knew he was still trying to find out the truth about Bart’s band of traitors.
Suddenly Sallie sank down in a faint…probably a real one this time, Catherine thought with a quick surge of pity. Andrew moved at once to assist Martin as he fumbled in his pockets for the smelling salts. Catherine happened to look up at that moment and saw someone standing on the fringe of the crowd, surprising her so much she almost cried the name out loud.
Mrs. Shirley!
The woman’s height made her stand out from the others, as did her singular air of aloofness. She met Catherine’s gaze, but her expression did not so much as flicker with recognition. Her eyes moved slowly over the group of mourners, as though she were looking for someone.
Probably she was simply doing her job—searching for suspicious-looking persons who might be attending Bart’s funeral. Then she turned and walked briskly away, going through the gate of the churchyard cemetery and disappearing down the soggy street.
Catherine thought about hurrying after her to tell her about the attack of last night so that she could report it to Clayton. But that was impossible, with Andrew and the others present.
Mrs. Shirley, Catherine thought suddenly, was strong and agile; Mrs. Shirley knew about the tree and the balcony—and the bedroom window.
Oh, you’re being ridiculous, she scoffed at herself. But she wasn’t sure she shared Clayton’s confidence in Mrs. Shirley. The woman was an enigma. Where had she come from, before ingratiating herself with President Davis? How could Clayton trust her so implicitly?
People began to leave. Andrew came to her and took her to the Henderson’s’ carriage, where Martin and Sallie were already ensconced. Miranda had ridden with someone else.
Sallie sat stiffly beside Martin, who seemed to stare unseeingly out the window. Why, he looks so old, Catherine thought, feeling a wave of remorse that she’d not paid much attention to him over the last several months. She reached out and touched his arm.
“Are you all right, Uncle Martin?”
His head swung toward her. “Oh, yes. I’m fine, Catherine, thank you.” He reached out and patted Sallie’s hand as though to say, “She’s the one we must be concerned about.” His wife made no response, staring out the other window.
Andrew looked at Catherine and smiled a little. She let her lips curve up ever so slightly, then she, too, looked out the window.
Somehow she endured the rest of the afternoon—greeting neighbors who came and went, making small talk, thanking them for their concern.
They asked surprisingly few questions. The country was at war; anything was to be expected.
When everyone had finally left, the house fell into a strange silence. The servants moved about quietly and spoke in whispers, respectful of Sallie’s grief. Catherine put away the black dress, hoping she would never have to wear it again.
By then it was almost dark. She donned another of her faded gowns and sat down at the dressing table to brush out her hair. She had opened her bedroom door to allow air to circulate; her window remained closed and locked.
She heard a light swish and Andrew’s reflection appeared in the mirror. She stopped, her brush in midair. He ran his hand lightly, admiringly, over the dark red tresses.
“You have beautiful hair, Catherine. A most unusual color.”
“Thank you, Andrew. Did you want something?”
“Yes.” He hesitated, and then said, “I’ve come to tell you I’m moving my things in here tomorrow. I think it’s time you took your place as my wife.”
The brush fell with a bang and she got to her feet, facing him with her back pressed against the dressing table. “Andrew, I…I can’t. It’s too soon.”
“Too soon?” he repeated softly. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not…I can’t…” Her mind cast about desperately for some reason to put him off. She drew a deep breath and said, “I’m still in love with that other man, the man I thought was you.”
Andrew regarded her in silence for a moment. He lifted a lock of hair from her shoulder and rubbed it between his fingers. “And you still claim you don’t know his identity, I suppose.”
She did not answer.
“Well, I have my own ideas about that. We shall see. But that’s all the more reason why I must take this step, Catherine. Memories can be powerful, and I’ve been wrong to allow you to hold onto them this way. I’m going to make you forget this other man.”
“No,” she whispered. “I can’t.”
He stared at her for a long moment, searching her eyes, probing as though trying to see into her soul. She did not attempt to avoid his gaze. Then he released the thick strands of hair and said, with a strange note of finality, “I’m sorry, Catherine.”
He left the room. She stood there, thinking wildly…sorry? About what? Was he sorry he had broached the subject, or sorry that he intended to go through with it against her wishes? What did he mean when he said he had his own ideas about the false Andrew?
She resisted an urge to call him back. She supposed she would find out tomorrow what he intended to do. If he tried to force her, she would run away. She would run all the way to General Lee’s headquarters if she had to.
Supper consisted of leftovers from earlier in the day. Martin ate quietly and methodically, as though he were alone. He had been different, somehow, since Bart’s death. He was not of an excitable nature, but neither had he ever tried to hide his emotions. He seemed now to be under some sort of self-restraint, as though coiled up like a spring, and the tension was almost palpable. Sallie’s chair remained empty.
Andrew, too, was silent, eating little and watching Catherine. There was a sadness about him that caught at her heart. She felt guilty, as though she had done something wrong. For the first time, she was struck by a strong feeling of uncertainty.
What have I done? What am I supposed to do?
Miranda chattered on about people she’d met at the funeral, occasionally stopping to ask Catherine about certain family connections.
