The Lady and the Officer Page 11

  Micah’s discomfort increased by leaps and bounds. “No, ma’am. A gentleman is outside in the garden. He said I was to fetch you and no one else. He said it was a matter of utmost urgency—could be life or death.” The butler met her gaze for a brief moment.

  Madeline thought she might melt into a puddle on the polished cherry wood floor, to be mopped up by the maid tomorrow. “Very well. I’ll come at once.” Closing the door behind her, she followed the butler to the back staircase—the servant’s staircase which led directly to the terraced garden below. With a pounding heart and damp palms, she feared at any moment bedroom doors would open and a resounding, “Where are you going, Madeline?” would echo through the house.

  Will it be James waiting in the jasmine and bougainvillea? Will he sweep me into his arms and pledge lifelong devotion?

  Unfortunately, the officer hidden by potted plants was not General Downing but Major Lewis. His face looked pinched and drawn, as though his sleep had been as troubled as hers.

  “Mrs. Howard, thank you for seeing me at this indecent hour.” Instead of stepping into the pool of moonlight, he gestured for her to move deeper into the shadows.

  With little recourse, she complied. “What is it, Major, that couldn’t wait until morning?”

  “That will be all,” Lewis hissed to the butler.

  Micah still lingered at her heels, not pleased by the midnight rendezvous.

  “It’s all right, Micah,” she said. “Please wait for me at the foot of the steps to the gallery.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He vanished into the darkness.

  “That’s the trouble with former slaves. They act as though they rule the comings and goings of the household.” Lewis tugged up his jacket collar despite the evening’s warmth.

  “Please state your business, sir. I would like to return to the house before my absence is noted. I wouldn’t wish to explain meeting a man in the garden at this hour.”

  “No, that would not do for my plans… our plans, Mrs. Howard.” Smiling with disturbing familiarity, Lewis pulled something from his pocket and held it out in his open palm.

  Madeline stared at a leather-bound book, smaller than a deck of playing cards. “What is that?”

  “Take it, please. It might prove useful to you.”

  With her curiosity aroused, she thumbed through the small volume.

  “It’s a code book, known only to one or two Union officers. Those officers would appreciate any information you might become privy to.” His gaze drifted toward the mansion’s soaring roofline illuminated in the moonlight.

  Madeline practically dropped the book into the dirt. “I have no use for such a thing. I’m not part of your web of secret intrigue. I’m a farmer’s widow living temporarily south of the Mason-Dixon Line.” She felt a chill run up her spine into her scalp.

  “I know exactly who you are.” Smelling of stale tobacco and dried sweat, Lewis took a step closer. “You sent a letter to General Downing of the Fourth Corps. Your lover, perhaps? Don’t you think he could use some assistance, holed up in unfamiliar territory? He’s cut off from the bulk of General Meade’s army. Or would you prefer him to blindly blunder into battle?”

  “What makes you think I could help… the Union? What we overhead at that dinner party was a coincidence, a one-time occurrence. My uncle doesn’t make a habit of sitting around the house and discussing General Lee’s plans for attack.” Madeline’s anxiety was rapidly changing to anger.

  How dare this man make such allegations and assumptions?

  Major Lewis lifted both palms. “I don’t mean to upset you, Mrs. Howard. Just consider the possibility that you may hear something useful in the future—something that could aid General Downing’s infantry corps. Maybe save the lives of his men… or him.”

  Madeline wanted to run from the pompous man, but she couldn’t dismiss his suggestion cavalierly.

  “After I leave you tonight, you won’t see me.” He glanced around the encroaching shrubbery. “I hope to never again set foot on Virginia soil. Keep the book in a safe place. If you wish to convey information, use the code to compose your message. If your message falls into the wrong hands, no one can use it as evidence against you.”

  Evidence? Just the word intimidated Madeline. She knew about foaling pregnant mares, not about passing military secrets. “I will accept the code book, Major, but I make no promises.” She slipped it into the pocket of her robe.

  “Nor would I expect any. Take any messages to Captain George of the Bonnie Bess. He’ll see that they get into the right hands.”

  Madeline gasped with the mention of the friendly boat captain’s name, but Major Lewis had already disappeared into the shadows. She ran to the bottom of the steps, where the sight of Micah leaning against a post nearly brought her to tears with relief.

  “Is everything all right, Mrs. Howard?”

  “Yes, thank you, but I would appreciate your not mentioning this visit… by an old friend.”

  “I assumed as much, ma’am.” He offered his elbow as they ascended the stairs.

  Madeline couldn’t wait to reach her room and close the door behind her. Yet her heart rate had barely returned to normal when she heard a second scratching at the wood panel.

  “Maddy, may I come in, please?” Eugenia didn’t wait for a reply. She opened the door and walked in. “I stopped by a few minutes ago, but your room was empty.”

  “I took a few turns around the garden. I was restless and tried to tire myself out.”

  “I couldn’t sleep, either. That’s why I hoped we could talk for a bit.” Dropping onto the settee, Eugenia lowered her face into her hands and began to weep.

  Madeline exhaled with relief as she hurried to comfort her young cousin. “What is it, dear heart? Surely your burdens will seem lighter come the dawn. Mine usually do.”

  “My troubles continue to grow worse. Have you heard the recent casualty numbers? Young men keep dying every day. By the end of the war, there won’t be a single eligible bachelor left in Richmond.”

  Madeline placed a hand on her shoulder. “We must think of the sorrows suffered by their mothers and sisters instead of our reduced prospects for courting.”

  “I know that’s what I should do, but I fear I’ll spend the rest of my life sipping tea with Mama in the parlor.”

  “You’re barely nineteen, Genie. You have plenty of time to find your perfect match.”

  “Not if every man under forty is dead. I just heard that Major Penrod might be sent to the battlefield to replace fallen officers.”

  “But his leg hasn’t properly healed yet.”

  “That’s what I told Papa. Do you think you might speak to Colonel Haywood? I so wish Joseph to remain in town, especially with the social season drawing near. My debut last winter was less than eventful.” Eugenia trained plaintive blue eyes on Madeline.

  “Colonel Haywood? What influence would I have on him? And I don’t know when I’ll see him next.”

  “In case you do? I believe he’s been smitten with you ever since you saved his life.”

  “I did not—” Madeline paused as the girl’s face crumpled. “All right. If I’m given the right opportunity, I will speak to the colonel on Major Penrod’s behalf.”

  “That’s all I ask. Thank you so much, cousin. I thank God each night that you moved to Richmond.” Eugenia kissed both of Madeline’s cheeks and squeezed her hard.

  NOVEMBER 1863

  Colonel Elliott Haywood dressed carefully in the better of his two uniforms. He had been given the second uniform when assigned to Richmond’s beleaguered home guard. The new government expanded Richmond’s local militia after the capital had been moved from Montgomery in the early months of the war. The home guard protected not only President Davis and his family, but the entire war department staff, the Confederate Treasury, and the state department, besides the ordnance and munitions depots. The number of men under Elliott’s command had fluctuated greatly during the past few months. Enlisted men and
officers had been called away to support other campaigns due to a chronic shortage of both, but as federal troops advanced closer to Richmond, men were quickly recruited to swell the home guard’s ranks. His office also directed the tide of dispatches flowing between Richmond and Fredericksburg. Elliott often made the trip himself because many under his command were unable to ride due to wounds or other infirmities. Determined to still be of service, these loyal soldiers stood guard at various offices and processed the endless blizzard of military paperwork. Able-bodied staff members not needed for courier duty acted as President Davis’s personal bodyguards.

  Elliott was considered accomplished among his peers, even though his education consisted only of one local grammar school and brief terms with a tutor. As the fourth of five children and the youngest son of a cotton planter, his father had little regard for higher education. He sent his eldest two sons north to college, yet neither of Elliott’s brothers had distinguished himself in the academic world. When he came of age, a career in the military appeared his best option. Years of poor harvests, low prices for cotton, and general mismanagement had sent their plantation into a downward spiral. The Haywood family’s once impressive fortune had dwindled well before the onset of war.

  Charles Haywood, never much of a businessman, invested what he had left in Confederate bonds, staking everything on the Confederacy. Elliott’s father had already turned the day-to-day operations over to his third son, a dissipated man unfit for military duty. Robert’s physical condition proved to be a blessing when the eldest sons were killed days apart at the battles of Frazier’s Farm and Malvern Hill. When his father received the letters, unfortunately arriving the same day, his interest in the plantation ceased and he remained mildly drunk from then on.

  Elliott’s mother died of yellow fever when he was ten years old, along with his four-year-old sister. He could remember his mother walking the length of the second-floor gallery in the morning, her skirts billowing behind her. Whenever she spotted him playing in the garden, she would wave her lace-gloved hand. His mother, never a strong woman, had spent most days in her room, venturing downstairs only for dinner. Elliott and his sister had been fed in the kitchen by their nanny. His faded memory of the woman who bore him was a wren-like creature with fair hair and tiny hands. She addressed her husband as Mr. Haywood, instead of Charles. Elliott had never once heard her raise her voice.

  By contrast, his baby sister was a bumblebee who ran as soon as she learned to walk and knocked over anything in her path whenever she was out of her nurse’s eye. Elliott had grieved when his father carried down the tiny, linen-wrapped bundle for the funeral wake. His father looked as though his heart would break. Two days later, his mother was gone too.

  Colonel Haywood squeezed his eyes shut to force away painful memories. He was a grown man. All of that was long past. Before Elliott’s enlistment, his father secured a position for him as an apprentice to a cotton factor. Having no sons of his own, the elderly gentleman took Elliott under his wing and trained him in the savvy business. Mr. Lowe invited Elliott to live above the carriage house behind his opulent Savannah townhouse, treating him like family. In Savannah, Elliott learned to broker commodities with finesse, and more importantly, he established the necessary connections to conduct business in the old South. Elliott seldom went home to the plantation in the years preceding the war, vastly preferring the lifestyle offered by Mr. Lowe.

  Now that life was behind him as well. Since enlisting in the Confederate Army more than two years ago, he’d heard nothing from Mr. and Mrs. Lowe of Savannah. The federal blockade along the coast prevented cotton from leaving eastern seaports. With farmers fighting for the Cause and the slaves run off, almost no cotton grew in Georgia anymore. What kind of job—what kind of world—would be left when the war finally ended?

  The only thing intriguing Elliott these days was a tall, lovely Yankee, unlike any woman he had ever known. Forthright and direct, Mrs. Howard thought logically and spoke her mind without affectation or pretense. Unafraid of hard work, she demonstrated more courage than any delicate Southern belle. Society ladies were accustomed to being taken care of. They had done little for themselves before the war and resented having their luxuries taken from them now. Mrs. Howard’s independent spirit appealed to him more than false graciousness and social artifice.

  Elliott adjusted his tie, took a final look in the mirror, and hurried downstairs, grabbing his hat on his way out the door. As commander of the Richmond home guard, the Confederacy paid for his suite of rooms in a fashionable but shabby hotel on the west side of town, although actual pay envelopes were few and far between these days. It had been weeks since he had dined with the Duncans, yet he hadn’t forgotten his offer to accompany Mrs. Howard to church. Today he wouldn’t allow war business to interfere with his well-laid plans. Stopping in the hotel kitchen to pick up the hamper he ordered, Elliott set off toward Forsythia Lane. He had borrowed a carriage from a merchant and would reward him for his generosity with free labor, courtesy of the guards. Everything had its price in wartime Richmond.

  Mrs. Howard was descending the steps of the Duncan mansion as he reached the carriage block. “Good morning, Mrs. Howard. What a coincidence. I’m on my way to St. Paul’s Episcopal for services. Would you care to join me?” He offered her his best smile.

  “I’m not sure that this is a coincidence, Colonel. However, I won’t question your word on the Sabbath.” A smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “I have a feeling my aunt had a hand in this.”

  “She may have suggested the possibility to me.” He extended his hand to her.

  Mrs. Howard swayed as though in mental turmoil. “I’m not sure I should cram into your family’s pew and make others uncomfortable. Perhaps I’ll enter the sanctuary alone and sit in the back.”

  “Nonsense. You will crowd no one. My grandparents have passed on and my father and brother no longer drive in from the country for the weekend. You would make a lonely man less so for a brief interval because I usually sit by myself.”

  After reflecting a moment more, Mrs. Howard took his hand and climbed up beside him. “Very well, I shall ride with you. My uncle described the length of the walk, and I feared these slippers wouldn’t hold up well.” She lifted her skirt an inch to reveal her footwear—something no Southern lady would ever do.

  Elliott bit back his impulse to laugh. “Those won’t be suitable for our sloppy winters. You and Miss Duncan will need to go shopping.”

  Mrs. Howard chose to ignore his advice and made polite conversation about the weather and changes to the Duncan garden along the way. When they arrived in front of the church, her banter stopped. “Goodness, I hadn’t expected so grand a cathedral. I’m used to small country churches that also serve as the schoolhouse and town hall.”

  “I hope you’ll find the message as inspiring as the edifice,” Elliott said, offering her his elbow as they climbed the long flight of stone steps.

  One and half hours later, if her grin and the volume of her singing were any indication, Mrs. Howard had enjoyed the service immensely. After they paused to greet the pastor on the way out, she practically skipped down the steps.

  “That was lovely,” she said. “Although my aunt’s church is beautiful beyond description, I can’t understand a word of their Mass in Latin. Thank you, sir, for inviting me.”

  “I apologize for our minister’s plea to be generous to the Cause in the offering plate. Funds are short, I daresay.”

  “No apology necessary, Colonel. I dropped what few coins I could spare in the poor box by the door.”

  “Resourcefulness, thy name is woman.” Elliott took her arm on their way to the hired carriage.

  “I’m determined to let nothing dampen my good mood on such a glorious day.”

  For several minutes they rode along in companionable silence, enjoying the warm sun on their back and the cool breeze on their face. Suddenly, she swiveled on the seat. “Shouldn’t we have taken Grace Street to return to my uncle
’s, or am I confused? The houses are becoming sparser instead of more closely spaced.”

  “You’re very observant, Mrs. Howard. If your uncle’s home was our intended destination, we are indeed going in the wrong direction.” He shook the reins to hasten their progress.

  “I’d prefer you take me home, Colonel. I don’t wish to worry the Duncans regarding my whereabouts.”

  “We’re merely taking a short drive. There’s something I wish you to see. Your uncle and aunt won’t worry for your safety in my company.”

  “May I at least know where we are headed?” She turned her neck in both directions.

  “To the prettiest view in Richmond, my favorite spot. It’s not far, I assure you.” After another mile, they turned off Idlewood Drive onto Cherry Street and rattled over rough stones through an open gate. A carved wooden sign indicated they entered the hallowed grounds of Hollywood Cemetery.

  “You’ve brought me to a cemetery? Do you have relatives you wish to pay your respects to?” She lowered her voice to a whisper.

  “I do have relatives buried here, but they are not why we’ve come. I want you to see a place that holds much of Richmond’s history since the Revolutionary War.”

  Cobblestone paths had been laid out just wide enough for a carriage to pass in between stately old trees. Massive oaks, walnuts, and sycamores provided ample shade, while holly trees were massed with plump red berries. Verdant rhododendrons, mountain laurel, and crabapple had set their buds for the first warm days of spring months away. Acres of rolling hills had been divided into private family plots by low stone walls. Graves were well spaced and well marked.

  “It is beautiful here.” She peered from side to side at the impressive grounds. “I’m sure it would be lovely in winter.”

  Elliott chose the narrow lane that followed a cliff-like ridge of land, stopping the horse in front of a large crypt. “Our first stop,” he announced. “President James Monroe, our fifth president and last president who was a founding father of the United States. He was a planter born in Westmoreland County, Virginia, and died on Independence Day in 1831. Ironic, no?”