by Caryl McAdoo
Once bathed, coiffured, and dressed in her thirty-five-dollar dress, she admired herself in the mirror. Stunning is what Harold would have said, except for her belly. She’d been eating way too much.
With her hands on her hips, her fingers framed her waistline. Still acceptable. She’d definitely put on a few pounds. Best cut back, or she’d have to purchase a whole new wardrobe.
Chapter Eighteen
The slow, easy pace to town didn’t bother Lacey. Bright wildflowers peeked all along the road, much more plenteous than the last time though, and gardens sprouted new life with happy daffodils and pansies.
They all bloomed so much later than in Texas. New leaves covered the once barren trees, too.
New life all around. She loved spring.
Knowing every occupant along the road, Mother Humphries entertained with her gossip and speculations. Uncle Henry banned such in the Buckmeyer home, due to scriptures, and she confessed to be a Christian, but Lacey didn’t have the heart to call the old lady on it.
Besides, it couldn’t hurt to know who was who.
To sell the house—once the lawyer fixed it so she could—and pay off the bank might be the wrong move to make.
If she did wait until the war was over, perhaps Wallace Rusk, or even Uncle Henry, could advise her. She vacillated in so many directions.
What seemed so sure at night often sounded preposterous in the light of a new day.
Mother Humphries pointed to her right. “See right up there on the hill, dear? That’s old man Dithers, he’s…”
Mister Humphries turned and silenced his wife with a look. “Now Mother, let’s not go talking out of school.”
Wait a minute. What had the old girl been doing all the way? Once her husband turned back to his driving, his mis’ess mouthed, ‘I’ll tell you later.’
The dry but flavorful roast beef and soupy creamed potatoes Mother Humphries claimed had no butter made the meal passable but easier to not finish.
After a bit of window shopping punctuated with a lot of town history, Mister Humphries tied Buster to the hitching post at the church and put on his feed bag.
Hardly a soul gathered at the rally yet, but Lacey didn’t mind. Gave her a chance to meet the folks as they showed.
Thirty minutes or so after her arrival and with fifteen neighbor folks’ names safely tucked away for future recall, a rather distinguished-looking gentleman strolled up and extended his hand.
“I’m Nathanial Smithson. You, Miss Longstreet, may call me Nate, or Deacon if you prefer.”
She held her hand out. He took it in such a genteel manner, exactly as a gentleman should, but then hung on. “Good to meet you, Nate. You may call me Lacey.”
He let go with a little squeeze. “I’ve been hearing about Harry’s beautiful widow. My condolences, ma’am.”
“Thank you, sir. My husband’s death was a tragic loss.” She glanced at the ground. Was she being forward to even think about being out and about? She gave what she hoped would be construed as a sincere, sad face. “So horrible for him to be cut down in the prime of his life, and so soon after our marriage.”
He nodded. “And what’s your political leaning? I’m a bit surprised to see you here, given Harry’s.”
“Well, since you men have not seen fit to give us ladies the vote, to tell you truthfully, I’ve not interested myself all that much in the affairs of state.”
He smiled. “That sounds just like something Harry would say.”
She better watch herself around that one, smooth as silk, quick to smile, and eyes deeper than any well she’d drawn from. “For sure and for certain, he wielded an influence on me. I understand this is a Copperhead meeting, and that you are the main speaker.” How long had it been since she’d used ‘for sure and for certain’?
It definitely reminded her of Texas and brought a silent smile to her lips.
“Yes, ma’am.” He glanced over his shoulder. Many still strolled along the lamp-lit street leading to the church. “Looks like a nice crowd gathering. Shame we can’t garner the same of a Sunday morn.” He tipped his hat. “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am, I need to make a few last minute preparations.”
She went inside and found Mother Humphries then slipped in next to her, third row from the front. Her mister still huddled in the back with three other old-timers. She leaned in close.
“Have you taken notice of that man sitting across the aisle on the back row all by himself?”
Lacey glanced over her shoulder. “The one with the long gray beard?”
“Yes, indeed. That’s him. Old man Dithers. I swear to you and swear it true, the man looked just like that when the Mister and I were newlyweds.”
“No. How could that be? How old is he?”
“No one knows. Some say he’s a holy man, but he doesn’t attend church regularly. It certainly surprised me when I saw him walk up for this meeting. He hasn’t said a word to anyone in at least twenty years.”
“Folks, if you’ll please find a seat, we’ll get started.”
The kind woman patted Lacey’s hand then motioned for her to scoot in, whispering, “Mister likes sitting next to the aisle, dear.”
After a prayer and two warm-up speakers, Deacon Smithson took the podium.
“Neighbors, what we’ve been hearing is true. Abe’s war has cost more lives on both sides than can even be counted. Never mind the limbs left on battlefields all across our great nation. We cannot afford another four years of this insanity.”
Nate paused, and heads went to nodding. A smattering of amens drifted through the overcrowded room. Otherwise, a dropped pen would have sounded like a cannon shot.
“Like the carnage hasn’t been bad enough, Lincoln promoted that butcher Grant and elevated him to general-in-charge. That man thinks nothing of losing ten, twenty thousand men in a day, just so long as he’s killed some more Johnny Rebs. You know what good old Abe said about that? ‘Finally a general that understands numbers.’ It’s an abomination.”
“Grant’s a drunk!”
“Yeah, he can’t win the war.”
The barbs came from two men sitting behind Lacey, but she didn’t turn to see who.
“Exactly right. Wouldn’t you be, too, with that many souls haunting your dreams?”
General agreement raced through the pews. More folks gave voice to their derision for the war.
“Yes.” Nate pointed to a man on Lacey’s right. “You couldn’t have said it better, brother.” He held his hands out, and the room quieted. “If you didn’t hear what Doc Allen said, it was that we need to vote Lincoln out of office. Elect us a new president.”
The crowd again voiced agreement.
“That’s why we’re here. But it takes money to stand for an election. Now we have several good men, nationally known men, who are considering throwing their hats into the ring, but none of them have the cash needed to challenge Lincoln.
“We’re going to pass the hat here in a minute, but before we do, I want you to first ask yourself this question before throwing in your donation. What is a man’s life worth? Then dig deep, neighbors, and let’s all do our part.
“If we don’t run a good man, then Abe will have another four years to murder even more of our young men.”
Apparently, Nate gave a high sign, because four fellows appeared up front holding collection plates.
“Hear me, now, the Lord has opened my mouth.”
The rest of the room turned, and Lacey followed suit. Old man Dithers stood in the back by the door, his thin hair haloed by the lamp light from outside.
“Give if you want, but it’ll not do any good. This country was born in the blood of rebellion and the sword will not leave our house.
“Lincoln will be re-elected, but God is merciful. General Robert E. Lee will surrender next year on April 9th at the Appomattox Court House; shortly after that the Confederacy will collapse.” The old man turned and walked out as though nothing strange just happened.
No one s
aid a word. Lacey’s heart boomed. She’d never seen or heard anything like it.
Did that old man really know that the war would last another year? How could he? She slowly turned back toward the front and made note that the deacon seemed visibly touched. Several pounding heartbeats passed in silence.
“Folks.” Nate eased out and stood next to the lectern. “A year is too long to wait.” He nodded to the ushers who hadn’t moved. “The convention will be in June in Baltimore. If we can block Lincoln’s nomination, the fighting could be over before the New Year.”
She slipped a twenty into the plate, all folded up so no one could see, as the wooden dish made its way by.
Before the old man, she’d been thinking a hundred would be appropriate, but if Lincoln would be re-elected either way…and if the war was going to last another year...
Did he really know?
Certainly sounded as if he believed it.
A man called on offered a closing prayer, just like in a church service, and then the sanctuary emptied. Most mounted horses or climbed into carriages and left. A few small groups formed, but no dancing.
Did deacons even dance? Was there a Mis’ess Deacon?
Well, Lacey would’ve enjoyed a reception and dancing, and couldn’t deny being disappointed—as if anyone cared—but at least Mister Dithers had provided some fireworks of sorts. For that one reason, she could truthfully say she enjoyed the evening.
Meeting the deacon proved another, but she’d most likely keep that to herself.
Days had become difficult to keep up with, but best she could figure, it was Friday.
If Mister Nathanial Smithson asked, she might just have to say yes to come Sunday with the Humphries. But the man hadn’t even tried to maintain a conversation with her.
Stopped for a few cursory words then flitted off, obviously too busy getting his back slapped.
Once home and in her bed, she contemplated both men.
Nate appeared to be cut from the same cloth as Harold, not quite young enough to be his son, but close. Old man Dithers had been so specific. Who ever heard of the Appomattox Court House? And even giving the exact date!
Neither of the Humphries said an unnecessary word on the way back. And when the mister neared the spot his mis’ess had pointed out on the way in as Dither’s home, he reined Buster to the far side of the road.
That night if she dreamed of either man, she didn’t recall the next morning. But between her first and second cup of coffee, she decided on one thing. Invitation or not, she’d have to make church come Sunday. Maybe both men would be there again.
April whirled into May, and still he’d not run down one clue that got him any closer to discovering where Harold Longstreet might have gotten himself off to. Charley had made every card room and hotel that Lefty named, plus a dozen more.
Everyone knew Longstreet—or of him—but no one had seen him in a coon’s age.
Then on the third day of May, a stroke of genius bit his backside as he walked past a seller of fine books and other sundries. His Aunt May owned a brownstone there somewhere. And surely there’d be a publisher who would know its address.
Auntie wouldn’t mind him staying there at all, and her editor lady might have some idea where else to look.
Spinning around, he hurried inside. Took him all of an hour to find the offices. They’d even put their address in the front of Auntie’s books. Did Uncle Henry know she still used Meriwether?
Another hour passed waiting in the outer office, trying to decide the matron’s age manning the guard desk. Handsome enough for a woman…what? Fifty-three? No more than fifty-four.
Shame the practice of asking a lady her age had been pronounced impolite. If only somewhere along life’s way he’d mastered the art of napping in a straight-backed chair.
His partner had a talent for it. Every time Wallace passed through, his thoughts made Charley miss him again. Hard to believe he was no more in the world. That man could let his chin rest on his chest and be gone in a lightning bug’s flicker.
But that didn’t mean anyone could sneak up on him.
That wasn’t about to ever happen.
Until he could put the slip on either Wallace, Uncle Henry, or his father, Charley figured he’d not be full grown. So far, after countless attempts, six feet was about as close as he’d gotten. And that only once on a sleeping Wallace.
Now, Houston and Bart? Those boys were a different story, but they didn’t count.
Was no news really good news? All that the papers there wanted to write about was Grant and Lee locking horns.
The door finally opened and a woman about Aunt May’s age strode past the guard desk right toward him with her hand out. “Mister Nightingale, I’m so sorry for the delay. How can I help you?”
Removing his hat, he stood and offered a firm shake, mindful of her gender. “Might I have the pleasure of buying you dinner and tell you why I’m in New York instead of Texas?”
The lady eyed him hard. “Where in Texas do you hail from, sir?”
“Clarksville, Red River County.”
“I like a man who does his research, but picking a fictional character as a pseudonym is not going to help you get published. Where’s your manuscript?” She raised an eyebrow. “And what’s your real name?”
Her supposition tickled him. He liked the lady, hard as nails but with a certain appeal. “Charles Nathaniel Nightingale, after my father, but Rosaleen Folgelsong Baylor didn’t saddle me with the junior.”
Now she chuckled. “You are good, sir, but I’m out of time. If you want to leave a manuscript, I will give it all the considerations it’s due.”
“Ma’am, Wallace Rusk died the end of March. A mini ball shattered his thigh bone in the battle for Laredo. From the first, he refused to let the saw bones cut on him.” He twirled his hat’s brim in his hands.
The woman backed up a step. “No. Not possible. Not Rusk.”
“My Uncle Henry tried to talk him into letting his surgeon take it, then after I got him home, Aunt Rebecca begged him, to no avail. The rot spread, and it was too late. That’s when he ordered me to go fetch Lacey Rose. She’d run off. Happened right after she got my letter. I’ve tracked her this far, ma’am.”
“You really are Charley, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am, and I need help. I was thinking, for Aunt May’s sake… Are you interested, or should I go elsewhere?”
Chapter Nineteen
The lady glanced over Charley’s shoulder then stepped closer. “Yes, of course I want to help. My carriage will be here in a few minutes. If you’ll come home with me, we can talk about it there.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’d be pleased to.”
On the ride up Park Avenue, May’s one-time editor, now publisher of the whole shooting match, Federica Dempsey—Freddie, please—quizzed him about his Aunt May and the family.
Twice she expressed disbelief that Wallace was gone, then her face hardened and her tone altered into sounding somewhat harsh.
“Is she working on anything now? Prairie Daughters has been out two years, and children everywhere are begging for more Red Tail, The Gentleman Pirate stories.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know if she’s writing or not. With Uncle in San Antonio, she’s spending so much time overseeing things.”
“Well, you tell her when you see her that I need another May Meriwether book.”
The driver stopped in front of a large three-story brick and stone home across from the big park. The man jumped down, ran around, and opened the curb side door. Charley stepped out and extended his hand.
Freddie let him help her with the step then hurried up the stairs.
She led him to a large parlor, asking his favorite drink. From a fancy rolling cart against the hall wall, out of an even fancier bottle, she poured him two fingers worth of single malt Scotch whiskey—whatever that was—into a heavy cut-glass tumbler.
Then she promptly left, promising a short return. He eased into
a fancy curved arm, high-backed chair next to the window.
The city still pulsed with activity, like a bunch of ants scurrying every which direction. Her place dripped money. She obviously spared no expense and lived with the best of everything around her. Such a waste of dollars.
A lady clothed in rags selling something on the street caught his attention. Especially with people like that who could use some help.
Freddie returned after longer than he expected, changed from a rather drab beige dress into what appeared to be an evening gown. It sparkled as though studded with diamonds. “Nice dress. Going somewhere?”
“Yes, thank you.” She sat on the edge of the matching chair next to a little table that also sat beside him. “I have an important dinner tonight, but your supper is being prepared as we speak. Now tell me how you came to be in New York.”
Through the rest of his first drink and the following one—he liked the Scotch—he told the sordid truths, sparing Lacey’s honor as much as possible.
At the end, he leaned back. “So here I am. Never imagined New York would be so big. You have any ideas where I should look?”
“Where are you staying?”
“At a boarding house at the end of Wall Street.”
“When my driver returns, he’ll take you there. Gather your things, then he’ll bring you back here and show you to your room. It’ll make things easier. Tomorrow, I’ll send word to the police commissioner to see what he can find out. Have you paid the commutation fee?”
“No ma’am, didn’t figure to be here come July, so wouldn’t have any need to worry about being drafted.”
“Well, Lincoln’s Butcher is needing cannon fodder. I’ve heard from several sources, they’re going to jump the gun. Move up the date. Wouldn’t surprise me if they declared martial law.”
That would not be good at all. Charley hated to hear it. How could he take up arms against Texas? “I’ve got the coin, but my money belt is getting slimmer by the day.”
“No, don’t pay it. I’m going to Connecticut in two days. I’ve got a farm north of Danbury. You’re welcome to stay there until I hear something solid or it’s time to go to Glenn Falls.”