by Nan Ryan
As it turned out, Emile LeGrande never had to leave her beloved Whitehall. The sickly woman contracted pneumonia and, despite all the best efforts of her caring daughter and the family physician, Dr. Ledet, she died in the big four-poster where she had slept every night since arriving there forty years earlier as a blushing bride.
The same bed where both of her children had been conceived and born.
With her mother’s death, Suzanna’s hatred of the Union grew and became white-hot. The Yankees, damn them all to Hades, had taken everything from her. She had nothing left to lose.
Suzanna took what little money was left and moved into a set of rented rooms in the heart of Georgetown. On the first night she spent there, she awakened sometime after midnight and for a long moment didn’t know where she was. Frantic, she looked around and saw none of the familiar furniture of her spacious bedroom at Whitehall, where she’d slept every night of her life.
Then the truth dawned.
Suzanna sighed wearily, lay back down on the strange, narrow bed and turned onto her side. She curled up into a fetal position and fought back the tears that were stinging her eyes. Never in her life had she felt so alone, so afraid, so desperate.
Or so determined.
* * *
“Leave it. Leave the bottle.”
“As you wish, sir.”
“I wish,” said the tall, fatigued officer as he flipped open the buttons running down the center of his blue uniform blouse.
By the time the bellhop closed the door of the Washington, D.C. hotel suite, Rear Admiral Mitchell B. Longley was bare chested. The weary naval officer sank down onto an easy chair and took off his tall black leather boots. He reached for the filled glass, downed the dark liquid in one long swallow and made a face.
He set the empty glass aside, stood up and started to unbutton his trousers. Before he could succeed, a loud knock sounded. Annoyed, Mitch Longley crossed to the door and yanked it open.
“I asked that I not be disturbed,” he said, frowning when he saw a sheep-faced lieutenant looking up at him.
“I know, sir, and I’m very sorry. But it’s important.”
“It had better be.”
“Sir, it’s Senator Davis Baxter. The senator, like everyone else in D.C., has heard about your impressive victories and…ah…how you torpedoed the Albermarle in a daring night raid on the Roanoke River down in North Carolina, so…” Aware of Mitch’s deepening scowl, he hurried on. “The senator wants the opportunity to congratulate you in person.”
Mitch was instantly exasperated. He’d bet everything he owned that he knew where Senator Baxter had heard he was back in Washington. Edna Earl Longley. Mitch’s paternal aunt and closest living relative had likely tipped off her powerful friend, the senator. Mitch had written to his aunt, telling her that he would arrive in Washington sometime near the end of the week. Today was Wednesday. The formidable woman had a sixth sense about such things. He had been in the city for less than an hour and she already knew he was here. Damnation! Now she’d feign great hurt because he hadn’t come directly to her house.
“Kindly tell Senator Baxter that you have passed along his congratulations,” Mitch said, and started to close the door.
The lieutenant put out his hand to stop him. “You don’t understand, sir. The senator has strongly requested your presence at a gala this evening. He believes, and rightly so, that you being there with some of your fellow officers would be good for morale.” Again the lieutenant looked sheepish. “I’d say it’s more like an order than a request, sir.”
“Lieutenant, senators do not issue orders to naval officers. Now if you’ll kindly excuse me…”
“Please, Admiral Longley,” said the lieutenant, thrusting a small velum envelope at Mitch. “As I understand it, the soiree should be most relaxing and enjoyable. It’s at the Washington mansion of a Mrs. Mattie Kirkendal, and the officers who have attended her gatherings in the past have raved about the flowing champagne and exquisite food and beautiful women.”
Mitch nodded. Now he knew this was his aunt’s doing. She and Mattie Kirkendal were old acquaintances. “I’ll think about it.”
“The party is tonight, sir.”
“Out of the question. I’m dead tired and all I want is to get into bed and sleep for the next twenty-four hours.” This time Mitch did close the door.
He turned and went back into the sitting room. He glanced at a decorative clock resting on the mantel. Ten minutes past two in the afternoon. Hands at his waist, Mitch moved to the tall front windows of the Hotel Washington, which looked out on the street below. Carriages rolled by with laughing people inside. Mitch scowled. It was as if they didn’t realize there was a war going on. That men were being killed daily.
Mitch drew the heavy drapes against the strong May sunlight and turned away. At the drum table where he’d left the bottle of bourbon, he paused, finished unbuttoning his blue trousers, then shoved them down his slim hips to the carpeted floor. He stepped out of the trousers, kicked them aside and reached for the bourbon bottle and glass.
He took both with him as he crossed the sitting room and stepped into the shadowy bedchamber. The heavy curtains were all tightly drawn. Mitch went directly to the huge four-poster, where snowy-white sheets were turned back invitingly. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and poured himself another stiff drink.
This one he slowly savored. It had been weeks since he’d tasted liquor. He smiled. He could, he reasoned, drink all afternoon and into the night if he so desired. And he definitely so desired. He was presently on a much needed furlough from his fleet command and would not, therefore, be putting anyone’s life in jeopardy should he get pleasantly drunk.
If he drank enough, perhaps he would forget, at least for a while, the faces of all those young, innocent boys he had seen die in battle. Faces that haunted him.
Mitch emptied the shot glass and poured himself another. Leaving the full glass where it sat beside the bottle on the night table, he yawned, rubbed a hand across his naked torso and stretched out on his back in the soft bed. Sighing with pleasure at the touch of the silky sheets against his bare flesh, Mitch Longley slowly reached a long, leanly muscled arm out toward the full glass of bourbon.
But he never picked it up.
His empty hand fell to the side of the mattress.
Rear Admiral Mitchell B. Longley, the hero of Roanoke River, was sound asleep.
Fourteen
“…And if all goes as planned, we will have caught the biggest fish in the pond!”
That was Mattie Kirkendal’s prediction when she told Suzanna that she was expecting a very important guest for this evening’s reception. Summoned to the Kirkendal mansion in the early afternoon, Suzanna had barely walked through the door before an excited Mattie rushed forward to meet her.
“Thank you so much for coming on such short notice,” she had said, taking Suzanna’s arm.
“My pleasure, but what—?”
Interrupting, Mattie eagerly confided that the conquering naval hero, Rear Admiral Mitchell B. Longley, had just arrived in Washington for a weeklong leave and consultation, and would be at tonight’s gala come twilight.
“It’s up to you, child,” she had told Suzanna. “You must work your magic on Admiral Longley. I’ve no doubt that he knows pertinent facts regarding Union plans and decisive military actions that are in the offing. Oh, Suzanna, the intelligence he might share with you could be invaluable to the Confederacy!”
“What if the admiral shows no interest in me?” Suzanna had ventured.
Mattie laughed gaily. “My dear, Admiral Longley is a virile, handsome thirty-six-year-old male who has been on fleet command for months without leave. One look at you and he will be instantly captivated. The only danger you’ll face is keeping him in line and—” Mattie’s face flushed when she added softly “—protecting your virtue.”
“That will pose no problem,” Suzanna stated confidently. “You’ve seen me easily handle
any number of amorous officers over these past few years.”
Mattie smiled benevolently and shook her head. “Admiral Longley is not like the rest, Suzanna.”
“He’s a Yankee, isn’t he? Then he’s just like all the rest to me. Now, how will I know him? You must introduce me the minute he arrives.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Mattie. “He’s sure to spot you the instant he steps into the ballroom.” Her eyes twinkled when she added, “And I’ve an idea you’ll notice him as well.”
* * *
As sunset approached, Suzanna was at home in her rented rooms, dressing for Mattie’s gala. While she moved about the bedroom, she idly wondered if this Admiral Longley was “like all the rest.” Mattie had told her Longley was a handsome, charming gentleman all the ladies found exceedingly attractive.
Suzanna hoped he actually was relatively attractive. She was sick to death of having to flirt, tease and dance with officers who were physically unappealing, intellectually boring and tiresomely predictable in their declarations of admiration for her.
Ofttimes, at the end of yet another trying evening, she felt guilty and dishonest and repulsed when she allowed one of the smitten Yankee fools to kiss her on the lips. While they swooned and sighed and attempted to press her closer, she fought the impulse to grit her teeth and forcefully shove them away. She had never allowed an eager suitor more than one good-night kiss and even then she had never permitted a single officer to see her home. She had a signal worked out with Mattie’s butler. When she motioned to the aristocratic servant that she was ready to leave, he nodded, and within five minutes one of Mattie’s carriages was brought around to drive her home.
Alone.
Suzanna unhurriedly stripped down to the skin and stepped into a steaming tub of hot water. She soaped her slender arms and considered what she should wear for this momentous occasion. She supposed she should choose one of her more daring ball gowns in an attempt to catch the admiral’s discerning eye.
Swirling the soapy washcloth over her gleaming throat, Suzanna considered how she could best stand out from the crowd. She would not be the only young lady present, and if this naval admiral was actually handsome and charming, she would surely have competition for his attention.
Suzanna found that her interest was mildly piqued. It was like a game she wanted to win. She had always been competitive, enjoyed setting goals and attaining them. She was, she realized with surprise, determined to catch the admiral’s eye.
Her bath finished, Suzanna rose from the tub and toweled her slender body dry. She glanced at the room’s locked door, then shyly stepped in front of the freestanding mirror. Critically examining her pale, naked body, Suzanna touched her full breasts and flat belly. She turned away from the mirror and glanced over her shoulder. She slowly pivoted until she was again facing the mirror. She studied her reflection, and her breath caught in her throat when she imagined a man’s burning eyes observing her, touching her, caressing her.
Feeling strangely sensual, Suzanna strolled naked to the huge armoire. She took out a pair of silky stockings, saucy satin garters, a lace-up corset and covering camisole, and a pair of naughty, lace-trimmed French pantalets that had never been worn.
Before donning the underthings, she took a seat at her vanity and dressed her lustrous red hair. She chose the elaborate style of the day, long ringlets dripping from a high oyster-shell comb. She turned her head this way, then that, and was pleased to see the flaming curls dance with her movements.
She rose. She struggled to lace the corset as tightly as possible, holding her breath, wishing Buelah was there to help her. Finally Suzanna managed to get the corset completely laced up. The boned undergarment accentuated her small waist, so she didn’t mind that it was hard to breathe. The corset firmly in place, she donned the rest of her underwear and drew on her stockings.
When she lowered the frothy, blue chiffon ball gown over her head and let it fall into place, she smiled, pleased. The ruffled bodice dipped low; the corset pushed her bared bosom up. Catching her bottom lip in her teeth, Suzanna put her hands beneath her breasts and lifted them higher still, then urged the gown’s bodice lower.
She picked up a small bottle of lavender water and dabbed a drop in her cleavage and behind her ears. She took one last look in the mirror.
“Will the admiral approve?” she asked her reflection, and experienced a sudden tingling sensation, part fear, part excitement.
* * *
“I can’t imagine what has happened! Why isn’t he here?” said an upset Mattie Kirkendal that evening as the hour of ten o’clock fast approached.
Strangely disappointed that the Union admiral had not shown up for the gala, Suzanna laughed off the woman’s concern. “For heaven sake, Mattie, it’s not the end of the world. You said yourself that Longley arrived in Washington only today. The poor man’s probably tired and has chosen to rest this evening.”
The two friends were in Mattie’s spacious boudoir, Mattie searching for the smelling salts, Suzanna applying Mattie’s heated curling iron to the ringlets gone limp from too many dance partners pressing their cheeks to hers.
Downstairs, the party was loud and lively, the absent admiral being the only invited guest who had not shown up.
Her red curls bouncy again, Suzanna said, “Let’s go back down, Mattie. Forget about Admiral Longley.”
The woman’s stout shoulders lifted in a heave of dejection. “I had so wanted him to meet you.”
“There’ll be other opportunities. Surely he’ll be in the city for a few days. Now come, we owe it to your guests to return to them.”
“I suppose,” said Mattie.
Fifteen
The heat was so intense he could feel it blistering his face and singeing his eyebrows. He couldn’t see through the thick black smoke, but he could hear the reports of guns from both sides and the cries of men as they were struck by incoming fire. Amidst the melee he stood resolutely on the hurricane deck of the steel ram, shouting orders to those crew members who were still on their feet. The fierce firing continued as the heavy guns boomed and the dying screamed out in agony.
In midcommand, he felt the hot lead pierce his flesh, felt the wet blood coursing down his chest, soaking his uniform blouse, draining his energy.
“Keep firing!” he shouted, feeling his legs buckle beneath him. “Don’t let up! Keep firing! Keep firing!”
“Keep firing!” Mitch was shouting as he lunged up from the bed, sweating profusely, awakening abruptly from the recurring nightmare. His breath coming fast, heart hammering, he checked his bare chest with searching hands, half expecting to find a mortal wound.
Mitch exhaled raggedly and raked his hands through his disheveled hair. He tossed back the sheet and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. He dropped his head into his hands and sat there in the darkness for a long minute, collecting himself, fighting a bout of panic, the kind that seemed to seize him more and more regularly of late. A deep intrinsic fear he couldn’t dare share with anyone. The troubling premonition that his luck was running out. That he’d beaten the odds for too long and his number would soon be up.
Mitch knew he wouldn’t fall back to sleep, so he lit the bedside lamp and glanced at the decorative onyx clock—9:00 p.m. He had slept seven hours. It was now nearing bedtime and he was wide-awake. And would be wide-awake until the early hours of morning.
Mitch rose to his feet and walked into the shadowy sitting room. He retrieved his white linen underwear from the carpet and stepped into it. He crossed to the tall front windows, drew back one of the heavy curtains and looked down on the street, wondering how he could pass the time for the next four or five hours.
He could, he reasoned, get back into bed and finish the bottle of bourbon. Drink himself into a stupor. At the moment, that prospect didn’t particularly appeal to him. He felt anxious, jumpy. He was tense, restless and lonely. He needed company. And not just the company of other sailors and soldiers filling the saloons d
own on the street.
It had been too long since he’d seen a fresh pretty face, had heard a soft female voice.
Mitch turned, went back into the bedroom and yanked on the bellpull to summon a hotel employee. When the dutiful young man came up without delay, Mitch requested that a hot bath be drawn for him immediately.
Half an hour later, Mitch Longley, freshly bathed, shaved and wearing a neatly pressed navy-blue uniform, stepped onto the street in front of the hotel and hailed a hansom cab.
“Where to, sir?” asked the coachman.
“Good question,” Mitch said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, realizing suddenly that he couldn’t recall the address. “I’m not sure. It’s a big mansion on Massachusetts Avenue, but. Stay here while I go back upstairs and check the invitation.”
“Mattie Kirkendal’s place?” asked the driver.
“Yes. Mrs. Kirkendal’s home. I don’t know the address, offhand.”
“I do,” said the man with a smile. “You aren’t the first officer I’ve carried to one of Mrs. Kirkendal’s famous parties. Get in and I’ll have you there in no time.”
* * *
Ten-thirty.
Suzanna was spinning about the dance floor in the arms of a short, balding army major who was unquestionably mad about her. She pretended to listen while the major prattled on about how beautiful she looked tonight and that he wanted—if only she would agree—to escort her home at the end of this evening’s gathering.
Suzanna inwardly sighed, glanced over her partner’s shoulder and spotted a tall, dark, sinfully handsome naval officer stepping into the arched doorway of the ballroom.
He paused there for a moment.
He stood unmoving, perfectly framed in the portal.
A magnificent figure in a well-tailored blue naval uniform with shiny brass buttons and gold epaulets adorning his wide shoulders, he immediately attracted attention. He possessed the kind of good looks that had already attracted several pairs of female eyes.