She looked about as distressed as a cat who’d just discovered an unattended dish of cream, but of course Adam couldn’t say so. Fortunately, before he could reckon a way out of the pig muck, the choice was taken from him.
“Constance! What the devi—what are you doing?” The booming voice had Miss Lemagne’s eyes widening, then her expression shifted into exasperation as she looked between the palm fronds.
Nonetheless, as her father stalked into view from where he’d entered the lobby, she rose, smiling prettily at her parent. As if to head off any of his bluster—or worse—she rustled to his side, skirts swinging, and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.
“Daddy, you remember Mr. Quinn,” she said in a firm voice.
“Of course I do,” replied Hurst Lemagne with a trace of grudging civility that Adam was certain had been prompted only by the presence of the man’s daughter.
Lemagne was a stocky man a full head shorter than Adam, and he wore a set of thick and neatly trimmed sideburns that grew into a combed, graying beard. His brown hair had begun to thin at the crown, and his cornflower blue eyes were only slightly less vibrant than those of his daughter’s.
“Good morning, Hurst,” Adam said, purposely choosing the informality of the man’s Christian name. After all, he’d helped to clear the man from suspicion of murder only a month ago. “I was just telling your daughter that I was surprised to learn you were still in Washington.”
Bushy brows rose, crinkling his forehead, as the older man replied just as evenly, “One could say the same for you—and for your president. From what I hear, he’s little more than a sitting duck for our boys.” He glanced meaningfully toward the front window of the hotel, through which the hilly Virginia shore was almost discernible beyond the Smithsonian towers. “The boys’ll be here tonight, I hear tell—and they’re not in a very cordial mood. You still have time to get out of the city, Quinn. You and that rail-splitter—and the few old men you’ve got guarding him. They’re outnumbered and will soon be outfought.”
Adam only smiled. “I reckon we’ll see about that.” Then, with a deliberate nod toward Miss Lemagne, he allowed his smile to fold as he continued, “If it were me with a daughter here in the city, I’d be more concerned about her being in the middle of an invasion than what anyone else is doing. I reckon you’re right things’ll be getting ugly pretty soon in Washington, and I’d want my womenfolk to be somewhere far from it, and safe.”
Lemagne’s eyes went flinty. “Speak for your own boys, Quinn. But no Southern man I know would lay a hand on a woman, even in war—”
“Then you ain’t ever been in a war, have you? I have. I didn’t take you for being such a naive fool, Hurst.” Adam made no attempt to hide his disgust even as he blocked horrific memories from his mind. “If Beauregard brings his men across the Long Bridge tonight—or tomorrow, or ever—he’s going to find himself outnumbered and outmaneuvered. Jim Lane is here, and he’s leading the troops. Ask around to your Southern friends what they’ve heard about how the Grim Chieftain fights a war. So if I were you, I reckon I’d do everything to make certain my daughter was somewhere safe. As soon as possible.” Worried that he might have said too much, Adam gave a brief bow and set the hat back on his head. “Good day, Miss Lemagne.”
As he stalked out of the hotel, Adam heard Miss Lemagne’s hissed rebuke of her father for his rudeness. But it was the hint of shock and wariness in the other man’s expression that had Adam feeling the most satisfaction.
The seeds had been planted, as Lane had intended. Adam hoped they took root and the rumors somehow kept the Rebels from attacking.
He turned off Pennsylvania Avenue onto L Street, heading to the boardinghouse where Adam had taken a small room for himself.
Originally, Adam—who had been part of Lincoln’s security team during his journey from Springfield, Illinois, to the capital—had had no intention of remaining in Washington once the president was inaugurated and settled into his new position. He disliked the city—any city—for its hordes of people, vehicles, buildings, and activity; not to mention the formality and societal expectations. At the same time, however, Adam no longer had any real home to which he could return—having left Kansas after the brutal anti-slavery battles there, grieving and injured in both body and mind.
He’d readily agreed when his uncle, Joshua Speed, suggested he travel with him and the president-elect. But after the events related to Mr. Billings’s murder, Lincoln had asked Adam to stay in Washington. And Adam, filled with both patriotic duty and concern for the health and mental well-being of his friend and mentor, had agreed.
However, he’d declined the president’s offer for him to use a room in the White House, as Nicolay, Hay, and Stoddard had done, knowing he would require some peace and quiet to himself at times. Thus, as he was barracked for the foreseeable future in the White House, Adam had to retrieve some fresh clothing from his rooms.
As he made his way down the street, Adam noticed a trio of men standing on the opposite side. One of the men was blond with a beard and mustache, and another taller with a full, dark beard and a long coat whose hem buffeted in the breeze. But it was the third man, who wore a wide-brimmed hat, who caught Adam’s attention. He sported a beard the color of copper, and his barrel-shaped body was clothed in rumpled, serviceable frontier clothing just like that of his companions.
Adam stopped short, his pulse spiking, and the rush of anger causing his fingers to curl.
Leward Hale. From Orin Bitter’s pro-slavery army from Kansas. One of the men who’d been in the mob that set the fires which killed Tom, Mary, and Carl—and who’d put the bullet in Adam’s arm, shattering the bone and crippling him permanently.
His heart thudded and his mouth dried.
I’ve waited too long for this.
Without another thought, Adam pivoted and started into the street toward them, hand on his pistol and fury surging in his veins.
CHAPTER 5
“WHY WE GOING IN HERE, MISS CONSTANCE?” ASKED JELLY, HALTING at the mouth of the dingy alley. She looked around, up and down the street on which they’d just walked, which ended several blocks south at Lafayette Square. In contrast to the sunbathed, whitewashed houses on the well-trafficked road, the cluttered, shadowy alley was hardly wide enough for a single horse or a woman in full hoopskirts. “I don’t think your Papa’s gone like it, us going in dere. Not at all, Miss Constance.”
Taking a step into the alley, Constance waved impatiently at her maid, who was fifteen years older and possessed of far less determination than she—until it came to dressing Constance’s hair or cleaning a spot from one of her skirts. Then Jelly was more stubborn than a fly on honey.
“How’s Daddy going to know? I’m certainly not going to tell him,” she responded primly, lifting her skirt hem as she avoided a pile of something . . . sludgy. And horribly smelly. Greasy.
She averted her eyes, afraid she might discover exactly what it was. Perhaps she should have taken off her big crinoline and hoop cage and put on a simpler dress, but she hadn’t wanted to take the time to change after Mr. Quinn had left her at the hotel. (It had been an unexpected boon that she’d been wearing such a fetching dress and bonnet when she encountered him there on the street.)
She didn’t change because it took forever to undo all the tapes that held the skirt’s cage in place, and then she’d have to change her crinoline and petticoats for shorter ones . . . and she didn’t want to waste any time. For this was the most interesting and exciting thing Constance had done for weeks, especially since the war had actually started—finally!—and so many people (Southerners) had left Washington.
Daddy was determined to remain in the city, mostly because of Althea Billings, as Constance had confided to Mr. Quinn. But he also stayed because, as he’d told her, “When the war’s over, there’ll be lots of opportunities for a Southern man like me here in the capital.”
Constance knew the Confederate Army would take Washington, and it wouldn’
t be long until they did. Perhaps even as early as tonight.
She felt a thrill of excitement whenever she thought about it. In fact, Mrs. Greenhow had shared with her an invitation from Varina Davis, the First Lady of the Confederate States, to a fête she was going to hold at the White House here in Washington on May 1 for all of the ladies in society who were Southern sympathizers. That was less than a fortnight away, and Constance was really looking forward to it.
Washington had become morbidly dull in the last few weeks. And now, because of the evacuation, many of the shops were closed—including those of the seamstresses and milliners that would make her attire for the party. Constance decided she’d hire Mrs. Keckley to do her frock for the reception, since the black seamstress had worked for Mrs. Davis before the Southerners began to leave the city during the great Secession winter, just a few months ago. Right now, Mrs. Keckley was apparently working for the current First Lady.
It would be just perfect for the Negro seamstress to keep her same position once the Lincolns were run out of the President’s Mansion.
She smiled at the thought, then gave the lagging Jelly a pointed look. The older woman sighed and muttered under her breath, but she came along as they ventured farther into the narrow throughway.
Constance had been here once before—the place was called Ballard’s Alley—and it was a muddy, bumpy footpath between two rows of decrepit buildings. The structures were shacks or lean-tos where, she’d discovered, people actually lived.
Many of them were blacks—both free and slave—but she understood there was a good number of Irish immigrants and some Germans as well. The ramshackle buildings faced each other on this back alley, hidden from view by the large, straight, well-appointed homes lining the broader roads that boasted street lamps and a width designed to accommodate carriages and wagons, two wide. Those homes had actual street addresses and front doors and, sometimes, even a tiny patch of grass in front.
Constance felt rather than saw several pairs of eyes watching her from behind cracks in the wooden walls, sagging doors, or fluttering blanket entries. Wood smoke filtered through the air, weaving between the putrid smells of rot and waste. The path of packed dirt was decorated with dark puddles and suspicious looking piles.
Nonetheless, Constance marched along, keeping her chin up and her eyes focused straight ahead unless they were checking to make sure she didn’t step in anything. With her Swiss-dotted green skirt and white ruffled petticoats currently hiked a little too high for strict propriety, she nevertheless managed to keep most of her hems out of the muck. Prickles scuttled over her shoulders and down her spine, but she ignored them. It was daylight, and she wasn’t alone. She told herself she had nothing to fear as Jelly ambled reluctantly behind her, carrying the small satchel Constance had packed.
They passed a pair of Negro women scrubbing laundry in small tubs. Both wore faded smocks of some indeterminate color, though one had gray streaks in her hair and more lines on her face. A tribe of children played in a patch of dirt, using sticks, stones, and a cracked cup for their toys, while a slightly older girl with light skin and hair watched over them. She held an infant in her arms and watched the two newcomers with dark, curious eyes.
Constance couldn’t quell a stab of pity for them, living in such mean conditions: leaky roofs, warped doors, cloth-covered windows. If this was how free blacks lived, it was a disgrace. At home, in the Lemagne household, their darkies were kept in clean, neat quarters. They had plenty to eat, and each slave received a new set of clothing at Christmas and on the first of June, along with one pair of shoes every year.
She glanced back at Jelly, hoping her maid was noticing the rough lives of these women and comparing it to the clean, safe one she and her fellow slaves had back home. Not that Jelly was unhappy with her life—of course she wasn’t. She’d been caring for Constance since she was born, and she loved her. Jelly was like a mother to her in some ways—which was nice, because Constance’s mother had died when she was ten.
After what seemed like forever, she saw the building she’d been looking for. Her stomach gave a little leap of relief. She’d been certain she could find it again, but until she’d done so, there had been that little niggle of worry.
But there it was: a relatively solid structure, its walls whitewashed and clean. A small cross hung over the door, and a neat sign was posted: Great Eternity Church.
Constance drew in her breath (as much as she could, laced into a corset as she was) and squared her shoulders. “This way,” she said to Jelly, and started around to the back of the church.
The entrance she sought was a door leading to the cellar, which was partially belowground, but it had a row of short, squat windows that looked out over the grass. One of them was propped open with a short, fat stick. The steps that led down to the door were narrow, and Constance needed Jelly’s help to maneuver her way between the brick walls.
Her maid grumbled about the way the pale green skirt scraped against the sides, all the while taking care to keep the ungainly hoops from tipping up in a scandalous fashion. Not that anyone was around to see.
There was another small sign next to this door, and it said simply: Doctor. The door was open a crack, and Constance squared her shoulders once more, then opened it and stepped inside—or, at least, attempted to.
But the entrance was narrower than the stairway, and her hoops didn’t want to cooperate. So she had to squeeze her way through while keeping her skirt from popping up. Jelly’s sharp intake of breath and muttered grumble were surely related to the sound of delicate lawn fabric brushing over the dirty, rough bricks. Constance hardly noticed, for she found herself the object of arrested attention—from a young man and woman sitting on chairs along one wall, from an elderly man who’d just emerged from behind a privacy curtain, and from George Hilton himself.
It was the doctor’s attention that drew and kept hers: the dark-as-night eyes that revealed an instant of bald shock, then shuttered like a house against a storm. His hand fell away from where it had provided support to the elderly man, presumably a patient, and began to immediately unroll the shirtsleeves that revealed muscular arms as dark and strong as polished walnut. As he swiftly fastened his cuffs in an obvious attempt to put his informality to rights, she noticed that his facial hair—mustache, sideburns, and beard—had recently been trimmed and shaped.
“Miss Lemagne,” he said, breaking the awkward silence that had surely stretched for hours. “How may I help you?”
He spoke like no Negro she’d ever met: with precise, smooth inflection. He met her eyes like no Negro she’d ever met: boldly, with something almost like challenge in them. And then suddenly that flicker of emotion was gone and his expression was blank as a schoolroom slate at the end of the day.
Before she could think how to reply—for all words had deserted her in this strange, strained moment—Jelly stepped forward.
“You’s really a doctor, sir?”
Dr. Hilton (Constance found it difficult to think of a black man with a title) transferred his attention to Jelly. “I am. Do you have a complaint, ma’am?”
“Truth be told, I got plenty of ’em—but only one I ’spect you can do anything about,” she drawled, and Constance saw a flash of humor in Hilton’s eyes as his full mouth twitched.
“Well, I’ll be happy to see what I can do about the one, then,” he replied. He turned to his elderly patient, who’d joined the other two people waiting as they stood to assist him. They were younger than the patient, but all three were tall, leaning toward gaunt, and wore clothing that had seen better days. Probably a decade ago.
“Mr. Hodge, remember what I said about putting on that unguent. Two times per day, and change the dressing when you do.”
“Yassir, doc,” replied the man in a voice that sounded like rock scraping against rock. “Lissie here’ll help me.”
Lissie, whom Constance surmised was Mr. Hodge’s daughter or some other relative, stood and handed the old man a smooth, gn
arled cane of some syrup-colored wood. “Thank you doctor,” she said, straightening her tentlike shift that had never seen a crinoline, and probably not a petticoat either. Then, her eyes flitting briefly to Constance, she leaned closer to the doctor and said something in a low voice.
“Don’t you worry about it, Miss Lissie,” he replied quietly; though the timbre of his voice carried a bit more. “You just take care of your papa. And yourself,” he added with a meaningful look.
“Yessir.” When Lissie brushed a hand down over her torso, Constance noticed the slight swell of her belly rounding beneath the loose shift. And the dark bruises on her slender arm that looked like finger marks. Her eyes jerked toward the third person there—a young man—and wondered if he’d put the marks there. And if so, was he Lissie’s husband.
But it was none of her business.
Still, Constance found herself watching the trio as the two younger persons assisted Mr. Hodge in a labored shuffle toward the narrow door.
When she at last turned back to Dr. Hilton and Jelly, Constance found herself once again the object of his attention.
“What can I do for you, Miss Lemagne?” he asked. “Surely you didn’t find it necessary to come all the way to Ballard’s Alley to seek medical treatment.”
From the likes of me. Although he didn’t speak the words, Constance heard them as clearly as if he’d done so. Nonetheless, his expression was properly blank and respectful. “Jelly, my maid,” she explained, “apparently has need of your medical treatment. As for me,” she continued blithely, “I’m here to help Mr. Adam Quinn.”
For the second time, that flash of bald shock flared in his eyes and was just as quickly subdued. “Quinn sent you here? Why?”
At that moment, Constance was struck by the possibility that she’d made a mistake coming to this place.
After all, she had no reason to believe George Hilton was in possession of Johnny Thorne’s body. Just because he’d examined a dead body the last time Mr. Quinn had been involved in a murder case, that didn’t mean he would do so this time. In fact, now that she thought about it, Constance realized it was a foolish assumption that a Negro doctor would be involved in such a delicate, important matter. She didn’t know what had caused him to be involved the last time, but surely there were other doctors in Washington City who would be better suited to such a task.
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