The Lady and the Officer (41 page)

“Where did you find a carriage for hire? Most were sold off to speculators long ago.”

He waited to reply until they were comfortably settled and headed toward Church Hill at a brisk trot. “My first errand was to visit the family plantation, although the term hardly describes a rundown house and untended fields. More fences were broken down than upright.” A slight tick in his cheek appeared.

“I trust your brother and father are in good health.” Madeline gripped the seat as they bounced over ruts in the street.

“I'm afraid not. My father died shortly before Christmas of an unknown ailment. My brother buried him without a physician's examination, or notifying the authorities, or bothering to inform me.”

Though the colonel focused on the road, Madeline saw a muscle jump in his neck. “I'm sorry for your loss,” she murmured inadequately.

He nodded, turning his head to meet her gaze briefly. “My brother was drunk when I arrived. It's his usual state, according to an elderly slave couple who remain when the others have run off. I couldn't fathom how Robert manages to buy whiskey until I talked to his servant in private. The two of them distill it from corn mash and then sell the rotgut to any passing fool with coin to spend.”

Madeline had trouble thinking of an appropriate response. “At least they're still planting corn,” she said after an uncomfortable pause.

His harsh laugh set her nerves on edge. “Not exactly, Mrs. Howard. Robert and Otis roam far and wide to steal corn during the night. But when I tried to discuss the subject, he resented my interference. He demanded I take whatever I like from the house and get out before Yankees burned the place to the ground.” He ran his hand over the worn leather seat. “So I took my father's old carriage and his favorite Morgan.”

“An odd remembrance of home. Were there no portraits or family heirlooms to recall happier days?” Madeline asked as they stopped in front of the cathedral. Most attendees arrived on foot these days.

Elliott offered his hand to help her step down. “I have no use for
sentimentality and no place to store mementoes. My accommodations are far from luxurious these days.”

Madeline took his elbow as they joined the last parishioners trailing inside. She didn't understand his complacency or his resignation over the loss. It was as though Colonel Haywood
expected
nothing good to ever happen again. “I hope I don't attract undue attention to add to your woes.”

“I assure you, the opinions of others couldn't diminish the pleasure of your company.”

Once she was seated in the Haywood pew, she stopped worrying and concentrated on the priest's sermon. It seemed that each of his Scripture readings had been intended for her:

“Let nothing be done through strife or vainglory,” Father Daniel read from the book of Philippians, “but in lowliness of mind let each esteem other better than themselves. Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things of others.” He closed his Bible. “Don't allow yourselves to be consumed by hatred, greed, or corruption. Someday these difficulties will be over, yet we can never hide our black hearts from the Lord. Beware.”

Madeline was unable to look away as his eyes seemed to be solely fastened on hers. It was as though the priest knew exactly what she'd done, along with everyone else in town… everyone except for Colonel Haywood.

After the final hymn, Madeline wanted to run from the friend she had lied to and defrauded. Believing all women kind and virtuous, the colonel would never see her for what she really was. But instead she climbed into his dead father's coach like a coward.

“How about a drive along the river?” he asked as he spread a blanket across their laps and gave the reins a shake. “No sharpshooter would dare to take aim on the Sabbath.”

“No, sir. Please take me to the Duncans'.”

“Then we'll take the long way back. Surely you'll grant me that much time. Tonight I return to my post and soon the winter hiatus will end. This could be the last chance I get.”

She peeked at him from the corner of her eye. “For what?”

“To win your heart, of course.”

Madeline's composure crumbled as tears streamed down her face. Her emotions welled up like a fountain and refused to be contained. “Please, Colonel Haywood. You must stop. I have deceived you in order to advance my personal agenda. Although he turned me away, I'm still in love with General Downing. I have played both you and my family falsely. After everything Uncle John did for me, I stole a map from his desk and eavesdropped on his conversations.” With the words strangling in her throat, Madeline gasped and hiccupped like a child.

“Stop, Mrs. Howard! I do not want to hear this—”

“But you
must
hear me and realize that your infatuation has been misguided. I have repaid kindness and friendship with deceit and dishonesty. Arrest me if you will, because that is what I deserve. People may die because of my trickery.”

“Are you still up to your… trickery?”

Miserably, she shook her head. “No.”

“Then we shall never speak of this again.” Though his words were gracious, his normal ruddy complexion had faded to an unhealthy pallor.

For the duration of the drive, Madeline sniffled and sobbed with her gaze straight ahead. Along Broad Street the imposing homes were shuttered against the stiff winter wind. When they reached the Duncan mansion, Colonel Haywood drove down the lane behind the house. When they reached the stables, he pivoted toward her on the seat. “This will be my gift to the Duncans. Your uncle will need a rig sooner than he thinks.” The colonel jumped down and began to unhitch the horse.

Madeline climbed down after him. “Why would Uncle John need a horse and carriage? He can walk almost everywhere in town.” She wiped her wet face with her handkerchief.

“He will need to move his family and household staff, along with any possessions he doesn't wish to lose. I've spoken to him before, but he refuses to accept the dire situation.” With Madeline at his heels, he led the horse to a stall, hung the harness on a peg, and returned to the carriage. Pulling the reins of his gelding free, he mounted in one smooth motion. “You must convince your family to leave Richmond. Soon it will not be safe here.”

“Because of
my
doing?” she asked, swallowing the bitter taste of regret.

Sighing wearily, he plucked a burr from his horse's mane. “No, Mrs. Howard, not due to your mischief. And to offer salve for your conscience, you never fooled me for a moment. I knew you were still in love with General Downing, but I refused to believe I couldn't change your mind.” Running a hand through his hair, he gazed at a row of dead cornstalks in Aunt Clarisa's garden. “Nothing you have done will change the inevitable outcome of this war. The conclusion has been predetermined by the amount of food, men, weapons, horseflesh—unfortunately, the Southern well has run dry.”

Madeline touched his sleeve. “Then don't return to the battlefield. There's no reason for you to die, Colonel. Haven't both sides lost enough men already?”

He patted her hand and mustered a smile for her. “There is every reason. Even if the Cause is lost, I must do my duty or I will never be able to hold up my head.”

“Thank you for your kindness to my family. I will pray for you, Colonel Haywood, in case God listens to the pleas of shameful liars.”

“I believe He does, Mrs. Howard, and so I'm confident I will survive.” He tipped his hat, and with a spur to his horse's flank, he rode away.

T
WENTY
-T
HREE

 

M
ARCH
1865

M
adeline sat in the parlor reading one of Uncle John's many leather-bound books. Yet try as she might, she couldn't keep her mind on the story of a brave white settler, raised by an Indian chief, during the war between France and England over Canada. When she had read the same page for the third time, she set the book on the end table next to her with a moan.

“What ails you, niece? You've been listless for days.” Aunt Clarisa studied her over her half-moon spectacles.

“Not anything to worry about, but I can't seem to concentrate today.” Madeline forced a smile.

“I'll tell you what's the matter,” said Eugenia crossly. “It's too bloody cold in here. My fingers are so stiff I can barely embroider a simple rosebud on this pillowcase.”

“Young lady, I'll thank you not to use vulgarity in my parlor,” Aunt Clarisa admonished, not raising her voice.

“The word ‘bloody' is vulgar? The Emerson's new English maid uses that word all the time.”

“It most certainly is. I will speak to Prudence regarding Bertha's language.”

“But why can't we add more coal to the fire? It's still chilly outside.”

“It's nearly spring, so let's think sunny thoughts. Besides, there's no more coal or wood to add. Or coffee or sugar either in this week's ration for that matter. Shall I continue listing what we don't have, or do you have sufficient items to pout about until supper?” Aunt Clarisa arched one dark eyebrow at her daughter.

“Sorry, Mama.”

“You've sewn enough for one day, my dear. Why don't you visit Justine for the afternoon? Perhaps the Emerson parlor will be warmer.”

Eugenia paled to the shade of the pillow slip. “Please don't send
me away. I promise not to pout or say another disagreeable word until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow would be soon enough, but I'm not sending you off because of your grousing, my love,” Aunt Clarisa said, laughing good-naturedly. “I wish to speak to your cousin and prefer to do so in private.”

Madeline, who had been silently listening to the mother-daughter tête-à-tête, felt a chill descend on her that had nothing to do with a dearth of coal.

Eugenia dropped her embroidery in her basket, rose, and hugged her cousin around the shoulders. As she did so, she whispered in her ear, “Better keep quiet if the lemonade is sour. Remember, we have no sugar left.” Then the young woman scampered into the foyer to retrieve her cloak.

Aunt Clarisa wasted no time once they heard the front door close. “I will ask you again, Madeline, what ails you? And I know it's something more serious than the wordiness of James Fenimore Cooper's masterpiece, or a frigid parlor, or the fact that our lemonade can pucker a pair of lips with one sip.” She chuckled merrily over her jest.

Madeline gazed at the sweet, gentle soul who had fed her, clothed her, and taken her in when she had nowhere to go—the same woman she had lied to and deceived many times. She could no longer sit in the woman's presence when artillery shells might reduce this house and everything the Duncans held dear into a pile of rubble. Filled with shame and revulsion, Madeline burst into tears.

“Goodness, child, what is it?” Jumping to her feet, Aunt Clarisa sat next to her on the settee. “Are you ill? Should I send for the doctor?”

For several minutes, Madeline cried uncontrollably, soaking her blouse with tears. Never in her life had she felt so wretched, so utterly corrupt.

When she finally stopped sobbing, Aunt Clarisa asked, “Does this have something to do with Colonel Haywood? Your unhappiness began after his last visit. Are you frightened that something dreadful will befall him in Petersburg?” She rotated between rubbing Madeline's back and patting her head like a young child. “You must care deeply for him.”

Her undeserved solace only made Madeline feel worse. “I do care for him, but not in the way you assume. He has proven himself loyal, but I have returned his friendship with manipulation, his affection with
deception. During his last visit, I… I confessed that I had been false. I never stopped… loving… General Downing from Pennsylvania.” Madeline's words came in fits and starts. “I had planned to manipulate him to gain information for the Union Army.”

Her aunt stared at her, dumbfounded. “Why would you do such a thing? How could you behave in so un-Christian a fashion?”

The question hung in the air while Madeline moistened her dry lips. “Because the war took my husband, my horses, and my farm, and then burned my house to the ground with everything inside. I feared if the Confederacy won, my Tobias would… would have died in vain.” Her tears began anew, but Madeline kept her focus on her aunt's face. “I never thought I would grow so fond of you, Uncle John, and Genie. I have paid back your charity by biting your hand. If I live to be a very old woman, I will forever regret betraying your trust.” Madeline dabbed her nose with a sodden handkerchief.

Both women sat silent, with only the tick of the mantle clock marking time.

“Did you relay information you obtained from your uncle?” asked Aunt Clarisa.

Madeline nodded. “Yes. Once I listened in on his conversation, and once I copied a map of landings along the James River. I sent the map upriver into the hands of the Union Army.”

“Oh, dear me, those are treasonous acts! You could hang for what you've done.”

“Then so be it.” Straightening, Madeline forced herself to stop crying. “I jeopardized my family, along with Colonel Haywood, who didn't deserve my treachery. People may die if the Union Army aims their cannons at Richmond. For that I should be executed.”