by Alyssa Cole
Senator Caffrey and his wife gasped and looked away. The stranger took a sudden interest in the silverware Elle had thought to skewer him with, but his face was red as a tomato, except for where his lips pressed into a pale line.
And here I thought breaking a plate would be the worst I could do today, Elle thought. Shocked laughter tickled her throat, but she swallowed against it and collected herself. This was no laughing matter. She was supposed to be a prized operative, but she had drawn more attention to herself in the last few minutes than would have been advisable, ever. Susie had already taken an instant dislike to her, and now she was sure to be out for vengeance. Showing the handsome stranger her drawers was likely Susie’s end game, of course, but Elle imagined that the woman had probably planned to do so on her own terms.
Elle forced her expression into one of contrition and leaned forward to help the woman up, but Susie pushed her away viciously, causing her to stumble back.
For someone who can’t seem to pick themselves up, she sure is strong.
“Get away from me, you clumsy thing,” Susie spat, her face contorted by fury. “Mute, stupid, and now it seems she’s blind, too? Because if she’s not, then that means she knocked me over on purpose.”
Elle’s gaze veered toward the elder Caffreys. An accusation of intentional violence against one’s owner was not one that was taken lightly. They looked at each other, her brows raised, his drawn.
The blue-eyed man sauntered past Elle and knelt at Susie’s side.
“Now come, Miss Caffrey,” he said. His voice was soothing and drew Susie’s attention, just as it had Elle’s. “It was an accident. I told her to fetch me some water and be quick about it, and she must have seen how parched I was because she flew out of here like the devil himself was after her! Sometimes people do the stupidest things without meaning to.” His glance flew up to Elle’s, lingering for a moment before returning to the prone Susie.
He sounds different, Elle thought, ignoring his pointed look and the fact that he was defending her. She focused on the details she needed to remember. Details were useful. Details were safe. His burr was softer and his Southern accent more pronounced. Like he’s purposely trying to sound more like them....
Senator Caffrey and his wife chuckled uncomfortably, but Susie wouldn’t be appeased, even as the handsome man pulled her to her feet and held her hand in his.
“This is the second time today she’s harassed me,” Susie said. “Earlier I told her never to bring me cold tea again unless she wanted to be out in the fields where an animal like her belongs, and she gave me a look. Now she’s knocked me to the ground. We treat our darkies like family here, but something about this girl just ain’t right.”
“You know she’s simple, dear,” Mrs. Caffrey said patiently. “A regular darkie isn’t very smart, what do you expect from a simple one? Remember what Reverend Mills said in last week’s sermon. ‘We must treat our slaves as we treat our children, for they know no more than a babe.’ Do you get mad when Brutus knocks you over?”
Brutus was the neighbor’s dog. He was an ill-behaved, slobbering mess, yet Mistress Caffrey thought Elle was of the same class as he. Heat suffused Elle’s face and tears pricked at her eyes, embarrassing her more than if she’d been the one to show her drawers. She hated being the center of attention, hated the feeling of everyone watching her like she was a creature on display instead of a human being. She’d had enough of that for a lifetime. Mostly, she hated the way the blue-eyed man observed her with his keen gaze. It took her back to all those years spent on the abolitionist circuit, where she had been expected to recite prose, spell difficult words, and generally serve as a shining example that negritude did not have to equal idiocy.
I can recite the entire works of Shakespeare, you damned ignorant girl! What can you do besides simper and cry? Elle wanted to scream, to shout the words of Scott, or Keats, or Donne. But that would be foolish. It would undermine everything she and the others who fought for the Union were working toward, and in the end they’d still think her a slave, just one who could perform a special trick. She’d be a source of amusement for their guests, like a beast that could dance on its hind legs. Even people who considered themselves her friends had treated her as such, and Elle never wanted to be anyone’s parlor act again. But she didn’t mind putting on another type of performance.
She let the angry tears come, and dropped to her knees in front of Susie, shaking her head repentantly.
They want simple, they’ll get it, she thought viciously as she grabbed at Susie’s skirt, wringing the fine material in her hands. Ugly noises worked in her throat, and she hoped that such sounds were something truly within a mute’s range, or that no one would be the wiser if they weren’t.
Susie glared at her with revulsion, and Senator Caffrey and his wife looked at her with impassive disdain, waiting for her demonstration to be over. But the stranger looked at her with something in his eyes that wasn’t disgust or pity. There was something knowing in his look, and there seemed to be a bit of mischief, too.
Susie kicked at Elle’s hands, and Elle jumped back to her feet. She kept her head down so no one could discern the fury behind her tears.
“Look at how sorry she is that she hurt her mistress,” the Rebel soldier said. “Anyone can see that the fool doesn’t know any better, with that gibbering and crying. You know these darkies can’t do nothing unless they’re told, so don’t worry yourself about her clumsiness. Come now, your papa promised me good conversation with a pretty young woman. Was that a lie?”
Susie’s face was returning to its regular peachy hues from the angry mottling of just a few moments earlier. Just like that, she didn’t even seem to remember Elle existed.
“Papa never lies,” she cooed up at the man, and Elle wished she could push the chit down again.
“Good,” he said with a smile, then turned to Elle with that inscrutable look. “Get on now. And stay outta here so you don’t upset your mistress again.”
“I see you know how to handle them,” Senator Caffrey said approvingly as Elle made her exit, this time walking slowly with her head bowed subserviently. She shook with anger at her dismissal, at having to bow and scrape for these people who wouldn’t know common sense or hard work if it hit them like scattershot.
She returned to the kitchen, masking her anger as she hurried through the long hallway, nodding her head deferentially at the newly arrived guests as they filed past her. She began cleaning up after the other servants as they prepared the platters of food, but her mind kept going back to the man in gray.
Why did she care that he had been upset about scaring her? Did he deserve some special citation for being human enough to realize that a slave woman might be scared of rape? And why had he lied to Susie about asking her to fetch him some water? Did he mean to hold it over her?
Elle stormed over to the wash basin and began scrubbing pans, ignoring Timothy the cook as he hovered over the stove, stirring a delicious-smelling sauce. She didn’t bother asking what it was—none of the slaves would get a taste of it.
The only thing that mattered about the man in the dining room was the color of his uniform, Elle told herself. That said everything about what he thought of her, his chagrin be damned. Despite his attempts to spare her any trouble, he’d made a point of ordering her out like a simpleton. Now she wouldn’t be able to hear what was discussed during the meal, or to learn what information the man had brought.
She scrubbed at an exceptionally filthy pan and then dashed it into the basin.
“Who worked you into such a fine froth, Miss Elle?”
Elle turned to find Timothy watching her with a look that hovered between amusement and concern. Timothy was the only person who knew who she was, who she really was, but she couldn’t risk anyone hearing her speak to him. Not being able to talk was one thing, but not being able to vent one’s frustrations was well and truly isolating. She growled with frustration instead.
Timothy gave a high-pit
ched chuckle; the sound fit his slight stature. He was barely a head taller than Elle. His light, even-toned voice was a comfort to her frayed nerves.
“Later, Elle. There’s a package coming in tonight, by the way. Something that could be mighty useful to us. Should be delivered to the bluff around dusk, if you’re able to pick it up.”
Excitement pulsed through her. He was talking Loyal League business.
“I’d pick it up myself, but I gotta do extra work because Jack the kitchen boy took sick with that fever going round.” His expression darkened. “And I’m barely gonna sleep tonight—I gotta get up tomorrow early to go pick up the slave they bought this past week. He’s younger than Jack, even.”
The Caffreys were still adding to their household it seemed. At least it’s not so bad here. They don’t whip easily and—
She placed a hand to her stomach to quell the nausea the idea induced. Was a few weeks all it took to start losing yourself, then? To start rationalizing away the abomination of slavery so that she could think of people like the Caffreys as “not so bad”? They were buying a child—likely breaking up a family. They were beasts.
“I know,” Timothy said quietly. Then he sighed and tried to imbue his voice with good cheer again. “Can you do me this favor, traveler?” he asked with a smile.
Elle nodded, waiting for him to give her more information about the package. When he didn’t, she raised her eyebrows at him, milling her hand in front of her to indicate that he should tell her more.
“Can’t talk now,” he said with a wink. “Next course got to be plated and ready to go in twenty minutes. The shipment time okay? You fine with going alone and giving me the details tomorrow?”
She gave him a decisive nod. Her bad mood had seeped away, replaced by excitement. She didn’t believe in supernatural hogwash, but her instinct was reliable and it told her that something momentous was being put into motion. She so badly wanted to help the Union win this war, and whatever awaited her tonight was going to help her do it.
She just knew it.
CHAPTER 2
Malcolm was sure to look appropriately smitten as Susie batted her lashes and giggled behind her hand, but no amount of faked gentility could hide the ugliness he’d seen spew from her earlier. The fact that the recipient of her outburst had been fleeing from him when the accident occurred didn’t make the situation any better.
He’d been trying to read a correspondence that had been slipped to him upon his arrival; that was why he’d ducked into the dining room, how he’d stumbled upon the woman he shouldn’t have spoken to from the start. He’d never been one for segregation, be it by race or by class, and his work ensured that he had friends and contacts in every strata of society. Still, he didn’t know what had driven him to speak to her in such familiar terms. Perhaps the idea that he could use her as a source if need be? No, that was ex post facto. He knew why he’d kept at it, though—when she’d turned, her full Cupid’s bow lips had been on the verge of forming a smile and her wide brown eyes had shone with vital energy. Her thick hair had been plaited into two girlish braids, but there was no doubt that she was a grown woman: the plain cotton dress she wore highlighted her slim waist and ample bosom. But it was the moment that knocked any trace of lust right out of him that had fixed her in his thoughts for the remainder of the evening.
The way she’d stared him down when she thought . . . He suppressed a shudder at what she’d thought him capable of. She had every reason to, especially given his current outfitting and their current location, but the mere idea triggered unbidden memories that made the rich dinner rise in his gorge.
She’d been defiant, though. The way she’d squared off with him filled him with both admiration and a terrible rage that he’d made her feel she had no other option.
“Do tell us more about Baltimore,” Susie prodded. “It’s been so boring here. Even Christmas was a sad affair—no tinsel, no presents, just injured soldiers and paltry cakes and horrid snow and cold. Thus, you must warm me with your stories.” She stared at him, one brow lifted. “Is it true that it’s very dangerous to be a Rebel in Maryland, and that you escaped the authorities by outwitting them? Did you help destroy the railways?”
Admiration flashed in her eyes, along with a hint of desire. He’d seduced seditious women for information before, and this one was passing fair, but the “treating human beings as chattel” aspect of her personality was too front and center to make the task enjoyable for him. But just because he didn’t plan on bedding her didn’t mean he wouldn’t string her along.
All’s fair in love and secession, he thought bitterly.
Across the table from him, a barrel-chested young man with rough-hewn features and a thick red beard stared at him, the envy on his face practically scrawled in India ink.
“Ah, it isn’t too hard to outwit a Northern man,” Malcolm said, lowering his voice so Susie had to lean in closer to him. “You just distract them with some stories about the poor little darkies being whipped or some such and they’re too busy bawling to pay mind to much else.”
The words galled him, but they needed to be said. He’d traveled all over the States in the past year as a detective for Mr. Allan Pinkerton’s Secret Service, most recently finding and infiltrating pockets of Rebels in Baltimore City, and he’d learned the fastest way to form a bosom friendship with a man was to ridicule his enemy.
Laughter rang out around the table, along with a few congenial hoots of support, proving him right.
“You know it don’t take but one Southron to destroy ten Northern men,” said a mustachioed man farther down the table. He looked like the only fight he’d ever had was with his barber, which might explain his terribly uneven facial hair, but still he spoke like he’d been at Sumter, Bull Run, and Nashville.
Malcolm smiled in admiration like the man was Hercules himself. “That’s just exactly right.”
Mustachio flushed with pleasure at the acknowledgment and tipped his glass in cheers, and Malcolm felt the fisherman’s pure pleasure at reeling in a catch.
Gotcha. Malcolm could always discern the moment when someone decided to be at ease with him, to give him some degree of trust. There was a subtle shift in the air, a strengthening of some invisible bond. Trust was a funny thing in that people thought they guarded it closely but were often willing to hand it over at the slightest sign of camaraderie. Malcolm was accustomed to being alone, and generally preferred it when he wasn’t on assignment, but he was glad for others’ innate need for connection that made his difficult work at least a bit easier, even if he didn’t understand it.
The jealous man across the table ran a hand through his fiery beard and spoke loudly in Susie’s direction.
“The last Northern man I met had a very short acquaintance with the long end of my bayonet,” he said, the art of subtlety apparently not in his wheelhouse.
“Rufus, please don’t speak of such things at the table,” Susie huffed, then turned back to Malcolm. “Don’t mind Ruf. We grew up together. He’s always following me around now telling me his disgusting war stories, but I prefer a man who knows what a woman wants to hear.”
“It seems all of the men have stories to tell,” Malcolm said, gesturing around the table.
Some of the other men present were talking big about the Union men they’d captured, or skirmishes they’d routed them at. A few of them had been at Manassas. Malcolm wasn’t egotistical enough to doubt that the soldiers had seen battle and that some were damned good at it, but most of them didn’t even know why they fought.
His present career had led him to many a conversation with Southern men, and not a one of them knew what they were really fighting for. Pride, or states’ rights, or to show them Northmen what for were the reasons generally provided to him in some form or another, but as he watched the slaves bustle around the table unacknowledged, he knew the real reason. And that was why he wouldn’t rest until the abomination was routed from the country he now called home. His family had fled
from Scotland after those in the aristocracy had stolen their land and their bodies and their lives. He wouldn’t sit idly by while it happened here, too.
“What about you, Mr. McCall, do you have any titillating stories?” Susie asked, batting her lashes up at him again.
Malcolm had bluffed, berated, and bamboozled information out of Rebels from Sarasota to Susquehanna, in ways more varied than most folk could imagine. There was the band of ruffians he’d infiltrated in New Orleans, dead set on assassinating President Lincoln and with the means to do so. Malcolm had helped prevent that. Never had a man gained Malcolm’s respect more quickly than Lincoln with his quiet, heartbreaking acceptance that his countrymen, the people he was trying to save from themselves, wished him dead. Malcolm believed that was the night the president finally understood there could be no compromise, and that bitter battle would rend the nation he’d sworn to protect in two.
Malcolm had always been for the Union, even before self-serving secession had forced its birth; but after that night in a solemn presidential train car, he was for Lincoln as well. If it hadn’t been a bizarre notion in this young country, he would have pledged fealty like the Scottish clansmen of old. But this was the New World: Spying was his fealty, his wit his sword.
“I’ve seen a thing or two in my time,” Malcolm said, knowing that vague bon mots would only increase his worth in Susie’s eyes. “I’ll do whatever it takes to defend my country, but the things I’ve seen aren’t appropriate for the present company.”
Across the table, Rufus growled in annoyance. Malcolm grinned at him.
“Our Susie does so much to help with the war. She’s the leader of the local sewing circle,” Mrs. Caffrey supplied helpfully, while Susie preened. “The North didn’t know just how skilled our ladies are. They can stop the fabric from coming in, but they can’t stop our needles from flying. Uniforms, tents—whatever our boys need, our ladies can supply it.”