Only in My Arms

by Jo Goodman

  "Now what?" Mary asked when they were alone on the street. In the distance she could hear the approach of another carriage. "Do you have any plan?" The words were drawn out of her rather breathlessly as Ryder was pulling her off to the side where a row of sturdy, bare-limbed oaks lined the avenue like palace guards. He took her behind one of them so they were completely out of sight of any passersby. "What are we doing?" she asked, leaning back against the tree. The bark was wet from the earlier rain and droplets of water fell from the limbs overhead. She wiped one away from where it splattered her cheek. "Ryder?"

  "We're waiting."

  "Waiting? But—"

  He pressed a finger to her lips. "Shh."

  Mary stilled instantly and listened with all of her senses. The night air was cool and crisp, and it seemed to sharpen the sounds around her: the occasional water droplet hitting the carriage roof, the rhythmic clicking of the wheels, and the clop-clop cadence of the horses' hooves. She became aware that the carriage in the distance wasn't coming any closer, but had turned. Sound and rhythm were altered as the equipage moved over gravel instead of wet cobblestones. She looked up at Ryder and saw he was looking intently in the direction of Anna Leigh Hamilton's home. There was almost nothing he could see from such a great distance. His view was obstructed by the iron fence bordering the property and the row of hedges that lined the driveway. But they both could hear Anna Leigh's clear melodious voice raised in greeting. The words were not clear, but the intention was, and her guest—only one voice was raised in reply—was invited inside.

  The carriage left immediately and passed within a few feet of them. It was a hired hansom and offered no means to identify who had arrived in it.

  "Apparently we were not the only ones following Anna Leigh and her father," Mary said. Her eyes narrowed on Ryder's face. "But I think you suspected that."

  Ryder nodded. "I saw the hack when I looked to see where we were turning." He pointed to the house. "I'm going over there to look around. I want you to wait here." Even in the dark Ryder had no difficulty seeing that Mary's mouth was pursed to one side in obstinate disapproval. "All right," he said, giving in because there was so little choice. "But you follow me—follow me quietly."

  Mary saluted smartly.

  "Very amusing," he said in a tone that made it clear that wasn't so.

  She shrugged unapologetically and gave him a small push in the direction of the house, then became his shadow.

  The carriage that had deposited Anna Leigh and her father at their front door had been taken to the rear of the house. Crouching low, Ryder led Mary along the hedgerow until they had to cross the driveway openly to reach the front porch. This was accomplished quickly, the light spilling from the house marking their path. They stole across the low, wide porch silently, stopping when they reached the first lighted window.

  Ryder gestured to Mary that she remain where she was while he ducked and crept beneath the window to stand on the other side. His first look inside was brief, and it appeared their stealthy approach was all for naught as the room on which he peered was empty.

  Disappointed, Mary sighed audibly.

  In the next moment she cried out, startled this time by the sudden movement of the interior curtains and the subsequent crash of a vase. Ryder's disapproving look had no impact on Mary because her eyes were squeezed shut in anticipation of being found out. She felt herself being swiftly dragged to Ryder's side of the window where he held her tightly. She did not mistake that he had comforting her on his mind. He wanted to make certain there were no more outbursts. His hand was hovering very close to her mouth, ready to clamp it if she squealed again.

  From inside the room there was another noise, and since Ryder hadn't made a move to leave the porch, Mary opened her eyes a fraction. A fat tabby cat sat on the interior sill and peered at its own reflection in the glass. Mary grimaced as she realized her sigh had caused the cat to jump and in turn to frighten her.

  The tabby was supremely uninterested in the broken vase or the pools of water on the hardwood floor. She licked her paws, preening beautifully.

  As interested as she was in the cat, Mary didn't see the approach of Anna Leigh until the young woman's hands closed around the cat and lifted her off the sill. Mary would have jumped back if Ryder hadn't held her. She wondered why Ryder didn't move until she realized that the gaslight inside the house made the windows reflect only the interior of the room back to the occupants.

  Mary looked through the delicate web of lace curtains to the door that was opening a little wider. She saw Anna Leigh turn away from the window, still stroking the cat. "It's only the cat," she said. Her voice was a trifle muffled through the glass but perfectly understandable. "She's broken a vase. It didn't wake Papa, did it?"

  For the first time Mary realized the person standing just outside of her vision in the doorway was not Anna Leigh's father. She squinted, but couldn't make out the shadowy form. Was it a servant? she wondered. Or Anna Leigh's guest? And who would the senator's daughter be entertaining after her father had retired for the night?

  Anna Leigh raised the tabby and rubbed her cheek against the soft fur. "Clumsy cat," she said affectionately. Then to the person in the doorway: "Oh, I think I do hear Papa. Tell him what happened and that everything's all right. There's no need to trouble anyone. I'll clean it up myself."

  The reply was inaudible, but Anna Leigh seemed satisfied with it. She put the cat down, shooed her away, and knelt to begin picking up damaged flowers and shards of glass.

  Mary winced in automatic sympathy as Anna Leigh cut her fingertip. Anna Leigh dropped the flowers and several pieces of glass to nurse the wound. Simultaneously the door to the library opened fully, and now the voice could be clearly heard, rich and resonant, a man's voice, too intimate and too concerned to belong to a servant.

  Ryder's hand closed over Mary's mouth as the man stepped into the room. Ryder was prepared. He had recognized the voice almost immediately. He had heard it giving long, damaging testimony at his trial. Mary's acquaintance with it was brief, so he was not surprised that she needed to see Anna Leigh's guest to identify him.

  Lieutenant Davis Rivers crossed the library floor quickly and knelt beside Anna Leigh. With his bright blond hair so close to hers, the strands were almost indistinguishable. His handsome features were boyishly expressive in their concern, sweet and disarming. He took Anna Leigh's hand, examined the wound, and kissed the break in her skin himself. There was a drop of blood on his lower lip when he drew away.

  Ryder pulled Mary back from the window, but not before she glimpsed Miss Anna Leigh Hamilton lick her own lips lasciviously and launch herself into the lieutenant's arms.

  Chapter 15

  Ryder's sleep was restless that night. The Colter Canyon raid made up the tapestry of his troubled dreams, and in none of them was a solution revealed. He always woke at the same point: Anna Leigh Hamilton standing above him, accusing him of rape, while Lieutenant Rivers consoled her and Private Carr prepared a rope for hanging.

  He was not surprised when he woke late, only that Mary had let him sleep. He imagined that she had been anxious to do something about what they had learned last evening. She was not one for cooling her heels. After leaving Warren Hamilton's they had argued about going to his uncle. Ryder was not ready to do it; Mary was adamant that it was time.

  Stretching, Ryder rose from bed. He felt soft and sluggish, and regretted now that he hadn't taken his blankets to the floor and tried sleeping there. He paused at the French doors to examine the sky. It was clearing, with large patches of blue highlighting the distinct presence of the sun. Evidence of yesterday's dismal rain was on the glazed streets below, and a collection of icy water droplets ran along the edge of the stone balustrade.

  Ryder turned away, hopeful the change in weather was a portent of changes elsewhere. He glanced in the sitting room on his way to wash. Mary was curled under a mound of blankets on the sofa. Obviously his restlessness had disturbed her as well. Ryder res
isted the urge to put her back in bed and instead took his time completing the morning rituals of washing and shaving and dressing. When he finally stepped into the sitting room it was to discover that Mary hadn't stirred.

  Ryder nudged the pile of blankets gently and succeeded in uncovering two pillows and Mary's nightdress—but no Mary. He threw the blankets down angrily and searched the room for a note. Had she merely gone for breakfast? Or had she gone, as he suspected, to see Wilson Stillwell? Was he reacting to an assumption and not to fact?

  When Ryder could find no note, he went straight to the front desk to see Doc Stanley, the logical place for Mary to have left a message. Doc had seen Mary leave two hours earlier, but she had given him no note for Ryder.

  "She didn't stop to chat," Doc said, adjusting his spectacles. "Asked me to get a hansom for her and that was that."

  "Did she give you the address to tell the driver?"

  "No. Told that to him herself, and I didn't catch it. Never occurred to me that you didn't know where she was going this morning."

  It hadn't occurred to Ryder that Mary would strike off on her own, but he didn't say as much to Doc. "Yes, well, she's an independent sort."

  "The worst kind," Doc said sympathetically. "Mark my words, the very worst kind."

  Ryder ordered and ate breakfast in the second-floor dining room. From time to time he glanced up when someone entered, but he never really expected to see Mary on the threshold. He considered trying to follow her, but the thought was fleeting. He was less clear on her destination after talking to Doc than he had been beforehand. The fact that she hadn't asked for directions gave him hope that she hadn't gone to his uncle. He had never told her where Wilson Stillwell lived, and the man's address wouldn't necessarily be known to every hack driver in Washington. As far as he knew, Mary's familiarity with the city was what she had gained the previous evening, and her list of acquaintances was probably confined to the people she had pointed out at the Regent Theater. How could any of them be of assistance to her?

  Ryder finished his coffee and returned to the room. The door was ajar, and he distinctly remembered closing it. He entered cautiously.

  "Where were you?" Mary asked, coming to her feet. "I was worried. Doc said you were looking for me, and then I couldn't find you. Didn't you think to tell him you weren't coming straight back to the room? How was I supposed to know where you might have gone?"

  Ryder finished stepping into the room and closed the door behind him. "It won't work," he said. "Those are my questions and you know it."

  Mary's posture lost a bit of its militant stance as Ryder called her on her attack. "I was worried," she said.

  "I believe you." He simply looked at her then. Silent. Waiting.

  Mary did not hold up well under that sort of scrutiny. "I wish you would use thumbscrews," she said after a few moments. "I really can't tolerate that expectant silence." When Ryder's features remained unchanged Mary sighed. "Very well. I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was leaving, but I know you would have wanted to come or would have argued with me about going at all and I just don't believe it would have been in your best interest to do so."

  As an explanation it didn't begin to suffice. Ryder gave her an arch look, warning her she would do well to be more clear.

  Mary pointed to the valise by the door. "Would you hand me that?" she asked. "I can explain everything."

  Ryder gave her the valise, glad that he hadn't realized she had taken it with her. It would have only increased his concern tenfold.

  Pushing aside the blankets on the sofa to make room for herself and the valise, Mary sat down. She opened the case and began setting pots of creams and dyes and powders out on the end table. "You asked me to apply myself to finding a way for you to get into the War Office," she said, continuing to empty the valise. A pair of spectacles was added to the array of pots along with hairpieces of assorted lengths and colors. "And that's what I did. I have a collection of items here that can be used to make a credible disguise. I have also had some instruction on using these things. It's not so simple as it may seem. The face paint has to be applied carefully if one is going to pass the disguise off at close quarters. I was assured, however, that I have a knack for it, so you needn't worry that you'll look hopelessly out of place when I've finished with you."

  Ryder sat down himself now. He looked at the odd assortment of pots and jars and hair on the end table, then to Mary. Her expression was one of serene pleasure. "Mary," he said finally. "Where exactly was it that you went?"

  "To the Regent Theater," she said, as if it were obvious. "It came to me this morning that the one person who could help us was Miss Yvonne Marie herself."

  * * *

  Ryder knew Mary's plan had a better than even chance of succeeding when Doc didn't recognize them as they passed through the lobby. She flagged the hansom, while Ryder, looking remarkably frail beside her, leaned on her arm.

  "You're still going to be a handsome old man," Mary said when they were settled and the carriage was underway. She leaned forward, "Here, let me straighten your mustache. I told you not to fiddle with it until the glue dried."

  Ryder suffered her attentions with little grace. "It tickles."

  "That can't be helped." Mary patted the graying mustache in place so that it fit smoothly above his upper lip. It was a full, thick mustache, and the ends brushed his lip when he talked or smiled. She had already warned him he would do well to do little of those things. Sitting back, Mary studied Ryder's appearance again and pronounced herself satisfied. She had used a grease pencil skillfully to create age lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes and across his forehead. Yvonne Marie had showed her how to blend the pencil marks into the skin to emphasize the weathered appearance. Mary had used a gray hairpiece to cover most of Ryder's own healthy hair and had added touches of gray to Ryder's temples to merge his coloring with the desired one. A pair of wire-rimmed spectacles rested on his nose, and side-whiskers had been added to give fullness to his face. His eyebrows had been lightened with the same paint and powder mixture she had used for his temples. "You're holding yourself too straight," she said. "Can you round your shoulders a little?"

  Ryder complied. "Better?" When she nodded, he asked, "If I have to be an old man, why don't you have to be an old woman?"

  "It would be too much," she said practically. "We don't need to invite scrutiny." A rich, chestnut-colored wig covered Mary's brighter red-gold hair. Her eyebrows had been darkened, and she had added touches of color to her face to lend her complexion a deeper shade of peach. Mary smoothed back the coiffured red wig with a delicate touch. "It feels as if I'm wearing a helmet," she said. "I was seventeen the last time I had this much hair piled on my head."

  It would have suited Ryder if Mary had changed nothing about herself and had remained behind, but she had presented a convincing argument that her presence would be a diversion of sorts and thereby make him less likely to be carefully questioned or watched.

  Ryder watched Mary fix her hair and retouch her lips with a bit of rouge. She was actually looking forward to this, he thought. The hours spent in Miss Marie's company this morning had certainly had their influence. It wouldn't have surprised him now if Mary announced she was taking up the stage. "Did you really tell Miss Marie the patients clutched her picture to their chests?" he asked.

  "Of course I did," she said. "It's true. Well, perhaps 'clutched' is overstating their attachment to those cigarette photographs, but they did collect and admire them. Miss Marie was touched."

  "I'm certain you made sure she was."

  "She helped us, didn't she? What's more, I was able to discover she recalls your uncle. Senator Stillwell did indeed make her acquaintance last night as you suspected. She remembered him being very pleasant and offering her a proper congratulation on her performance."

  "My uncle has a glib tongue. If he's polite, he has reason to be."

  "Miss Marie was impressed with him," Mary said, then added gently, "it wouldn't hurt to keep
an open mind about your uncle."

  Ryder made a small, cantankerous grunt befitting the old man he was supposed to be. The subject was closed.

  * * *

  At the War Office, Mary did almost all of the talking. She introduced herself as the widow of Samuel Franklin, Ryder as her father-in-law. They were interested, she said, in records from the War Between the States, most especially in anything to do with the battles at Shiloh and Vicksburg. She explained she was trying to locate a journal her husband had begun when he'd enlisted and that was not returned with the rest of his belongings after his death. Her tone was quiet, her manner dignified. She let the fabricated facts speak for themselves and didn't attempt to push or cajole anyone into making exceptions for her.

  Ryder watched her entrance everyone she spoke to. As a result of her performance very little attention was paid to him.

  They were given a room off the main records room. It was small and windowless, a cubbyhole really, but it was furnished with a table and chairs and two oil lamps. In the beginning the Army clerks brought the records into the room, but as the afternoon wore on and Mary never found what she pretended to want, they allowed her to search in the larger room herself. While she pored over letters of commendation and enlistment ledgers from a war that was a score of years in the past, Ryder made free with more recent files that accounted for most of what had happened in the Western Campaign.

  The clerks never noticed he was looking at papers different from the ones Mary perused. On one occasion they found him in the wrong area of the records room, but it didn't raise their suspicions. Thinking he was lost, they simply turned him around and shooed him in the direction of the right stacks. Their manner was solicitous but vaguely condescending, and Ryder abided it only because it served his purpose.

  Mary scribbled notes as she read. Except for the things Ryder asked her to take down most of them were nonsensical. She would have preferred to read the same accounts as he, but she knew her role was to divert suspicion and she had to be satisfied with that.