His mirrored image squared his shoulders. Oak leaves embroidered in gold bullion on his shoulder boards flashed in the pale light of the winter’s morning sun. His military rank reminded him of his job in the secret service. Consorting with the enemy, even one as sweet as Julia, was against the rules of war. He knew the next action he must take, and it wrung his heart, for he realized how hurt Julia would be when he did not keep his appointment that evening.
“It is the best thing that I can do for her—for both of us,” he said aloud to the man in the looking glass. “And I am a vile cad for it.”
Briefly, he considered writing her a short note to explain his reasons for ending their friendship, but he had no way to send it to her without risking interception by her parents. Of course, there was the maidservant, if he could find her again. No, the break must be complete and final—like a battlefield amputation. He glowered at his right hand. Maybe he should have let the doctor saw it off instead of stupidly hoping that one day it would be whole.
He would never allow himself to be that foolish again.
In the dark night, the chimes in the tower of Christ Church tolled half-past ten. Julia burrowed her chilled face into the fur collar of her cloak. What had delayed Rob? He had promised to be here by now. Perhaps the freezing weather had made the roads between Alexandria and Washington difficult to traverse at night—especially when so many of the water-filled ruts had frozen over. His horse must take its time to pick its way around them lest it break an ankle in the dark.
She shivered. At least her fingers were warm. She smiled at the fleece-lined gloves that protected her hands from the bitter wind, so much better than her muff. How very thoughtful Rob was! Especially for a Yankee!
Julia shook her head. She couldn’t think of Rob as a Northerner. In the dim light of the garden, his coat lost its blue color. It could have been black—or even dark Confederate gray. How wonderful it would have been had Rob been born on this side of Mr. Mason and Mr. Dixon’s survey line! If he had been a Southerner, Julia knew she would have married him in a heartbeat. Poor Frank, for all his charm, did not hold a candle to Rob.
Julia pulled her cloak tighter around her. Rob couldn’t possibly marry her. Not only was he a Yankee, but he had never even hinted at his feelings for her. Perhaps she had been just a bit of fun to him. Julia bit her lower lip. Here she was—a silly, moon-crazed girl standing in a frigid garden waiting for some will-o’-the-wisp to come by and dally with her once again for his own amusement.
Her cheeks burned. How could she have been so stupid? She had been so anxious to find someone nice to ruin her that she had not used the eyes that the good Lord had given her. She should have seen straight through that handsome smile of his and all those honey words immediately. Was her heart to be bought by a box of sweets and a pair of gloves? She had been out of civilized society for too long, and had forgotten how to spy a snake in the grass.
Of course, Major Montgomery wasn’t coming tonight! He never intended to return. Julia should be thankful that the man possessed enough decency not to pursue his obvious advantage over her.
What a foolish ninny I have been! Picking up the hem of her skirts she dashed to the back steps. The frosted autumn leaves crackled underfoot. She would count this experience as a very good lesson learned. Major Montgomery was nothing more than a rascal and a Yankee!
The next morning, a soft tap on the bedroom door pulled Julia out of her self-pity. The cold sunlight illuminated the pages of her book, but her eyes did not see the words for the sheen of tears in them.
She cleared her throat. “Who is it?”
“Carolyn,” her sister replied. “May I come in, Julia?”
Julia closed her book. “I have a headache, Carolyn. I’m afraid I am poor company this morning.”
Carolyn retorted with a rude word that she must have picked out of a gutter. “I know you’re crying and I highly doubt that it is over a headache.” She jiggled the doorknob. “Please, Julia, let me in. Mother has launched into another one of her tantrums, and I need to hide until she takes a nap.”
Sighing, Julia pulled the key out of her pocket. “Just a minute,” she called as she pinched some color into her cheeks. Then she opened the door.
“Your eyes are red,” Carolyn remarked, sitting down on the bed. “Don’t bother to cry over Payton. He’s not worth it.”
Julia lifted her chin. “I am not crying over that stupid boy. In fact, I’ve barely given him a second thought.”
Carolyn settled herself among the bolster pillows. “Well, it’s plain as milk that you’re not crying over this phantom headache.”
Julia snorted. The transparency of her feelings annoyed her. “Who says that I have been crying over anything at all? I may be coming down with a cold. I do declare, Carolyn Anne, your imagination has run away with you again.” She lay down on the counterpane next to her sister.
Unfortunately, her sister was too intelligent to believe her. “Oh, frivle-fravle! You haven’t cried like that in a year of Sundays. Not since the time you learned that Frank had been killed. You have a broken heart, sure as you’re born. I can hear it flapping inside you. Tell me all, Julia. You know you’ll feel better if you do.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I am very good at keeping secrets.”
Julia sighed. It would be a relief to unburden her soul, to have a really good cry with Carolyn and then put the whole horrid episode behind her. She rolled on her side to face her sister.
“You’re right, Carolyn. I am pining, though I don’t think that I am filled with utter despondency. At least, I certainly hope not,” she added.
Carolyn’s blue eyes grew wider. “Someone at the ball?”
A lump rose unbidden in Julia’s throat. She nodded while she tried to swallow it down.
Carolyn knitted her brows. “But who? There were no decent boys there, only a roomful of crowing Yankees. What a mass of finery and vulgarity they were! Though I have to admit that some of them could dance well enough. My stars, Julia! Did you ever hear such accents come out of anyone’s mouth like those Northern boys spoke? They set my teeth on edge. I told my dance partners, ‘Don’t say a word, honey, just smile.’”
Julia nodded. The lump in her throat grew larger. Her chest felt as if a wide belt had been pulled tight around it. She bit her lower lip.
Carolyn studied her sister’s face. “Hellfire, Julia! Is that what you’re crying over? Some Yankee boy?”
“He’s not exactly a boy,” Julia croaked. She blew her nose and scolded herself for her weakness. “He’s twenty-seven.”
Her sister’s eyes narrowed. “But he’s a Yankee just the same, even if he was fifty and had pots of gold under each arm. You can’t trust them a lick. They are all polecats, every last one of them. What’s come over you?”
Julia sniffed into her hankie. A fresh set of tears filled her eyes. “I told you that I wasn’t feeling well.”
Carolyn snorted. “You’re as healthy as a horse. Don’t you start having the vapors like Mother. It’s too tiresome. You get hold of yourself and you’ll be fine soon. Why, I bet that Yankee is nothing more than a whiskey-drinking, tobacco-chewing varmint.”
Julia balled her wet handkerchief in her fist. “He may be a lot of things, Carolyn, but I don’t think he drinks whiskey, nor chews tobacco—at least not in the presence of a lady. He did have a certain amount of good manners.”
Carolyn tossed her blond curls. “Ha! I daresay he drinks whiskey all the time—and not in a julep, either.” She wrinkled her nose. “Be that as it may, the New Year’s Ball is over and done now. Your good-mannered Yankee is back in Washington, probably laughing up his sleeve at you while he tells tall tales to all his friends.”
Julia’s temper flared, blotting out her tears. “Rob isn’t that sort at all. No matter what he may think of me, I doubt he would be so cruel as to banter my name around some oyster bar.”
Carolyn lifted one brow. “Oh, it’s Rob now, is it? Let me tell you about thi
s Yankee Rob. He has robbed you of your good sense, that’s what! And cruel? I’ve heard such stories of cruelty that those people have done to our poor Virginia that it would make your hair stand on its ends.”
Julia’s cheeks grew very warm. “You don’t know the first thing about him, Carolyn. This man is kind and he, too, has been hurt.”
“Fiddlesticks!” Carolyn mimicked. “I don’t care a fig for his little ole feelings. Look what he’s done to you! That weasel has made you lose your wits and cry your eyes out for the likes of him—all in one night.”
“He’s not a weasel!” Julia snapped. “And it wasn’t just in one night. Oh!” She stopped herself, but Carolyn pounced on her slip of the tongue.
“What have you gone and done, Julia?” she gasped.
Julia knotted her handkerchief between her fingers. “I’ve seen him several times since then,” she replied softly. “In our garden.”
“Over Papa’s dead body!” Carolyn gasped. “He’d just up and die if he knew that a Yankee had stepped foot inside our home—even in the garden.” She put her hand to her mouth. “I can’t believe how you’ve changed. You have never done anything so outrageous in your entire life.” Her voice sank to a whisper, “What did you do in the garden?”
Julia’s ears burned. “Nothing! We sat under the tree and talked. He is very witty and charming. He can even quote Shakespeare very well.”
Carolyn shook her head. “I highly doubt that an introduction, even from Mr. William Shakespeare, would cut the mustard with Papa. You have lost your mind entirely!”
Colonel Lawrence furrowed his brow as he reread the memorandum from Secretary of War Stanton. Ever since the inconclusive battle at Antietam, President Lincoln had grown increasingly concerned over the lack of good military leadership. The appalling losses at Gettysburg and the new policy that prohibited the exchange of prisoners had exacerbated the problem. The President wanted to redress this situation before the Spring campaign heated up. Forced into action by executive pressure, Stanton and his civilian advisor, Allen Pinkerton, had come up with a dangerous solution.
Lawrence pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He firmly believed that civilians should stay out of military affairs. This rash scheme was going to cost him a good man, not to mention the number of other lives at stake.
He stared out his window at the gray morning. A few hardy pigeons winged their way toward Lafayette Park in search of food for the day. Washington, with its soot-stained gray buildings, its muddy streets and an overflowing population, looked particularly grim this morning. The usual optimism of the New Year was muted by the discouraging news that, a week ago, Richmond celebrated the triumphant return of that wily Confederate general, John Hunt Morgan, who had successfully tunneled out of the Federal prison in Columbus, Ohio. Lawrence pulled out his wrinkled handkerchief from his hip pocket and blew his wet nose. The Federal City was not only the center of government, but also a cesspool of dangerous vapors and noxious air. Whatever had possessed America’s founding fathers to erect their capital city in the middle of a pest-infested swamp?
“Lieutenant Johnson!” he barked to his aide whose desk was just outside his half-open door.
Within a minute, the perpetually cheerful young man appeared before the colonel. After wiping his fledgling mustache clean of coffee, he snapped a salute worthy of West Point’s parade ground. “Sir!” he chirped.
In the face of such youth and high spirits, Lawrence suddenly felt very old, although he was only in his early forties. The years of warfare had already tinged his dark hair with streaks of steel gray. He sighed.
“Lieutenant, I believe that you were at the Winsteads’ ball on New Year’s Eve?”
Johnson grinned. “A most enjoyable affair, sir.”
“By any chance, did you engage the Chandler girl in conversation?”
Johnson’s grin broadened. “I spoke with a number of charming young ladies, sir. I regret that I also imbibed liberally of our host’s well-medicated eggnog. As a result, I am afraid that I lost track of names.”
The colonel sighed. Why was he sent so many green young officers who had no notion how and when to gather useful information?
“Lieutenant, may I remind you that even when you are off duty and enjoying a social hour, you should always remember where you work and why we are here? It is at balls and receptions, in saloons and restaurants, even in the depths of the lowest brothel in Swampoodle where we learn the most useful information that our generals need to engage in this infernal war. It is a proven fact that some of the Confederacy’s most effective spies are women, very comely young ones. No matter how much you enjoy yourself, remember that you, Lieutenant Johnson, are the eyes and ears of the United States. Do I make myself clear?”
Johnson gulped under his tight collar. His grin disappeared. “Yes, sir. You might ask Major Claypole, sir. He was there and, as I recollect, he spent most of the evening hugging the wall. I do not believe that he knows how to dance, sir,” he added with a snicker.
Lawrence rumbled in the back of his throat. “Send him in, Johnson. You are dismissed.”
The colonel sighed while Johnson disappeared to fetch the major. Lawrence had wanted to avoid including the man in this delicate matter, even indirectly. Scott Claypole may have been born to a middling farm family in Ohio, but, unfortunately for Lawrence, he was also the beloved nephew of Edwin Stanton, Secretary of War. Claypole proved to be uncommonly intelligent and ambitious for one of his social class. Since joining the army as a second lieutenant, he had worked his way into his present rank with surprising speed. Claypole always seemed to be in the right place at the right time. His name had often appeared in dispatches, usually accompanied with high recommendations for advancement. At Antietam, a year ago September, an unlucky but opportune bullet had killed Claypole’s immediate superior, allowing the young man to take command of his unit under fire. His field promotion to captain quickly followed. Since the battle of Fredericksburg, he was a major, even though he had been stationed in Washington at the time. Lawrence narrowed his eyes. The colonel had the uncomfortable feeling that he needed to watch his back when this man was around.
No doubt Claypole wanted to be a general before the war ended.
“Sir, you wished to see me?” Claypole asked.
The colonel fiddled with a pencil. “You attended the Winstead ball?”
Claypole smiled. “Indeed, sir. It was a very jolly evening.”
“Mmm,” Lawrence rumbled. “As did Johnson and Montgomery?”
The smile never left the major’s face. “On your orders, sir.”
The colonel nodded. “On the day following, you mentioned something about Johnson, or was it Montgomery? I cannot now recall what it was you said.”
If anything, the smile on Claypole’s face broadened. “I merely remarked that Major Montgomery quite surprised me, sir. After protesting to all of us that he did not care for the company of ladies, he spent the entire evening speaking with a very pretty specimen. A Miss Julia Chandler, as I was told.” He paused.
The colonel shifted in his seat. The little brick city of Alexandria shielded many Secessionist vipers behind its veneer of gentility. Though Confederate sympathies ran underground there, the feelings were strong and not easily squashed, despite the daily presence of the Federal army and an active provost marshal. In Lawrence’s opinion, the whole town should have been cleaned out of Southerners two years ago. It wasn’t safe to have such a tinderbox of rebellion sitting so close to Washington.
According to the Pinkerton detective, one of the known Southern sympathizers in Alexandria was the Chandler family, a name that cropped up occasionally in his reports. Nothing specific, merely whisperings of their allegiance to the Confederate cause. Most of the time, his agents wrote of Mrs. Jonah Chandler, who had the nasty habit of berating any poor Union soldier she met on the streets. Apparently the woman wielded an acid tongue.
Then there was something about one of the daughters—a young minx ba
rely out of pinafores who played pranks on the local provost guards. Harmless tricks, to be sure, but nevertheless they showed a certain lack of respect for the very people who were there to protect the good citizens of Alexandria. Could this Julia Chandler be the same prankster?
Lawrence cleared his throat. “Was there something more about the major and this Miss Chandler?”
Claypole’s smile segued into a slow smirk. “Indeed, sir, though as a gentleman, I hesitate to elaborate on the private behavior of a fellow officer.”
Claypole was as much a gentleman as a pig in a mud wallow, the colonel thought. His family relationship had gone to his head. He folded his hands on his desk and leaned forward. “You have my permission to elaborate, Major. Indeed, it is my order.”
The man licked his lips as if he were about to indulge in a savory feast. “The long and the short of it is that they were quite thick with each other all evening. Heads close together, whispering…things, if you catch my meaning, sir.”
He was either insinuating that Montgomery was seducing the woman or that they were exchanging information. Both options made the gorge rise in Lawrence’s throat, especially since Montgomery’s military record was exemplary.
He glowered under his brows at Claypole. “But you have no clear idea what they were…um…discussing?”
Claypole’s eyes grew wide with assumed surprise. “Colonel, sir, I would never dream of eavesdropping upon a private conversation. I was merely surprised by Major Montgomery’s…warmth toward the young lady.” His eyes glittered as he leaned closer to Lawrence. “I found the major’s behavior even more surprising when he left the party almost immediately after the departure of Miss Chandler and her sister.”
Lawrence felt as if a rock had hit him hard against his chest. Of course, young bucks will dally when and where they can, especially during wartime. Years ago, the colonel had enjoyed one or two dalliances himself when he was fighting the Indians in the west. But his marriage to his beloved wife had put an end to all such immoral pastimes.
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