Shadow of Dawn (10 page)

His lean cheeks and nose were red with cold,
his eyes dark and thickly lashed. They seemed to avoid her. His
shoulders filled the entire width of the door opening. The long
white sleeves of his shirt fell over hands that were brown and
muscular with long, lean fingers. When he bent his head to pull the
ends of the blanket around her feet, she looked at his hair, so
shiny and smooth that her hand almost moved to touch it.

He glanced at her briefly, saying, “All
right?”

“Yes. Thank you again, Mr. Pierce.”

With a short nod he grabbed his coat and hat
from the seat opposite her and closed the door. In a moment the
carriage moved smoothly forward…a definite improvement over the way
Joseph lurched about. Some time later the carriage rolled just as
smoothly into the carriage house and stopped. A small barn had been
built beyond it, taking up a portion of the wide backyard.
Catherine opened the door just as Clayton reached it, and she
accepted his hand in descending to the ground.

“Please go inside, Mrs. Kelly. I’ll see to
the horses—there’s no need to send Joseph back out. I noticed my
horse waiting outside. When I finish here, I’ll ride back to the
hotel.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Pierce. If you’re going to tend
the horses, I’ll stay and help you, and you mustn’t think of going
back without coming in to supper. I can’t tell you how grateful I
am for your help.”

“No thanks are necessary, ma’am.”

He set to work unhitching the horses and
leading them into the barn. Catherine opened the door to the tack
room and hung up the bridles while he took a handful of hay and
began to rub down the horses. She got out two blankets, then poured
out a generous supply of oats— probably too generous a supply from
the way Clayton glanced at her— found a small shovel and broke the
thin layer of ice covering the water trough. She found the silence
unbearable.

“What do you do with your time, Mr. Pierce,
when you’re not photographing weddings and church anniversaries?”
She paused. “Or rescuing helpless but sharp-tongued women?”

He chuckled but did not look up, barely
acknowledging the former scene between them.

“I’ve been talking to some of the officers
here and writing articles. There’s probably going to be a battle
soon, quite close. When that’s over I’ll be moving on.”

“Do you think—can they take Richmond?”

“Not as long as Lee and Jackson are alive and
there are men enough to fight.”

“It’s funny,” she said. “The Yankees are
doing their best to get into this city and destroy us, and yet we
go on as if everything were the same as it always was—parties and
weddings and balls, and more parties…”

He smiled a little. The mellow lantern light
falling on his handsome profile made him look as dark as an Indian.
His voice was low. “That’s our way of showing we’re not scared or
intimidated. Courage is one thing they can’t take away from
us.”

Catherine dropped the brush she was about to
hand to him. He looked at her gloved hands, took them in his and
said, “You’re cold. You should go inside. I’m afraid I must decline
your kind invitation to supper.”

She stared down at his hands covering
hers.

I won’t look at him, she thought. But
irresistibly her gaze lifted to his, and he was watching her, his
eyes searching hers; then he bent his head and kissed one of her
hands. She felt the warmth of his breath through her glove. A long
moment passed. Gently she pulled her hands from his, which dropped
to his sides.

He raised his head. “Forgive me, Mrs. Kelly.
I’ll be leaving Richmond soon.” He paused and said, “I’ll never
forget you.”

Catherine fought to keep her voice even. “Mr.
Pierce…” She stopped. What on earth was there to say? To even
acknowledge his words would be a betrayal in itself—how, she wasn’t
quite sure, but some deep instinctive sense told her it would be
better if she said nothing at all.

“Good night,” she whispered, and walked
away.

***

Once inside the house, Catherine dazedly
handed her cloak to Ephraim, who said, “I see the gentleman brought
you home, ma’am. Will he be staying for supper?”

“No,” she replied, and walked upstairs.

A fire blazed cheerfully in her room, but she
did not move to stand by it as she usually did. She stared at
herself in the mirror. Her cheeks and nose were as red as Clayton’s
had been, and her eyes were bright, as though there were tears in
them that had not been shed.

He’s going away, she thought, and I’ll never
see him again. Well, it’s for the best.

But her heart had sunk down to her stomach
and her whole body felt as if it were weighted with lead. She
clenched her teeth together and blinked back the tears. “You belong
to Andrew,” she said to her reflection.

But she didn’t. Not completely. Not yet.

She made up her mind in an instant. She flew
out the door and went across to Andrew’s room, knocking loudly. The
door opened a crack, through which Mrs. Shirley somehow managed to
slither. She stood in the hallway, looking at Catherine with a
raised eyebrow.

“Yes, madam?”

“I want to see Andrew.”

“He’s eating his supper. If you will kindly
wait I will let you know when he’s ready to see you.”

Catherine glared at the woman, who stared
impassively back. She whirled and returned to her own room. When
Jessie came to announce that supper was on the table, she said she
would eat in her room; she doubted she would feel like facing
anyone later.

Moments ticked by and she felt like bursting.
She had to say it soon or she would lose her nerve and never say
it. She took off her dress, which clung damply to her ankles, and
put on her nightgown and wrapper. She took down her hair and tied
it loosely with a ribbon.

At last she could wait no longer. She walked
purposefully to Andrew’s bedroom and knocked. Some sound, like a
drawer closing sharply, came from within. Mrs. Shirley opened the
door and without a word marched out and went to her own room.
Catherine took a deep breath and stepped inside.

Andrew stood before the fire, clad all in
black as usual. He turned as she came in, closing the door behind
her.

She could feel her courage melting away like
snow under a warm spring rain. She said, with some asperity, “I
tried to see you earlier but Madame Defarge wouldn’t let me
in.”

He may have smiled under the mask but she had
no way of knowing. He seemed to sense that she had something to
say.

Out with it, then. She blurted, “Andrew, I
want to be your wife. I mean, your wife in every way. Our wedding
night—” She stopped for a moment, blushing.

Andrew stood as though rooted to the
spot.

“You do remember our wedding night, don’t
you?”

“I’m sorry. I remember very little that
happened after our wedding.”

“Well, there isn’t much to remember. I was
quite ill that night, and the next day you had to go away. Andrew,
we have never…” She searched for a word. “…consummated our
marriage.”

He turned to the fire, his gloved hand on the
mantel and his head bent. She forced herself to go on, speaking so
suddenly and clearly that she startled even herself.

“I want to have a baby.”

She thought she heard him say, “Dear God.”
She didn’t know whether he was swearing or praying for divine
assistance. A silence stretched on until she thought she would
scream.

At last he moved away from the fire and,
motioning for her to do the same, sat down in a chair.

“You had some trouble getting home,” he said
gently. “Ephraim was kind enough to tell me. Who was this man, the
one who helped you?”

She stared at him. In the pause that followed
she wondered why he should try to change the subject, and then with
a pang realized, whether Andrew did or not, that Clayton Pierce
was
the subject.

She licked suddenly dry lips. “His name is
Mr. Pierce. Clayton Pierce. He’s a friend of Bart’s.”

“Is he a soldier?”

“No. He’s a newspaper writer. As a matter of
fact, he has asked if he could speak with you about an article.
I…haven’t said anything because I didn’t know how you would, well,
how you would feel about it.”

“I see.”

Another long pause. It was odd how she could
always feel his thoughts reaching out toward hers. He knows, she
thought miserably.

Impulsively she knelt beside him and took one
of his gloved hands in hers. “Andrew, it’s difficult for me to feel
that I don’t know you. I want us to have a real marriage. We can be
close, even if you can’t see me, and I can’t see you. I already
feel close to you, in some ways. I know you may not be completely
well and I’m willing to wait, but don’t you want to have a
baby?”

He said nothing. His other hand moved and
touched her cheek, then he rose and stood with his back to her.

Finally he said, “I’m very happy, very
honored that you should want this, Catherine. But it’s true that I
am not well. Again I must beg you to be patient with me.”

Disappointed, and yet strangely relieved,
Catherine rose to stand beside him. “Of course,” she said quietly.
“I’m sorry if I’ve distressed you.”

“Nothing is your fault.”

She turned to go.

“Wait, Catherine.”

She stopped.

“I want to meet this Mr. Pierce. I think I
can give him an interesting story to write. If you’ll get
permission from Martin or Sallie, I’ll dictate a letter to Mrs.
Shirley for him and ask him to supper, and then afterward you can
bring him up here. Where is he staying?”

She told him, thinking even as she spoke that
he might wonder how she knew that particular fact. But he only
inclined his head, said, “Good night,” and waited for her to
leave.

Catherine moved toward the door. Her glance
fell on the bedside table where a small dark bottle sat, its label
facing outward.

“Andrew,” she said, dismayed, “do you take
laudanum?”

He hesitated. “Only a little, to help me
sleep.”

“I wish you wouldn’t. I know about it from
working in the hospital. It can be habituating.”

“I need it.”

She waited a moment, but he did not speak
again, and she could think of nothing else to say.

T
wo nights later, in
response to Andrew’s invitation, Clayton was to dine again with the
Henderson’s. Catherine had let it be known she was too tired to go
down, and she ate an early supper in her room. She simply could not
face Clayton again.

She heard him when he arrived, heard Bart’s
jovial greeting and Sallie’s tinkling laugh. Sallie, Catherine
thought sourly, liked Clayton a bit too much herself.

She went in to read to Andrew before Clayton
came up, since there would probably be no opportunity to do so
later; she wasn’t sure how long the interview would last. He sat in
his chair, covered with a blanket, and seemed quiet and
abstracted.

“
What do you make, madame?”

“
Many things.”

“
For instance—”

“
For instance,” returned Madame Defarge
composedly,

“‘
shrouds.’”

Catherine looked up from her reading. “By the
way, Andrew, I’m sorry I referred to Mrs. Shirley as Madame Defarge
the other night. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I’m sure she’s
not as cold-blooded as she seems.”

Andrew coughed abruptly.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes,” he said, still coughing. “ Please
go.”

Puzzled, Catherine set down the book and left
the room. Andrew seemed almost apprehensive about meeting Clayton,
which did nothing to ease her own nervous state. Surely Andrew was
not going to question the other man about her.

Lost in thought, she almost bumped into
Martin, who was escorting Clayton to Andrew’s room. Clayton had a
satchel in his hand, presumably filled with paper and pens.

“Why, Catherine, here you are. We missed you
at supper. Mr. Pierce is here.”

“Good evening, Uncle Martin. Good evening,
Mr. Pierce. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to join you. I was just going
to my room.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Kelly,” Clayton said with
a courteous inclination of his head. “I’ll try not to tire your
husband.” She nodded and watched as they entered Andrew’s room.
Martin stayed long enough to make the introductions and left, going
back downstairs. Catherine resisted the urge to apply her ear to
the door, and went into her own room. She busied herself with some
mending, sitting close to the light of the fire.

After some time, she thought she heard a door
close. She waited a few more moments, then left her room and walked
softly over to the large window that overlooked the short drive, to
watch Clayton ride away.

Evidently she had been mistaken about which
door she had heard, for at that moment Clayton came out of Andrew’s
room, saw her standing at the window, and stopped.