The Lady and the Officer (32 page)

M
ARCH
1864

“My dear, may I speak with you?”

Madeline, startled from her woolgathering, poked her finger with her needle. “Yes, please come in, Aunt.” She rose stiffly to her feet.

Aunt Clarisa bustled into the her niece's room and threw back every curtain and drapery. “I don't know why you insist on sewing and reading up here alone. The light and heat are so much better in the parlor.” She poked ineffectively at the charred coals in the fireplace grate.

“Eugenia needs time to discuss things with her mother without outsiders constantly interfering.”

Aunt Clarisa dropped the poker into the bucket. “You're not an outsider, my dear. Genie loves you and misses your company. At meals you barely utter a word.”

“I love her too, which is why I don't want to impede her social season.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Justine Emerson was horrified to see you leaving that day. She insists it was a horrible misunderstanding by their butler.”

“We both know that's not the case.”

“That may be true, but most of the horrible gossip has died down, partly due to Colonel Haywood's threat to cut out the tongue of any man who repeats slander against you.”

“He has become my protector and avenger, yet I have no need of such services. I'm quite content to remain here on my window seat, sewing for soldiers and reading from Uncle John's library of books.”

“Cloistered like a nun? You're not Roman Catholic, dear niece. This is totally inappropriate for an Episcopalian.” Aunt Clarisa winked over her shoulder as she opened the doors to the armoire.

“Solitude provides opportunity for contemplation of one's errors.”

“My, you have been reading your uncle's tomes instead of your cousin's yellow-back novels. But I would say your self-flagellation has been sufficient. John received an invitation to a dance that General and Mrs. Rhodes are throwing, and you are included. So it's time to venture out beyond church on Sundays.”

“He didn't,” said Madeline in disbelief.

“He did. Your name—Mrs. M. Howard—is printed on the outer envelope beneath ours.” Clarisa pulled out a dark green gown from the wardrobe, along with matching dancing slippers.

“Did Uncle John approach General Rhodes about my inclusion? He has barely spoken a dozen sentences to me since my disastrous trip. Why would he do this?”

Clarisa laid the garments across the bed. “He was rather piqued with you—I won't lie. Running to the arms of some Yankee when the utterly perfect Colonel Haywood would camp in our back garden if we allowed it? But your uncle decided your penance has been sufficient. Coercing an invite was his idea.”

“Poor Mrs. Rhodes, betwixt and between two mighty forces—the ladies of society and her husband.” Madeline laughed despite herself.

“I was told to not take no for an answer. You've been holed up more than a month. You must be ready to talk to people other than your family.” She pointed at the silk gown on the bed. “Wear the green so you won't look so pale. You've never worn it once.”

Madeline forced a smile for her aunt. “I am facing a worthier opponent than Mrs. Rhodes.”

“Yes, you are. Don't tarry in your bath because I don't wish to be late to the final ball of the season.” Her aunt waltzed from the room as though the dancing had already begun.

The palatial home of General and Mrs. Rhodes stood at the edge of town. Surrounded by tall boxwood hedges and manicured gardens, the residence commanded an impressive view of the James River. Despite her beautiful gown and cascade of golden curls fixed by Eugenia, Madeline moved through the convivial guests like a specter on All Hallows Eve. Heads turned, but not in her direction. Madeline refused to cling to her aunt or cousin because both women had spent as monastic a winter as she. At least Eugenia had the devoted Major Penrod. The two of them were determined to dance every number together.

Madeline stood at the windows overlooking steep cliffs and a rocky riverbed. Lush green pastures in the distance promised an early spring. As she passed each small cluster of guests, conversation intensified. Female listeners became fascinated with their partner to avoid eye contact with the local pariah. Madeline was ignored more effectively than the liveried servants collecting discarded punch cups.

Or perhaps it was just her imagination.

Wherever the truth lay, Madeline wasn't enjoying the evening. On her way to the refreshment table, Justine Emerson pulled her partner from the circle of dancers.

“Ah, Mrs. Howard,” she said. “So nice to see you this evening. Be sure to try some of the shrimp paste. I gave Mrs. Rhodes the recipe our new cook brought from New Orleans. It is truly divine.” After a sugary smile, Miss Emerson whirled back into the throng in the arms of her admirer.

A friend… at long last.
Madeline felt temporarily back on the schoolyard when a girl said her shoes smelled like horse manure. But her relief was short lived. As she placed a few sweets on her dessert plate, she spotted the tray of cookies she had baked for the occasion. Someone had pushed them to the back of the table. Her cookies—the same ones the auxiliary ladies adored at sewing. December seemed like a lifetime ago. Madeline practically choked on a dry toast point she had just taken a bite of. She hurried through the French doors to the verandah, not slowing down until far from the revelers. She was about to dump her plate of snacks into the shrubbery when a familiar voice called out.

“Stop! Don't you dare squander food when shortages abound throughout the city,”

Embarrassed, Madeline watched Colonel Haywood stride toward her. “Forgive me, sir, but I have lost my appetite, and I didn't think anyone would eat food touched by my fingers.” She set the plate on the balustrade.

“I'm not just anyone.” He peered at her selections and then popped a pecan tartlet into his mouth. “Superb,” he declared around the mouthful. “Doesn't taste the least bit tainted.”

Even though she realized he was jesting, she burst into tears—the exact same reaction as when told her shoes smelled.

The colonel set the plate on the railing and put his arm around her shoulders. “Here, here, Mrs. Howard. Tell me who made you cry. I shall cut out their tongue with my saber—whether man or fair damsel.”

Covering her face with her hands, Madeline leaned into his tender embrace. “No one
said
anything, but no one will eat the cookies I baked from my… my mother's recipe.” She sobbed against his shoulder, helpless to stop.

“Is that all? The dowagers didn't point fingers and shout, ‘Fallen woman. Lock her in the town pillory so we might pelt her with those dastardly cookies'?”

Madeline slapped her palms against his chest and pushed him away. “Oh, Colonel, you mock my humiliation.” She struggled not to laugh but failed with the mental picture of old-fashioned stocks on Church Hill.

“I mock only their juvenile behavior, not your pain, so dry your tears.”
He handed her a handkerchief. “I feared your reentry into society would be much worse.”

“Did you?” Regaining her composure, she dabbed at her eyes.

“Truly, I've been watching you when not smoothing the feathers of my fellow officers. I believe you're well on your way back to those insufferable teas with the matriarchs each afternoon.” He resumed devouring the snacks.

Madeline sucked in a breath. “Suddenly, their approval sounds less appealing.” She took a cookie from the plate.

“Every rose has its thorns.” He popped the last sweet into his mouth. “I believe you owe me a token of your gratitude—a kiss is in order.” He tapped the side of his face with a finger. “On my cheek if it's all you can stomach.”

“Oh, I truly am grateful.” Madeline stretched up to kiss his clean-shaven face.

“You need to take one last step to be trusted and respected again.” He extended his elbow and gestured with his head toward the house.

“What would that be?” Her forehead furrowed suspiciously.

“General Rhodes hired a photographer for the evening. A displaced New Yorker has set up his tripod and equipment in the library. He wants to capture images of every happy couple in attendance tonight.”

“A daguerreotype with you?”

“No, these are the newfangled tintypes, no longer produced on a piece of glass. Quite the rage up north, I understand.”

A frisson of panic spiked up her spine. On the one hand, she needed to continue her subterfuge if she wished to be useful, but what if James saw her on the arm of another man? He might judge her faithless and debase. “As long as you understand we are not courting, sir. I wish to make that clear to you.”

“Indeed, you have many, many times. The photographer creates two plates, one for you and one for me. It will be nothing more than a reminder of a lovely evening, despite the unfortunate cookie incident. What say you, Mrs. Howard? If you stand beside me, no one will ever gossip about you again.”

She swallowed hard. “I doubt that, Colonel, but very well. Let's get in line to be captured forever on a metal plate.”

Yet with each step across the Rhodes' wide verandah, the notion she was making a terrible mistake took root and began to grow.

E
IGHTEEN

 

F
rankly, Clarisa didn't know what else to do. With mounting nervous energy, she paced the floor for more than an hour—from the back conservatory, down the portrait-lined hallway, into the parlor, and out the door to the terrace. She repeated the circuit until her legs ached from exertion and the dampness in the spring air. She perched on the settee until the ticking of the clock threatened to drive her mad. Would John never get home from the war department? Why must the president keep his staff late every night this week? There had been no engagements since November, and none could possibly be planned until the infernal rain stopped.

“Tea, Miz Duncan?” Kathleen asked from the doorway.

“No, thank you. You already asked me that twice in the last hour.” Clarisa fought to control her temper.

“Thought maybe you changed your mind.” The maid stood with a tray of china cups and a steaming teapot.

“Put it there for Miss Eugenia. She should return soon from her calls.” Clarisa pointed at the marble-topped table.

Kathleen set the tray down with a loud clatter. Before Clarisa could scold the girl, she heard the distinctive sound of hooves on cobblestones beyond the window. “Oh, thank goodness!” She ran to the front door, cutting off the maid in midstride. “I'll get the door for Mr. Duncan. You see if Esther needs help with dinner.”

With her usual sour expression, the maid remained rooted in place as though unsure how to react to such a breech in normal behavior.

“Go, Kathleen. I'm capable of opening a front door, and I'm anxious to speak to my husband alone.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Kathleen retreated down the hall with her signature sluggishness.

Clarisa opened the door the moment she heard John's boots on the
steps. “Oh, my love, I've never been so happy to see you.” She practically swooned into his arms.

Her husband's haggard face brightened. “You haven't greeted me with such enthusiasm in years. To what do I owe my good fortune?” After a brief embrace, he removed his gloves and hat and handed them to her.

Clarisa tossed them onto a chair. “Let's leave your things for Micah to put away later. It's urgent that we speak before Eugenia and Madeline return home.”

“What is it, Clarisa?” He added his overcoat to the heap and followed her into the parlor, his smile fading.

“It is not good news, I assure you.” Clarisa forced herself to take several deep breaths before reaching for the
Richmond Times Dispatch
from the mantel. She'd read and refolded the newspaper not less than six times. “That horrible Jonas Weems has printed an editorial in the paper. That boorish man had the audacity to return after receiving no polite welcome during his first visit.” She held out the paper with shaking fingers.

But instead of taking it, John walked to the sideboard. “Jonas Weems, here in our home without my knowledge? Why wasn't I informed?” He poured two snifters of brandy and drank the first with barely a grimace.

“You have so much on your mind outfitting the troops for the spring campaign. I didn't want to burden you with such nonsense.”

“But considering your present state of mind, his nonsense appears to have enormous importance.” He handed her the other glass. “Drink, Clarisa, and then tell me about Weems's initial call.”

She took a tiny sip, letting the burning liquid trickle down her throat. “He came around a week ago asking to speak to Madeline. When I said that she wasn't in, he seemed to not believe me. He said he wants answers from her, and that the Confederacy would be better served if we didn't coddle and protect a known Yankee-lover.” Clarisa took another swallow of brandy. “I told him I would coddle whomever I chose, and that the Confederacy would be better served if he reported military matters instead of idle gossip.”