The Velvet Shadow (48 page)

Unspoken pain glowed in her eyes, and he swallowed hard, realizing that she had risked a great deal to save his life. He reached up and squeezed her hand. “Thank you,” he said simply, knowing he could not undo what had been done. For some reason God had used her to save him when he ought to be dead in the field with his comrades. Who was he to question the Almighty? Better to trust this woman’s compassion and rest in God’s plan. If it meant he spent the rest of the war in a Confederate prison camp, well, there were less honorable ways to end a military career.

Aware of passing footsteps in the hallway, he released her hand. “I didn’t think anyone would come.” His voice fell as the memory brushed him. For some reason he felt compelled to talk about what had happened. “I felt the bullet hit, and I tumbled to the ground like a drunken man, but I did not feel any pain. Instead I thought that someone had hit me terribly hard.” He gave her a crooked smile. “I could not even tell where I had been hit, and thought perhaps I shouldn’t look. Perhaps it was best not to know.”

He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, letting his gaze rove over the water stains from the floor above. “I had little hope of seeing the next sunrise. I thought of more things in that next hour than I could write in a year. I thought of my dead father’s brave example and prayed for my worried mother, wondering if she would ever learn what had happened to me. And I thought of you.”

A cynical inner voice railed at him—
what a thing to admit to your brother’s sweetheart!
—but Alden clenched his fist. He had suffered much for his brother and his country, and he deserved a moment of honesty! In the hours that he had lain on his back and stared at the weeping gray sky, he had thought about the people he would miss if he died. Flanna’s oval face was the one that filled his imagination and fired his will to live.

But he no longer stood at death’s door. And Flanna was still his brother’s fiancée.

Reining in his defiant emotions, he avoided her eyes and kept his gaze fastened to the ceiling. “I longed for someone to come. I was shaken by the thought that I might die alone. I thought none of my regiment would ever find me, and that I might be buried in a common grave like the one we dug at Ball’s Bluff. I prayed for daylight and the sunrise…and that someone would come, someone who would sit with me while I died. I knew God was with me, but I wanted to…touch someone.”

“I would have come, Alden, if I had known how to find you. I sat with Paddy O’Neil.” Flanna’s voice went soft with the memory. “He died talking to me.”

Alden blinked back a sudden rush of tears. “I shook so badly I thought I would jar all my bones out of place. I wanted water. I wanted to die…but not alone.”

“You’re not alone now.” Her small hand floated up from the bedside and touched his cheek with tenderness. “You’re not going to die, Alden, and I’m not going to leave you. When you’re well, I’ll help you do whatever you want to do.” Her voice dropped to a hushed bedside whisper. “I’ll even go downstairs and put on a dress, if that would please you. I’m done with surgery—I’m your nurse now.”

“Why should you stay here?” He swiveled his head to better look at her. “You wanted to go home. Surely you can now.”

Her lovely face twisted in a small grimace of pain, as if someone had suddenly struck her. “I have placed my trust in Mrs. Ellen Corey, mistress of this house. I had to, you see, for I needed men’s clothing in order to operate on you and the others. The Confederate doctors would never have listened to me otherwise.”

She looked toward the window, and Alden shifted as far as his wounded body would allow in order to study her. “You helped others?” he asked, gently urging her to continue.

“Yes. Mrs. Corey was very understanding.” Flanna pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “These clothes were her son’s. He died at Manassas.” She lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. “In any case, when I found you, I took off your blue coat. Without it, you looked like any other wounded man on the battlefield. I brought you in on a wagon with Confederate wounded, but I couldn’t leave you in the hospital.” Her face twisted in horror. “I saw how they were operating, and I couldn’t leave you there! So I sought out Mrs. Corey, for in her face I saw kindness and compassion. I pulled her aside, explained as much of my story as I dared, and she brought me here and gave me her son’s clothes. I had you brought here with the others, and I operated on you downstairs in her kitchen.”

She smiled, but her smile held only a ghost of its former warmth. “Amazing, what a pair of trousers will accomplish. I barked orders like
Gulick on his best day, and they brought everything I needed—bandages, chloroform, sutures.”

“It wasn’t the trousers.” He eased into a smile. “It was you.” He shook his head slightly, marveling at her determination. Her story thus far was one of success, so why did a shadow linger in her eyes?

“What else, Flanna?”

She hesitated only a moment, but the muscles in her slender throat tightened and betrayed her emotion. “You should know, Alden, that I had left the camp before I found you. I knew Richmond was only a few miles away, and I thought I could make it into town. I had Roger bring me one of the dresses from your tent, and I had nearly made it out of the woods when I heard the guns and turned back.” Her voice faded to a hushed stillness. “I wrote you a letter, but—well, you didn’t receive it. But I have your letters, the two I found in your coat.”

“Letters?” Alden frowned.

“One to your mother, and one to Miss Nell Scott.” She paused to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and Alden saw that her eyes burned with infinite distress. “I’ll post them for you, when I think it’s safe. Right now it wouldn’t be wise to post letters to Boston from Mrs. Corey’s house.”

Alden nodded, still concerned about the sorrow in her eyes. “Do what you think best. But go on—why did you turn back? I thought you wanted to go home.”

“I did.” Her voice filled with anguish. “But I knew home would wait, while men might need me on the battlefield. So I did what I could for you and the others, and as soon as I came here, Mrs. Corey helped me send a wire to Charleston—two wires, actually. The first was to my father, and it said I’d be coming home as soon as he could wire the money for travel. When there was no reply, we wired my Aunt Marsali…and learned that my father died in December. I had read about the Charleston fire in an old newspaper, but I had no idea my father was involved.”

Alden reached for her hand and felt her shudder as she drew in a sharp breath. “I heard the entire story from one of the Carolina
boys. It seems that when the Union overran the Sea Islands, the planters and their slaves took refuge in Charleston. On December 11, a group of slave refugees started a campfire near the sash and blind factory on Hasell Street. Somehow the fire spread out of control, and the winds took it. And then”—her voice faltered, but she swallowed, squared her shoulders, and continued—“the fire moved down Queen Street, where the authorities blew up fourteen homes in order to save the hospitals, the Medical College, and the Orphan House.”

Flanna clasped her free hand over Alden’s and stared vacantly downward. “My home was one of those destroyed. And though everyone had been warned, apparently my father went back into the house at the last minute to fetch something. He was killed when the house fell in on him.”

Floundering in a maelstrom of emotion, Alden stared at her. It wasn’t fair! She had dared so much and risked everything to reach her father. God could not mean to repay her sacrifice with this sort of tragedy.

He curled his hand around her fingers, wanting to comfort her. He yearned to sit up and draw her into his arms, but if he held her…Better to lie still and be grateful that his wound prevented him from bringing her close.

Pain still flickered in those beautiful green eyes when she lifted her gaze to meet Alden’s. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, a stab of guilt pricking his breast. He had felt sorry for himself until he heard Flanna’s story. “I’d give anything to make it all right.”

“Thank you, Alden.” She squeezed his hand. “I’ll let you sleep now,” she whispered, pulling away, “and we’ll talk more tomorrow…about what you must do.”

“One thing?” He lifted his head.

“Yes?”

“You don’t need the trousers, Flanna. Not anymore.”

The glow of her small smile warmed him from across the room.

The only room of Mrs. Corey’s home not given over to the wounded was her tiny pantry. At sunset, after all the well-meaning visitors had been shooed out of the house, Flanna and her hostess sat on stools in that tiny space, two weary Southern women sharing a pot of tea. Flanna now wore a plain workday skirt, blouse, and apron that the widow Corey had thoughtfully provided. The green plaid dress was soaking in a basement washtub, still undeniably soiled with bloodstains at the hem, skirt, and sleeves.

Some of the blood on that skirt was Alden’s, and Flanna knew she’d never look at that dress without remembering that she had at least been able to save his life. Her letter had never reached him, yet his letter to Nell Scott rested in her medical bag, so God’s will was plainly evident. God had used her to save Alden for Nell. When Alden was fully recovered, Flanna would search for some way to send him back to the Union army, then she would look for some place of service in the Confederacy. Perhaps she would remain with Mrs. Corey, for this house was likely to be needed as a hospital as long as Jeff Davis called Richmond his capital.

Flanna sipped her tea, smiled at the widow, and tried not to think about the forty-five sick men in this house under her care. Technically, of course, they were the responsibility of the Confederate army surgeons, but none of those gentlemen had been able to visit in the last two days. Flanna and Mrs. Corey had handled all the nursing and medical care.

Flanna was amazed by Mrs. Corey’s strength. She had listened to Flanna’s story with wide eyes and an open heart, and from the first moment she had been willing to do anything to help the wounded…no matter which general they served.

“It is amazing,” Mrs. Corey said now, gracefully placing her cup in the center of her saucer, “that you would want to go to medical school. I can’t imagine a young lady of your charm answering any call but that of wife and mother.”

“Truthfully, Mrs. Corey, I had hoped that I might still fulfill that calling.” Flanna placed her teacup on a shelf next to a bag of corn
meal. “But medicine was my first love. I felt a responsibility to the women of my community. So many were too modest to let my father treat them.”

“How many of these men would be too modest to let you operate if they knew you were a woman?” The widow smiled, a quick curve of her thin, dry lips. “Quite a few, my dear. Modesty is a virtue claimed by both sexes.”

“It’s not modesty that prevents them from accepting a female doctor.” Flanna cast her gaze downward. “It’s fear. They can’t believe that a woman could possibly know what she is doing. Their modesty is perfectly capable of allowing a woman to bathe them, change their bandages, hold their heads over a basin, and empty their slop jars.” She lifted her teacup and smiled at her hostess over the rim. “They just don’t want a woman coming toward them with a sharp blade.”

“Still, I wish there were enough doctors to take care of these men.” The widow fretted with the lace collar at her throat. “It just doesn’t seem natural that you should have to disguise yourself as you did. Trousers aren’t becoming, my dear. You are much more lovely in womanly garb.”

Flanna shook her head, dismissing the compliment. “I would be happy to give the care of these men over to a male doctor,” she said, then quickly lifted a finger. “No—I spoke too soon. I would not, for I have seen how army surgeons operate. You would recoil, Mrs. Corey, if you knew how things are. I have seen surgeons in blood-stained garments operating without anesthetic, chopping off limbs with a saw.” She shuddered. “No, dear lady. One thing I have learned is that I must stand firm. I know what is best for these men, and I will do all I can to provide it for them.”

Both women fell silent as the sound of footsteps thundered across the front porch. “Who can that be?” The widow’s hand flew nervously to her throat as she stood and stepped out of the pantry. “We can’t take any others—there simply is no more room.”

“Should I go with you?” Flanna slipped from her stool, not waiting for an answer.

“Stay in the shadows if you please,” Mrs. Corey called, moving through the hall toward the front door. “No offense, my dear, but you are a stranger in town.”

Flanna remained in the kitchen, automatically moving toward the pile of weapons they had confiscated from the men brought to the house. Several rifles stood propped against the wall, but Flanna lifted a short pistol and checked to be certain it was loaded, then caught herself. What was she doing? These were her people; this was Richmond! The only thing she had to fear was Alden’s discovery, and no one else but Mrs. Corey knew the truth of his identity. Leaving the pistol, she moved toward the kitchen doorway and looked toward the foyer.

Mrs. Corey opened the door. In the lantern light Flanna saw a Confederate officer standing on the porch. In a long double-breasted tunic of cadet gray, fronted with two rows of buttons and trimmed at the edges and collar with a blue stripe, he was the most nattily dressed soldier Flanna had seen in months. A group of at least six other men waited behind him in the dark.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” The soldier doffed his cap before the venerable widow. “We’ve heard a most remarkable report from a captured prisoner, and my colonel says I have to check it out before we can send the fellow off to prison.”

“A captured prisoner?” Mrs. Corey gasped and coiled back into the flickering shadows of her doorway.

“Oh, there’s no need to fear.” The officer smiled indulgently, like a father amused by the antics of a child. “We have him most securely in chains. But he keeps babbling about spies, so the colonel thought we’d best do a house-to-house search before we take him away.”

“Spies?” The widow squeaked the word. “In Richmond?”

“Of course, ma’am.” The officer’s gaze left Mrs. Corey’s face and moved into the house, resting briefly upon Flanna before glancing up the stairs. “I know you have wounded in the house. Have you anyone else? Anyone who has appeared since the Federals moved into the area?