“And you bought land without consulting me?”
“It’s a plantation on the shores of the Chesapeake Bay, Cam. There’s a beautiful brick plantation house on the edge of the shore and a lawn that rolls right to the water’s edge. The house will have to be expanded, of course. Redecorated. But I know you’re going to love it.”
Cameron sat up, her hand sliding to her still-flat belly. “But I want my baby to be born in Mississippi.”
“That’s impossible.”
She drew herself up on her knees to face him. “It is not, as you say, impossible. Mississippi is my home. I only came to Baltimore because you insisted I wait out the war here. I never agreed to live here forever.”
“Cam, please, calm down.”
He reached out for her, but she pushed his hand away. “I am calm,” she said from between clenched teeth. “And I’m calmly telling you that I want this baby born in my home of Mississippi.”
“But this is my home, our home. And in time it can become yours, too, Cam. Ours and our children’s.”
“I want to go back to Mississippi, Jackson.”
“I understand, but you can’t, sweetheart.”
“Why not?” she demanded, feeling her lower lip tremble. “Damn you, Jackson, you never change. You’ve been with me an hour and you’re already thinking you know what is best for me, thinking you can order me about. Why can’t I go home?”
“You’ve seen the newspapers, Mathew Brady’s godawful photographs, but even they don’t tell the whole story. Mississippi is in ruins, sweetheart. The entire damned South is in ruins.”
Cameron’s heart contracted in pain, and this time when Jackson reached for her, she allowed him to take her into his arms.
“I cannot express to you the devastation of the land below the Mason-Dixon,” he said quietly. “It is beyond comprehension. The burned fields, the salted wells…the lifeless spirits of the survivors, bands of people, black and white, just wandering.
“And where would you have this baby, anyway?” he asked, smoothing her hair with one hand, speaking softly. “In a burned field? In an abandoned house?”
“Oh, Jackson,” she murmured as she fought her tears.
“I know. I know. Let’s not talk about this anymore. Not now.” He lay back, drawing the coverlet over them, and pulled her closer. “There will be tomorrow and the next day and the next to talk about our future.”
“All right,” she whispered. “But this discussion isn’t over. I’m no longer a seventeen-year-old child to be manipulated by the men in my life. Any of them.”
He lifted his head to take her mouth hungrily. “No, you are no child, wife. That’s clear.”
She chuckled in her throat and lay back on the bed, feeling the strength of his desire on her bare leg again.
3
The following day, Jackson and Cameron made their journey from Washington, D.C., to Baltimore in their coach.
“We’re home, Mrs. Logan.” Jackson smiled, brushing a light kiss across her lips as the coach turned onto a wide, tree-shaded avenue, lined with imposing brick mansions, most three stories high. Halfway down the avenue, the coach pulled into a circular drive leading up to the imposing front entrance. A uniformed butler opened the door and hurried down the curved brick staircase to greet the couple.
“Captain Logan. Mrs. Logan. Welcome home.”
The former owner of the mansion, a relative of the governor of Maryland, had hired a noted European architect with a taste for classical antiquity to transform the interior of the square redbrick Georgian into a showplace of Greek Doric extravagance.
Although Cameron was fond of walking in the walled, formal French garden at the back of the enormous house, she found the huge, ornately carved marble fireplaces drafty and the dozens of cupids and goddesses that peered down at her from every niche and corner tiresome. The three-story, fourteen-room house, with its imported French wall coverings, Venetian crystal chandeliers and black-and-white Italian marble-tiled entrance hall, might be the height of fashion, she often conceded, but she much preferred the comfortable simplicity of her beloved Elmwood.
In the first days after Jackson’s return, the household was in turmoil as everyone settled into the new routine of having the master home again after four years. The hours, the days, slipped by so quickly that Cameron barely had time to catch her breath. Jackson spent his days at the docks, inspecting the ships he had acquired during the war and reacquainting himself with the thriving shipping empire he had inherited from his father.
His trusted friend and manager, Mr. Lonsford, had worked for Jackson’s father before him. He had worked for the Logans since he was a boy and had done exceedingly well for the family shipping empire during the war. Despite the hardships to the county’s economy, Cameron observed wryly, it seemed that her husband was now far wealthier than he had been before.
Each morning, after sharing breakfast in bed with Cameron, Jackson left and often did not return home until it was time to go to the theater or to a dinner party. With Cameron occupied with the household and her herd of Arabian horses, she and Jackson barely had time to be alone together, and when they were alone, their unchecked passions took precedence over serious conversations.
Dawn had barely tinged the eastern sky one morning as Cameron watched Jackson pull on black riding trousers, followed by tall black leather boots. He told her he had an important appointment in Washington today, but he would reveal no more to her.
“More tedious war business,” he explained, lightly brushing off her inquiries.
“I don’t understand, Jackson. The war is over. How can you possibly have more business with the War Department?”
Wrapped in a silky dressing gown, Cameron rested on a pile of pillows in the middle of the silk-draped rosewood bed and sipped a cup of warm chocolate. “Why are you so secretive? I’m your wife, not the enemy. And why can’t you tell me what you’re doing for President Johnson…or Secretary Seward? All this ‘war business’ takes up too much of your time! How can you be a spy if there is no war?” she asked, growing agitated by the moment. “Damn it, there aren’t any enemies to spy on!”
He eyed her disapprovingly as he stood before the tall, gilded Italian mirror and knotted his cravat. “I prefer you not use that word.”
“It’s what you were. What you still are, apparently,” she accused.
He glanced at their closed door. “Cameron, we have a staff of over thirty men and women in this household. Do you really think this is something we should be shouting from the rooftops?”
“I’m not shouting, for God’s sake. But if you think the staff doesn’t know you were a spy—if you think anyone in Baltimore or Washington doesn’t know you were a spy—you are sadly mistaken.”
“I don’t have time to argue with you. Not this morning.” He jerked the knot from his cravat and started again. “I’m going to be late for the first train.”
She set the delicate porcelain teacup down on a bedside table and rose to her knees on the bed. “And you’re going to be gone until late tonight, I suppose.”
“I’m afraid I will.” He swiped an unruly strand of hair off his forehead.
She glanced away. “Damn it, Jackson,” she muttered.
“I know, sweetheart.” Dressed, he came to her, leaned over and planted a husbandly kiss on her mouth.
She frowned. “You’re avoiding me. You’re avoiding everything here except your damned shipping business.”
“I’m not. I still have obligations to the country. I have a great deal on my mind right now.” Jackson walked to a chiffarobe, opened it and pulled out a black felt hat, one of many he owned. “Saturday, the week after next, we’re hosting a ball for our returning Union Army officers. The guest list will be small, approximately three hundred. Can you manage?”
So he was just going to change the subject. Again.
She climbed out of bed, her white silk dressing robe fluttering behind her. “Just three hundred? Can I manage?” She walke
d barefoot across the polished hardwood to the porcelain washbowl, poured fresh water into it and splashed her face. She had to bite back the string of retorts that played on the end of her tongue.
She kept her gaze focused on the tiny blue flowers painted across the water pitcher, allowing only a hint of sarcasm to tinge her voice. “Certainly I can manage. A ball in two weeks’ time for 150 men and their wives? It’s what we Southern woman were bred to do.”
“I knew it.” He came up behind her, rested his hands on her waist and kissed the back of her head. “That was what I told Ulysses.” He released her. “Supper tonight, late? Just the two of us?”
She turned around, but he was already halfway out the door. “Jackson, my sister is coming today. I hoped you might be here to dine with us.” She reached for a linen towel beside the washbowl and patted her face dry. “I reminded you twice this week that she was coming today.”
“That’s right. You did.” He placed his hat on his head. “So you’ll be staying home today. Good. Maybe you can rest a little.”
“Whatever do you mean, rest? I’m going out to the farm as I go every day.”
He lingered in the doorway. “I’m just concerned you’re becoming overly tired. Surely your stable manager can handle the horses for one day without you.”
“But I can stay here and rest preparing for a party for three hundred? I don’t think so, Jackson.”
He sighed. “I just want to be sure you’re getting enough rest for the baby’s sake—and yours, of course.”
“Of course,” she said tartly.
“Well, don’t stay long and give Taye a kiss for me when she arrives. I’ll try not to be too late.”
And then he was gone.
In frustration, Cameron threw the towel at the open door, then slammed it shut with her bare foot. Pacing their bedchamber, hot tears of anger flowed down her cheeks. This was not how she had imagined Jackson’s homecoming, how she had imagined their first days together would be. She had thought this would be such a happy time. A time to celebrate the coming of the baby and make plans for their life together, a time to grow close and reacquaint themselves with each other. She dashed the tears away, feeling more alone than she had in the darkest days of the war when she had no idea where in the South Jackson was, or if he was dead or alive.
She picked up a silver-handled hairbrush from her dressing table and then slammed it down. “Rest,” she grumbled, walking to her chiffarobe to find fresh underthings. “The next thing I know you’ll want me to take carriage rides in the park and start knitting booties!”
“Secretary Seward, good to see you again. Please, sir, don’t get up.” Jackson crossed the dark-paneled White House office to greet the Secretary of State who had begun to rise from behind his enormous desk, but slowly eased back into his chair.
William Seward had been injured the same night President Lincoln was assassinated in the plot to kill the top three men in the succession of the United States government. John Wilkes Booth’s associate, Lewis Payne, broke into the Secretary of State’s bedroom and stabbed him repeatedly with a bowie knife. Seward’s recovery had been slow, but he was said to be improving daily. He had agreed to continue as Secretary of State under President Andrew Johnson and was handling what work he could until he made a full recovery.
“Since when have I become Secretary Seward again, Jackson? Please.”
Jackson laughed as he gripped the older man’s hand, which seemed as strong as before his brush with death. He tried not to stare at the angry gash across one cheek that would disfigure the man the rest of his life. “Good point, Will. I’m glad to see you’re on the mend.”
“Hell, it’s been two months. About time I dragged my sorry self here. I promised my wife just a few hours, though.” A smile flickered on his ragged face.
“Women. I understand.” Jackson nodded and then chuckled. “Truthfully I don’t understand them a bit, and it’s getting worse.” He thought back to his conversation with Cameron that morning. She could sure as hell be difficult. She seemed to have no understanding of all he had been through these last four years while she was settled comfortably in his mansion in Baltimore. Had she no understanding of his loyalty to his country? He couldn’t turn his back on his friends in congress, the senate and the White House. Not now, when the politics of the nation were in such turmoil. If Booth and his comrades’ goals had been to assassinate the nation’s leaders to set the government in turmoil, they had certainly accomplished that. But the Union would prevail. Of that, Jackson was certain.
He returned his attention to the Secretary of State. “How is your son? I understand he was also injured the night you were attacked.”
“He’s doing well. Thank you for asking.”
“You’ve done a hell of a job getting through this, Will. I’m not sure if I was in your place that I could have dealt with it as you have.”
“President Johnson has great plans for his Reconstruction of the South. This is not a time to wallow in self-pity,” Seward said humbly as he indicated a chair in front of his desk. “Now please sit down. I can’t tell you how pleased I was when one of my staff members passed on your message concerning this mission. I’m glad you’ve stepped on board.”
“As I have told you before, sir, I am always willing to serve as my government sees fit.”
Jackson’s gaze moved to one of the walls of Seward’s dark-paneled office. There was a map of the entire North American continent with lines hand-drawn. He noted that the Russian territory, Alaska, had been marked. Jackson had heard rumors that Seward thought the purchase of that frozen wasteland from the Russians might be advantageous to the United States. Rumor also had it that Seward’s mind had been affected by the stabbing. Why else, people said, would he even consider so outrageous a prospect?
“Excellent,” Seward said. “I told the president we could count on you. We’re searching for a band of outlaws, Jackson.” He pushed a stack of papers across the broad walnut desk toward Jackson. “They call themselves Thompson’s Raiders.”
Jackson began to scan the reports. “Under the command of Captain Josiah Thompson, 16th Mississippi.”
“Of course, we don’t even know if Josiah Thompson is still alive. There are witnesses who saw him shot and he’s on the missing in action list. It was thought he died at Gettysburg, but it’s certainly possible that he escaped wounded, held up somewhere to recover—”
“And didn’t quite make it to Appomattox for the surrender,” Jackson offered dryly.
“Precisely. As the report indicates—” Seward pointed to the document “—we know very little except that there’s been enough talk to be concerned. We don’t even have a positive location. These ghost men seemed to be skirting back and forth between Tennessee, Mississippi and Alabama. But if Thompson has half as many men behind him as we hear, he could be a genuine threat.”
“We’ve got a lot of angry, unemployed Southerners who would like nothing better than to shoot up congress.”
“Or assassinate our new president,” Seward said pointedly.
Jackson glanced over the top of the report, meeting the Secretary of State’s gaze. “I’ll look into this, sir, and get a full report to you as soon as possible.”
“Excellent. Of course, I don’t have to tell you that this information is sensitive. We don’t need rumors of this kind of thing spreading. It’s bad for the country right now, bad for reconstruction. We need to be fighting for reconciliation. Giving credence to dissenters will only fracture the country further. The war is over and we must move on.”
Jackson slid out of his chair. “I’ll see what I can find out around Washington, then I’ll meander on south, stop and visit some friends here and there in the areas where Thompson’s reported to have been. I’ll put my ear to the ground and try to distinguish truth from gossip.”
Seward grinned. “I knew you were the man for the job. And I hear that Cherokee is headed this way from California. Think he would assist you?”
“Falcon Cortés, yes.”
“Excellent. And Mrs. Marie LeLaurie has also agreed to assist you. She is presently here in the city. She says she can meet with you tonight.”
Jackson hesitated. Marie? He had heard she was in the city, but he hadn’t seen her since his return home.
Seward glanced at Jackson and cleared his throat before speaking. “I, um, I’ve heard the rumors, of course, but I assumed—”
“False. They are all false, sir.”
“She can meet with you this evening and turn over what information she’s brought with her from New Orleans.” The Secretary of State slid another piece of paper across his polished desk, this one with the name of a small, intimate restaurant in Washington on it and the time Marie would meet him.
Jackson grabbed up the paper and added it to those tucked under his arm. Damn! If he had to meet Marie tonight, he would have to telegram Cameron that he would not be able to make it home until the early hours of the morning. Considering her mood, he knew she’d be angry, but he had to take this mission. It was obvious that the Secretary of State saw these Thompson’s Raiders as a serious threat.
“Thank you, sir,” Jackson said.
Seward rose from his chair slower than he had when Jackson had entered the room. He thrust out his hand. “No, Captain Logan, thank you.”
4
“She here, miss. The carriage just pulled up.”
Cameron looked up from her desk to see one of the servants, Addy, standing in the doorway of the west parlor Cameron had turned into an office. Cameron gave a small sound of delight and quickly tucked the letter she’d been writing into a leather folder. She’d been responding to an interested party’s bid for one of her prime Arabian studs, but that correspondence could wait until tomorrow. Even her beloved horses came second to the joy Cameron felt in welcoming her dear sister.
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