by Diaz, Debra
The hooded face turned slightly toward Catherine, who smiled back at him, then she remembered to look down since “Andrew” could not see her.
“Funny, I never took you for a romantic, Andrew Kelly. I suppose war changes a man. Well, I’ve found you and that’s a load off my mind. I shall write home tonight.” She paused and looked again as if she might burst into tears. “You poor man! I keep remembering you as a little boy. You used to run and hide when you were in trouble, but I see you’ve done your duty. I’m proud of you, Cousin.”
“Thank you, Cousin Miranda. I’m glad you’ve come.”
She left the room, again moving very lightly for a woman of such generous dimensions.
“Lie down,” Catherine said, walking sternly toward Clayton. She pulled the scarf off his head. “You’ve got to stop getting up so much.”
“I’m all right, Catherine.”
She felt the pulse in his wrist. “I’ve learned a lot working at the hospital. Two gunshot wounds are nothing to play with.”
He said nothing, and she saw that the afternoon had taken its toll, for he was pale and sweating. She brushed his black hair back from his forehead and kissed it. “I want you to rest until time for supper. Understood, Major?”
He smiled. “Yes, General.” He watched from the bed as she drew the curtains across the window. “Catherine.”
“Yes?”
“Did I ever tell you you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved?”
She stared at him wordlessly but he only smiled again and closed his eyes.
***
Once in her room she had a delayed reaction to the day’s events and all but collapsed on her bed. Clayton’s coming home, Bart’s suspicions, and now Cousin Miranda! And on top of that had come the news that Andrew had been engaged to marry another woman when he married her. She supposed he hadn’t had the courage to tell Lula of his change
of heart. She thought again, irresistibly, Poor Andrew!
Because of that, she thought, Clayton had assured her she was his only love. Her heart swelled with love for him. But she was afraid, every bit as afraid as Delia had been at her wedding when she’d sat on the floor and sobbed that something might happen to Marcus. Someday Clayton would go away again to fight another battle, and he might never return. How did a person live with such fear?
Wasn’t there a verse in the Bible about that? She made herself get up, reached for her Bible, and searched for the verse. There it was: “Perfect love casteth out fear.” But what did that mean?
She wanted to be brave. Clayton had certainly proved his courage, risking his life for another man. But that required a different kind of bravery. It wasn’t like sitting at home and wondering if someone you love is still alive or perhaps wounded and suffering a fate worse than death. It was enough to drive a person mad.
Clayton had spoken only once of Fredericksburg, and somehow she knew he would not speak of it again. It was one night in the hospital when she had questioned him about the battle.
He told her, “One of our agents said Burnside was confused and kept giving unclear directions. Apparently he was waiting for information from his spies, which he never received.”
In a moment his meaning had dawned on Catherine. “You mean— Bart’s letter?”
He nodded. “I deciphered it the night we got back from Charlottesville. It contained a close estimate of the number of Lee’s troops as well as the exact layout of the land surrounding Fredericksburg. I don’t think they could have taken the town, but our losses could have been much greater.”
“I would probably have handed over the letter if you hadn’t been with me.” A thought had occurred to her. “You heard Bart talking to me in the parlor, didn’t you? The next morning you came to my room and you already knew what I was going to do.”
“Yes. You and Bart were sitting at the same place where he and his merry band of men weave their tangled webs.”
“He’s got to be stopped!”
“He will be, as soon as I find out where he’s getting his information.”
They had fallen silent, and then Clayton had said, softly, “Catherine, you should have seen them. The Yankees were cut down like grass before a scythe, and still they kept coming. We all had to admire their courage. That night it was below freezing, and the Yankee wounded lay out on the field. I had already been taken to a house nearby but I heard about it. Men actually froze to the ground in their own blood.
“There was a man, a young Confederate sergeant, who couldn’t stand to hear their moaning and crying. He received permission to try to help them, though he was told no one could guarantee his safety. He went among them all night long, taking them water. His name is Kirkland. He deserves a medal. He deserves…a crown in heaven.”
Again he grew quiet; when he spoke again his voice was so low she could barely hear him. “Why didn’t he stop it? Why didn’t Burnside stop the attack when he saw how futile it was?”
“I read in the newspaper that Mr. Lincoln wanted a victory, at any cost.”
“But it was Burnside’s decision. I’d have resigned before I ordered my men to walk into a rain of bullets with no hope of advancing. I tell you there was no way they could have taken Fredericksburg. Not that day.”
Catherine had put her hand over his, but his gaze was far away, and it grew angry and bitter. “But they did destroy it. Some of them got bored and restless the day before the battle and vandalized the town. They tore up people’s houses, dragged furniture and heirlooms out into the street and smashed them. Some of them even went into a…I don’t know…a saloon or something, and came out wearing women’s clothes! The next morning when we looked down from the hill and saw what they had done…
“It’s no longer an honorable fight, Catherine. It’s not just about principles anymore, if it ever was. I’ve never hated as much as I did at that moment, and all the men with me felt the same way. God help us all.”
He had said no more. Catherine had gone home that night with a nightmarish picture in her mind that could never be erased. She had caught him in a weak moment; probably he had never meant to tell her any of it. Indeed, the next day he had apologized for telling her that much.
She became aware of a tapping sound and realized that someone was at her door. When she opened it, her uncle stood there, trying to smile through the lines of worry on his face.
“May I speak with you privately for a moment, Catherine?”
“Of course, Uncle Martin. Come in.”
“You know that Sallie has invited this relative of Andrew’s to stay indefinitely.”
“Yes. I’m sorry about the inconvenience, Uncle Martin. I’m sure Andrew can pay for the extra—”
“Oh, it isn’t that, though things are getting rather bad, prices going up and what not. It’s…well, are you absolutely certain, Catherine, that this man calling himself Andrew Kelly is really your husband?”
Catherine steeled herself. She reminded herself that Clayton’s life might depend on her answer.
“Really, Uncle Martin, is that what’s been bothering you? I know you’ve been worried about something lately.”
Martin rubbed his jaw. “It never occurred to me, actually, but just now we were all together in the parlor…Mrs. Kelly, too…and Bart asked her if Andrew seemed …different in any way. And she said she didn’t know, that in all that black garb he seemed like a perfect stranger.”
“Well,” Catherine said slowly. “He is different. He’s been through a horrible experience. But of course I would know my own husband.”
“You didn’t know him very well when you married him.”
“Why would anyone masquerade as my husband, Uncle Martin? A thief would surely have robbed us by now and be gone.”
“I don’t know. As I said, it only just occurred to me.” Martin seemed evasive, nodded a farewell without meeting her gaze, and turned to go.
Catherine leaned against the door, feeling as if danger was closing in on all sides, and there was no way to escape it.
&
nbsp; CHAPTER FOURTEEN
No man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and knew her
with a blameless though an unchanged mind.…
Catherine had resumed her nightly reading of A Tale of Two Cities, with one difference: she now read in the parlor to the entire household, including “Andrew,” and excepting Mrs. Shirley who elected to stay in her room. She had started from the beginning, for the benefit of her new listeners.
It was the third week in January 1863, and Clayton had made almost a complete recovery, at least outwardly, from his injuries. Catherine suspected there were other scars that would take longer to heal.
The army of northern Virginia still camped defensively around Fredericksburg as the North planned their next move. Union General Burnside had been replaced by Joseph Hooker, whom President Lincoln hoped would at last accomplish his ultimate goal—the invasion of Richmond. Robert E. Lee, with his generals, plotted out possible strategies to save Richmond and the Confederacy.
On January 1 President Lincoln had proclaimed that all slaves residing in territories that were in rebellion against the Union were free (actually it was only a formal announcement following a preliminary proclamation he’d made the previous September). It did not apply to border states that fought for the Union. The Confederacy paid little heed to the “Emancipation Proclamation,” saying it was just a political move intended to convince the world that the federal government’s only objective was to end slavery, and thus gain sympathy for the Union.
Bart and his accomplices had not yet held another meeting. Clayton said they seemed to be waiting for something. He decided to allow certain letters to get through to Bart, who would almost certainly soon discover, if he hadn’t already, that his last message had never been delivered to Burnside’s staff. Lieutenant Hadley was in Libby Prison along with his two henchmen (the third was dead); they were not allowed visitors. However, a report was given to any who might care to inquire that Hadley had been arrested carrying information to the enemy.
Catherine finished the section and laid the volume aside. Outside rain fell in torrents, dashing hard against the windows. Clayton sat unmoving to her left. Bart stood at the fireplace staring down into the flames, his arms folded. Martin and Sallie shared the settee, and Miranda Kelly engulfed the comfortable armchair opposite them.
“Sallie, do grace us with some music tonight,” Miranda said, reaching for a box of candy which sat on a table next to her.
Sallie looked up from her embroidery. “What shall I play?”
Bart said, without looking up, “A nocturne would suit my mood.”
“Why, Bartie, I’ve never known you to be melancholy.” Sallie rose gracefully, and as she always did, paused before passing “Andrew” as though afraid he would seize and devour her. She lifted her skirts and went to the piano at the opposite end of the room.
Catherine was not an expert player, but adequate; Sallie was truly gifted. She selected some sheet music, announced, “Chopin’s Prelude Opus 28 Number 7,” as though she were performing in a concert, and in a moment the haunting strains muffled the sound of the rain and filled the room.
It was, Catherine thought, a strangely poignant and revealing moment. Bart continued to stare moodily into the crackling fire. Martin drank a cup of coffee and looked at no one, and Miranda nibbled on bonbons like a contented rabbit. Both the coffee and the bonbons had recently been smuggled in through the blockade and sold at exorbitant prices. Miranda had paid for them herself.
Clayton’s black hood was turned slightly in Catherine’s direction and she knew he was looking at her, though his vision must be considerably dimmed. She had worn one of her best gowns to the supper table, amber-colored with off-the-shoulder sleeves. Not to be outdone, Sallie’s neckline plummeted to an alarming degree and her hair was a maze of intricate ringlets and braids.
The music ended and Sallie proclaimed, “Nocturne Opus 15 Number 2.” She was halfway through it when Bart looked up, unfolded his arms and walked negligently toward a table bearing a chess set.
“That Carton fellow’s something else, eh, Andrew?” He looked down and fingered one of the chess pieces absently. “He finds the love of his life only to realize he’s not worthy of her.”
Clayton nodded but did not speak.
“So sad,” said Miranda, with tears in her eyes at the mention of Dickens’s tragic hero.
“What do you think?” Bart asked, sitting down at the chess table. “Does his love for Lucie perhaps vindicate him?”
Sallie stopped playing abruptly and put the cover down with a slight bang, obviously miffed that no one seemed to be listening. She returned to her seat and took up her embroidery.
Clayton said, after a moment, “I think that any man who loves a woman of such goodness, so utterly and completely, must have in himself the capacity for goodness.”
Sallie stopped sewing and looked at the man in black as though she’d never seen him before. Miranda took out her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.
“Ah,” said Bart. “And what do you think, Catherine? Should Lucie have loved Carton in return?”
“Perhaps she did,” Catherine answered, rather saucily. “Perhaps she loved her husband and Sydney Carton, but naturally she would never do anything about it.”
Miranda’s eyes grew round and Sallie cried, “Catherine!”
“Well, I don’t see how anybody could be as pure and innocent as Lucie. I don’t see how any woman could help loving…at least just a little…any man who loved her the way Sydney did.”
“After all, we are talking about fictional characters,” Sallie said. “Their thoughts begin and end with the pages on which they’re written.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Catherine replied. “The reader is quite free to interpret their thoughts and even to read between the lines, though there really is nothing to indicate Lucie had any feelings for Mr. Carton except gratitude, and pity.”
“I should hope not,” said Sallie indignantly.
“Forgive me.” Bart laughed a little. “I didn’t mean to start a quarrel. Come, Martin, let’s have a game.”
Martin finished his coffee and set down his cup. “I think not. I believe I’ll go upstairs. Good night, everyone.”
Sallie watched him go with an arched eyebrow but did not follow.
“Andrew, then, how about it?”
The black hood moved back and forth negatively. Sallie remonstrated, “Bartie, how mean!”
“I’m sorry…truly, I forgot about your…problem. Catherine?”
She started to refuse but thought better of it. She rose and walked over to the chess table and took a seat, watching while Bart arranged his pieces. She was not particularly good at chess, though she had played often with her father. Finding it hard to concentrate, she half listened to Sallie and Miranda.
Sallie was saying, “Miss Miranda, you have chocolate on your chin. Let me get you something…no need to ruin your handkerchief.”
She moved across to the table beside “Andrew” and knelt down, bending low over a drawer and, Catherine suspected, fully displaying her attributes to Clayton. She thought resentfully, Why, she’s doing that on purpose. Why do they keep testing him?
Sallie withdrew a faded but clean linen napkin, rose and turned to hand it to Miranda, who dabbed it with her tongue and scrubbed her chin. Sallie then bent over again and closed the drawer before returning to her seat. The masked face remained impassive, but Catherine could almost see Clayton’s grin of amusement, the wretch!
“You’re a good reader,” Bart said. “I suppose it’s a way of passing the time.”
“Um.” She concentrated on her move.