Shadow of Dawn

by Diaz, Debra

  He left the room, his head set at an indignant angle. He did not leave the key, but she thought it wise to say nothing of it. Hurriedly she stripped off her wet clothes, wrapped them in a sheet, and stuffed them under the bed. Later she would give them to Ephraim to dispose of. By the time Jessie had made her cumbersome way up the stairs, Catherine’s equally soaked underthings were lying on the floor and she had put on dry ones.

  Jessie helped her dress, then unbraided her hair and painstakingly worked the tangles out with a brush and comb. She asked no questions, though Catherine could tell she was about to burst with curiosity. The wet hair was fastened into a snood and Catherine hurried downstairs to join the others, who waited in the parlor.

  Sallie said, “Oh, Catherine, you’ve been washing your hair? Better hope you don’t catch cold…it’s been so drafty today! I’ve just been scolding Martin for going out in this weather.”

  “Andrew says you’re not feeling well,” her uncle said. “Oh, I’ll be fine,” she answered, and sneezed three times. “I’m sorry to hold you up.”

  Andrew gravely handed her a handkerchief and took her arm to go in to supper. They sat down and Sallie said at once, “I can’t help wondering where Bartie is. He went out this afternoon but told me he’d be sure to be here for supper.”

  Catherine coughed and reached for her water glass.

  It was a ghastly meal. She could not eat a bite and pushed her food around on her plate so no one would notice. Her hands began to tremble. If Sallie mentioned “Bartie” once, she did so half a dozen times.

  “Catherine,” said Andrew, “you’re pale. Perhaps you should go back to your room.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Perhaps I’d better.”

  He took her upstairs. At the door he said, “I’m sorry. I hope I haven’t upset you.”

  “No. I think I’m coming down with a cold.”

  “What did you expect?” he replied, and left her once again in peace.

  ***

  She did indeed have a cold, which kept her in bed for two days. Jessie brought soup and cornbread to her room, accompanied by hot tea with lemon. Martin sent up occasional hot toddies made with watered-down whiskey and peppermint candy to soothe her cough. They made her gag, and she rarely drank them. The weather turned cold again, and Andrew dutifully kept up the fire in her room. He seemed to be genuinely worried about her.

  On the third day she wandered downstairs in nightgown and wrapper, unable to bear her room another minute. She sought out Ephraim in the kitchen.

  “Miss Catherine, what are you doing down here? You know we’ll bring you whatever you need. And the floors are cold as ice! Don’t you know it’s snowing outside? You go right back to bed.”

  “Oh, Ephraim, please, I just had to get out of that room!”

  But she was breathless from her trek downstairs and sat down abruptly at the kitchen table. Ephraim eyed her uneasily.

  “You’re not going to faint now, are you, Miss Catherine?”

  “No, of course not.” Her voice sounded to her own ears as if she were down a well. “Where’s Hester?”

  “She’s lying down in her room.”

  “Ephraim, I need to tell you something.”

  The door to the kitchen swung open and Miranda waddled into the room. “Oh, Catherine, I didn’t know you were here. How are you, dear?”

  “I’m much better, thank you.”

  “Let’s see…I know there was some apple pie left from yesterday. Oh, here it is. Uncle Ephraim, would you hand me a plate?”

  Miranda had picked up the “uncle” from Sallie. Ephraim got a plate and began to cut a slice of the pie.

  “Miranda, it’s a funny thing,” Catherine said, suddenly realizing this was a perfect opportunity to question the woman. “I didn’t realize Andrew had a twin brother.”

  Miranda’s head jerked around and her eyes popped. “Oh! He told you?”

  “Well, someone did. How come no one ever mentioned it?”

  “Oh, nobody ever speaks of John. He was the black sheep of the family. He ran off a long time ago. Last I heard he was a…” she lifted her eyebrows and pursed her lips “…riverboat gambler. But of course that’s been years ago and we’ve heard nothing from him. He’s most likely dead.”

  “How sad. Wasn’t he close to Andrew?”

  “Oh, they were close when they were young. As alike as two peas in a pod.”

  “Wasn’t there any way to tell them apart?”

  A look of annoyance crossed the powdered face. “No. It was practically impossible. They were always playing tricks on people.”

  “No birthmarks—nothing?”

  Miranda began to look curious. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, it’s just that twins have always fascinated me, and they do run in families, don’t they? I was thinking that maybe I would have twins.”

  Miranda clutched her heart. “My dear, you’re not—”

  “Oh, no. At least, not yet.”

  “Ah, once again you disappoint me. I do love children. Thank you, Uncle Ephraim.” Miranda went happily out of the room with a generous piece of pie.

  Ephraim wiped crumbs with a dishcloth and said nothing, though Catherine could practically hear his brain whirring. She got up to make sure Miranda had gone, closed the door, and said in a low voice, “Ephraim, I have to tell you about the other day. You know, the boy’s clothes.”

  Ephraim turned to give her his full attention. “I sure prayed for you that day, Miss Catherine. I knew you weren’t in your room, so I knew you had to be out somewhere in those clothes. Yes’m, I prayed for your safety and that the weather would hold off till you got back.”

  “Well, your prayers were answered. The truth is, Ephraim, I was spying on Mr. Bart. He…he’s dead.”

  She told him everything—Clayton’s masquerading as Andrew, the fact that Andrew was supposed to be dead, Bart’s traitorous activities, her marriage to Clayton, Bart’s murder. The old butler’s expression changed from mild surprise to utter horror.

  “And Miss Sallie don’t know! She’s been beside herself, Miss Catherine. You wouldn’t know ’cause you’ve been upstairs. She can’t understand why he don’t come home! Mr. Martin said he’d run off with…well, with a bad woman.”

  “It’s dreadful, I know. I’ve lost sleep over it, believe me. But I can’t tell anyone…I’m not supposed to know!”

  He was silent for a moment. “I can hardly believe all this was going on and I didn’t know it. Usually I figure things out, Miss Catherine. I had figured out that you really liked that man who dressed in black. I was awful hurt when he up and left, ’cause I thought you were hurt.”

  “Thank you, Ephraim. I’m sorry we’ve had to mislead everyone. Do you think that’s bad?”

  “Well, that’s between you and God, Miss Catherine. I can’t be your conscience for you. But things are different in wartime. This Mr. Pierce…he sure had me fooled. He sounds like a good man, though.”

  “He is, Ephraim. He’s everything that’s good and decent and honorable.”

  “Nobody’s that good,” Ephraim said dryly. “’Cept Jesus.” He cleared his throat. “So you think this man calling himself your husband is really his twin brother?”

  “I know it. But I don’t know how to prove it.”

  “Why can’t Mr. Pierce come here and claim you, now that Mr. Bart’s dead and all that is over?”

  “Well, it’s not exactly over. We would like to find the leader of Bart’s group. Besides, the original plan was that the man in black, as Andrew, would die, and then after a while I would pretend to marry Clayton. Now that’s impossible, and Clayton doesn’t want to do any more damage to my reputation.

  “And I haven’t confronted Andrew yet. I mean John. He doesn’t know I’m aware that he has a twin brother. Oh, it’s an awful mess, Ephraim!”

  “Now, don’t get upset, Miss Catherine. No use in—”

  He stopped abruptly as they both heard a sound in the dining room, just outside
the kitchen door. Catherine went to the door and looked out, her heart thudding.

  No one was there, but across the room the other door was swinging gently to a stop.

  ***

  By the time Catherine crossed the dining room and peered out into the hallway, whoever had been there had vanished. She mentally went over a list of possibilities: Martin, whom she knew had not gone to his office today because he wasn’t feeling well, Sallie, Miranda, Jessie…even Tad or Joseph. Andrew, she knew, had gone to the post office, but he could have returned by now.

  Catherine didn’t think it was Sallie, for she would have fainted promptly on hearing the truth about Bart. It must have been one of the others. Had she spoken loud enough for anyone to hear from outside the kitchen door? She didn’t think so. And whoever had been there didn’t necessarily have to have been standing there listening. Still, it was troubling.

  She went back to her room, with Ephraim promising to “keep an eye on things.” After a while she fell asleep. She dreamed of Clayton; he came in and sat down on the bed and pushed her hair back from her face. She reached out and put her hand on his. It was so real that she smiled a little, until she realized that she was half awake and she was

  actually holding onto someone’s hand. She sat up with a gasp.

  Andrew sat there, his tawny, shoulder-length hair neatly combed as always, a look of affectionate concern on his face. He held something in his other hand. “How young you looked just now,” he said, smiling. His eyes were very blue against the turquoise color of his shirt. “How are you feeling?”

  She pulled the blanket up to her neck. “Better, thank you. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I had to show you this. It came in the mail, addressed to both of us.” He handed her what appeared to be a letter.

  “I can’t see, it’s so dim in here. What does it say?”

  “It’s an invitation to the president’s mansion. There’s to be a reception honoring all the volunteer nurses of the Harrison Street Hospital. It’s given by the officers, although I’m sure Mrs. Davis is making all the arrangements. I understand those women who are nurses by profession will remain at the hospital, as it’s not too crowded at the moment. Of course, I shall send them our regrets. You’ve been very ill.”

  Catherine thought quickly. “Oh, no. I want to go. Whenever might we get another chance to see the Executive Mansion and meet the president?”

  “But, Catherine—”

  “When is it?”

  “It’s the day after tomorrow.”

  “Andrew, I’m getting stronger every day. I want to go.”

  “Well, sweetheart, if you’re certain.”

  “I’m positive.”

  When he’d gone, she left the bed and hurried over to the window. She pushed back the curtains to let light into the room and examined the letter. It was just an invitation, handwritten. She could find nothing to indicate this was an attempt by Clayton to see her and to meet Andrew. She flipped it over; the other side was blank.

  When she turned it back, she noticed something in the right-hand corner of the square of paper. At first glance it appeared to be just a curlicue, left there perhaps by someone scribbling with a pen. Then she realized it was three initials put together: CAP.

  Her heart soared. She took the skirt of her nightgown in her hand and danced about the room, then fell across the bed with a coughing fit.

  “I will be well enough,” she said to herself determinedly. “I’ll go if it kills me.”

  ***

  By the day of the reception, she was much improved. She dressed in the amber-colored gown because she knew Clayton liked it. Sarah, the British servant from next door, came to do her hair.

  Andrew walked into the room as Sarah was leaving. Catherine stood up from the dressing table.

  “Catherine,” he said, staring at her. “You are…enchanting.”

  “Thank you, Andrew.” She added, trying not to sound forced, “You look very nice, too.”

  He wore civilian clothes, black trousers and coat and a spotless white shirt. “I can’t wear my uniform,” he said, by way of explanation. “It’s in terrible condition. I’m having a new one made…butternut, since gray material is practically unattainable.”

  Catherine said nothing.

  “Shall we go?”

  He held out his arm. She picked up her good woolen cloak and took his arm, allowing him to escort her down the stairs, out the door and into the waiting carriage. Over a foot of snow had fallen the last few days, but the temperature had at last risen above freezing.

  “It’s kind of the officers to recognize the nurses,” Andrew said idly. “But it does seem to me that they’ll use any excuse to have a party.”

  “Um,” said Catherine. She wondered uneasily how well she would be able to pretend that Clayton was someone she barely knew. But she was excited, too, so that her eyes sparkled and her pale cheeks suddenly bloomed with color. Andrew sat watching her, saying nothing more.

  They reached the president’s mansion on the corner of Clay and Twelfth Streets. The columned, gray stucco building crowned a steep hill, overlooking a long, sloping valley below. They stepped out of the carriage and waited behind several other couples for their turn to enter. Catherine greeted the women, most of whom she knew, introduced Andrew to them, and acknowledged introductions to their husbands.

  As they entered the small, rounded foyer, a servant took their outer garments. Andrew again held out his arm to her but she pretended not to see it. He reached over and put his arm lightly around her waist just as they passed through the dining room, its large table bearing a rather meager display of sweetmeats and roasted pecans, as well as a large

  china bowl half full of punch.

  They reached the threshold of the first reception room. It was elegantly furnished with velvet-backed chairs, small tables and shelves filled with bric-a-brac, plush carpeting, and deep red wallpaper. The ceiling seemed to stretch into oblivion. Extra chairs had been placed along every wall.

  The connecting room was empty, bare of furniture or carpet; obviously, it had been reserved for dancing. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, looped with winter flowers and wide ribbons; the same ribbons and flowers had been draped or displayed over every inch of available space in both rooms. Flags and banners also hung suspended from the high ceiling. Candles and lamps of all sizes and descriptions flickered on stands, tall pedestals, tables and windowsills.

  Catherine scanned the groups of uniformed men who stood at various points throughout the two rooms. Several had been accompanied by their wives. She trembled and felt Andrew’s arm tighten; she knew he glanced at her.

  “I’m a little nervous about meeting the president,” she said. “Do you see him?”

  “Why no, not just yet. He’ll probably make an appearance later in the evening.”

  A tall man materialized suddenly in a doorway at the end of the other room. It was Clayton.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  She had turned slightly away from Andrew when she saw Clayton, so he did not hear her quick intake of breath. Clayton’s eyes met hers and moved instantly to take in the man at her side whose hand now rested on her lower back.

  Clayton nodded at her somewhat remotely and spoke to a few people who had quickly surrounded him. He was clothed in the dress uniform of the Confederacy, minus the hat, and his black hair shone beneath the glow of the chandelier. How handsome he was—and how well every woman near him knew it!