The Lady and the Officer

by Mary Ellis

  The Duncans’ butler, dressed in full livery, met them at the front door. “Good evening, sirs. The family awaits you in the parlor.” Micah bowed and then accepted their overcoats.

  “Thank you, my good man.” Major Penrod placed his top hat atop the pile on Micah’s arm and strode through the open double doors.

  Elliott paused a moment to take in the scene and was rewarded for his patience. Mrs. Howard stood at the top landing wearing a long gown that accentuated curves only alluded to until now. “By my word,” he said.

  “Oh, dear, I told Aunt Clarisa this dress was too much, but she insisted I wear it.” Mrs. Howard came down the stairs resembling a doe ready to bolt at the first sound of gunfire.

  Elliott stared with blatant admiration. “You are unquestionably the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  She burst out laughing, an unanticipated reaction. “Goodness, Colonel Haywood. If you mean that sincerely, you must broaden your scope of acquaintances.” She accepted his outstretched gloved hand for the final two steps.

  “I stand by my opinion, and I’ll have you know I’ve traveled on three continents.” He kissed the back of her gloved fingers.

  “But what of Miss Duncan?” Mrs. Howard turned to watch Eugenia descend the staircase. “I think she’s never looked lovelier.”

  “Well, Colonel Haywood, what say you?” Eugenia paused dramatically on the steps to giggle behind her fan.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Duncan. You look equally stunning. Will you favor me with a waltz tonight?”

  “A waltz you shall have, as long as Major Penrod can bear my absence for so long a time.” Eugenia dropped into a curtsey as Penrod materialized next to Elliott.

  “Perhaps a reel, but not a waltz. Haywood might turn scoundrel and try to win your heart.” Placing Eugenia’s hand on his arm, Penrod led her into the drawing room, where the orchestra’s first strains could be heard.

  Elliott faced Mrs. Howard. “Whew, that was close. I feared Penrod might challenge me to a duel.”

  “You recovered nicely, Colonel, but would you have accepted his challenge?”

  “Certainly not. Dueling has been outlawed. The Confederacy can’t afford to lose a single man. Shall we, Mrs. Howard?”

  When she took his arm, Elliott led her into the unrecognizable parlor. Most of the furniture had been removed, the rugs rolled up, and the floors polished to a high gloss. Dozens of tapers burned from window sills and two crystal chandeliers, lending the effect of dancing light and shadow. Cut pine boughs and garlands of holly berries added a festive feel.

  “Lovely, isn’t it? Aunt Clarisa borrowed every maid in the neighborhood to help decorate and serve. People were more than willing to share members of their household staff in exchange for an invitation.” Mrs. Howard leaned close to his ear. “I hope we don’t run out of food. Let’s wander through the crowd and check the buffet on the far side.”

  Her whisper in his ear buoyed his confidence like a tonic. Elliott smelled the lemon verbena on her skin and thought he might swoon. “As you wish,” he said.

  They worked their way around the edge of the dance floor, where officers and ladies flirted in small clusters. Couples shared secrets at tables along the wall as though they were alone in the room. Elderly ladies gossiped behind upraised fans, while white-gloved maids carried trays with flutes of champagne and glasses of punch. Elliott lifted two of the latter as a tray passed by. “Punch, Mrs. Howard?”

  “Thank you,” she said, accepting a cup. “The buffet looks ample even if everyone brought hearty appetites.” Before them was a spread of sliced ham, cold roast beef, and bowls of cold salads. “Uncle John refused a formal dinner beforehand because of the number of guests. I suppose people can find places to carry their plates throughout the house and garden. At least the evening is mild for the end of December.”

  “Everything looks perfect. You may stop fretting now,” he said with a laugh.

  “Fussing over details is the only way I can earn my keep, sir.” Mrs. Howard hid her blush behind her fan.

  Elliott turned her face up to his with a finger. “You are not hired help, Mrs. Howard. You are a guest. And I’m sure Mrs. Duncan wants you to enjoy yourself.”

  “Then why don’t we dance, Colonel,” she said as the fiddler plucked the first notes of a reel. “After all, isn’t that the point of the evening?” Without waiting for an answer, she set down her cup and then walked to the end of the line.

  They danced not one, but two reels and two waltzes in a row. The entire room moved in harmony to the lively music, insulated from the world outside. People smiled and chatted as though Richmond were a carefree place once again. This one night everyone seemed to possess all they needed for happiness.

  When he was finally breathless, Elliott pulled Mrs. Howard from the crowd to an open window. “You dance well,” he said, handing her a fresh cup of punch. “I wouldn’t think your small town held many balls.”

  “It did not, but my mother insisted I learn the social graces. I was taught to dance by a neighbor’s wife who’d been educated in Boston. I must admit this is my first fancy ball.”

  “The woman’s tutelage has paid off handsomely.”

  Mrs. Howard’s lips pulled into a grin, as though at a secret jest. She softly waved her fan in front of her heated face.

  “You found what I said funny, Mrs. Howard?”

  “Yes. I find most of what you say amusing.” She studied him over the edge of her fan.

  Elliott wasn’t sure how to respond. “If I can do no more than amuse you, then I will content myself with that. Excuse me while I refill our cups.” He strode across the dance floor toward the refreshment table, hoping to find something stronger than punch. With each encounter, he grew more infatuated with the woman, and she found him merely amusing? Like a playful kitten or a toddler fresh from his nap? But with Methodists and Presbyterians in attendance, there were no hard spirits on the table. Elliott selected a long flute of champagne and tried to rein in his disappointment as the bubbles tickled their way down his throat.

  “How does a Pennsylvania woman become belle of the ball?” Mr. Duncan asked over his shoulder.

  Elliott turned his attention to his host. “Your niece would take exception to your assessment, sir.”

  “Probably so, but I couldn’t help but notice Madeline receiving more than her fair share of appreciative glances from the bachelors. If my daughter wasn’t already smitten with Major Penrod, I would fear hair-pulling before the dance concluded.”

  Elliott cleared his throat. “Mrs. Howard is an attractive woman indeed, but I believe her magnetism lies in the singular ability to perplex and confound.”

  Mr. Duncan released a bark of a laugh. Elliott sighed. Apparently, he was amusing everyone he came in contact with tonight. But before he could request an explanation, they were interrupted by General Rhodes.

  “May I have a word with you, Colonel? And would you join us, Mr. Duncan?”

  Elliott pivoted on his boot heel to face his superior. “Of course, sir.” Mr. Duncan nodded with a pinched expression on his face. The mood of cheerful conviviality was gone. “Shall I collect Major Penrod and the other staff members?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary.” The heavy-set general leaned precariously on his walking stick.

  Elliott set his empty flute on a tray and followed his elders down the hall. Inside the library, the air smelled stale and musty, but the room was blissfully quiet without the ceaseless chatter of young belles.

  “Would you care for a brandy, gentlemen?” asked their host.

  “Very good, sir. If I drink another mouthful of punch, I’ll float away.” General Rhodes accepted the first snifter of amber liquid.

  “No, thank you, sir.” Elliott’s desire for spirits vanished with his growing sense of doom. “How can I be of service?”

  The general’s bulbous nose reddened. “I want you to find out who has been leaking sensitive information to the Yankees.”

  Ell
iott’s spine stiffened. “Are you implying I have a traitor among those of the home guard? With all due respect, sir, upon what do you base such an allegation?”

  “That bloody travesty at Bristow Station. That was no lucky guess on the part of the Union Army.” Rhodes downed his brandy and then held out his glass to be refilled.

  “Our sentries are constantly picking off their scouts all the time. A Yankee scout could have spotted our movement.”

  “I’m not talking about just the October skirmish. The November debacle was more of the same. We can’t seem to tie our shoes without that devil Meade anticipating every move. There are too many coincidences for it to be anything other than a spy in our midst.”

  Mr. Duncan rubbed his hand across his jaw. “It’s not just military maneuvers they’re finding out about. Last Wednesday a dozen Southern sympathizers were detained in the Yankee capital. Two were arrested, while the others were ordered out of Washington with barely the clothes on their backs. They were given no warning and little time to pack. They were told they would be shot if they returned to the city. Who knows what will remain of their homes by the time the war is over?” He shook his head in dismay.

  General Rhodes just as swiftly downed the second snifter. “Someone familiar with Richmond’s wealthiest families supplied that list of names to the Yankee war department. Someone connected to President Davis’s staff might be a Judas. I entrust the responsibility of finding out their identity to you two.”

  Elliott saluted. “We are at your service, sir. I’ve heard rumors about this Mrs. Van Lew and others. I intend to investigate.”

  The general scowled over his empty glass. “See that you look into all unsubstantiated rumors, Colonel. We need to nip this flow of information in the bud.”

  Elliott returned to the dance floor feeling chastised for no apparent reason. He had never discussed military matters with civilians. And adding insult to injury, the fascinating Mrs. Howard was nowhere to be found.

  JANUARY 1864

  Madeline slipped into her usual chair at breakfast, grateful that her cousin still chattered endlessly about the ball nearly two weeks ago. Sweet Joseph did this, and then he said that… it was apparent to anyone within a five-block radius that Eugenia was in love.

  Fortuitously, Colonel Haywood had found a permanent staff position for the major so he would not be returning to the battlefront. Not that the men of the home guard didn’t encounter their own brand of danger. They were expected to sacrifice their lives to protect Jefferson Davis, his family, and the war department of the Confederacy.

  “Joseph intends to take me to Varina’s ball if it is still held as planned.” Eugenia’s wide smiled revealed almost every tooth in her mouth.

  Aunt Clarisa arched an eyebrow. “Her name is Mrs. Davis, young lady. As an unmarried woman, you are not her social equal and thus not entitled to such familiarity.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Eugenia took dainty bites of scrambled eggs. Since she met a beau, her appetite had diminished to that of a sparrow. “Mother Penrod said she will teach me to play the harp. We shall begin the lessons on Sunday after church.”

  Clarisa blew out a breath of exasperation. “Please refer to her as Mrs. Penrod, Eugenia. You’re becoming too bold at this stage of courtship. You musn’t allow your behavior to become a black mark against your suitability as a wife.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Eugenia said again, dropping her focus to the tablecloth as she reined in her carefree ebullience.

  “Perish the thought of a black mark,” Uncle John said sardonically. “Explain to me why you’ve stopped attending Sunday Mass with us.” He scowled over his half-moon reading glasses.

  Eugenia’s smile reappeared. “That’s easy, Papa. Now I go to Joseph’s—I mean, Major Penrod’s church. We sing more hymns than at our service.”

  “Kathleen!” Uncle John thundered. “Bring us more coffee.” He lowered his tone to address his daughter. “When and if you and the major wed, then you may change to your husband’s denomination. Until then I expect you to attend church with us.”

  “But I’ve been going to the Methodist Church for weeks. Neither you nor Mama has said a word.” Her luminous blue eyes filled with tears.

  “I was tolerant during the holiday season. You would appear ill-bred if you so quickly dismissed the faith of your father and grandfather.”

  Madeline thought Eugenia would slip from her chair into a pile of starched skirts and petticoats. She began whimpering like a hungry mongrel at the back door.

  Aunt Clarisa inserted a measure of compromise into the stalemate. “Perhaps Eugenia could attend early Mass with us and then the later service with the Penrods. I’ve never known Alma to be an early riser. Would that be all right with you, dear?”

  Folding his newspaper, Uncle John dropped it on the table. “Very well. We’ll see how long two services per Sunday last with someone so fond of her goose down pillow and thick quilts.”

  Madeline cleared her throat. “If you’ve finished the Richmond Times Dispatch, may I take it with me to read?” She extended a hand toward her uncle as she spoke.

  “Of course. There’s no good news anyway. Shortages of this, shortages of that, and that blackheart Jonas Weems pointing fingers at anyone not born and raised in Richmond. He’s on a witch hunt to catch traitors, but I think it’s just a ploy to sell newspapers. Weems considers any single female from the North a seductress or a courtesan here to ply information from unsuspecting men. What rubbish. Better to hide under a rock until this whole nasty business is finished.”

  Madeline glanced nervously at her aunt and cousin, but they were planning their next trap for the hapless Major Penrod and not paying attention to her. Madeline finished her eggs quickly, grabbed the paper, and refilled her coffee cup in the kitchen.

  “Where you going?” asked Esther, stopping Madeline in her tracks.

  Her entire breakfast felt like a boulder in her gut. “I thought I would read in the garden and enjoy another cup of coffee.”

  “Where do you come from, Miz Howard? It’s January. This ain’t some island in the South Seas like in those yellow-backed stories Miss Eugenia reads.” The cook wrapped a heavy woolen cloak around her as though she were a child and buttoned it to her chin.

  “Thank you, Esther. I’ll come in the moment I get cold.”

  In the privacy of the backyard, Madeline scanned each page for news of her beloved James, as she had every day since hearing the gruesome news in the hospital. The paper contained a chilling account of parents still claiming bodies in Pennsylvania for reburial in Virginia. She found a list of soldiers who had recently died at Chimborazo from wounds or disease. There was a desperate plea from Mr. Davis for silver, gold, or Yankee greenbacks to buy munitions for the Cause. But the small amount of war news had to do with the exploits of Ulysses S. Grant out west, near a town called Knoxville.

  There was no mention of any Union corps commanders succumbing to a shoulder wound.

  “Thank You, Lord,” she whispered. Refolding the newspaper, Madeline slipped inside the warm kitchen unnoticed except by Esther.

  “Done with your reading so soon, Miz Howard?” The cook’s hands were coated with flour.

  “Yes, all finished.” Madeline set the paper on a counter. “Please tell Mrs. Duncan that I went to St. Patrick’s.”

  “What for? It ain’t Sunday, and you ain’t Catholic.”

  “Correct on both counts, but Father Michael said I could accompany him on his rounds again today.”

  “You’re going back to that hospital? Mr. Duncan ain’t gonna like it.” Esther stopped kneading dough and fixed a frown on her creased face.

  “Then you needn’t worry because Chimborazo isn’t where we’re headed.” She grabbed the basket she’d packed earlier and hurried out the door before Esther could ask more questions. Madeline didn’t wish to explain she was on her way to Libby Prison—not to her aunt, and certainly not to her uncle.

  She walked to the rectory, not daring to invol
ve Micah or borrow the carriage. Once she was there, Father Michael hailed a passing coach to take them to the facility that held captured Union officers. Climbing into the carriage, she set her basket on the leather seat.

  “What have you brought for the prisoners, Mrs. Howard? I do love Esther’s apple-cornmeal muffins, in case there’s a broken one.” The priest rubbed his hands together with anticipation.

  “Sorry, Father. I just have leftovers from meals from the last few days: a few slices of ham, four sugared yams, and some plum jam with toast squares. No muffins today. I saved uneaten food so as not to create additional expense for my uncle and aunt. I daresay the dance to celebrate the New Year crimped their budget.”

  The priest sighed. “ ’Tis a sad day when my wealthiest parishioners feel the pinch of this extended conflict. I pray each night for the Union soldiers to simply go home and leave Virginia in peace.”

  Madeline smiled at him. She felt ill equipped to discuss with a man of the cloth why the Union couldn’t simply “go home.” She doubted God looked favorably on either side after so much bloodshed and cruelty.

  Libby Prison was a long, brick warehouse standing four stories tall with a tin roof and tall windows. A sign still hung at its post on the corner angle: Libby & Sons, Ship Chandlers and Grocers, but inside provisions were in short supply. Formerly filled with barrels and boxes, the building was now overflowing with Union officers. Libby stood beside the Lynchburg Canal with a good view of the James River. Three long, white bridges spanned the waterway, their supports hidden by thick, entwining foliage. On a clear day Belle Isle could be seen downstream, its white tents flapping in the breeze. The charming name belied the wartime prison home for thousands of enlisted men without solid walls to offer protection from the elements. Directly across the James from Libby were a row of factories and the small village of Manchester.