“To me?”
“She was most insistent that you should come to her as quickly as possible.” That the request was a mystery, and something of an annoyance to the elder Lansing sister, was obvious from the stiffness of her manner.
Lorna glanced at Ramon. His face was impassive, but the slight narrowing of his eyes indicated cogent thought. In answer to her glance of mute inquiry, he merely shrugged.
Though the woman was virtually a stranger, it was impossible to refuse her appeal. With a brief gesture of assent, she followed Elizabeth across the floor and out of the room. They made their way along a long hallway toward the back of the house. At a door near the far end, the other girl paused, knocked softly, then ushered Lorna into a small sitting room.
Sara Morgan lay on a fainting couch of rosewood covered in mint green brocatelle, her head resting on a bolster of the same material. Her eyes were closed and her face drained of color, almost gray. In one hand she clutched a small, silver-capped bottle of smelling salts; in the other, a stained handkerchief. A maid crouched at her side, holding a basin in which swirled the pale red of blood mixed with water.
“Mrs. Morgan?” Elizabeth said, moving forward to hover over the couch. “Miss Forrester is here.”
The woman opened her eyes. Her colorless lips curved in a smile as she found Lorna. “So good of you to — come,” she whispered. “I must talk to you — if we could be left in private.”
“Oh, really, are you certain you are well enough?” Elizabeth asked.
“I … must be. If you please?”
“Well, of course, if that is the way you want it. Come, Clara!” Elizabeth waited for the maid to open the door for her, then swept with her from the room. But not before she had sent Lorna a look of supercilious outrage.
“Come closer, here beside me.”
Lorna moved at once to kneel in a billow of lavender blue skirts beside the fainting couch. “Tell me what I can do for you,” she said quietly.
Mrs. Morgan reached out to take her hand. Her hazel eyes searched Lorna’s face with minute care, probing, meeting her gray gaze and holding it as if she would look into her mind. At last she said, “I must have someone I can trust. Can I trust you?”
“I don’t know, but I would hope so.”
A fleeting smile crossed the woman’s pale face. “An honest answer, much better than instant reassurance, since you have no idea what I would ask of you. I — one moment.”
As Mrs. Morgan fumbled with the cap of her smelling salts, Lorna took them from her, opened them, and placed them in her hand once more. The woman took a deep breath with them under her nose, choked a little, then pushed herself up higher on the couch. She lay still, inhaling and exhaling slowly, evenly, then looked to Lorna once more.
“I thought I was strong enough for this undertaking, but I was wrong. If only this attack could have held off a few more days — but perhaps it is better this way. I might have been taken ill on the ship, and that would have been most uncomfortable for everyone. I could not ask men intent on saving our very lives to play nursemaid to an invalid, and without that my mission might not be completed. It is vitally important that I succeed, you see.
The woman waited, as if expecting some comment while she caught her breath. After a moment, Lorna said, “Am I to understand that you are … that you have a message to deliver, as you did with Mrs. Greenhow in Washington?”
“You are quick; that is good.” The woman closed her eyes for a moment, smiling faintly, then went on. “But, what I carry are dispatches from the Confederate envoys in Britain to President Davis concerning the negotiations for British recognition. You see how important it is that they be delivered?”
The recognition of the Confederacy by Great Britain could mean international legitimacy and, perhaps, military aid, in much the same way that France had sent aid to the struggling United States during the Revolutionary War. The assistance of the British fleet would neutralize the blockade, even destroy it. That, plus adequate supplies of the materials of war, would mean almost certain victory.
“Yes, I do see,” Lorna answered slowly. “But, why me? Why could you not entrust them to, say, Captain Cazenave?”
“He is a man and, in the event of the capture of his ship, would certainly be searched, then sent to some northern prison. You are a woman, and a most attractive one, if I may say so. You would not be molested and in all probability, if you asked it as a favor from gentlemen to a lady, would be put ashore, if not in the Carolinas, at least in the nearest northern port. From there, you would be able to make the contact that would see the dispatches into the right hands.”
There was a long silence. The woman waited, her eyes on Lorna’s face while she struggled with the problem. In the quiet, Lorna thought she heard a rustling sound, as of someone breathing. She stared for a moment at the other woman, then pushed to her feet, moving quickly to the door. She hesitated, feeling slightly foolish, before putting her hand on the knob and jerking the panel wide.
There was nothing, no one there. Behind her, Mrs. Morgan said, “It is best, always, to be sure.”
“Yes,” Lorna said, frowning, still listening, wondering if she had imagined that soft sound, like a door being eased to, somewhere along the hall. Nerves, she told herself, brought forth because the need for secrecy was so apparent. Turning, she said, “If I take your place, I will have to leave tonight, within the next hour.”
“A servant can be sent to pack a trunk for you and deliver it to Captain Cazenave’s ship, taking mine off at the same time. I’m sure our host, or rather his daughter, would not mind giving the order.”
“I have no idea what to do when I reach port, who I must turn the dispatches over to, or where, or when.”
“I will tell you that. It is not at all difficult.”
“Someone must inform Captain Cazenave of the change of plans and passengers.”
“You seem to be on terms of some friendliness with the gentleman; so it should be easily arranged. One woman, or another, it can make no difference to him.”
“I suppose not,” Lorna said slowly, “so long as he realizes the importance of the dispatches’ getting through.”
“No! On no account must he be told of the dispatches. Captain Cazenave may know of my past activities; in truth, the story seems widespread enough, but, as far as he is aware, I am only a woman anxious to return to her family after a visit to Europe to consult physicians there.”
“Oh, but surely it would be more convenient, and just, for him to be told?”
“By no means! Should his ship be taken by a federal cruiser, your safety, and his own, may depend on his being able to answer with natural and honest indignation to any charge of aiding a Confederate courier. It is not beyond reason that he might be tried as an accomplice should it be proven that he was in your confidence, with the penalty for that crime carried out at sea. This is wartime, and such a hanging would scarcely cause a ripple in official federal circles, given the cause.”
“Hanging!”
“For a man, it is not unthinkable. For you, the penalty would be imprisonment, as was the case for Rose Greenhow, who is still being held in Washington. If I have frightened you, I am sorry, but I cannot stress the danger strongly enough. It is much better for you to depend only on yourself, and on your frailty as a member of the weaker sex. I believe, if Captain Cazenave ever discovers the subterfuge, he will thank you for it.”
Lorna was by no means certain of this last claim, but it was a problem that would have to be faced when the time came, if it came. She smiled, then, with the determination and excitement burgeoning inside her turning her gray eyes to silver. “I can think of no other objection, so I suppose I must go.”
“Good.” Mrs. Morgan lay back, closing her eyes in weariness, then opening them again. She lifted her skirts, drawing them up until her black petticoats were exposed. Taking a packet wrapped in oilskin from a pocket concealed in the ruffling, she placed it in Lorna’s hands. She drew deeply on her
smelling salts again, then said, “Listen to me, now. Listen carefully.”
12
There was an expectant hush in the ballroom when Lorna made her way toward it again. As she stepped inside, she saw men and women with champagne glasses in their hands, all turned facing the end of the room. The isinglass moon had gone dark, the hour for leaving was at hand. Before the moon, however, stood Edward Lansing, drawn up with 2 glass of champagne held high. His voice rang out clear as he began what was apparently, a well-known toast.
“Here’s to the Confederates who produce the cotton,” he proclaimed.
“Here, here!” came the reply from the crowd, in deep masculine voices.
“To the Yankees that maintain the blockade and keep up the price of the cotton,” he went on.
“Here, here!”
“And to the British who pay the prices to buy the cotton!”
“Here, here!”
“So, three cheers for all three — and a long continuance to the war and success to the blockade runners!”
In the shouts of hurrah that followed, the soprano voices of the women rose higher, surpassing those of the men as they gave vent to their admiration and apprehension for the men who would soon be leaving. It was some time before the babble of voices died away, leaving quiet enough for their host to make himself heard once more.
“I would like to ask the ladies to line the walls, one beside the other, while the gentlemen remain in the center of the floor. This last dance of the evening will be a choice dance, not included on the program. At the signal, the gentlemen will attempt to reach the ladies of their choice before some other scoundrel gets there first. And remember, if you will, that the idea for this was not mine, so I am not to blame for any disappointments! For the sake of the ladies, I will explain that the signal will be the complete lowering of the lights. Is everyone ready? Now!”
This was, without doubt, Charlotte’s surprise, Lorna thought as the lights died slowly while servants with candle snuffers on long wands moved down the room, extinguishing the flickering lights. As the last candle was snuffed out, there was a rush of booted feet, a nervous laugh, an assortment of gasps and cries. Then, abruptly, Lorna was caught in a firm clasp and whirled out of reach of other, grasping hands. Her flying skirts brushed the legs of yet another man, and above her head she heard a low chuckle.
“Peter,” she said as best she could with his arm constricting her waist.
“A near miss,” he said, his lips near her ear.
“Who—”
“Bacon, I think; I saw, him looking in your direction. As for the other, I’m not sure, but I can guess.”
Had it been Ramon? There had been nothing to tell her, one way or the other. It might just as well have been Slick or any one of a dozen of the blockade runners she had met in Nassau during the last weeks. Before she could demand an answer, the glow of candles grew in the end of the room where the musicians were seated, and they struck up the “Hesitation Waltz.”
They danced in silence then, slowly revolving, pausing, revolving. The few dim candle flames shone in the crystal lusters of the chandeliers, gleamed on the silk of the women’s gowns, and were reflected in the glass of the French doors that stood ajar down the room. It barely illuminated the faces, absorbed and solemn, of the men and women taking part in that peculiar ritual. It might have been supposed to be exciting, faintly titillating, that dance in near darkness; instead, it only underscored the melancholy of the partings to come.
The man who held her was deferential, his touch gentle as he guided her. He watched her, his emotions naked on his face. Lorna met his dark blue gaze for long moments, but could not sustain it. Looking away, she saw Ramon, leaning with his shoulders against the wall near the doorway. As their glances clashed, he pushed away and, swinging, left the room.
The music died away and, with it, the candlelight. In the darkness, Peter’s hold tightened. He tilted her chin, and his mouth descended, resting warm against her lips, parting to deepen the kiss, seeking her response. With her lashes still upon her cheeks, Lorna gave it, longing to feel some trace of desire, some inclination toward love. There was, instead, only sweetness and the gentle stirring of affection.
The blockade runners, captains, and officers, left in a mass, their booted feet thudding across the terrace and down to their waiting horses and carriages. With them, too, went those men who had no plans to go to sea that night, partially because of the laughing threats made against them should they stay, and partially out of full knowledge that their lingering would be an anticlimax for all involved. There were cries of goodbye, exuberant shouts and calls, the waving of handkerchiefs. The dust rose in choking clouds on the drive as the mounts and vehicles departed. The pounding and rattling died away again, and all was quiet.
With drooping shoulders and eyes dim with tears, the women turned back into the house. They set about finding wraps and evening purses, straggling here and there, slowly brightening as they talked of the evening. By twos and threes, they climbed into the carriages arranged for them by Edward Lansing and, still congratulating the Lansing sisters on the brilliance of the evening, trundled away into the night.
Lorna was among the last to leave. She had returned to be with Sara Morgan for a little longer, trying to be certain of what she must do. The widow had been prevailed upon to spend the night at the Lansing home to save her strength, and Lorna sat beside the bed where she had been installed, talking quietly, reassuring the woman that all would be well, until, finally, the invalid slept.
In the carriage, Lorna wrapped her pardessus cloak of black silk closer around her, feeling chilled now that the moment was upon her. For the dozenth time, she reached to touch the slim, oilskin-wrapped package tucked into her cloak pocket to be certain it was safe. She tried to think what she would do when she reached the ship, how she would persuade Ramon to allow her to come aboard without telling him the reason for it. Her mind would provide few arguments, none convincing. She would have to wait upon the moment, and hope that inspiration would come when she was face to face with him.
The Lorelei lay at the dock, where she had finished loading late that afternoon when the last touches to her repairs had been done. Around her, there was a bustle of activity as men shouted and cursed, wheeling barrels and bolts and bales here and there on barrows, trying to get cargoes on one or two other ships. In the harbor beyond, the gray steamers sat on their bright reflections in the water; they were lit from stem to stern as final preparations were made, smoke rising from their stacks. Even as Lorna’s carriage pulled up opposite Ramon’s ship, she saw one weigh anchor and move slowly out toward the channel, extinguishing its lights as it went. Watching it for a moment, she wondered if it was bound for Charleston or Wilmington, and, if the latter, whether it and the Lorelei might find themselves in company when the moment came to make the dash through the line of the federal blockade toward that port.
There was a lantern with a smoked globe hanging on a stanchion beside the gangplank. As Lorna passed beside it, stepping across the wooden apron, one of the ship’s officers standing toward the prow turned to look her way; Chris, she thought, from his size and build. He was expecting a woman passenger, however, one in widow’s black, so did no more than touch the brim of his cap in a salute and point out the companionway leading below, directing her to her cabin.
Lorna inclined her head, indicating her thanks, since she did not trust her voice not to give her away. She was swinging from him, when Ramon appeared, stepping from the wheelhouse. She stiffened, instinctively drawing the hood of the cloak closer around her face, covering her hair. He acknowledged her presence with a nod, then turned to his officer, dismissing her as he issued rapid-fire instructions. A few minutes later, Lorna was safe in her cabin.
There was not a great deal of room allotted to passengers aboard the blockade runner, the cargo being by far the most important commodity transported on a run. There was a common cabin for men forward, and one for women aft, with the officer
s’ quarters in between. Lorna, being the only woman on this trip, had the women’s cabin with its stacked bunks, small washstand, and slipper chair to herself.
She lit the lamp in its gimbals over the washstand, took off her cloak and hung it on a hook on one wall, then looked around for her straw trunk, the same one her new gowns had been delivered in. With nothing else to attend to, she sat down.
Fatigue washed over her, as if it had been waiting for this moment when she could go no farther by herself, when the exhilaration of the evening had drained away and it was too late to go back on her agreement. What had she gotten herself into by taking this mission?
Prison. Hanging. The words Sara Morgan had used rang like warning bells in her mind. And yet, she could not have refused; it would have been impossible, even if she had wished it.
She did not think she was particularly brave. What, then, had made her accept? A love for the region where she was born? The need to do something to further the southern cause? Pride that would not allow her to appear a coward? A simple need to get out of her hotel room, to be doing something useful? Any of those things, perhaps all of them. Was this, just possibly, the way the men felt who had marched away to war, full of doubts and fears and dogged determination?
If Ramon knew, he would say it was because she was a fool. He did not know, must not know. What was she going to say to him, then, to explain her presence? What?
She rose to her feet, pacing to the end of the cabin, swinging around, so that her skirts belled around her, then pacing back again. The problem was not what she was going to say, but what he was going to think unless she came up with a reasonable explanation. It would appear that she wanted to resume their relationship on his terms, that she would take any risk to be with him. So long as she could not tell him the truth, he would be perfectly entitled to think just that.
Sara Morgan could not have foreseen that difficulty, of course. Lorna had recognized it, but it had not, at the time, seemed insurmountable. Now, there was nothing she could think of to account for her being on the ship that did not sound weak and contrived, a mere excuse.
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2 Page 24