Shadow of Dawn (24 page)

“Why, Catherine,” said Bart. “I thought you’d
gone to bed.” He looked curiously at the package. “What is
that?”

Fortunately, she had already prepared an
answer. “It’s a dress I had altered. I picked it up yesterday and
laid it down in the kitchen. I only just remembered it.”

“Altering a dress?” Miranda said archly, and
her gaze went to Catherine’s midsection. “Could it be there is
another little Kelly on the way?”

Bart’s eyes, too, were drawn to her abdomen
and then lifted to meet her indignant gaze. “I’ll thank you to mind
your own business, Bart Ingram,” she snapped, and marched upstairs,
ignoring Miranda altogether.

In the bedroom Clayton took the box and laid
it on the bed. He and Mrs. Shirley had been talking—she could sense
that somehow—but they had fallen silent. Catherine felt a chill
start at the base of her spine and begin to work its way
upward.

“What’s in the box?” she asked, not surprised
that her voice shook.

Mrs. Shirley rose and left the room. The door
closed firmly and Clayton moved to turn the key.

“Open it,” he said quietly.

She did so, her hands as unsteady as her
voice. She did not remove the objects from the box but merely
stared.

“A Yankee uniform?” Her throat went dry. “I
don’t understand.”

He pushed the box aside and sat down on the
bed, drawing her down to sit close beside him. He said, very low.
“Hooker is planning another try at Richmond. General Lee needs
information.”

“You mean—spy? In the middle of the Yankee
army?”

He nodded slowly. “I’ve already established
certain avenues of communication. I’m the only one they can send
right now.”

“But what about the situation here? What
about the plot to kill General Lee?”

“You must understand, Catherine. There aren’t
enough men for this kind of counterintelligence work, and sometimes
it must be abandoned. Right now I’m needed elsewhere.”

“Please correct me if I’m wrong, Clayton.
You’ll be a target for the Confederates once you put on that
uniform. And if the Yankees discover your true identity, you’ll be
shot or hung at once. You’re not safe anywhere. And you’ll be
completely alone, with no one to come to your aid.”

He said nothing.

I won’t cry, she thought. I won’t make a
scene.

After a moment, he said, “I think General Lee
has the right idea. He’s a good man, Catherine, and a wise one.
He’s taking precautions, but he has a job to do and he’s not going
to let anything interfere with it. We’ve lost a lot of good
generals, and if we lose him, I guess the war will be pretty much
over. He’s willing to take that chance and trust God to do the
rest. So am I.”

“When—” Her voice broke and she tried again.
“When do you leave?”

“I’m going to my hotel tonight. I have to
make plans and gather supplies, and then I ride out tomorrow night.
I won’t change uniforms until I cross the river. I’ll tell them
you’re to be notified if…anything happens to me. If you hear
nothing, you’ll know I’m probably all right.” He paused. “You may
not hear from me for a long time. If the opportunity ever arises
where it’s safe to send a letter, I’ll write you.”

“Tonight?” This can’t be happening, she
thought. I won’t let this happen.

He went on, “Margaret can be reached if you
need her, or if you need to send a message to me. She’s going to
the president’s house to work as an assistant to his secretary. But
I don’t want you to go there. Someone may be watching you. Tell Dr.
Edwards and he’ll find her for you.”

Catherine stared at the rug on the floor as
though she had never seen it before. Clayton put both arms around
her, and she leaned against him, her head tucked beneath his
chin.

Then he asked, “Did anyone see you bring up
that box? I should have left it at the hotel, but I was in a hurry
to get back here.”

She nodded. “I told them it was a dress I had
altered. They thought I was having a baby.”

Clayton stood and pulled her up beside him.
He put one hand alongside her cheek and looked into her eyes. “You
may be, for all we know. Oh, Catherine, the thought of leaving you
here—” He put his hard cheek down against hers. “Let Margaret know
and she’ll get word to me. Let her know if things aren’t going well
here. Somehow I’ll get you to my home in Atlanta. I have family
there.”

“What will happen to Andrew?”

“He’ll disappear. You probably should say you
quarreled. Margaret will see that you receive a telegram in a few
weeks saying that he was killed…I don’t know, in some kind of
accident.”

“What about Bart?”

“There should be no connection between
Andrew’s disappearance and Bart’s arrest. They’ll not arrest him
and the others until the time is right. In the meantime, if you
find out anything important, you can let Dr. Edwards know. But
don’t put yourself in danger, Catherine…will you promise me
that?”

She moved her head to look up at him. “Can
you make that promise to me?”

A half smile touched his mouth. “I love you,
my little rebel.”

It was like that other time, when he had gone
away. A sense of unreality gripped her as she watched him take
saddlebags out of the armoire and fill them with papers, ammunition
and the Union uniform. He belted on a holster and slid his pistol
into it. He put on his coat and gloves and hat, kissed her one last
time, slung the saddlebags over his shoulders—and then her husband
of three days stepped out on the balcony and disappeared into the
night.

One year and three months. During all that
time Lucie was

never sure, from hour to hour, but that the
Guillotine would

strike off her husband’s head next day.

A
nd I know exactly
how she felt, Catherine thought dully.

It was Sallie who read each night. Her
little-girl voice did not lend itself well to the reading of so
complex a novel, and she was somewhat lacking in dramatic
interpretation, but no one complained; everyone seemed to think
that since they had begun, they should at least endure to the
end.

Catherine attended but she never read. The
sound of her own voice reading reminded her too sharply of Clayton,
and that memory was too painful, her emotions too raw. After
Clayton left almost a week ago, she had told the others—with a pale
face and shaking voice that required no acting—that Andrew had left
her and Mrs. Shirley had gone with him. They had quarreled, she
said, and she didn’t know where he had gone. She hoped he would
come back.

Her uncle had been shocked; Sallie, too, had
stared at her with wide blue eyes. Bart’s face remained carefully
blank but he watched her whenever they were in the same room
together, rather like a cat that has sighted a forlorn little bird
without the energy or heart to hop away.

The servants knew, of course, and were extra
kind to her, especially Ephraim.

Catherine did not leave the house. Eventually
she would, but the days were gray and dismal, and she could hardly
get through her daily tasks, much less take on other activities
such as nursing at the hospital. She felt like a sleepwalker who
could never manage to completely wake up.

Sallie read on. Catherine noticed that she
skipped words that she found difficult to pronounce. She did not
pause when someone knocked on the front door. They heard Ephraim
say something, and they all looked up as the butler came and stood
in the doorway of the parlor. Catherine thought he looked peculiar.
He opened his mouth but no sound came out, and he looked at
Catherine.

She got to her feet without knowing it. A man
had come to stand beside Ephraim. He was tall and well built with
light brown hair almost to his shoulders. He wore a ragged and
patched Confederate uniform.

He was Andrew Kelly.

“Hello, Catherine,” came the familiar
voice.

From far away she heard Sallie’s gasp, then
Miranda’s squeal. Someone, her uncle, came to stand beside her.
Then they were all standing, all staring at the newcomer, who
looked back at them calmly.

“I’ve been in a Yankee prison,” he said. “I
escaped.”

***

When the clamoring had died down, when
Miranda released him from a strangling embrace, when he had been
given something to drink, he sat back and looked at them. “This
isn’t my uniform,” he said, displaying trouser legs that were too
short. “At least it’s clean. A friend loaned it to me. The uniform
I wore in prison was nothing but rags.”

His story was simple. He had been captured
after the battle of Sharpsburg and subsequently imprisoned at
Johnson’s Island in Ohio. Conditions weren’t too bad there, he
said. He had contrived to escape about a month ago and it had taken
him that long to find his way home, taking every precaution not to
be caught again.

He seemed to notice his wife’s pallor. “I’m
sorry, Catherine,” he said. “I suppose you had given me up for
dead.”

Miranda said loudly, “I knew that man was an
imposter!”

Her declaration was met with a frozen
silence. Everyone looked at Catherine.

“What man?” Andrew asked, looking
puzzled.

“Why, he said he was you, Cousin! He came—how
long ago? In the latter part of November? He dressed all in black
and wore a black something over his face and said he was burned so
badly we mustn’t see him. He said he was blind. Why, why he fooled
us all!”

Catherine felt Andrew’s gaze pulling at her,
and reluctantly she let her eyes meet his. “And you, Catherine? Did
he fool you?”

She looked away, her head bowed. She felt as
though all the blood in her body had drained away, not gradually,
but all at once.

“He knew things,” Miranda went on excitedly.
“He was quite convincing. He never spoke much above a whisper
because he said his throat was damaged. You mustn’t blame
Catherine.”

“But you said you knew he was an
imposter.”

“Oh, well, I said that because I was never
comfortable in my mind about him. But I did believe him…I wanted to
believe that you were

still alive.”

“I see.” Andrew still looked at Catherine.
“Where is he?” No one answered. At last Bart, framed handsomely
against the royal blue draperies at the window, said, “He left a
week ago. No one has seen him since.”

Andrew sat almost unnaturally still. “And you
were all still under the assumption he was…me? You don’t know who
he was?”

Sallie’s handkerchief was clutched in a tight
ball and she pressed her hand against her heart. “Who could he have
been? Why has he done this to us?”

“Did he take anything?” Andrew asked.

“No, not that we know of. Did he even take
Andrew’s clothes, Catherine?”

Catherine only glanced at Sallie and shook
her head.

Martin’s face was ashy gray but his eyes
showed deep concern. “Perhaps, Catherine, you and Andrew should go
upstairs and talk.”

“Yes.” Andrew got to his feet and held out
his hand to her. “Come, Catherine.”

She took his hand like a child and permitted
him to lead her from the room and upstairs. He paused and looked
around. “Which room are you using?”

She pointed to the bedroom she had shared
with Clayton. He led her inside and shut the door. Unexpectedly he
put his arms around her and kissed her. He was thinner, she thought
absently, but soft, whereas Clayton’s muscles had been as hard as
oak. She supposed it was from the inactivity of prison life.

Andrew released her. “You’re still in a state
of shock, Catherine.” He looked around the room. “Sit down, won’t
you?”

She sat down. He sat across from her, in
Clayton’s chair.

“Tell me,” he said quietly, “about this
man.”

Somehow her brain summoned words to her lips;
somehow her tremulous voice transmitted them.

“He said he was you. We had a letter saying
you’d been wounded. When he arrived, with a nurse, he was
completely covered because of his blindness and disfigurement. We
all believed him…there was no reason not to. We had the letter from
a doctor. He had…why, he had on your coat. And why didn’t you write
me? I heard nothing from you for almost a whole year before
Sharpsburg.”

Again he looked puzzled. “I did write you.
You didn’t get my letters?”

“No.”

“I don’t understand it, but that’s not
important now. What about this nurse…is she gone, too?”

She nodded. There was a long pause and she
braced herself for the next question.

“He was here for how long…two months? How
well did you get to know him, Catherine?”

He would have to know, eventually. She made
herself look at him. “I lived in this room with him.”

Another long silence. Andrew made a sound
like a sigh and leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs.
“Didn’t you ever see his face?”