Shadow of Dawn (26 page)

“Well, there’s a good reason. And please
don’t tell anyone. If anything happens to me—” She stopped as he
began to look alarmed. “A soldier may inquire for me. You may tell
him that I was out…investigating a…a possibility.”

Ephraim forgot his grammar. “Miss Catherine,
I ain’t gonna stand for it. You spying for a soldier! Putting
yourself in danger—no ma’am, I just won’t have it.”

“Ephraim, lives may depend on it. Believe me,
there’s nothing you can do to stop me. I’ll get those clothes if I
have to go down to the men’s store myself!”

He raised his eyebrows and after a moment let
out a sigh. “My, you do take after your father. He was proud and
stubborn, but a good man…an honest man.”

They looked at each other for a moment with
understanding, then Catherine gave him a quick hug and said, “Thank
you, Ephraim.” She left the room before he could question her
further.

That evening she found a package of brown
paper tied with string lying on her bed. The trousers fit her quite
snugly; it was a good thing the short coat came to below her hips.
She had forgotten to ask for shoes but she had some old brogans she
wore when nursing at the hospital.

She tucked the items away and locked the
armoire. There was a discreet knock on the bedroom door.

“Catherine, it’s Andrew.”

She pulled the door slightly ajar. “Yes?”

“Won’t you come downstairs with me? I expect
we’ll finish the book tonight.”

Catherine hesitated. She needed time to
think, to plan, but it seemed just as important that she behave as
normally as possible. She nodded and preceded him down the
stairs.

The others had already gathered, except for
Bart, who had not joined them the last two nights. They talked
perfunctorily for a while, and then Sallie asked Andrew to begin
reading. Catherine’s mind wandered far afield, and she heard only a
sentence here and there as Sydney Carton’s final sacrifice began to
unfold.

“
Are you dying for him?” she
whispered.

If the meeting took place at four in the
afternoon, it would no doubt be dark by the time she returned to
the house. Perhaps there would be a bright moon. She would have to
rent a horse and not risk taking one of Martin’s. She would send
Ephraim to the livery in the morning to make the arrangements. Bart
kept his horse there as well; she would make sure she arrived
before he did so she would be mounted and ready to follow him.

Already her heart was pounding.

The man cries, “Down, Evrémonde! To the
Guillotine all aristocrats!

Down, Evrémonde!”

What if she were caught? What possible
explanation could she give? Perhaps she should simply tell the
truth—that she had found the note, had been suspicious about Bart
and so had followed him. Would Bart suspect she knew more than she
let on? What would he do? He had never made any secret of the fact
that he found her desirable, but she knew he was not in love with
her. So if he were really involved in all that Clayton said he was,
he probably wouldn’t hesitate to kill her.

“
It is a far, far better thing that I do,
than I have ever done.…”

Miranda was frankly sobbing. Andrew came to
the end of the book and set it aside. “For the love of heaven,
Miranda,” he said, a little irritably. “It’s only a story.”

“Such pathos,” gulped Miranda. “Such
h-h-heroism.”

“I hardly see how giving one’s life for the
love of a woman who loves another man can be called heroic,” said
Andrew.

Catherine was sufficiently roused to offer a
rebuke. “That is precisely what is heroic about it. It was
completely unselfish.”

“Greater love hath no man,” Miranda quoted,
dabbing at her eyes.

Andrew looked thoughtfully at Catherine. She
was relieved when Martin drew him into conversation, taking his
regard off of her. Sallie glanced at Catherine over her sewing and
said quietly, “I expect it’s a great comfort to have Andrew
home.”

“Of course.”

“Except he’ll probably be leaving soon.”

“I don’t know.”

“You mean he hasn’t heard when he’s to go
back into the army?”

“Why, no. At least he hasn’t said so.”

“Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

Catherine could think of nothing to say.
Andrew turned away from Martin and rose to stand beside her.

“Come, Catherine,” he said, with an air of
authority. “I’m ready to retire.”

On knees that suddenly shook, Catherine stood
up and took Andrew’s proffered arm. She couldn’t look at anyone.
She had a distinct feeling that her time of waiting had come to an
end.

At the entrance to her room Andrew said, “Pay
no attention to Sallie. She’s a cat looking for someone to
scratch.”

“Oh,” said Catherine.

“I’ve spoken to my commanding officer. I’ll
probably be leaving sometime next month.”

“I see.”

“Catherine—”

She braced herself. She would have to think
of some excuse. “Yes, Andrew?”

“Nothing. There’s still time, isn’t
there?”

“Time?” It came out as a squeak. She cleared
her throat. “Time for

what?”

“To…know each other.” He smiled into her
eyes, said good night, and left her.

***

The fifteenth of March dawned overcast and
windy. Catherine kept hoping the weather would clear, but to no
avail; at three o’clock the sky still threatened a deluge and the
wind howled around the eaves of the house.

She tucked one of Clayton’s black shirts into
the dark trousers, rolled the sleeves up to her wrists, and then
looked at her reflection. Scandalous! There was no denying her
feminine curves in spite of the boyish attire. Luckily the coat
would cover her. She plaited her hair in one long braid, then
pinned it on top of her head. She pulled on the visored cap and
looked at herself again. She could only hope no one would
scrutinize her, for she did not look much like a boy. But how
wonderful it felt to be free of the constriction of corset and
innumerable petticoats!

Andrew had gone for his customary afternoon
ride on one of Martin’s horses. Bart had been in his room for some
time; she could only assume that he was waiting until time to leave
for the meeting.

The moment had come. She whispered one final
prayer for safety and remembered to lock the bedroom door. Then she
let herself out the window and stepped onto the balcony, bending to
peer over the railing. Clayton had made it look so easy. Her
mission might very well end here and now, with her broken body
lying facedown in the backyard!

Shaking, she climbed over the railing and
stepped cautiously out onto the nearest tree branch. Holding on
tightly to other branches, she worked her way to the trunk and
began to let herself down, step by careful step. All the limbs
seemed strong and sturdy. She reached the ground, ran to the gate,
and let herself into the street, where she veered in the direction
of the nearby livery.

A blast of wind almost carried off her cap.
She held it on with one hand and clutched her coat closed with the
other. Fortunately the weather kept most pedestrians away, and she
met no one on her way to the livery. One of the doors was swinging
back and forth when she went inside, where she was suddenly
assailed by the pungent odor of manure. An elderly man with a
shovel came out and looked at her.

“Name’s Kelly,” she said, her voice low and
her face down.

“Over there.” He turned without a backward
look.

She walked carefully in the direction in
which he had pointed. A short brown mare stood saddled and
waiting.

Catherine deepened her voice and called out,
“Mind if I ride around in back a little first? Ain’t used to ridin’
much.”

“Go ahead,” came the reply.

She walked the horse to the enclosure
outside, then mounted it. Thank goodness Ephraim had thought to ask
for a gentle horse. She rode back and forth, waiting for Bart to
appear.

She did not have long to wait. She heard his
voice talking to the man inside. Looking around, her heart raced
when she saw him glance at her before mounting his own horse. Her
cap was pulled down low.

There was no recognition in his brief glance
and in a moment he and his horse were trotting briskly down the
street. Catherine waited a few moments before following at a much
slower pace.

She only just managed to keep him in view.
Thankfully, the wind had died down a little and she did not have to
hold onto her cap, for she needed both hands on the reins, in spite
of the docility of the animal beneath her. She had heard that
horses could sense the skill of their riders, and some of the more
spirited ones seemed to take pleasure in ejecting novices from the
saddle.

Since Bart had seen her once, it would not do
for him to see her again. She held far back, even at the risk of
losing him altogether. His horse had a cropped tail, which was easy
to spot. He made his way west to the James River and began
following it southward.

The riverfront had always been plagued with
criminals of every description and she grew increasingly nervous.
Bart avoided the alleys, staying for the most part on one of the
main thoroughfares. Finally the factories and warehouses began to
thin, and they entered a forest.

A recent rain had soaked the dead leaves and
twigs and pine needles, and Catherine’s horse made no sound as they
went deeper into the woods. There were enough evergreens to make
her feel fairly concealed, but a strong sense of passing the point
of no return had fallen upon her like a dead weight.

She could barely keep Bart in view. If he
should turn around, she believed that she would remain unseen if
she could manage to keep her horse from moving. Bart had, in fact,
turned several times to look around him, but never directly
backward. Perhaps, too, he had had a few drinks and was not as
alert as he should be.

Bart stopped and got off his horse, looping
the reins around a tree branch. Instantly Catherine nudged her
horse sideways and traveled a distance of several yards before
stopping, slipping from the saddle and tying up the reins. She then
ran back to her former position. Bart had disappeared.

She knew the house must be nearby. She walked
slowly forward until she reached Bart’s horse. It whinnied and
shook its head, as though to say, Go back!

Catherine shook all over. She kept going,
careful to stay behind trees as much as possible. A small,
crumbling white house came into view. She stopped and stood
watching it for several moments.

So, there
was
a meeting! That meant
that Bart really was a spy for the enemy and that Clayton had been
telling her the truth. Surely there could be no other reason for
such clandestine activities!

Already darkness was creeping into the woods
due to the density of the trees and the overcast sky. A single
candle flame wavered in one of the windows. A movement she caught
in the corner of her eye made her freeze with apprehension. When
she slowly turned to look, she saw another horse, tethered far back
through the trees. She forced herself to turn carefully in all
directions, and saw still another horse. Frightened, she stepped
behind a tree. It had never occurred to her that the men would
spread out over so wide an area. It was a wonder she hadn’t been
seen by one of them.

Maybe there was someone behind her; maybe she
herself was being followed. Maybe—and the sudden thought nearly
knocked the breath from her lungs—maybe Bart had dropped that note
on purpose and led her here to trap her.

Her spine against the tree trunk, she leaned
her head back and closed her eyes for a moment. She had to get hold
of herself. Somehow she had to find the courage to approach the
house and try to hear what was being said.

“Dear God,” she said in her mind, “I don’t
know if I should have done this or not but here I am. I’ve got to
go through with it. Please help me.”

She felt no sudden rush of boldness, but at
least her knees stopped shaking so she could move. She began to
make her way toward the house. A mass of overgrown shrubbery grew
at one side; she could hide there when the meeting was over and the
men began to leave the house.

However, there was nowhere to hide while she
listened. She crouched close against the side of the house directly
opposite the candlelit window. Surely they could hear her
movements, she thought. Surely in a moment they would come out and
discover her. Already she could picture Bart’s fury. Or maybe he
would only laugh at her. At any rate, it seemed quite possible she
would never leave the place alive.

The window above her was open the slightest
crack. It was difficult to hear, to make out any words from the low
murmur. The hollow emptiness of the building seemed to encourage
the men to speak quietly, and distorted their voices so that she
did not recognize any of them, even Bart’s. But she felt certain
the others must be Bart’s Sunday afternoon cronies, and maybe, just
maybe, their elusive leader. If only she dared to raise her head
and take a peek inside.