The Lady and the Officer (40 page)

“Indeed I have, sir.” Kathleen eyed a soft leather chair, hoping she would be invited to sit. “Mind if I rest me legs a spell? I walked quite a distance to come here.”

Nodding his consent, Weems folded his arms across his chest.

“And a wee spot of tea would soothe the pipes, so it would,” Kathleen murmured as she settled on the soft upholstery.

Weems opened the door a crack and barked, “Miss Fletcher, please bring Miss O'Toole some tea.” Turning back to his guest, he said, “Now if you would be so kind to get on with it.”

Kathleen arched her spine. “Yesterday I saw that Miz Howard running down the street like the devil himself was chasing her. I happened to be checking folks' backyards at the time. So I followed her to the docks behind the market.”

Weems frowned. “So what? Maybe the cook didn't have enough for supper that night and Mrs. Duncan sent the Howard woman on an errand.”

“All the booths were closed and everybody was gone for the day. Same with the fishmongers.” Smiling, Kathleen allowed the newspaperman to mull this over. “I kept out of sight but stayed close enough to watch her climb aboard one of them fishing trawlers. Pretty as you please, just like she knew the captain in a personal sort of way.”

Weems's brows knit together above the bridge of his nose. “Are you implying a romantic rendezvous?”

Kathleen figured out the meaning of the unfamiliar word. “No, I'm not. She was in an untidy state if I do say so, with her hair all loose and tangled down her back. And her dress—”

“I don't wish a fashion commentary from you, Miss O'Toole. What did you see aboard the trawler?”

Kathleen paused while the sour Miss Fletcher carried in a cup of tea. But instead of handing it to her, she set the cup on the edge of the desk. “I watched her chitchat friendly-like with a codger old enough to be her granddaddy. How would some Yankee even know a Virginny sea captain? That Howard woman wasn't there to buy fish.” Kathleen picked up the cup and drank the weak tea in a few long swallows. “Then she rushed off his boat and back to the Duncan house in the same all-fired hurry.”

Weems stroked his clipped beard. “Why, indeed? It would be easy for a fishing trawler to run up and down the coast well inside the naval blockade.” His comment was more to himself than her. “Did you observe Mrs. Howard give the captain documents or a letter? Anything?”

“No, but I had to hide behind the dust bins for a spell while the guards patrolled the wharf. They are always on the lookout as though Yanks might swim up the river for a surprise attack.” Noticing a dirty stain on her dress, Kathleen tried to hide it within the folds of her skirt. “Now, I just told you Miz Howard is working her Yankee mischief. Where's my payment? A gal needs traveling money to leave this horrible city.”

Weems studied her curiously while opening his desk drawer. “What happened to your job at John Duncan's?”

“I was fired due to a bit of misunderstandin'.”

His nostrils flared. “Then you won't be much assistance to me in the future, will you, Miss O'Toole?” He counted coins from a leather purse and slapped them down on the desk. “I'll pay you twenty-five dollars now, and another twenty-five if this information proves useful. You did get the name of the boat, didn't you?”

“The
Bonnie Bess.
What do you mean useful?” Kathleen grabbed the gold before he changed his mind.

“For all we know, that man could be her grandfather who moved south
years ago. I'll have a military detail detain his trawler in one of the other Southern ports. If they find anything treasonous during their search, he will be arrested. Then you'll receive the rest of your payment.” Weems's expression curtailed negotiation on the amount. “Check back with my clerk in a few weeks for an envelope.” Withdrawing a handkerchief, he pressed it to his bulbous nose. He opened the door and with a flourish of his hand dismissed her. “And Miss O'Toole? Don't barge into my office demanding to see me again. Our… association has run its course.”

“I'll be checking with Miss Fletcher. Don't you be forgettin' your promise.” Kathleen stomped out, her fingers caressing the gold coins deep in her pocket.

With the reelection of President Lincoln in November, a somber mood descended on the inhabitants of Forsythia Lane that would last the winter. Madeline's spat with her cousin was quickly patched up. Eugenia and Aunt Clarisa had been desperately worried for her safety after she ran away. Their hometown had grown unpredictably violent in the past few months. Eugenia had begged for forgiveness, declaring she would never gloat about the Confederacy's imminent victory again.

It was a pledge easily kept, as the Rebel triumph at the “crater,” along with Jubal Early's success in reaching the outskirts of Washington, were quickly reversed. Sheridan's cavalry pursued Early's corps relentlessly, finally defeating him in the Shenandoah Valley in October. With the fall of Atlanta and victory in the Mobile Bay, President Lincoln returned to the White House. Both armies realized the siege at Petersburg wouldn't end anytime soon. Major Penrod hadn't visited Eugenia in weeks, but at least Uncle John kept regular hours now that the war department had fewer requisitions to prepare. Not many outstanding orders were being filled.

One cold morning Madeline joined the three Duncans at the breakfast table. Whatever Esther fixed for the meal would be welcome. She was hungry. Last night's dinner seemed ages ago. “Good morning.” She greeted each one with a smile and received a pleasant response in return.

“There's no coffee left, but we have tea with sweet cream,” said Aunt Clarisa.

“Tea will be fine.” Slipping into her chair, Madeline bowed her head for a quick prayer. Gratitude had been in short supply lately.

“I can't believe my eyes,” Uncle John groused as he read the paper. “I assumed the rumors had been exaggerated at best. Were any of you about town yesterday?” He peered at his wife, daughter, and niece in succession.

“I stayed indoors all day. What troubles you, John?” Aunt Clarisa nibbled her toast.

“Esther and I canned the last of the apples,” said Madeline.

“I walked only as far as Justine's.” Eugenia's expression turned fearful.

Her father pivoted in his chair. “Did you see any of these marauding females? I certainly cannot call them ‘ladies.' ” He thumped his fist on the newspaper next to his plate.

Eugenia shrank smaller behind her breakfast. “I saw only Mrs. Pinckney returning home after Mass. She walked normally, in no way… marauding.”

Madeline was certain her cousin had no idea what the term meant. “Were there more bread riots?” she asked softly. Several times during the past year, displaced women from the refugee camps marched through Richmond streets demanding food for their children. Occasionally they converged on bakeries, picked the shelves bare, and ran out without paying.

“These weren't homeless farm widows trying to feed their families. They were an organized mob wielding hatchets and knives.”

“Oh my word.” Aunt Clarisa pressed a fist to her bosom. “What is happening to this town?”

“Close to a hundred women broke the windows of jewelry and clothing stores. They were after baubles and fancy dresses, shoes, and expensive leather. They behaved like a lawless pack of rabble.”

“Where did they come from?” Eugenia sounded utterly perplexed.

“From those festering camps outside the city. No doubt that viper, Kathleen O'Toole, was among them. They weren't interested in bakeries or greengrocers this time, but merchandise they could stuff into their bags
and resell elsewhere. What they couldn't haul off they destroyed without a care about the livelihood of shopkeepers.”

“What happened to them?” asked Madeline, feeling a little queasy.

“The mayor attempted to quell the melee. Even the governor was telegraphed. But the mob refused to disperse until the militia fired shots above their heads with threats to kill.”

“Oh, John, shooting women? Speak no more about this.” Aunt Clarisa looked ready to faint.

“The truth must be told. I don't want any of you leaving this house without a male escort. Is that clear?” Uncle John flushed to a dangerous hue as he glanced around the table.

One by one Madeline, Eugenia, and Clarisa nodded in agreement. Thus began Madeline's imposed confinement inside the mansion or within the high stone wall of the gardens. Not that she had many places to go. Invitations over the holiday season had been few, and none of them included her name on the outer envelope. She was allowed to attend church, but without the companionship of Colonel Haywood, Catholic Mass with the family became her sole option. Her understanding of Latin had improved little, so instead she often chose to stay home and read her Bible by the fire.

On Christmas Day, the brave Major Penrod slipped through enemy lines to pay a brief but poignant call on his beloved. After greeting him warmly, Eugenia chastised him for putting his life in peril. In the not too distant past, she might have whined that his gift hadn't been adequate or his visit was too short in duration. But the war had matured her cousin. Major Penrod's Christmas gift was his grandmother's sapphire ring, a pledge of his troth, and an assurance he would love her until he drew his final breath. “That's long enough for me!” Eugenia had declared. “My answer is yes.” Then she shooed him out the door with a rucksack filled with sandwiches following the longest kiss Madeline had ever witnessed.

No one had had any doubts as to what her answer would be. Madeline now included Joseph's name in her long list of nightly prayers. However, by late January she spent most of her contemplation time pleading for forgiveness. Her actions since her arrival in Richmond had been anything but humanitarian. Although motivated by fierce patriotism for her
country, Madeline realized that sin committed for noble reasons was sin nonetheless. One cannot serve two masters.

Suddenly, an insistent knock at the front door interrupted her regrets and misgivings. With the household, including the staff, at Mass, Madeline hurried to see who would call so early on a Sunday morning. She opened the door on the last person she expected to see.

“Colonel Haywood! What on earth are you doing here?” She glanced left and right in case a cadre of officers accompanied him.

With his plumed hat in hand, he flashed a smile. “I've come to take you to church. Don't tell me they suspended services at Saint Paul's. Surely
everyone
hasn't left town yet.” His uniform appeared more tattered than it had the last time she had seen him, but it was clean and pressed.

For several moments Madeline stood in the doorway just staring at him.

“Goodness, Mrs. Howard. Either invite me inside or send me on my way. With the price of coal and firewood, I'm sure the Duncans wouldn't wish to heat the great outdoors.”

Stepping to the side, she allowed him to pass and closed the door. Indeed, the air in the foyer was cold enough to see one's breath. “Is it stalemate over at Petersburg?” she asked, the question sounding ridiculous. She would have heard about any cessation of fighting or withdrawal of Union troops surrounding the city.

“No, the seige is not over, but I chose to take care of an errand today and pay you a call.” He bowed dramatically, his hair falling across his brow.

“You left your command, just like that?”

His confident demeanor slipped a notch. “For a few more weeks, little will be happening on the battlefield. I really did have military business in Richmond, so I obtained permission for two additional stops before returning to my post. Do you fear a court-martial and firing squad awaits me? My heart swells at your concern.” He winked at her in wry mockery.

“I'll get my cloak and hat so we can be off. We'll have plenty of icy sidewalks to contend with along the way.”

The condition of frozen sidewalks didn't end up being an issue because at the end of the walkway waited a faded but serviceable carriage. The horse stamped and snorted with impatience, while the colonel's usual
mount had been tied to the back. Madeline climbed up and settled against the upholstery, noticing an unpleasant odor—like a guest who lingers after a party.
Like I am becoming at the Duncans.