by Nan Ryan
When his hands came up to sweep the hair back from her eyes and his mouth closed over hers in a sweet, hot kiss, Elizabeth sighed with pleasure. He kissed her long and ardently and she became aware of the stirring readiness of his body against hers.
Was he going to make love to her again?
“I’m going to make love to you again, sweetheart,” he said softly, “and this time I won’t let you down.”
Let me down? What’s he talking about? Baffled, she started to ask what he meant, but never got the opportunity. His lips got in the way.
The pair spent the rest of the night making love. Elizabeth learned what the Yankee had meant when he’d said he wouldn’t let her down. He kissed her and touched her for a long, lovely time before he again came into her. There was no pain this time, none at all. Inside her he moved slowly, slowly, gentle to the last, until she felt that great explosion of heat and joy.
Eyes widening with wonder and shock, she clung to his wide, slick shoulders and cried out in ecstasy, “Spy! Spy! Oh, my darling Spy!”
“Sweet miss,” he murmured, and let himself go at last. “Baby, ah, baby!”
Both were so fully satisfied, they lay silently in each other’s arms, sighing, relaxing. They dozed. Sometime later Elizabeth awakened to the sound of Private Stark’s loud snoring. Harsh reality immediately washed over her. She was in a Confederate stockade. She was going to be shot at sunrise. She trembled violently.
And felt a strong arm tighten reassuringly around her. She lifted her face. He kissed her warmly, and made her forget what lay ahead. There was only the here and the now. Only the two of them. They made wild, exciting love this time and afterward, when the Yankee collapsed on his back, Elizabeth smiled, kissed his damp chest, and whispered, “I think it’s time you learned my name, Spy.”
“Tell me, miss.”
“I’m—”
“Rise and shine, you two prisoners.” Private Stark’s booming voice came from the jail’s front room.
An expression of horror froze Elizabeth’s face. She quickly scrambled up, realizing now that she’d not heard Stark’s loud snores for the past few minutes.
“Give us five minutes, damn you!” the Yankee called out. “Some coffee from the mess!” He was on his feet in a flash, helping her dress, standing in front of her to shield her should Stark lumber down the hall too soon.
“I ain’t giving you nothing. They’ll be coming for you any minute and …” his words trailed away. Then Elizabeth heard him say, “Mornin’, sir. Mornin’, Padre.”
She heard other voices. It was time. They had come for her and the Yankee. While she hurriedly buttoned her bodice she looked up at the high window and saw the first hint of the last gray dawn of her life. She glanced at the Yankee. His back was to her as he buttoned his gray trousers.
She reached down for her shoes and saw, gleaming in the shadow, the shiny brass button she had pulled from his tunic in her excitement. Wistfully, she picked it up, closed her fist around it, and decided she would keep it. To the end.
The Yankee was buttoning his tunic when Private Stark came swaggering back, a smile on his ugly face. “You got company,” he said. He pushed the key in the lock, swung the cell door open, and invited them to follow him.
There was no time to say good-bye. Elizabeth and the Yankee looked at each other. He smiled at her, briefly touched her shoulder, and followed her down the hall.
The early morning air was cool and moist as the provost marshal and the black-robed padre escorted them outdoors, around the brick jail, and toward the execution ground. Elizabeth’s thoughts were of her father and how it would break his heart when he learned of her shame. The Yankee’s only thought was that he would meet his death aboveground in the bright sunshine. That was enough for him.
There in the rising sun, forming a neat line, was a firing squad of nervous, callow youths. Again Elizabeth exchanged glances with the Yankee. He touched the white cross sewn over his heart and gave her a bracing look. She bravely smiled at him.
They were marched directly to the high brick back wall. Their hands were tied behind them, and in Elizabeth’s closed fist was the shiny brass button. She held it so tightly, it cut into the flesh of her palm, but the minor pain was a solace.
The Yankee shook his dark head no to the offer of a black felt blindfold, so Elizabeth did too. Nodding, the provost marshal walked away, and for a few seconds there was total silence. Elizabeth could hear the beating of her heart.
The soft, even voice of the padre offered up a prayer for their immortal souls and the provost marshal, hands behind his back, stepped alongside the firing squad and issued the command.
“Port-arms.” Eight rifles were raised in neat precision. “Ready.” The raised rifles were slapped up against eight young cheeks.
“Aim—”
“Halt!” shouted an arriving courier, bringing his horse to a plunging stop only feet from the firing squad. Dismounting quickly, he tossed the reins to the ground, saluted the provost marshal, and said excitedly, “Lee has surrendered! The war is over! The Confederacy has fallen!”
While the stunned firing squad lowered their guns and the provost marshal read the dispatch the young soldier handed him, the courier strode forward, looked at the tall trussed man, and asked, “You the Union spy going under the name of Colonel Jim Underwood?”
“The very one,” the Yankee replied, smiling, knowing he was now the senior Union officer present.
And in total command of the camp.
As the defeated Southern officer untied the Yankee victor, he said respectfully, “Sir, the female prisoner? What shall we do with her? Does her execution stand?”
His hands free, the Yankee asked, “What’s the charge?”
“Murder, sir.”
His expression changing none at all, the bearded Yankee could hardly keep from smiling. So that was it. The beautiful little murderess had somehow learned about the war’s end. Had known all along that before the night ended, word would come. Word that he was now the officer in charge. The man with her fate in his hands.
That’s why she had so eagerly come into his arms. Had allowed him to make love to her through the warm spring night. To save her lovely, evil little neck. She was a seductive, wily female who knew her ultimate fate and salvation rested in his hands. Willingly, wisely, she traded a favor for a favor. And there for a moment or two he had even thought her to be a virgin!
“I’ll handle this, Major.” He dismissed the provost marshal and turned to Elizabeth.
She was glaring at him. Angry. He had no idea why.
Elizabeth was angry. Angry with him. Her jaw set, teeth clenched, she glared at him, quickly putting two and two together.
He knew! The unprincipled Northern spy had known all along that the war had ended. Acting so brave! That’s why he hadn’t been afraid to die. He knew he wasn’t going to die. Knew he would never face the firing squad.
He knew all along that before the night ended word of Lee’s surrender would reach the camp and he would be safe. He had only let her think it was to be their last night so that he could coldly seduce her.
The Yankee stepped up directly before her. Elizabeth looked up at the tall, bearded man with whom she had just been intimate. He began to smile sardonically. He shook his dark head.
“You knew, didn’t you, sweetheart?” he asked in a low, soft voice.
“No,” she replied angrily, “but you did, you deceitful Yankee bastard!”
Part Two
7
New York City
Autumn 1868
A CHILD’S MERRY LAUGHTER carried on the chill September air. Elizabeth Montbleau looked up from her book and smiled. Benjamin Curtin’s golden curls danced in the sharp south wind as he energetically skipped rope.
His fair face was flushed with good health and good humor, and even at a distance Elizabeth could tell that his enormous green eyes were flashing with joy.
“Watch this, Miss Montbleau,” the lively seve
n-year-old called, and Elizabeth waved to him and closed her book.
When he had her undivided attention, Benjamin Curtin unsuccessfully tried to cross hands with the jump rope, imitating his older brother, Daniel. Benjamin’s spindly legs immediately became tangled in the badly thrown rope and he took a tumble. Elizabeth came to her feet.
“I’m fine,” called the adorable Benjamin, jumping quickly up and brushing at the dusty knees of his gray corduroy knickers. “I’ll master it yet!”
“You’ll never be able to do it,” needled his brother Daniel, leaning against the school’s high stone fence, his own jump rope slung around his neck, a smug expression on his face. “Give it up, Benny. You aren’t coordinated.”
“Of course, he will master it,” Elizabeth called, tempted as she had been so many times before to give Daniel’s ear a painful twist.
Drawing her woolen shawl more tightly about her shoulders, she sat back down on the stone steps, her gaze on the pair of young blond boys.
The Curtin brothers were without doubt two of the handsomest children enrolled at the Boltwood School for Young Gentlemen, New York City’s most exclusive private school for boys aged five to fifteen. Benjamin was also one of the sweetest.
Elizabeth smiled, recalling that sunny morning in September of 1866 when she had nervously climbed Boltwood’s stone steps for her first day of teaching. The aging three-story red brick building had looked intimidating with its many wide windows and the gabled and turreted white roof rising to meet the blue Manhattan sky.
Taking a deep breath, she had resolutely climbed the steps and walked into the stately Madison Avenue institute with its slate blackboards and kneehole desks and learned professors. It was not by chance that she would be the first female ever to teach at Boltwood. While she was grateful for the opportunity, she was apprehensive as well. Would her fellow instructors accept her? Would the students? The boys’ parents?
Cautiously she entered a wide center corridor to find dozens of loud, boisterous boys pushing and shoving as they swarmed into appointed classrooms. Pressing her back up against a wall, she waited for the storm to pass. When it did, she saw a small blond boy pressed up against the wall directly opposite her.
He looked as frightened as she felt.
She smiled, crossed to him, put out her hand, and said, “I’m Elizabeth Montbleau and this is my first day at Boltwood.”
His small hand stole shyly into hers. He lifted his blond head, and a pair of huge green eyes, swimming with unshed tears, began to sparkle as she smiled down at him.
“I’m Benjamin Curtin. It’s my first day too,” he told her, his rosy cheeks dimpling appealingly. “My mother is away, so my father told Daniel to take care of me today. Daniel’s my big brother.” His narrow shoulders lifted and lowered in a sigh. “Daniel ran off and left me as soon as we got inside and I don’t know where to go.”
Elizabeth laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It appears we’re both lost. Why don’t we find our way together, Benjamin.”
He smiled at her, his two front baby teeth missing. He was, she decided, the cutest child she had ever seen. Together they went in search of their classrooms and found they were one and the same. The first period of the morning, she taught the five-, six-, and seven-year-olds. Benjamin Curtin was five years old.
Before that first day had ended, she had met the other Curtin brother. Nine at the time, Daniel was an older version of the appealing Benjamin. But it was in looks only. She quickly learned that Daniel was argumentative, a complainer, and a troublemaker.
Looking now at the two blond boys, Elizabeth regarded the pair much as she had on that day more than two years ago. At seven Benjamin was still sweet, agreeable, and loving. The rapidly growing eleven-year-old Daniel was quarrelsome, hard to handle, and untrustworthy.
More than once Elizabeth had wondered if Daniel’s disagreeable temperament had come from his mother. She had met the boys’ father on more than one occasion when he visited the school. Edmund Curtin was a soft-spoken likable gentleman, unfailingly gracious and friendly. His wife had never set foot inside Boltwood.
“He’s here, Miss Montbleau,” Benjamin called excitedly, and Elizabeth looked up. She had agreed to have dinner with the Curtins. They were worried about Benjamin’s continuing low marks in school. But Benjamin was unaware of the visit’s true purpose, and he was delighted that his teacher was finally coming to his home.
Rounding the corner was the Curtins’ fine coach, pulled by a matched pair of elaborate traces. A blond, smiling Edmund Curtin stepped down from the carriage and strolled quickly forward, a spring in his step. Benjamin hurried to him, smiling up at his father when Edmund Curtin ruffled his hair. Daniel stayed where he was.
Extending a hand as he approached Elizabeth, Edmund Curtin apologized. “Miss Montbleau, I do hope you’ll forgive me for being late. I was unavoidably detained on Wall Street.” He shook his head wearily. “Mining stocks have been erratic of late.”
Elizabeth smiled understandingly. She was aware that Edmund Curtin and his younger brother, Dane, whom she had never met, were wealthy native New Yorkers whose family fortune was tied to mining shares in the volatile stock market. The brothers controlled mines—gold, silver, and copper—in Arizona and the northern states of Mexico.
“No apologies necessary, Mr. Curtin,” she assured him, warmly shaking his outstretched gloved hand.
He drew a gleaming gold-cased watch from his trouser pocket, looked at it, and said, “You’re a tolerant young lady, Miss Montbleau. I meant to be here by four. It’s a quarter of five. Louisa will have my scalp. Shall we go?” He offered her his arm.
Elizabeth placed her hand inside his bent elbow. At the waiting carriage he handed her up into the burgundy upholstered interior. The boys scrambled up after her, young Benjamin taking the seat beside her. Their father got in last, settled himself across from her, tapped on the coach’s top, and they moved out onto the avenue.
They had only a few blocks to travel, but an early dusk was settling over the city when the carriage reached the Curtins’ Fifth Avenue mansion. They were met at the door of the three-story brownstone by a British butler. They stood beneath a lighted brass overhead lantern in the vestibule while the liveried butler took Elizabeth’s shawl and Edmund Curtin’s gloves and cane.
They moved into a wide hallway, where Elizabeth had only a moment to appreciate the magnificent wooden staircase with its intricately carved balusters. At their father’s urging the boys hurried up the stairs to change for dinner. Elizabeth, smiling after them, looked up through the opening in the oval-shaped staircase and saw a huge skylight framing a large portion of the rapidly darkening sky.
She was shown into a vast sitting room off the hall, where a cheerful fire blazed brightly in a marble fireplace. The big, handsome room had archways decorated with molding and sculptured ornamentations. The ceilings were exceptionally high. The large windows were covered by interior shutters with movable slats.
A gleaming teardrop chandelier cast prisms of light on the cream-covered walls, French gilt furniture, and fine oil paintings. A large gilt-framed oval mirror hung over the fireplace, reflecting the taste and beauty of the room.
Standing in that warm, luxurious home, Elizabeth realized she had all but forgotten that people actually lived in homes like this. That she had once lived in a home much like this one. Only hers had not been a three-story brownstone on Fifth Avenue in New York City, but an eight-columned white two-story mansion on the bluffs of the Mississippi River in Natchez.
“We’re delighted you could join us, Miss Montbleau,” said a fashionably gowned, slightly overweight woman with glossy black hair who swept into the room just as Elizabeth was about to sit down. “I’m Louisa Curtin. Welcome to our home.”
“Thank you so much for inviting me here, Mrs. Curtin,” Elizabeth said, trying not to stare openly at the huge blue-white diamond glittering atop her hostess’s bare décolletage. Louisa Curtin was known to have one of the largest an
d finest jewel collections on all of Fifth Avenue. Transfixed by the large, flawless diamond, Elizabeth could hardly take her eyes off the valuable gem.
“It is stunning, isn’t it?” said Louisa Curtin, catching Elizabeth looking at the famous twenty-carat Star of the West diamond, the most prized of all her jewels.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, “it certainly is.”
“Sit down, sit down,” said Louisa, waving a small bejeweled hand. Walking straight to her husband and lifting a pale cheek for him to kiss, Louisa Curtin scolded, “You haven’t offered Miss Montbleau an aperitif, Edmund.” Not giving him time to answer, she came to sit beside Elizabeth. “Edmund’s brother, Dane, will be joining us for dinner. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Certainly not,” said Elizabeth.
“Dane lives just around the corner on Fourth, though he’s rarely home.” She laughed girlishly and added, “Edmund says the same thing about me. Don’t you, dear?”
“My lovely wife is a very busy woman,” was Edmund’s gracious comment. “Several of our city’s more worthwhile charitable and eleemosynary organizations depend almost exclusively on my tireless Louisa.”
Again Louisa laughed. “Edmund’s so stuffy,” she added, as though he were not present. “I just can’t drag him away from the precious metals markets, so what choice do I have? Either I venture out alone or draft one of Edmund’s friends to escort me.” She sighed, looking as though she felt a little sorry for herself.
Then Louisa brightened and began chattering gaily about her many civic obligations and her frequent trips abroad. She explained, as if she had been asked, that the travel was tiring but necessary to her role as one of the guardians of New York City’s culture.