by Diaz, Debra
She went in to read to Andrew before Clayton came up, since there would probably be no opportunity to do so later; she wasn’t sure how long the interview would last. He sat in his chair, covered with a blanket, and seemed quiet and abstracted.
“What do you make, madame?”
“Many things.”
“For instance—”
“For instance,” returned Madame Defarge composedly,
“‘shrouds.’”
Catherine looked up from her reading. “By the way, Andrew, I’m sorry I referred to Mrs. Shirley as Madame Defarge the other night. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I’m sure she’s not as cold-blooded as she seems.”
Andrew coughed abruptly.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” he said, still coughing. “ Please go.”
Puzzled, Catherine set down the book and left the room. Andrew seemed almost apprehensive about meeting Clayton, which did nothing to ease her own nervous state. Surely Andrew was not going to question the other man about her.
Lost in thought, she almost bumped into Martin, who was escorting Clayton to Andrew’s room. Clayton had a satchel in his hand, presumably filled with paper and pens.
“Why, Catherine, here you are. We missed you at supper. Mr. Pierce is here.”
“Good evening, Uncle Martin. Good evening, Mr. Pierce. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to join you. I was just going to my room.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Kelly,” Clayton said with a courteous inclination of his head. “I’ll try not to tire your husband.” She nodded and watched as they entered Andrew’s room. Martin stayed long enough to make the introductions and left, going back downstairs. Catherine resisted the urge to apply her ear to the door, and went into her own room. She busied herself with some mending, sitting close to the light of the fire.
After some time, she thought she heard a door close. She waited a few more moments, then left her room and walked softly over to the large window that overlooked the short drive, to watch Clayton ride away.
Evidently she had been mistaken about which door she had heard, for at that moment Clayton came out of Andrew’s room, saw her standing at the window, and stopped.
“Thank you for giving me this opportunity to speak with your husband,” Clayton said, as though it were only natural to find her straining to see out the window, which had begun to fog over with her breath. “He talked to me quite freely. I’ll send you a copy when it’s printed so you can read it to him.”
She turned slowly, her hand over her heart. “That’s very kind of you,” she said a little breathlessly.
“Well, good night.”
“Good night. Ephraim will be waiting to show you out.”
“Thank you.” He looked as if he wanted to say something else. Catherine held her breath. But then he nodded, turned, and began to go down the stairs.
“Mr. Pierce?”
He stopped and looked up. “Yes, Mrs. Kelly?”
“How is my husband?”
A look came into his eyes, which she could only interpret as a kind of pity, whether for her or for Andrew she could not tell. “He seemed…unwell, even before I began. Immediately after the interview, he said he wanted to retire and asked me to leave. The nurse is with him now.”
“Did he tell you where it happened? Where he was wounded?”
“He doesn’t remember. He had already been treated somewhere else when he turned up at the hospital, so no one there knew anything about him, other than his identity. He had papers, some medical records, with him.”
“Oh,” she said.
He came slowly back up the stairs toward her. “You look lost and lonely,” he said in a low voice. “I can’t bear to see you this way.”
She took a step backward. “I’m fine,” she murmured.
“If I can ever do anything to help you, either of you, write me in care of one of the Atlanta papers. Will you do that?”
“Yes, certainly. That’s…kind of you.” Hadn’t she said that already? She felt completely flustered by his nearness.
Andrew’s door opened again and Mrs. Shirley came out. Her surprised expression changed to one of sharpened interest. “You were leaving, were you not, Mr. Pierce?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, without taking his eyes off Catherine. “I was just saying good-bye to Mrs. Kelly.”
With her lips pursed Mrs. Shirley turned stiffly, went into her own room, and closed the door.
“I’ll probably be leaving Richmond soon,” he said quietly. “I may not see you again. I wish you and your husband the best.”
A sense of desolation gripped Catherine, stronger than anything she had ever experienced. It was worse than the grief she had felt at her parents’ death, worse than her not knowing where Andrew had been all those long months.
She said, hardly above a whisper, “Good-bye, Clayton.”
He stood looking at her for another moment, and in that moment he allowed her to see, without saying a word, how much he cared for her. It was written in his furrowed brow and in the intensity of his unfaltering gaze. Then he turned to descend the stairs, and he did not look back.
***
The next morning Bart stopped her in the front hall just as she was about to take her cloak off the rack. He stood in the doorway of the formal parlor and grinned at her.
“You are much too lovely to waste your time in that hospital.”
“I beg your pardon?” She gave him a cold look.
“I do have something I need to talk to you about, Catherine. It’s important.”
She hesitated only a moment before replacing her cloak on its hook. She couldn’t imagine what Bart would have to say that had anything to do with her, but he had aroused her curiosity. They went into the parlor and Bart closed the door.
“It’ll only take a moment,” he said, seeing her cast a worried look at the door. “Come here and sit down.”
They went to the end of the room and Bart pulled out a chair for her at the large card table, then sat down across from her. He held up his heavily bandaged hand for her to see. A serious expression replaced his easy smile. “There’s something I need to do that I’m not able to do. The doctor told me I’m not to move my hand or undergo any sort of exertion for a number of days.”
Catherine looked apologetic. “I’m sorry about your hand, Bart.”
“Oh, it wasn’t your fault. I should have been more careful. But that’s not the point. You see, Catherine, I have many duties you know nothing about. In fact, few people do know about it. I sometimes act as a courier for the War Department. I was to deliver a message to someone in Lee’s army, an important message about supplies, and I’m now
unable to do so. There’s no one else in my department who can be spared, or for that matter, trusted.”
She stared at him. “Are you asking me to deliver this message?”
“Yes, because I trust you, and because it will be easy for you to get through. A soldier would be stopped and questioned. This message must go to one man and no other, and it must go immediately. That is, if you leave first thing in the morning you could arrive at the meeting place within a few hours.”
“But, Bart,” Catherine said, frowning. “What is this message all about? I have to know more if you really want me to do this.”
He leaned back in his chair. “There will be a shipment of supplies, a crucial shipment, made to Lee’s army. The person to whom you give the message will report directly to General Lee himself. He must know where and when and what to expect.”
“Who is this person?”
“His name is Lieutenant Hadley. He’s stationed at a house near Charlottesville. I’ll get you a pass, so you won’t be questioned on the roads. There may be guards posted at certain points. The only thing I ask is that you do not allow this message to fall into anyone’s hands other than Lieutenant Hadley’s. Lives will depend on it. There will be a battle soon, and its outcome may depend on their receipt of this shipment, which of course is to be ca
rried out in secret.”
“Why do you ask this of me?” she asked, still frowning a little as she looked squarely into his eyes. “We’ve never even been real friends, Bart. We hardly know each other, for all we do live in the same house.”
“You’re right,” he said, with equal frankness. “I’ve never felt you liked me much, Catherine. But I know enough about you to believe that if you give me your word, you’ll do everything within your power to accomplish what I ask of you. You are patriotic, and you are trustworthy. There’s no one else who can be spared just now. Army couriers are sometimes killed before their messages are delivered. As I said, no one would suspect that you are anything but what you seem to be…a young woman, perhaps traveling to see a relative.”
“It seems an awfully important thing to entrust to someone who doesn’t have any experience.”
He shrugged. “You don’t need any unique experience to just ride over to someone’s house, hand over a letter, and ride back. I would have asked Sallie to do it, but she’s sick. I could go myself, except that the roads may be rough and the ride could set my hand to bleeding again.”
She glanced down at his bandaged hand. It really was her fault he had hurt himself; it wouldn’t have happened if she’d cut up the chicken herself instead of asking him to do it.
“All right,” she said. “Tell me what I have to do.”
He smiled again. “Thank you, Catherine. It’s simple. You can use Martin’s carriage. I’ve already asked him, though he doesn’t know what for. I have a driver who’s familiar with Charlottesville, and he’ll know exactly where to go.”
“Then why can’t he deliver the message?”
“Put such an important matter in the hands of a slave?” Bart snorted. “Catherine, you don’t realize what you’re saying. This letter must go to Lieutenant Hadley only. Listen carefully. He’s a short, balding man, about fifty, and he will say to you, ‘the gates of hell.’ By that you’ll know he’s Lieutenant Hadley. If anyone else attempts to take the letter, destroy it. Tear it up. If you’re stopped, hide it where no one will search.”
“What if it is found on me?” Catherine asked, beginning to feel a flutter of excitement. “Will they think I’m a spy and hang me?”
Bart laughed. “No woman yet has been hung for spying. And there are no Yankees between here and Charlottesville. If you’re stopped by any of our men you’ll be released, I promise you. But no one must see the letter—you never know who might be a spy for the Union.”
He sat back and smiled at her. “Besides, women do this sort of thing all the time. Haven’t you heard of Miss Belle Boyd?”
“No. Who is she?”
“Why, she’s a heroine! Not beautiful, but she has an overabundance of southern charm. She has coaxed secrets out of more men than fought at Manassas. I have confidence that you, my dear Catherine, will be able to charm your way through any situation that might arise, though I’m sure it will all go smoothly. Nothing could be simpler.”
“Well, I don’t want to be famous, but I suppose I could do it this one time.” She stood up. “Shall I leave at dawn?”
Bart went to open the parlor door for her. “The carriage will be waiting, my lady.”
Catherine put on her cloak and left the house, feeling vaguely irritated by Bart’s self-satisfied smile.
She slept little that night and was wide-awake when she heard the downstairs clock strike five in the morning. She rose quietly, lit a candle and took her clothes out of the armoire, her toes curling against the chill hardwood floor. She bent down, put a match to the dry twigs in the fireplace and placed another log on it, huddling there until it began to burn.
She started nervously when there was a light knock on the door. Thinking it must be Bart, she threw a wrapper over her nightgown and opened the door. Her heart leaped in her throat when she saw Andrew.
“I was awake and heard you moving around,” he said quietly. “Is anything wrong?”
“No. That is—” Catherine had a feeling someone besides Bart ought to know where she was going. She stood back from the door and said, “Come in, Andrew.”
He seemed uncertain and she took his hand and led him into the room. Once inside he did not move.
“I’m getting ready to go to Charlottesville. I’m taking a letter to someone there, for a friend. It’s important and I’m…I’m doing it as a favor.”
“To Charlottesville? But, Catherine, Mrs. Shirley has been reading me the newspapers. The army is camped around Fredericksburg and the Yankees are just across the river.”
“I’ll have a pass. I should be able to get through without any trouble.”
“This sounds dangerous. I wish you wouldn’t do it.” “I’ve given my promise.”
He waited a moment, at last turning his head toward her and saying, “Then I shall go with you.”
“But, Andrew, you’ll have to have a pass and it’s too late—”
“I already have papers from the doctors explaining my circumstances. I cannot allow you to go without me. Not that I could be of any assistance to you, but if something happened, I would never forgive myself.”
She thought rapidly. It really wouldn’t hurt for Andrew to ride along in the carriage with her; in fact, she would be grateful for the company. Somehow she’d have to convince Bart that her husband would not compromise her mission in any way.
“Very well. I’m going to get dressed now and I’ll bring you up something to eat before we go.”
He nodded, turned and groped for the doorknob, and let himself out. She listened for a moment, praying he wouldn’t fall down the stairwell, and presently heard the closing of his door. Quickly she dressed and went downstairs, carrying a candle in the pre-dawn darkness.
The house was cold and still. She went quietly into the kitchen and found some ham and biscuits left over from yesterday. She made a pot of coffee, and as that was brewing she pulled out a lunch basket and filled it with a loaf of bread, some apples and a corked bottle filled with water to take on the trip.
She put the coffeepot, some cups, and the ham and biscuits on a tray and carried it up to Andrew’s room.
“I’ll leave your breakfast here on this table. Shall I call Mrs. Shirley to help you?”
“No. Thank you, Catherine.”
She took two of the biscuits and a cup of coffee to her own room, where she sat in front of the fire and nibbled without much appetite. It was a dangerous undertaking. She could see Bart’s dilemma, which was partly her fault, and if the matter was as important as he said, she really had no choice. But she had a strange feeling about the whole thing.
Another knock sounded on the door. This time it was Bart, with the thick, sealed letter and her pass. She looked at the letter and wondered where in the world she would hide it if she had to, for it was certainly too bulky to slide into her bodice.
“Andrew is going with me,” she said.
Bart frowned. “Did you tell him?”
She shook her head. “No details. He’s just going to ride in the carriage with me. He already has a pass.”
“I see.”
Even in the dim light she could see he was displeased, but at last he smiled and said, “Well, have a pleasant trip, Catherine. I’ll be waiting for you when you return.”
When he’d gone, she stuffed the letter and the pass into her reticule, went across the hall to get Andrew and led him by the hand down the stairs. He already had on his coat. She stopped in the hall and pulled on her cloak, remembered to get the lunch basket from the kitchen, then guided Andrew outside and into the waiting carriage. The sun was just coming up, spreading an orange glow over the sleeping city.