Fates and Traitors (26 page)

“Who on earth is John Bigelow anyway?” queried Lucy, indignant. “He couldn't possibly be more qualified for the post than you.”

Her father smiled wanly. “The president might disagree. Mr. Bigelow is the current United States Consul General in Paris.”

That gave Lucy pause, but only for a moment. “Perhaps you could take over as Consul General.”

“Perhaps.” He rose and held out his arms, and they quickly embraced him. “Oh, my dear girls. Such steadfast confidence you have in me, more than I could possibly deserve.”

“Nonsense,” said Mama briskly. “President Lincoln will remember your many qualifications and find an excellent post for you, if not in France, then somewhere even more delightful.”

He managed a rueful smile. “Maybe Santa will leave a cabinet position in my stocking.”

They laughed, relieved to see his characteristic resilience come to the fore.

Later that same evening, Lucy was banishing Thackeray's tedious
The History of Henry Esmond
to its shelf in the drawing room when she heard footsteps behind her and, glancing over her shoulder, she discovered John crossing the threshold. “Good evening, Miss Hale,” he said courteously, bowing.

She felt a pang of regret that he had resorted to the old formalities. “Good evening, Mr. Booth. How was your journey?”

“Longer than I had expected, and as uncomfortable as I had feared.”

She nodded, turned back to the shelves, and pretended to search for a book. “At least it's over, and you arrived safely. Did you buy a farm?”

“No, just a horse,” he replied. “Miss Hale, have you dined yet this evening, and if you have not, would you care to join me in the dining room?”

Her heart leapt, and for a moment she considered attempting a second repast, but honesty, prudence, and an aversion to gluttony won out. “Thank you, but I dined earlier with my family.”

“Then I shall give you your Christmas present now.” He reached into his breast pocket, withdrew a slender box wrapped in red paper, and held it out to her. “Merry Christmas, Lucy.”

She hesitated before accepting it. “Mr. Booth, I—”

“John, please.”

“John—” Then words failed her. She carefully unwrapped the box, lifted the lid, and discovered inside an elegant silver locket nestled in a
bed of white paper. With trembling hands, she opened the locket and found his portrait within, a fair likeness that nonetheless failed to capture how handsome he truly was.

“Please accept this as a symbol of my esteem and affection,” he said. “I hope you will always wear it close to your heart, where I hope always to be.”

She pressed a hand to her lips, lightheaded, and inhaled deeply to steady herself. “It's beautiful,” she said when she could speak. “Thank you.”

“Shall I put it on you?”

She nodded, handed him the box, and turned around, lifting her hair out of the way, wondering how she would explain this new adornment to her family. An electric thrill passed through her when she stood within the circle of his arms, when his hands brushed the back of her neck.

“There,” he said after fastening the clasp and setting the box aside. “Turn around and let me see you.”

She did as he asked, scarcely able to meet his gaze for the way it made her feel—unbearably, exquisitely wonderful.

“You are extraordinarily lovely, Lucy Hale.”

“You are too kind, John Wilkes Booth,” she said, trying for a light tone, and from the look on his face, not quite achieving it. “I regret that I have no gift for you.”

“I want only this,” he said, taking her hands in his. “The honor of your promise to wait for me, and not to enter into an understanding with any other gentleman, until I can prove myself worthy and win your parents' blessing.”

She felt tears gathering. “That, I am only too happy to give.”

He kissed her then, his lips soft and searching on her own. For a moment she melted into bliss, but then a thrill of alarm compelled her to pull away. “John, darling, no. No one can discover us like this. It would ruin any chance we have of winning over my parents.”

“Of course,” he said huskily, taking a step back. “But know that I shall cherish my Christmas gift, even if I can't tell a soul about it. I won't forget that you gave it to me, and you mustn't either.”

“Of course I won't forget. How could I? I give you my promise with my whole heart.”

“And I will keep it safe in mine.” He bowed, bade her good evening, and departed just as two gentlemen entered and seated themselves by the fire, too engrossed in their own conversation to notice them.

Lucy turned back to the bookshelves, trembling, exhilarated. She pretended to read the embossed titles, but her heart was pounding, her thoughts racing, so she snatched down a well-worn volume of
A Tale of Two Cities
and hastened away, breathless and guiltily glad that her father would not be moving the family to France after all.

Before she entered the suite, she tucked the beautiful locket beneath her bodice, and when she undressed for bed later that night, she took care to keep it out of Lizzie's sight. In the morning she went through the same secretive contortions as she put on a gown of rich blue wool, choosing it not for its color though friends assured her it set off her dark hair and gray-blue eyes beautifully, but because of its high neckline, which concealed the locket's silver chain. She enjoyed the feeling of the cool, smooth metal against her skin, and she decided that when she next saw John, she would lay her hand upon her bosom so he would know the locket, and her promise, were kept safely close to her heart.

But she did not see him at breakfast, nor did she encounter him elsewhere in the hotel all day. It was not until that evening, after her father had settled into his armchair by the window and she had brought him his slippers and the evening papers, that she glanced out the window and was for a brief moment rendered motionless by the sight of John about a block away, striding toward the National Hotel in the company of three men she did not recognize.

“I believe I'll follow your example and read for a while,” she told her father.

He glanced to the pile of papers on the end table. “Would you like the
Herald
or the
Evening Star
?”

“No, thank you, Papa,” she said, hastening to the door. “I'm more in the mood for Dickens.”

“Have you finished
A Tale of Two Cities
already?” he asked absently, returning his gaze to the paper. “You brought it upstairs only yesterday.”

“No, I haven't, but I've read it before, and
A Christmas Carol
is better suited for the season.”

When he nodded, she quickly slipped into the hallway and shut the door behind her, breathing a sigh of relief. Deception did not come naturally to her and she prayed she would soon be done with it.

Flinging aside caution and propriety, Lucy raced down the stairs and seated herself in her favorite chair by the window just as John entered with the three men. So absorbed were they in their conversation that they did not glance her way as they crossed the lobby on their way to the front desk.

Studying them, Lucy knew she had not seen them at the hotel before, and she was fairly certain they were not registered guests. All three of the strangers were well dressed, if not as handsomely as John. The eldest was a gentleman of about thirty, neatly attired in a dark suit and coat, nearly bald except for a heavy fringe of brown hair half encircling his crown. A thick vandyke hid his mouth, but not his expression of displeasure. The youngest man could not have been more than twenty, with a boy's smooth, pale skin and fine, light-brown hair. He was tall and quite elegantly dressed, and his deep-set eyes, long nose, and prominent brow gave him a scholarly air. The last of John's companions seemed only a few years older than the youngest, and he seemed to be the most cheerful, with a round face and rosy cheeks, carefully combed hair, and a small, neatly trimmed mustache. His attire distinguished him from the other men in that his trousers were blue with stripes up the side. Lucy immediately recognized the uniform of the War Department Rifles, signifying that he was a member of the Union regiment composed of the clerks and messengers of the department and its bureaus.

Mystified, Lucy watched as John spoke with the front desk clerk briefly, then left his companions and strolled down the hall toward the dining room. He soon returned, and from across the lobby his eyes met Lucy's and he smiled. She raised her eyebrows in a silent question, hoping he would join her, but he gestured surreptitiously to the three strangers and shrugged helplessly to say that he was regrettably engaged. She offered him a small, understanding smile in return, then turned her gaze to the window as if she had come downstairs only to enjoy the view of passersby merrily going about their Christmas shopping. When she looked back, John was leading the three men upstairs
to the second floor, and soon thereafter, a waiter hurried along in their wake carrying various bottles of liquor, glasses, and a bucket of ice.

Lucy lingered by the window for a suitable interval before rising and following after, but as soon as she placed her hand on the banister she remembered
A Christmas Carol
, and so she went to the drawing room to retrieve it before returning upstairs. At the landing, she hesitated, glanced to her left toward her family's suite, then looked down the hall in the opposite direction, where John's room lay around the corner. It was strange that he had not spared the few moments necessary to introduce his guests to her, and not only as a point of etiquette. If the three gentlemen were his friends, would he not want to show her off proudly as his particular friend, as she was, if she did say so herself, a pretty, graceful, and charming young lady? And if the men were business associates, should he not want to impress upon them that he was well acquainted with the daughter of a respected senator?

Likely John had not meant to slight her, she told herself, and whoever the gentlemen were and whatever had prompted their visit, it surely had nothing to do with her. She ought to return to her family before they began to wonder why she had been detained.

She considered a moment longer before heading quietly down the hall back toward her family's suite.

Lucy lay awake beneath the soft comforter beside her sister long after the rest of the family had fallen asleep, her thoughts wildly tangled and taut. She puzzled over John's companions, about his trip to Canada, his unsettling involvement with an infamous Confederate smuggler, his frequent travels on vague matters of business, and the strange, undefined duty to his country that he insisted ruled his fate. She weighed everything she knew of him from her own experience against all that she had heard through rumor and gossip, wishing she could ignore the details that troubled her and embrace only those that affirmed that John was indeed the good, noble, loving gentleman with whom she had fallen in love, whom she hoped to marry.

And then, all at once, the tangled threads unknotted, and the truth—or the closest she could reasonably hope to come to the truth, without verification from John—stretched before her, a single, unbroken ribbon binding all the disparate elements together.

She knew what John was, and she realized why he had not told her.

Understanding quieted her restless mind. Eventually fatigue overcame her and she sank into restless sleep.

It seemed only minutes later that gentle shaking woke her. “Lucy, it's time to get up,” said Lizzie, her hand on Lucy's shoulder. “You overslept. You'll have to hurry if you want breakfast before we leave for the train station.”

Lucy scrambled out of bed, momentarily disoriented. She had no appetite, but she did have other important business to conduct before she boarded the train to New Hampshire.

She made a quick toilette, interrupting her preparations once to assure her parents that they should go down without her and she would join them in the dining room soon. After they departed, she counted to one hundred to give them time to descend the grand staircase before she left the suite, hurried down the hallway, and knocked upon John's door.

When he answered, he took a step back, astounded to see her. “Miss Hale,” he said, glancing past her into the corridor. He had washed and was freshly shaved, except for his mustache, and was clad only in his trousers and shirt. “To what do I owe this unexpected and rather indiscreet—”

“We must talk.” She put a hand to his chest, pushed him back into the room, and followed him inside, quickly closing the door behind her.

“Lucy,” he exclaimed. “Are you mad? You can't be here. What if you're seen?”

She knew the risk to her reputation and felt faintly ill from worry, but she had no choice. “John, I'm going to ask you a question, and I want you to answer with complete honesty, even if you think you should not.”

He smiled, perplexed. “This all sounds quite serious.”

“It is.”

Brow furrowing, he folded his arms over his chest. “Very well. Ask, and I shall answer.”

“Are you a spy?”

He stared at her, dumbfounded. “What?”

“Are you a spy for the War Department, or are you a Pinkerton agent?”

He blinked, coughed, and then, to her astonishment, he began to laugh. “You believe,” he managed to say, “that I am a spy for the Union?”

“It makes perfect sense. Your travels, your unexplained business affairs, your strange meeting last night with a soldier from the War Department Rifles, this undefined but enormously important duty of yours—” She studied him, confused, his mirth making her feel ignorant and foolish. “You said your old wound prevented you from enlisting for the war, but this service to your country you could perform without the risk of reopening your wound.”

“Oh, I don't know about that, darling. Spies risk injury every day.”

“Don't laugh at me. I'm in earnest. Tell me the truth. Are you a secret agent?”