by Alyssa Cole
Susie held out her hands, showing him her bruised red fingertips as if they were badges of honor.
“I’m also a volunteer with the Vigilance Committee,” she said. Her chin was held high, awaiting praise for her bravery.
“Well, one thing’s for certain: The South can never lose with women such as you supporting us.” Malcolm grazed her fingertips with his, quickly, and Susie curled her fingers as if trying to hold on.
“She’s helped ferret out at least two suspected spies,” Mrs. Caffrey added. “Our Rufus here took them down to Castle Thunder himself. They won’t be getting out of that prison anytime soon.”
“Not ever, if the hangman gets to them,” Susie said blithely.
The women tittered, as if they were discussing recipes and not death. Susie’s hobby would have worried him more if Vigilance Committees weren’t a bunch of bunk. Asking every stranger in town “Where’re you from?” and “Where’re you going?” and “Do you need a good hanging?” wasn’t spycraft—it was lunacy. Still, he flashed Susie his most charming smile and said, “I hope I’m not under suspicion.”
He began to prepare himself to go on a subtle defensive if necessary. In the many times he had passed through the city, Malcolm had shared both his whiskey and his anti-Northern sentiments with men who would swear on a stack of Bibles that he was Reb through and through.
“I’ll admit, I almost had you pegged as a soft heart when you defended that pickaninny who knocked me to the ground,” Susie said, a trace of bitterness in her tone. Here she sat, living the high life while the blockade starved her people and men fought and died, and she was jealous of the stingiest attention he’d bestowed upon her slave. Incredible.
Malcolm thought of the glint in the slave woman’s eyes before she’d thrown herself prostrate at Susie’s feet. Just as she’d looked upon him with unflinching acceptance, there had been defiance in the way she had begged forgiveness. That lass was far from simple, even if she couldn’t speak. There was intelligence in her dark eyes that would not be disguised, although most of the people in this household probably couldn’t deign to acknowledge it.
“Defend? I saw that she’d upset you, and just wanted to get her out before she could do you any further harm. And because I wanted to have your attentions for myself.” He smiled through his disgust, showing his teeth. It made him feel feral, but Susie blushed and blinked up at him.
His response had been satisfactory.
“Tell me more about yourself, Mr. McCall,” she demanded, used to bestowing orders with her sweet-tea tones. Malcolm found himself dwelling on the mute slave again. He didn’t know why, but it bothered him that she couldn’t speak. It was selfish, and odd, but he couldn’t help but guess at what her voice would sound like.
Susie cleared her throat expectantly.
He tried to look abashed. “I hate talking about myself, but I’ll make an exception for you. When I get back to the table. If you’ll excuse me for just a moment . . .”
Malcolm stood and left the table. He needed to read the note he’d been given, and it couldn’t wait until Susie stopped thrusting her bosoms in his face. He meandered down the hall and asked a slave for directions to the privy, wanting to ensure his leaving the table didn’t arouse suspicion.
The small room was cramped and dim, but he managed to remove the note from his jacket pocket. Iverson’s bluff. edge of woods. dusk. The words were scrawled hastily in a loopy cursive. A simple map was sketched underneath, indicating a meeting point in one of the wooded, less populated areas of town. Beneath the map were the words many one. He wondered at their meaning, but knew the longer he took the more ruffled Susie’s feathers would be. There was no time to puzzle the extraneous words just then.
He’d ascertained that there was at least one other operative already stationed in the vicinity, but he didn’t think it was the stable boy who had slipped him the note. Perhaps the butler, who had hovered over the table through supper? Or the mulatto woman who had taken his coat when he walked in?
He walked back to the dining room slower than he should have, and he knew the reason for his delay; he wanted to see the woman from earlier. He knew that desire and detective work didn’t mix, and desire and slavery were another set of knots entirely, and one he had neither the skill nor inclination to untangle. However, he wouldn’t be visiting this place again after today, and something within him demanded that he make amends.
But she was nowhere to be found, and he returned to the dining room just as Mrs. Caffrey was making an announcement to the other guests.
“Mr. McCall, you’re just in time,” she said as he took his seat. “We were just discussing holding a ball here in a week or so to celebrate the New Year. Things were so dismal that we hardly celebrated the holidays, but I think it would lift everyone’s spirits in these trying times. I’d like to think it’s an early celebration of our impending victory as well. I’m not suggesting you take French leave from your regiment, but we’d be so happy if you could attend.”
He gave the woman an ingratiating smile and was about to turn her down when Senator Caffrey cut in. “Some of the staunchest supporters of the Confederacy will be in attendance. The women can have their dancing and other such nonsense, but we men will be talking business. You have a good head on your shoulders, and your opinion would be valued.”
Malcolm paused. He was due back in Washington in four days. He’d planned to leave immediately and make a few stops along the way, but plans changed. Right now, Senator Caffrey was looking at him like a man who needed an ally, and Malcolm was happy to serve in that position. If he were a few days late but returned with useful information, Pinkerton wouldn’t complain much.
“Well, I’m sure my commander won’t mind me extending my furlough a bit, especially if I’m here at the esteemed senator’s behest,” he said. Malcolm realized that something more was expected of him, and quickly added, “I’d be delighted if Miss Caffrey would save the first dance for me.”
The woman fairly beamed with pleasure, as did her mother. “Why, of course, Mr. McCall, although I do intend to see you often before then.”
Rufus again made an inarticulate sound and then sputtered, “You promised the first dance at the next ball to me, Susie.”
The young woman eyed him, obviously relishing his jealousy. “Now you shall have the second, Ruf.”
“I’ll take my leave then,” Malcolm said, rising in his seat.
“So soon?” the lady of the house said with obvious dismay. He guessed he was supposed to be so smitten by their daughter that he’d have to be dragged away.
“I have business to attend to,” he said gently. “As much as I dislike it, this war won’t resolve itself, and there’s always something that can be done for the Confederacy. May I call on you tomorrow?”
He let his gaze linger on Susie.
“Yes, of course you can,” Senator Caffrey said, standing to shake Malcolm’s hand and walk him to the door. “Anselm, get this man his coat,” he said to a lean, gray-haired slave as they stepped into the hallway. The man hurried away, and when Malcolm’s gaze followed him he was met with a sight that made his heart thump out of sync.
The slave woman stood with her back to them, polishing the wooden banister of the grand staircase outside the dining room as if it were the most important task in the world.
“Elle, what are you still doing here, girl?” Senator Caffrey asked. “Get on back to town before you set Susie off again. And if your master asks why you’ve been docked a half-day’s wages, mayhap I won’t tell him it’s because you nearly killed my daughter.”
Elle, Malcolm thought as she nodded and walked toward the kitchens, her gaze trained on the floor. Malcolm knew that slaves weren’t paid, but that she’d be forced to report back on wages she would never have seen anyway—and punished for their loss—seemed even more despicable.
“She doesn’t live here?” Malcolm asked.
“No, she lives in a colored rooming house on the other side of town, where some of
the hired-out darkies stay. I send her wages to her master,” Caffrey said. The practice always surprised him. There had been a time when he wondered why slaves didn’t just run away once they were out of their master’s view, but he knew now that family ties, fear of the unknown, and harsh runaway slave laws made it all but impossible for most slaves to make the attempt. Caffrey continued. “We’re renting her while we’re in town since we left most of our help back at our plantation, but my wife doesn’t like to keep the pretty ones around at night, lest I go a-wandering.”
Senator Caffrey elbowed him congenially, as if they were old friends, raising his chin in Elle’s direction. “Can you imagine having that under you, and her not able to make a sound?”
Malcolm feigned amusement and elbowed Caffrey back, perhaps slightly harder than was acceptable. Anselm’s arrival with his overcoat saved him from answering the despicable question. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Senator.”
He left the man leering down the hallway and went to the stable. He paced as the boy prepared his horse, a strange melancholy hanging over him. When Malcolm rode off, his mind was whirling with emotions he needed to categorize and file away, lest they undo him. He was behind enemy lines and trying to ingratiate himself to as many of the Confederate establishment as he could. Getting angry over everyday occurrences like a downtrodden slave and a master who lusted after her wouldn’t help anything.
But he couldn’t reason away the raw frustration at the way Caffrey had so blithely mentioned taking advantage of the woman. Malcolm didn’t think Elle was simple, but Senator Caffrey and his family did, and still the man dreamt of forcing himself on her. Rape was a sin, as was subjugating other humans. Malcolm’s mind got muddled with anger thinking of how, in these lands, institutionalized sin was seen as a way of life that needed defending.
“Leave me be! Or at least have the decency to send my boy away!”
A plaintive voice from years gone by and leagues away rang in his mind. That the gang of English dogs had followed the second request but ignored the first had changed the course of Malcolm’s life. The act of violence had planted a seed of malevolence that had eventually grown to rip his family apart. It was one of many injustices that wouldn’t allow him to stand idly by in this war.
He was about to push his horse into a gallop to outrace the unwanted memory when he saw a figure walking up ahead along the dusty, rutted road, a too-thin cloak draped about her shoulders as she hunched through the cool wintry evening. There was no question of who it was, or of whether speaking to her was the exact opposite of what he should do. Still, he slowed as he approached her.
“Miss Elle?”
Her name on his lips felt familiar and right.
Her head whipped up, but her face was unreadable. The late-day sun highlighted her cheekbones and the smooth darkness of her skin. It reminded of him of the newly tilled soil after a spring rain, fresh and sweet. Her eyebrows rose and he realized he was delaying her from wherever she was going. Maybe she had a husband waiting at the rooming house for her or visiting from a plantation. To Malcolm’s consternation, he found that possibility didn’t sit well with him at all.
“I just wanted to give my apologies again for today,” he said. “I’d fall on my sword before hurting a woman in that way. Any woman.”
Her lips parted in surprise, sending a rush of want through him even as he was apologizing for it. But Malcolm had experienced lascivious thoughts before, and that wasn’t what this woman inspired in him. He prided himself on his careful deliberation, but words were spilling out before he realized his mouth was moving. “I won’t lie: I teased you earlier because I think you’re beautiful. Maybe the loveliest woman I’ve ever clapped eyes on. But it was wrong of me to frighten you. I’ll be coming and going at the house over the next few days”—he saw the wariness creep into her eyes, and raised a hand to allay her suspicions—“and I want you to know that you’re safe in my presence.”
Senator Caffrey’s leering gaze cropped up in his mind’s eye.
“And you’re safe from any other unwanted advances, too, if you see fit to let me know. No one will harm you while I’m here. It’s not much of an offer, but I’ll do what I can. Good day, Miss Elle.”
And with that he rode off toward his hotel, leaving her standing on the side of the road with a shocked expression on her face. His heart was nearly beating out of his chest, as if she were the first woman he’d ever spoken to. It was a risk to speak so to a slave, but for reasons he couldn’t quite understand, he’d needed her to know he’d protect her if he had to. Nearly every aspect of his life was a lie—his job changed from town to town, as did his hair color, social status, accent, and loyalty—but that was one thing he needed to be true, and perhaps not just for her benefit. If someone understood that bit of truth about Malcolm McCall, maybe he wouldn’t fade away into the mist as the roles he played became ever larger and more dangerous. If he died in Richmond, there would be one person who’d know he wasn’t exactly who he seemed to be, and her name was Elle. He was glad of that.
In any event, she was mute; it wasn’t as if she could tell anyone if she found him strange.
CHAPTER 3
As Elle made her way to the meeting point, buffeted by the crisp evening breeze, the stranger’s words whirled about her head like the long-fallen leaves that crunched beneath her thin-soled shoes. Malcolm, Senator Caffrey had called him in the foyer, and Susie had called him Mr. McCall as Elle eavesdropped from the hallway.
And he’d called Elle “Miss,” which he had to know was an honorific that showed respect for its recipient.
What was this Malcolm McCall about? Lying to Susie in the dining room. Stopping to talk to a slave woman to put her at ease, to offer her his protection from the very thing she’d feared from him, all while wearing that damned Confederate gray—what could it mean? Elle cursed her special talent heartily. She was one of the very few people who couldn’t fool themselves into forgetting what someone had said. Her mind preserved his exact words, as well as the look on his face as he’d delivered them. Wildly earnest, as if he hadn’t understood what was driving him to speak to her, either.
It wasn’t any easier to push away the feelings that had leapt to the forefront of her mind at his vow. It had been a long time since anyone had considered her safety their priority. Her parents hadn’t meant to do her harm, but forcing her to exhibit her talent to strangers when they had first moved up North had made her feel like something unnatural. Memorize this; recite that. It’d felt like even those who wanted nothing but the best for her saw her as more parlor trick than person.
Even with years gone by, with her skill tucked away and used only for her own enrichment and that of her students, Elle still felt a strange sort of shame and anger when she thought of how she’d been treated. She’d been the Venus Hottentot of the abolitionist crowd, with the exception that it was her cerebral lobes that had been of interest to the gawkers. Still, when rumblings of secession began, Elle had realized her trick could be useful to the Cause. Most people had agreed without hesitation—so what if it necessitated placing her at the heart of the danger? Those who had opposed her hadn’t done so out of fear for her safety; it had been simple patriarchal reflex. Even those naysayers had relented when her usefulness had become obvious.
Elle wasn’t afraid of danger, and it had been drilled into her how rare her talent was—her gift from above had to have some purpose. When the North made concessions with the Fugitive Slave Act and half of her small town uprooted and fled to Canada, Elle had begun to form a hazy idea of how her skills could be of service. Her Daniel being captured by slavers—Daniel, who was born free and unfamiliar with the true horrors of the South—had brought into deadly clarity just how her skills could be used.
Daniel.
It felt like a sin to think of her friend, captured by men who looked like McCall, while her cheeks still burned at the bastard’s kind words. His actions were befuddling, but her body’s response to him was infuriatingly ea
sy to decipher. She’d been annoyed that he would risk drawing attention to her again, but her body had heated as she stared up at him. She’d felt a stirring low in her belly, a sensation she hadn’t experienced since she and Daniel had been together those few times. Before he’d decided that she must choose between him and her ambitions. And now here she was betraying him again.
And to think he’d scoffed when she’d told him she couldn’t be a good wife to him.
Malcolm had stirred up something dark and definitively forbidden within her and then gone and called her beautiful. What was he playing at? Whatever it was, she needn’t ever find out. If she didn’t steer clear of him, he’d bring a heap of trouble and drop it at her doorstep. She didn’t need her instinct to tell her that; it was just common sense.
Elle reached the meeting point, a secluded bluff overlooking the James. The setting sun stretched its fingers down the length of the river, its fiery caress tinting the waves with dabs of orange and gold.
Elle admired the water as it churned by, powerful enough to break free of nearly any restraint, and she was envious. She pulled her cloak closer and shivered in the river breeze as a familiar weariness descended upon her. She pushed through it, fighting the undertow of exhaustion that tugged at her skirts and her eyelids. There was a time for fatigue, and that was when the infernal war was over. She’d be a lot more tired working a field all day if the Union were to fall, that was certain.
A twig snapped behind her and she whirled.
Standing before her, once again, was Malcolm McCall. The last rays of winter sunlight glinted off of the buttons of his jacket, like a warning flashed from afar. Had he followed her? Perhaps his earlier deference had been a misdirection.
“Miss Elle? What the devil are you doing here?” he asked, his voice low. Something in that voice made her warm where she should have been cold, the very last thing she should be feeling. It also sparked a memory, one that hovered just out of reach. She wasn’t used to the sensation of wracking her mind for something and coming up empty. Why did he have this effect on her?