by Diaz, Debra
Coming home? No, this was not home. They would have their own home—someday—when all of this was over. It was something to look forward to, something to ease the dread everyone had felt since the war began.
She decided she’d better begin laying the groundwork for Andrew’s journey to the hospital. With that in mind, she joined the family for supper the next night.
Her uncle looked preoccupied, as he often did these days. He glanced up from his plate when Sallie poked him in the arm.
“Good heavens, Martin, don’t be so gloomy! Bartie just asked you a question.”
“I only asked how business was,” Bart said, endeavoring to slice the fried ham with his damaged hand, holding the thumb delicately against the handle of his dinner knife.
“Well, there are not many people buying land these days, I can tell you. I was just thinking about what in the world this city is coming to. Do you know, Sallie, as I was walking down the street to my office, one of those…those fancy ladies called out to me, in broad daylight! A year ago that would never have happened.”
“Happens to me all the time,” Bart said cheerfully.
Sallie stared, aghast. “Bartie!”
“Well, don’t have a fit, sister. I just ignore them. They’re Yankee girls, anyway, down here to take advantage of all the turmoil.”
“And how do you know that?” Catherine couldn’t resist asking.
Bart raised his eyes to meet hers over a bite of ham. “I can tell by their accents.”
“How is Andrew today, Catherine?” Martin inquired, rather hastily. “He must be better since you’ve decided to join us this evening.”
“I’m afraid not. But I had to get out of that room for a while. Dr. Edwards is talking about taking him to the hospital. He says he just doesn’t have time to keep coming out here, when there are so many wounded.”
“Is he…contagious?” Sallie asked. “Dr. Edwards never would answer me directly when I asked him.”
“I don’t know. I’m not sick.”
“Don’t worry, my dear,” Martin said to his wife. “He’s been in his room…I don’t think he’s been out of it more than once or twice since he’s been here.”
“A change of scenery might do him good,” Sallie said, giving Catherine an innocent smile.
The men adjourned to the parlor for cigars. Sallie lingered to help Catherine carry the dishes into the kitchen.
“You’ve been devoted to Andrew,” she said lightly, not looking at Catherine. “You’re to be commended.”
“Why? I’m only doing my duty. And I happen to love him.”
Sallie raised an eyebrow. She looked lovely in a pale blue gown, her shoulders bare, her blonde hair swept high on her head. “Of course. Is there any hope that he’ll ever be…normal?”
“Oh, he’s quite normal, I assure you.” When Sallie paused to stare at her she said again, “Quite normal. In every way.”
When she swept out of the room, Sallie was still staring at her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Two men from the medical corps arrived the next day to transport Andrew to the hospital. Dr. Edwards accompanied them to ensure the welfare of his patient.
“Careful with that stretcher,” he directed, as the men maneuvered their way into the bedroom.
Mrs. Shirley lay on the bed, dressed in black trousers, boots, black muslin shirt and coat, and the hood. Catherine stood at the end of the bed. She was aware that Martin lingered in the hallway speaking to Dr. Edwards, who stood just inside the door.
“I assume the nurse will accompany him? Where is Mrs. Shirley, by the way?”
“Why, I don’t know. Where is Mrs. Shirley, Catherine?” asked Dr. Edwards, rolling his eyes at her.
“I…I suppose she had to visit the water closet.”
The hooded face turned toward her and Catherine felt the woman’s glare. Well, it was the only thing that occurred to her.
“Oh, now I remember,” said Dr. Edwards. “She went to the hospital to prepare a bed for Mr. Kelly. Of course she’ll be staying with him
while he’s there.”
The men easily lifted Mrs. Shirley, placed her on the stretcher and covered her with a blanket.
“There now, he’s not heavy, eh? He’s lost a lot of weight. Martin, I’ll keep him in the hospital until I’m certain he’s on the road to recovery. He’s been very ill.”
“Of course. Andrew, we’ll be thinking of you. If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”
Martin left without waiting for a reply. Catherine called her thanks after him.
The men descended the stairs with their burden. Sallie stood in the lower hall and watched with avid curiosity as the men passed through, going out the door and sliding the stretcher into the waiting ambulance.
Catherine rode in the ambulance along with one of the attendants, while the other drove. She watched nervously as he picked up Mrs. Shirley’s hand, pushed the glove down a bit and felt for a pulse.
“Strong heartbeat,” he said, looking puzzled.
Catherine wished that Dr. Edwards had come with them, but he had elected to ride his horse back to the hospital. She cast about for some diversionary topic of conversation.
“I’ve seen you at the hospital, haven’t I? What is your name, sir?”
The young man seemed pleased that he’d been noticed, removed his cap and introduced himself.
“Oh, I went to school with a girl with your last name! Do you have a sister?”
“Why, no, ma’am, that is…my sister died of diphtheria when she was two.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Where are you from?”
He was from the western part of the state. Catherine began to talk about the efforts of western Virginia, which was anti-slavery, to become a separate state, and she somehow managed to keep up the rather one-sided conversation until they reached the hospital. The young man still looked puzzled, but this time about her, as he and the other man carried the stretcher into the hospital. Dr. Edwards had set up a bed in his own study and there they deposited Mrs. Shirley.
“I hate wearing this thing.” Mrs. Shirley snatched off the hood as soon as the orderlies left the room. “My bag should be under the bed, Mrs. Kelly, if you will be kind enough to hand it to me. I should like to change my clothes.”
Catherine reached under the bed and dragged out a valise. “When is Clayton supposed to get here, Mrs. Shirley?”
“Sometime today. That’s all I know.”
Catherine left the room. She stayed all day at the hospital, but every time she checked the new arrivals, she was disappointed.
Something has happened to him, she thought. Maybe he died on the journey. She carried out her chores automatically, hardly hearing anything said to her. When Tad came to drive her home, she sent him back, saying she would stay with her husband. At Dr. Edward’s insistence, she slept on the bed that was intended for “Andrew,” and Mrs. Shirley slept on the sofa.
The gray light of dawn had filled the room when she woke. The hospital sounds, which never completely died down, had begun to rise in volume—slippered feet hurrying down the hallway, pans rattling, the voices of the doctors and nurses, the cries of those who were delirious or in pain. She washed her face, scrubbed her teeth and smoothed her hair, then turned to leave the room, noticing that Mrs. Shirley still slept. She glanced out the window and stopped.
Against the soft glow of the dawning sun, several ambulances had just come to a halt at the rear of the hospital. Orderlies rushed about, carrying the stretchers inside. She could not make out any faces. Whirling, she ran from the room and down the corridor to the doorway. Already the wounded men were being borne down the hall, and she looked at each one, her hand pressed to her chest and her heart in her throat.
None of them was Clayton.
She stood dejectedly by the door as Dr. Edward’s voice came from outside. “This way, men…leave him in my office for the time being.”
The doors were flung open again, and Catherine stepped away unt
il she felt the wall at her back. Her eyes wide, she saw Dr. Edwards first, followed by a man being pushed in a rolling chair. His black hair was limp and brushed back from his face, which seemed pale under its tan. A dark blanket covered his lower body.
He saw her and tried to smile but did not speak, and Catherine remembered that she mustn’t call him by name or behave as if she knew who he was. Dr. Edwards led the way into his study. The men rolled the chair inside and quickly left the room. Mrs. Shirley still snored quietly on the sofa.
Dr. Edwards took out a stethoscope and listened to Clayton’s heart, then straightened and gave Catherine a wink. “He’ll do until I get back.” He went out, stuffing the stethoscope into his coat pocket. He closed the door firmly behind him.
“Clayton!” She knelt beside him and took one of his hands, tears streaming down her face.
“Now Catherine, I don’t have a handkerchief this time,” he said, the familiar, self-deprecating smile on his lips. His voice was weak, but her heart delighted in the sound of it.
She wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “Oh, I just want to crawl into your lap and hold you and never let you go.”
“Indeed!”
They both turned their heads to see Mrs. Shirley sitting stiffly upright, her hair still in its bun and her clothes looking as if she had just put them on. “I hope you will both exercise a little self-restraint until our mission is accomplished.” She got to her feet and held out her hand to Clayton. “Major Pierce, I’m glad to see you have returned. If you will excuse me, I shall go and prepare another room, perhaps a storeroom of some kind, where I can stay until we both return to the Henderson house.”
She marched out of the room, somehow conveying disapproval by the very swish of her skirts. Catherine sat looking up at Clayton.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said softly, “or our ever-vigilant guardian will certainly deplore my lack of ‘self-restraint.’”
“Clayton, how badly are you hurt?”
Before he could reply, Dr. Edwards returned, looking at some papers in his hand. “Let’s see, my boy…what do we have here?” He sat down at his desk. “That bullet in your chest missed a lung by about half an inch. And the leg…” He frowned, continuing to read silently.
Clayton saw Catherine’s glance at the blanket that covered him. He squeezed her hand.
“It’s still there,” he said.
“Bullet passed clean through, missing the artery and bone…looks like you were lucky, Clayton.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lost a lot of blood, though. Get into this bed so I can have a look. Catherine, help me get his clothes off.”
Catherine, who had removed the clothing of countless wounded men—sometimes cutting them off with scissors when they were stiff with dried blood—turned scarlet.
Clayton hastened to say, “I can do it myself, Doctor. Maybe Catherine had better wait outside.”
Dr. Edwards peered over his spectacles at them, and Catherine saw a smile under his bushy beard. She went into the hall. The doctor called to her when the examination was complete, and she reentered the room.
“Looks like he received excellent care—clean wounds, no sign of infection. That’s what we’ll watch for. Let’s leave him here for two or three days before we transfer him to your house, Catherine. Why don’t you get him something to eat? I’m going home for a few hours.”
When he had gone, Catherine walked over to the bed and took Clayton’s hand again. A crisp white sheet was pulled up to the middle of his bare chest and she saw the tip of a white bandage. She said quietly, “I heard you took those bullets for General Cobb.”
He shook his head. “It didn’t save him.”
“But you did it. And that tells me everything I ever need to know about you, Clayton Pierce.”
***
Three days passed quickly and Andrew Kelly was pronounced better and able to return home. This time both Sallie and Bart stood in the hall as the stretcher was carried past them. On the way upstairs, one of the men nearly dropped his end of the stretcher and gasped, “He sure is heavier this time!”
“Why,” said Dr. Edwards with a chuckle, “it’s that delicious food he’s been eating. Ladies from all the churches bring home-cooked meals to the hospital every day. Mr. Kelly couldn’t help but get better.”
Catherine happened to be standing next to Bart. She saw his gaze follow the stretcher all the way up the stairs, a speculative look on his face. The look made her vaguely uneasy. Why hadn’t they thought to make sure different men accompanied the patient home?
“Andrew” was placed in his bed and Dr. Edwards left, along with the orderlies. Mrs. Shirley went up the stairs carrying her valise. Catherine almost ran into her as she hurried to the kitchen with a pitcher in her hand, intending to fill it with fresh water.
“Mrs. Kelly,” said the woman, with an ominous darkening of her brow.
Catherine paused. “Yes, Madame—I mean, Mrs. Shirley?”
“I wouldn’t behave quite so frivolously,” Mrs. Shirley declared in a low voice, with a glance around to make sure there was no one within hearing distance. “Remember that the former situation is unchanged. There is no reason for you to flit about as though you had found the seventh heaven.”
Catherine did not feel even a momentary sense of deflation, but she said gravely, “You’re quite right, Mrs. Shirley. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”
The unsmiling woman toiled upward with the heavy valise, her spine straight. Catherine went to the kitchen. Hester was nowhere in sight, so she pumped water into a basin and began washing the pitcher. She had no sense of another presence until she heard Bart’s voice.
“I’m sure you’re glad to have Andrew home.”
She whirled, splashing water onto her dress. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!” she cried, wiping angrily at her dress with a towel.
“Please forgive me, I didn’t intend to scare you.”
Ignoring him, she dried the pitcher, pumped more water into it, and looked in the cupboard for clean glasses. He leaned back against the table, watching her.
“Sallie is impressed with your devotion to Andrew,” he said, almost lazily, but his handsome face was as watchful as a cat’s.
“I don’t see why. Any wife would do the same.”
“No, I don’t think so. Of course, you feel responsible for him. I meant that Sallie is surprised that you seem…satisfied with him as a husband.”
“It’s nobody’s business,” she said, turning to wipe out the glasses to hide her reddening face. She quickly regretted her words. If she were to learn anything from Bart, she would certainly have to arrive at friendlier terms with him.
“I’m sorry,” she said, making herself look up at him. “I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s been a difficult week.”
He reached out to touch a tendril of coppery hair that had escaped the confining net. “If you get lonely,” he said, “I’m only a few doors away.”
Her jaw dropped at his implication. How she longed to slap his smug face, the conceited lout!
Bart laughed. “You should see yourself, my dear Catherine! You can’t make up your mind whether to be righteously indignant or remain silent in case you do get lonely. Oh,” he said, with mock fright, “you’re not going to knock me in the head with that pitcher, are you?”