by Mary Ellis
The young woman sprang from her chair. “Mama, it would be my pleasure.”
Elliott nodded his gratitude. “I would have thought negative sentiments would have ended by now, but no matter. I have news that should lift her spirits.” He patted the pocket of his frock coat.
“Splendid. And do encourage her to eat. I fear she worries about the servants’ meals unnecessarily. I assure you, I make sure Micah and Esther never go hungry.”
Elliott noticed an omission of Kathleen’s name as one of Mrs. Duncan’s concerns. During the time it took Mrs. Howard to arrive, he finished his plate of grits even though he ate at a snail’s pace.
When she walked into the dining room in a frumpy frock and her hair plaited down her back, her expression was incredulous. “Colonel Haywood, what are you doing here on a Thursday?” Her mouth dropped wide enough to reveal a lower row of perfect teeth.
“I’m well aware of the day, madam. Mrs. Duncan graciously invited me to breakfast before my trip south.”
The niece and aunt exchanged a speaking glance. “How thoughtful of her. Welcome,” she added, as an afterthought.
“Sit and eat, Madeline. I’m already finished, and I require Eugenia’s opinion in the garden on a botanical matter.”
The young woman peered up from her grits and mashed berries. “Of course, Mama. I’ll finish this on the terrace.” She carried her bowl outdoors through the double doors, something cultured people seldom did.
Mrs. Howard filled her cup with coffee. “You have apparently cleared the room, Colonel. I trust that was your objective.”
“It was, because I preferred privacy while showing you this.” He extracted a folded newspaper from his coat and passed it across the table. “Your aunt probably hasn’t seen the Richmond Times Dispatch yet. I wished you to be made aware first.” He watched her visibly blanch at the mention of the newspaper’s name.
“Is it another vindictive editorial from that loathsome reporter?” Her fingers trembled as she brought her cup to her lips.
“No. I will demand that man choose his second if he ever prints such scandalous editorials again. This article is on the newly resurrected society pages of the Times.”
“Society news? How can people be concerned with debutant parties and recent betrothals in the midst of a war?” She clucked her tongue. “The roster of names of those succumbing to illness in the hospital is still a page long. Celebrations seem tasteless.”
“I agree with you, Mrs. Howard, but under the current circumstances I thought a bit of publicity might help your reputation in town.”
Her spoon clattered in the bowl. “What on earth are you talking about?” She grabbed the paper that had remained where he dropped it. Her gaze flickered between him and the several pages of articles she scanned.
Elliott kept his features composed and benign.
When her focus finally locked on the intended target, her grip tightened until her knuckles turned white. “ ‘Miss Henrietta’s Around Town Happenings’? It that what you’re referring to?”
“It is. Please continue. I love hearing the sound of your voice, even if you’re merely reading local gossip.”
At first she didn’t oblige him as she scanned the column, her lips moving as she read the fodder. Then with a gasp, she began to read aloud. “Certain couples photographed last month at the luxurious home of General and Mrs. Rhodes continue to be seen around town now that spring has arrived in our beloved city. Last month the renowned photographer Alexei Gardenier from New York provided honored guests with tintype mementos of the lavish affair. Many long-wedded spouses, the recently betrothed, and a few new couples were captured forever at this special moment in history.” She lifted her chin and scowled.
“Go on,” he encouraged. “It gets even better.”
“Miss Eugenia Duncan and Major Joseph Penrod, Miss Justine Emerson and Colonel William Grayson, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Forsythe of Five Forks… ” Her voice trailed off as she skimmed over several unfamiliar names. “At least thirty couples waited in an hour-long queue to be photographed. Mrs. Madeline Howard, formerly of Pennsylvania and now a resident of Richmond, stood proudly with the illustrious commander of the home guard, Colonel Elliott Haywood. This particular columnist hopes to see more of Mrs. Howard at St. Paul’s charity functions and St. Patrick’s sewing guild. Doesn’t everyone deserve a fresh start?”
The newspaper slipped from Mrs. Howard’s fingers. “I can’t believe she printed such nonsense. I can count the homes that receive me on one hand! Why would this… ” she hunted for the byline, “Henrietta Wyatt invent such a story? I don’t believe I’ve ever met the woman.”
“You haven’t, and to answer your question—money.” Elliott leaned forward in his chair. “Just about anything and everyone can be purchased in Richmond these days.”
“You paid her to print a complete fabrication? Why would you do such a thing, Colonel Haywood?”
“I hope it wasn’t a total fabrication. You danced with me half a dozen times and made polite social conversation for the entire time we waited for Mr. Gardenier.” Elliott contorted his face to feign confusion. “Is it the ‘illustrious’ description you object to? I swear I had nothing to do with her grandiose adjectives.”
She exhaled in exasperation. “No, Colonel. You know very well that what I object to is her insinuation we are courting. Tell me why you paid for this… news.”
“Because I’m fond of you, Mrs. Howard, whether you like it or not. I don’t like you hiding in your room except on Sundays. Even in church, you scurry up the aisle like a mouse and then remain as meek as one. I wish to remove the last vestige of suspicion so you can resume a normal life.”
“I don’t scurry.” She crossed her arms. “I have never scurried in my life.”
“I stand corrected.” He nodded his acquiescence. “But I also had a hidden motive for paying someone to spread rumors about us.”
“And what would that be?”
“I hope to make the rumors come true. That can’t possibly surprise you.”
Madeline pushed up from the table. “From the beginning of our acquaintance, I’ve been honest with you, Colonel, regarding my affections.”
“Yes, but all that was before the rude turn of events in February. Life is short, Mrs. Howard. Battles will resume within a week or two. I would like to go forth with your smile branded in my memory.” He spoke with a calmness he didn’t feel.
“I can’t control the images in your head, but I don’t plan to remarry or ever let my heart become vulnerable again. Good day to you, sir.” Madeline stalked out the French doors into the garden without offering him as much as a backward glance.
LATE MAY 1864
Madeline paced the upstairs hallway like a madwoman. She could neither read nor sew, nor perform any other normal activity that had filled her days of late. She’d heard nothing from Colonel Haywood since that uncomfortable breakfast in the Duncan dining room. He hadn’t been happy with her answer, but what did he expect? She couldn’t in good faith pledge a fidelity or affection she didn’t feel. She had a limit to the number of lies she was willing to tell.
Her life had become a ruse, a sham in which she cloaked activities that didn’t feel very Christian to her. She’d heard nothing from James since their parting in February. The colonel had begged her to be practical. Where did practically or even reality lie? For several weeks they had heard gunfire in the distance, but lately the shots sounded frightfully close to their refuge on Forsythia Lane. The war had come to Richmond, bringing a nervous tension to Aunt Clarisa and Eugenia that Madeline had never witnessed before.
Uncle John had ordered the women to remain indoors for the past week—no more sewing guild, afternoon social calls, or even working in the new vegetable garden. Except for church on Sundays when the world remained blissfully quiet, her uncle was the only one to leave the house. Diligently, Uncle John trudged toward the war department soon after sunrise and didn’t return home until dark. He insisted Micah not
endanger the horse and carriage with the Yankee cavalry just beyond the James River.
“I refuse to surrender my favorite gelding to that devil Sheridan,” he blustered in a fit of temper. “And that carriage belonged to my father.”
But General Philip Sheridan wasn’t a devil to Madeline, nor was he the enemy. In her heart she considered the potential restorer of the American states a hero. Here in her uncle and aunt’s home, Micah and Esther had been freed from slavery long ago. They received compensation for their work, albeit a small sum. But elsewhere in the capital of the Confederacy, household servants were still in bondage, including many on Forsythia Lane. Several of Aunt Clarisa’s friends refused to give up personal maids as though it were their birthright to be waited on by people of color. Madeline despised their arrogance, selfishness, and lack of compassion for their fellow man. These same women raised their voices in hymns of praise Sunday mornings and yet found nothing wrong with the institution of slavery. Madeline had had enough of their double standards.
She decided to stop her pacing in order to seek out Esther. Perhaps chores would keep her better occupied. Walking down the front staircase, Madeline froze at the sound of an angry voice. She lowered herself to the polished step and strained to hear the conversation taking place in the parlor.
“John, I won’t permit you to pack a bag and dash off without telling me what’s going on. Something dreadful must have happened if you’re home at midday. How could you possibly take a journey with the Yankees practically at our back door?” Aunt Clarisa’s cultured, musical voice had grown shrill. “I will throw myself prostrate at your feet and block your path if need be.”
“Dear me, please don’t become overly dramatic like our daughter, Clarisa. I don’t think my sanity could take it.” Uncle John tried to sound amused but failed.
“I’m quite serious. As your wife I have a right to know what is happening!”
“Sit down, my dear, and stop pacing. I have but little time.” He spoke so softly his words became incomprehensible.
Praying no one would witness her shameful eavesdropping, Madeline crept to the doorway and plastered herself against the wall.
“Grant sent his Fourth Corps of infantry to attack our troops west of Fredericksburg in Orange County. There were heavy losses on both sides. Then he engaged Lee again in Spotsylvania County a few days later. According to reports, the Yankees lost more than thirty-five thousand men and yet continue to fight. Grant cares not a whit as to how many men die.”
“Lord, have mercy on their souls.”
“That’s not the worst of it. When General Stuart heard that the Yankee cavalry crossed the South Anna River, he decided to circle around Yellow Tavern and cut them off from the rest of the army.”
“Yellow Tavern? That’s barely ten miles from here.”
“Yes, such was the reason for Stuart’s hasty action. His cavalry turned the Yankees back. Our boys had them on the run, but a sharpshooter—or scalawag straggler by some accounts—pulled a pistol and shot General Stuart off of his horse.”
Madeline could hear the pain in her uncle’s voice. J.E.B. Stuart was one of Robert E. Lee’s favorites, along with the rest of the Confederate Army.
“They took him to Chimborazo. President Davis is on his way there right now with several guards. I must join them there to bring the president back to Richmond. The men from the home guard may be needed at the garrison to shore up the city’s defenses. General Beauregard has been placed in charge of protecting the capital. That devil, Sheridan, has torn up railroad lines and destroyed several bridges. We can’t get the wounded—ours or theirs—back to the hospital to be treated. This war is no longer fought by civilized gentlemen with a code of honor.”
“Has it ever been?”
If Uncle John answered his wife, Madeline couldn’t hear his response.
“But why are you packing if you’re merely bringing President Davis back from the hospital?”
“I don’t know where he’ll send me afterward. Don’t you see, Clarisa? If those Yankees break through our line, the capital could be lost, and with it goes all hope for a new South.”
“Richmond in the hands of Yankees? God would never allow it.”
Madeline peeked around the door frame to get a glimpse of her uncle’s face.
“God turned His back on both sides long ago. This is man’s war, and the outcome will not have His grace no matter which side wins.”
Aunt Clarisa staggered to her feet. “I’ll send Esther up to pack your valise. You’ll come with me to the kitchen—”
“I have no time,” he interrupted. “I need to get to—”
Aunt Clarisa interrupted her husband with equal vehemence. “Esther can pack faster than you, so you’ll have a chance to drink a cup of milk and eat a sandwich. We’ll wrap the leftover bread and cheese to take with you. Who knows what difficult situation you’ll ride into?”
Madeline scampered up the stairs so not to be discovered. From the landing, she watched her aunt and uncle head down the hall toward the kitchen, both seeming older than their years. But at the moment the Duncans’ premature aging wasn’t foremost on her mind.
Grant had send his Fourth Corps to fight west of Fredericksburg—James’s corps. He could be lying dead in a farm field while she eavesdropped in the comfort of a mansion. Or he could be lying on a filthy cot awaiting his turn with a surgeon’s bloody blade.
He might be dying alone without the one who loved him at his side.
TWENTY
EARLY JUNE 1864
Clarisa waited at the parlor window as the church bells chimed nine and then ten o’clock. She refused to retire to her bedroom until her husband arrived safely home. Surely he wouldn’t spend another night at the war department. With the Yankee cavalry and their sharpshooters so near Richmond, President Davis wanted his staff close so they could be protected. If John didn’t come home tonight, she would send Micah to his office in the morning with a fresh change of clothes. Just when she had begun to doze in her chair, a clatter of carriage wheels on cobblestones roused her senses. A conveyance was stopping in front of their house. Clarisa strode into the foyer as quickly as a dignified matron was permitted. Pulling open the door, she watched her beloved husband climb down from an unfamiliar carriage. Illuminated by the faint glow of gas lamps, John approached with a hitch in his step. Though he looked as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders, he smiled when he spotted her in the doorway.
“Why on earth are you still up, wife? You know I would have woken you when I got home.” His gait was that of an old man.
“How could I sleep not knowing if you were alive or dead?” Clarisa met him halfway down the walk, not caring if passersby saw her in her dressing gown.
“Still among the living, I’m grateful to say.” He slipped an arm around her waist. “You shouldn’t fret so much, my love. The job of the Confederate treasurer isn’t the same as a captain or lieutenant leading his valiant regiment into battle. I’m in little personal danger.”
Together they climbed the steps, and after they had entered the foyer, Clarisa closed and locked the door quietly behind them. “Plenty of civilians have died, so please don’t take chances. Who brought you home tonight—Colonel Haywood or one of the other members of the home guard? I didn’t recognize the crest on the carriage door.”
John hung his coat and hat on the hall tree where Micah would see them in the morning. “One of the war correspondents for the newspaper. The man sells stories to anyone with coin. Apparently, I was on the way to his hotel.” In the parlor, he poured a brandy at the sideboard.
“Spirits on an empty stomach, John? I’ll bet you haven’t eaten in hours. Bring your snifter along, and I’ll slice some bread and cheese.”
He complied without argument. In the kitchen he slumped onto a chair used by Esther when peeling potatoes or making pie crusts. “Whatever you have handy, Clarisa. I won’t have you fussing over me in the middle of the night.”
“It�
��s a wife’s prerogative to fuss.” She sliced fresh bread from dark, coarsely-ground wheat and then cut into a wedge of soft farmers’ cheese Madeline had bargained for at the market. “I hope it wasn’t that horrible Jonas Weems. Why didn’t one of the home guards accompany you? One of those Yankee deserters or vagrant riffraff could have accosted you. Our streets aren’t safe at night.”
John pressed the thick slice of cheese between two slices of bread and took a bite. “Of course not Weems. I would be more likely to shoot that man on sight than to climb into his carriage. As for Colonel Haywood, he has been reassigned to a field commission, along with most of the other guards. General Lee needs every able-bodied officer on the battlefield.” He swallowed a mouthful as though savoring a rare piece of steak.
“Including Joseph Penrod?”
“Yes, dear heart, including Major Penrod. He’s been sent to join General Beauregard’s corps.”
Clarisa lowered herself to the other kitchen chair. “What shall I tell Eugenia? She was hoping to see her beau more since there’s been a break in the weather.”
John chewed another bite of sandwich before meeting her eye. “A break in the weather means a resumption of the war. Tell our daughter the truth. Eugenia isn’t a child anymore, and I don’t want you treating her like one, despite whatever… limitations you believe she possesses. This is war, and Eugenia should be aware. She cannot cling to the memory of old Richmond any longer.”
Clarisa nodded but averted her gaze. She had insulated their daughter as much as she could in the vain hope all would be well one day. After the death of “Jeb” Stuart earlier that month, Richmond’s favorite son, her illusions of a Confederate victory had diminished. “Who is left to protect the president, his family, and members of his staff?”
John patted her hand. “Rest easy. Plenty of invalid soldiers surround the Davis home and the war department offices. They might not be fit to march in their regiments, but they are willing to give their lives for the Cause. Sentinels are posted everywhere in town, more plentiful than ever. These good men will be loyal until their last breath.”