“I told Caroline Waverly I’d look out for her. I’m just keeping my word.”
Vivian arched her eyebrows. “The young man ‘doth protest too much, methinks.’” Her voice was soft as silk, but the quote from Hamlet stung. The question is, does it sting because it’s true? Am I making excuses for how I feel toward Ruby?
“It’s all right to care more for her than you would for the average sheep in your care, you know. Ruby is a fine woman. I’ve known her since she first came to this country at the age of nineteen. She is responsible, industrious, she loves the Lord, and she happens to have a son who seems to adore you.”
Beautiful. Edward checked the word before it escaped his lips. You forgot to say she’s beautiful. Her heart and spirit were even more becoming than her appearance, although that was lovely to behold, as well. Her face surged before him now, emerald eyes sparkling, russet hair shimmering in coils heaped on top of her head, swept away from the collar of her grey dress. “She is in mourning.”
“The second stage of mourning. And she’ll be done with that soon enough.”
He shook his head. “We are very different, she and I.”
“In what way?”
Edward stood and paced the room. He could scarcely believe they were having this conversation. “I can’t explain it.”
“You communicate abstract truths for a living.” Vivian’s tone bordered on impatience. “Do try.”
He rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced. Truth be told, he had barely bothered to imagine himself with any woman at all. But when he had, he had conjured up a woman from a good family, with a long-standing membership in a church, with refined tastes, yet compassionate to the plight of those less fortunate than herself. Someone, in fact, more like Charlotte Waverly. He cringed as the thought raised its head. He had ceased thinking of her in that way long ago.
“We have very different backgrounds, for one thing—”
Vivian stiffened, sat up a little straighter in her chair. “You mean she is Irish. An immigrant.”
The look in her eyes chilled his warming face. He had insulted his aunt and Ruby both.
She rose, lifted her chin. “I see. You are more like your father than I realized.” It was the worst epithet she could have given him. And he deserved it. “When I met James, he was working on one of the ships in your father’s shipyard. I didn’t go looking for love, but when I found it, I had the good sense to hold on tight. Yes, he was Irish and the Goodriches are English. Yes, he made his living by the sweat of his brow rather than by business acumen and sound investments. But he was a good man and did right by me right up until he died.” She swallowed hard. “We were happy together. When he smiled at me I felt God’s love shine down on us, as well. And by looking at Ruby, I have a feeling she feels the same way about you.”
Alarm clanged in his mind. Had he led her to believe he felt something he did not? “Are you quite cert—”
She raised her hand to cut him off. “I can read a woman better than you can, so there’s no use arguing. Now, I’m not telling you to run off with her willy-nilly. But if your heart is opening to Ruby, don’t let your prejudice against the Irish slam it shut.”
Prejudice? The word stabbed. Hadn’t he been the one to reach out to Ruby with the Bible studies? Hadn’t he gone to the tenements and helped Vivian herself out of harm’s way? Prejudice! The label snagged and itched. Surely it did not belong on him.
But Vivian was not done. “She may indeed have a hard past, one you cannot relate to. But are we not all equal in God’s eyes? Or will you preach love for your neighbor on Sundays but wallow in law and judgment every other day of your life?” Vivian’s breath heaved by the end of her speech, and Edward stepped back from the force of it. Wallow in judgment? I never!
Crossing the room to meet him, she took his hands. “If I’ve put too fine a point on it, it’s only because I love you, Edward. I just want God’s best for you.” She wrapped her arm around his waist. “If you are truly not interested in Ruby as anything more than a neighbor, that’s fine. Just don’t mislead her.”
Edward told himself to nod. “I understand.” But inside, he still smarted.
By the time the rain let up and he prepared for his Sunday afternoon Bible study with Ruby, however, the sting had faded. After all, it was not romance he had in mind with Ruby, but ministry.
Truly.
Later that night, with her belly full of steak, green beans, and melt-in-your-mouth rolls, Vivian McKae kissed her brother and nephew good night, and quietly stole up the stairs to turn in early. She had trudged too far down memory’s path today. Exhaustion thudded at the base of her skull.
Or was that her conscience knocking?
A sigh brushed Vivian’s lips as she unpinned her hair and changed into her flannel nightdress. How she had loved James!
All the more piercing your betrayal.
Vivian covered her ears, but in vain. This voice, the one whose forked tongue slithered deep into her spirit, was the demon she went to bed with every night. Instead of James’s strong arms reaching for her in the night, pulling her close to the muscular curves of his chest, the cold scales of this invisible beast writhed around her spirit, strangling her.
“My heart had already died within me, I did not give him that. That belonged to James alone.”
Yet you gave him your body to bruise, beat, and bed.
“In the confines of marriage, yes. I had to. I had to. We were evicted, we were starving, Jack would have turned to vice, Caitlin would have given up her future for the pursuit of bread. I needed a husband!”
You broke James’s heart.
“If he was watching from heaven, he would have understood. I did it for our family. I did it to survive.”
By the skin of your teeth. And that a miracle in itself.
Vivian rose from her chair, and knelt before the window. She saw only her own reflection. She had aged since marrying James, and even more since she had buried him. But her eyes were the same as they were every night when she waited for Bernard to come home in a drunken rage. She had let him beat her until he was spent so no harm would come to Jack and Caitlin. Always, always, she was careful not to cry out for fear of waking them.
It was for Caitlin that she was most concerned. She was eighteen and beautiful when Vivian had agreed to marry Bernard. It had only taken a few weeks to discover her second husband’s character, and that was black as soot. If given an opportunity to be alone with Caitlin, Vivian had no doubt he would have his way with her, especially if he was drunk.
Jack quit school to work at age fourteen, but Vivian insisted Caitlin keep on with her dreams of becoming a teacher. Depend on no man, she had told her, over and over. Make your own way in the world.
When Caitlin saw a magazine article about a new program that trained young women to teach in the West, and then paid to send them there, she and Vivian both seized upon the opportunity. Caitlin attended the tuition-free six-week training at the Hartford Female Seminary in Connecticut, then came home to await her assignment.
That was when they heard the news that shattered Caitlin’s hope. The National Board of Popular Education ended its program to send teachers west. She was trained, but had no place to teach. New York City was already saturated with teachers and those who were begging to teach. So Caitlin stayed and tended Vivian’s wounds instead. I fell down the stairs, Vivian lied. I burned myself on the stove. No one mentioned James again. It was as if that happy life they had once known had never been at all.
A year passed, and Caitlin was still stuck in the tenements, still tending her weak and battered mother. Then another year passed. And another. Until finally, Vivian had scraped all her strength together and yelled at her own daughter to get out and find a life for herself. The stunned look on Caitlin’s face haunted Vivian still.
Vivian touched the glass pane with her fingertips. God protect her, wherever she is. Bring her home safe. Please.
Weariness tugged her toward the canopied bed
. Vivian gathered up the pillows, and stacked them neatly on the plush carpet. After she finished in the water closet next to her bed chamber, she brought a clean towel with her, rolled it up tightly, and placed it beneath her neck as she snuggled down between the lilac-scented sheets.
She had good reason not to sleep over a pillow. Not since—but she would not think of that now.
Atlanta, Georgia
Monday, October 19, 1863
Caitlin tucked her feet beneath Rascal’s warm body, the rag rug that had formerly been under the workroom’s table now in a tangle of sewn-together strips on the table in front of her. Twisting them tightly, she dipped them into a bowl of liquid beeswax, rosin, and turpentine. The days were only getting shorter, and there were no candles to be had unless one made them at home.
Ana sat across from Caitlin at the work table, elbows resting on the First Reader for Southern Schools open in front of her. When the wax had cooled enough, Caitlin carefully pressed the warm waxed strips around a glass bottle, from the base to the neck.
“Why don’t you read aloud, Ana.”
The girl sat up a little straighter. “All right. Lesson Twenty-nine. ‘The man’s arm has been cut off. It was shot by a gun. Oh! What a sad thing war is!’ ”
“That’s enough.” Ragged crimson memories from the Battles of First Bull Run and Seven Pines exploded in Caitlin’s mind. Horrific scenes that had been engraved on the parchment of her soul. Certainly it wasn’t good for Ana to dwell on such things with her own father in the army. “Let’s read something else for your lesson. Do you know where Robinson Crusoe is?”
“Papa’s office, I’m sure.” Her bright blue eyes sparkled.
“You may fetch it. We are sure to find ample supply of spelling words in the text.”
Ana’s chair scraped the floor as she stood. “Hoora—”
“Shhhhh.” Caitlin’s hand stilled on the wax until it burned her finger-tips. “Do you hear that?”
Rascal pushed himself up, nails clicking on the bare wood floor, nose in the air.
The hoofbeats grew louder.
Caitlin and Ana hastened out of the workroom, down the main hall and out the front door in time to see a pair of Rebel soldiers galloping down their lane toward them. As they drew rein in front of the porch, Caitlin clutched the railing, knees weak. What could they be doing here, unless it was to bring news? They would not bring glad tidings. She cupped Ana’s shoulders in her hands.
“Did Papa get shot?”
Caitlin closed her eyes, bracing herself. Her grip on Ana tightened.
“I don’t rightly know,” said one of the soldiers. “But if he’s in the Army of Tennessee he more’n likely ain’t got any shoes.”
Caitlin blinked. “Shoes?”
“Yes ma’am. Our boys in grey have been marchin’ barefoot. Bragg sent us here on the express purpose of finding shoes to bring back to camp around Chattanooga.”
“Is that all?” Caitlin nearly dropped into the rocking chair in relief. “You may find shoes in Atlanta, but they are as much as five hundred dollars a pair now!”
The man smiled. “Not for us. What the army needs, we’re taking. It’s for the good of the Confederacy. I have orders to search your house for any shoes not already on feet.” He pushed past her and into the house while his companion waited outside with the horses. She could hear Rascal barking but knew he’d never bite.
When the soldier returned, he held Noah’s Sunday shoes over his head triumphantly. “Thank you kindly, ma’am. Much obliged.” He tossed them in a haversack. “Now for the horses.”
“What?” Caitlin’s palms prickled with sweat. How would they get out of town to gather firewood, berries, plants?
“Army needs them. We’ll pay you in Confederate bonds, redeemable after the victorious conclusion of the war.”
Caitlin chased after the soldiers into the carriage house where Saul was currying Noah’s matched pair. His hand dropped as soon as he saw the uniforms.
“See here, boy. Get those horses ready to ride.”
Boy? Saul was a grandfather by now, not that he’d ever seen his children’s children, Bess had told Caitlin. She held her breath as he stood erect, eyes sparking. “They ain’t mine to give. They Mr. Becker’s.” He turned and fed one of the horses an apple from his hand.
“Don’t waste our time.” One of the soldiers brandished his pistol at Saul, yanking a scream from Ana’s throat.
“Do as he says,” whispered Caitlin, thinking only of Saul’s safety. He obeyed her, but with the fire of Mount Vesuvius in his eyes. She felt sick.
“Here.” The second soldier thrust a note into Caitlin’s hand. It was a promise for a quarter of what the horses were worth, redeemable after the Confederacy won the war.
The horses now bridled and saddled, the soldier took the reins for both in one hand, then led them out of the carriage house. Handing the reins to his mounted companion, he climbed back into his own saddle. “Your country thanks you. And sleep easy, ma’am. For we will be victorious in the end.”
They rode off then, leaving Saul alone in the carriage house and Caitlin and Ana coughing on clouds of dust raised by horses they would never see again.
“It’s all right, Miss McKae.” Ana slipped her hand into Caitlin’s. “If Papa and his friends need the horses, they should have them.”
Caitlin nodded mutely and shuffled with Ana back into the house, her loyalties at war within her.
From the table in the main hall, she picked up yesterday’s Intelligencer and looked for clues as to the true condition of the Southern armies.
Never has the South shown so much her ability to maintain her independence than the present time … While our cause is brightening in its aspect, that of our enemy is becoming daily more desperate.
The editor’s optimism did not resonate with Caitlin. Apparently, it did not resonate with the North, either. For there, in the same issue of the Atlanta Daily Intelligencer, was reprinted an article from the New York Herald.
Atlanta is the last link which binds together the southwestern and northeastern sections of the rebel Confederacy. Break it and those sections fall asunder.
Caitlin’s pulse trotted. If the Union army came to Atlanta, they would crush it, or die trying. She had run to war, and run from war. Now, it was running after her.
That night, in her dreams, she saw both Jack and Noah, lying in the blood-soaked mud. Ana was there, too, reciting lesson twenty-nine from the First Southern Reader over their torn bodies of abbreviated lives. “The man’s arm has been cut off. It was shot by a gun. Oh! What a sad thing war is!”
Caitlin awoke to the sound of her own scream.
New York City
Monday, October 24, 1863
A gentle rain tapped on the windows, and Ruby O’Flannery hoped it was a portent of the cleansing work that may someday happen in Emma’s heart. The women sat at the table now, their heads bent over Emma’s new dress in the making. The fire crackled in the friendly kitchen hearth, scenting the air with woodsmoke. As they traced the pattern on olive-green merino wool, Ruby silently thanked God that Caroline had granted permission to use the Waverly brownstone for this purpose. If she never saw the tenements—or Sean Connors—again, she would count herself blessed indeed.
“I’ll feel like a different person in this gown, I will!” Emma grinned.
“Aye, that you will. You might even be a new person in it.” Ruby winked at her friend. “How we dress ourselves matters, you know. ’Tis a signal not just to others, but to ourselves, about who we are. When my dress is dirty and full of holes, I feel poor and desperate, so I act poor and desperate. When my clothes are neat and tidy, I feel clean and decent, I do.” She did not need to point out what Emma’s garish low-cut silk gowns said about her.
Emma snapped her head up. “Bedad! When we call a woman ‘loose’ or ‘upright’—that’s talking about the corset being loose or tight, ain’t it?”
Ruby nodded. “The way you look sends a message. Wh
at kind of message do you think this dress will send?”
A sly smile spread on Emma’s face. “Not my usual, that’s sure.”
“Aye. You’re right about that, darlin’.” Ruby laughed.
She enjoyed being with Emma when they were sewing together. But she missed her friend Edward. He still came to check on her, but always brought Vivian with him. Maybe he was just quieter when Vivian and Ruby were chatting. Or maybe he had cooled toward her for a different reason. A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches. Had Sean’s words tarnished her name irreparably in Edward’s mind?
Emma chattered on, and Ruby nodded absently as a cold thought penetrated her mind. Ruby was no more than a project to Edward. Just like Emma was a project for Ruby.
A knock at the front door, and Emma jolted. “Is it three o’clock already? I told Sean to pick me up if it was still raining. That’ll be him now, it will.”
Swallowing her distaste for Emma’s brother, Ruby led the way to the door. “Same time next week? See you then.”
“That you will.” Emma kissed her on the cheek. “Many thanks, lassie.”
Ruby pressed a hand to her fluttering stomach, then opened the door. “Afternoon, Sean.”
“Fine day for a promenade in the park, eh, Ruby?” With a scab still crusting his lower lip—compliments of Edward’s fist—his smile did not stretch far as Emma ducked under his umbrella. “How’s your friend? The chaplain?” But he did not look at her. His gaze went over her head, roving hungrily from left to right.
“Goodbye, then.” Ruby closed the door and locked it before leaning against it with her back. Their footsteps faded quickly, and she peeked into the parlor at the mantel clock. If she hurried, she could clean up in the kitchen before Aiden awoke from his nap.
A clap of thunder rattled the windows, and Ruby froze, waiting for her baby’s cry. It didn’t come. Thank goodness. Aiden was cutting a tooth, and it had been keeping him up at night lately, which also made the days far less pleasant. Soaking a washcloth in cold water for him to chew on helped some, but it was not enough. Both baby and mama were exhausted.
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