The Lady and the Officer Page 12

  “Truly, but at least he was laid to rest in a beautiful place. Look, someone recently visited his grave.” Mrs. Howard pointed at a wreath of red flowers. White pearly seeds still clung to the dried boughs.

  “There is plenty of history here—Virginia’s history.” With a click of his tongue, the carriage began to roll. Elliott halted a second time before a vast expanse of wind-blown acreage at the extreme end of the property. “Up on that hill they plan to rebury our boys who died at Gettysburg. So many young men on both sides. They intend to dig up the bodies and bring them home to Virginia soil. Your government doesn’t want Rebs in their new cemetery, and the families don’t want their sons spending eternity up North.”

  Mrs. Howard stared into the distance, her words floating on the breeze. “Where they spend eternity is up to their Maker.”

  “Well said, madam. We just left church, and I had already forgotten myself. ”

  “I didn’t know that about the new Gettysburg cemetery, Colonel. I’m saddened and a little ashamed that the gray-clad soldiers who died wouldn’t be welcomed in hallowed ground. In death, our earthly battles are over.”

  “Ah, it’s nasty business on both sides. Let’s move on. I have one more site to show you.” Elliott chewed the inside of his mouth in frustration. Why had he brought up the subject of Gettysburg with the woman who had saved his life? He released the brake and the carriage continued along the narrow road.

  “Oh, my! Please stop.” Mrs. Howard hopped out before the carriage came to a halt. She ran to the precipice and peered over the edge where a wide valley had been cut by the shallow but turbulent river. “This must be the view you spoke of.”

  Elliott lifted the hamper and folded quilt from the back before joining her side. “It is. Look down there.” He pointed with a gloved finger. “We have a canal next to the river, dug by immigrants, to move goods when the river is too low to navigate.”

  “Ingenious. They built such a canal in Pennsylvania too.”

  While they watched, canopied flatboats pulled by mules on the towpath made slow progress along the narrow canal. A row of trees separated the two waterways, while jasmine, honeysuckle, and blackberry bushes covered the embankment down to the water. Flowering vines and shrubbery had managed to gain foothold on the cliffs.

  “I can see the white columns of your capitol building.” Mrs. Howard stood on tiptoes as she tried to discern other landmarks. “Yet here we stand in a pastoral Eden—such a contrast within the city.”

  “I thought you would like my favorite spot in Richmond.” Elliott stepped closer to savor the view—both of the river and his companion. “Shall we sit and share a meal? It won’t be as elegant as the repast provided by your aunt and uncle, but it’s edible to be sure.” He held out the willow basket.

  Her pleasant expression slipped a notch. “I wish you hadn’t troubled yourself, Colonel.”

  “It was no trouble, I assure you. This is the advantage of living in a hotel and flirting shamelessly with the proprietress.”

  Her eyes flashed with annoyance. “And what advantage do you hope to gain by flirting shamelessly with me?”

  “I was teasing, Mrs. Howard. My landlady is a widow well into her seventies. I paid a dear price for this hamper of food.” Elliott placed a hand over his heart. “That is the honest truth. An hour of your company is the only advantage I seek.”

  “In that case, I beg your pardon.” She dropped down to her knees on the quilt. “What did she pack for us? Your minister’s long sermon has left me ravenous.”

  “Let’s see,” he said, pulling out items wrapped in white paper. “Cold sandwiches, apples, and some type of cake. What do you suppose this could be?” Elliott held up a lidded container to the sunlight, swirling the dark, murky contents. “A mysterious jar of something to drink.”

  “It looks… dangerous.” Laughing, she studied the tiny leaves and other foreign matter swimming around the brew.

  Uncapping it carefully, the colonel brought the jar to his nose for a cautious sniff. “Mmm, it smells much better than it looks. Shall we be brave?” He pulled two chipped mugs from the hamper and poured a bit into each.

  She accepted one mug and gingerly sniffed.

  “To your health, madam.” Elliott clinked her cup with his and downed his portion in one large gulp. “Delicious. It’s sassafras tea. Don’t be frightened; drink up.”

  She swallowed a mouthful and grimaced. “I wasn’t aware sassafras tea could ferment, Colonel. This concoction contains something spirituous.” She set her cup in the tall grass.

  “I believe it’s my proprietress’s special blend.” Elliott refilled his cup and then divided their lunch onto china plates. “Looks like the sandwiches are ham and the cake is chocolate. But dessert is only for those who eat their healthy apple first.”

  “Bounteous fare during wartime.” Gazing over the broad river valley, Mrs. Howard took a small bite of her sandwich. “How fortunate to have a day so mild this late in the fall.”

  “Fortunate, yes,” he agreed, studying her every move.

  His rapt attention hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Is my hat on backward, sir? Or perhaps I have mustard on my nose?” She swiveled to face him. “Why exactly are you staring at me?”

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Howard, but I can’t seem to take my eyes off you.” He placed his gloved hand over hers.

  She yanked her hand back as though stung by a bee, spilling the contents of her forgotten mug. “Colonel Haywood, I have done you a disservice if I’ve given an incorrect impression. I accepted your invitation today based on friendship, nothing more.” Rising gracefully to her feet, she peered down at him. “My heart already belongs to another. You’ve made me uncomfortable, sir, and I wish to be taken home.”

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Howard. I’d been led to believe you were a widow, recently released from the restrictions of mourning.” He also scrambled to his feet. “Another man has already claimed your affections?”

  Lifting her chin, she crossed her arms over her bodice. “I left the constraints of mourning this past spring and met someone in July.”

  “The same month one of God’s most divine angels saved my life? What bitter irony that it was not me who caught your eye.” He pressed his hat to his chest.

  “You have a rare gift for words, Colonel, along with a flair for the dramatic. I daresay a panoply of belles await your attention in Richmond with myself removed from the mix.” She strode purposefully toward the carriage.

  Haywood hastily packed their lunch back into the hamper, grabbed the quilt, and sprinted to catch up with her. “You have resoundingly won this skirmish, madam, but I pray not the entire war. Allow me to parlay again another day… as a cherished friend, if nothing else.”

  “I will attend services with you on Sundays because your church is much to my liking. And because I have few other friends in your fair city.” She halted at the carriage steps and faced him like a feral cat. “But I grant you no other liberties than that.”

  “I have tried every tactic and maneuver my military career taught me, but I have been bested… and by a Yankee, no less.” Elliott bowed from the waist and offered his hand.

  Accepting his help into the carriage, she replied with indignation. “It’s not a case of being bested, Colonel. Love is neither a game nor some type of competition.”

  “That’s where you are wrong, Mrs. Howard. Love is most certainly that and more.” He placed the hamper between them as a fortress and clucked to the horses.

  The ride back to Forsythia Lane was long that afternoon.

  TEN

  TUESDAY

  Madeline could get no respite from her monthly cramps, no matter how many cups of Esther’s willow bark tea she drank. She had declined Aunt Clarisa’s invitation to join her on the afternoon round of social calls. Sipping weak coffee and eating sweets still required a smile and polite responses to conversation—two things Madeline felt incapable of in her current state. She tried walking in the garden, recently replanted wi
th tiny seedlings, but a cold rain had begun to fall. Then she tried to stretch out in her room, but could find no comfort there, either. Dampness drifted through the ill-fitting glass panes.

  Alone in the house except for the servants, Madeline reclined on the parlor sofa and covered her legs with a shawl. The fire in the hearth, along with the soft patter of rain on the window, brought relief at last. She fell asleep within minutes and slept soundly for hours. When she awoke, she felt momentarily discombobulated.

  Stretching like a cat, Madeline heard the sound of conversation coming from the next room. Deep male voices easily carried through a silent house. Lethargic from the warmth and with no place to go, she listened to their discussion with growing interest.

  “Would it be wise to move the army this late in the year? We’ve had so much rain lately, and heavy clouds show no indication of letting up soon.”

  Madeline recognized the speaker as Colonel Haywood, whom she’d grown fonder of after each Sunday service. Not the way she felt toward General Downing, but like an old childhood friend—one you wished life had treated better. Eugenia had explained the unpleasant situation on the Haywood plantation—his father and surviving sibling both drunkards. It was no wonder Elliott lived in rented rooms in a poor section of town and worshipped alone Sunday mornings. Madeline vowed to show him nothing but kindness during her remaining time in Virginia.

  “Haywood’s right. Artillery caissons will mire down in the muck, allowing them to fall into enemy hands should our troops retreat in haste.” Her uncle’s deep baritone voice was also easily recognizable.

  “There will be no retreat this time and no artillery,” declared a third man. “Cannons will remain positioned where they are. We’ll use cavalry with one division of infantry and strike swiftly. We can surprise their position along the Rapidan and drive them east, straight into Longstreet’s corps positioned along the Rappahannock. We’ll trounce the Yankees in one more decisive battle before the snow flies. If we can reduce their numbers, we can begin the spring offensive more evenly matched.”

  “They can outnumber us two to one and we would still have the advantage.”

  Madeline thought she recognized the nasally tone of Major Penrod—the man who had captured Eugenia’s young heart.

  “I don’t disagree, but we need time to reoutfit with guns and ammunition. And over the winter months we must convince England to take a stand. We need the ordnance their foundries produce.”

  Madeline heard a murmur of agreement in the dining room and the clink of brandy snifters.

  “If England joins our side, we can lick those Yanks that much sooner,” Major Penrod blustered.

  “Has General Lee approved this plan, General Stuart?” asked Colonel Haywood.

  “Of course he has, or I wouldn’t be here in Richmond. We’ll use Ewell’s corps of infantry, commanded by General Early.”

  The unfamiliar voice now had a name—the illustrious James Ewell Brown Stuart, commonly called “Jeb” Stuart. Madeline had read about his exploits prior to the battle of Gettysburg.

  “In that case, prepare your dispatches, sir, and I’ll see that they reach the necessary commanders.”

  Madeline bolted upright on the couch while her heart slammed against her chest wall. Was this the type of information Major Lewis had alluded to? But she had no date for the Confederate movement of troops against Union forces. With a queasy feeling in her gut, Madeline knew General Downing’s soldiers were camped west of Fredericksburg. Would General Stuart’s cavalry sound the death knell for her beloved?

  This information had come by way of her dear uncle—a man who provided shelter when no one else could. And from Colonel Haywood—a man she considered her friend, who had shown her nothing but kindness since Aunt Clarisa’s dinner party. On shaky legs, Madeline climbed the ornate flying staircase to her room. For the next hour she prayed at her window, which had once overlooked row after row of beautiful roses. Their scent had drifted in on summer nights when sleep refused to come.

  At long last, when no divine insight arrived, Madeline pulled out a sheet of paper and the code book from its hiding place. She painstakingly translated the meager details she heard into a bizarre language of letters and symbols. It took her more than two hours to relate five lines of information, omitting the nuances of Queen’s English she’d learned in school.

  Although her cramps had abated, a headache now plagued her composure. Creeping to the top of the stairs, Madeline strained to listen but heard no voices coming from the dining room. Eugenia was in the parlor, chattering about the afternoon’s social calls. Interrupting her, Aunt Clarisa gave supper orders to the sluggish Kathleen—never one to anticipate chores on her own. Madeline peeked out the front window, but the horses that had been tied to the hitching rail were gone, the afternoon’s war council on Forsythia Lane apparently concluded.

  The distinguished Southern officers would return to their offices, homes, or hotel rooms unaware that a spy lurked among them. As Madeline folded the sheet of paper into a small square, she realized with clarity that that was what she had become. That night during supper, she could barely look at her uncle. Fortunately, Eugenia shared enough gossip during the meal that no one noticed Madeline’s lack of conversation. Micah, assisted by Kathleen, served roast chicken, buttered yams, and yellow beans, with pickled cucumbers as a relish. Madeline had noticed only two chickens being plucked and prepared for supper. Esther had become an expert at stretching a meager amount to feed three Duncans, their houseguest, and three staff members. Feast or famine ruled in Aunt Clarisa’s house. Provisions were reserved for when they entertained guests, and everyone went to bed slightly hungry whenever they didn’t. Aunt Clarisa treated Madeline as family, not a guest, which pleased her. Yet at the same time, Madeline suffered a guilty conscience with her newfound role.

  “If the weather is mild tomorrow, shall we venture to the market?” Madeline posed her question over coffee and a sliver of pound cake, once Genie had exhausted her stream of gossip.

  “Oh, yes indeed! I need a day away from the auxiliary ladies.” Her cousin practically levitated from her chair.

  “We have nothing to spare for frivolity this week. Not even callas, unless you can buy broken ones for a penny.” Aunt Clarisa spoke with her usual dignity and grace. “If they have a good price on corn, bring home two bushels.” She directed this to Madeline, not her daughter. “Corn should have come down by now. We can put up jars for winter, grind some into meal, and dry a few cobs to pop over the hearth. In the meantime, Esther can make batches of cornbread and corn fritters.”

  “Micah, I’ll take a brandy in the parlor with my pipe,” Uncle John said before brushing a kiss across his wife’s head as he left the dining room. “For Christmas you can whittle me a new pipe from a corn cob, dear heart.”

  “Good night, Uncle,” murmured Madeline.

  “Good night, Madeline, Eugenia. Sleep with sweet dreams of fair skies for your outing.”

  The next day dawned cool and bleak with low clouds threatening to open at any moment into torrents of rain. Yet the two young women didn’t cancel their trip to the docks. Eugenia eagerly anticipated market day as a break to her ennui, and Madeline couldn’t wait to transfer the note, tucked in the inner flap of her reticule, into the callused hands of Captain George of the Bonnie Bess.

  Elliott glanced at his pocket watch for the third time, but not because he was in a hurry to confer with Jefferson Davis. With no good news to present, he didn’t care if their meeting was postponed indefinitely. He stared out the window at a dismal city. Rain continued to fall, dampening spirits as well as Richmond’s already muddy streets.

  The paneled door of the executive office swung open, and John Duncan greeted him with a smile. “Good morning, Colonel Haywood. President Davis will see you now.”

  “Thank you, sir.” With hat in hand, Elliott entered the elegant, high-ceilinged domain of the president of the Confederate States of America. Duncan’s tiredness paled in compariso
n to Davis’s. The man’s face had sunk beneath his cheekbones, causing his sharp nose to stand in sharp relief. He’d gained a hawkish appearance after losing at least thirty pounds since the start of the war.

  “Thank you for waiting, Colonel. Please have a seat.” Davis pointed to a leather chair in front of his desk.

  Elliott scanned the room. Two aides stood against the wall, their side arms unstrapped. Davis’s staff members served as bodyguards in addition to the protection Elliott kept posted. Maps, dispatches, and handwritten rosters covered every inch of the desk. Clutched between his fingers were more papers to add to the clutter. “Thank you, sir.”

  President Davis tossed the sheet he’d been reading onto the desk. “I hope you have better news for me, Colonel.”

  Lowering himself to the edge of the chair, Elliott chose not to answer the question directly. “General Lee has withdrawn his troops south of the Rapidan River, while Meade’s army is encamped close to the town of Brandy Station. For the past week, Meade tried to push our boys back. Apparently, a ford of the Germanna River changed hands five times. It is once again ours, sir.”

  The president gritted his teeth. “Seven days of fighting and yet we gained nothing.”

  “True, but we haven’t lost ground, sir. By all reports the campaign around the town of Mine Run has been declared a stalemate.”

  “The Yanks have no trouble replacing the soldiers they lose. I, on the other hand, have no more men to send General Lee. Our efforts to recruit in Georgia and the Carolinas have yielded either men too old to march or boys too young to shoot straight.”

  Elliott merely cleared his throat. He had nothing positive to add.

  “Give me the casualty report from the hospital.” Davis stood and walked to his window, clasping his hands behind his back.

  “I have it here, sir.” After shuffling through the stack for the correct piece of paper, Elliott conveyed the statistics of the dead, amputees discharged from service, and wounded returned to their regiments to serve out enlistments.