Shadow of Dawn

by Diaz, Debra

  “Yes, Miss Catherine?”

  “I want the tub, Ephraim, and lots of hot water.”

  The door across from her opened. Clayton stood there, again garbed as Andrew.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I very well may be an invalid for the rest of my life,” she said and slammed the door.

  In a moment Tad and Joseph had brought up the large tin bathing tub and set it down before the fireplace. They returned some time later with Jessie, carrying buckets of steaming water until they’d filled the tub. Jessie lingered to help Catherine climb into it, leaving clean towels on the dresser.

  “Jessie, the house seems awfully quiet. What time is it?”

  “It’s gettin’ on near noon, ma’am.”

  The servant left the room. Catherine piled her hair on top of her head and secured it with pins. She was amazed she’d slept so long; she couldn’t remember ever sleeping past seven o’clock. How delicious the water felt! She stretched out as much as she could and leaned her head back against the tub, watching the steam rise with narrowed lids.

  The events of yesterday ran through her mind like a play that someone else had enacted. Andrew was dead, shot as a traitor. How foolish she had been to marry him when she really knew nothing about him! She remembered their wedding night and his poorly concealed disappointment when she became ill. She was glad now that they had not been intimate. Yet she felt sorrow for the man she’d known, sorrow that he had acted the coward and lost his life because of it.

  And Clayton…it had been Clayton all the time! Again she remembered the night on the balcony and burned with embarrassment. And the time she had declared she wanted to have “Andrew’s” baby! How could she ever face him again?

  She tried to recall what states of undress in which she’d appeared when she thought she was speaking to her blind husband. Good heavens, the day of Delia’s wedding she had gone to his room in chemise and pantalets!

  She supposed it was to his credit that he had never taken advantage of the many opportunities given him.

  She heard the door open and, thinking it was Jessie, waited for the maid to speak. When there was no sound, she opened her eyes and turned her head to see Bart standing in the doorway, a surprised look quickly turning to one of mischief. He closed the door softly behind him.

  “Bart Ingram!” she cried, outraged. “How dare you come in this room? Get out of here this minute!”

  “Don’t worry, my dear Catherine, you’re quite hidden from view and I need to talk to you.”

  “Get out or I’ll scream.”

  “Go ahead, everyone’s gone. The servants are out on errands, except for the ancient cook, and your husband’s probably taking one of his many naps. That is what he does best, isn’t it? And that dragon of a nurse just left the house, probably to buy him more drugs.”

  Catherine’s stunned mind raced. It was alarming to find herself alone with Bart, but if she called out for Clayton he might be forced to reveal strength that he, as Andrew, was not supposed to have. Well, at any rate, the tub was too tall and the water too high for Bart to see much more than her shoulders, and surely he would not be so rash as to come any closer.

  “You are certainly no gentleman,” she said coldly. “And what do you know about my husband? He does a lot of things besides sleep.”

  “Indeed? Well, you should know. Now tell me about yesterday.”

  Her jaw tightened with anger but she replied, “There’s nothing to tell. I delivered the letter to Mr. Hadley and then I left. We lost a wheel on the way home and had to wait for a ride.”

  It was surprisingly easy to lie to Bart.

  “How many times were you stopped?”

  “Once, I think, on the way out of the city.”

  “Just once? Weren’t you stopped when you came back to Richmond?”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Well, of course. I meant once on the way and once back.”

  “Did you see anyone else with Lieutenant Hadley?”

  She frowned. “No. Was I supposed to?”

  “No.” He smiled at her. “You’ve done well. Perhaps I can call on you to help me in the future.”

  “I did it for the cause,” she said sharply. “Not for you.”

  He laughed. “Catherine, you are adorable.” He began to walk toward her.

  “Stop!” she cried. “If you come a step closer, I’ll—”

  “What?” he said, laughing again. “Throw the soap at me?”

  She did throw the soap at him, hitting him squarely above the eye. He stumbled back against the bed, putting his hand to his head. His bandaged thumb stuck out incongruously. “Why, you little—”

  Unexpectedly the door opened and Clayton came into the room, as Andrew, a cane held out before him. “Catherine,” he whispered, “who are you talking to?”

  Bart looked from him to Catherine with scorn. Catherine answered, “Why, it’s Jessie. Go on, Jessie, I can get out by myself.” Bart stalked from the room, his hand still over his eye. The door shut with a bang. They heard Bart go into his room and slam that door, too. Catherine was trembling from a combination of rage and near panic.

  “I heard everything,” Clayton said. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

  “No, but I think he was about to throttle me.”

  “I doubt that.” His muffled voice sounded vastly amused.

  “I think you’d better leave, too.”

  “Most assuredly.” On his way out, he added, “You’d better lock the door from now on, my fair young rebel.”

  “Wait,” she called, suddenly conscious that the water had grown cold. “I…can’t seem to move. I’ve gotten as stiff as Mrs. Shirley’s spine.”

  He paused and closed the door again. “Now this,” he said, “should be interesting.”

  “Oh, you idiot,” she groaned. “I can’t climb out of this thing by myself and I don’t propose to sit here all afternoon waiting for Jessie. Just turn your back and hold out your arm so I can grab it. But first hand me that towel, please. Close your eyes.”

  “Madam, you may take comfort from this mask over my face, but I make it a point never to close my eyes when helping a woman out of the bathtub. Too dangerous—a slip, a strike on the skull, and one or both of us could be dead.”

  She scowled. “Your wit escapes me at the moment, sir. Just mind your manners.”

  He handed her the towel, then turned his back and obligingly held out his arm. Catherine, feeling as though she’d been struck by paralysis, forced her sore muscles into motion. She grabbed hold of Clayton’s hand so ponderously that he was caught off balance and nearly fell backward into the tub with her. He righted himself but was forced to turn toward her. She quickly covered herself with the towel.

  “You see?” he said, his voice heavy with laughter. “A very dangerous enterprise.”

  “Honestly!” she exclaimed. “Turn around. It’s your fault I can barely even walk!” Her hand moved up to his shoulder and she climbed laboriously out of the tub, clutching the towel tightly against her.

  “Dare I leave you like this? You won’t fall back in and drown?”

  “I’ll manage,” she said shortly. “Thank you very much.”

  “Then if you’ll remove the death grip you have on my arm, I’ll be going.”

  “Oh.” She released him and braced herself against the edge of the

  tub.

  He bent over suddenly and retrieved something from the floor. “I hear a cake of soap has gone up to a dollar twenty-five. Here,” he said, tossing it casually to land with a plop in the water. “A good soldier doesn’t waste ammunition.”

  ***

  “Her husband’s destiny,” said Madame Defarge, with her

  usual composure, “will take him where he is to go, and will

  lead him to the end that is to end him. That is all I know.”

  Catherine had avoided Clayton for almost two days. She could not decide just how angry she was with him. He had deliberately misled her, caus
ed her enormous grief, and that mortifying incident in the bathtub had somehow been all his fault.

  And at any rate, it had taken that long to get the stiffness out of her

  muscles and joints. She kept mostly to her room, telling whoever inquired

  that she did not feel well.

  At last she decided that, angry or not, it would be better if they continued exactly as they had before, lest Bart’s suspicions be aroused. That evening she went to “Andrew’s” room to read to him.

  He said very little, other than agreeing that they should continue the reading. She felt strange and self-conscious.

  “Would you feel better if I put this on?” he asked, lifting the black hood from the table next to his chair.

  “I think I would feel awfully silly,” she answered, in what she hoped was a tone of indifference, and opened the book. She had barely begun when the door opened and Mrs. Shirley slid in, silent as a shadow. She closed the door and said, “They’re here.” Immediately Clayton jumped to his feet and crossed the room, where he knelt on one knee and removed a piece of wood that he had carved out of the floor. Before Catherine could speak, Mrs. Shirley placed both hands on her shoulders and put her out of the room. She stared in astonishment at the closed door, wishing she had the nerve to express her indignation with a few well-chosen words. She took a seat in the outer room and waited.

  Some time later the door opened and Mrs. Shirley gestured for her to enter. Clayton stood in front of the window, his tanned face grave. He paused for a long moment, then glanced up and met Mrs. Shirley’s even gaze.

  “Margaret, I trust Catherine with my life. I’ve made her a part of this already, as I told you. But before we go any further, it’s only fair to ask you if you will trust her as well.”

  Catherine raised an eyebrow as Mrs. Shirley turned a flinty gaze upon her. A moment ticked by.

  “Very well,” she said at last. “I do trust her not to speak of these things, and perhaps she can be of use to us.”

  “Thank you, Margaret.” Clayton walked slowly toward them, his hands in his pockets. “If Lee survives this next battle,” he said, “they intend to assassinate him.”

  Catherine gasped. Mrs. Shirley neither moved nor made a sound.

  “Whoever they’re working for in the North has offered a huge reward. They’ll make their plans after the battle. They’re nervous, of course. This is bigger than anything they’ve ever done. I gather their leader here has more or less given them no choice. There’s nothing we can do until then except send word for Lee to be on his guard.”

  Clayton looked at Catherine. “I’m leaving soon for Fredericksburg. Both armies are there and the battle could start any day. I’d planned for Andrew to disappear during that time, never to return, but I’m going to need him a while longer. You’re to say I’m ill and not to be disturbed. Ask Dr. Edwards to come up here. He knows everything. He’s treated some Union soldiers and done a little spying himself. If anyone’s curious enough to want to see me, Mrs. Shirley can become Andrew.”

  Catherine nodded, unable to speak. “Major Pierce, I have the latest information from General Lee’s headquarters,” Mrs. Shirley told him.

  “Yes, I’ll need to look it over. Will you excuse us, Catherine?”

  She found her voice. “When will you leave?”

  “Tomorrow,” he answered, “at midnight.”

  ***

  He was going away, perhaps never to return, and she had wasted two days not speaking to him.

  Catherine spent a restless night. The next day Clayton and Mrs. Shirley read accounts of troop movements and battle plans.

  She mentioned casually at supper that Andrew seemed to be getting sick. Bart looked at her warily and said nothing. There was a fading bruise on his forehead. Sallie chirped about getting a doctor for Andrew. Martin looked preoccupied and remained silent.

  Catherine waited in her room, unable to read or sew or do anything except stare at the wall and press her hands together in her lap. There was something she had to tell him, something she had known since the night of Delia’s wedding but had not been willing to admit—even to herself. When the clock struck eleven she stood up and left the room, tiptoed across the hall, and knocked softly on Clayton’s door.

  The candlelight wavered as he let her in and closed the door behind her. Catherine caught her breath, staring at him.

  He wore a uniform that apparently had seen service but was still in good condition. The gray officer’s coat was somewhat frayed and, though clean, had the remains of dark stains on one sleeve that could only be blood. Someone else’s blood, she gathered. His hat and greatcoat lay on the bed. He wore knee-length boots and held a pair of yellow cavalry gloves in his hands. His smooth black hair was combed back and touched the collar of his coat.

  His eyes met hers. “I hoped you would come.”

  She said nothing, awed by his appearance.

  “Dashing, don’t you think?” he said, laughing a little in self-mockery. “I’m almost ashamed to have a uniform intact.” “You…have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  There was a pause. Then she asked, “Must you go, Clayton?”

  He looked down at the gloves in his hand, then back at her. “I can’t not go, Catherine. I may not be able to accomplish much, but I’ll be there.”

  “But your work—”

  “I’m not indispensable. If anything happens to me, Bart and the others will be arrested, as planned. As for finding the leader…someone else will assume responsibility for that. It’s possible that Bart can be made to talk, but I doubt he will since it would only incriminate him. That’s not the way I wanted to do it. If Bart doesn’t tell what he knows, we lose our connection to his leader.”

  “Would someone else masquerade as Andrew?”

  “Probably not. They’ll figure out some other way.”

  “Do you know where you’ll be?”

  “I’ll go to headquarters and they can put me wherever they need

  me.”

  “Will you warn General Lee about the plot?”

  He shook his head. “I won’t distract him from the battle. He’ll probably return to Richmond afterward, if we win, and someone will inform him then.”

  “If we don’t win,” she said, “the Yankees will take Richmond.”

  “Yes. But our position is good. We’ll fight to the last man.”

  She could only look at him. “Oh, Clayton.”

  He tossed his gloves down atop his hat and moved toward her. His arms went around her and his lips took hers in a slow and thorough…and unforgettable…kiss. He lifted his head and held her against him.

  “I love you, Clayton,” she whispered. She felt the rough wool of his coat against her cheek, felt his own hard cheek against the top of her head.

  His arms tightened around her. “Catherine, you have a strength and tenderness that go beyond your years. You must rely on those things to help you through this. And no matter what happens, remember that I leave here with you a part of me. A part as dear…as the very breath of life.”

  “Why do you talk as if you’re not coming back?” she asked, distressed.

  He pulled back a little, his arms still around her. “Oh, I intend to come back. And when I do, I hope you’ll become my wife.” One dark brow lifted slightly and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “In every way.”