Her Defiant Heart (32 page)

"Fact," Mrs. Brandywine said quietly. Her gray eyes misted over as she studied Jenny's face. She saw innocence... and wisdom. How well this woman-child understood Christian. "The hole hasn't always been there," she said. "It was carved out during the war."

"I think I knew that." She hesitated. Finally: "He lost everyone, didn't he?"

"Eventually. First it was Braden at Bull Run. Two years later David fell at Gettysburg. By all accounts, not twenty yards from where Christian stood." The housekeeper absently fingered the lace on the neckline of her nightgown, remembering how it had been when Christian returned home, hollow-eyed and bitter. The self-recriminations, the blame, had started then.

"In a way, Mrs. Marshall was another casualty of the war. There were hundreds of wounded coming into the hospitals every day. She volunteered her services when it would have been just as acceptable to start a drive for funds or supplies. But that wasn't Catherine Marshall's way. She and Christian were so much alike in that regard, always in the thick of things. Dreamers. Romantics. Having lost two sons already, and another one wounded, well, she was more determined to see that the sacrifices had not been in vain. When cholera swept the wards it made no allowance for what the Marshalls had already suffered. Mrs. Marshall died here at home, a few days after she contracted the disease."

"Christian was here then?"

"Oh, yes. September '63 it was, two months after Gettysburg. He never left her. Stayed with her right until the moment she was buried, then without a word to anyone of his intentions, he packed his things and went back to the fighting."

"But his leg."

"He could get around well enough by then. The Army was glad to have him back and Christian... well, Christian needed to be there. He and his father could barely be civil to one another then. Harrison spent nearly all his time at the paper, rallying support for the war, writing special pieces himself, editing the copy, editorializing about the necessity of conscription. With so many men off to fight, his responsibilities were almost endless.

"Christian didn't always agree with Harrison's politics, but more than that he resented his father for spending so many hours away from Mrs. Marshall when she needed him. Harrison was at the
Chronicle
when his wife died. Christian did not want to forgive his father that, so he left." Mrs. Brandywine sighed softly, shaking her head. "All her life Catherine Marshall was the peacemaker between her husband and her second-born. She used to confide in me, wondering if she would ever see the day they stood aligned. She never did. Her death drove them further apart."

"They never reconciled? Even after the war ended?"

"Especially not after the war. Oh, Harrison tried in his own fashion, helped Dr. Turner's efforts wherever he could. He wanted Christian involved with the paper, but that had always been the main bone of contention between them. Christian was so withdrawn and angry in those days. He didn't understand that Harrison was grieving too, that throwing himself into his work was the only way he knew how to go on. They needed each other so much then and neither of them knew how to make the first move. It has not been a year since Harrison died in his office at
the
Chronicle
. It was a stroke. Christian was at one of the clubs, drinking and playing cards when it happened."

"Oh, how sad for both of them."

Mrs. Brandywine nodded. "It was never a question of them not loving one another. It was the
liking
that created the problems."

"I understand the nature of that," said Jenny. "Two peas. One pod. Mr. Marshall sounds determined, opinionated, and forceful, even a little overbearing."

"Are you talking about father or son?"

"My point exactly. You can't tell the difference." She straightened at the window and approached the bed. "Wasn't there another brother? What happened to him?"

Mrs. Brandywine nodded again. "The baby. Logan. Mrs. Marshall never knew about her youngest." Mrs. B. took a slow breath to compose herself. "As best we know, he died in Georgia, in the prison at Andersonville. There was never any official word from the government—North or South. The last letter we received from him said only that capture was imminent. Like Christian, he was a scout."

"A spy, you mean?"

"I don't know about that. He worked for Mathew Brady."

"Logan was a photographer?"

Mrs. Brandywine was surprised that Jenny knew what Brady did. For herself, she would have never heard of him if it had not been for Logan. "You know of Mr. Brady?"

"I'm familiar with his photographs, some of them anyway. There was an exhibition in..." She caught herself. Jenny could not say where she saw the photographs because the housekeeper would never believe her, and if she did... well, that would prove equally complicated to explain. "The war never seemed quite real to me until I saw his work. It was an astonishing accomplishment to have chronicled the entire conflict."

The derisive snort that came from the open doorway had Jenny spinning around. Christian was leaning against the door jamb, eyeing her critically, disdain lifting one corner of his mouth. His arms were crossed in front of his chest, and there was a folded newspaper under one arm. He looked as if he had been standing there for some time. The only evidence to the contrary was the fact that Mrs. Brandywine would have seen him first, and she was clearly as startled by his appearance as Jenny.

"Brady always took more credit than was his due. It practically required an Act of Congress to get him out of his Washington studio during the war."

"But I've seen his pictures," Jenny said. What was Christian doing home in the middle of the day? Didn't he have something better to do than interrupt other people's conversations?

"You've seen what his money financed. Any man who worked for Brady had to give up credit for the photographs he took. Brady's name was assigned to everything. Good photographers, men like Tim O'Sullivan and Alex Gardner, finally left him and struck out on their own because Brady was unwilling to allow them use their own names."

"Did you?"

"Leave him?" He shook his head. "No, I never worked for him. The war was a commercial venture to Brady. He had an idea that the photographs would make him a fortune afterward. He did not anticipate that so many people would want to forget that it ever happened."

Christian realized that a thread of disgust was running through his comments and that Jenny was looking at him oddly. He shrugged, feigning indifference. "Besides, lugging a hundred pounds of equipment to each new site like some camp follower was not for me. I did it occasionally, when I thought it was important to have a perfect record of the enemy's redoubt, but mostly I sketched whatever the commanders needed to see. It was quicker, infinitely more convenient, and I never had to worry that the sunlight would fail me."

Christian took the newspaper from under his arm and tapped it lightly against his thigh. "Logan, on the other hand,"—he looked from Jenny to Mrs. Brandywine—"you were telling her about Logan before I got here, weren't you?"

Mrs. B. nodded, and Jenny, watching Christian, was disappointed that his expression remained inscrutable. She couldn't tell whether or not he was unhappy that they had been discussing his brother.

"As I was saying, Logan was fascinated by photography. He'd take the equipment anywhere, no matter how difficult it was, just to prove it could be done. Setting up his tent behind enemy lines was not the wisest thing my little brother ever did."

"That's how he was captured?" asked Jenny.

Christian nodded. "Eventually, yes. But not the first six or so times he did it."

"How incredible," Jenny said, awed.

"He's dead," Christian said flatly. "Don't romanticize his exploits. It belittles everything he was trying to accomplish. Enemy lines, cannon placement, field positions were incidental to what he was doing. Scouting was part of the job, so he did it. But Logan wanted to show the war as it was: a great yawning, ugly shadow of death that passed over open fields and left bloody corpses in its wake." No longer certain he was speaking solely for his brother, and painfully aware of Jenny's eyes on him, he stopped abruptly. "Anyway, he's dead," he said. "Brady's rules make it hard to know which pictures Logan might have taken. It's part of what's been lost."

"I'm sorry."

Christian found it odd that her words did not seem inadequate. They were the same words so many others had spoken to him, and he had never found any comfort in them. Yet when Jenny said them, he felt as if she were laying balm over a festering wound. That she could have such an effect on him reminded Christian how truly vulnerable he was. His hand tightened on the paper he held, and he shored up his defenses.

He stepped away from the door and walked to Mrs. B.'s bed, choosing the side opposite Jenny. "I decided to come home for lunch," he said. "Here, I brought you this."

Mrs. Brandywine did not have to be hit over the head with the paper to know that the earlier subject was now closed. Still, she thought with a touch of satisfaction, it was the first time Christian had strung more than two sentences together about the war since his father died. Perhaps things were finally beginning to change for the better. She took the newspaper from him and unfolded it. "Why, Mr. Marshall, this is
the
Herald.
What are you thinking, bringing it in here?"

He gave a short laugh and leaned over the bed to tug on her nightcap. "Don't even try to pretend you haven't been reading this on the sly. Since you've been bedridden, there have been more copies of this paper circulating the house than circulating the corner of Ann and Broadway. And that's where Bennet publishes his damn rag."

Mrs. Brandywine straightened her cap and sniffed. "You are exaggerating."

"All right," he said. "But just a little." He eased himself down on the bed, careful not to disturb the housekeeper's leg. "Whose head should I have for bringing it to you in the first place?" The tray that Jenny was lifting from the table clattered as it slipped through her nervous fingers. Christian knew precisely how to interpret that event. "Never mind. She's as good as admitted it herself."

"Stop teasing her," Mrs. B. said. "She'll leave you high and dry, and with me laid up you'll be in a fine mess. Who'd see to the particulars of running this white elephant? Mary Margaret? Mrs. Morrisey? Hah! I see you take my point." She smoothed the paper over her lap. "In any event, this is a fine paper. It offers a splendid variety of news."

"It offers an impressive variety of gossip, you mean. Disguised as news."

"The paper's views are interesting."

"They would not know an opinion at the
Herald
if it crawled onto the editorial page," he said. "No one over there believes in them. They think everyone is as cynical as they are."

Mrs. Brandywine gave Christian a sharp look. "They could be right."

"Touché."

She smiled. "Well, their foreign correspondents are quite good. Almost as good as those young men who work for you," she added loyally.

"It's too late for flattery. Go on," he said. "Open it up. I know what you're dying to read." He glanced up and was witness to Jenny's anxious expression. She schooled her features quickly, and he did not comment. It was something else he would file away under things he did not understand. "Will you have Mrs. Morrisey prepare luncheon and bring it here?" he asked. "I don't have long. I'd rather stay with Mrs. Brandywine."

The corners of the housekeeper's eyes crinkled as her mouth curled upward with pleasure. She took her wire-rimmed spectacles from the nearby table and slipped them on. "That's because you like to read the personal ads, too," she said, snapping open the paper. "I don't believe for a moment you're interested in my company."

"Then you'd be wrong."

"Flatterer."

The exchange of lively banter went on long after Jenny had left the room. She was glad to be gone while they read the personals, and equally glad they did not pay much attention to her when she returned with Christian's lunch and left again.

"Here's an interesting one," Mrs. B. said, taking a finger sandwich from Christian's plate. "Listen.
'Velvet Dress—can see you Friday morning; impossible afternoon. Write or telegraph at once. Jerome.'
Do you suppose Velvet Dress is married?"

"Probably. But Jerome's not, otherwise he would not have used his own name."

"He's deeply in love with her, I think. And she's unhappily married. Her husband wed her for her money and treats her very poorly."

Christian grinned, amused by Mrs. B.'s romantic turn. "Do you always make up stories about the people who place these ads?"

"Not always." She gave him a haughty look. "Sometimes it is only too plain what they are about. Here, listen to this one for example.
'Miss Ruthie Wilver, formerly of Milton's on Lexington Avenue, invites all gentlemen friends to call on her at Gertie's on West 27th Street.'
Mrs. B.'s lips puckered in disapproval. "The hussy. It's ads like that that make this page a city scandal."

"And boosts the
Herald's
circulation a hundredfold. You have to admire Bennett's head for business. He knows what sells papers." Christian took a sip of coffee. "Besides, is there really so much difference between Velvet Dress and Miss Ruthie Wilver? Our mysterious velvet lady is probably cuckolding the husband she married for
his
money. Jerome is just one in a string of, um, companions that she's caused to become infatuated with her."