The Velvet Shadow (19 page)

Charity sank to the floor with a loud thump, crossed her legs, and wordlessly stared at Flanna.

“Mrs. Davis will think we’ve gone to New York,” Flanna went on. “You’ll pack our trunks, and I’ll leave a letter indicating that they’re to be sent to Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell. Mrs. Davis and Mrs. Haynes and anyone else who cares will think we’ve taken a position in Dr. Blackwell’s clinic.”

“You think Mr. Roger will believe that?”

“Mr. Roger will be thrilled.” Flanna shrugged. “He’ll figure I’m expanding his future constituency.”

Charity pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, Miss Flanna. What about the folks at the hospital?”

“I’ll send a letter of resignation.”

“But shouldn’t you go and talk to them? My ma says it’s rude for a lady to—”

“There’s no time, Charity. And where I’m going, I can’t act like a lady.”

The two women stared at each other across a sudden ringing silence, then Flanna leaned forward and took Charity’s hands in her own. “I know it’s scary—I’m nearly frightened out of my wits. But I can’t think of any other way.”

“We could try the trains again. Maybe we could get through.”

Flanna shook her head. “No. Last week I read about two women who were hauled off the train in Washington. The soldiers there ripped off their dresses, looking for guns under their hoop skirts.” She lifted a brow. “You don’t want that to happen to us, do you? The paper didn’t say, but I can’t imagine that the women’s ill treatment stopped there.”

“But how can we fool anybody?”

“The Federals are desperate for men; they won’t be choosy.” Flanna picked up the scissors and offered them to Charity. “Trust me. If Henrietta Fraser can pull it off, we can…as long as you really want to go home.” She gave Charity a small, shy smile. “Or you can stay here. You’ve been a faithful servant and a good friend. I know I’m asking a hard thing. You don’t have to go with me…though I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Charity hesitated a moment, then set her jaw and took the scissors from Flanna’s hand. “Land sakes, Miss Flanna, you wouldn’t last a day without me,” she answered, rising to her knees as she came around to finish Flanna’s haircut. “And if making us look like boys is the way to get us out of this Yankee town, then I’m going to make us look like the best boys in that whole Yankee army.”

Flanna exhaled in relief. “That’s the spirit,” she whispered, resting her arms on her crossed knees as Charity finger-combed her hair.

The first hint of sunrise was touching the eastern sky as Flanna swept up the tangled strands of her coppery hair. She hesitated by the fireplace with the dustpan, tempted to burn the evidence of her trickery, then decided that the stench of burning hair would bring Mrs. Davis out of her bed in terror. Better to wrap the hair in paper and stow it in one of her trunks.

Charity was already dressed, her purse bulging with Flanna’s hospital wages, earmarked now for buying men’s clothing at the mercantile. The girl paused as the room brightened and made a face as she studied Flanna’s new hairstyle. “I couldn’t do nothing about that white streak in your hair, Miss Flanna.” She crinkled her nose. “I’m afraid anybody who sees it will know it’s you they’re looking at.”

“That’s why we’re going to always wear a cap, you and I.” Flanna raked a hank of the newly shorn hair from her forehead. “Don’t forget—buy cheap goods; we’ll only need them for a day or two. The army will give us hats and uniforms.”

“Yes ma’am.” Charity paused by one of the open trunks and ran her hand over the rich sheen of a satin ball gown. “What are you
gonna tell Mister Roger? He’s going to think it strange if you just take off without a word of good-bye.”

“I’m going to write him a letter,” Flanna said, searching through the depths of the wardrobe for a bonnet. She finally found a tattered green one and tied it securely under her chin, grateful that the ruffle at the back hid the fact that most of her hair had vanished. “I’ll write Roger after I go down and tell Mrs. Davis that we’re moving to New York.” She waved Charity toward the door. “It will be all right, just get along. And remember—two shirts, two sets of shoes, two pairs of trousers, two hats.”

When Charity didn’t move, Flanna lifted a brow. “What’s wrong now?”

The corners of Charity’s mouth tightened with distress, and she looked at Flanna with shiny eyes. “Miss Flanna, don’t gentlemen wear something under all that?”

Flanna brought her fingers to her lips, then laughed. She hadn’t thought of it, but she couldn’t very well wear a corset and pantalets under an army uniform. “Yes, of course,” she answered, trying to remember what Wesley had been wearing the time Papa caught him sleepwalking downstairs. “Um, undershirts. And drawers. But it’s so hot, Charity. Try to find cotton instead of wool.” She frowned. “I wonder if the army will give us socks.”

“They’d better.” Charity turned toward the door. “That’s all the young ladies have been making since the captain told Mrs. Davis he didn’t need no more havelocks.”

“Better get each of us a pair, just in case. And make sure the shoes are sturdy, in case we have to keep them. I can’t imagine walking to the train station in anything less than sturdy shoes.”

Charity nodded, then slipped out of the room. The click of the closing door rang like a gunshot in Flanna’s ears. She had set her feet upon a path from which there could be no turning back.

She drew a deep breath and forbade herself to tremble. The widow Davis was probably just waking up, and Flanna might as well give her the news while she was still in her nightcap and gown. Mrs. Davis
would undoubtedly relish the drama of Flanna’s sudden departure, and in weeks to come the story would serve as yet another proof of Flanna’s inherently coarse Rebel manners.

She resolutely tightened the ribbon that held her bonnet, then moved out of the room toward the widow’s chamber.

Three hours later, Flanna heard a sharp rap on the door, then Charity entered, her arms loaded with wrapped packages. “I had to go to stores where they don’t know us,” she whispered, dumping her bundles on Flanna’s bed, “but I think I got everything. I sure hope so!”

Flanna dropped her last textbook into a trunk, then dropped the lid. “Let’s see.” With a rush of rising excitement she hurried to the bed and pulled the twine off one bundle. Inside the wrapping paper were two pairs of butternut trousers and two gray plaid shirts. “Good grief, Charity.” She gave the identical shirts a dubious look. “Did you have to buy the
same
shirts? We’ll look like twins!”

Charity’s eyes widened, then her mouth spread in a slow grin. “What’s wrong, Miss Flanna? I always kind of thought we looked sorta like twins, being the same age and all.”

“Oh, indubitably.” Flanna rolled her eyes. She opened the other packages, then sighed in satisfaction. Charity had remembered everything. There remained only the final packing, the change of clothing, and the exit. Their great escape would have to occur at dinnertime, when all the young ladies would be sequestered in the dining room. She and Charity could slip down the backstairs in their men’s attire, and no one would be the wiser.

Charity put her hands on her hips and swayed slightly. “What do we do now, Miss Flanna?”

“We change,” Flanna said, running her hand through her hair. She couldn’t seem to stop fingering it. The short strands barely reached the tips of her ears and felt strangely light on her head, adding to her feeling of recklessness.

She picked up the canvas cap on the bed and pulled it over her head, adjusting it so the brim rested on her forehead. “Private Franklin
O’Connor, reporting for duty, sir!” She snapped a salute toward the mirror.

“Oh, Miss Flanna,” Charity moaned. “I hope you can do better than that! Your voice is too prissy, and your hands—remind me to cut your nails before we go.”

Flanna turned her hand and critically regarded her nails. “You’re right, Charity. Together we just might pull this off.”

By midday, each dress, petticoat, hoop skirt, stocking, and slipper had been packed away in Flanna’s trunks. Flanna and Charity sat silently on their beds, each shifting uncomfortably in the too-large men’s clothing. The seams of the cotton undershirt chafed Flanna’s skin, and the fabric of the shirt seemed suffocatingly heavy.

Flanna had buttoned her journal into the front of her shirt for two reasons. First, the big, flat book did a fair job of disguising her womanly curves. Second, she was unwilling to travel without it. If something terrible happened on the journey, she wanted her father to understand her reasons for acting as she did. She had wanted to take her medical bag, too, but thought she’d be asking for trouble if someone discovered it. Lowly army privates did not carry scalpels and sutures, nor did they know how to use such things. And so her beloved medical bag had gone into one of the trunks, destined now for New York. Inside each trunk she included a note explaining that she’d be calling for her belongings when the strife was ended.

She heard the front door open and shut, then voices rose from the downstairs hallway. In a moment Mrs. Davis would ring the dinner bell, a quaint little ritual the widow thought charming. Anyone not seated when the meal began would miss dinner altogether, for frugal Mrs. Davis would not pursue any tenant thoughtless enough to skip a meal.

“You packed your books?” Charity whispered, her eyes bulging.

“Of course,” Flanna replied, her mind a hundred miles away. “And the trunks are addressed and ready to go. I told Mrs. Davis she should send them to the depot at her earliest convenience.”

“And Mister Roger?”

“The letter is ready to be posted.” Flanna inclined her head toward the desk where Roger’s letter lay on the blotter. Mrs. Davis could not fail to see it.

The dinner bell echoed from downstairs, and Flanna tensed at the sound. She stood, surveying the room one last time. Two busy years had passed like a dream, and now it was time to go home.

The muffled sounds from downstairs abruptly ceased, and Flanna knew the diners had paused to pray. She looked at Charity. “Ready?”

“Yes ma’am.” Charity stood, but kept one hand on the bed, as if she couldn’t balance in her clumsy men’s shoes.

Flanna moved toward the door and waited until the murmur of voices began again. Finally the tinkling sounds of silver and china reached her ears, and she opened the door. “Let’s go.”

As they passed through the hallway, Flanna pressed her lips together, half-afraid she would burst out in laughter. Wesley, no doubt, would find this terribly funny. His sister, the belle of Charleston, dressed in trousers and man-sized shoes, clumping through her own boardinghouse like a common sneak.

Flanna hurried toward the back stairway, knowing it would lead her directly to the kitchen and the back door. No one but Mrs. Davis and the cook used this staircase, and the cook ought to be in the dining room, serving the meal. If all went well…

She turned the corner, then froze. Prissy Hillary Owen stood on the second step in the narrow stairwell, her rosy lips pressed to those of some brave boy in blue. Miss Owen’s fair eyes were closed, and the soldier was past caring who might be approaching from above. Flanna frantically gestured to Charity, hoping the maid would retreat to the safety of their room.