Innocent Deceptions

by Gwyneth Atlee

  He could tell his hesitation cost her, could see it in the staining of her cheeks, the way her face turned away from his. He hated himself for what he was doing to her, what he was doing to them both. “Hell, no, Charlotte. Hell, no.”

  And just like that, he had her in his arms. He realized only afterward that he had been the one to close the gap between them, the one to slant his mouth over hers and reclaim his territory with a fierce kiss. She responded desperately, as hungrily as he did, and Ben’s need flared like a brushfire in the wind.

  Before he knew what he was doing, he’d unpinned her hair and given way to the desire to run his hands through silken moonlight. His lips slid to her neck and, heedless of the consequences, he devoured her. She moaned and pulled him unprotesting to the bed.

  “We might have only minutes,” she whispered, and he saw she was already unfastening her bodice. His kisses followed until he could fill his mouth with her breasts and slide his palms along the curves of her hips and buttocks.

  “I’ve missed you so much,” he managed, and together they made short work of their clothing.

  There was no time for suspicions, no time for second thoughts. Or perhaps the time existed, but he’d needed her more than the logic that would have surely warned him that this wasn’t right. Instead, three weeks of longing exploded into mindless lust, and there was only Charlotte’s pale skin, her hands sliding along him with the same urgency that he felt, her mouth pulling at his sanity until he sank into the moist cleft between her legs. This time, he spared no thought for the outcome, and he drove into her relentlessly until she stiffened and whimpered her release. His own exploded but a moment later, a cataclysm that nearly stopped his pounding heart.

  Afterward, they lay together panting, and he kissed beneath her ear.

  She shivered with it; then she whispered, “I meant what I said in my letter. I am in love with you.”

  He pulled her even closer as he answered, “Just as I love you.”

  Only then did he realize he had not withdrawn. He closed his eyes and wondered if some part of him was desperate to put a child in Charlotte, to create some link with her that neither loyalties nor prison could divide.

  From the moment he thought of it, Ben understood that it was true. That he would keep coming back up these stairs, sweeping aside reason with passion, and chipping away at their honor . . . until nothing remained. As long as she remained within his reach.

  Finally, he found the courage to tell her, “We’re going to have to get you away from here.”

  What country before ever existed a century and a half without a rebellion? . . . The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.

  -- Thomas Jefferson,

  from a letter to William Stevens Smith

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Charlotte stared at Ben in disbelief. Was he saying what she’d dreamed of, that he meant to risk all to run away with her and Alexander? Had he truly forgiven her for what she’d done? Joy bounded through her heart, as graceful as a deer.

  Arrow-sharp, his next words struck it down. “I’ll speak with the general about finding somewhere else to send you. Along with those kind notes he’s been allowing you to read, there have been others.”

  “Others?” She echoed dully, trying to recover from the realization that he had not offered the heaven she imagined, but a different room in hell.

  He pulled away from her to begin dressing. “There’ve been some pretty ugly threats. I can use those to convince General Branard you aren’t safe here. But angry as he is about what you did to his lieutenants and Williams, he doesn’t want to see you sent to jail. I’ll help him arrange for another situation similar to this one until your hearing’s over and Armsworthy decides your future.”

  Charlotte had seen several such letters, and she knew she should be grateful. Still, she couldn’t keep from blurting out, “But I don’t want to leave. I need to stay where you are.”

  “Snyder and the letters aren’t the only threats,” he said. “What you and I just did . . . we both know it wasn’t right.”

  Charlotte wanted to say that wasn’t true at all, that their relationship had been the only flicker of brilliance in what seemed an endless night. But she realized that despite her high-minded resolutions, she was dragging him down with her, anchoring his heart to a future that could never be. If she truly loved him, she would not risk him, too. If she possessed a single shred of decency, she would break the tether.

  She swallowed past a lump of pain and reminded herself that this might be the safety she had prayed for. But that part barely mattered, for if Alexander were given to someone else to raise, if she were penned somewhere without the hope of seeing him again and without the hope of having Ben’s love, she might as well die now.

  She felt shamed by her nakedness, shamed by the thought of how swiftly she had thrown aside every consideration except her animal needs. No, that wasn’t right, she realized, as she began to slip into the layers of her clothing. She’d needed the contact more for her soul’s sake than her body’s.

  “It will be safer for you to testify if I have you moved somewhere else,” Ben said.

  “I told you, I’m not doing it,” she repeated, thinking of what Jonathan had said. “I won’t do anymore to damage the lieutenants or Colonel Williams --”

  “Gideon cooked his own goose by proposing marriage when he already had a wife,” Ben interjected. “He’ll be tossed out of the army, at the very least.”

  “What of the others? Without my testimony, how could they be convicted?”

  “There’s still General Branard. They admitted disobeying orders. They’ll likely be cashiered, too.”

  “But not executed.” Charlotte knew the price they could pay for passing information to the enemy. Even if they could convince the court they had not meant to do so, both would likely face a term in military prison. But that was not her only consideration. “Besides, I won’t risk Southern lives.”

  “I know you, Charlotte. Snyder’s threatening something,” Ben said. “Otherwise, you’d never let them take Alexander from you.”

  Again, she did not answer. As always, he seemed to glean truth from the words she failed to speak. “If you answer Armsworthy’s questions, what does Snyder have to lose?” he asked.

  “This has nothing to do with Snyder,” she insisted, though she was thinking of how much the lieutenant had given away with all his boasting. He’d considered her beneath any considerations of security.

  Something darkened in Ben’s expression, and she realized he did not believe her. “I’ll work quickly,” he said. “I’ll do my best to find someplace where you can keep Alexander with you.”

  Charlotte wondered how she’d face another set of captors. “I wish – I’d do anything to take all of it back.”

  He finished buttoning his frock coat. “I don’t have that in my power, Charlotte. All I can do is try to keep you safe.”

  Turning toward the door again, he walked away from her. She strained her ears in the hope he would say something, anything, to blunt the pain of separation. She thought of running after him, of begging him if need be. Anything to stop him from ending what they had.

  Her mind turned to the last day her mother had been strong enough to hold her baby grandson. How she’d stroked his downy hair and kissed his forehead. Despite the circumstances, Charlotte knew her mother had loved Alexander without reservation.

  “I wish,” Charlotte had told her, nearly choking on the painful words, “I wish that you could see him grow up.”

  Her mother had looked up at her, sad wisdom written in the lines of pain on her thin face. But she’d smiled when she told her daughter, “Sometimes a glimpse of the horizon . . . is all we are allowed. And sometimes, Charlotte, it has to be enough.”

  So as Charlotte listened to Ben’s footsteps receding and to the closing of the door below, she closed her eyes and tried to picture him pausing behind that wooden barrier and lo
cking her away, as if she were the most dangerous of creatures.

  In a way, she knew she was. Not only to the other Yankees, but to the man she’d unjustly named the Judas Officer. And, worse yet, to the sense of honor that formed the core of him.

  But it did not matter to her how right, how noble it might be to let him go, because within his strong arms, she had glimpsed her horizon.

  And that could never be enough.

  o0o

  Only pride prevented Ben from removing his prosthesis and managing the best he could on one leg and a cane. Pain flared with each step, but he made his way in spite of it, down to the first floor.

  He had to get Charlotte out of this house before he lost his mind – and his resolve to keep the oath he’d sworn to serve his country. Yet with every step, he heard her sweet voice. “I’m in love with you, Ben. Truly.” With every moment, he felt her hand, so warm atop his own.

  “Son of a bitch,” he swore as he paused to wipe sweat from his forehead.

  Lieutenant McMahon appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “Need some help?” he offered.

  Though Delaney had always been a decent sort, Ben was in no mood to be civil. He reminded himself that the red-haired lieutenant had thought himself engaged to Charlotte. For all he knew, the man had kissed her soft lips, touched her – Hellfire! Ben decided he might hate the young man after all.

  “I can make it on my own,” Ben growled.

  The lieutenant wisely disappeared, returning only when Ben reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “Have you seen Snyder lately?” Ben asked.

  “He had to run a message over to Williams’ office. Hope he can manage it without starting a fight. I don’t know what happened between the two of ‘em down in New Orleans, but this latest business hasn’t helped.” McMahon held out an envelope. “Got a letter for you today. Meant to take it to you earlier, but I’ve been tied up here. Look’s like this came all the way from Texas.”

  Ben waited for McMahon to add some comment casting aspersions on his loyalty. Snyder would have done so, but since Delaney didn’t, Ben almost hoped that Charlotte, if she testified, would clear him of suspicion. After accepting the envelope McMahon offered, Ben tucked it into a pocket.

  He then thanked the lieutenant and made his way toward the closed library door.

  Tillie appeared out of the kitchen and shook her head at him.

  “Come on in here instead,” she told him.

  As much as Ben hated the thought of walking any farther, he heeded the woman’s invitation. He found her lifting a pan of peas onto the stove.

  Turning from it, she gestured toward the scarred worktable. “Sit down ‘fore you fall down. I’ll get you some lemonade. Could use a glass myself.”

  Ben sat, glad of even the thinnest excuse to get his weight off his bad leg. “I need to see the general.”

  “I could see that’s where you was headin’.” Tillie pulled the lemonade from the icebox, then turned to pour the drinks. “But you might wanta wait a spell. You ain’t gonna get much sense outta him right now.”

  As she handed him a glass, he pulled out the chair beside him. Taking his meaning, she sat and drank from her own lemonade, then puckered her mouth, as if it tasted sour.

  “How bad is he?” Ben asked her.

  She shrugged. “Bad enough. Can’t help but think it comin’ on a little worse each day. This mess with Miss Charlotte and them fool lieutenants ain’t helped one bit, either. He carryin’ on ‘bout his poor Emma more ‘n more.”

  Ben leaned on his elbows and pressed the cool glass against his forehead. He didn’t bother telling her that the general had brought a stack of reports upstairs to him yesterday. Though they’d needed to discuss a supply matter, Branard had drifted on a raft of stories. Ben had been powerless to provide an anchor to the present, a feat he could normally accomplish.

  “I know what you been doin’ for him,” Tillie said so quietly that Ben could barely hear the words.

  Ben looked up and gazed into her blue eyes. They crinkled at the corners, as if at any moment she might give in to the rare impulse to smile. She approved, he realized.

  “I could say the same,” he told her, thinking of one of the stories the old general had told him yesterday. Ben had been able to weave together enough of the sparse threads to confirm what he’d so long suspected: that Hank Branard and Tillie had been intimate for decades.

  Though the idea of adultery offended him (and he’d been particularly disgusted about Colonel Williams’ foray into that arena), Ben couldn’t work up any moral outrage about the situation between the general and his cook. Perhaps it was because he and Tillie shared an affection for the same great man. Or maybe it was because the two of them had become collaborators in the maintenance of an illusion. A noble illusion that was crumbling day by day.

  Tillie nodded in acknowledgment of what he’d said. “I’ll come and get you when the general’s more hisself.”

  Ben drained the lemonade. “I’m taking some work upstairs so I can elevate this leg, so I’d appreciate it. And, Tillie . . . you’re going to have to let me know when you think it’s time to fold this hand.”

  A breath hissed out of her, as if she’d been holding it for weeks now. “I guess I can do that, Cap’n.”

  “Just one more favor.”

  “Like you ain’t asked enough already?”

  He couldn’t help but agree. But that did not stop him from mentioning what was foremost in his mind. “I need you to keep an extra careful eye on who goes upstairs to the third floor, and on Alexander, too. Especially when Lieutenant Snyder is around.”

  o0o

  Jonathan Snyder could not for the life of him understand why Gideon Williams had not been relieved of his duties. Perhaps the big bugs were having difficulty in finding a replacement. More likely, they were keeping the unpopular colonel in place to spite the citizens of occupied Memphis who were so loudly calling for the man’s removal. Whatever the case, Jonathan Snyder would have preferred to deal with anyone – down to the lowliest stripling of a private – on Colonel Williams’s staff. He assumed that Gideon felt the same, but here they stood face-to-face inside a silence stiff as hardtack.

  It was the older man who finally broke it.

  “Come in . . . Lieutenant,” Gideon’s voice lingered on the rank, a reminder of the conflict that lay between the two. He stepped back from the doorway of the townhouse to usher Jonathan inside.

  Jonathan paused just inside to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim light. For some reason, the curtains were all drawn, and was that whiskey he’d smelled on Gideon’s breath? Had the pressure of his upcoming trial set him drinking on a weekday afternoon?

  “Where is everyone?” Jonathan could not help but ask. Unlike General Branard’s command headquarters at the Randolph mansion, this town house was usually crawling with both junior officers and the enlisted men who quartered here.

  “Rosemary has died,” the colonel said, as if that were an answer.

  Now that Jonathan could see, he noticed the puffiness of Williams’ eyes. Even so, he was uncertain what to say. For as long as he’d know Williams, the man’s wife had been an invalid, living with her parents during his absence. Though Gideon claimed that her condition would one day kill her, he’d never appeared troubled by that fact.

  “I’m sorry,” Jonathan said anyway, because as much as he despised Williams and his philandering, it seemed the decent thing to say. Besides, Jonathan realized, he should be grateful that the scandal of the colonel’s near-bigamy had overshadowed talk of his own and McMahon’s stupidity in the press.

  “Her heart finally gave out,” Williams told him, his voice tightening, as if he were only a thimble’s worth of whiskey from bursting into tears. “Perhaps because I’d broken it so often. Here, come on into my office. Have a drink – to Rosemary.”

  This had to be the strangest moment in his life, Jonathan decided, but he nodded, unsure what else to do. Though he’d never met the woman,
he was certain that Rosemary Williams deserved the tribute for all her unfaithful husband must have put her through.

  A few minutes later, they sat together in the twilight of the curtained parlor, Williams gulping at his whiskey, Snyder sipping at his glass.

  “Never wanted to end up alone,” the colonel slurred. “Always figured if I got a real young wife the next time, I’d be sure t’outlive her.”

  Snyder didn’t want to hear the man’s excuses for chasing after potential replacements for a dying woman, so he brought up the reason he’d been sent. “General Branard asked me to find out if your staff has finished their reports on what they’ve learned about the other Memphis spies.”

  Williams shook his head. “They should be finished later today. I’ll have Sergeant Powell run ‘em over later on – maybe tomorrow. But I – I do have a thing for you t’ take on over. Branard sent these orders yesterday, an’ I can tell – can tell they didn’t go through Cap’n Chandler. Can’t make heads or tales out of the damned things.”

  Williams went to his desk and handed Snyder several pages. Snyder couldn’t tell much in the poor light, but he knew it would prove to be the same gibberish the Model Officer usually translated.

  Only this time Jonathan knew how he could use the poorly kept secret to his own advantage.

  Several hours later, he stood in Branard’s office.

  “What the hell does this mean?” General Branard erupted as he stared down at the note attached to the papers Jonathan had handed him. Written in Williams’ clearly recognizable hand, the note read, “Returned to Captain Benjamin Chandler for clarification.”

  Jonathan Snyder could tell from the old man’s rising color that he already suspected what it was that Williams wanted. Jonathan fought an urge to smile at the opportunity that fate – and the drunken Williams - had dropped into his lap.

  “Colonel Williams said it was common knowledge, sir. That every commanding officer within five hundred miles knows.” Williams had been too distracted to make any comments of the sort, but Jonathan supposed both might be true. “Captain Chandler has been revising and rewriting your orders, sometimes adding ideas of his own. At your advanced age, it’s assumed --”