by Alyssa Cole
“Are you here for a rendezvous?” he asked. He took a step toward her, and she tried to discern if he had been tipped off about her meeting, and whether she could reach the blade in her garter quickly enough. If he rushed her, she could give him a quick jab and redirect his momentum and use it to send him over the edge of the cliff—
Malcolm’s incredulous bark of laughter cut off her scheming. He shook his head and regarded her much too appreciatively. “I’m here because I received a missive from an associate, but that couldn’t be you,” he said. “Could it?”
Elle felt a sting of indignation alongside her confusion. Was Malcolm McCall really the package Timothy had arranged for her to pick up? This man who couldn’t fathom that she could possibly be the operative he was supposed to meet? If he was, she wasn’t going to cut him any slack. There were protocols, and if he was truly supposed to be meeting her he’d have to abide by them. She crossed her arms and looked off into the distance, pretending to ignore his presence.
When she glanced at him from the corner of her eye, he seemed to understand that she was waiting for something.
“Well, I guess I have to give you some kind of sign,” he murmured, stroking the evening stubble on his chin. Elle tore her eyes away from the rhythmic movement. “Is there a password? Is it ‘many one’?”
That was close to the most recent Loyal League password, but she would take no chances. Besides, she enjoyed seeing him outside of his comfort zone. She was distinctly outside of hers, and why should she be the only one?
“This is ridiculous. That’s what the paper said. Many. One. Am I supposed to pull the password out of my—”
She glanced at him sharply, and he paused, assessing her body language.
“Out of . . . many, one?” He chuckled. “Of course. E pluribus unum.”
Elle nodded and was rewarded with his brilliant smile.
“So you’re a friend of Abe, not an admirer stalking me through the woods,” she said, her voice husky from disuse. “I suppose I should be relieved, although I’m not certain what help you can provide us.” His eyes went wide, and she prepared for him to give her the same boring diatribe about women working in the field that she’d come to expect.
“You can talk,” he said. He raised his hand toward her and moved it in a quick circle. “Well? Keep at it.”
“Pardon?” Elle asked, crossing her arms even more tightly. For a moment, she was back on the stage of a small theater, a sea of white faces staring at her expectantly. She hated that he could make her feel that way. Thus far, every interaction with McCall had left her at a disadvantage. She thought she understood people and their motivations better than most, but she couldn’t guess at what he was doing—or why.
An amused grin lightened his features as he advanced, giving Elle a glimpse of the mischievous boy he must have been. He pushed his hat back and rubbed his forehead with his fingertips, like a student tasked with long division.
“I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I shouldn’t admit this, but I’ve spent a good part of the afternoon wondering what your voice would sound like if you could talk. And now you can, and it’s prettier than anything my weak imagination could come up with.”
Elle wanted to be furious at his forwardness, especially in light of their first meeting, but something about the man was just pure engaging. She could see why he’d make a good detective. In order to be successful, she had to be quiet and unseen, but Malcolm had a different kind of talent. Something about him was naturally attractive, made you want to sidle up next to him and hear every tall tale he spit out and then tell him your own. There was some relief in the realization that his magnetic pull was part of his skill set, that it was natural for her to be affected by him.
She scowled at him. Just because it was natural didn’t mean she had to like it.
“If you’re an operative, then we should update each other on what intelligence we’ve gathered,” she said. “That’s the only reason you need hear my voice.”
“That’s not the only reason, but I’ll take it. I’m sure old Pinkerton wouldn’t mind me doing my job, either.”
Elle allowed herself to be a little impressed. Pinkerton only took on the best detectives the country had to offer, recruiting them to join the network that fed information to the government’s newly established Secret Service. He was also smart enough to admit that the most valuable information to the Union was usually provided by Negroes. She trusted the man’s common sense for that fact alone and decided to extend just a bit of that trust to Malcolm, whom he’d obviously seen as fit to join his ranks.
Malcolm sat down on the grass, stretching his long legs out in front of him, and then patted the ground next to him.
“I know you’re tired, running around after those people all day. Come. Rest.”
Elle sighed. She hated it, but he was right. Every part of her ached; she wondered how the people who toiled in the fields managed to survive and then reminded herself that her parents had done exactly that for half their lives. She lifted her chin to show her reluctance and then flopped down in the grass next to him, a safe distance away from his outstretched hand.
“Romantic, isn’t it?” He inclined his head in the direction of the setting sun. “Now all we need are some flowers and a few pretty lines of poetry.” He reached over and plucked what had been a vibrant wildflower before the winter frost robbed it of its hue. Elle would’ve found it charming if they weren’t supposed to be discussing matters of import. And if he weren’t a white man in Confederate gray.
She crossed her arms over her chest and harrumphed, reciting the verse that came to mind as she stared at the ridiculous man in his dangerous uniform with his tiny, fragile flower. “‘O, what a tangled web we weave, when we practice to deceive,’” she said wryly.
“You know the work of Scott?” he asked, the surprise in his voice plain.
“I have that unfortunate honor,” she said archly, downplaying her memory. It was easier than explaining that she could recall most of his canon at the drop of a hat.
Malcolm’s brows drew so tightly that Elle marveled his ears weren’t dragged onto his cheeks.
“What’s this?” He leaned toward her. It wasn’t menacing, simply a motion of curious disbelief. “I’ll not have you impugning the name of a great son of Scotland, Miss Elle. My mother used to make me recite his poems after Sunday dinner. I have a few memorized,” he said, as if that was something impressive.
She gave him an indulgent smile. She was tempted to ask him how many, or to recite something from a more obscure work just to show him up, but realized she had nothing to prove. It was hard to remember that sometimes, since she’d spent so much of her life being used as a human trump card.
“It’s even more surprising that you fight for the Union then,” she said instead. “Here, I’ll regale you with the words of a real writer: ‘But for the Sir Walter disease, the character of the Southerner. . . would be wholly modern, in place of modern and medieval mixed, and the South would be fully a generation further advanced than it is.’”
Malcolm gave a shout of surprised laughter. “What codswallop is that?”
Elle lifted an arm from her chest and regarded the cracked and broken state of her fingernails like an old wise woman. “Those astute words belong to one Mr. Mark Twain. I can recommend a title for you since you seem quite unacquainted with quality literature.”
She didn’t know why she felt this urge to poke at him. They should have already been discussing business. She didn’t care for men like McCall, who seemed to think that a handsome face and charming words could get them whatever they wanted; it galled her all the more because it was true. McCall got to parade about as a Rebel hero while the only role she could play was that of a slave.
“What business do you have with me, McCall?” The words came out harsher than she intended, but her patience was wearing thin. Maybe it was the way he stared at her, like she was something that could be had, too. Or perhaps it was the small part of
her that didn’t mind his bold examination.
“How’d you become a detective?” he asked bluntly, ignoring her question in favor of his unabashed interest in her. “How did you secure a position in Senator Caffrey’s house? And how have you been relaying information?”
“You sure you work for Mr. Pinkerton?” Elle ran her gaze over him doubtfully. “Subtlety doesn’t seem to be one of your strong points.”
“Rest assured, I do,” he said. “And I’m damned good at playing a role, too. I’ve never forgotten myself while undercover, but today I almost did.”
Elle cringed, waiting for a leering reminiscence of their encounter in the dining room. Instead, he made a sound she’d sometimes heard from her class when her back was turned to the students. A smothered laugh.
Malcolm shook his head. “I was ungodly close to losing my composure when you knocked Miss Susie on her rear end. I know it’s not amusing to you, since you have to deal with the wench every day. But the look on her face! The way she was kicking her legs like to and fro! I half expected to find a pot of butter on the floor beside her the way she was churning.”
He stood and reenacted Susie’s magnificent tumble and subsequent conniption; then he laughed full out, a hiccupping sound that was so ridiculous Elle had to join him. She was surprised to feel the warm, giddy sweetness of mirth stealing through her tired limbs. Earlier in the day, that moment had been a nightmare, the biggest mistake of her career, but now Malcolm had turned it into a joke. One that only the two of them could possibly share. Malcolm’s hat fell off of his head as he shook with laughter, and that sent them into another round of hysterics.
Her stomach muscles were cramped from her exertion; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so freely. She’d forgotten how such a simple act could lighten the heavy burdens of daily life. She wanted to remain aloof with McCall, but there was something about sharing a moment of lightness in the midst of horror that resisted formality. Their eyes met as their laughter tapered off, and she realized that despite their unfortunate first encounter there was a sense of ease between them. That wasn’t something that happened often, and for it to happen with him of all people was unsettling.
Elle wiped at her eyes and drew herself up. She hadn’t trained to giggle on a bluff with a handsome detective. “You’re the one wearing gray, so you can tell me about yourself first,” she said carefully. “Have you really mustered with the Confederate army?”
A smile lingered on his lips as he stared out straight ahead of him. He plucked a piece of grass and twirled it between his long, square fingertips. Elle could already discern that he was a man who liked to keep his hands occupied.
Do not even think it, she warned herself.
“I have, in a way,” he said, and she returned her gaze to his face. “I’ve spent time with a few regiments, but I’ve never fought for the South. I gather information for a few days and then skedaddle. Even if it weren’t out of the question, my brother is doing his own work for the Union that keeps him on the road. I never pegged him for a soldier, but it turns out he has a knack for counterintelligence. I’m not interested in trying out that brother-against-brother nonsense the papers keep playing up. I’m an emissary of Pinkerton’s Secret Service above all, no matter the vile things I have to say to get these Rebels to trust me.” His voice hardened as he spoke, and Elle again glimpsed the serious man who hid beneath jokes and innuendo.
“Why?” she asked abruptly.
“Why do I want them to trust me?”
“Why are you doing this?” She ran her hand over the grass beside her skirt, the spikey greenery tickling her palm. “I know why I’m doing it, I know why the other Negros in the Loyal League do it, but why do you?”
Many of the abolitionists Elle had encountered during her time on the anti-slavery circuit had been kind people, but just as many hadn’t viewed her any more highly than a slave master would. Slavery was a cause to them, a crusade, and they couldn’t be bothered to care about the spoils of war. Some of them only objected on the basis that slavery led to the corruption of the white race, and could give two figs what would happen to the slaves once the institution was demolished. Although any help was better than none, her chest tightened at the possibility that Malcolm fell into that category.
“That’s a reasonable question,” he said, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “You wonder if I’m some holy roller, or if I want to ship the slaves back to Africa. I’m a foolish man, but not enough to doubt my own eyes. There isn’t anything inferior about you or your people in the slightest.”
The strange feeling in her chest coiled tighter. That wasn’t what she’d expected at all. How did he know just the right thing to say?
He’s a damned good detective, that’s how. Just like you. Remember that.
“I thought you’d say you’re in it for the adventure.” She fidgeted with her skirts.
“Do I strike you as the trifling sort, then?” His tone was mock wounded, but with an edge. She’d hit a nerve.
“Come, McCall. You’re the sort of man the adventure stories are made for. Tall, broad, charming, and quite well aware of all of those things.” She thought he would laugh at her assessment, but he looked away from her instead.
“My family is from Scotland,” he said. The furrow between his brow hinted at some distressing memory. “Many Scots didn’t come here by choice, you know. The English aristocrats had been beating us down, measure by measure, since the Jacobite rebellion, and finally they decided they wanted more land. For sheep grazing, of all things.” He glanced over at her. “You can stop me if you’re familiar with the details.”
It took Elle a moment to register that he thought she already knew about the fight to restore the throne to the House of Stuart. That assumption usually cut the other way; it was strange not having to prove it to him. She didn’t recite from Donelly’s History of Scotland and Her People in response. Instead, she said, “I’ve read a bit about the Clearances and the rebellion.”
He gave her a grim smile, as if it pleased him that he didn’t have to explain further. “They took away our weapons, they taxed away our earnings, and finally, they came for our land. The places our families had lived and died for generations. They’d arrive with no warning and tell you to clear out, usually passing the message along with the heel of their boot or the swing of a club. For the women, it was much worse than that.” The fine lines at the corners of his eyes grew deeper. “They destroyed families and took everything that was ours, and then forced us onto boats departing for America so they wouldn’t have to look upon their own shame.”
He continued. “I fight for the Union because America is supposed to be a land where people can be free from tyranny, where families aren’t ripped apart to make a profit, where men aren’t whipped for speaking their mind and women aren’t abused worse than brood mares.”
Elle had been holding her breath, drawn in by the hypnotic lilt of his voice, his brogue drawn to the fore by the vehemence of his anger. He looked at her, those blue-gray eyes like the sea before a storm. They were mesmerizing . . . and familiar, somehow.
“I was a lad when we were forced onto those stinking ships and pushed out to sea without a care for our survival. There was aught I could do then, but I’m a man now, and God help the Rebel who tries to stop me.”
The stalk of grass had been crushed in Malcolm’s grip and he stared out at the river, his mouth tight.
Elle had heard similar stories from the grocer MacTavish and some of the other abolitionists, mostly Scots and Germans who met in the storeroom behind the grocery store. Man’s inhumanity to man wasn’t solely regulated by skin color, although it did allow its practitioners to choose their targets more easily.
“I’ve lived up North most of my life, nigh on twenty years,” Elle said finally. “I’m a free woman; that is, I have papers that say I am. My master freed my mother and father and me after he inherited us from his father. I remember everything from before we were fr
ee, though. Sitting at my mother’s knee in the hot fields and trying to help with picking the tobacco. How hungry we always were. The vermin in the slave quarters, and what happened when a woman named Dancy was too tired to work anymore.”
Elle shut her eyes. She hadn’t thought of those things in a long while, and the sensations briefly overwhelmed her—the smell of sweat, the songs the slaves sang in the fields.
Malcolm cleared his throat. “What did your family do once freed?”
“My parents did the same as yours when they arrived here, I imagine. Tried to make the best life they could for us from the second chance we’d been lucky enough to snatch up. We settled in Massachusetts. It was far enough North that my parents could feel a sense of security. Plus, we were well situated to help folks who had to take their own freedom when it wasn’t given, as ours was. We sometimes hid travelers to Canada in our cellar and arranged rides up through New Hampshire and over the border. I taught at the local colored school, eventually, and my daddy worked as a waiter at one of the hotels. Mama cleaned people’s houses until her arthritis got too bad. It was . . . nice.”
She missed that life so much. The life after she’d begged to stop being carted around on the abolitionist circuit. Coming home to the smell of mama’s cooking and the stories her daddy would tell about the people who stayed at the hotel. There had been whole stretches of time when they could live their lives in some semblance of peace. And then everything changed.
“When the Fugitive Slave Act passed, my free papers were just so much trash on the roadside. Slave catchers were given free rein to start snatching up black folk and bringing them down South, and they got paid finely for their trouble. My father wanted to leave for Canada, taking the same routes we had pointed escaped slaves toward over the years, but mama said she was too tired to run.”
She thought of the fear on her mother’s face when Elle had returned from her visit to Liberia. How her voice had broken as she hugged Elle and groaned, “They’ve taken Daniel.” Her heart ached at the memory, and at the knowledge that she might never know what had become of her friend. It was unspeakable, but the most jaded part of her hoped he was dead. That would be better than whatever horrors awaited him, a proud freedman all his life, in the Deep South.