Shadow of Dawn

by Diaz, Debra

  “I’d like that, but some other time, I think. You were about to go down to supper, weren’t you? And I’m ready to retire for the night.”

  “All right.” Her skirts rustled loudly in the still room as she stood up. He stood also and waited politely for her to speak.

  “Have you had your supper?”

  “Mrs. Shirley will bring it.”

  “Well, good night, then.”

  “Good night, Catherine.”

  As the door closed behind her, she saw Jessie in the sitting room lighting the lamps, her gingham dress and white apron clean and neat on her plump figure. Her round dark face looked strangely disembodied over the flare of a candle. “Supper’s ready, Miz Catherine,” she said. “They say they’s waitin’ on Mr. Bart’s friend.”

  “Thank you, Jessie.”

  Catherine hurried to her room where she changed her dress and smoothed her hair. She didn’t usually like Bart’s friends any more than she liked Bart, but her uncle would expect her to look her best. No doubt Sallie would be as ornamented as a Christmas tree.

  When she reentered the hallway, she saw Jessie waiting for her, the long taper smoking in her hands. She never seemed to relish her task of seeing to the lamps once dusk had fallen, and she stayed close behind Catherine as they started down the stairs.

  Catherine stopped on the landing so suddenly Jessie bumped into her with a loud “oomph.”

  “Oh, ’scuse me, ma’am,” Jessie said quickly, waiting for her to resume her descent, but Catherine had become as unmovable as a statue.

  Just down the hallway and over Bart’s sandy head, Catherine saw the man who had been photographing the church that morning—the man from whom she’d run away for some unfathomable reason and hoped never to see again. The thought raced across her mind that she could turn and flee up the stairs and remain in her room all evening, but the stout maid stood behind her like a fortress.

  Someone said her name, and she became dimly aware that her uncle stood in the parlor doorway with Sallie, calling to her. Bart turned aside.

  The stranger stood framed against the massive front door, looking at her. Catherine made herself move forward.

  Bart said, with excessive cordiality, “Clayton, may I present Martin’s niece, Mrs. Catherine Kelly. Catherine, this is my friend, Clayton Pierce.”

  “How do you do?” she said automatically.

  He bowed. “How do you do, Mrs. Kelly? I’m happy to see you again.”

  “You know each other?” Bart asked, surprised.

  “I had the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Kelly this morning at church.” He did not elaborate, but his dark eyes gleamed at her and she felt reassured that he held no resentment toward her for the unexpected addition to his photograph.

  “I fear I caused you some unnecessary work, Mr. Pierce,” she said lightly. “I’ve posed for a photograph or two and I know it’s rather complicated and involves much attention to detail. I suppose you had to start all over with another plate.”

  “A minor chore, ma’am. As I said, I thought it much improved by your presence, but the two ladies felt the building needed no adornment.” He smiled and added quietly, “Please don’t concern yourself.”

  “Do come into the parlor, Mr. Pierce,” Sallie said, looking confused but apparently deciding that Catherine had had her share of attention. As Catherine expected, Sallie’s pale blond hair was piled into an elaborate coiffure, and the starched ruffle of her bodice revealed a large expanse of softly powdered bosom.

  Everyone moved into the parlor to await official summons from Ephraim that supper was served. Catherine sat on the far end of the sofa, half in shadow, and watched as her uncle poured a glass of port for each of the men.

  Clayton Pierce, in fawn-colored trousers and matching coat, blue waistcoat and white shirt, was no less handsome than he’d been that morning. His broad shoulders tapered to a lean waist, his legs were long and encased to the knees in riding boots. His black, well-groomed hair touched his collar, and she noted with approval that his face was clean-shaven, for she didn’t like men with beards, except, of course, for her father and Uncle Martin.

  Now why did I think that? she asked herself. Why should she care if he shaved daily or sported muttonchops?

  Her feelings about Mr. Pierce were still strange and ambiguous. Whenever he looked at her, she felt as if he knew her, as if they had met somewhere long ago and shared some sort of bond. But that was impossible. She’d never met him; she would have remembered. Something deep inside her consciousness seemed to caution her, but against what?

  She wanted very much not to like Clayton Pierce. That shouldn’t be difficult, since he was Bart’s friend.

  “How do you know Bartie, Mr. Pierce?” Sallie was saying. “I thought I knew most of his friends, but I’m sure we’ve never met before.”

  “We went to the University of Virginia together,” Bart explained. “I just ran into him yesterday, discovered he didn’t know many people in town, and decided to ask him to supper.”

  “And what brings you to Richmond, Mr. Pierce?” Martin inquired.

  “I travel a great deal, sir. I’m a correspondent for several newspapers.”

  “More than one?” asked Martin. “Isn’t that a bit unusual?”

  “Yes, sir, I suppose it is.” There was a modesty about him, an honest, self-deprecating quality that Catherine struggled not to admire. “I started out with one of the Atlanta papers, but it’s worked out well enough that I now telegraph dispatches to editors in six or seven cities. I’m more or less waiting to see what the Yankees’ next move will be. Since their main objective is to capture Richmond, this is, for the present, the best place to be.”

  “Well, to hear your earlier conversation with Catherine, I thought you were a professional photographist,” Sallie said, her eyes round with interest.

  “I like to stay busy, ma’am. Sometimes there’s a gap between reports and articles. I take photographs of soldiers and battlefields and send them to my editors, and they put them up on the walls of the post office or general store, or wherever they can. It helps to sell newspapers.”

  “But how did you come to be photographing the church?” Sallie asked.

  “The owner of the hotel where I’m staying mentioned my ability with a camera to the hotel custodian, who also happens to be the custodian for the church. He knew some ladies with the historical society were trying to find someone to take photographs. He sent them to see me, and before I knew it—” he sent a smiling glance toward Catherine and winked, “—there I was.”

  Catherine lowered her eyes. No, she wouldn’t like him. But he didn’t seem anything like Bart.

  “I assume you have a partner or an assistant of some kind who helps you in this process?” Martin asked.

  “My assistant recently left me to join the army. I know a couple of young men I can call upon if the need arises.”

  Bart, who was still standing, planted one foot on a low stool and said, “I once read about a photographer who grew so irate when his customer kept moving about that he pulled a gun on the poor fellow.”

  “Not really!” cried Sallie.

  “And then again,” said Bart complacently, “I heard about a man so determined to have his picture made for a lady friend that he actually had to hold a gun on the photographer, who kept claiming he had another appointment. In the picture you can see the barrel of the pistol showing beneath his coat.”

  “How shocking! I trust nothing like that has ever happened to you, Mr. Pierce?”

  “I don’t usually do portraits, Mrs. Henderson, though I recall being chased once through a meadow by an outraged bull. I can well imagine that the whole apparatus, myself included, did look rather suspect—to the bull.”

  Catherine had to join in the laughter as Ephraim said from the doorway, “Excuse me, Mr. Henderson. Supper is served.”

  Sallie rose and linked her arm with their guest’s, and Martin followed, smiling indulgently. Catherine found herself being escorted
by Bart to the dining room.

  Hester had indeed outdone herself, no doubt with the able assistance of Ephraim. Fricasseed chicken, pork cutlets, and a rich beef and herb stew over rice sent ribbons of steam undulating upward. An array of vegetables and platters filled with sliced bread and biscuits sat at strategic positions on the long table. The china plates and silverware had

  been polished until they gleamed beneath the chandelier, which cast a pleasant, soft candlelight upon the room.

  It seemed extravagant; indeed it was, when food prices were rising every day. But this was Sallie’s doing—no doubt to please Bart—and Sallie usually liked to pretend that nothing had changed, that there was no end in sight to Martin’s wealth or the income he derived from his land-office business. Catherine suspected that if she had any feeling about the war, it was merely irritation at the inconvenience of it all.

  “Seems like I’ve heard of you, Pierce,” Martin said thoughtfully. “Are you C. A. Pierce?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s the name I write under.”

  “Well, well!” Martin regarded him with increased respect. “Yes, I’ve read some of your work. Heard some good things about you, too. Your dispatches are most informative. You seem more concerned with facts than emotion, which is more than I can say for most of the writers in this city.”

  Their guest looked uncomfortable but said, “Thank you, sir.”

  Martin went on, “I do remember one article, however, in which you ventured to give your opinion. You said something about war beginning with a dream, its horrors not being realized until it was too late for retreat…something about the South being asleep and her waking wouldn’t be pleasant. Some of my friends didn’t like that, but I thought it was true, very true indeed.

  “But you know, Mr. Pierce, there is justification for this war. Our dream is to live in peace, but the North won’t allow it. They’ve given us no choice. We’re like our forefathers who fought against the British. Why, my own grandfather fought at Valley Forge. It’s a shame it’s come to this.”

  Catherine thought her uncle had completely missed the point.

  “Do tell us about your present assignment,” Sallie entreated, still exhibiting, whether real or feigned, wide-eyed interest in everything Clayton said.

  “I go around speaking with different regiments of soldiers to get their perspective on the war, find out what they believe, what they need. I also report on the outcome of battles.” He paused. “Sometimes I take photographs of the field directly after the fighting.”

  “But how exciting,” Sallie chirped. “I can imagine it must be rather dangerous.”

  “Not as dangerous as actually being in the battle,” Catherine said tartly. She didn’t know why she said it, but she had and she didn’t regret it.

  Sallie’s eyes got still wider until Catherine thought they must surely loosen from whatever held them in and pop right out of her head. She saw, out of the corner of her eye, Martin’s frown and Bart’s look of amusement.

  A light in Clayton’s dark eyes belied the seriousness of his expression. “You are quite right, Mrs. Kelly. But I like to think I perform a service for our new nation and for our soldiers. One can’t underestimate the power of the newspapers. People can be influenced by just the angle of a story, and public opinion can have great effect on an army.”

  “Well,” Martin said, in a conciliatory tone, “there’s no doubt about that. It’s important to keep morale high. I’ve read too many negative things in the papers lately. Too much criticism of our officers.”

  “Some criticism is warranted, of course,” Clayton replied. “But they’re human and will make mistakes.”

  “Take Lee, for instance, at Sharpsburg—” Martin began, but he was interrupted by Bart.

  “Come, gentlemen, let’s not bore the ladies with talk of the war,” he said, smiling at his brother-in-law.

  “Oh, I’m not bored,” Sallie said quickly, and with such feeling that Catherine raised her eyebrows. “Why, what else is there to talk about? Tell me, Mr. Pierce, do you think the war will ever come here?”

  “The war is here, Mrs. Henderson; in fact, it’s practically at our doorstep. If you mean, will the Union Army ever take Richmond, I can only say it isn’t outside the realm of possibility.”

  “Is it true what they say about the Yankees? That they burn people out of their homes, even old people and children, and that they treat women like…well, you know…like the order from that horrid Yankee general who took over New Orleans?”

  “They do burn homes, yes,” Clayton answered. “It’s a tactic of war, of course. As for their treatment of women, I really can’t say. One hopes that most Union officers are not as lacking in good sense as General Butler.”

  The incident he spoke of concerned Butler’s decree that any southern woman who showed disrespect to a Union soldier should be treated as a common woman of the streets. Catherine had read about Butler’s array of vices; he was vehemently disliked in New Orleans and its citizens had bestowed upon him several unflattering but descriptive nicknames.

  The conversation continued about various aspects of the war. Catherine watched their guest covertly. He was courteous, but she sensed he didn’t enjoy talking about himself or the war. More than once their eyes met, and each time she hastily lowered her gaze and hated the fluttery feeling that stirred insistently from somewhere inside her.

  Once, though, he caught her eye, and before she could look away, asked quietly, “Forgive me if I’m being forward, Mrs. Kelly, but I’m curious about your husband. Is he with the army?”

  Caught off guard, Catherine did not answer at once. Sallie hastened to enlighten him.

  “Andrew was severely wounded. He’s here at home but I’m afraid, not able to join us.”

  “I’m sorry,” Clayton said, still looking at Catherine. “Was it Sharpsburg?”

  Catherine realized for the first time she didn’t know where or when Andrew had been wounded. Somehow with her shock at seeing him she’d never even thought to ask.

  “Why, I really don’t know. I’m sure it must have been before that. My husband was in a hospital in Georgia for a long time.”

  “Perhaps I could speak with him, write an article, if he’s willing.”

  Catherine’s brows drew together in a small frown. “I don’t know. He isn’t well. He doesn’t like to be around people just yet. I suppose I could ask him.”

  “I would be grateful.”

  She glanced at him and was surprised to see a gentle expression of kindness on his face. But of course he would be sympathetic; no doubt he’d seen and interviewed many wounded soldiers.

  Ephraim came out to serve dessert, a perfect rice soufflé straight from the oven. Catherine picked at hers, as she had at her supper, for her appetite had flown the moment she saw Clayton Pierce at the door. At last Sallie suggested they retire to the parlor for coffee or brandy (or both, as Sallie usually braced the former with the latter). Catherine took advantage of the opportunity to plead a headache and escape to her room.

  “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, Mrs. Kelly,” Clayton said, taking her hand and making a shallow bow over it. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured. “Good night.”

  She walked up the stairs. At the top she looked at Andrew’s bedroom door and wondered if he were still awake. It was not late; perhaps she could read to him. She went to the door and knocked softly. No sound came from within. On impulse she touched the doorknob and turned it. It was locked.