Shadow of Dawn (22 page)

“Clayton, don’t, please. It doesn’t matter if
we have any money or not, or any place to stay, as long as we’re
together. Together we can face anything. Why do we have to
wait?”

His look sharpened. “You don’t want a public
wedding?”

“I’ve had one of those. Of course, we’ll have
to figure out something once you’re finished being Andrew. Andrew
will die, I suppose, and then I’ll have to start courting Clayton
Pierce.”

He shook his head. “That would take too long.
You’d have to wait at least a year if you didn’t want to be a
social outcast for not properly mourning your husband.”

“Well, the war’s not going to end any time
soon, is it?”

Clayton smiled, but it was not a pleasant
smile. “You’re right. The war is far from over. By the time I get
back, Andrew will be just a distant memory to everyone—except,
perhaps, to Miranda.”

“Do you think she’s really Andrew’s
cousin?”

He said, after a brief hesitation, “I can
only agree with your original assessment of her. Either she is his
cousin, or she’s an actress of exceptional skill.”

Catherine sighed. “It seems like everyone is
pretending—about something!”

He came toward her and took both of her
hands. “There is one thing that is real, one thing we can always
depend on, and that’s how we feel about each other. Catherine, are
you sure this is what you want to do?”

She nodded emphatically. “Very sure.”

“So,” he said softly. “Tomorrow? I’ll arrange
it somehow.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes.”

He kissed her on the cheek and stepped behind
the door as she left the room. She floated on a cloud of happiness
to her own bedroom, struck a match to light a candle and then saw
that it was already lit. She had lit it herself, earlier in the
evening.

She shook her head and laughed at herself.
Being in love affected the mind just as much as it did the
heart.

***

Mrs. Shirley did not approve. It showed in
her unchanging grim expression, in her stiff acknowledgement of
Clayton’s announcement the next morning. Catherine remembered that
she had suspected the woman was secretly in love with Clayton
herself. Now she wasn’t sure. Certainly Mrs. Shirley didn’t seem
heartbroken, in spite of her disapproval. She was very difficult to
figure out.

“Very well, sir. I expect you’ll want me to
sign as a witness. I shall watch the door as usual to prevent
anyone from eavesdropping during the ceremony.”

Clayton did not seem to feel there was
anything unusual in Mrs. Shirley’s demeanor. “Thank you, Margaret.
I’ll need you to deliver a message for me.”

“Yes, Major.”

Catherine thought she ought to say something.
“Mrs. Shirley.”

The woman stared at her. “Yes, Mrs.
Kelly?”

She was completely unapproachable. Catherine
looked away. “Never mind.”

Later in the day while she was helping Jessie
polish the furniture in the dining room, Ephraim approached her
with a puzzled expression. “Miss Catherine, Dr. Edwards and another
gentleman have come to see your husband.”

“Oh.” Catherine dropped her polishing cloth
on the floor, to Jessie’s mystification. She went at once into the
hallway.

“I was coming to check on my patient and look
who I ran into,” said Dr. Edwards with a twinkle in his eye. “You
know my friend, Reverend Owen, don’t you, Mrs. Kelly?”

“Yes, we’ve met. How are you, Reverend? May I
offer you both something to drink?”

“We can’t stay, but thank you.”

“Shall we go up, then?” She led the way
upstairs, her heart thudding in her ears. She had not expected it
so soon.

Mrs. Shirley waited in the sitting room.
“Everyone is away from the house,” she said curtly. “I’d advise you
to hurry.”

They went into the bedroom and closed the
door. Clayton turned from where he’d been standing at the
window.

He greeted the men and shook hands. Dr.
Edwards noticed Catherine’s look. “Oh, the reverend’s a friend of
mine. I told him what he needed to be told. He’ll keep your
secret.”

Reverend Owen smiled at Catherine. “I think
she knows me well enough to believe that, even if I am a
Methodist.”

The minister took out his marriage book,
though during the ceremony he never even glanced at it. After the
vows were said, he sat down and filled out the marriage
certificate; the doctor and Mrs. Shirley signed as witnesses.

“Here’s your copy,” he said, handing it to
Clayton. “I’ll see that this one is registered, though it may not
be exactly…proper. Dr. Edwards tells me it’s not to be made a
matter of public record for some time.”

“I am much obliged to you, Reverend. And you,
Dr. Edwards.”

“You don’t have to thank us, son.” Dr.
Edwards put his hand on Clayton’s shoulder affectionately. There
were more handshakes and words of congratulation. Reverend Owen
took Catherine’s hand and said, “God bless you, Catherine. Let me
know if I can be of any further service.”

“Thank you,” she breathed, still unable to
believe what was happening.

Suddenly they were gone. Catherine and
Clayton looked at each other, and he smiled broadly and took a step
toward her when the door opened.

“If I may make a suggestion,” said Mrs.
Shirley, “you might want to move Mrs. Kelly’s—I mean Mrs. Pierce’s
things in here before everyone returns. The fewer people who enter
this room the better. I’ll watch the stairs and warn you if anyone
comes.”

“Yes,” Catherine said quickly. “I’ll say Mrs.
Shirley helped me. And I want to change clothes.”

Clayton agreed, rather crossly she thought,
and they began the lengthy ordeal of moving her belongings. Besides
her many dresses, petticoats, underclothes and toiletries,
Catherine wanted to move a chair and her desk into the other room.
The oak desk was heavy and Mrs. Shirley was obliged to help them
with it.

Clayton took one last look around the room.
“What about that?” he asked, nodding toward a large box lying on
Catherine’s bed.

“No, that stays for now,” Catherine said.
“Mrs. Shirley, will you tell Ephraim I’ll be dining with my husband
tonight?”

“As you wish.” Mrs. Shirley disappeared.

They heard the front door open and Sallie’s
lilting voice echoed through the passageways. Dusk had fallen and
soon it would be time for supper. Catherine firmly sent Clayton
back to their room, then shut the door to her former bedroom.

She washed scrupulously, brushed her hair,
and pinned it in a loose knot on top of her head. She opened the
box lying on her bed, setting aside tissue paper, and took out the
silk peignoir set she had bought for her wedding night with Andrew.
It had never been worn. It was tight in the bodice, sea green in
color, with white lace inserts in the sides, and a flowing skirt.
She put it on, and over it the matching robe.

It had grown too dark to see without lighting
the lamp, but she was finished. She stuck her head out the door to
make sure no one—Bart, in particular—was lurking nearby, then
hurried across the hall and knocked on the door. Knowing her knock,
Clayton opened the door and she moved swiftly inside.

Mrs. Shirley had already brought up their
supper. It was laid out on a table in front of a blazing fire. The
lamps had not been lit, but candles flickered throughout the
room—on the table, her desk, the bedside chest of drawers. The
window was slightly open to dispel the heavy aroma of food in the
room, and the draft made their shadows waver on the far wall.

Clayton had changed from a black shirt to a
white one, open at the collar. His eyes seemed almost as black as
his hair. An air of leashed intensity, of strength and purpose held
in restraint, emanated from him. By contrast she felt utterly
feminine, and utterly at his mercy when he said quietly,
“Catherine, how beautiful you are.”

Though she was far from hungry, Catherine ate
her supper, not even aware of what she was eating. They dined
without interruption, and Mrs. Shirley prudently refrained from
coming to collect the dishes as she usually did. They watched the
fire and sipped their wine. The flames reflected in Clayton’s eyes,
shone on his hair, picked out the buttons of his shirt, the brass
candleholders and her own silver-backed brush on the dresser.

Then he rose, went around to her chair, and
drew her gently to her feet. He released her hair, and it, too,
glowed red in the firelight, and his hands moved over it. She felt
his arms go around her, and before his lips met hers he whispered,
“My true wife, my beloved, always and forever.”

In the tiny, obscure region of her mind that
remained aware of anything except Clayton, a thought
intruded—unbidden, unwelcome, touching her faintly with unease—this
night, this man, this moment, it’s all too good to be true, until
even that last, rational thought was swept away.…

C
atherine woke in
the morning as the rising sun began to light the far corners of the
room. Beside her, Clayton still slept. She pulled on her robe and
went to stand, with the curiosity of a bride, before the
mirror.

Her face was rosy, her eyes large and bright
in spite of having slept little. She couldn’t help smiling
foolishly at herself. She noticed that her hair was wildly tangled
and grabbed her brush to put it into some semblance of order before
Clayton woke up and saw her.

Someone knocked briskly on the door. With the
vague idea that it must be Mrs. Shirley, Catherine stepped quickly
to open it. She looked up to see a clearly astonished Bart looking
down.

“Catherine!” Taking in her disarray with a
sweeping glance, he couldn’t have looked more stupefied had she
sauntered from the room naked.

Swiftly she shut the door behind her. “What
do you want?” she asked, whispering. “Do you know what time it
is?”

“What—” he said. “You…what are you doing in
there?”

“I’ve moved into my husband’s room,” she said
loftily. “If it’s any of your business.”

Mrs. Shirley’s door opened a crack. She
peered at them, eyed Catherine’s attire impassively, and shut the
door again.

Bart seemed to recover from his astonishment.
“I’ve come to see Andrew.”

Before she could move, he had swept her aside
with one powerful stroke of his arm and walked into the room,
causing Catherine to lose her balance and half fall against the
door. She clutched her robe tightly closed and scrambled to regain
her footing.

Clayton stood on the opposite side of the
bed. He wore a lounging robe with his hands stuck deep in the
pockets. The scarf was over his head.

“Catherine,” he said calmly, “are you hurt? I
thought I heard you fall.”

“I’m all right,” she said, glaring at Bart,
then thought to add, “Bart is here.”

The hooded figure waited. Bart, for once,
seemed at a loss for words.

From just beyond the threshold Mrs. Shirley
said, “Is anything wrong, Mr. Kelly?”

It was Catherine’s turn to stare. In her
nightgown (though buttoned to the chin) and with her long hair
hanging down her back, Mrs. Shirley looked almost human.

“I don’t know,” said Clayton. “Is anything
wrong, Ingram?”

Bart took a step backward, looking at
Clayton, at the high, canopied bed with its tumbled covers, and
then over his shoulder at Catherine. “I, uh, I came to see if
Andrew wanted to go riding in the carriage after breakfast…just to
get out of the house, of course.”

Where, no doubt, he would wrest any secrets
from the “weaker” man with mental acuity or physical force,
Catherine thought.

“Thank you,” Clayton said, “but no. I am
very…content.”

“Then I’ll be going.” All of a sudden Bart
regained his composure, a smoothness going over his face like a
mask, and he smiled. “I’m sorry about the intrusion. I thought
you’d be up. I didn’t know Catherine was here.”

“Where else would she be?”

“Er, yes. Well, good morning, then.” He made
a shallow bow toward Catherine, avoiding her gaze, and walked past
Mrs. Shirley, who gave him such a cool, blank stare that he visibly
shuddered.

“Thank you, Mrs. Shirley,” Catherine said,
when Bart had gone down the stairs.

The other woman looked younger, her face
softer without its severely pinned bun. She looked at Catherine
and, incredibly, smiled. It was so fleeting a smile that Catherine
wasn’t sure she hadn’t imagined it.

“You must remember to keep the door locked at
all times, madam,” she said, and turned to go.

Catherine shut the door and turned the lock.
Clayton tore the scarf from his head and went to her, his jaw set,
obviously in a state of barely controlled rage.

“Did he hurt you?”

She shook her head. She had never seen him
this angry, had never been exposed to this sense of violence barely
held in check. Even the day he’d fought Hadley’s soldiers, he had
been self-possessed, had shown a calm, if deadly, efficiency.