The Celtic Key

by Barbara Best

  “Come now, sir,” Larkin says, equally intense. “I would not propose to blemish either of your reputations. But it is plain there are spies among us.” He recklessly ups the ante with untapped instincts that match those of the card shark.

  “It would not do to spread such lies.” Vincent can feel heat rise to his ears. “Miss Peterson is nothing but honorable. Why she works well into the night and takes catnaps on a cot in the most atrocious conditions to attend our Union’s finest. She lives and breathes good intentions and has the heart of an angel.”

  “Well sir, I know nothing about that. I only know what I know.” Larkin hesitates, feeling an idea rush in. “Would you be willing to make a wager?” he grins wide, showing a missing eyetooth. “No offense, but I have a lot riding here.”

  The mask of an expert and the blank, blackness of shark’s eyes conceal the electrical charge and drug-like chemical surge that Vincent gets on the brink of a compelling proposition. “Explain yourself.”

  “If I win, our mystifying ghost and her great secret remains intact. If you win . . . well sir, for certain it cannot be good for the lady,” Larkin smirks, and tilts his head in a quirky gesture that is almost ludicrous. “Come now, this is the chance for you to walk away a hero.”

  Vincent laughs in spite of himself, “You know this is blackmail, Major.”

  Larkin lifts his glass to take a decided guzzle. His face screws up in a grimace as the brown liquid burns its way down. He brushes the military gold-trimmed chevron on his sleeve that depicts his Army rank. “As my dear brother would say, ain’t that a kicker.”

  Chapter 60

  VOLATILITY OF HER CIRCUMSTANCE

  Jane’s work at Boston’s leading hospital is a wonderfully refreshing change of pace that she exponentially rates as interesting, rewarding and thankfully familiar. It is her haven of solace from the dreadful Mrs. Paddy who is often more trying than her occupation. It is a welcome reprieve from her lovesick heart, mounting worries, and what she is beginning to think will be a lengthy separation from her husband.

  Being entirely out of touch with her Georgia family has not been easy. Communications are never secure in Civil War America and she is deep within Union territory. Although citizens can mail letters from North to South and vice versa under flag-of-truce, anything crossing lines is read by censors.

  Before leaving North Carolina, Jane ambitiously dispatched a number of letters. She explained her and Matt’s dire circumstances and solicited help. She promised to never give up on her husband. Sadly, this was her last attempt to convey their plight.

  Getting word to Darien from Boston is close to impossible. It requires the services of someone trustworthy enough to physically carry her message to her family’s doorstep. Initially, Mr. Paddy offered his assistance in finding a qualified carrier in the business of smuggling mail across enemy lines. However, since they arrived in Boston, it has not been mentioned again.

  Jane hasn’t the faintest idea what Captain McIntosh, Colonel Olmstead or the administrative officers at General Lee’s headquarters — if they even received her correspondence — are doing to instigate her husband’s release. She wonders what any command does when one or dozens of their men are captured. Matt was exchanged before, but the chance of this happening again is unlikely.

  She knows her family and friends are sick with worry. The maddening disconnect has possessed her to write even more letters. Letters that she must hide in the lining of her trunk and never mail.

  Scratching away with her pen that makes the sound of a mouse scuttling across dried twigs, each night Jane fills blank scraps of paper with her deep, unsettled thoughts. It is a hopeless distraction and sure sign she has become an insomniac without the musky male scent and intimacy of her husband’s powerful body in her bed. She misses the little things, like the tickle of Matt’s beard, his laugh at her antics, and the warmth of his hands that made her shiver and feel safe in his arms.

  The volatility of her situation spins round in her head like a casino’s roulette wheel with its marble ball bouncing frantically to purchase a slot. One skip to the left or right could unequivocally decide victory or ruin. The odds are unfathomable. Gambling is a huge stretch for her more black-and-white thinking tendencies in the throes of profound emotion. If she dwells too much, it will inevitably lead to useless tears.

  Jane has had no way of contacting Matthew. She would like to send him money to at least give him the means to improve his conditions. It is obvious that messages going in or out of Fort Warren are carefully scrutinized. How will she ever find someone dependable enough to visit the fort and do her a favor? Perhaps a nonpartisan supporter at the hospital will help, but Mr. Paddy is flat out against her taking any chances. He contends hers is a delicate matter that requires great care.

  During moments when melancholy descends over her, Jane imagines herself crossing the bay and climbing Fort Warren’s ramparts to one of its many gun embrasures. Those small slits that evenly dot the fortification’s massive stone walls should be wide enough for her to squeeze through. But then what would she do? How would she find Matt and how would they get out? The annoying little voices tell her she is way over her head. She is out of her bailiwick of expertise in an impossible time and place with people she knows nothing about.

  Inspecting her face in the small dresser mirror and tucking a few wisps of red hair neatly into the confines of her hair net, Jane gives her skirt a petulant shake to reflect her fortitude in finding a solution. Her attention moves to the bony skeletal remains of large wire rings, crisscrossed by vertical bands of tape that create the perfect shape for ladies in 1863.

  Her cage crinoline hangs on a set of bronze hooks fixed to white wainscoting that runs along the walls in her room. This cumbersome burden has been happily replaced by her preference — a number of lighter-weight, more manageable petticoats, suitable for her profession and long hours of service. She neatly folds her two starched-white aprons and drops them into her carpetbag. She includes a few personal items and an extra collar and pair of undersleeves to make a quick-change when those she has on become soiled, as they often do.

  Jane rests her hands on her hips and sighs, “Ready or not.”

  It will be a brisk walk to the hospital, but she doesn’t mind. She enjoys the city sidewalks and streets teeming with activity. Thankfully, a warming sun is out this morning to take the edge off.

  She adjusts her bonnet, buttons her paletot, wraps her wool scarf snuggly around her neck, and tugs her gloves on. Her borrowed muff is waiting by the front door. The beautiful accessory — something she could never afford on her own — belongs to Mrs. Paddy. Mrs. Paddy had insisted on loaning it to her in the presence of lady-friends at afternoon tea when the topic of Jane’s walk to work came up. Mrs. Paddy always illustrated her kind and charitable nature in public while looking for the next opportunity to go for the jugular.

  Jane checks her appearance one last time in front of a full-length mirror that smartly hangs at the foot of the stairs. Her hem is straight. Mrs. Paddy’s muff is on a substantial hall tree. She slides her gloved hand into it and admires the soft brown fur. With a satisfied smile, she rubs the carved mahogany finial on the banister for good luck, picks up her carpetbag and slips down the hall. The kitchen at the back of the house is her next stop for some cheese and bread to take with her to work.

  As she passes the drawing room, anxious whispers and spiking tones give Jane pause to identify the voices. Mr. Paddy seems especially tormented. She looks up and down the hall for the ill-behaved terriers that come running at the most inopportune times, yapping their little heads off.

  “Why do I tell you these things?”

  “Why? Because I am your mother. Just how would you have me react? You put this family in jeopardy. I knew it the minute you brought that woman into our abode.” The trembling vibrato of Mrs. Paddy’s indignation hangs heavy. “How much would you have me tolerate? Dear me, I am made unwell by this revelation. Hanna? Hanna! Oh, there you are. G
et my smelling salts.”

  “Yes ma’am, Miz Edna?” comes a calm response from someone who is used to Mrs. Paddy’s theatrical outbursts.

  “I am suddenly not well. I must send my regrets.”

  “Mother, you are overreacting. Don’t change your plans. I have never seen you better,” Vincent Paddy coddles. His greatest weakness is his mother. Long ago, he had learned to bend to her iron rule and is willing to bear excessive attachment and the mama’s boy insults. It is much easier that way.

  Jane takes two steps back to the slightly cracked seam between double pocket doors. It is just wide enough for a peek. The loud off-key clang of an ancient grandfather clock in the hall causes a startled jump. In reaction, her bag audibly taps the oak panel. Wincing at her hard luck and taking a sharp, painful breath, Jane has no choice but to make her presence known.

  The two conspirators immediately spin toward the sound of an intruder. Eyes grow wide and Mrs. Paddy visibly stiffens her back like a ramrod has just been shoved up her spine. She hastily adjusts her expression and posture into a most demure and congenial comportment.

  “I’m sorry, did I hear my name?” Jane offers innocently. Surely they know she’s home.

  “Well, uh,” Vincent Paddy croaks, his forlorn eyes darting to four corners of the room. All features above his stiff white collar to his receding hairline have turned the crimson flush of his cravat. Neurotically, he pats the pockets of his frock coat, waistcoat and trousers for the cigar he meant to enjoy before noon.

  “Yes you did, dear,” Edna Paddy smiles, gracefully burying her delicate, paper-thin hands into the folds of her Federal-blue silk gown. “Do join us.”

  Vincent clears his throat and gives his mother a pleading glance.

  “I only have a minute. The hospital will be looking for me soon and I have a long walk ahead of me.”

  “Oh, we would never wish to defer your schedule.” Edna is as steady as a rock.

  Jane tries to keep her shoulders from slumping and expects another soul-destroying confrontation with the woman, whose only way to fight is down and dirty. Hopefully, Mr. Paddy will save her from the spewing acrimony before it gets too bad.

  “It seems my son has had to purchase your good reputation. Now, don’t be distressed. We think it a moot issue, thank the Lord. Heaven knows what could have happened.” Although the room has a constant damp chill anywhere outside the close range of the wood burning hearth, Edna snatches her fan to wave it frantically for effect.

  “What are you talking about,” Jane glances back at the pocket doors, eyeing her only escape route.

  “Well,” Edna gloats, her spiteful satisfaction radiating. “If you must know.”

  “Mother, please, let me explain.” Vincent, who holds his cigar in one hand, is having a rather difficult time of focusing on it. “There seems to be some rude and preposterous charges.”

  Jane throws one hand to her throat that has formed a lump making it hard to swallow. “About me?” she wheezes, truly shocked. Her mind races to the possibilities of having made an unintentional slip in her behavior. “But what could I have done?”

  “Nothing, my dear,” Vincent says. He sidesteps to the back of his mother’s favorite wingback chair for additional support.

  “I think I shall faint,” Edna breathes, delicately cradling her forehead with her fingers.

  “Mother!” Vincent snaps. “You will do no such thing.”

  Edna Paddy adjusts herself in the rich teal and gold upholstered chair and grips Vincent’s hand that has naturally moved to rest on her shoulder. It forms a picture of mother and son that would appeal to the sentiment of any practiced photographer. The only noise in the room is the crackling of the fire, their uneven breathing, and the busy sounds of sweeping and clattering dishes coming from somewhere in the house.

  “Well?” Jane frowns, entirely perplexed and annoyed at the same time.

  “Have you heard the term, Mystifying Ghost Lady?” Edna prods, her face alight.

  The beating muscle in Jane’s chest does a rapid flip-flop and her blood runs cold. She moves her carpetbag to both hands for balance and feels the weight of it through her petticoats. “Who’s been talking about me?”

  “Mother, I was there. Please, allow me. It seems one of your patient’s blood relations recognized you from a fort deep within the South, Pulaski, Fort Pulaski. He had quite a story to tell.”

  “I have a lot of patients. Can you be a little more specific?” Jane will not take her eyes from the snake’s threatening aim.

  “A Major by the name of Tidewater.”

  “Oh, Clarence,” Jane says, looking from one to the other.

  Clarence Tidewater is one of Jane’s success stories. During her first week at the hospital, she spent several nights on a cot in an unused room of the ward to ensure Clarence and two other critical patients received around-the-clock care. Her commitment and skill made quite an impression on the resident surgeon and staff.

  “Well, if it is any consolation, the major’s brother was released back to his regiment yesterday. I don’t expect we’ll see any of them again,” Jane offers. She does not believe for one minute this will help her.

  “It is true then,” Vincent pursues with a wilted air of disappointment.

  “I hardly know the details of Major Tidewater’s complaint. But yes, they called me that. It was a long time ago.” Evidently, using her maiden name as an alias and hiding the fact she’s married to avoid a possible link to Matt are strategic mistakes.

  “Mystifying Gho—” Jane stops short, as the very words unleash a jumble of troubling thoughts. “Oh, this is ridiculous. Some silly superstitious mumbo-jumbo. It is a fabrication, of course, induced by a garrison of desperate men who had just been through the worst hell and a bombardment that would scare the pants off anybody. They were looking for anything, or anyone to blame.” Apparently, amid sailors by sea and soldiers by land, women bring bad luck. They cast a distracting shadow and bear the yoke of culpability.

  “I feel this is my doing,” Vincent says, clearly upset.

  “Don’t blame yourself, dear boy. You have been a perfect gentleman, your heart has always been in the right place,” Edna pats her son’s hand and eyeballs Jane up and down. Accusation is written all over her face. “You must see the precipitous danger this has put us in. We are a patriotic family, loyal to the Union, to our President and our cause. We are a nation in crisis and would never align ourselves with treasonous acts. This is a nasty war and we are averse to harboring a suspected spy.”

  “You’re kidding me! A spy? I wasn’t a spy then, and I am not a spy now.”

  “Please calm yourself, child.” A seasoned slit of a smile forms on the snake’s thin lips as her lethal coil tightens around her victim.

  Jane expects the instantaneous flicker of a forked tongue and poisonous fangs to sprout any moment. Edna is a master at control and manipulation, waiting for the perfect chance to strike. Her condescending tone and underhanded way almost sends Jane’s nerves through the roof. She can’t . . . she won’t tolerate this any longer.

  “I assume by some arrangement these charges have been dropped?” Jane’s glare travels to Vincent and softens a little. When both heads nod, “I will be out of here no later than tomorrow morning.” She wants to crack, and that’s not soon enough, but bites her tongue.

  “Please.” Vincent thrusts himself forward, but is snatched back by his mother’s hardened clutch. He stammers, “We don’t believe, nor would we ever imply—”

  “No,” Jane gently breaks in. “Your mother makes a point.” She will not be the cause of a rift between mother and son. Her days in this household are numbered, anyway.

  “But, where will you go? How will you—”

  “Seriously? I can take care of myself,” Jane lifts her chin and straightens to her full height. Her sparking green eyes peer unflinching at her opponent. “You forget, I almost live at the hospital, as it is. I’m sure Surgeon Young will not be averse to having me there
24/7. At least, for a while. He’s been super-sweet, so far. You know, all that and a bag of chips.” Seeing the slight jerks and twitches Jane gets when mixing in her old-life dialect gives her some pleasure.

  Fingers crossed, she can turn her little sanctum at the hospital used for rest into a temporary residence until she can secure another place to live. Even under the strict thumb of newly-arrived Head Matron Roper, who has made great strides in managing excessive abuse of “medicinal” liquor in the wards, Jane feels her position is secure. That is, as long as Surgeon Young continues to have her back, and she does not do anything to usurp Hanna Roper’s authority.

  “Please, Mr. Paddy, don’t make it any harder. I have some money and a job. I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done.”

  “I will send for the carriage.” There is a palpable note of relief in his voice. It is never wise to cross his mother.

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “No, I insist.”

  Chapter 61

  BOSTON HARBOR

  Enjoying some time between shifts on Boston’s waterfront is a luxury and much-needed break from the mental and physical demands of Jane’s profession. Her typical seventy-hour work week is all-consuming and recreational weekends she had taken for granted in modern days are unheard-of in 1863. Her sparse room, no bigger than a closet, and living on hospital grounds have actually made it a bit easier. She can still honestly say, she loves her job.

  Jane retracts her small monocular spyglass and pops it into her bag. She used part of her salary to buy it from a second-hand shop. It came in handy three days ago on her afternoon excursion by ferryboat to Hull Island. Somehow she had managed to get a leave of absence. Surgeon Young and the hospital’s new Head Matron are notoriously stingy in approving time off.