by Diaz, Debra
The door next to her suddenly opened, causing her to jump. Mrs. Shirley stared at her disapprovingly. The woman was still fully dressed, her hair tucked severely into its bun.
“Captain Kelly is asleep, madam.”
“Oh, of course. Thank you, Mrs. Shirley.”
The door closed.
Catherine went to her room, thinking that one of these days she was going to have words with Mrs. Shirley.
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning after church Andrew consented to allow Catherine to read to him. She hurried to get her copy of A Tale of Two Cities, then ran back to his room, holding her skirts high. She almost slipped on a rug and fell laughing into a chair. Andrew made a wheezing sound that resembled a chuckle.
“So much excitement over a book,” he said.
“Oh, but it’s such a wonderful book!”
“I would have thought you’d be more enthralled by Sir Walter Scott.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Dickens is much better, don’t you think?”
He gave a noncommittal nod as they seated themselves and Catherine turned the pages. “Book the First: Recalled to Life.” Mr. Lorry, the Dover road, the night shadows—all seemed to leap off the pages and into the room. And at some point during the course of her reading, she began to mentally compare her husband to Dr. Manette, the old gentleman who had suffered so long and so harshly.
“ You know that you are recalled to life?”
“They tell me so.”
“I hope you care to live?”
“I can’t say.”
She stopped in the middle of a sentence. Andrew had suffered probably more than she would ever know, and in a way he had been recalled to life, too.
Catherine had a sudden vision of herself fifty years from now, sitting in this very chair, reading the latest novel of some popular author, her voice tremulous with age, her eyes faded and bereft of joy, childless, friendless, having lived her entire life sharing the burden of a man wrecked in body and wounded in spirit. And as before when on the verge of self-pity, she was appalled at her thoughts, despising herself for her lack of compassion.
She didn’t know if Andrew really wanted to live, but he was alive, and it was up to her to make his life as pleasant as possible. Lucie had done that for Dr. Manette, her father. But Lucie, she thought, had Charles.
Andrew had turned his face toward her. “What is it?”
She blinked, jerked back in a twinkling from that distant and dismal future. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll just finish this chapter.”
When she closed the book, Andrew said, “You read very well.”
“Thank you.” Catherine cleared her throat. “Is there anything I can do for you, Andrew?”
He shook his head. “I think I’ll rest now. Thank you for reading to me. I’ll look forward to the next installment.”
“Andrew, do you ever think of going out in public?”
There was a long pause, and then he said, “Why do you ask?”
“A friend of mine is getting married on Friday. I don’t know what to do…won’t you go with me?”
“Of course you must go,” he said at once. “You must never turn down any sort of invitation because of me.”
“But I hate leaving you alone.”
“Mrs. Shirley will be here.”
“Yes, I know, but—”
“Catherine, I can’t go out. Maybe I’m a coward. Maybe someday I’ll be able to. But please don’t ask it of me now.”
“I didn’t mean—”
The door opened abruptly and Mrs. Shirley came in. “It’s time for your nap,” she announced.
Andrew stiffened. It seemed some sort of silent communication flashed between the two. Then Andrew gave a sigh.
“You may go, Catherine. Thank you again.”
Catherine gritted her teeth and left the room, finding out just how swiftly she could go from ruefulness to rage. She decided to go downstairs and sit on the porch to cool the blood that Mrs. Shirley had set to boiling. That woman acted as if she owned the house and everyone in it.
As she passed the formal parlor she saw the door was closed; from within came the low murmur of men’s voices—Bart, no doubt, with his card-playing cronies. Sallie deplored the fact that Bart played cards on Sunday, but this was one matter in which she seemed to have no influence with him. And for once Martin, too, failed to side with his wife. “A young man must have his diversions,” he’d said.
Catherine settled herself in a rocker on the porch. The maple trees lining the edges of the yard had turned blood red and seemed to glow with an unearthly beauty in the autumn sunlight. The weather was mild for this time of year; she hoped it would remain so, for the sake of the soldiers. It must be hard to fight in the cold and damp, especially when there were not enough coats, not enough shoes to replace those that wore out so quickly. Already the agricultural South was experiencing deprivations not suffered by the industrial North.
A pedestrian turned off the street and walked toward the house. Catherine recognized one of the men who came regularly to play cards with Bart. She nodded as he tipped his hat at her.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Kelly,” he said cheerfully.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Galloway. Please go in. They’re in their usual spot.”
“Thank you. I, er, heard about your husband. I’m sorry. I’m sure you’re pleased he’s home.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He bowed stiffly and turned to enter the house. Catherine was struck by the manner of his bow; some men jerked like puppets while others seemed to have been born with a natural grace about them, like Clayton Pierce for instance…
She had forgotten to ask Andrew if Clayton could meet with him. For a moment she thought perhaps she shouldn’t, perhaps it would be best not to stir up memories in her husband that he would probably prefer to keep dormant.
But then, maybe it would help him to talk. He had yet to mention the war or his injuries.
Something had gone out of the beauty of the day. The trees seemed dismal suddenly, half bare of their leaves instead of half full; the air felt chill and she shivered. Something nagged at her, some thought or feeling demanded attention, but her mind kept skirting around as if trying to avoid it.
Danger, a sixth sense seemed to say. Too much thinking can be dangerous.
***
They hanged at Tyburn, in those days…
Catherine unconsciously increased the speed of her reading, turning ahead to see the end of the chapter. She must soon begin to get ready for Delia’s wedding and wondered why she felt so fidgety. Andrew didn’t seem to notice her discomposure, but was so quiet she wondered if he were asleep. When she finished she lay the book aside, waited a moment, and when he didn’t speak, she rose.
“Lucie reminds me of you,” he said suddenly, in his rasping whisper.
Startled, she looked at the blank mask over his face. “Does she? How so?”
After another pause he replied, “Her kindness. Her compassion.”
She felt a stab of guilt. He said nothing more and she murmured, “I’m nothing like Lucie. You’re the one who’s kind, Andrew, and patient. Are you certain you don’t mind my going to Delia’s wedding?”
“I want you to go.”
“Well, then, I must start getting dressed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I hope you have a good time, Catherine.”
She crossed the hallway and sitting room to her own room. She took the black silk net from her head and looked at her hair indignantly. Thank goodness, she would have help with it today.
The Henderson’s’ next-door neighbors were British and employed all British servants, one of whom was accomplished in the art of dressing hair. She had planned to arrive at three o’clock; the wedding was at four. It was now almost half past two. Catherine donned a fresh chemise, stockings and pantalets, then realized she’d forgotten to tell Jessie to come up and lace her corset.
Martin, Sallie and Bart had all gone to the theater and planned t
o dine later with friends. Rather than search downstairs for Jessie, Catherine decided to ask Mrs. Shirley to perform the service for her. Not bothering with a wrapper, she crossed the hall and knocked on Mrs. Shirley’s door. No reply, not a sound, came from within.
Perhaps she was in Andrew’s room. Catherine knocked on the other door and, after a quick rustling sound, heard Andrew say, “Who is it?”
“It’s Catherine. Is Mrs. Shirley in there?”
The door opened and Andrew stood towering over her in his black garments. She sensed something almost like an air of surprise about him, and as sometimes happened when she was reading, Catherine received the eerie impression that he was looking at her. She stepped back a little.
“I need Mrs. Shirley to help me,” she said, resisting the urge to cross her arms and cover herself. Of course, there was no way he could see her with that hood over his head, even had he not been blind.
“She’s…not here. I don’t know where she is.”
“I’m right here,” came a voice from the top of the staircase. Catherine turned and saw that Mrs. Shirley had just ascended the stairs and was standing there, watching them. She looked, for some reason, faintly amused.
“You’d best get to your room, Mrs. Kelly. And you, sir, had best get back to your nap.”
Catherine didn’t have time to even consider reprimanding the nurse for her bossiness as Mrs. Shirley ushered her speedily into her bedroom and closed the door.
“And what is it you need, Mrs. Kelly?”
“Will you lace my stays? I’m sorry, but I forgot to ask Jessie and I don’t have time to go looking for her.”
Without reply Mrs. Shirley snatched the corset off the bed, placed it around Catherine’s waist, and began pulling the strings.
“I’ll try not to be too late, Mrs. Shirley. If you need me—”
“I doubt I shall have need of you, madam. Go and enjoy yourself. Captain Kelly will be asleep presently and won’t stir until morning. There, is that tight enough?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“You have a very small waist. Mrs. Henderson would be envious.” That was said with enough of a smirk in her voice to imply she didn’t care much for Mrs. Henderson. “There, I’ve tied the strings in such a way that you have only to give a slight pull to release them. It shouldn’t require anyone’s assistance.”
Before Catherine could answer, the nurse had slipped out the door. She looked at herself in the mirror. She did have a good figure, she had to admit, and she had been blessed with equally good skin and teeth. She wished her eyes were a true green but they would look darker once she donned her new gown of emerald green silk.
Catherine pulled the voluminous folds of the dress over her head, realized she had no one to button it for her, and decided she would ask the hairdresser to do it; Mrs. Shirley made her nervous. Once she had the gown settled into place over the mound of petticoats, she looked into the mirror again and promptly blushed at the low décolletage. She’d asked the dressmaker to alter it, but the woman was French and seemed to think the neckline should be even more daring. Apparently she had made only a minimal change. Well, daring or not, it was too late to do anything about it.
Someone knocked at the door. At Catherine’s call, Sarah, the neighbors’ diminutive but plainspoken servant, bustled into the room and set to work with brush, comb, hairpins and curling tongs. It took a long time and Sarah grew somewhat red in the face with her exertions, but at last she finished and stood back to admire her handiwork.
She had pulled half the mass of auburn hair to the crown of Catherine’s head and secured it, leaving the rest to fall in loose, sectioned curls to well below her shoulders. Tiny curls had been left to frame her forehead and temples.
“Oh, it’s breathtaking you are, Mrs. Kelly,” she said, in her strongly accented voice. “Breathtaking. Wait until Mr. Kelly sees you!” Obviously she was unenlightened as to Andrew’s condition and Catherine said nothing, staring at her reflection and wondering if the creature looking back at her was indeed herself.
“Here, dearie, let me button that,” Sarah said, putting the finishing touches on Catherine’s gown. Catherine thanked the woman, paid her, and when she’d gone, slipped on her shoes and found a lacy, cream-colored shawl to guard against the cold. The clock downstairs had already chimed half past three. Catherine hurried down to find Ephraim waiting; he’d offered to drive her to Delia’s house, where the wedding was to take place.
“Miss Catherine,” he said, very straight and dignified, “I may be overstepping my place, but I’ve got to say you sure do look pretty this evening.”
“Why, thank you, Ephraim,” she said, laughing, feeling suddenly younger and lighter of heart than she had in a long time. “Thank goodness it’s not raining. Shall we go?”
It was, in fact, a beautiful afternoon. The air was cold but not uncomfortably so. Ephraim used the covered carriage, making her feel almost like Cinderella going to the ball. Already carriages lined the street where Delia and her family lived. As Ephraim helped her step down, he said, “I believe the drivers are going to get together in the servants’ quarters off the kitchen, Miss Catherine. You can send word to me when you’re ready to leave.”
“Yes, I will, Ephraim. Thank you.”
She entered the house, greeted several people who stood in the foyer, and went upstairs to Delia’s room. Delia had sent everyone away and was sitting on the floor amid a welter of hoop, petticoats, and fervid tears.
Amazed, Catherine rushed to kneel beside her friend.
“Delia, what is it?”
“Oh, Catherine, what am I going to do? I’m so afraid!”
“What are you afraid of?”
“The war! I’m afraid of the war. I know it’s not patriotic, but I can’t help it. I hate it! What if something happens to Marcus? Papa heard the other day about Andrew; and Catherine, I’m so sorry, but what if something like that happens to Marcus? What if he’s killed? I can’t stand it. I can’t marry him, or anybody, until the war is over.”
Catherine arranged her skirts and sat down cross-legged beside her friend. Delia blew her nose loudly into a handkerchief.
“Stop that,” Catherine scolded. “You’re going to ruin your face. Now let’s just think a minute.”
The door opened and a woman peered timidly in. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here, Catherine. Do talk some sense into Delia. We’ve invited over a hundred people to this wedding. Why, even the governor is—”
“Go away, please, Mama.”
The door closed. Catherine sat for a moment without saying anything. She met Delia’s eyes and reached out to take her hand.
“Delia, what happened to Andrew was dreadful. He’ll never be the same, and neither will I. A year ago I would have thought I couldn’t stand something like this happening, either. And I really haven’t been very brave about it. But somehow you just…stand things. You pray, and trust God that somehow He can make good things happen out of all the bad. And there’ll always be bad things. Not just war. Sickness, accidents…Delia, none of us has any guarantees about anything.”
Delia listened but kept shaking her head. “You’re a strong person, Catherine. I’m not.”
“That’s nonsense. You’re as strong as you want to be.”
“I can’t live without Marcus. At least Andrew is still alive.”