Shadow of Dawn

by Diaz, Debra

  She also, during Sallie’s incapacitation, managed the household accounts, for Martin left that entirely up to his wife. Fortunately their situation was good; Martin’s money was in gold and he had plenty of it.

  He had always been frugal, almost Spartan in his ways. Sallie was the one who had decorated the house, replacing the plain, practical furniture with rich, heavy wood; covering the windows with velvets and brocades; adding mirrors and paintings, plants on marble pedestals, and thick carpeting for the wide sweep of stairs to the landing. Sometimes Catherine wondered, if the war went on much longer and economical matters continued to worsen, just how Martin was going to manage Sallie’s expensive tastes.

  It occurred to Catherine that she knew more about the Henderson’s financial status than she did Andrew’s. She knew his family had been wealthy before the war; she had no idea what their situation was now. But Andrew must have money, in order to keep Mrs. Shirley in his employ. Catherine could not bring herself to discuss it with him just yet. And at any rate, she had inherited a fair sum of money from her parents and there was no need to cause Andrew potential distress by questioning him about his finances.

  A light snow was falling the next day as Joseph drove Catherine home from the hospital. She was so tired she could hardly stay awake. Vaguely she became aware that the carriage had stopped, and in a moment Joseph opened the door and peered in at her.

  “Sumpin’ wrong with the harness, Miz Catherine.”

  Sighing, Catherine drew her cloak tightly around her and climbed from the carriage. She almost slipped when her feet touched the ground, covered in patches with snow. She steadied herself and walked carefully toward the horses. Twilight had fallen and the sky was a dull gray.

  “I can’t see what’s wrong, Joseph. What happened?”

  “Sumpin’ broke’s all I know. I think we better start walkin’—”

  “May I be of assistance?”

  She looked up to see a man astride a horse, looking down at them. He swept off his dark, broad-brimmed hat and she saw that it was Clayton Pierce.

  She felt only a sense of relief and hastily put aside the memory of their last encounter.

  “Oh, Mr. Pierce, thank goodness. Joseph says there’s something wrong with the harness.”

  Clayton replaced his hat, got down from the horse in a fluid motion, and leaned over to touch the neck collar and run his hands down the straps. “One of the traces is broken,” he said, straightening to turn and look back at her. “It will have to be replaced. I’ll be happy to see to it, Mrs. Kelly. It won’t take long.”

  Catherine lifted her head to meet his gaze. A cold gust of wind made her cloak billow out and she felt a snowflake fall just beneath her eye.

  “I do thank you, Mr. Pierce.”

  “I’d like to get you out of this weather. Will you go over to the hotel?” He nodded toward the building behind her.

  She glanced around doubtfully and hesitated. He said, “That’s where I’ve been staying. There’s a fire in the lobby.”

  “Well, I suppose so.”

  He took her arm firmly and escorted her to the hotel lobby, where he tipped his hat, said he would return shortly, and went back outside. Catherine stepped over to the long, narrow window and watched him say something to Joseph, then he mounted his horse and rode off, she supposed, to one of the general stores. Joseph appeared to be trying to remove the broken strap.

  She stood for a moment before the huge fireplace, warming her hands, then turned her back and surveyed the room. It was modestly appointed but clean, and the proprietor, after nodding a greeting, sat writing at the long counter.

  After a while she went back to the window. Clayton had returned, but his horse had gone and Joseph with it. He had taken off his hat and long coat, no doubt so he could better maneuver around the horses. He looked, she thought grudgingly, very nice in shirtsleeves and waistcoat. In a few moments he mounted the driver’s seat, pulled experimentally on the reins, and drove the short distance to the front of the hotel. Catherine waited until he opened the door with a whoosh of cold air and came inside.

  “Mr. Pierce, you’ll catch your death without your coat,” she said reprovingly, for want of something to say.

  “I’ll be fine. I’ve sent the driver to your house to explain what happened so they won’t worry about you. Are you ready?”

  The snow had fallen into drifts just outside the door. Catherine took one step and if it had not been for Clayton’s supporting arm would have fallen flat on her back. In an instant he swooped her up in his arms; she thought fleetingly that it was fortunate she had on neither hoop nor crinolines. He carried her through the snow, somehow opened the carriage door and deposited her within, still standing outside. A lamp hung in the corner, already lit. He tucked a blanket around her legs and feet, and she looked down at him.

  His lean cheeks and nose were red with cold, his eyes dark and thickly lashed. They seemed to avoid her. His shoulders filled the entire width of the door opening. The long white sleeves of his shirt fell over hands that were brown and muscular with long, lean fingers. When he bent his head to pull the ends of the blanket around her feet, she looked at his hair, so shiny and smooth that her hand almost moved to touch it.

  He glanced at her briefly, saying, “All right?”

  “Yes. Thank you again, Mr. Pierce.”

  With a short nod he grabbed his coat and hat from the seat opposite her and closed the door. In a moment the carriage moved smoothly forward…a definite improvement over the way Joseph lurched about. Some time later the carriage rolled just as smoothly into the carriage house and stopped. A small barn had been built beyond it, taking up a portion of the wide backyard. Catherine opened the door just as Clayton reached it, and she accepted his hand in descending to the ground.

  “Please go inside, Mrs. Kelly. I’ll see to the horses—there’s no need to send Joseph back out. I noticed my horse waiting outside. When I finish here, I’ll ride back to the hotel.”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Pierce. If you’re going to tend the horses, I’ll stay and help you, and you mustn’t think of going back without coming in to supper. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your help.”

  “No thanks are necessary, ma’am.”

  He set to work unhitching the horses and leading them into the barn. Catherine opened the door to the tack room and hung up the bridles while he took a handful of hay and began to rub down the horses. She got out two blankets, then poured out a generous supply of oats— probably too generous a supply from the way Clayton glanced at her— found a small shovel and broke the thin layer of ice covering the water trough. She found the silence unbearable.

  “What do you do with your time, Mr. Pierce, when you’re not photographing weddings and church anniversaries?” She paused. “Or rescuing helpless but sharp-tongued women?”

  He chuckled but did not look up, barely acknowledging the former scene between them.

  “I’ve been talking to some of the officers here and writing articles. There’s probably going to be a battle soon, quite close. When that’s over I’ll be moving on.”

  “Do you think—can they take Richmond?”

  “Not as long as Lee and Jackson are alive and there are men enough to fight.”

  “It’s funny,” she said. “The Yankees are doing their best to get into this city and destroy us, and yet we go on as if everything were the same as it always was—parties and weddings and balls, and more parties…”

  He smiled a little. The mellow lantern light falling on his handsome profile made him look as dark as an Indian. His voice was low. “That’s our way of showing we’re not scared or intimidated. Courage is one thing they can’t take away from us.”

  Catherine dropped the brush she was about to hand to him. He looked at her gloved hands, took them in his and said, “You’re cold. You should go inside. I’m afraid I must decline your kind invitation to supper.”

  She stared down at his hands covering hers.

  I won’t loo
k at him, she thought. But irresistibly her gaze lifted to his, and he was watching her, his eyes searching hers; then he bent his head and kissed one of her hands. She felt the warmth of his breath through her glove. A long moment passed. Gently she pulled her hands from his, which dropped to his sides.

  He raised his head. “Forgive me, Mrs. Kelly. I’ll be leaving Richmond soon.” He paused and said, “I’ll never forget you.”

  Catherine fought to keep her voice even. “Mr. Pierce…” She stopped. What on earth was there to say? To even acknowledge his words would be a betrayal in itself—how, she wasn’t quite sure, but some deep instinctive sense told her it would be better if she said nothing at all.

  “Good night,” she whispered, and walked away.

  ***

  Once inside the house, Catherine dazedly handed her cloak to Ephraim, who said, “I see the gentleman brought you home, ma’am. Will he be staying for supper?”

  “No,” she replied, and walked upstairs.

  A fire blazed cheerfully in her room, but she did not move to stand by it as she usually did. She stared at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks and nose were as red as Clayton’s had been, and her eyes were bright, as though there were tears in them that had not been shed.

  He’s going away, she thought, and I’ll never see him again. Well, it’s for the best.

  But her heart had sunk down to her stomach and her whole body felt as if it were weighted with lead. She clenched her teeth together and blinked back the tears. “You belong to Andrew,” she said to her reflection.

  But she didn’t. Not completely. Not yet.

  She made up her mind in an instant. She flew out the door and went across to Andrew’s room, knocking loudly. The door opened a crack, through which Mrs. Shirley somehow managed to slither. She stood in the hallway, looking at Catherine with a raised eyebrow.

  “Yes, madam?”

  “I want to see Andrew.”

  “He’s eating his supper. If you will kindly wait I will let you know when he’s ready to see you.”

  Catherine glared at the woman, who stared impassively back. She whirled and returned to her own room. When Jessie came to announce that supper was on the table, she said she would eat in her room; she doubted she would feel like facing anyone later.

  Moments ticked by and she felt like bursting. She had to say it soon or she would lose her nerve and never say it. She took off her dress, which clung damply to her ankles, and put on her nightgown and wrapper. She took down her hair and tied it loosely with a ribbon.

  At last she could wait no longer. She walked purposefully to Andrew’s bedroom and knocked. Some sound, like a drawer closing sharply, came from within. Mrs. Shirley opened the door and without a word marched out and went to her own room. Catherine took a deep breath and stepped inside.

  Andrew stood before the fire, clad all in black as usual. He turned as she came in, closing the door behind her.

  She could feel her courage melting away like snow under a warm spring rain. She said, with some asperity, “I tried to see you earlier but Madame Defarge wouldn’t let me in.”

  He may have smiled under the mask but she had no way of knowing. He seemed to sense that she had something to say.

  Out with it, then. She blurted, “Andrew, I want to be your wife. I mean, your wife in every way. Our wedding night—” She stopped for a moment, blushing.

  Andrew stood as though rooted to the spot.

  “You do remember our wedding night, don’t you?”

  “I’m sorry. I remember very little that happened after our wedding.”

  “Well, there isn’t much to remember. I was quite ill that night, and the next day you had to go away. Andrew, we have never…” She searched for a word. “…consummated our marriage.”

  He turned to the fire, his gloved hand on the mantel and his head bent. She forced herself to go on, speaking so suddenly and clearly that she startled even herself.

  “I want to have a baby.”

  She thought she heard him say, “Dear God.” She didn’t know whether he was swearing or praying for divine assistance. A silence stretched on until she thought she would scream.

  At last he moved away from the fire and, motioning for her to do the same, sat down in a chair.

  “You had some trouble getting home,” he said gently. “Ephraim was kind enough to tell me. Who was this man, the one who helped you?”

  She stared at him. In the pause that followed she wondered why he should try to change the subject, and then with a pang realized, whether Andrew did or not, that Clayton Pierce was the subject.

  She licked suddenly dry lips. “His name is Mr. Pierce. Clayton Pierce. He’s a friend of Bart’s.”

  “Is he a soldier?”

  “No. He’s a newspaper writer. As a matter of fact, he has asked if he could speak with you about an article. I…haven’t said anything because I didn’t know how you would, well, how you would feel about it.”

  “I see.”

  Another long pause. It was odd how she could always feel his thoughts reaching out toward hers. He knows, she thought miserably.

  Impulsively she knelt beside him and took one of his gloved hands in hers. “Andrew, it’s difficult for me to feel that I don’t know you. I want us to have a real marriage. We can be close, even if you can’t see me, and I can’t see you. I already feel close to you, in some ways. I know you may not be completely well and I’m willing to wait, but don’t you want to have a baby?”

  He said nothing. His other hand moved and touched her cheek, then he rose and stood with his back to her.

  Finally he said, “I’m very happy, very honored that you should want this, Catherine. But it’s true that I am not well. Again I must beg you to be patient with me.”

  Disappointed, and yet strangely relieved, Catherine rose to stand beside him. “Of course,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry if I’ve distressed you.”

  “Nothing is your fault.”

  She turned to go.

  “Wait, Catherine.”

  She stopped.

  “I want to meet this Mr. Pierce. I think I can give him an interesting story to write. If you’ll get permission from Martin or Sallie, I’ll dictate a letter to Mrs. Shirley for him and ask him to supper, and then afterward you can bring him up here. Where is he staying?”

  She told him, thinking even as she spoke that he might wonder how she knew that particular fact. But he only inclined his head, said, “Good night,” and waited for her to leave.

  Catherine moved toward the door. Her glance fell on the bedside table where a small dark bottle sat, its label facing outward.

  “Andrew,” she said, dismayed, “do you take laudanum?”

  He hesitated. “Only a little, to help me sleep.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t. I know about it from working in the hospital. It can be habituating.”

  “I need it.”

  She waited a moment, but he did not speak again, and she could think of nothing else to say.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Two nights later, in response to Andrew’s invitation, Clayton was to dine again with the Henderson’s. Catherine had let it be known she was too tired to go down, and she ate an early supper in her room. She simply could not face Clayton again.

  She heard him when he arrived, heard Bart’s jovial greeting and Sallie’s tinkling laugh. Sallie, Catherine thought sourly, liked Clayton a bit too much herself.