by Mary Ellis
Or perhaps it was just her imagination.
Wherever the truth lay, Madeline wasn’t enjoying the evening. On her way to the refreshment table, Justine Emerson pulled her partner from the circle of dancers.
“Ah, Mrs. Howard,” she said. “So nice to see you this evening. Be sure to try some of the shrimp paste. I gave Mrs. Rhodes the recipe our new cook brought from New Orleans. It is truly divine.” After a sugary smile, Miss Emerson whirled back into the throng in the arms of her admirer.
A friend… at long last. Madeline felt temporarily back on the schoolyard when a girl said her shoes smelled like horse manure. But her relief was short lived. As she placed a few sweets on her dessert plate, she spotted the tray of cookies she had baked for the occasion. Someone had pushed them to the back of the table. Her cookies—the same ones the auxiliary ladies adored at sewing. December seemed like a lifetime ago. Madeline practically choked on a dry toast point she had just taken a bite of. She hurried through the French doors to the verandah, not slowing down until far from the revelers. She was about to dump her plate of snacks into the shrubbery when a familiar voice called out.
“Stop! Don’t you dare squander food when shortages abound throughout the city,”
Embarrassed, Madeline watched Colonel Haywood stride toward her. “Forgive me, sir, but I have lost my appetite, and I didn’t think anyone would eat food touched by my fingers.” She set the plate on the balustrade.
“I’m not just anyone.” He peered at her selections and then popped a pecan tartlet into his mouth. “Superb,” he declared around the mouthful. “Doesn’t taste the least bit tainted.”
Even though she realized he was jesting, she burst into tears—the exact same reaction as when told her shoes smelled.
The colonel set the plate on the railing and put his arm around her shoulders. “Here, here, Mrs. Howard. Tell me who made you cry. I shall cut out their tongue with my saber—whether man or fair damsel.”
Covering her face with her hands, Madeline leaned into his tender embrace. “No one said anything, but no one will eat the cookies I baked from my… my mother’s recipe.” She sobbed against his shoulder, helpless to stop.
“Is that all? The dowagers didn’t point fingers and shout, ‘Fallen woman. Lock her in the town pillory so we might pelt her with those dastardly cookies’?”
Madeline slapped her palms against his chest and pushed him away. “Oh, Colonel, you mock my humiliation.” She struggled not to laugh but failed with the mental picture of old-fashioned stocks on Church Hill.
“I mock only their juvenile behavior, not your pain, so dry your tears.” He handed her a handkerchief. “I feared your reentry into society would be much worse.”
“Did you?” Regaining her composure, she dabbed at her eyes.
“Truly, I’ve been watching you when not smoothing the feathers of my fellow officers. I believe you’re well on your way back to those insufferable teas with the matriarchs each afternoon.” He resumed devouring the snacks.
Madeline sucked in a breath. “Suddenly, their approval sounds less appealing.” She took a cookie from the plate.
“Every rose has its thorns.” He popped the last sweet into his mouth. “I believe you owe me a token of your gratitude—a kiss is in order.” He tapped the side of his face with a finger. “On my cheek if it’s all you can stomach.”
“Oh, I truly am grateful.” Madeline stretched up to kiss his clean-shaven face.
“You need to take one last step to be trusted and respected again.” He extended his elbow and gestured with his head toward the house.
“What would that be?” Her forehead furrowed suspiciously.
“General Rhodes hired a photographer for the evening. A displaced New Yorker has set up his tripod and equipment in the library. He wants to capture images of every happy couple in attendance tonight.”
“A daguerreotype with you?”
“No, these are the newfangled tintypes, no longer produced on a piece of glass. Quite the rage up north, I understand.”
A frisson of panic spiked up her spine. On the one hand, she needed to continue her subterfuge if she wished to be useful, but what if James saw her on the arm of another man? He might judge her faithless and debase. “As long as you understand we are not courting, sir. I wish to make that clear to you.”
“Indeed, you have many, many times. The photographer creates two plates, one for you and one for me. It will be nothing more than a reminder of a lovely evening, despite the unfortunate cookie incident. What say you, Mrs. Howard? If you stand beside me, no one will ever gossip about you again.”
She swallowed hard. “I doubt that, Colonel, but very well. Let’s get in line to be captured forever on a metal plate.”
Yet with each step across the Rhodes’ wide verandah, the notion she was making a terrible mistake took root and began to grow.
EIGHTEEN
Frankly, Clarisa didn’t know what else to do. With mounting nervous energy, she paced the floor for more than an hour—from the back conservatory, down the portrait-lined hallway, into the parlor, and out the door to the terrace. She repeated the circuit until her legs ached from exertion and the dampness in the spring air. She perched on the settee until the ticking of the clock threatened to drive her mad. Would John never get home from the war department? Why must the president keep his staff late every night this week? There had been no engagements since November, and none could possibly be planned until the infernal rain stopped.
“Tea, Miz Duncan?” Kathleen asked from the doorway.
“No, thank you. You already asked me that twice in the last hour.” Clarisa fought to control her temper.
“Thought maybe you changed your mind.” The maid stood with a tray of china cups and a steaming teapot.
“Put it there for Miss Eugenia. She should return soon from her calls.” Clarisa pointed at the marble-topped table.
Kathleen set the tray down with a loud clatter. Before Clarisa could scold the girl, she heard the distinctive sound of hooves on cobblestones beyond the window. “Oh, thank goodness!” She ran to the front door, cutting off the maid in midstride. “I’ll get the door for Mr. Duncan. You see if Esther needs help with dinner.”
With her usual sour expression, the maid remained rooted in place as though unsure how to react to such a breech in normal behavior.
“Go, Kathleen. I’m capable of opening a front door, and I’m anxious to speak to my husband alone.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Kathleen retreated down the hall with her signature sluggishness.
Clarisa opened the door the moment she heard John’s boots on the steps. “Oh, my love, I’ve never been so happy to see you.” She practically swooned into his arms.
Her husband’s haggard face brightened. “You haven’t greeted me with such enthusiasm in years. To what do I owe my good fortune?” After a brief embrace, he removed his gloves and hat and handed them to her.
Clarisa tossed them onto a chair. “Let’s leave your things for Micah to put away later. It’s urgent that we speak before Eugenia and Madeline return home.”
“What is it, Clarisa?” He added his overcoat to the heap and followed her into the parlor, his smile fading.
“It is not good news, I assure you.” Clarisa forced herself to take several deep breaths before reaching for the Richmond Times Dispatch from the mantel. She’d read and refolded the newspaper not less than six times. “That horrible Jonas Weems has printed an editorial in the paper. That boorish man had the audacity to return after receiving no polite welcome during his first visit.” She held out the paper with shaking fingers.
But instead of taking it, John walked to the sideboard. “Jonas Weems, here in our home without my knowledge? Why wasn’t I informed?” He poured two snifters of brandy and drank the first with barely a grimace.
“You have so much on your mind outfitting the troops for the spring campaign. I didn’t want to burden you with such nonsense.”
“But consider
ing your present state of mind, his nonsense appears to have enormous importance.” He handed her the other glass. “Drink, Clarisa, and then tell me about Weems’s initial call.”
She took a tiny sip, letting the burning liquid trickle down her throat. “He came around a week ago asking to speak to Madeline. When I said that she wasn’t in, he seemed to not believe me. He said he wants answers from her, and that the Confederacy would be better served if we didn’t coddle and protect a known Yankee-lover.” Clarisa took another swallow of brandy. “I told him I would coddle whomever I chose, and that the Confederacy would be better served if he reported military matters instead of idle gossip.”
“Good show, my dear.” John refilled his glass from the decanter.
Clarisa sighed wearily. “The insufferable man returned yesterday morning when Madeline and Eugenia were at the market with Esther. I tried explaining again that Madeline wasn’t home, but the oaf stepped inside the foyer anyway.” She stamped her foot with sheer indignation.
“I’ll speak to the publisher of the Times. Such effrontery will not be tolerated in my home.” John sipped his drink without taking his eyes off her.
“He said he wished to talk to me. I neither showed him into the parlor nor offered refreshment. Because he was acting impolitely, I returned the behavior.” She set down the glass and smoothed her palms down her skirt. “He asked me if it was true that Madeline had visited Union Army camps. Because it was common knowledge that she went to Culpeper to end a relationship, I couldn’t deny it. Then he asked if she had visited Chimborazo Hospital and spoke to wounded Yankees.” Clarisa picked up the glass for another sip, coughing from the fiery liquid.
“What did you tell him, my dear?” John crossed the room in a few strides.
“I explained that she had accompanied our priest during his rounds and read Scripture to men from both armies. It was Christmas, and many patients wouldn’t live to see the New Year. Then Weems asked if I knew Madeline had been caught attempting to speak to Yankee officers at Libby Prison, that she had been searched and escorted off the grounds with the order not to return.” Clarisa pressed a fist to her bosom, willing herself not to cry. “I knew Madeline’s visit with our priest had distressed her, so I never pressed for details. She never went back to the hospital or to Libby.”
“You should have demanded that he leave the house at once.” John took her by the forearms. “Please try to calm yourself. It’s over, and I’ll see to it he never returns.”
“But that’s not all,” she cried, her composure slipping. “Today in the newspaper he printed a… a scathing editorial on how pillars of society have chosen to harbor Yankee sympathizers in our midst. And that no matter how well-meaning their initial intentions, their complacency threatens the safety of everyone in Richmond. Read it for yourself.” Clarisa thrust the paper toward her husband.
With his face flushing hotly, John unfolded the paper and quickly scanned the contents. He huffed out a breath with Weems’s allegations and read, “Who knows what information finds its way to Secretary Seddon’s ears due to the inexhaustible Southern hospitality of some scions of society?” John stopped for a moment, gripping the paper so tightly his knuckles were white. Then he continued. “A certain guest in our city has taken advantage of her hosts’ benevolence and repaid their kindness by entertaining gentleman callers—known traitors to the Confederacy—in the middle of the night. One former major has left the South and is purportedly on his way to Canada to wreak his havoc beyond the reach of our dedicated men.”
He stopped reading and threw the paper onto the fire, where it quickly turned to smoke and ash. “Lies and innuendos. I’ll speak to President Davis about this Jonas Weems.” He made an effort to be calm and then took his wife’s hands. “But in the meantime, do not distress yourself, my love. Say nothing of this to Eugenia or Madeline. Wartime creates thugs who willingly sacrifice a lady’s reputation to sell newspapers or further their own agendas. If that man comes here again, I’ll order him arrested as a trespasser. It’s over, so don’t give this trash another thought.”
Clarisa allowed herself to be folded in his embrace, accepting his tender placation willingly. Yet deep in her gut, she knew Jonas Weems was far from finished wreaking havoc on the Duncan household.
APRIL 1864
James stood in the doorway of this field office, staring at a lush but soggy world. The breeze carried the sweet smell of apple and pear blossoms along with dogwood, honeysuckle, and forsythia.
Forsythia—the name of the Richmond street where his heart resided. It had been two months since he’d heard a word from Madeline. Each time he handed a letter to his chief of staff, Major Henry assured him it would be mailed at a post office inside Confederate lines. And yet he had no idea if any found their way to her. The sooner they defeated the Rebels, the sooner the Republic could be united again and they could pick up the pieces of their lives. How he yearned for a future with her. Once peace was restored, he would let nothing stand in his way.
At least spring had brought welcome change. Ulysses S. Grant, the newly appointed commander of all Union forces, planned to initiate an offensive against Robert E. Lee in Virginia. Utilizing Meade from the Fredericksburg area and Ben Butler from south of the James River, Grant set his sights on Richmond as their ultimate objective. William T. Sherman, commander of the western troops, would take on Joe Johnston in Georgia. President Lincoln canceled future prisoner exchanges, depriving the Confederacy of desperately needed officers. Grant dispatched cavalry to destroy rail lines in West Virginia, which would cut off a significant source of food and munitions from the Gulf of Mexico. Only a concerted effort would bring the lumbering beast to its knees.
James watched his adjutant make his way through the regiments as the sergeants led morning drills—endless activity was needed to keep soldiers from falling into mental and physical decay.
“General Downing, sir. I have dispatches from the war department in Washington.” Snapping a salute, Major Henry handed him a sheaf of rolled papers.
“At ease, Major. Let’s take a look at these inside.” James went to his desk and slouched into a wooden chair as he thumbed through inspection reports, ordnance requisitions, and quartermaster accounts.
“I’ll be glad to strike this loathsome camp and never see this part of the world again.” Major Henry frowned at the rolling hills beyond their city of huts and dirty white tents.
“You’re tired of Virginia?” James asked, not looking up.
“Down to the soles of my boots, sir. I can’t wait to return to Philadelphia, where people carry on intelligent conversation without interjecting colloquial nonsense. And why do Southerners insist on adding extra syllables to words?”
James had no answer as he searched the stack of correspondence from last night’s train. “Is this everything from the Culpeper post office?”
“Yes, sir. The train tracks from Lynchburg to Charlottesville are still torn up, so there’s no mail from the west.”
“General Sherman has his work cut out now that Sam Grant has taken over for Meade.” James sipped the dregs of his cold coffee, the Army of the Tennessee not foremost on his mind.
“If we would have dogged Lee out of Pennsylvania, we could have ended this war then and there. His whipped army had their throat laid bare, poised for slaughter. But instead we let them limp back to Virginia. Now those Rebs have had nine months to lick their wounds.” The major spat into the spittoon by the door.
When did my aide take up the enlisted man’s habit of chewing navy? James glared at his adjutant. It was one thing for soldiers to utilize every opportunity to prevail on the battlefield, but it was quite another to hear one of his officers speaking without a shred of compassion. “Some sentiments are best left unspoken, Major, lest the victorious army be branded as a band of ruthless dissipates. Besides, Lincoln didn’t appoint General Grant commander because he wished more of the same. If it be God’s will, this will be the final spring of this war.”
&n
bsp; “We’re ready, sir. The men are itchin’ for a fight. They’ve cleaned their muskets so many times they could do it in their sleep.”
“Spirits are high?”
“I would say so, sir.”
“Good to hear. See that rations are increased. I won’t have them starting the campaign with empty bellies.”
The major looked surprised. “At the risk of depleting our storehouses? We have no idea when more food can be shipped from Ohio or from Kentucky and points west.”
“The almanac predicts this will be a good year for crops. Let’s trust in Providence and not let our flour and cornmeal molder. Has the packet of mail been distributed to the men?” James tried his best to sound disinterested.
“It will be later. The company sergeants hand it out after they finish morning drills. We don’t need Billy Yank wondering whether Betsy Lou still pines for him in Peoria.” The adjutant snorted with derision. “These recruits don’t need any more distractions.”
Unfortunately, the corps’ general had his own distraction on his mind. “Was there any personal correspondence in the mailbag for me?” Helpless to stop himself from asking, James summoned his most imperious expression.
“There was not, sir. There haven’t been letters for you for several weeks.” Major Henry made little effort to hide his contempt.
“Mail delivery in this part of the Virginia is less than reliable. Who’s to say which singular piece will find its way to the intended recipient?” James kicked a log that rolled onto the hearth back into the fire.
“May I speak for a moment as your friend, sir, instead of an officer under your command?”
James ground his teeth but nodded permission.
“Could Mrs. Howard have had a change of heart since her visit in February? Indeed, she stayed less than twenty-four hours in Culpeper. What woman could so easily be torn from the arms of the man she loved? Her silence might be a gentle way of revealing the truth about her affection.”
“There could be a dozen reasons for a lack of correspondence or the brevity of her visit. Only a madwoman would feel at ease in the midst of a war. Who knows what dreadful sights she encountered along the way?”