The Lady and the Officer (10 page)

“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.

Shaking off the painful memory, she lifted her hand and rapped again. Within another minute the door swung open, and she peered into the face of a tall, dignified black man in full livery.

“Good afternoon, madam. May I be of assistance?” He spoke perfect Queen's English with a slight drawl.

“I'm Madeline Howard. Is Mrs. Duncan at home? I'm her niece from Pennsylvania.”

“Come in, ma'am. The Duncans have been expecting you. Both ladies are in the back garden. I would be happy to show you the way.” He stepped aside so she could enter.

As he reached for her valise, Madeline saw his nostrils flare. “I apologize for the bag. The cloth still retains the smell of smoke.”

“No apology necessary, madam. I'll see that it is properly cleaned. My name is Micah if I may be of assistance to you.”

Madeline didn't hear him as she peered around the two-story center hall with a gaping mouth. A round table held a porcelain urn with an enormous arrangement of flowers. Below her feet was a highly-polished marble floor covered with a fringed Persian rug. Every item in the foyer seemed oversized and ornate, including the multifaceted crystal chandelier overhead.

Micah cleared his throat. “Shall I show you to the garden, or would you prefer to rest in your room?”

She briefly contemplated the coward's choice. “Please take me to my aunt.”

“Very good, madam.” The butler led her through a long corridor lined with portraits of ancestors, long dead judging by their garments. At the far end, a set of French doors opened onto a terrace of wrought iron tables
and padded chaise lounges. Huge potted palms and hibiscus lent a tropical feel to the garden.

Spotting her aunt doing needlework in the shade, Madeline quickly wiped her palms down her skirt. The years had been kind to Clarisa Duncan, her skin remarkably unlined at forty-two. “Mrs. Duncan?” Suddenly self-conscious of her appearance, she trilled like a canary.

“Madeline! How wonderful to see you.” Aunt Clarisa dropped her embroidery hoop into the wicker basket.

The pretty young woman sitting beside her sprang to her feet. “Do you remember me, Cousin Madeline? I'm Eugenia.” She extended a delicate hand.

Madeline crossed the flagstones toward the two women. “I recall playing with a sweet child years ago. I'm pleased to see what a lovely woman you've turned into.” She clasped the girl's fingers and squeezed.

As Eugenia blushed demurely, Madeline turned to her aunt. “Mrs. Duncan, forgive my intrusion on your afternoon. I pray my visit was not wholly unannounced.” She bobbed her head in deference.

Her aunt's face warmed in the dappled light. “
Mrs. Duncan
? Please call me Aunt Clarisa the way you did years ago. And you are intruding on nothing at all. We were heartbroken to hear of your loss in your letter.”

“It came just yesterday,” Eugenia interjected. “I could barely sleep a wink last night wondering how long your journey would take.”

A wave of embarrassment washed over Madeline. “Oh, dear me. You've had but a day's notice?”

“Little notice was needed, my dear. We relish guests and always maintain preparedness in hopes of one.” Aunt Clarisa's encouragement couldn't have been more effusive. “Please, sit. You must be exhausted.” She gestured toward a chintz-covered chaise.

Madeline perched on the edge of her seat nervously, even though plump pink and green pillows beckoned her weary body to recline in comfort.

Aunt Clarisa shook a small silver bell next to her chair. “Your uncle and I were truly sorry to hear about the fire, Madeline. Couldn't anything be done to save your home?”

“Nothing. And had I not been rescued by a passing soldier, I would have died. I had taken refuge from the artillery fire in the cellar, but once the house caught fire, smoke filled the cellar so quickly I couldn't breathe.”

“Saints be praised,” Aunt Clarisa said softly, pressing a hand to her throat.

“You were saved by a soldier? Was he riding a white horse like a knight in Merry Olde England?” Eugenia pulled her footstool nearer the chaise. “How romantic, Cousin Maddy.”

Aunt Clarisa clucked her tongue at her daughter. “Why do you insist on reading dime novels when we have a library filled with Shakespeare and Dickens? And you are fixating on her rescue instead of the terrible loss of her home.”