Yankee in Atlanta

by Jocelyn Green

  “Of course I do.” Edward’s forehead furrowed. Obviously, this man with blazing eyes knew something about his wife’s burdened past. “Although I fail to see how Ruby’s past abuse constitutes sin on her part.”

  “Abuse? I’m referring to her voluntary prostitution … Isn’t that somewhat—frowned upon—in your circles?”

  Edward’s mouth went dry. “You are mistaken.”

  He shook his head, eyes wide. “I don’t believe it. You didn’t know? Oh!” He slapped the table again and hooted with apparent glee. “The chaplain married a prostitute and didn’t even know it!” All heads in the casemate turned to stare.

  Heat crept up Edward’s neck. Poor Ruby! First Sean accused her of this very thing, and now this perfect stranger! “She is and was no such thing, sir. I would beg you to keep a civil tongue in your head!”

  “Oh no, you are the one who is mistaken, you pitiable fool. She has played you like a harp, I see, to improve her social standing.”

  “I don’t believe you. You know nothing about her.”

  “There is a birthmark in the shape of a butterfly on her left breast. Now. How would I know that unless I had seen it myself?”

  Edward stood, knocking over his chair as he did so, visceral rage eating through his veins like acid. “What birthmark—” he blurted out, barely able to see straight, let alone think.

  “Oh no, this is just too much. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen it yourself! Oh how rich! She sold herself to countless men and now won’t let her own husband have a go? Oh!”

  Edward’s fist flew into the man’s jaw to silence the maniacal laughter. Six bearded men now dropped their cards and newspapers and formed a circle around the two, obviously hoping for a fight.

  Breaking through them, Edward stormed out of the casemate.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Goodrich! Tell the little missus Phineas Hastings says hello!”

  It isn’t true. It can’t be true. He was lying.

  By the time Edward let himself into the brownstone on Sixteenth Street, at least he could breathe again. But Mr. Hastings’ voice was entrenched in his mind, his words a perfect abatis puncturing his soul. Why let a prisoner’s barbs bother you so much?

  Because Hastings had no reason to lie. Ruby, however, did.

  Cicadas and crickets droning in his ears, Edward hung his hat on the hall rack and tugged his jacket off. The red crosses on his collar mocked him as they slid past his bruised knuckles. What sort of chaplain resorted to violence?

  What sort of chaplain marries a prostitute—and doesn’t even know it?

  Teeth clenched, Edward grasped the banister and pulled himself up the stairs toward the bedroom. It was unfair to take a prisoner’s word over his wife’s. Hastings was wrong about Ruby. He had to be wrong.

  Steadying his breath, he entered his bedroom—and found Ruby undressing for bed.

  “Oh!” She jumped. “You startled me.” Ruby’s hunched her back as she hastily slipped on her nightgown. “Hard day?” Her eyes searched his as she faced him again.

  Edward rubbed his hand over his face. “Does it show?” He forced a smile.

  She squinted at him. “What happened to your hand?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing.” He removed his shoes, then unclasped his belt and stepped out of his trousers. Ruby averted her gaze. “Come now, darling, surely this is nothing you haven’t seen before.”

  She jerked her head around. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

  “We’ve been married almost eight weeks.”

  Her brow wrinkled. “And?”

  “And you’ve seen me in my drawers before.”

  Ruby’s shoulders relaxed. “Aye. True enough.”

  “And I’ve been waiting long enough.” Hadn’t he? Even without the treasure hunt for a birthmark, a man had a right to his own wife.

  She climbed under the covers, said nothing. Until, “I’m very tired.”

  “So am I.” He was tired of being patient, of putting her needs on a pedestal and denying that he had any of his own. Tired of treading lightly in his own marriage. Tired of wondering exactly what happened to Ruby before he met her. Without ceremony, Edward threw his clothes in a pile on the floor and joined Ruby in the bed. “It’s time.” How utterly unromantic. Romance never worked anyway.

  Ruby closed her eyes. “Wait.”

  “For what?”

  “Brush your teeth?”

  Grumbling, Edward rolled out of bed and padded, barefoot, to the water closet. There had been a time when he would have done anything to woo his wife. Now he had to be reminded to brush his teeth. He glared at his reflection in the mirror. Come on. You can do better than this.

  He half expected Ruby to have vanished by the time he returned to the bed, but she was still there. As still as a corpse, but there, nonetheless. Edward dimmed the kerosene lamp, but did not extinguish it.

  Ruby slid him a sideways, skittish gaze. “Please,” she whispered. “Be gentle.” Tears already glazed her eyes.

  Edward’s heart was as disoriented as a wildly swinging pendulum. It was impossible to know just what he felt, and why. “I never wanted to make you cry. What have I done wrong, Ruby? Tell me. I have no idea how to fix whatever is wrong.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Then what? What is it?”

  Ruby shook her head, eyes closed. “It’s not your burden. It’s mine.” And I mean to keep it that way. It was her fault Edward was so desperate right now. He deserved far more than she had given him. If she wasn’t going to tell him the root of her problem, she had to get over it and perform the duties of a wife. God knew she had performed before.

  She pulled him close, her lips swaying against his, and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  He pulled back for a moment. “Who is this in my bed with me?”

  “Your wife.” And from now on, I’m going to act like it.

  Edward kissed the smile on her face, and she swirled her fingers through his hair, while his hands swept the satin curves of her figure. She did not push him away this time, though a frightening mixture of pleasure and shame exploded in her spirit. This is dirty, this is wrong. No it isn’t, it’s God-ordained in marriage! Her internal tug-of-war clamored so loudly she almost did not notice when Edward began unbuttoning her nightgown at her throat.

  Ruby’s breath heaved as she fought off images of every other man who had done this to her. She forced her eyes open to reassure herself this was Edward. This was love. Still, her body shuddered with every button undone, until Ruby felt she was becoming undone herself.

  Edward’s kisses wandered from her mouth to her ear, then trailed down her throat. Gently, he slid her nightgown over her shoulders and smothered her with tenderness—

  Then he stopped. Drew back, eyes were suddenly hard.

  Instinctively, she refastened the buttons on her nightgown and pulled the sheet up to her chin. “What?” she whispered.

  “Never did tell you where I was today.”

  She eyed him, dread chilling her.

  “Fort Lafayette Prison.”

  “Oh?” It meant nothing to her.

  “Had some interesting conversations with the inmates there. Phineas Hastings sends his regards.”

  Darkness crowded the corners of her vision until all she saw was Edward’s hollow eyes. He knows. And then her world went black.

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Wednesday, July 27, 1864

  BOOM!

  “Are you sure we’re safe here?” With her hand buried in the scruff of Rascal’s neck, Ana scanned the ceiling as if expecting a shell to fall through it at any time.

  “This is where the doctor says we must stay,” Caitlin replied. After Ana broke her legs on the platform last week, Dr. Periwinkle said she was not to be moved once a litter had borne her home. Now Ana’s bed was made right next to the parlor’s empty fireplace, her legs tied to broken chair legs with strips of the sofa’s slipcover. If her bones were jarred out of position before they were f
ully healed, she could be crippled for life.

  But Ana’s broken heart concerned Caitlin just as much. Even the exploding shells could not drown out the echo of Susan’s vicious farewell Ana had relayed to Caitlin. What would Noah do when he learned his daughter, his Dear Heart, was not his own? Had he suspected Susan’s infidelity? Or was Susan lying just from spite? Questions without answers circled and swooped until Caitlin batted them away.

  “I’ll be right back.” Caitlin kissed Ana’s forehead, uncertain whether it was physical or emotional pain that wrinkled it.

  “Five minutes.”

  “I know.” Timing the intervals between shells had proven a reliable pattern.

  Caitlin stepped into the sunshine, the July heat beating down upon her shoulders in shimmering waves while honeysuckle cloyed in the steamy air. This is my fault, Caitlin thought as she pumped water into a pitcher. If she had just left the hotel earlier, Ana never would have gone with Susan on that train. She never would have had to jump, or to hear those venomous words. And they could be in a hole in the ground even now. Grand reward, indeed. Yet there was no doubt that the safest of Atlanta’s citizens were in backyard bombproofs.

  One shell blasted through a roof and cut in half a six-year-old girl and her father, killing them in their beds. A refugee woman from Rome, Georgia, was killed while ironing outside. When a neighbor girl died from typhoid she’d contracted at a soldiers’ hospital, the family buried her without a coffin in their backyard rather than risk the exposure required by a trip to the cemetery.

  Caitlin shook her head as she carried the water back into the house. Atlanta was as helpless against the shells as it was against pestilence. One might as well try hiding from lightning strikes. Naomi was a saint for going every day to nurse at the Car Shed, ducking into bombproofs every five minutes along the way. There are no strangers, she had said, when we face a common danger.

  “Thirsty?” Caitlin helped Ana sit and handed her a cup of water.

  She drank, and soon lay back down. “Read to me?”

  Caitlin took a draught of water, too, then opened a Bible to Psalm 91. “He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, he is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust. Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence. He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler. Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday—”

  BOOM!

  Five more minutes.

  New York City

  Wednesday, July 27, 1864

  Ruby wiped her watering eyes and tucked her handkerchief back into her sleeve as she looked out the window for a husband who did not appear, though night had already arrived. When she had woken up this morning before dawn, Edward’s side of the bed was unrumpled. He must have slept somewhere else, but where, she had no idea.

  She was shattered. A pile of brittle shards of glass. That was all.

  If Edward would only come home, she would tell him everything, from the beginning, the only way the story could ever be told. Oh, if only Caroline were here, or Charlotte, or Alice! They had understood when she had told them. But they were women, not your husband, a voice reminded her. And they heard it from you before finding out from anyone else.

  Guilt reduced her to her knees on the parlor rug. Edward did not deserve to learn her darkest secret the way he had.

  “But how could I tell him?” she sobbed to the crickets chirping outside the window. “I knew he would react this way, I knew I wasn’t good enough for the likes of him!”

  You didn’t trust Me. It was not an audible voice, but it pierced her, just the same. Is anything too big for Me to take care of? Do I not have your future in My hand?

  “But Aiden needs a good father … ”

  I know what your son needs. Don’t you believe I want the very best for him? I know what you need, too, Beloved, and I know what Edward needs. For are you not both My children?

  Fresh tears coursed down Ruby’s cheeks. How selfish she had been! What did Edward need? A wife who loves him for who he is, not for what she hoped to gain from him: security without intimacy and respectability without honesty.

  Lord, she pleaded. I’ve wronged him, and I’m so sorry. Please, help me somehow make this right as soon as he comes home!

  But Edward did not come home.

  New York City

  Sunday, August 7, 1864

  Vivian McKae sat mutely in the pew, unable to sing the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” around the lump wedged in her throat. Perhaps she should not have read the newspaper before church this morning. But after six months of scouring them for news and word from Caitlin, it was a habit she could not break, even if she wanted to—and sometimes she did. “A lady on the train was killed by a shell at Atlanta this morning.” Vivian had spewed coffee over the words. Could it have been Caitlin, who had finally gotten her messages and decided to escape?

  The hymn ended. After the pastor’s closing prayer, which seemed more intent on guiding the hand of God to destroy Atlanta than guiding the congregants’ hearts to God, the service dismissed. Vivian placed her hand on Edward’s knee before he could steal away.

  “Where is Ruby today? Not sick again?” She and Aiden had not come last Sunday, either.

  Edward’s face was drawn. “Not feeling herself these days.”

  Vivian frowned. Then, “Oh! You don’t suppose—” She dropped her voice down to a whisper. “Could she be in the family way? I was terribly sick with—”

  “Decidedly not.” His sharp tone cut through the low buzz in the sanctuary as he stood. “Absolutely, certainly, the answer is no.”

  Unless she has yet another secret I’ll be learning about later … Edward’s hurt seemed to swallow his reason almost as completely as it had shattered his pride.

  “Goodrich, my boy.” Reverend Lanser clapped his hand on Edward’s shoulder. “Might I have a moment?”

  “With pleasure.” Edward followed the man’s rotund form out of the sanctuary and down the stairs to his office, grateful to not be faced with any more of Aunt Vivian’s questions.

  “Sit down.”

  Edward did so. “Sir?”

  Elbows on his desk, Reverend Lanser tented his fingers and sighed. “I’ve never been one to mince words, so I’ll just come out with it. It has come to my attention that Mrs. Goodrich is not what she appeared to be.”

  Dread shortening his breath, Edward braced himself.

  “I have heard reports that she was a working prostitute this side of three years ago. Why, that’s almost yesterday!”

  “Reports from whom?”

  The minister waved his hand as if to swat the question away. “Irrelevant.”

  “If you please. It is relevant to me.”

  “If you insist. It seems you made a bit of a scene when you punched a prisoner at Fort Lafayette a couple of weeks ago. Naturally, the guards wanted to know what the man had done to provoke it. He told them. The guards told others, who then told others—you know how this works. Eventually word got back to me. You were surprised by the news, then?”

  “As shocked as you are.” Edward clenched his jaw.

  “Well, it’s a hard knock, son. It’s no way to start a marriage, that’s for sure. Does she exhibit a lingering appetite for the baser pleasures?”

  “Not in the least. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.”

  “I see.” He nodded. “And when you’ve talked to her about this, does she demonstrate remorse and redemption?”

  Edward shifted awkwardly in his chair. How could he admit he had not had a genuine conversation with his wife since the night she fainted at the mention of Phineas Hastings? That he had deliberately stayed away from dawn until dusk, filling his time with meetings and ministry to avoi
d her? Coward.

  “Well?” the pastor prodded. “What does she have to say for herself?”

  “It’s quite a personal matter, don’t you think?” The truth was, Edward had no idea. He’d never given her a chance.

  “Ah, my dear young man. When you are in ministry, your personal matters become public matters.”

  Edward’s brow creased. “How public?”

  “I have no doubt you and Mrs. Goodrich will work through this. If she has left her life of sin, then we must—you must—forgive her for her dishonesty and restore her to your trust. Your marriage is not doomed. However, I’m withdrawing your name as a candidate for this church’s pulpit upon my retirement. It’s for your own protection.”

  Edward’s heart sank as his head bowed. “How’s that?”

  “People in the church will want to know all about both you and your wife before they submit to your leadership. Let us not give them opportunity to further comment on the past. I do not judge a repentant sinner. Nor does God. But, though it pains me to say it, there are some in this church who will, with pleasure. The maelstrom of gossip would be more devastating to you both than you can imagine. Even if ultimately found blameless, you’d never be welcomed in another pulpit in the city.”

  Nodding, Edward stood, spinning his hat by its brim. “So let me ask you this. If I would not make a good candidate here, where is the church where the past would not be a black mark on my application?”

  Reverend Lanser shrugged. “You will find it, Edward. God’s plan for your life does not end here.”

  The pastor was right, of course. But as Edward left the church, his heart was not convinced.

  Confederate works, north side of Atlanta, Georgia

  Tuesday, August 9, 1864

  Day dawned beneath a veil of rain, turning the dusty trenches ringing the city into slick, bright red gashes in the earth. Noah Becker heard no cannon. Except for a fireworks display last night, the shelling had lightened up considerably during the last few days. Federal guns had been silent now for several hours. Peering over the top of his lice-infested trench, he dared to hope that water would be the only shower from the sky today.