The Lady and the Officer

by Mary Ellis

  Midway through the report, Davis turned and slapped an open palm down on the desk. “Unacceptable! What are those surgeons doing? They kill more than they save. Are they all blind or drunk?”

  “According to the chief surgeon of Chimborazo, more are dying in the wards from typhus than the festering of wounds.”

  The color rose in Davis’s usually pale complexion. “I shall direct General Lee not to attempt additional engagements this year. He must establish a suitable winter camp and restore his men. In the spring we will attack Meade’s rabble with a renewed army.”

  “I will personally deliver dispatches to the commanders, sir,” Elliott said as he scrambled to his feet.

  “The first one I need sent is a request for another prisoner exchange. My officers are languishing on Johnson’s Island in Ohio. Who knows if they can survive a winter on Lake Erie? Some of those boys never saw snow before.”

  “I will deliver your request, sir, but rumor has it that Lincoln would refuse any future officer exchange. He knows our need is greater than theirs.”

  Considering Davis’s facial expression, Elliott regretted sharing this information even though it surely wasn’t gossip. He’d seen it printed in a Baltimore newspaper.

  The president pinched the bridge of his nose as though another headache had arrived. “That will be all for now, Colonel. Thank you for your patience this morning. You may return to your duties until I complete my directives.”

  Elliott saluted and left the executive suite with a sour taste in his mouth. He wished the news had been better, but boasting and overwrought arrogance hadn’t served the Confederacy thus far. If they were to win this war, they must recognize their weaknesses as well as their strengths.

  The guard posted at the office of the home guard was asleep at his post, his head lolling against the doorjamb. Based on his ghastly pallor, Elliott suspected the soldier still suffered blood poisoning from his arm amputation. “Look sharp there!” he ordered on his way past.

  Once he had returned to his office, he stared out the window at the street below. How he’d loved coming to the city from the plantation as a child. While his grandparents had been alive, his family home had been a happy place, filled with good things to eat and the sounds of children at play. Now Elliott could barely stand the sight of his broken father or godless brother. Only the thought of seeing Mrs. Howard Sunday mornings kept him from slipping into despondency. Pulling his map of Northern Virginia closer, he studied the approximate location of General Meade’s encampment. One of his aides interrupted him before he could plot the best way to approach the camp.

  “Excuse me, Colonel, but a Mr. Jonas Weems wishes to see you.”

  “I don’t know any Mr. Weems. Send him away.” Elliott scraped his hand down his face.

  “He’s a newspaper man for the Richmond Times Dispatch and says the matter is of the utmost importance.”

  Isn’t every matter these days? Elliott’s eyes rolled back for a moment. “Send him in, Lieutenant.”

  A few moments later a rotund, middle-aged man pulled off kid gloves and extended a hand. “Colonel Haywood, a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. I believe our fathers belonged to the same club in town. But that club is no more, I’m afraid.”

  Elliott half rose to shake hands. “A pleasure, but I’m afraid I can grant you only five minutes, sir. I’m awaiting urgent dispatches from President Davis.”

  “Five minutes will be more than ample. I come with concerns of a rather personal and delicate nature.” Weems lowered his voice despite the fact the aide had left the office.

  Elliott pushed his map aside. “What personal matter do we have to discuss? I’ve never laid eyes on you before today.”

  “A tall, blond woman has been seen Sunday mornings in your family’s pew.” Weems consulted a small book that had gone unnoticed thus far. “A Mrs. Madeline Howard.”

  “You feel whom I sit with in church is your business, Mr. Weems, or worthy of the Richmond Times’ attention?” Elliott didn’t hide his irritation.

  “Certainly not, sir. I’m a journalist, not a gossipmonger. But I’ve learned on good authority that Mrs. Howard hails from Pennsylvania and was briefly associated with a Yankee hospital up north.”

  “She does and yes, she worked in a humanitarian capacity for which I will always be grateful. Mrs. Howard saved my life, sir.”

  Weems blinked several times. “Astonishing, Colonel. The coincidences in life must truly give one pause. Then was it her humanitarian nature that brought Mrs. Howard to our city? Perhaps to assist at Chimborazo Hospital? I visited there recently, and the need for nurses is great.”

  “I don’t believe so, sir. Please speak your business frankly. I have no time for innuendo.”

  “Innuendo? I’m here with nothing but respect for your service to the Confederacy, but I must beg you to consider a possibility. The enemy often sends the fairer sex to trick those with a trusting nature—a Trojan horse, if you will. This wouldn’t be the first time an officer divulged military information. From one gentleman to another, a pretty face and comely figure can often mask a devious heart.”

  “Mrs. Howard is no Delilah. And I will thank you to keep your baseless opinions to yourself.” Elliott pushed back from the desk.

  “In October someone conveyed information regarding Lee’s planned assault near the town of Bristow. Division commanders insist their maneuver came as no surprise to the Yankees. A houseguest of the Duncans would have access to sensitive details.” His aspersion hung in the air like the stink of rotted meat.

  “I don’t discuss military matters between hymns at St. Paul’s Church, and neither does John Duncan at his dinner table.” Elliott stood so that he towered over the short journalist, but then he leaned precariously close so there would be no misunderstanding. “I suggest you obtain proof before you smear the good name of a gentlewoman such as Mrs. Howard.”

  Mr. Weems turned pale as though finally aware he’d overstepped whatever good intentions he had. “I beg your pardon, sir, for giving offense. I will leave you with a humble word of caution, nothing more.” He bowed low from the waist, plopped his hat on his head, and hurried from the room, leaving Elliott both furious and confused.

  ELEVEN

  DECEMBER

  From her bedroom window, Madeline watched snow falling on a bleak city. It offered no blanketing, softening effect as it did up north. Instead, the snow quickly melted, creating a slushy mess in the streets.

  “Maddy, breakfast!”

  Eugenia’s call pierced her reverie. Since moving in with the Duncans, Madeline felt her social position diminish. She was treated more like an older sibling rather than a widowed matron accustomed to answering to no one.

  “I’ll be down shortly,” she hollered, falling easily into the role. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. The mansion was drafty and under heated due to the high price of both coal and firewood.

  “Think warm thoughts and go to bed early.” Aunt Clarisa’s often-repeated advice to Eugenia made Madeline smile. She’d grown up believing the South to always be warm. With a final glance out her bedroom window, Madeline caught a glimpse of a soldier in a plumed hat making his way down the flagstone sidewalk of Forsythia Lane. With his head bent against the wind, the man tried to dodge puddles along the way. Even at this distance, she could see that his coat was too threadbare to provide much protection.

  Where was James on this sunless Monday? Had the Union Army built quarters or commandeered abandoned farmhouses to house their officers? Or did a general sleep in a canvas tent with damp grass beneath his bedroll? Madeline shook away thoughts of a man whose face grew more obscure with each passing day.

  Worry not about what you cannot change, but endeavor righteously with what you can. Her grandmother’s favorite saying had been stitched onto a scrap of muslin cloth. Madeline had framed the sampler and hung it in her living room… in a house that existed now solely in her memory.

  “Good morning, my dear,” Aunt Clar
isa said the moment she entered the dining room. “I trust you slept well.”

  Smiling, Madeline slipped onto a dining room chair. “Yes, ma’am, I did.”

  “There’s an extra quilt in the trunk at the foot of your bed,” Aunt Clarisa said as she held up a porcelain cup to the butler.

  “I found it, thank you. Just one egg and toast, please, Micah. No sausage gravy today.”

  “You need to eat enough to maintain your strength. The ladies’ auxiliary needs both you and Eugenia every day this week.” Aunt Clarisa scooped a mound of fried potatoes onto everyone’s plates.

  Eugenia’s head snapped up. “All five days? I will never survive the stultifying boredom of sewing that long. I shall fall into a mortal faint from which there will be no recovery.” She dropped her fork into her poached egg.

  “Very well, daughter. I will tell the guild you care not for our soldiers in the field, who don’t have enough socks, mittens, or wool hats to prevent their freezing to death. The girls with compassionate hearts will be the ones planning this season’s teas, soirees, and parties.” Aunt Clarisa sipped her coffee, never lifting her hawk-like gaze.

  Madeline almost choked on laughter, while Eugenia’s lips formed a perfect letter O. “I’m sorry, Mama, I spoke without thinking. Forgive me. I would be happy to sew with the ladies all week.” She swabbed egg yolk with her toast crust for a few moments, and then she asked, “Do you think we could host a ball over the holidays? It’s been so long since anyone has had one.”

  Her father cleared his throat from behind a copy of the Richmond Times Dispatch. He’d been so quiet that Madeline had forgotten he was there. “I think a ball would be inappropriate, daughter, considering how many of our friends are in deep mourning.”

  “But life goes on, Papa. We must hold up our heads and survive. That’s what Father Michael said during Mass this past week.”

  Uncle John turned his patient brown eyes on his only child. “You’ve taken his words out of context, my dear. The priest meant we’re not to wallow in despair or self-pity over our plight, but continue on the Christian path. Father Michael cares little about balls and cotillions.”

  “But he didn’t say we must stop living for the rest of the war.” Eugenia’s tone turned desperate.

  “Calm yourself, my dear,” said Aunt Clarisa. “Perhaps we could hold a low-key dance for the New Year. A few string musicians with Miss Graham at the piano. Nothing too showy or expensive.”

  “Inexpensive would be a wise choice, wife.” Uncle John slanted a wry glance at her over his newspaper.

  “Is there bad news in the Times?” she asked.

  “Washington has declared the battles in October and November to be Union victories. I cannot see how that could be true if both armies hold the same ground as before the skirmishes. They are trying to tweak our noses to incite another rash move by General Lee.”

  Madeline glanced around the table. In light of her recent activities, any war talk made her nervous. “Surely with the Advent season upon us there will be no further fighting.” She forced herself to eat a few bites of egg, wondering, as she had several times, whether the success of the Union forces was due to Lewis’s information or hers. She felt heat climbing her neck and filling her face despite the meager fire in the hearth.

  “Are you all right, Madeline? You look flushed.”

  “I’m fine, Aunt. Perhaps I can assist Esther with the baking today. I would love to make oatmeal cookies to take to the guild.”

  “With your sewing and baking talents, you are a godsend to our family. Have Eugenia join you in the kitchen. Perhaps one day she will need to do more than just give orders to staff.”

  That afternoon, Madeline knitted and sewed until her fingers stiffened into clawlike positions. She sipped endless cups of weak tea, while elderly women bemoaned life without slaves, middle-aged women spread gossip about the unfortunate ladies unable to be there with them, and young women planned a Christmastide with as much social interaction as limited means would allow.

  Pity the remaining bachelors in Richmond. If their battlefield wounds didn’t kill them, surely the aggressive belles vying for their attention would.

  Aunt Clarisa must have noticed her niece’s waning interest in the conversation. “Lest you think all our activities are self-serving, Madeline, this Friday and every Friday until Christmas Eve we will be caroling on city streets. Each church along our route will pass out cups of cocoa. Will you come along? Some of the men of the home guard usually join the fun.”

  Madeline nodded. “I haven’t caroled in years. That would be lovely. Thank you.”

  “Splendid! If the home guard is invited, then Papa’s staff will be there too.” Eugenia clapped her hands, drawing a frown from the guild’s matriarch.

  “We also pack food baskets with whatever can be spared,” continued Aunt Clarisa. “And distribute them to the poor on Christmas Day.”

  “Our baskets grow ever leaner, but those in need become ever more abundant.” This sour observation was offered by a thin woman in unrelenting black.

  Madeline smiled politely at the widow—a smile that would be repeated many times during the next four days of sewing.

  By Friday she couldn’t wait to go caroling. Walking the streets in the brisk air and raising her voice in songs of goodwill raised Madeline’s spirits, as did the prospect of seeing Colonel Haywood. She’d grown fond of the man. His quick wit usually offset his somber demeanor. The Duncans were fond of him as well. According to her uncle, no other man connected to the war department worked more diligently. So it came as no surprise when her aunt announced that Colonel Haywood would join them for dinner before the Christmas outing.

  Madeline was startled, however, to spot him in the dining room doorway while her aunt already had on her long fur wrapper and Uncle John wore his wool overcoat and top hat. “Has something happened?” she asked, midway down the stairs.

  “Nothing to worry about, dear niece,” said Aunt Clarisa. “Father Michael invited us to dine at the rectory. He has parish business to discuss. I hope you don’t mind serving as hostess tonight.”

  “Not at all. Welcome, Colonel. I hope you’ve brought your singing voice as well as your appetite. Will any of the other guards be joining Eugenia and me for dinner?”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Howard. No, I believe you’re stuck listening solely to my tiresome repartee.”

  Madeline offered him a gracious smile as she stepped off the staircase, but then she stopped short in the dining room doorway. Only two places had been set at the elegantly appointed table, the chairs intimately close. With only half the normal number of candles burning, the illumination reflected off the crystal goblets was downright sparse. Inhaling deeply, Madeline turned to her aunt. “Why has no place been set for Eugenia? Surely Father Michael doesn’t require her input on parish matters.”

  Clarisa put an outrageously feathered hat atop her head. “Goodness, no. Major Penrod came by earlier to take Eugenia to supper at his private club. I believe she’ll have a chance to meet the major’s parents before they join the caroling at the Methodist church.”

  “Perhaps you can post Micah as sentry if Mrs. Howard is uncomfortable dining alone,” Colonel Haywood said to Uncle John.

  “That won’t be necessary. I live in fear of no man. We’ll see you at the Saint Patrick stop.” Madeline half curtsied to the Duncans and marched into the dining room.

  “Good luck to you, sir,” said Uncle John. “Perhaps you’ll be the one needing a sentry before the meal concludes.” Laughter followed him out the door.

  Madeline waited for the Colonel to pull out her chair—a new habit she’d learned from her aunt. If she counted the times Tobias had helped her sit down, she would have all ten fingers left. “Considering the kindness you’ve shown me, I hope you’ll forgive my confusion about tonight. I’m not very good with last-minute changes of plans.” She sat down primly.

  “No apology necessary. Most ladies would be disconcerted to find themsel
ves in a new role.” Haywood spread the linen napkin across his lap.

  Madeline leaned back as Micah filled her goblet with lemonade. “Would you like a brandy, Colonel, or some other aperitif? I’m sure Micah knows where Uncle John keeps his spirits.”

  “Brandies are for after a meal, and aperitifs, as the name implies, decidedly before. One drinks wine with the meal, madam.” He softened his lecture with a magnanimous smile.

  Still, her cheeks tingled with embarrassment. “So it’s a glass of wine you wish?”

  “No, thank you. I prefer lemonade, the same as you.”

  Madeline bit the inside of her cheeks until Micah finished filling the colonel’s goblet. Once the butler retreated from the room, she swiveled around to face him. “If you wanted lemonade, why not just say so? And what did you mean by most ladies? Are you implying I’m not like the rest of my gender?”

  “Absolutely that was my implication, but it was intended as a compliment.”

  Madeline swallowed and dabbed her lips. “Why would it be flattering to be told I’m odd?”

  Colonel Haywood leaned back in his chair to study her. “Because most females live by an unwritten code that makes them complacent, predictable, and as intriguing as a herd of sheep. You, on the other hand, appear to follow no rules other than your own common sense. I find that laudable.”

  “I hope I live by God’s rules, sir.”

  “Indeed, those happen to be the hardest to uphold.” He lifted his goblet in toast.

  Suppressing a giggle, she clinked glasses with him.

  “What has amused you, Mrs. Howard?”

  She rang the bell for the butler, who appeared instantly. “Please bring all of the courses as soon as possible, Micah. We have no time to dillydally with supper. I don’t wish to miss a minute of caroling.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Madeline waited until he left before answering the colonel’s question. “Cows congregate in herds, sir. Sheep can be found in flocks. I’m amused you did not know that. For a man raised on a plantation, you know pitifully little about livestock.” She lifted her napkin to her mouth and laughed without restraint.