“I do believe some recreational distraction would do you good, Miss Kent. To take your mind off things, and show you’re not the recluse some folks say you are.”
“Recluse?” she snapped.
“I know you’ve been tending Daphne, and from what you’ve told me, you were nursemaid to your mother for months—years?—before she died. Now you only leave the house for church and to visit enemy prisoners. Do you go anywhere else? Does anyone enter your home?”
Moments seeped by, and his words stayed with her like molasses. Other than a few visits to Mrs. Blair, which attracted no attention from anyone, she kept to herself. She could see how it looked. Deflect suspicion, Elizabeth Van Lew had warned, but Sophie drew gossip like a magnet, just like Susan, and just like Eleanor. Perhaps, she thought, I could also draw a crowd. The idea sparked, then flared.
Sophie’s mind cleared as they reached the gate of her residence. She had work to do, still. “You’re right,” she said quietly, and suppressed a smile at the startled look on his face. “A change of pace would be good for me. Our house is large—and empty. How would you and several of your friends like to have a party?”
“Here?” He nodded to her columned house, the cupola’s trim almost pink in the setting sun. “You do realize that if I came to such an event you’d have to actually let me in. Are you saying you’re willing to do that?” An easy grin softened his war-weary face.
She laughed in spite of herself, and her cheeks warmed as he placed his hand on hers. “I’ll ask Pearl to make some of her famous ginger cakes and lemon tarts, and real coffee to drink, of course. Guests will be invited to bring something we can send to the Confederate prisoners at Fort Delaware. A pillowcase, article of clothing, a needle or length of thread … anything would be welcome, for everything is needed, Father says. You’ll bring your friends from the war department?”
“Indeed. I can think of nothing better.”
A genuine smile spread on her face. “Then we are agreed, for once.” With a houseful of uniformed men, Sophie’s shadow just might leave her alone.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Monday, October 26, 1863
Harrison Caldwell’s mouth nearly watered from the tantalizing aromas still thick in the air. Inside the Union Volunteer Refreshment Saloon, hundreds of soldiers had filed through the line while women loaded their plates with beef, potatoes, bread, and pie. Whether they were soldiers on their way to the front, veterans returning home, or prisoners en route to or from Fort Delaware, the Southwark neighborhood women made sure they had a hot meal, no matter the time of day or night. When Harrison found himself between stories, he usually came here to hunt for leads. Lately, he’d been here quite a bit.
The lunch crowd funneled back outside to catch their trains, and Harrison remained at one of the tables, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. The clatter of a plate hitting the table jolted through him, yet another reminder that his nerves had not yet healed from two years of constant battle reporting.
“Beg pardon, Mr. Caldwell.” It was Amelia Sanger, one of the volunteers who worked the line. “You looked as if you could use a bite to eat, and we have plenty.” She slid the plate closer to him, and he nodded, uncomfortably aware of her scrutinizing gaze.
Harrison tore the bread apart and watched the steam rise, curling, from its center. He’d met Amelia at Gettysburg last July at the home of her son’s widow, Liberty Holloway. Liberty’s husband had died fighting the Rebels in the first battle of Bull Run, and then, two years later, her farm had been overrun with fifteen hundred wounded Rebel soldiers during and after the battle at Gettysburg. Liberty had stayed and nursed the soldiers in grey—she had even fallen in love with one of them, a Rebel scout by the name of Silas Ford. Silas had taken an oath to the Union and been released from Fort Delaware about six weeks ago.
“What do you hear from Liberty these days?” he asked.
“Not a word. But Silas keeps me informed.” Her eyes sparkled, as they always did, when she spoke of other people’s business.
“That’s right, the two of you were hatching a plan to help Liberty get back on her feet, weren’t you?” Her property had been all but ruined by the battle and its bloody aftermath, just as she was turning the place into an inn.
She nodded. “Silas tells me he’s got a crew of students from Gettysburg’s Lutheran seminary willing to help him rebuild. All he needs is materials.”
“Has he seen her yet?”
Amelia shook her head. “No, she pitched a tent at Camp Letterman where all the remaining wounded have been gathered, and she hasn’t been home since. Silas and Bella want to have everything ready for her before she does, anyway. Bella and some of her church friends are making quilts and curtains for Liberty Inn, and you know that takes time.”
“Indeed.” Bella’s face surged in his mind. The former slave’s complexion was nearly the same shade as the cream-lightened coffee in his cup. When her last owner died, his will stipulated that her daughter Liberty be raised by his sister as white, though she was one-fourth Negro. Bella had stayed in her daughter’s life as the hired hand. Only when Harrison discovered the true relationship last summer did Liberty learn of it as well. It was a shock to Liberty, to be sure—but a fabulous story, one which simply begged to be written. It would have rivaled the one Harrison had written about the Weeping Time, only this time he’d be famous under his own name rather than a pseudonym.
He hadn’t, though, because Bella had convinced him not to publish it. But in a moment of drunken candor at a local bar, Harrison spilled the story, unwittingly, to a ruthless New York reporter. The other man was the one who got the story printed. And Harrison was fired from the Inquirer because of it. It was the story that got away. It was the story that wreaked havoc in Liberty’s life, and Bella’s, and he was solely to blame.
Harrison cleared his throat and took a drink of water, but the faint taste of guilt remained. “Rebuilding the farmhouse as an inn, you say? Won’t it be a challenge to get all the lumber he needs with so much wood going to build coffins? Gettysburg is such a small town, with limited resources. I hear the work of reinterring the bodies into the National Cemetery will take months yet.”
She waved a hand. “No matter. He gave me a list of what he needs and I purchased it in Philadelphia myself.”
Harrison raised his eyebrows. “Did you, now? And how will these supplies be finding their way to Silas?”
“On the train, of course.”
He put down his fork. “On their own?”
“Why—yes. It would be an exhausting round-trip errand for an old lady such as myself. Besides, I plan to see Liberty next month anyway, when President Lincoln comes to dedicate the National Cemetery.”
Kneading his napkin in his hands, Harrison formed a plan of his own. “What if—what if I offered to escort your shipment myself? And stayed to help Silas with the work? Nothing is tying me here, at present. These hands can wield more than just a pen, after all.”
She cocked her head at him. “What’s your angle this time?”
Harrison spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. “No angle. Stories are slow right now, anyway. Maybe it’s time I help clean up a mess, rather than just leave them in my wake, as Bella so justly accused me of doing.”
Pursing her lips, she squinted at him for a moment before slapping the table with her blue-veined hand. “Mr. Caldwell, if you’re willing to work on Liberty Inn, I’ll pay for your train ticket myself.”
Richmond, Virginia
Friday, October 30, 1863
Her father was in prison. Her mother was in the grave. Her maidservant suffered with a deadly disease upstairs. And Sophie Kent was throwing a party. Smile, she had told herself as she received every guest, but guilt tugged at the corners of her mouth.
“It is the right thing to do,” Captain Russell whispered to her, as though he could read her mind. He nodded toward Fischer, who was stacking more donations against the parlor wall. The simple necessities
were a stark contrast against opulent crimson flocked wallpaper: slippers, socks, nightshirts, pillowcases, old newspapers. “The prisoners at Fort Delaware will rejoice to have them. Your father will be proud.”
A tentative smile bloomed at the thought. Her father would also be pleased to hear that his house was filled with life again, like the old days. Some of the guests were neighbors, a few were familiar faces from St. John’s Church, but most were strangers to her. Captain Russell had invited some fellow government workers, who had invited women who worked at the Treasury, signing and cutting Confederate notes. Yes, Preston would be pleased. Fischer clearly enjoyed welcoming guests into the house once more, as well.
Still, the shrill laughter of people desperate to enjoy themselves put Sophie on edge. She only hoped her agitation was not present on her face. Nervously, her hands busied themselves patting her hair back into her chignon and smoothing the wrinkles from her rusty black skirt.
“You look fine,” said Captain Russell.
“I look like a mud puddle, but thank you just the same.” A self-deprecating smile quirked her lips.
His eyes were as the sun-sparked sea. “Let’s join the party, shall we?” His hand warmed the small of her back as he guided her through the parlor’s open pocket doors and into the drawing room. George Washington’s portrait looked out from over the white marble fireplace, and huge gilded mirrors doubled the crowd.
With her starched white apron bright against her black serving dress, Emiline, Lois’s daughter of sixteen years, wove between guests with her tray of refreshments: warm, moist ginger cakes, delicate lemon custard, and classic rice pudding. Rachel carried a silver platter of steaming cups of coffee, while Lois discreetly plucked dirty dishes from marble-topped walnut tables and carried them away.
Captain Russell steered Sophie toward two gentleman admiring a hunting painting on the wall. “You remember Trevor Hayes, clerk for Secretary of War James Seddon.”
“Haven’t had coffee—real coffee—in months.” Mr. Hayes raised his cup to her, and Sophie started at the thinness of his wrist. “I thank you.”
“Hear, hear,” chimed in a short, swarthy man who filled his outdated suit better than most.
Captain Russell jabbed him with his elbow. “Come now Graham, you’re not saying you haven’t had coffee in months, either, are you?”
“Well, I—” He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “It’s not an everyday occurrence, even for those of us working for Northrop in the Commissary Department.”
Music tinkled above the buzz of conversation, turning all heads to the other side of the room where one of the women from St. John’s had made herself at home with the piano. When the first measures of “Bonnie Blue Flag” rang out, men and women wafted toward the strains. On the fringe of guests clustered at the piano, Sophie couldn’t help but hear the snippets of conversation that fell between the lines.
Substitutes selling for six thousand dollars … flour at seventy dollars a barrel … General Lee wrote to Seddon … enemy informed of his movements … doubtful plan to remove iron from the Aquia Creek railroad … endless trouble at Tredegar.
The song ended, and Sophie stole a glance at Captain Russell. Gaslight glinted on his russet hair, but shadows sagged beneath his eyes. She edged close enough to hear him speak, close enough to smell the coffee and ginger cake on his breath. “They cannot get adequate supply of good firebrick. The furnaces go out after a few days when they should last many months. Now they buy corn to feed the furnaces as well as to feed their two thousand workers.”
“And can they get it? Enough corn?” Mr. Graham asked quietly, almost as though he were afraid to hear the answer.
Captain Russell took a drink of his coffee. “It’s never enough. The furnaces between Lynchburg and the West Virginia border have suffered from cavalry raids.”
“Union?” asked Mr. Hayes, his hazel eyes glowing above cheekbones that looked painfully sharp.
“Rebel. Our cavalry units have been given specific orders not to impress grain from any of Tredegar’s facilities, for without their iron products, how can we win a war, let alone fight it? But they sweep in and eat everything that looks like food. General Stuart says the horses are starving, though, and must be fed.”
“And the soldiers are just as hungry,” put in Mr. Hayes.
Mr. Graham shifted his weight, rather awkwardly, Sophie thought, though she could see why he was uncomfortable. His expression simmered until she was afraid he would erupt. “Northrop is a political office seeker who is more concerned about being right than he is about men having enough to eat. But you didn’t hear that from me.” Smirking darkly, he met the gazes of Mr. Hayes and Captain Russell, and skipped completely over Sophie. No matter. She was used to being overlooked. She was also used to listening behind a blank mask of feminine indifference to politics.
Mr. Hayes snorted. “I didn’t have to. I see enough correspondence between Northrop and Seddon to come to my own conclusions. They match yours, by the way. We have thirteen thousand Union prisoners in Richmond and General Winder has written to Seddon that Northrop won’t let him have meat for them. Spittin’ mad about it, too, Winder is. Says he cannot be answerable for their safekeeping without it.” He drained his coffee cup and placed it on Lois’s tray as she passed.
“Northrop says it’s the quartermaster who ought to feed them,” said Mr. Graham, wiping lemon custard from his mouth.
“And the quartermaster says the job falls to Commissary General Northrop.”
And in the meantime, thirteen thousand men go hungry. Sophie knew better than to say it aloud, and only hoped her eyes did not radiate the fire burning her belly. Indeed, she was sure her face was flushed with it. She pressed the backs of her hands to her cheeks to cool them.
“Enough talking, yes?” Mr. Hayes said, turning his gaze on her. “More dancing. I’ve just the thing.” He threaded his way to the piano, disappearing into the knot of people still gathered there. When he emerged, it was with a gleaming, honey-colored violin on one shoulder, and a contagious grin on his face.
Clear, lilting tones soared in three-quarter time. Even before Sophie had time to be nervous, Captain Russell took her hand. “Dance with me.”
“I’m in mourning.”
“But not for a husband,” he countered. “Come now, it will boost Confederate morale to have you dance. No one here will fault you for it, I assure you. Besides, it’s far too depressing to have the walls spotted with women in black.”
“Go on, dear,” urged Mrs. Blair, now beside her. “Never refuse a soldier in wartime. If my boys were home, I’d want you to take a turn about the room with each of them, as well.” She winked.
“Quite right. Thank you, Mrs. Blair.” Captain Russell grinned broadly before turning back to Sophie. And then she was in his arms, growing warm inside his touch. The room spun in a blur of scarlet and white and gold. He drew her closer. His blue eyes penetrated hers as a ring of guests looked on.
“People are watching,” she breathed.
“Isn’t that the idea?”
Sophie’s gaze drifted to the smile curving his lips before returning to his eyes once more. Yes, that was the idea. To deflect suspicion of disloyalty by proving her attachment to the cause—or at least to Captain Russell.
He steered their steps to dance in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and she knew he had her shadow in mind. For once, Sophie prayed the mysterious man was watching, so she could be free of his surveillance for good.
At the end of the night, when the parlor and drawing room had been set back to rights, and the lamps were all extinguished, Captain Russell was the last guest to leave. Sophie stood with him on the front porch. Below Church Hill, Richmond twinkled with gaslights, and the river shimmered beneath the moon. Darkness caressed them as they stood listening for the snapping of twigs or crunching of leaves in the garden. Only the subtle hoot of an owl greeted their ears.
Captain Russell took her hands in his and brought
them to his lips, sending ripples through Sophie’s middle. “Maybe that rascal wasn’t watching, after all,” he whispered, eyes gleaming. “It would be prudent to give him another opportunity—perhaps several more, in fact—to see the two of us together.”
Sophie did not object.
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania
Thursday, November 19, 1863
A smile struggled on Bella Jamison’s face as she realized her years of watching over Liberty were hastening to an abrupt end. She was a grown woman, and as any fool could see, she belonged with Silas Ford. There were twenty thousand people gathered here at the cemetery to hear its dedication. But the way Silas held Liberty close had little to do with the crowd, and Bella knew it. So did Amelia Sanger, standing at Bella’s side.
Bella tossed a glance over her shoulder, and Silas caught it with a smile. The handsome young man had made it easy to forgive him for being the son of a slave owner when he had set out to rebuild Liberty’s life—even before he knew Pennsylvania law would allow their marriage despite Liberty’s Negro heritage. The fact that he’d lost a leg in the battle of Gettysburg had not slowed his pursuit of her.
Applause broke Bella’s reverie, and she realized that after droning on for two hours, the honorable statesman Edward Everett was now yielding the platform to President Lincoln. She craned her neck to see the tall, awkward-looking man in the stovepipe hat, and was struck by the sorrow lining his face. His words were simple, humble, profound.
And then, almost as quickly as he began, he was finished. A moment later, cheers erupted for the people’s commander in chief, or perhaps for the dead they had all come here to honor.
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