The Lady and the Officer Page 6

  “All right, sir, but only for one night.” Placing her valise and the baskets in the back of the wagon, she climbed up beside him.

  Madeline recalled the afternoon she had accompanied Mrs. Bennett to the seminary hospital. Though she had been eager to put her newfound knowledge to use, she couldn’t stop retching in the slop bucket after her first dressing change. Although she forced herself to stay a full day, she realized she had no stomach for nursing. The sight and sound of men in agony, the foul odors—she would have to find another way to serve her country.

  Soon she and Mr. Bennett were bumping down a road devoid of traffic. Since the federal army had left Adams County, the constant hubbub had drawn to a close except at the makeshift hospitals. It would be weeks before soldiers recovered enough to return to their regiments, travel home as invalids, or join their comrades in the ground. Madeline turned to Reverend Bennett as they reached the outskirts of Gettysburg. “What will they do with the dead?”

  Her forthright question took him by surprise. “The local cemetery is too small. Some official from Washington purchased a large pasture south of town on Washington Street. A detail of soldiers remained behind to handle the gruesome task of burying most of the fallen. Officers will be sent home for burial.”

  “And the Rebels? Surely they won’t let them lie where they fell.”

  “Certainly not. If officers can be identified, their families will be notified to claim the remains. Otherwise, they will be buried with the enlisted men in a separate section of the new cemetery. Nasty business, war. I pray to never see the likes of this again.”

  Madeline nodded, gazing to the east. The reflected sun burnished low hills that had swarmed with cavalry days before.

  That evening the widow Buckley served supper on the Bennetts’ heirloom table. The reverend and his wife joined Madeline for her last night in Pennsylvania. She was given a quick tour of the house and then hustled into the dining room.

  “I’m glad to have your company, Mrs. Howard. I’m not accustomed to an empty house at night,” said Mrs. Buckley, handing Madeline a bowl of turnips.

  “I’m relieved to have a bed tonight. Thank you.” She took a small portion before passing it back.

  “You may stay for as long as you like. I’m sure they can use another cook in the seminary kitchen. I know for a fact they’re shorthanded.” She smiled at her guest from across the table.

  Madeline shook her head. “I am grateful for your generosity, Mrs. Buckley, but tomorrow I’m catching the train to Frederick. From there I will go to the war department in Washington, where I hope to obtain a pass to cross into Virginia.”

  Mrs. Bennett’s lips pulled into a frown. “We can’t dissuade you? Truly, my dear, you should remain with your own kind.”

  The Bennetts, as well as Mrs. Buckley, were poor as church mice. Inviting someone equally as destitute meant they would have to do with less. Madeline’s aunt and uncle might not share her political views, but at least they were wealthy. Another mouth at their table wouldn’t present a hardship. “I’m afraid I cannot,” she said, locking eyes with her benefactress. “The Duncans are my kinfolk, so that makes them my kind.”

  Several seconds spun out before Reverent Bennett broke the silence. “Smoked ham, Mrs. Howard?” He passed her the platter. “I read a Baltimore newspaper today at the seminary. I have no idea who brought it in, but we were all eager for news.”

  “Shouldn’t this matter wait until after supper?” Mrs. Bennett asked, looking uneasy.

  “I don’t see why it should. As Americans we’re obligated to stay informed.” The minister lowered his voice. “Recent immigrants are rioting in the slums of New York City. People are lying dead in the street.”

  “Goodness gracious.” Mrs. Buckley fanned herself with a napkin. “Because of food shortages?”

  “I dare say not. They’re rioting because of President Lincoln’s conscription decree. The army is desperate for more troops, especially after the heavy losses here and out West, yet the immigrants refuse to be drafted.”

  His wife cocked her head to one side. “They are willing to die fighting conscriptors, but not with valor on the battlefield?”

  “So it would appear,” Reverend Bennett replied before bowing his head in prayer.

  That night, Madeline slept soundly on a feather mattress. During dinner she had eaten two slices of meat, a hearty portion of vegetables, and a slice of blueberry pie, not knowing when her next meal would be. Her meager finances wouldn’t permit eating in fancy hotels.

  When she entered the kitchen the next morning, her hostess was already sipping coffee at the table.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Buckley.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Howard. The Bennetts left a note for you on their way to the hospital.” Mrs. Buckley handed her an envelope.

  With trembling fingers, Madeline extracted a single sheet and began to read.

  Dear Mrs. Howard, please don’t forget that Cashtown is your home. Our door will always be open to you. And you’ll remain in our prayers until we see your lovely smile again.

  Even though they had signed with formal names, their sentiments filled Madeline with sorrow. Would Cashtown ever be home again? “Thank you, Mrs. Buckley.” Fighting back tears, she ate breakfast and left the widow’s home as soon as possible. Carrying her tattered valise and a sack of biscuits, she walked to the depot with an odd sense of relief. Gettysburg had become a loathsome place—homes and businesses were scarred by artillery shells, and every one of them were filled with wounded. Nothing would ever be the same. After boarding her train that afternoon, she became wedged between a cigar-smoking newspaperman and a young mother with a crying infant. Everyone was in a hurry to get somewhere, but Madeline was only eager to leave behind a world gone mad.

  She spent a sleepless night on a bench in Frederick, not daring to leave the depot. Trains ran at all hours, well off schedule. Had the next train to Washington pulled into the station while she rested in a boarding house, who knew when the next train would arrive? The following day, she bought her ticket from a harried stationmaster and climbed aboard another crowded train. This one carried Union soldiers on their way back to the front line. Once she arrived in Washington, Madeline obtained directions to the war department. Tired and in need of a bath, she stopped at every rooming house she came across along the way. None had rooms to rent… at least, not to her.

  Desperate and hungry, she jammed her boot in the next door before it could close in her face. “Please, ma’am. I need somewhere to spend the night. I have money to pay. Perhaps you have space in your attic if nothing else?”

  After a sidelong glance, the woman let her in. “For two dollars you can sleep on the cot in the pantry. My former kitchen maid slept there before she ran off.” Without fanfare, the woman showed her to the small cubby, handed her a clean towel and blanket, and pointed out the location of the privy. “Breakfast at eight. Fifty cents. No smoking pipes in the house.” The woman turned on her heel and left her alone.

  Smoking pipes? Wasn’t this a boarding house for ladies?

  Madeline had little time to ponder the odd rule. She washed outdoors at the pump, ate a supper of cold biscuits and raw carrots, and slept as though on a bed of roses. Tomorrow she would call on the war department and return each day until someone gave her a pass into the Confederacy. She couldn’t wait to see Aunt Clarisa and Uncle John. After all, wasn’t blood thicker than water?

  FIVE

  Richmond, Virginia

  Kathleen, where are you?” Clarisa Duncan called up the steps for the third time.

  “I’m here, ma’am.” Kathleen O’Toole sauntered down the hallway as though on a Sunday afternoon stroll.

  “What took you so long to answer?”

  The maid shrugged negligently. “I s’pose I didn’t hear you the first two times. I was helping Esther peel potatoes like you told me to.”

  Then how did you know I called you thrice? Clarisa thought, but she didn’t voice her petulance.
Kathleen would only invent another excuse, further delaying the tasks at hand.

  “What did you want me to do?” the maid asked, crossing her arms over her starched white apron.

  At least she was paying better attention to her personal appearance. When Clarisa had hired the new maid at the riverfront docks, she looked as though she’d neither bathed nor washed her hair since leaving Dublin. Many recent immigrants applying for service positions didn’t aspire to the American custom of daily baths. But I sat in a tub last week, and I haven’t fallen in the mud since. Kathleen’s answer to the cleanliness question had triggered a fit of giggles from Eugenia, but Clarisa hadn’t seen the humor. But now that Kathleen maintained a presentable appearance, Clarisa had other goals in mind.

  “Please set out the pitcher of lemonade and the decanter of wine on the sideboard.”

  “I thought I would bring ’em in once Mr. Duncan gets home. That way the ice won’t melt so fast,” Kathleen said, slouching against the newel post.

  “I would like you to set them out now and every day at this time. Mr. Duncan prefers a cool drink as soon as he arrives.” Clarisa struggled to contain her exasperation as Kathleen dropped a half curtsey and strolled slowly to the kitchen.

  “What’s wrong, Mama?”

  Her daughter’s voice startled the wits out of Clarisa. “Eugenia, please don’t listen from the steps. Polite people make their presence known when entering a room.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Coming down the steps, Eugenia wrapped her arms around her mother. “I hadn’t meant to. I was waiting for Papa. But it’s so entertaining to listen to Kathleen’s excuses.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Some days I think you should fire her.”

  “More amusing for you than me.” Clarisa guided her daughter into the parlor with an arm around her waist. “Almost every day I also think I should fire her, but domestic help is impossible to find. All the slaves have run off, and many families can’t afford to pay freemen enough to keep them. Just last week Mrs. Martin said she sometimes washes her own clothes because her laundress works for three families. Each must wait their turn.” Together they sat on the settee, sweeping their hooped skirts out of the way.

  Eugenia’s expression indicated that the girl didn’t appreciate such difficulties, but her mother knew that the first time she had to iron a ball gown, she would understand.

  “What do you need to talk to your father about?”

  “I’ve been invited to a tea at the ladies’ academy, the one I hope to enroll in next year. All my friends will be there, so I must have a new dress. Everyone has already seen every one of mine no less than a million times.”

  Clarisa smiled at her daughter’s exaggeration. “You haven’t lived a million days yet. When you have, we’ll order you a new frock.”

  Eugenia frowned but didn’t argue as Kathleen carried in a pitcher, a decanter of claret, and a plate of shortbread cookies.

  “Thank you, Kathleen, but where are the glasses?” asked Clarisa.

  “You didn’t say nothing ’bout glasses, just drinks.”

  “Miss O’Toole, do you expect Mr. Duncan to tip the decanter up to his mouth?” Clarisa felt a flush climb her throat.

  “No, ma’am, ’spect not. I’m just used to folks tellin’ me what they want.”

  The butler appeared in the doorway with glassware on a silver tray. “Shall I pour you and Miss Eugenia a glass of lemonade, madam?” He spoke with the cultured accent of a free man of color, one who had been trained in Louisiana.

  “Yes, Micah, thank you. That will be all, Kathleen.”

  After both servants left, Eugenia whispered behind her raised fan. “I won’t trouble Papa with a request for a new frock. Then we can afford to give Micah a raise. What would this family do without him?”

  “I quake at the thought.” Hearing the familiar crunch of wheels on cobblestones in their porte cochere, Clarisa breathed a sigh of relief. Although her husband’s job merely entailed writing checks to purchase war accoutrements abroad, she still worried about him until he returned home each night.

  “Papa!” Eugenia sprang to her feet, spilling cookie crumbs caught in her skirt across the floor.

  “Sit down, daughter,” Clarisa scolded. “You’re eighteen years old, not eight. Wait to greet your father properly.”

  “Nonsense.” John Duncan strode into the room. Although he looked more haggard than usual, he managed a warm smile for his family. “A girl is never too old for her father.”

  Eugenia giggled as he pecked her forehead with a kiss. “I feel the same. Shall I pour you some lemonade?”

  “A small glass of claret will suit better, thank you.” John buzzed Clarisa’s cheek with another kiss and then settled in a comfortable chair. Lines around his mouth seemed to have deepened the short time he was gone.

  “How goes the war?” His wife asked the same question each day and received the same answer she always did.

  “It goes as well as expected, dear heart.” Accepting the glass from Eugenia, he drank half the contents in one long swallow. “Ah, that’s better. Now it’s time for a surprise.” He pulled a wrinkled envelope from inside his waistcoat pocket. He smoothed it against his thigh before passing it to Clarisa.

  “Pennsylvania?” she said, staring at the smudged envelope with a frisson of unease. “Mail from the North? Who do you suppose this is from?”

  “I believe I can guess, but we’ll know for certain if you open it,” John said as he stretched out his long legs.

  Tearing open the envelope, Clarisa scanned the single sheet. Then she reread the letter a second time as though the contents might change. “Pour me a drop of claret, Eugenia.”

  “Please, Mama, don’t keep us in suspense. Who has written?”

  Clarisa leaned forward to relay snippets of information. “It’s from your cousin—my sister’s daughter. Madeline must be twenty-five… no, twenty-six now. She married and has been widowed.” Clarisa hastily crossed herself with the reference to death. “She’s been alone for two years, trying to continue her late husband’s vocation—breeding and selling horses. Her house was hit by an artillary shell earlier this month and burned to the ground.”

  Clarisa paused and met her husband’s gaze. He nodded with comprehension without mentioning the battle by name. No one in Virginia wished to speak of the horrible loss of Confederate soldiers at Gettysburg.

  “Cousin Maddy? Wasn’t I still wearing skirts above my knees the last time she visited?” Eugenia handed her mother a small glass of wine and then began skipping around the room.

  “Do you want to hear the rest or not?” Clarisa offered her daughter a stern expression. “If so, I suggest you comport yourself.”

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am. Please continue.” Eugenia sat primly as instructed by governesses long ago with her ankles tucked beneath her skirt.

  “Was your niece hurt in the fire?” asked John.

  Clarisa refocused on the paper. “Apparently not, thank the Lord. But she lost everything she owned that hadn’t already been—” She tilted the letter toward the lamplight. “Appropriated.”

  “Appropriated by whom?” John demanded.

  “My dear, I can only impart details contained within. Madeline wrote something else but scribbled it out.” Clarisa smiled patiently at him.

  “Please continue.” He leaned back in his chair. “I’m setting a poor example of proper comportment.”

  “Madeline was left with only a single mare, but she was forced to sell the horse for traveling money.” Clarisa lowered the paper to her lap.

  “What an adventure! Where is she taking a trip to, Mama?”

  “Your cousin is coming here and requests shelter for the remainder of the conflict.”

  Conventions of comportment could no longer confine Eugenia to her chair. She jumped to her feet and applauded as though attending the theater. “At long last I will have company! It’s been dreadfully dull in town with people too poor to throw parties.”

  Clarisa
swallowed her remonstrance. Sacrifices of war affected the young more than others.

  “She’s coming to Richmond? But she’s a Yankee.” A voice spoke from behind them.

  All three Duncans turned with a start. Their maid stood in the doorway, the butler bobbing in the shadows behind her. “Do not eavesdrop on our conversation, Kathleen. And should you accidentally overhear family discussions, kindly keep your opinion to yourself.” This time Clarisa didn’t make an effort to mask her petulance.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the maid said with little enthusiasm.

  “Micah, please ask Esther to expect a guest. Let’s make sure dinners will be special after Mrs. Howard arrives, even if it means reserving this and that from our meals now.”

  “Everything will be ready for her arrival.” Micah bowed from the waist and vanished down the hallway.

  The smile Clarisa had for the butler faded as she turned to Kathleen. “Prepare the yellow guest room with fresh linens and place a bouquet on the mantle.”

  The maid nodded, her face now expressionless.

  “And regarding our guest’s politics or state of residence? Those aren’t your business, Kathleen. Mrs. Howard is my beloved sister’s daughter. She will be afforded every respect and courtesy while she’s in our home. This household shall make her feel welcome. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am. If that’s all, I’ll see to that room now.”

  “It is.” Clarisa picked up her glass of claret and downed it in two swallows—something she’d never done before in her life.

  Kathleen marched from the room without bothering with her usual poorly executed curtsey.

  Madeline knocked on the carved door of the imposing mansion too timidly to be heard. She waited, clutching her bag like a refugee from the docks. To her right stood a trellis of riotous yellow roses. On her left loomed a boxwood hedge taller than her. The flagstone walk from the street had been swept clean, while not a weed intruded upon the perfection of the flower beds.

  Much unlike my trampled beds buried beneath a mound of ash and soot.