Traces of Mercy (21 page)

Mercy’s mouth dropped open, and she fought to keep the dull roar she heard from completely overwhelming her. She shook her head.

“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” she said when she could finally speak.

“It’s the truth,” he said. “It was you. You were disguised as a man; your hair was cut short, you were wearing a dark-brown wool shirt and a pair of green pants. You followed us from the battlefield to the stream so you could do your duty and kill me—but you didn’t. I hung that medal on the end of your knife, collected my brother’s body, and didn’t look back. I never expected to see you again, but then in the receiving line at the Prescotts’ that night—there was something about you. Something familiar that I couldn’t place.”

She was shaking her head so hard now that the curls moved like springs around her face. “You’re lying! I don’t know why you would make up such a cruel story and lie about me, but it stops now! Do you hear me? It stops right now!”

He stared evenly at her. “What possible reason would I have to lie about this?”

“You hate the Prescotts! You have an agenda to sully their name with this fabrication!”

Elijah set his jaw, and she could see the muscles in his neck as he strained to be still. “I wish to God I didn’t know this about you—but I do. And because I value the truth above all else, I had to come to you with it.”

“I don’t believe a word of this,” she said in a voice husky with fear and emotion, “but even if I did, what would you propose I do with this information?”

“Rand deserves to know the truth. He needs to know who he is about to marry,” Elijah said.

Mercy choked out a nervous laugh. “Tell one of the biggest supporters of the Union cause that he’s about to marry a rebel soldier?”

“Yes,” he said. “You owe him that.”

“He won’t believe it. He loves me,” she said. “He knows I could never hurt anyone. Just last week he was laughing at me because I couldn’t step on a spider.”

“And yet you dispatched three pheasants that day at the hunt like the skilled marksman that you obviously are,” he said bluntly.

“That was an accident!”

“That was your training as a soldier in the Confederate army, whether you will admit it or not,” he said.

“No,” she said flatly. “I’m not telling him this wild theory of yours. I’ve already lost my past—I do not intend to lose my future as well.”

“Although I didn’t believe in your amnesia at first,” he said, “I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re telling the truth.”

“How noble of you.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

“What happens someday when your memory returns—and along with it, all the hatred that you felt for the North? For the believers in the Union? For people like Charles Prescott and his son, who not only championed the cause with their railroad but almost certainly had a hand in obtaining victories against the South?
Your
South.”

“Other people have made peace since the war ended. Other people are able to have civil, cordial relationships despite their political differences,” she said.

“Those people have had months and months since the war ended to come to terms with their emotions. It’s possible if your memory returns you will be in the thick of the emotions that propelled you to fight for the South. You could wake up one morning and literally be sleeping with your enemy. He has to be told before you marry him,” he said. “Because you spared my life that day, I will give you the time to tell him yourself. But if you don’t—then I will.”

Her eyes filled with angry tears. “How do I know this is true? It could have been someone else.”

He stood. “The mercy medallion.”

“What about it?”

“You didn’t deny that you have one.”

“It proves nothing. Someone could have told you I wear one. There are probably hundreds that look just like it.”

“I’ll admit Mother Helena told me you have a medallion,” he said. “But I promise you—it’s the same I wore until I gave it to you.”

“There is no way to prove that.” Her voice had taken on a higher pitch, and she knew that the rising hysteria she felt was too close to the surface to stop.

“There is a letter that is missing from my medal,” he said. “On the bottom are the words
pray for us.
If you look closely—you’ll see the
y
is missing from the word
pray
.”

She stood on legs she wasn’t sure would support her. “I think you should go now.” She rang a silver bell on a table beside her, and almost immediately, Letty appeared.

“Captain Hale is leaving. He’ll need his jacket and hat.”

Letty nodded and hurried from the room.

Captain Hale studied her. “I’ll wait to hear what you decide to do with the information I just gave you.”

When Letty came back, he shrugged into his jacket, settled his hat on his head, and walked out into the snowstorm.

With arms that felt like lead, Mercy withdrew the medallion from underneath her dress and lifted it over her head. She stared at the silver medallion and felt her world crack when she spotted the space where the
y
should have been. The flames in the fireplace had turned into nothing more than burning embers. She started to cry.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
F
OUR

I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since that awful man came here and demanded the impossible from me. I can’t think of anything else—can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t imagine a way out of this nightmare.

I don’t want to believe it—but I do. I fought for the Confederacy in the war.

Why? What could have possibly driven me to dress as a man and take up arms? How did I get away with that? I have most likely killed men in the heat of battle.

I look in the mirror and search my eyes for hints that I have seen death up close. But all I see is confusion and worry. What to do with this information?

This whole thing is so unfair. That one man—one stranger—should have so much control over my life. My future. My happiness.

I have tried to come up with a solution—a plan to circumvent what he’s asking of me. I think the best approach is to tackle the issue head-on. I can say that my memory has partially returned and I remember being west of the Mississippi at the same time I was supposedly in Tennessee. Though the flaw in my plan is that I don’t have a single person to substantiate my claim. Would Rand believe me over someone else with convincing evidence?

Or I could claim the Yankee is a liar and a rabble-rouser who just wants to cause me harm. The logical question from Rand—or anyone for that matter—would have to be why. Why would someone make up such terrible lies about me? Maybe he is a man who I have scorned. He approached me one day when I was riding Lucky in the woods and professed his interest in me. I, of course, rebuffed any advances he tried to make, and he vowed to get even. Can I get Rand to believe I am the victim here?

I don’t want to believe anything he said is true, but I do.

I wish we had never met—again. I wish I didn’t believe he will make good on his threat and tell Rand the truth if I don’t—but I trust that he’s a man of his word and he will.

There is only one logical way for me to fight to have the life with Rand that I want: I must tell him the truth and pray that he finds my admission brave. Maybe his love for me will be stronger than any of his political feelings about the war. If courage can be stockpiled, then I’m praying to have a good bit of it laid in before Rand’s return tomorrow so I can do what I must do.

Mercy stood in front of the cheval glass in her bedroom and studied her own reflection. It had been three weeks since Elijah Hale had come to turn her world upside down. During those weeks, she thanked God that Rand had been traveling with Charles, that Ilene had been down with a cold, and that social engagements had all but been abandoned due to the bitterly cold February weather. She had spent her days with open books—but could honestly not remember reading a single page. The only thing that had been on her mind was Elijah Hale’s declaration about her—and Rand’s possible reaction when he heard the truth. The fact that she was so close to finding out how it would all play out made her heart clutch in her chest.

She made a graceful turn in front of the mirror and looked over her shoulder at the deep-blue satin gown she wore. The ribbons cascading from her waist went to the floor, and the hoop under the skirt was just wide enough to be at the height of style—at least, that was what Ilene had said when she’d had the dress made for Mercy. Mercy crossed to the vanity and swept aside her skirt so she could sit and touch up her hair. Drawing the brush through her curls, she stared at the reflection of her necklace in the mirror. Then, as Mercy drew her brush through her hair again, Letty’s dark face bent into the mirror beside her.

“He’s here, Miss Mercy,” she said, smiling so wide that it seemed to Mercy she was all teeth. For just a fraction of a second, Mercy had a flash of another dark face beside hers—and then it was gone.

“Thank you, Letty,” Mercy said. “I’ll be right along.”

Letty disappeared from the mirror. Mercy took a moment to collect the composure she so desperately needed to do what she must. Leaning toward her reflection, she whispered to herself, “He loves you. He loves you, and nothing you say will change that.”

Rand beamed a smile at her as he crossed the room to take her hands. “Being away from you was intolerable,” he said. He bent to kiss her cheek.

She smiled. “I missed you, too.”

He stepped back but kept one of her hands and twirled her as if they were on a dance floor. Her dress belled out around her and swished over the hardwood. She felt her heart rip in two with the worry it would be the last time he ever looked at her in the admiring way that made her feel treasured.

“Missing me has agreed with you,” he teased. “You look stunning.”

“I could hear that every day,” she said. “Maybe we should incorporate compliments to each other in our wedding vows.”

It was his turn to laugh. “I don’t need to swear in front of church and family that I’ll tell you you’re beautiful. It’s as natural as breathing to me.”

In the next moment, he turned serious as he stared at her.

“You’re wearing it,” he said. “All by itself.”

Mercy knew instantly what he was talking about, and her hand went to the ruby necklace around her neck. The one he’d given her weeks ago, which had been in a box ever since.

“It’s time I put the past away,” Mercy said. “And the medallion is just that—my past.”

“You don’t know how happy that makes me,” Rand said. “The necklace looks beautiful on you. Much more suitable than the medal.”

“Thank you for being so patient with me,” she said, hoping to set the tone for the coming conversation. “I told Kizzy we would have dinner at six. I hope that’s all right. I wasn’t sure what time you were arriving.”

“Perfect. Gives us a chance to talk without the distraction of Kizzy’s …” He paused and sniffed at the air. “Roast beef?”

Mercy forced another smile. “Yes.”

They made their way to the very same chairs Mercy had sat in with the army captain to hear the horrible truth from his lips. Ezra materialized with a brandy for Rand, and Mercy wondered briefly where it came from. She had thought she was telling Captain Hale the truth when she said there was nothing stronger than tea in the house. Rand waited for Mercy to sit, then accepted the drink from Ezra.

“Thank you, Ezra,” he said as he lowered himself into the chair. “Just what I need to warm me from the inside out.”

“Tea for you, Miss Mercy?” Ezra asked.

Mercy nodded, her mouth dry with the thought of what lay in front of her. The curiosity about the liquor swept away.

Rand took a drink of his brandy, then issued a contented sigh. “Ah. I’ve been waiting all day to sit here with you like this.” He smiled. “Actually, I’ve been waiting for weeks. I started to miss you the day we left.”

“How was your trip?” she asked, trying hard to keep the trembling from her voice.

“Exhausting,” he answered. “My father is a force to be reckoned with when he’s got his mind set on something. Meetings morning, noon, and even during dinner to try and secure promises from elected officials for future railroad contracts. I don’t think the man ever gets tired.”

“I suppose that’s why he’s been so successful,” Mercy observed, trying to delay the turn she knew she must make in the conversation.

Rand lifted the corner of his mouth. “Yes. One of the reasons. He gets what he wants—always has. I’ve seen very few obstacles thwart him.”

“Not even the war?”

“Especially not the war,” Rand told her. “The Missouri Pacific is a stronger entity now because of the way my father used the railroad during the war. After a serious attack on the tracks and several engines by Sterling Price in the fall of ’64, Father helped finance the repairs so future construction could take place. It’s the wave of the future, Mercy. The mode of transportation that makes the most sense. Did you know you can leave Kansas City at three in the morning and be here in St. Louis by five that same evening?”

Rand took another drink of his brandy, then swirled it around in the snifter in his hand. He stared into the amber liquid. “The country is years away from healing. All the way to the Carolinas, land has been destroyed, homes have been burned. Confederate money is worthless. According to Southern sympathizers, scalawags and carpetbaggers have taken Sherman’s place as the source of all evil. The Thirteenth Amendment to the Constitution that was passed in December has incited fury in the South. It’s an absolute mess. One I’m glad you don’t have to witness.”

“But you must have seen evidence the colored people are happy now that they are free?”

He frowned. “I’d say more like liberty has become anarchy. President Johnson’s administration has done little, if anything, to promote the Freedmen’s Bureau, and he’s allowed Southern states to implement their own black codes.”

“What does that mean?”

He offered a small shrug. “In essence, it makes the Freedmen’s Bureau null and void. If the blacks can’t vote or hold any public office, then there’s no social equality.” He shook his head. “The president is in quite a pickle. Johnson and the Congress are at odds—the Republicans are furious with him, and the Radicals are ready to storm the White House because of his lenient policies toward the South.”