by Caryl McAdoo
“Yes, I always enjoy Shakespeare, especially when it’s done right.”
She had no reference, but that would change once she got to Europe. Everyone touted the London stage as the very best. Hmm, did they do English plays in France? Who cared? He’d already emptied two of his bank accounts, and tomorrow he intended to book the passage.
She loved being the queen. She squeezed his arm. “Thank you again.”
He chuckled. “It wasn’t that good.”
“No, not just the play. For everything. Making me legal, saving me from Jack, and being so nice.”
“Oh, my dear, you have –”
Looking up, she gasped and grasped his arm even tighter. A man with a knife in Harold’s mid-section on the other side guided them with his blade into an alley between the theater and the next building. Once there, he sneered then whispered.
“Hand over your money, or I’ll slit both of your throats.”
Harold eased Lacey behind him with one hand while he reached inside his coat pocket. “Here, have it all.” He held out his wallet.
The guy grabbed the leather, flipped it open, took out the greenbacks, then threw it down. “Her purse.”
Slipping her hand into her clutch, she found the Derringer, palmed it and removed the pistol, then reached around Harold to hand the man her purse.
“That flashy green ring, lady. Take it off. Yours, too, old man, and your watch.”
Lacey stepped from behind her husband’s back and held out the pistol. “No, you can’t have either. Take our money and git.”
“Easy baby, it’s not worth it. Give him the ring.”
Even in the bit of streetlamp’s gas light, she could see the evil glint in the man’s eye. He inched closer.
“He’s right, baby.” He mocked Harold. “You ain’t going to shoot me, and we both know it. Now give me the rings, or I’ll cut the old man here.” His snarl morphed into a wicked grin. “Not two hours ago, I was eating onion with it, too. Ever hear an onion cut’ll kill you?”
“So will a bullet, idiot. If you so much as puncture his skin, you get one right between your beady eyes. I was going to let you keep the money, but I’ve changed my mind. Drop it and leave now.”
The thief hesitated as though he couldn’t register what she’d said.
She lowered the gun to point at his leg. “I said drop it!” Then squeezed. A flash of light shone bright in the dark alley. The pistol recoiled. The man lunged at Harold. She squeezed again, aimed a few inches higher.
The robber stumbled back holding his leg, glared at her half a heartbeat then ran off limping.
She stepped out and watched him until he ducked into the next alley then turned back. Harold held his stomach with one hand and steadied himself against the brick wall with the other. “Best we find a doctor, dearest. The thief stabbed me.”
“Oh, no! Harold!” She picked up his walking stick and eased him out, then whistled her loudest—the one Harold claimed to be very unladylike, but she didn’t care. She needed help.
The scoundrel didn’t drop her money, but she had her ring. Her beautiful emerald. Except….
Her call for help brought several theater patrons, then a coach came, and the men helped her and Harold inside. Soon the driver whipped the horses into a gallop.
“In my boots, dear, on the inside there’s little pockets that have some gold coins, get enough to pay the driver and give the rest to the doctor, tell him there’s plenty more if he needs it.”
“Yes, sir.” She patted his hand. “You rest. I’ll take care of everything.”
“Good.” He leaned back and closed his eyes.
For a while, she did take care of things.
Paid the driver once he helped her get Harold inside the doctor’s house, but the longer the old healer worked on her husband, the more apparent it became that it wasn’t going to be a quick in and out with a horror story to tell over drinks.
Before the sun, but not the early risers, the street came to life with vendors hawking newspapers and horses clippety clopping along the brick streets. New York noise she’d become accustomed to. The clock gonged six times. She’d only missed two during the night, and still the doctor had not come out.
Finally, the man appeared and closed the door to his patient room. “Miss Longstreet, your father –”
“Husband. Harold is my husband.”
“My mistake. I’m sorry, ma’am, but there’s nothing else I can do for him.”
She jumped to her feet, suddenly wide awake. The room closed in on her. “What? Why not? He…he hardly bled any at all, just a small spot on his shirt. I was there. Helped you…take it off.”
“I know. It actually would have been better if it had, but he’s bleeding on the inside, and I can’t stop it. Good Lord knows I’ve tried.”
“Do something else. Fix him. You’re a doctor.”
“True enough, I am, but…I’m not God.” He nodded toward the door. “Don’t know if he’ll wake up, but I’m sorry, ma’am. He won’t live through the day.”
For two steps, the doctor’s words wormed their way into her soul. Her heart stopped, then tried to jump out of her chest. Tears welled, but she blinked them away.
What did this old man know? She sniffed twice, filled her lungs, then marched in. He lay on the table, white as a lily. The tears returned in earnest, filled her eyes then overflowed.
She lay her head on his chest and wept. “Oh, Harold. What have I done?”
He never woke up. Breathed his last a few minutes after the first ray of sunshine broke through the room’s east window. She’d told him how grateful she was, but never mentioned what had become so evident.
What difference could it make…that she loved him? Married him for his money then fell into love with the old coot.
Like a warm dress that fit just right, he’d become comfortable, her friend. She should have shot that thief right between the eyes. If only she had, her husband would still be alive. She buried him the next day.
Only her and the undertaker along with the two grave diggers. It rained, but she didn’t care.
After they covered the grave, they left.
She knelt there and cried every tear left inside.
What was she going to do?
Confederate General Henry Buckmeyer finished May’s letter, refolded it then stuffed it in its envelope and put it in his drawer with all the others.
One fine day, he’d trade them for a solid month of kisses, maybe more. He pulled out the New York Times Charley had sent from Saint Louis and May had been so kind to enclose with his and the others’ letters.
On the fifth page, he found the article she wanted him to read.
Halfway into the too-wordy commentary, he allowed himself a grin. Why did reporters act like they were paid by the syllable? Perhaps they were. He needed to ask someone. Either way, great news. He slipped out of his chair and knelt.
For the longest he extoled the goodness of God and His tender mercies visiting the sins of the fathers upon the sons in one day.
Only one regret, but not so much in light of this new revelation.
Evening mess couldn’t come soon enough, and he wasn’t even hungry.
He waited until after all the letters had been talked through. Levi tried a time or two to engage him, but Henry threw him a ‘we’ll talk later,’ and the Colonel let it lie. Once just family remained, he stood. “I have news.”
Levi quieted first with Houston the last, as usual. “Something wrong, Pa?”
“No.” The last time he’d done this was passing along the sad news of Wallace Rusk’s demise. “Charley sent word from Saint Louis. He found the man who wrote the ransom letter, but he didn’t have Lacey Rose. However, he knew the man who does, so he’s heading east. Remember him in your prayers.”
“We should have gone with him, Uncle.”
Henry shook his head. “No, Bart. You and Houston need to be here with us. Now Charley did send a Yankee newspaper with a very interesting piec
e of information. Last month—I forget exactly what day—the Yankees hung two spies in New Orleans.”
Levi sat a bit taller. “Anyone we know?”
“Braxton Glover, and his father Bull.”
The colonel chuckled. “The Lord works in mysterious ways. Kind of like when he had Israel’s enemies turn on each other.”
Henry snapped his fingers then pointed at his partner. “Hadn’t thought of that, Levi, but you’re exactly right.” He smiled. “My only regret is that Bull never knew it was us who helped Sofia.”
That night, he slept better than he had in a coon’s age. Two less enemies. If only he didn’t have seven thousand bluecoats in Brownwood who wanted to kill him, his life would be almost grand.
He hated the war, had from the first.
Chapter Fourteen
Lacey sat ramrod straight in the hard-backed chair. She hated waiting, but of late, that’s all she’d been doing. A little bell tinkled somewhere. The matron sitting the guard desk smiled—or at least that’s how Lacey took it.
“He’ll see you now, Miss.”
“It’s mis’ess, and thank you, ma’am.” She kept the ‘old biddy’ to herself. For all she knew, the lady was totally different away from the lawyer’s office. Working with a bunch of stuffed shirts surely made one grumpy.
The woman ought to be home playing with her grandbabies, if she had any.
Lacey touched her tummy as she walked into the oversized office. Had Harold done his duty in the eight days? She let that thought drift away. Right that minute, she had other issues to attend.
The man looked up from the piece of paper he’d been studying. “Miss Longstreet.” He stood and motioned across his desk to another of the hard-backed chairs exactly like the one in his outer office. “Please.”
Perhaps she was a miss again if that’s what they all were calling her. What did one call a widow?
“I married Harold Longstreet two weeks ago yesterday. Last week, he was murdered in an alley off Broadway…in my presence, sir. We’d just come from the theater and…” Her voice failed her.
Stiffening her back, she blinked away tears, and patted her face with her lace-trimmed hankie. The king might be dead, but she still was the queen.
“The police are hunting that man. What I’m here about is help with obtaining access to my husband’s account. The banks are not giving it to me.”
After too many words and her name inked on a printed piece of paper, she stacked five Double Eagles on top of his desk. Beside them, she laid her marriage document and reports from the police and undertaker.
The man agreed to look into her problem with the firm understanding that the hundred dollars only got him started.
Once outside, she resisted the urge to fill her lungs. The manure and horse urine stench smelled bad enough, but it might even be better than that acrid odor of lawyer greed. It proved almost more than she could bear.
The need of a bath overwhelmed her, and maybe a stiff drink on the way.
That evening in her hotel room, once out of her bath and dressed for supper, she decided she best take stock before she went downstairs. One at a time, she pulled out the bags, counted the coins and greenbacks.
Her worldly wealth—until she gained access to her husband’s other accounts had dwindled to just over four thousand dollars.
Going so fast, it couldn’t last long.
Oh, dear Harold. He meant to leave her well off so she’d never have to be concerned over provision again. What a wonderful, caring man she’d lost. And it was all her fault, too. If only she’d….
Self-flagellation hardly ever stopped.
Stowing the money away in various and sundry hiding places, she slipped out and locked first her bedroom then the outside door.
After a nice, albeit over-priced, meal and four two-dollar highballs later, she found herself alone in bed again. She hated it all. Being alone. Being in New York.
Having to hire an attorney to get what was rightfully hers.
Getting back up, she lit the oil lamp and picked up the list she’d written. She studied on it for a while.
If the bankers were going to be so hard in every city, why bother? Harold himself had scratched off the southern banks until the end of the war, but that might not happen for another ten years, if ever.
The prospect of living the high life she’d become accustomed to as queen took on a shade of unlikely. For starters, she needed to find a new place to stay.
Maybe she should even buy a house, or go farther north. There in Glen Falls, she owned a grand mansion. She decided to give the lawyer a few days, then she’d be gone.
Away from the horrible, dangerous city. With or without her money. The four thousand certainly wouldn’t last long there.
The train’s whistle sounded two long blasts before the rhythmic chug started slowly then kept a good beat. The locomotion pulled the cars forward, but failed to impress Charley.
What just a few days ago had been a novel mode of transportation, had become the norm. He still had another ten hours if it stayed on time.
Very unlikely, according to the conductor.
Leaning against the window pane, he closed his eyes, but sleep eluded him. Never a big napper, he turned his attention to his fellow travelers.
A smattering of men with two ladies traveling together sat at a table three seats ahead and across the aisle. Seemed to be his mother’s age, perhaps younger, but not by much.
He preferred the company of men, but Yankees…a different breed. With the few he’d engaged, the conversation—usually sooner than later—came around to his military service. Unwilling to take the easy way out and lie, he responded truthfully, and it never went well that he served as a sergeant in the Confederate Army.
Almost all took his present status wrong, but he allowed them to believe the past tense. Just like Uncle Henry drilled in, ‘A man didn’t have to tell everything he knew.’ And so far, no one offered to shoot him.
With his uniform left back in Texas for safekeeping and him decked out in his private citizen clothes, who could tell?
Arriving to the diner car late, he took a seat at a table across from the ladies. Once he ordered his meal, he watched them out of the corner of his eye. Like when he wanted to best a bronc, he’d watch him without actually looking at him.
Both women had a book on the table under their clutches. He strained to see the title on the spine, but neither was angled right.
And instead of reading, they chatted away between dainty little bites of chicken. He ordered the beef then listened. With more talking than eating, they’d be at their meal a while.
Women. He loved them all, but would he live long enough to ever understand them? He hoped maybe at least one someday. His ignorance of the gender sure had cost him his Lacey Rose.
Hoping to gain insight, he deliberately faced away, staring off, then focused his ears on their conversations with no chance of being caught or—he hoped—seeming an eavesdropper. Those ladies had already been traveling together for how many hours?
And yet, still had so much to say, they could hardly be bothered to eat.
His food came. While he ate, he returned to his ladies, watching without looking at them.
Though still not finished, the porter came, took away their plates, then returned with a tray of coffees.
Soon as he finished, he ordered one, too, though he usually never drank the stuff of an evening—had enough trouble getting to sleep without compounding the effects of the brew on top of all his worries.
Finally, the darker-haired one stood then scurried toward the back of the car where the privy was located. The one still at the table lifted her traveling companion’s book, looked back, shrugged, then set it on the table’s edge where he could see its spine.
Love Around the Apple Trees by May Meriwether.
Charley pointed at the novel. “Good book.”
The matron looked at him as though he’d crossed some social barrier.
“Sorry, ma’am. Didn’t mean any affront.”
“No, no, not at all.” She softened some. “Yes, it is a good book. We both love Miss Meriwether’s stories. Do you read, young man?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. My parents insisted.”
“I’m a bit surprised you’ve read any of May Meriwether’s…they’re romances, you know. I believe there are a few you’d like in particular…like The Ranger. It’s quite full of western adventure.”
“Yes, ma’am. But my father assigned that Apple Trees book there when I was ten.” He nodded toward the novel sitting on her table then chuckled. “He and Mother had been gone for a month. I’d stayed with my uncle, and hadn’t got around to even looking at it.”
Closing his eyes, he relived that day for a few heartbeats. “I ended by getting the lady who would become my aunt to tell me enough of the story to write a report for my parents.” He laughed. “Didn’t work, of course. They saw through it, and I had to read it anyway, but I loved it. I’ve actually read them all.”
“Well, that’s wonderful that a young man of your age would be so well read! You should thank them—your parents. May Meriwether’s a talented author, has a way of putting a reader right down into her stories, at least all of them I’ve read.”
“Yes, ma’am. My cousins have a collection of every book she’s ever written.”
“Good.” The lady extended her hand across the aisle. “I’m Pauleen Shriver. My sister and I are traveling to Albany; it’s our home.”
Charley took it, shook it as he’d been taught, firm, but cognizant of her feminine fragility. “Charles Nightingale, pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-four, why?”
She raised both shoulders slightly. “Oh, I thought perhaps you were named after one of Miss Meriwether’s characters, but that book came out after you were born.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned. “It’s the other way around.”