Shadow of Dawn (29 page)

Catherine coughed and reached for her water
glass.

It was a ghastly meal. She could not eat a
bite and pushed her food around on her plate so no one would
notice. Her hands began to tremble. If Sallie mentioned “Bartie”
once, she did so half a dozen times.

“Catherine,” said Andrew, “you’re pale.
Perhaps you should go back to your room.”

“Yes,” she said. “Perhaps I’d better.”

He took her upstairs. At the door he said,
“I’m sorry. I hope I haven’t upset you.”

“No. I think I’m coming down with a
cold.”

“What did you expect?” he replied, and left
her once again in peace.

***

She did indeed have a cold, which kept her in
bed for two days. Jessie brought soup and cornbread to her room,
accompanied by hot tea with lemon. Martin sent up occasional hot
toddies made with watered-down whiskey and peppermint candy to
soothe her cough. They made her gag, and she rarely drank them. The
weather turned cold again, and Andrew dutifully kept up the fire in
her room. He seemed to be genuinely worried about her.

On the third day she wandered downstairs in
nightgown and wrapper, unable to bear her room another minute. She
sought out Ephraim in the kitchen.

“Miss Catherine, what are you doing down
here? You know we’ll bring you whatever you need. And the floors
are cold as ice! Don’t you know it’s snowing outside? You go right
back to bed.”

“Oh, Ephraim, please, I just had to get out
of that room!”

But she was breathless from her trek
downstairs and sat down abruptly at the kitchen table. Ephraim eyed
her uneasily.

“You’re not going to faint now, are you, Miss
Catherine?”

“No, of course not.” Her voice sounded to her
own ears as if she were down a well. “Where’s Hester?”

“She’s lying down in her room.”

“Ephraim, I need to tell you something.”

The door to the kitchen swung open and
Miranda waddled into the room. “Oh, Catherine, I didn’t know you
were here. How are you, dear?”

“I’m much better, thank you.”

“Let’s see…I know there was some apple pie
left from yesterday. Oh, here it is. Uncle Ephraim, would you hand
me a plate?”

Miranda had picked up the “uncle” from
Sallie. Ephraim got a plate and began to cut a slice of the
pie.

“Miranda, it’s a funny thing,” Catherine
said, suddenly realizing this was a perfect opportunity to question
the woman. “I didn’t realize Andrew had a twin brother.”

Miranda’s head jerked around and her eyes
popped. “Oh! He told you?”

“Well, someone did. How come no one ever
mentioned it?”

“Oh, nobody ever speaks of John. He was the
black sheep of the family. He ran off a long time ago. Last I heard
he was a…” she lifted her eyebrows and pursed her lips “…riverboat
gambler. But of course that’s been years ago and we’ve heard
nothing from him. He’s most likely dead.”

“How sad. Wasn’t he close to Andrew?”

“Oh, they were close when they were young. As
alike as two peas in a pod.”

“Wasn’t there any way to tell them
apart?”

A look of annoyance crossed the powdered
face. “No. It was practically impossible. They were always playing
tricks on people.”

“No birthmarks—nothing?”

Miranda began to look curious. “No. Why do
you ask?”

“Well, it’s just that twins have always
fascinated me, and they do run in families, don’t they? I was
thinking that maybe I would have twins.”

Miranda clutched her heart. “My dear, you’re
not—”

“Oh, no. At least, not yet.”

“Ah, once again you disappoint me. I do love
children. Thank you, Uncle Ephraim.” Miranda went happily out of
the room with a generous piece of pie.

Ephraim wiped crumbs with a dishcloth and
said nothing, though Catherine could practically hear his brain
whirring. She got up to make sure Miranda had gone, closed the
door, and said in a low voice, “Ephraim, I have to tell you about
the other day. You know, the boy’s clothes.”

Ephraim turned to give her his full
attention. “I sure prayed for you that day, Miss Catherine. I knew
you weren’t in your room, so I knew you had to be out somewhere in
those clothes. Yes’m, I prayed for your safety and that the weather
would hold off till you got back.”

“Well, your prayers were answered. The truth
is, Ephraim, I was spying on Mr. Bart. He…he’s dead.”

She told him everything—Clayton’s
masquerading as Andrew, the fact that Andrew was supposed to be
dead, Bart’s traitorous activities, her marriage to Clayton, Bart’s
murder. The old butler’s expression changed from mild surprise to
utter horror.

“And Miss Sallie don’t know! She’s been
beside herself, Miss Catherine. You wouldn’t know ’cause you’ve
been upstairs. She can’t understand why he don’t come home! Mr.
Martin said he’d run off with…well, with a bad woman.”

“It’s dreadful, I know. I’ve lost sleep over
it, believe me. But I can’t tell anyone…I’m not supposed to
know!”

He was silent for a moment. “I can hardly
believe all this was going on and I didn’t know it. Usually I
figure things out, Miss Catherine. I had figured out that you
really liked that man who dressed in black. I was awful hurt when
he up and left, ’cause I thought you were hurt.”

“Thank you, Ephraim. I’m sorry we’ve had to
mislead everyone. Do you think that’s bad?”

“Well, that’s between you and God, Miss
Catherine. I can’t be your conscience for you. But things are
different in wartime. This Mr. Pierce…he sure had me fooled. He
sounds like a good man, though.”

“He is, Ephraim. He’s everything that’s good
and decent and honorable.”

“Nobody’s that good,” Ephraim said dryly.
“’Cept Jesus.” He cleared his throat. “So you think this man
calling himself your husband is really his twin brother?”

“I know it. But I don’t know how to prove
it.”

“Why can’t Mr. Pierce come here and claim
you, now that Mr. Bart’s dead and all that is over?”

“Well, it’s not exactly over. We would like
to find the leader of Bart’s group. Besides, the original plan was
that the man in black, as Andrew, would die, and then after a while
I would pretend to marry Clayton. Now that’s impossible, and
Clayton doesn’t want to do any more damage to my reputation.

“And I haven’t confronted Andrew yet. I mean
John. He doesn’t know I’m aware that he has a twin brother. Oh,
it’s an awful mess, Ephraim!”

“Now, don’t get upset, Miss Catherine. No use
in—”

He stopped abruptly as they both heard a
sound in the dining room, just outside the kitchen door. Catherine
went to the door and looked out, her heart thudding.

No one was there, but across the room the
other door was swinging gently to a stop.

***

By the time Catherine crossed the dining room
and peered out into the hallway, whoever had been there had
vanished. She mentally went over a list of possibilities: Martin,
whom she knew had not gone to his office today because he wasn’t
feeling well, Sallie, Miranda, Jessie…even Tad or Joseph. Andrew,
she knew, had gone to the post office, but he could have returned
by now.

Catherine didn’t think it was Sallie, for she
would have fainted promptly on hearing the truth about Bart. It
must have been one of the others. Had she spoken loud enough for
anyone to hear from outside the kitchen door? She didn’t think so.
And whoever had been there didn’t necessarily have to have been
standing there listening. Still, it was troubling.

She went back to her room, with Ephraim
promising to “keep an eye on things.” After a while she fell
asleep. She dreamed of Clayton; he came in and sat down on the bed
and pushed her hair back from her face. She reached out and put her
hand on his. It was so real that she smiled a little, until she
realized that she was half awake and she was

actually holding onto someone’s hand. She sat
up with a gasp.

Andrew sat there, his tawny, shoulder-length
hair neatly combed as always, a look of affectionate concern on his
face. He held something in his other hand. “How young you looked
just now,” he said, smiling. His eyes were very blue against the
turquoise color of his shirt. “How are you feeling?”

She pulled the blanket up to her neck.
“Better, thank you. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I had to show you this. It came in the mail,
addressed to both of us.” He handed her what appeared to be a
letter.

“I can’t see, it’s so dim in here. What does
it say?”

“It’s an invitation to the president’s
mansion. There’s to be a reception honoring all the volunteer
nurses of the Harrison Street Hospital. It’s given by the officers,
although I’m sure Mrs. Davis is making all the arrangements. I
understand those women who are nurses by profession will remain at
the hospital, as it’s not too crowded at the moment. Of course, I
shall send them our regrets. You’ve been very ill.”

Catherine thought quickly. “Oh, no. I want to
go. Whenever might we get another chance to see the Executive
Mansion and meet the president?”

“But, Catherine—”

“When is it?”

“It’s the day after tomorrow.”

“Andrew, I’m getting stronger every day. I
want to go.”

“Well, sweetheart, if you’re certain.”

“I’m positive.”

When he’d gone, she left the bed and hurried
over to the window. She pushed back the curtains to let light into
the room and examined the letter. It was just an invitation,
handwritten. She could find nothing to indicate this was an attempt
by Clayton to see her and to meet Andrew. She flipped it over; the
other side was blank.

When she turned it back, she noticed
something in the right-hand corner of the square of paper. At first
glance it appeared to be just a curlicue, left there perhaps by
someone scribbling with a pen. Then she realized it was three
initials put together:
CAP
.

Her heart soared. She took the skirt of her
nightgown in her hand and danced about the room, then fell across
the bed with a coughing fit.

“I will be well enough,” she said to herself
determinedly. “I’ll go if it kills me.”

***

By the day of the reception, she was much
improved. She dressed in the amber-colored gown because she knew
Clayton liked it. Sarah, the British servant from next door, came
to do her hair.

Andrew walked into the room as Sarah was
leaving. Catherine stood up from the dressing table.

“Catherine,” he said, staring at her. “You
are…enchanting.”

“Thank you, Andrew.” She added, trying not to
sound forced, “You look very nice, too.”

He wore civilian clothes, black trousers and
coat and a spotless white shirt. “I can’t wear my uniform,” he
said, by way of explanation. “It’s in terrible condition. I’m
having a new one made…butternut, since gray material is practically
unattainable.”

Catherine said nothing.

“Shall we go?”

He held out his arm. She picked up her good
woolen cloak and took his arm, allowing him to escort her down the
stairs, out the door and into the waiting carriage. Over a foot of
snow had fallen the last few days, but the temperature had at last
risen above freezing.

“It’s kind of the officers to recognize the
nurses,” Andrew said idly. “But it does seem to me that they’ll use
any excuse to have a party.”

“Um,” said Catherine. She wondered uneasily
how well she would be able to pretend that Clayton was someone she
barely knew. But she was excited, too, so that her eyes sparkled
and her pale cheeks suddenly bloomed with color. Andrew sat
watching her, saying nothing more.

They reached the president’s mansion on the
corner of Clay and Twelfth Streets. The columned, gray stucco
building crowned a steep hill, overlooking a long, sloping valley
below. They stepped out of the carriage and waited behind several
other couples for their turn to enter. Catherine greeted the women,
most of whom she knew, introduced Andrew to them, and acknowledged
introductions to their husbands.

As they entered the small, rounded foyer, a
servant took their outer garments. Andrew again held out his arm to
her but she pretended not to see it. He reached over and put his
arm lightly around her waist just as they passed through the dining
room, its large table bearing a rather meager display of sweetmeats
and roasted pecans, as well as a large

china bowl half full of punch.

They reached the threshold of the first
reception room. It was elegantly furnished with velvet-backed
chairs, small tables and shelves filled with bric-a-brac, plush
carpeting, and deep red wallpaper. The ceiling seemed to stretch
into oblivion. Extra chairs had been placed along every wall.

The connecting room was empty, bare of
furniture or carpet; obviously, it had been reserved for dancing. A
chandelier hung from the ceiling, looped with winter flowers and
wide ribbons; the same ribbons and flowers had been draped or
displayed over every inch of available space in both rooms. Flags
and banners also hung suspended from the high ceiling. Candles and
lamps of all sizes and descriptions flickered on stands, tall
pedestals, tables and windowsills.