by Tara Johnson
“Think of how many suffering men I disappoint every time I fail to show up at the hospital.”
He sighed. “We’ve already discussed this.” He ran his hands down his face. “Emptying chamber pots and breathing in diseases . . . it’s not fitting for a young lady.”
“You’ve allowed me to do so until now.”
He frowned. “It seemed to give you a goal to work toward. I honestly didn’t think . . .” He fell silent.
“You didn’t think I could do it, did you?”
He blanched and looked away. Something inside her wilted, crushed like vellum in a fist.
“You accomplished it nonetheless. But Providence has laid this new opportunity before you. You should make the most of it. Not to mention preparing yourself to be a wife someday.” He smiled weakly. “Stephen Dodd is so fond of you.”
She gripped the edge of her vanity, fighting the turmoil churning her middle. “I don’t love him.”
“Love grows. All I’m saying is you should enjoy this time. So many are looking to you as a bright light in the darkness. Don’t be too hasty to throw it away.” He had patted her shoulder and left.
The room seemed to close in around her at his words. She couldn’t breathe. She was drowning. And the despair had only grown since.
Now the floor rumbled underneath her feet as she clutched the pendant in her white-knuckled fingers. She was boxed in. She could not disappoint Father, nor would she hurt Congressman Ramsey, not after all he’d done for the family. Yet she could not forget the faces of moaning, miserable men writhing in agony inside the hospital. The other nurses, the stewards . . . all teetered on the brink of exhaustion. One less person to help was more work for the lot of them to do. Meanwhile, scared young men were on a battlefield somewhere being sliced to ribbons by bayonets and muskets. Who would attend them? Who would comfort them as they lay dying? And baby Rose’s grave? Was it overgrown with weeds by now? No matter where she turned, she was letting someone down. She couldn’t do it.
It was too much. The demands. The expectations. Life was drained of color, washed only in shades of gray.
She couldn’t sing. Not another note.
Yet somehow she must.
Joshua’s smile felt starched as he answered the same questions over and over. The Union Aid Society had pledged to donate funds to Judiciary Square Hospital, and his attendance was required to meet patrons and explain the hospital’s needs, but the press of people, the repetitive questions, and his fatigue mingled to cause him a pounding headache.
He forced his attention to remain fixed on the matron before him, who was chattering like a fussy hen.
“. . . and when I saw the newspaper, how dreadful our soldiers looked and what a hard time they had of it, I just knew I must do something.” She shook her head, her jowls swaying. “It’s our Christian duty, is it not?”
“Of course. And the men appreciate any help you can give.”
Her plump, gloved hands fanned her face so rapidly, the movement resembled a hummingbird’s wings. “I just never imagined they would endure so much.” Her lips pursed into a frown. “Why do they suffer from so many ailments of the stomach, Doctor?” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “They aren’t imbibing, are they?”
He suppressed a laugh. “Not to my knowledge, ma’am. From what I’ve witnessed, their stomach distress and weakened conditions come from malnourishment. The food that provides optimum nutrition is either too expensive for the government to supply or cannot endure the rigors of travel. The men would greatly benefit from fresh fruit to prevent scurvy and similar ailments, but there is none to be had, save for any wild-growing berries or fruit they discover as they march. Meat turns rancid very quickly as well, even heavily salted. The men are often reduced to a diet of coffee, hardtack, jerky, cornmeal, and beans. Sometimes less.”
“Pitiful.” She clucked her tongue. “Why don’t they hunt for fresh game?”
He paused and tried not to laugh at her earnest puzzlement. “Because they are too busy hunting Rebels, ma’am.”
“Oh yes. I suppose that’s true. Well, I’m sure my husband and I can spare some coinage for the cause.” She sighed melodramatically. “Although it won’t be as much as I’d hoped, not with food prices rising as they are. I’ve lost a great deal of weight since this horrid war started.”
He tried to school his reaction. The woman looked as if she’d not missed a meal in the past decade. Instead, he nodded. “I hate to think of you suffering so.”
She sniffed. “Yes. But we must all make sacrifices. I shall do my part. ‘Give me liberty or give me death’ and all that, you know. Thomas Paine said that.”
“Or was it Patrick Henry, ma’am?”
She frowned and shook her finger in his face. “It was Paine. You should have paid better attention in school, young man.”
He coughed back a laugh as the musicians ended their time of rest and took their places on stage. The crowd of chattering people must have sensed a shift, for a hush fell over the hall. A pencil-thin man with wiry gray hair and a gray mustache that reminded Joshua of a broom walked across the stage. Red, white, and blue bunting was draped overhead, hanging low from the ceiling.
The elderly man smiled widely and let his voice boom. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for attending the Union Aid Society benefit this evening. Your generosity has been overwhelming. Thanks to you, we will be able to supply our soldiers with new shoes and blankets and supply our doctors with morphine, quinine, and other medicines. With your help, we will fight the good fight and bring our boys home safe and sound, claiming the victory and reuniting this land as it was created . . . one nation under God!”
A roar of applause and thundering cheers rose. When the wild frenzy died down, he lifted his hands. “As a gift for your incredible generosity, we have a treat for you this evening. A musical guest who will thrill your soul and stir your heart. A woman of pure patriotism and renown. Please welcome Miss Cadence Piper!”
Joshua’s breath caught as the deafening applause drowned out the sound of his hammering pulse. He hadn’t said more than a few mumbled words to Cadence since Oak Grove. His heart twisted when she walked gracefully across the stage in a stunning sapphire gown that accentuated her feminine form to perfection. The gloss of her dark hair in the lights, the dimples in her cheeks when she beamed at the crowd . . . He didn’t know if his bruised heart could stay. It was too much. His feelings were just as strong as they’d ever been.
She turned to nod toward the musicians, and the hall was swept into a flood of melody.
Cadence smiled through stiff lips as she turned to face the crowd. The lights were too bright, the air stuffy, and her throat far too dry. All she wanted to do was escape. Run away from inquisitive stares and expectations.
The strings trilled her cue, and she inhaled as deep a breath as she could manage against her tight corset.
“Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord . . .”
She closed her eyes, desperate to connect to the emotion of the stirring song, but she felt nothing. As she reopened them, she could see the delight on the faces of men and women pressed around the stage. Perhaps the song itself was enough, even if she wasn’t communicating it well.
As the verse swelled into the chorus, the musicians increased their volume to a forte.
“Glory, glory, hallelujah . . .”
Several women were dabbing their eyes with delicate lace handkerchiefs. Men cleared their throats. Cadence glided through the other verses with ease. As they launched into the final chorus, the music dramatically rose into a heavy fortissimo. She could feel it now. The emotion, the grandeur of the moment. Gooseflesh rose on her arms as she shut her eyes again and reached for the highest note of the melody.
“Glory, glory, hallelu—”
The note strangled. Her eyes snapped open. A strange sound burst from her throat. A screech, like the brittle strike of an unrosined violin bow across the strings. Men and women were whispering b
ehind fans and gloved hands. A dizzying heat flushed her face. She must finish.
“Our God is marching on.”
Something was wrong. Every note of the last phrase was strained and scraped. Panic clawed. Amid the sea of faces, one stood out above all others: Father’s crestfallen expression.
She remembered little of what happened afterward. A hasty curtsy amid polite applause. Blurring faces. She slipped from the stage and scurried into the darkened corridor, seeking the solace of shadows. What must everyone think? If Father was mortified, she would find no sympathy from anyone else. Nausea crawled up her throat.
Air. She needed air.
Lifting the hem of her wide skirt, she hurried down the corridor to the door used by servants to carry food in and out of the hall. She pushed open the escape and nearly wept when a puff of clean night air brushed her face. Soft gaslights illuminated the road in front of the hall, but here along the side, she was blessedly safe from prying eyes.
She pressed a hand to her forehead and gave in to her trembling lips. Tears fell as she spied a bench and eased onto it with a sob. The sound of crickets was her only friend. Footsteps approached long moments later. Forcing back her cries, she straightened and swiped the moisture from her cheeks. She looked up. Joshua stood before her.
She flushed hot, then cold. Why him? Why now? She’d barely spoken with him since their clandestine exchange of affection at Oak Grove. Her heart and mind had tried to keep thoughts of him at bay. Working was easier than feeling. Must she confront her feelings as well as her humiliation?
“Cadence?” He moved closer. “I thought I heard someone weeping. Why are you crying?”
She watched the pewter moonlight shift across the strong lines of his jaw and cheekbones. “Joshua. I didn’t think to see you tonight.”
“In truth, I wasn’t sure I’d come.”
She toyed with the gloves in her lap. “You would have saved your ears much pain if you had not.”
A puzzled expression drifted over his face. “You sang beautifully. I’d not heard that song until tonight. It’s very moving.”
Was he serious? She glared. “Have you been sniffing chloroform? My voice left me!”
To her surprise, he threw back his head and laughed. He fell onto the bench. “Sniffing chloroform?” He grinned. “You wound me, Miss Piper.”
Her humiliation buoyed into something lighter. Shame fled for one blessed moment. “Forgive me. That was unkind. I have had a trying evening.”
He chuckled and studied her. “So you made a mistake. Is that so terrible? In no way does it mean you need throw out the beauty of the rest of the evening.”
She twisted her fingers. “There are some who don’t feel as you do.”
“Hm.” He grunted and rested his arm along the length of the bench’s back. “Their opinions shouldn’t matter unless it’s their approval you seek.”
She fell silent, wading through his words. “How are the children?”
“They are well, although they ask about you often. It seems you made quite an impression on them. They want to know when my pretty nurse will return and read them more stories.”
She felt the heat of a blush creep into her cheeks. She was thankful for the cover of evening’s shadows, despite the bright moonlight.
“I . . . I would like that. Very much.” A sigh escaped her lips. “Ever since returning from Oak Grove, it feels like I’m smothering. Forced to do so many things people expect of me. I’ve no time left to do what I love.”
“And what is it you’d like to do?”
She bit her lip. “I want to nurse. Perhaps even in a field hospital again. I don’t simply want to sing for charity benefits and soirees.” She looked up, searching his eyes. “Does it make me a selfish person, that I don’t want to sing for Washington society anymore?”
“No, not at all.”
“But they say my songs give voice to the patriotism of the Union.” Fatigue tugged her shoulders. “What if not singing for Congress or relief benefits means I’m refusing to use the gift God gave me?”
Joshua pursed his lips and looked across the night sky for so long, she feared he’d not answer. Finally he spoke.
“I was there, you know. I saw you holding that dying soldier in Oak Grove.”
She inhaled a soft gasp. “You saw?”
“I did. I heard you sing as you wept over him. ‘All through the night . . .’” His voice, a slightly off-key baritone, drifted over her like a gentle caress as he offered a smile. “What you sang tonight was lovely, but that? That moment on the battlefield, that song was true music. You weren’t worried about an audience or what people thought. You were just . . . present. Ministering as best you could to a battered man with the gift God gave you.”
Her throat swelled to a painful ache. “That’s what is missing. Why don’t I feel that same kind of peace singing here? I’m surrounded by comfort and food. No blood or mud or death, yet I’m suffocating in the excess. Drying up. Why?”
He sighed. “The gifts God gives only continue to flourish when we pour them out through love. They dry up when we use them motivated by any other purpose.”
She frowned. “But I’m singing and going to all these charity events for them—for other people. Not for myself. I’m exhausting myself for them!”
He leveled his gaze. “Are you? Or are you doing it to fulfill some need in yourself?”
All rebuttals fled. Was she? Trying to sift through the exhausting emotions was overwhelming. She couldn’t think, couldn’t sort out the truth through the muddled mess in her bruised heart.
She sneaked a glance to see Joshua watching her. He quickly averted his gaze to study the ground.
“Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself, Dr. Ivy.”
He stared straight ahead for a long moment before turning to her. His eyes were gentle as he whispered, “Perhaps I do.”
He stood suddenly and crammed his hands in his pockets before strolling away.
“Joshua?”
He turned, his face partially shrouded by the shadows.
“What will you do next?”
“I’ve told the Union I’m at their service. Whenever they beckon, I go to the battlefield.”
He offered no other words of solace. Ever since Oak Grove, things had been stilted and strange between them. Did he regret his passionate outburst? Or perhaps after kissing her, he found her lacking.
She pushed past the quiver in her voice. “You will be in my prayers.”
“And you in mine.”
Chapter 21
CADENCE WINCED at the bright sunshine streaming through her window, far later than her usual time to rise in the morning. The soft blush of sunrise had long since vanished. She was stretching her stiff muscles and blinking the lead from her eyes when the memory of the previous evening crashed over her in a rush.
Moaning, she pulled the covers over her head. She, Father, and Tate had left the benefit in silence. Upon arriving home, Father had mumbled something about praying folks forgot about the incident and then excused himself for bed. Tate had looked at her with pity, which had bothered her far more.
The aroma of warm oatmeal wafted toward her. Peeking out from under the covers, she spied a breakfast tray waiting along with the morning paper. Louisa was as constant as the sunrise.
Perhaps if she occupied her mind, thoughts of last night would flee. She reached for the newsprint and scanned the headlines. Battles, troop movements, editorials, casualty lists . . . She sighed. All the news was the same as the day before and the day before that.
Her gaze flickered over the society columns, though she cared little for the shallow fluff pieces they usually contained, until she spied her own name.
Acclaimed Singer Struggles to Impress at Union Benefit
Her breath thinned as the words swam before her eyes.
Spectators at the Union Aid Society benefit were thrilled to learn the capital’s own darling, Miss Cadence Piper, was scheduled to sing Fr
iday evening as part of the benefit’s entertainment. The anticipation soon turned to concern as the acclaimed singer struggled through the first selection, her voice audibly straining through the melody’s higher notes and causing the audience to wonder if the reputation of Washington’s “Songbird” has been somewhat exaggerated.
Miss Piper is the daughter of Mr. Albert Piper and is said . . .
Cadence pinched her eyes closed and shoved the paper away, too sickened to read anymore. Not only had she humiliated herself, but she had inadvertently shamed her father as well. A lump rose in her throat as fresh tears pricked her eyes.
A soft knock invaded. She remained silent. Louisa’s cheerful chirrup piped through the door. “You awake, Miss Cadence?”
She couldn’t fool Louisa if she tried. With a groan, she mumbled, “No. I’m sleeping.”
Louisa chuckled. “I know you’re awake, missy. You gonna let me in or not?”
Pushing back the plump covers, Cadence sighed. “Come in.”
Louisa entered, her face beaming. In her hands she carried a long, rectangular box trimmed with scarlet ribbon.
“What’s that?”
Her dark eyes danced. “Don’t know. It was just delivered for you, though if I were to judge by the fragrance, I would say someone has sent you some flowers.”
Cadence sat up straighter and took the box from Louisa. “I can’t imagine who they would be from. I had the worst performance of my life last night.”
The house servant grunted. “Couldn’t have been too dismal. Not if this is any indication.”
Cadence tugged the card free from the ribbon and slid the message from its creamy envelope. Her heart gave a wild leap.
Cadence,
You have already been called worthy, daughter, and loved by Christ. Embrace this beautiful truth. 1 John 3:1, Galatians 1:10.
Your friend,
J. Ivy