Songs of the Shenandoah (23 page)

There was something Davin wanted to see. Yes, the names were alphabetical. He ran his finger down through the list toward the bottom. Then he saw it. The name William Walsh. His shoulders sank. His substitute was dead!

“I . . . so admire them.” Andrew's eyes watched as a procession of officers made their way up to the front of the church. “I've been told by so many, that the work we've done at the newspaper is our battle, our participation in the war, but sometimes I wonder.”

So this was what this was all about. The
New York Daily
. Andrew's newspaper. When was he going to just ask for the money?

But Davin found himself struggling to be angry at Andrew. Instead he was moved by the solemnity of the moment. He had a sense of belonging, a sense of purpose in this room. Was this the destiny of his people? This suffering? This dedication to causes that were hopeless? What had he done while others were risking their lives? Enjoyed the life of a prince?

And as much as he disliked the boy's mother, he grieved heavily for William Walsh. It was as if Davin had killed the boy himself.

There was indeed a profound sadness in the room, but there was something else as well. A passion. A sense of purpose. Although those gathered here could barely afford to put a bowl of soup on their family's table, they had a communion among each other. A connection. A vibrancy of life.

In contrast, Davin had emptiness. Vain pursuits. He didn't know why, but he was fighting back the urge to cry.

“Do you remember when you left us to find Seamus when you were a boy?” Andrew's voice could be heard, but now it was merely a distraction.

“I do,” Andrew continued. “Your sister cried for days. Weeks. She thought she let you down.”

“I should have written.” Davin wanted him to just stop talking.

“Do you know what Clare's battle in life is? The one she would lay her life down for? For any of you?”

The officers had made their way to the front and they were encircling the coffin.

“What?” Davin grinded his teeth.

“Do you know?”

“Listen.” Davin reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his checkbook. “I know what this is about. How much do you need? Just tell me. Any amount will do. What do you need?”

Andrew's face blanched. “What are you . . . ?”

“I know all about you, Andrew. The paper. It's failing and everyone knows this. You're right. I owe this to my sister. To your family. Just please . . . quiet yourself and tell me the amount.”

Andrew's brows collapsed behind his glasses, and his confusion turned to anger. He grabbed Davin by his arm and dragged him out of view of the others, in a small alcove lit with dozens of burning candles.

“You don't know what this is about, do you?”

Davin had been startled by Andrew's abrupt actions, but there was something in his tone that was fatherly in nature. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I don't want your money. Any of it. In fact, we couldn't accept a dime although I've been offered thousands.”

There were voices in the background as the music had stopped, and echoing loudly was the beckoning of the archbishop and the sounds of the assembly rising together.

“What do you mean?” Andrew's accusatory tone was bringing Davin to a stark realization. Did he know? No. He knew nothing of his world. It was dark but hidden.

“Your Mr. Lowery.”

Davin's knees began to wobble. How could he have known?

“Mr. Alton Lowery. His son, your good friend Tristan, offered thousands of dollars. More than we would ever need to mend our finances.”

“What . . . what for?” Would he sink even deeper in the lie? It seemed the only way out.

“And when that didn't work, he threatened to blackmail us. Or should I say you. If we went ahead with our story, they would have you ruined and taken Clare down with you.”

The music started again, a dirge deep and foreboding, and it was the perfect accompaniment to the sickness growing throughout Davin. They had said it would be impossible to get caught.

“Yes. They set you up, Davin. They listed you as the primary in their transactions. It's the only reason we haven't run the story yet. I needed to clear your name.”

“What does Clare think?” Davin's childhood flashed before him. Who else was left for him to betray? He ruined his brother's ministry, laughing and mocking as the water washed him down the slope of the Sierra. But Clare? She was untouchable. Everything in his life suddenly was toppling.

“She doesn't know. Clare doesn't know any of this. Which has been nearly impossible to keep from her. But it would destroy her to learn of what you've done. Her brother, involved in the smuggling of cotton from the enemy. The very ones who are responsible for all of this.” Andrew nodded toward the gathering. “Your people. You've turned on them. And your family as well.”

Davin began to cry. And as he did, he expected the eyes before him to claw deeper, but instead, Andrew's expression melted to one of deep compassion, and in a moment, Davin was in his arms.

“I know who you are,” Andrew whispered in his ear. “I know who you can be.”

These words were even more painful to Davin because he was shaken by Andrew's grace.

“What am I to do now?” Davin stepped back and wiped his eyes, pleased to see they were still unnoticed.

“The story will run in a few days. We're going to be taking them down. As it turned out, they had the secret blessing of the United States government who needed the cotton for uniforms as well as keeping the economy healthy. But that will all be denied and there will be a great uneasiness for anyone involved here in New York.”

“So you are saying I should leave town.”

“Tonight if you can. I don't think it's safe for you with the Lowerys anymore. They'll think you gave them up.”

“What about Clare?”

“You'll have to leave that for me to explain.”

Davin reached into his pocket and pulled out his checkbook. “Then you must allow me to make this right.”

Andrew held on to Davin's wrist and nudged it back. “We can't take any of your money now, Davin. We have to keep our distance. That's to protect Clare.”

The words sunk in deeply. First he had disgraced Seamus and now he was about to do the same with his sister. He was ready to run. To get away from all of this. But where would he go? Back out West?

He put his hand on Andrew's shoulder. “Thank you.”

“There is a better way to thank me.” Andrew smiled. “Come back, Davin. To the boy you were. The man you could be. That's what your sister would give her life up for. What she's dedicated every day of her life for. Her family. If not for yourself. Do it for Clare.”

Davin put his hands in his pockets. “Are you leaving? I should be going.”

“I might as well cover the requiem for the paper.” Andrew grabbed Davin by the arm. “This time. Make sure you write.”

“I will.” Davin slid away and down the hall, then opened the great doors to the light outside, which was bright enough he had to cover his hand over his eyes. What would Clare think of him when this all came out?

He moved down the steps and felt a strange bounce. There was shame he experienced. But something else as well. Relief. As if he was free of the burden he was carrying, the one he didn't even realize existed.

Tristan had been right. There was nothing illegal about what they were doing. His father had made sure they had clearance with the authorities. But in his heart and deep in his soul, Davin knew it was unethical. It wasn't who he wanted to be.

He would miss Clare. And he would even miss the city. But it would be good to get a new start. Here he was following in the steps of his older brother. It had been more than fifteen years ago when Seamus had to leave town in a hurry.

And what did his brother do? He joined the United States Army.

Davin walked past an office and was ten steps beyond when he returned and glanced at the poster in the window. It made a plead for healthy men to enlist in the 69th Irish Battalion. There was an ink drawing of a harp framed with clovers.

He laughed. It was perfect. Redemption would come swiftly, be it by glory or bullet.

Another thought came to him as well. One that surprised him. Someone else was serving the Irish boys in that regiment.

Someone who had captured Davin's imagination. But why would he be thinking of Muriel at a time like this? Was it because she was Irish and reminded him of being back home? Was it because she was a unique woman who was unflappable in this world dominated by men?

Or was there a vulnerability in her, a mysterious yearning, a search for purpose and acceptance they both shared?

Whatever the reason, her face gave him hope. She had something genuine to offer in his life that had become such a fraud. In some strange way, she offered a cleansing of his conscience.

But there was much to do before he left.

Chapter 27

Rumors of War

Taylorsville, Virginia

March 1863

The Seed Festival was one of Taylorsville's most fancied occasions. For more than thirty years, farmers from all over the neighboring valley would come to celebrate the planting season. To Ashlyn, this was always one of the highlighted events of her youth.

As she observed Grace knitting with several of the town's women, Ashlyn worried of how her daughter's childhood memories would be tarred with the fear and anxiety of war. What terrible stress this young generation had been subjected to in these difficult times!

Ashlyn walked over and admired Grace's handiwork. She had learned so much in her short time in the Shenandoah Valley and was growing up to be a fine young woman.

“That's lovely, dear.” Ashlyn touched Grace's shoulder.

Grace looked to the work of the other women and grimaced. “I am so desperately slow at this. Look what they have all done in the same amount of time.”

“You're well ahead of where I was at your age,” Coralee said, who was sitting beside Grace.

Ashlyn grabbed a chair and sat with them, so the three were in their own small circle. “You shouldn't be so critical of yourself, Grace. You are so talented.”

“It's true.” Coralee winked. “It's one of the many things Anders says he appreciates about you.”

“Dear Coralee.” Ashlyn reached over to a small table where there was a pitcher of lemonade and poured herself a glass. “You know I don't approve of you stoking those fires.”

Coralee laughed. “I am afraid the flames are burning well enough on their own. Isn't that right, young Grace?”

Her cheeks burned bright red and she held back a smile. “Have you heard from him?”

“Who?” Coralee lifted a spool of yarn from the table. “Who would that be? I am not allowed to even discuss the issue.”

“Oh, Coralee, you are beyond hope.” Ashlyn took a sip of the lemonade. “Ooh.” She put her hand to her lips.

“Those will pucker you well.” Coralee lifted her glass and took a sip herself. “Ooh wee is right. Fletch brought those in last night.”

“Well?” Grace put her needles down.

Coralee took another sip. “Well . . . if I was allowed to discuss it, I would inform you that my son, the handsome Anders Fletcher, did mention you in his last letter. But since I haven't been . . .” She made a motion of zipping her lips.

Ashlyn laughed. She had fashioned a warm friendship with her meddling friend. Since Seamus had left, both Coralee and Fletch had become their caretakers. “Really, Mrs. Fletcher. Now that you have tortured my poor daughter so needlessly, you might as well complete the task.”

The woman leaned forward, as if she was about to share some scandal. “Yes, then this being the case, I will tell all. Young Anders asked about the beautiful Grace several times throughout his letter.”

“He did?” Grace's green eyes sparkled. “What did he ask? Please, Mrs. Fletcher, tell me everything.”

Coralee put a finger to her chin. “Well now, let me recall it. Yes, he inquired as to whether you got your horse yet.”

“Is that so? What else.”

“And . . . he asked if we would bring some wildflowers to you on his behalf.”

Ashlyn reached over and took Grace's knitting from her lap. “Let me repair a few of those loops for you. Go ahead, Mrs. Fletcher, as the banks of the river are well overflowing now.”

“Then he also wondered as to why you were not writing him.”

“What?” Grace's jaw dropped. She looked to her mother with accusatory brows.

Ashlyn cleared her throat. “Well, it's not unusual for letters to get delayed or lost. Mail delivery in times of war is quite suspect.”

“Ma!”

She was caught. Ashlyn sighed. “I am sorry. It was terrible of me. I promise, we'll get them posted this week. All twenty of them.”

“There weren't twenty.” Grace lowered her head. “And that's horrible of you.”