Fates and Traitors (23 page)

“He's a battle-scarred hero as well as an artist,” said Parker. “I'm heartily glad to have met you, sir.”

Mr. Booth thanked him, assured Parker that the pleasure was mutual, and then bowed and bade them good evening. They wished him the same, and then, as they all turned and made their way to the staircase, they laughed to discover that they were all going to the second floor. They parted at the top of the stairs, Mr. Booth kissing Lucy's hand before he strolled off down the corridor.

“I can't remember ever seeing my sweet cousin blush so often and
so deeply,” Parker teased as he escorted her to her family's suite. “I believe you fancy Mr. Booth. What will my aunt and uncle think when they learn that their youngest daughter—”

“You mustn't tell them,” Lucy implored, halting abruptly, making him stop short of the door too. “I hardly know him. I admire his work, but I don't fancy him. I couldn't. If you say anything, they'll misunderstand, and you'll upset my mother—”

“Hush, cousin.” Parker patted her hand where it rested on his arm. “I was only teasing you. Mr. Booth is an actor. Of course he wouldn't think himself worthy to court you, and even if he did, you'd never encourage him.”

“Of course not.” More firmly, she added, “Certainly not.”

“From what I hear,” said Parker, lowering his voice conspiratorially as he led her on down the hall, “John Wilkes Booth enjoys the company of many ladies of a certain class—actresses, and others.”

Lucy suspected he meant prostitutes, and she bristled with indignation on Mr. Booth's behalf. “I'm sure that's merely idle gossip.”

“I certainly hope so.” Parker paused outside the Hales' door and rapped twice. “In any case, dear cousin, I think you needn't fear that Mr. Booth will develop a romantic attachment to such an excellent young woman as you.”

“I don't fear it,” Lucy replied as the door opened and her mother greeted them warmly. No, that was not what she feared at all.

•   •   •

M
r. Booth remained at the National Hotel almost a week, and Lucy saw him every day, but usually only briefly—as they passed on the stairs, as they sat down to breakfast with several tables and dozens of other guests between them, as she perused the library in the drawing room and suddenly found him beside her, reaching past her to take down a book of poetry from a high shelf, brushing her sleeve with his own, smiling down on her mischievously as she gazed up at him, transfixed by his ineffable beauty, his dangerous proximity.

He was always so perfectly courteous, so engaging and amiable, that she almost could not believe her eyes when she passed by the gentlemen's lounge one evening, glanced through the doorway, and discovered him alone and apparently despondent. He was lost in a brood, slumped dejectedly in an armchair in a corner away from the windows
and the fire, one hand tangled in his dark, silky locks, the other clasping a brandy. Startled, she almost called out to him, but propriety restrained her. She averted her gaze and was about to continue on her way when she sensed movement and glanced back over her shoulder in time to see that he had risen from his chair and was following after.

She slowed her pace, and a moment later he was by her side, bowing and wishing her a good evening. “Mr. Booth,” she said, “I don't mean to intrude, but you look so unhappy, so unlike yourself. Is something wrong? Is your injury troubling you?”

“No, not at all. I'm happy to say I'm on the mend.”

She studied him. “You don't look very happy.”

“Miss Hale, I assure you that—” He hesitated. “Indeed, I confess that I am not. May I confide in you?”

“I sincerely wish you would.”

He offered her his arm, and with a thrill of delight and apprehension, she took it. He escorted her to the lobby, to a chair by the window where everyone could see them and yet none could overhear, so that both propriety and intimacy were satisfied.

“Miss Hale,” he said, breathing a sigh that made her long to hear him say her name again. “I confess you have caught me in a low moment. I have just received word that the schooner transporting my stage wardrobe has wrecked at Bic—” He covered his mouth with a fist and cleared his throat. “It has been lost at sea, and all my trunks of costumes, playbills, and scripts with my notes representing years of study have been lost with her.”

“Oh, Mr. Booth, how dreadful. Can they be replaced?”

He shook his head. “The playbills, I have collected throughout my entire career as an actor. I can find other copies of the scripts, but I cannot hope to reproduce all of my notes. The costumes and makeup and jewelry and other toggeries of my profession, however—” He paused to clear his throat again, and she noticed that his eyes were red-rimmed. “They belonged to my late father, and were exquisitely made by my own dear mother—silks, satins, ermines rendered into works of art over the course of many years. They were priceless, and are irreplaceable, and represented the entirety of my inheritance from his estate.”

Lucy's heart ached for him, and without thinking, she leaned forward to place her hand upon his. “I'm so sorry. Such a terrible loss.”

Grimacing, he nodded, and with a deft, graceful gesture he was suddenly holding her hand. “It is only a player's wardrobe. I've no doubt men lost their lives in the wreck of the
Marie Victoria
, so you can imagine how ashamed I feel, sitting here in comfort mourning my lost possessions. And yet, in losing them, I feel as if I have lost my father all over again.”

“Of course you do,” she said, her heart going out to him. “They were cherished family heirlooms, as well as the necessities of your profession. Is there any chance that the cargo of the schooner might be salvaged?”

“If it could be, it would belong to whomever brought it up from the depths. But it's just as well that I'll never see my costumes again. The salt water will ruin them utterly, and I don't think I could bear to see them in such a state.”

“I wish I could find the words to comfort you.”

He managed a smile and gently squeezed her hand. “You are, at this moment, providing all the comfort I could hope for.”

She felt her heart glowing, and she held his gaze as he held her hand, and she did not care who might observe them or what they might make of it. Mr. Booth was nothing like the other young gentlemen of her acquaintance, the sons of politicians and lawyers and men of business. She knew so little about him, and the mystery of the hidden depths beneath his outward charm, the passion and fire she had glimpsed behind the characters he had portrayed on the stage, intrigued and beguiled her. She understood that it would be a fallacy to confuse the actor with the virtuous men he played, and yet surely he must possess their noble qualities himself in order to perform them so convincingly.

She longed to know him better.

That night after retiring to her family's suite, she pondered Mr. Booth's loss, wondering if he was mistaken, if in fact there was some way his father's wardrobe could be salvaged and restored to him. She did not pretend to be well versed in maritime laws and customs, but her father was an expert on nautical matters and had many friends in the highest ranks of the United States Navy. If anyone could help Mr. Booth reclaim his inheritance, it was her father.

“Papa,” she said, setting aside the novel she had only been pretending to read, “if a ship is wrecked, but another vessel is able to salvage
the cargo, to whom does it belong? The original owner or the man who brings it to shore?”

Her father peered at her over the top of his glasses. “It depends on the circumstances. Are you speaking of a hypothetical vessel and cargo, or did you have a specific shipwreck in mind?”

“A real and very recent shipwreck, the
Marie Victoria
. She was lost only a few days ago near a place called—Bic, I believe it was.”

“Good heavens.” Her father sat back in his chair and regarded her with mild surprise. “I had not heard she was wrecked.”

“I know very little about the accident, only what I overheard in the lobby earlier today.”

“Lucy,” her mother chided mildly. “It does not become a lady to eavesdrop.”

Lucy threw her a mischievous smile. “I know, which is why I did not linger to hear the entire story. Besides, I thought our own expert would be better informed.” She turned back to her father. “So, Papa, in this case, would a man who had lost cargo in the wreck have any reason to hope it might be restored to him?”

“If a man were transporting cargo on this particular ship, he should rather hope the United States Navy never hears of it, or him.” Father stroked his chin, brow furrowing as he studied her. “Lucy, darling, would you recognize the gentlemen you overheard if you saw them again?”

“I—I think I might. I'm not sure. Why?”

“The
Marie Victoria
is a British schooner, and a notorious blockade runner. Her captain is infamous for smuggling coal oil and other goods to Wilmington and Richmond by way of Nassau in the Bahamas. Le Bic, where you heard she was wrecked, is a village on the Saint Lawrence River in Quebec. One can easily guess the ship's cargo, and its destination.”

“Do you suppose Lucy overheard spies discussing a run of the blockade?” asked Lizzie.

Lucy quickly waved a hand to dispel any such notion. “They would be very poor spies indeed to discuss such things in the lobby of one of Washington's busiest hotels.”

“It's more likely Lucy overheard insurance men calculating the payout the ship's owner might demand,” their mother remarked, “and
counting themselves very fortunate that their companies had not insured the
Maria Victoria
.”

Papa smiled, but his expression quickly turned grave. “We can't know for certain whether the captain of the
Marie Victoria
intended to run the blockade on this voyage. Even if he did, surely not every man who arranged to transport cargo in her hold meant to send it into the heart of the Confederacy, but rather to one of the schooner's many ports of call along the way. Even so, Lucy dear, if you see those gentlemen again, point them out to me. The Department of the Navy would do well to keep an eye on them, just in case.”

Lucy nodded, unwilling to promise, not trusting herself to speak.

“Goodness, John,” said her mother. “You're frightening her. Look at her wide eyes. She's gone quite pale.”

“No, I'm fine.” Lucy managed a smile. “I'm merely furious at myself for not having paid better attention. To think I might have uncovered a spy ring.” She sighed, comically sorrowful. “I would make a terrible Pinkerton agent.”

As her parents and sister laughed, Lucy inhaled deeply to settle the nervous fluttering in her stomach. She knew Mr. Booth had once considered Richmond his adopted home, but surely the war had severed his ties to the Confederate capital, and he could not have intended to send his trunks of costumes there. But even as she convinced herself of that, she could not help wondering what business had taken him to Canada, and how his affairs had become entangled with those of an infamous blockade-runner.

Sleep did not bring her any reasonable answers, and the next morning when she saw Mr. Booth at breakfast, anxiety and bewilderment rendered her unable to glance in his direction lest she betray her emotions, no matter how often he tried to catch her eye. But then she remembered his pain and grief when he had told her of the loss of his father's bequest, and her heart went out to him. It was unfair to condemn him on evidence so circumstantial it was not really evidence at all.

She offered him a nod across the dining room, and when he smiled back, seeming both relieved and gladdened, she was struck by the astonishing thought that perhaps his affections were growing at a pace with hers.

After breakfast, as her family rose from the table, Lucy watched from the corner of her eye as Mr. Booth quickly finished his coffee, dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, and pushed back his chair. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the encouraging smile and the small gesture that meant he wanted her to linger, so when her family reached the foot of the stairs, she announced that she had forgotten her handkerchief and would meet them upstairs after fetching it.

“Lucy has become so forgetful lately,” she overheard her mother remark to her father and sister as they went upstairs. Silently berating herself, she resolved to be more discreet.

She found Mr. Booth in the lobby seated in one of the chairs by the window where they had spoken the previous day. He stood at her approach, and smiled, and she found herself impossibly glad. How could she ever have suspected him of any wrongdoing?

He kissed her hand in greeting, and as they seated themselves, he said, “I have thought of how you can console me for the loss of my wardrobe.”

Her heart leapt, but she kept her voice light. “You seem quite happy this morning, hardly in need of any consolation at all.”

“I am happy, because I'm here with you, and because you smile at me so sweetly, but I assure you I'm thoroughly grief-stricken. Only you can rescue me from plunging into melancholy.”

“Only I? Then I certainly must try to help you if I can.”

“An evening of excellent music is precisely what I need,” he declared. “On Monday evening, the Grand German Opera Company is performing Charles Gounod's
Faust
at Grover's Theatre. I'm confident that the distraction of the play and your excellent company will cure me of heartache.”

She was both thrilled and dismayed, longing to accept, certain that her parents would want her to refuse. “Your prescription is a difficult one for me to fill,” she replied. “Perhaps your physician could suggest another remedy?”

“No, only this will do.” His dark eyes conveyed both amusement and understanding. “But even the best apothecaries require assistance for their most difficult cases. Shall we invite your sister to join us?”