She measured the scant rays of light falling in through the chinks in the walls of the morgue as she waited. Last Friday she had handed Dr. Lansing a bag of tobacco and told him it was a special gift meant for him alone. In the bottom of the pouch was a note: Would you be free? Then be prepared to act. Meet me Monday at 8 in the morgue. Had he seen the note? Or had another? That bag of tobacco could have been confiscated by a guard or the warden himself. Slowly, she blew out a breath to calm herself. He is only waiting for the right moment.
Moments here in the dead-house lay as still and prostrate as the corpses within it, as if time had expired when they had. Sophie’s skirt swished as a rat scuttled just beneath the hem. She could barely contain her horror as she heard—for she could not look—that it had found its food. She made a jail of her teeth to keep from crying out loud.
Lord, help!
The door squeaked on its hinges, and Sophie looked out from the shadows at the wedge of light spreading on the uneven dirt floor. The figure was a black silhouette against the sharp morning sun.
Then he spoke, and she stepped forward, her knees threatening to buckle as relief streamed through her. “Tell me.” Dr. Lansing’s voice was hoarse, distant.
Sophie whispered the plan Elizabeth Van Lew had devised. On Thursday, he was to be laid out as a corpse before the morning roll call, covered with a blanket, and conveyed here, to the dead-house. “You’ll have to stay here until dusk, without moving a muscle.” She watched for a flinch or cringe. If I were tasked with this assignment, I fear I would go— Sophie dropped the thought as if it had burned her. She focused on the doctor instead. “Can you do it?”
His eyes were as flint as he nodded. “And then?”
“You’ll have to arrange for a few friends to distract the guards with a sham fight. Then, with their attention fixed elsewhere, you will pass out of the hospital and head east on Cary Street. It will be nearly dark, but you’ll see my white handkerchief, bordered with black ribbon.” Fishing it from her pocket, she showed it to him. “Keep it in sight and follow me.”
“To a safe house?”
She nodded. “Mine.”
Suddenly, he grabbed her hand and kissed it before recovering his usual decorum. “God bless you,” he whispered, and a rare smile brightened his thin face. “I’ll see you Thursday. I’ll be a dead man, no matter what.”
If it was a joke, Sophie found no humor in it. Her stomach cramped violently as he slipped out through the door. With a jolt, she whipped her skirts to one side, doubled over, and retched.
Spotswood Hotel, Richmond, Virginia
Monday, November 30, 1863
And so it begins, Harrison thought. More than a week of traveling, including all day today rocking and swaying on the steam packet from Grove Wharf to Rocketts Landing, was only a prelude to the real adventure now unfolding before him. As he entered the boisterous Spotswood Hotel, Bella following closely behind with downcast gaze, a smile slanted on his face.
So this is Richmond. Or at least, it might as well be. It was commonly known that the five-story Spotswood was to the Confederate capital what Willard’s famous hotel was to Washington. It was its own miniature world, the place where politicians, generals, profiteers, spies, and the gentry communed. The air was thick with gossip and a smell of bourbon so strong Harrison could taste it. Jefferson and Varina Davis had stayed here early in the war, while their house on Clay Street was being prepared for them, and the place still hummed with import. This was where Harrison would stay.
Jostling through the crowd, he rested his hands confidently on the brass railing circling the reception desk and reserved his room. “I assume you accept greenbacks.” Confederate currency was crumbling. The last Harrison had heard, right before they’d left Philadelphia, it took eighteen Confederate dollars to buy one dollar in gold. Greenbacks—U.S. dollars—were the next best value.
“Of course, sir.”
“Good.”
Eagerness shone in the receptionist’s eyes as he took Harrison’s money. “You’ll be in Room 321, but it’s being cleaned right now. Come back in an hour and I’ll give you the key. And—” He craned his neck to look past Harrison. “She yours? She can stay in the underground cells.”
“Pardon me?”
“Your slave. We keep our patrons’ slaves locked up safely for them so you can be free to enjoy your time here. We have our own parlors and public rooms here, but there are also other fine restaurants, the Richmond Theater …” He lowered his voice. “And, I might add, seeing as you’re as spry as they come around here these days, gambling and, er—companionship can also be found in abundance.” He winked. “So just take your wench downstairs and we’ll hold her tight. The cells are quite roomy, and if somehow she manages to escape, the hotel guarantees the full price of her value will be paid to you. That’s just how sure we are she’ll be there when you need her.”
Harrison swallowed. “I see. Have you a map of the city?”
The man spread one on the desk. “You’re here.” He pointed with the tip of his pencil to the corner of Eighth and Main Streets. “This here is Capitol Square. Anywhere else you’d like to go?”
“Provost marshal’s office.”
“That’ll be here, at Broad and Tenth. Just north of the Square. But it’ll be closed until morning. What else?”
Harrison assessed the fellow in front of him. Was he the sort to be suspicious? Or was he only the sort to curry favors with a patron who paid in greenbacks? Judging him to be the latter, he asked quietly for one more address. If he and Sophie had written letters since they’d last seen each other, he wouldn’t have to ask. But her father had forbidden any correspondence with her Northern friends after she returned from boarding school, so concerned was he about lingering abolitionist influence. “The Kent residence,” Harrison said. “Do you know it?”
“Mr. Kent, the editor? Newspaper man?”
“The very same.”
“Last I heard he was at Fort Delaware.”
Harrison’s eyebrows raised. He wondered if he had seen him there. But, “He has a daughter. And I have a letter from him to deliver.” He put his hand over his pocket, though it held no such thing. “I imagine she’s anxious for word from him.”
“Do you now? So you’ve been to the prison, have you?” He folded his arms, tilted his head, poised to call a bluff. “What’s it like?”
Harrison described the Confederate prison camp in detail, putting to use the notes he’d taken for a story he’d never sold. “Now, I’d like to deliver his letter to her. Can you help me or not?” Fire crackled in his voice, and he was well repaid with a dark lead circle on his map.
“Corner of Franklin and Twenty-seventh.”
Harrison nodded his thanks, feeling flush with his victory. Now that seeing Sophie again was within reach, uncertainty swirled in his gut. Would she be happy to see him? Frivolous, trifling concern compared to saving Daphne’s life. With map in hand, he turned and led Bella away from the receptionist’s stare, all the way back out onto Main Street.
Evening had dropped its filmy veil on Richmond, and the gaslights sputtered and flared at intervals. The street was alive with people, both black and white, government and civilian. It was not a place to speak freely. “Did you hear what he said?” he managed to ask, and Bella shook her head no, eyes still cast down in submission. With her hair bound in a green head scarf, and her posture almost curled in on itself, Harrison caught a glimpse of her life before Gettysburg. He could not lock her in an underground cell for the night. And she would not stand for it, either, which would be even more dangerous.
“Let me think for a minute,” he muttered, his gaze drifting with the flow of traffic toward Capitol Square, if he remembered the map correctly. And just north of that, was the provost marshal’s office, but closed. A sigh brushed his lips. He needed a pass to move freely in the city. Sitting in the hotel and just waiting, when their time was so short already, grated on him.
As carriages, wagons, hors
es, and pedestrians crossed in front of the hotel on Main Street, Harrison noted that no one was stopped and made to show their pass. These people were moving freely already. Surely, if Harrison and Bella hired a cab, they would be hidden on their journey to the Kent house. Bella could give her sister the quinine, and Harrison would be back at the Spotswood soaking up all the booze-flavored gossip he could. If Sophie seems agreeable to catching up for old times’ sake, perhaps I could work that in, too. As though he could fool himself into a comfortable apathy. The pounding in his chest said otherwise. Harrison opened the map once more, and measured the distance between Spotswood and the Kent house. Twenty blocks. We can do this.
“Let’s go find your sister.”
As if guests were not already filling the parlor behind them, Captain Lawrence Russell leaned in and planted a kiss on Sophie’s hair. She wondered if he detected the smell of the dead on her, or perhaps, the scent of a secret. After her meeting in the morgue this morning, she’d soaked and soaped and scrubbed, yet still she felt marked.
It was not that she regretted her actions, but that she felt so drastically altered by them. Sophie marveled that the captain, at least, seemed not to notice the change. For the woman he held near was entirely different from the one he’d first set out to protect. His hand curved around her tightly cinched waist, and his beard bristled against her cheek as he whispered a compliment in her ear. She barely heard him.
“Please.” She smiled into his blue eyes. “There are guests to greet.”
The party was three times larger than the first one Sophie had hosted. Mrs. Blair wasn’t here yet, but guests were still trickling in. This in spite of the fact that they’d stopped serving refreshments, per Fischer’s strong suggestion. No matter. Starvation parties were the fashion now, anyway. With water to drink, and music and dancing for food, the guests went home more than satisfied.
“Hello, Mr. Hayes, Mr. Graham.” Sophie flashed her most charming smile. The two clerks handed their hats and cloaks to Fischer, whose high forehead shone as he bowed to each guest.
Captain Russell pumped Mr. Graham’s hand and clapped Mr. Hayes on the shoulder. “I see you brought your violin! Splendid!”
“Wouldn’t come to a party without it! Let the dancing begin!” Hazel eyes gleaming, he held his instrument aloft and fairly waltzed into the parlor with it. Approving murmurs punctuated the room as the first few bars of music sounded.
Sophie watched from the doorway between entrance hall and parlor as the guests paired off, smiles wreathing their faces. It felt like a dream to her, so stark was the contrast between her morning’s errand and this evening’s determined merrymaking.
“Miss Kent, the coat rack is full.” Fischer pushed his spectacles up the thin bridge of his nose, his black mustache all but hiding his lips as he spoke. “I do apologize. I’ll fetch another and return in a moment.”
“Go ahead, Fischer,” said Captain Russell, and Sophie chafed that he’d answered for her. “I’ll open the door if anyone else arrives. Sophie, go enjoy yourself. Just not too much until I can dance with you myself.” He winked, and Sophie forced a smile before joining the guests in the parlor.
“Wait here.” Harrison paid the cab driver extra to hold him, and helped Bella down at the corner of Franklin and Twenty-seventh. Wasting no time, he opened the wrought iron gate and waited for Bella to pass through it before closing it behind them both. Light and music spilled from the windows. Somebody’s home, at least. They marched up the stairs to the white-columned front porch.
“Courage,” he whispered to Bella, and she nodded. He knocked on the door and stood back, praying they’d be admitted at once.
The door opened, and Harrison’s stomach clenched. A Confederate officer gazed curiously between Harrison and Bella. He could almost hear him demand Harrison’s nonexistent pass.
“Is this the Kent house?” Harrison asked.
“Yes, it is.” He looked again at Bella. Frowned. “Why, Daphne!”
So Daphne is still alive. Thank God, Harrison thought as Bella looked up for an instant before lowering her gaze again.
The officer turned to Harrison. “Yes, yes, this is where Daphne’s mistress lives. I confess I had no idea she was well enough to be up and moving around. But Daphne, breaking curfew? It doesn’t seem like you. I assume you at least brought your pass with you?”
Bella shook her head, said nothing.
“Well then. Thank you sir, for returning her directly to us. To Miss Kent, I mean. Daphne is fortunate. Another would have just put her in the slave pen for the night. Come in, both of you, Sophie will want to speak with you, I’m sure.”
Hearing Sophie’s Christian name on the officer’s lips did not sit well with Harrison. He schooled his features into a display of indifference.
“I’m Captain Lawrence Russell, by the way.” The captain shook Harrison’s hand heartily as he stepped over the threshold and into a houseful of strangers. Laughter and Southern drawls floated on strains of music.
The door clicked shut. “Oliver Shaw,” Harrison said, determined to ride the wave of this new development.
Just then, Sophie swept into the entrance hall. Awkwardly, Harrison spun the brim of his hat in his hands.
“Sophie, dear, this is Mr. Oliver Shaw.”
Harrison flinched at the intimate term, gauged Sophie’s reaction to it. The roses in her cheeks faded. Her bright green eyes arrested Harrison as they had the first time he met her. They were the color of new grass and budding leaves, of all things fresh and tender and vulnerable. A striking contrast to the mourning that draped her from collar to hem. Though he had no idea who she lost, the longing to comfort her ached in his chest. He suspected Captain Russell was taking care of that himself. A jealousy he had no right to feel licked through his veins. But I waited for her, he thought coldly. He had hoped she had waited for him.
“He found Daphne out on the streets and came here to return her to you,” Captain Russell continued, and Sophie’s wide eyes took in Bella. “You’re a big one for secrets—I didn’t even know she’d recovered from her illness!”
The Confederate officer looked at her like he owned her. Something curdled in Harrison’s stomach.
Her gaze hit him like a blow to his chest. Her lips parted slightly, but still she didn’t speak. I’m Oliver Shaw, he told himself fiercely, recovering his alias. And I’ve never seen this woman before in my life.
Sophie studied Daphne’s face, and yet knew it was not Daphne. Confusion rippled through her. She turned to Mr. Shaw, and he held her with his deep brown eyes. Eyes that knew her. She clasped her hands to keep them from flying up to cover her mouth. A five-year-old ache burned in her chest as memory intruded. No, not memory. Harrison was here, now, fairly drinking her in with eyes that told her he hadn’t forgotten their pledge.
But she was being watched, even now. Especially now. Sophie must play the part she had chosen.
“Thank you, Mr. Shaw.” She extended her hand, and he took it. “I’m most grateful to have her back. Daphne, come with me, please. Captain Russell, you’ll see to the guests?”
“Of course.”
The woman with Daphne’s face followed Sophie down the hall and into the vacant dining room. She closed the door but did not bother to sit before turning and facing her visitor.
“You’re not Daphne. Speak freely.” And quickly.
“I’m her twin sister, Bella. From the North. I’ve brought quinine for her.” She opened her cloak and withdrew the precious medicine.
Sophie’s jaw dropped. Daphne had never mentioned a sister. But then, Sophie never mentioned her own sister. But, “From the North? How did you hear …”
“My husband wrote me. From Libby Prison.”
Sophie’s memory flashed. The Negro prisoner who had studied Daphne so intently every time they were there with bread. It must have been he, and little wonder.
“Please. My sister?”
“Follow me.” Sophie led her to the doorway of the sickroom
but did not go in. “She’s in there. I must go. Please stay here until I can introduce you to the rest of the servants properly.”
Before she’d finished her sentence, Bella had already nodded and slipped inside. Sophie prayed the quinine would prove effective as she returned to her guests, hoops swaying with every stride.
When she reached to the parlor, smile pasted on her face, she found Harrison still there, with Captain Russell and Mr. Graham as his audience. Hiding her trembling hands in the pleats of her skirt, she joined them.
“Sophie, darling.” Captain Russell drew her closer, and she fought the urge to pull away. She flicked an apologetic glance to Harrison, willing him to divine the truth, but how could he? The smile on his face grew thin and cold, if one knew how to read it. Which Sophie did. “Mr. Shaw here was just telling us he’s a correspondent for the Southern Examiner. He covered Baltimore for a few years but the Yankees harassed him South, lucky for us. He’s hoping to be assigned here in Richmond now.”
Sophie’s eyes popped wide. He hopes to stay? “Welcome to Richmond,” was all she said.
“Thank you. I only just arrived tonight and already I’m impressed with your famous Southern hospitality.”
“Virginia, especially Richmond, has grown accustomed to hosting guests,” Sophie remarked.
“And do your hostess responsibilities extend to the dance floor?”
Sophie’s breath skittered across her lips.
“By all means,” Captain Russell said with a graceful flourish. Obviously, he wasn’t threatened by an orange-haired Marylander.
Before Sophie knew what had happened, she was in the arms of Harrison Caldwell once again, moving in time to a waltz, and the five years that stood between them dropped away.
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