Shadow of Dawn (19 page)

He shook his head. “It didn’t save him.”

“But you did it. And that tells me everything
I ever need to know about you, Clayton Pierce.”

***

Three days passed quickly and Andrew Kelly
was pronounced better and able to return home. This time both
Sallie and Bart stood in the hall as the stretcher was carried past
them. On the way upstairs, one of the men nearly dropped his end of
the stretcher and gasped, “He sure is heavier this time!”

“Why,” said Dr. Edwards with a chuckle, “it’s
that delicious food he’s been eating. Ladies from all the churches
bring home-cooked meals to the hospital every day. Mr. Kelly
couldn’t help but get better.”

Catherine happened to be standing next to
Bart. She saw his gaze follow the stretcher all the way up the
stairs, a speculative look on his face. The look made her vaguely
uneasy. Why hadn’t they thought to make sure different men
accompanied the patient home?

“Andrew” was placed in his bed and Dr.
Edwards left, along with the orderlies. Mrs. Shirley went up the
stairs carrying her valise. Catherine almost ran into her as she
hurried to the kitchen with a pitcher in her hand, intending to
fill it with fresh water.

“Mrs. Kelly,” said the woman, with an ominous
darkening of her brow.

Catherine paused. “Yes, Madame—I mean, Mrs.
Shirley?”

“I wouldn’t behave quite so frivolously,”
Mrs. Shirley declared in a low voice, with a glance around to make
sure there was no one within hearing distance. “Remember that the
former situation is unchanged. There is no reason for you to flit
about as though you had found the seventh heaven.”

Catherine did not feel even a momentary sense
of deflation, but she said gravely, “You’re quite right, Mrs.
Shirley. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

The unsmiling woman toiled upward with the
heavy valise, her spine straight. Catherine went to the kitchen.
Hester was nowhere in sight, so she pumped water into a basin and
began washing the pitcher. She had no sense of another presence
until she heard Bart’s voice.

“I’m sure you’re glad to have Andrew
home.”

She whirled, splashing water onto her dress.
“Don’t sneak up on me like that!” she cried, wiping angrily at her
dress with a towel.

“Please forgive me, I didn’t intend to scare
you.”

Ignoring him, she dried the pitcher, pumped
more water into it, and looked in the cupboard for clean glasses.
He leaned back against the table, watching her.

“Sallie is impressed with your devotion to
Andrew,” he said, almost lazily, but his handsome face was as
watchful as a cat’s.

“I don’t see why. Any wife would do the
same.”

“No, I don’t think so. Of course, you feel
responsible for him. I meant that Sallie is surprised that you
seem…satisfied with him as a husband.”

“It’s nobody’s business,” she said, turning
to wipe out the glasses to hide her reddening face. She quickly
regretted her words. If she were to learn anything from Bart, she
would certainly have to arrive at friendlier terms with him.

“I’m sorry,” she said, making herself look up
at him. “I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s been a difficult week.”

He reached out to touch a tendril of coppery
hair that had escaped the confining net. “If you get lonely,” he
said, “I’m only a few doors away.”

Her jaw dropped at his implication. How she
longed to slap his smug face, the conceited lout!

Bart laughed. “You should see yourself, my
dear Catherine! You can’t make up your mind whether to be
righteously indignant or remain silent in case you do get lonely.
Oh,” he said, with mock fright, “you’re not going to knock me in
the head with that pitcher, are you?”

“Andrew and I get along just fine,” she said
coolly.

“Have you seen his face?” She almost dropped
a glass at the unexpected question. “Really, Bart! Why should you
ask such a thing?”

“Are you certain,” he went on, in a smooth
but almost accusing voice, “that he is really your husband?”

“Of course I’m sure! There are a hundred ways
to be sure of that, besides seeing him. But yes, I have seen his
face. It is terribly marred, but it is Andrew.”

“It suddenly occurred to me that anyone could
come into this house claiming to be your husband—an opportunist,
even a Yankee spy.”

“I declare I never knew you had such a vivid
imagination, Bart Ingram.” She took the pitcher in one hand and the
glasses in the other. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”

He stepped out of her way. “Tell Andrew I’ll
be up to visit him soon.”

“He’ll be delighted, I’m sure.” She couldn’t
keep a certain ironic note from her voice.

In her haste she spilled water on the stairs,
pausing to wipe it up with the hem of her skirt lest some unwary
person slip and possibly be killed. Which, she reflected crossly,
might not be a bad thing if that person was Bart. She arrived at
Andrew’s room without further incident, shut the door and gasped,
“Bart knows something!”

Clayton had been sitting up in bed.
Immediately he was on his feet, taking the pitcher and glasses from
her and setting them on the dresser. “What do you mean?”

“He asked me if I had seen your face, if I
was sure you were my husband. He said anyone could pretend to be
Andrew. He’s coming to see you!”

“When?”

“I don’t know. Maybe tonight.”

Clayton relaxed and sat back down on the bed.
With a feeling of compunction Catherine saw that his face was
white.

“I’m sorry, Clayton. You shouldn’t have
gotten up so quickly.”

“You looked as though you were going to fling
that pitcher through the window.”

“He scared me, and he makes me so mad I could
spit nails.”

“What did he do?” he asked, instantly
alert.

“Oh, he’s just being himself. Clayton, what
are you going to do?”

He leaned negligently back against the
pillows, folding his hands across his waist. “Nothing. In fact, I
think it’s about time that Andrew got out of his room more often.
Once people become curious, it’s best to do what you can to satisfy
their curiosity.”

“But isn’t that terribly risky? What if
someone becomes convinced you’re not Andrew?”

“I’m willing to take the risk. Besides, none
of them really knew Andrew. They couldn’t have seen him more than a
few times before he left to join the army. Even you didn’t know the
difference.”

“But Bart’s already suspicious.”

“Perhaps this will allay his suspicions. If
not, and he feels threatened, he may become incautious…which would
be to our advantage.”

“If he knew who you really are, he’d kill
you.”

Clayton reached out and took her hand. “Bart
will be going to prison very soon.”

Catherine was not diverted. “Does General Lee
know about the plot to murder him?”

“Yes, he knows. But he’s not one to run away
and hide from danger. There have been other threats against his
life. Unfortunately, knowing this group of men as I do, we have to
take this seriously. Mrs. Shirley heard Ingram tell them not to
meet again until after the first of the year.”

“Mrs. Shirley said I was to try to get
information from Bart.”

Clayton shook his head. “That was a
suggestion from our superiors. I’m opposed to it, Catherine. I want
you to stay out of it.”

“But how can I? Clayton, I’m not going to run
and hide either. I’m a Southerner, just like you. I love and
respect General Lee, and if anything happened to him that I could
have stopped, I could never forgive myself.”

He looked at her and said nothing.

She sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Clayton, don’t you see? I don’t have to place myself in danger. I
don’t know yet how I can help, but if the opportunity arises I have
to take it!”

“I don’t want you alone with Bart.”

“Why, don’t you trust me?” she asked,
wide-eyed.

“It’s Bart I don’t trust, and don’t try to
distract me with those green eyes of yours. What did he do that
made you angry?”

“He, well, he said that if I got lonely his
room was just down the hall.”

Clayton raised an eyebrow. “Dear me! Any
well-bred young lady should have fainted at that.”

“Only a ninny would take him seriously…it was
all so ridiculous!”

“Loneliness can be a terrible thing,” he said
softly. “It can make people do things they wouldn’t ordinarily
dream of doing.”

She stared at him. “Clayton Alexander Pierce,
you should know me better than that! Anyway, I’m not…I’ll never be
that lonely.”

“You’re very young.”

She pulled her hand from his and stood up. “I
may be young but I’m not stupid. And I’ll have you know—”

Someone knocked on the door. Clayton reached
at once for the black hood that lay beside him on the bed and
slipped it on. Catherine went to open the door.

Sallie stood there, a gleam of excitement in
her eyes, her cheeks very pink. “Someone’s here to see Andrew,” she
announced. “It’s a woman. She says she’s his cousin.”

C
layton said, in
“Andrew’s” whispery voice, “Which cousin?”

“Her name’s Miranda Kelly. What shall I tell
her?”

“Have you warned her about
my…appearance?”

“Why, no. I didn’t think it my place.” Sallie
stood transfixed in the

doorway, as if afraid to come any further.
She said, with a delicate touch of disapproval, “But evidently she
plans to stay a while. She has a trunk.”

“I can pay for her to go to a hotel.”

“No need for that, Andrew.” Bart had come up
behind Sallie, who stepped back to allow him into the room.
Catherine was relieved to see that at some point Clayton had
remembered to slip on the gloves. He shook hands with Bart.

“I’m glad to see that you’re better. Now
about this cousin…you do have an extra room, Sallie. The hotels and
boardinghouses are all full, I can tell you that. It wouldn’t hurt
to allow Andrew’s cousin to stay a while, would it?” He glanced
back and apparently gave Sallie a look, for her face smoothed and
its disapproval vanished. She nodded.

“That’s kind of you both. Catherine, would
you please go and prepare my cousin before she comes up here to see
me?”

“Of course.” Catherine waited for Bart to
precede her, seeing how his sharp gaze flicked all about the room.
Instead he made a slightly mocking bow and said, “After you.”

She went through the doorway and followed
Sallie down the stairs. Her heart fluttered nervously and she
marveled that Clayton had seemed so calm. She was sure this visit
from an unknown cousin was totally unexpected.

“She’s in the parlor with Martin,” Sallie
said.

Catherine entered the parlor. A short and
very plump woman sat propped on the edge of the settee, daintily
holding a cup of tea. Her hair, a rather alarming shade of red, was
piled high on her head. Dark pockets of flesh sagged beneath her
faded but inquisitive blue eyes.

“Hello. I’m Andrew’s wife, Catherine,” she
said.

The woman immediately handed her cup to
Martin, who stood close by, and began to blubber. She fished about
in her sleeve for a handkerchief.

“Oh, Cousin Catherine, you don’t know what
I’ve been through! We’ve not heard anything from Andrew in so long
that at last I said, ‘I’m going to Richmond and I’ll find out
something if I have to track down Jeff Davis himself.’ And I’ve
been here for two days, trying to find out something, staying in
the nastiest little room in some old woman’s house because, my
dear, that’s all that is available, and finally someone at the War
Department said he was in the hospital, but when I got there he’d
been sent home, and I inquired to find out where that was and came
here straightaway.”

The woman paused for breath. “My name is
Miranda Kelly. That was my maiden name and then I married one of my
Kelly cousins. He’s been dead for six years. Andrew was like a son
to me and I’ve been so worried about him. Where is he?”

Miranda Kelly blew her nose with a trumpeting
sound.

“Mrs. Kelly—”

“Oh, do call me Cousin Miranda. There are so
few of us left, and family must stick together. Don’t you
agree?”

“Cousin Miranda, I’m so sorry I didn’t write
you, but I knew Andrew’s parents were dead and I didn’t really know
who to write. My husband was wounded, and he’s been quite ill.
He…I’m afraid his appearance will be something of a shock.”

Miranda straightened and looked up from her
handkerchief. “Has he lost a leg? An arm? How dreadful!”

“No. He was shot in the face, and he’s been
badly burned. He lost his sight. He wears a hood to conceal his…his
injuries.”

Miranda’s pink face went white and she sat
down abruptly. Martin turned automatically to get Sallie’s smelling
salts, which he waved with an expert air underneath her nose.