The Velvet Shadow (49 page)

“Why, no.”

Flanna closed her eyes as the widow’s voice trembled. Unless this man was a complete fool, he had to see that Mrs. Corey was nervous. And though Flanna had every confidence in the benevolent widow, she couldn’t know if the woman trusted her completely.

“Ma’am.” The officer’s firm voice verged on the threatening. “You won’t mind, then, if we come in and look around?”

“Why—there are sick men in here,” the widow answered in a rush of words. “You can’t just come tramping through here when men are trying to sleep! They need their rest, sir; they need their strength! If you expect them to be up and soon fighting for the Cause, you’d best find another house to disturb.”

“We promise we’ll be quiet.” The officer pushed past Mrs. Corey, gesturing for his men to follow. A parade of footsteps thumped on the porch steps, and Flanna hesitated in the hallway, not certain whether she should retreat.

“Who might you be?” the officer asked, his eyes pinning Flanna to the wall.

“Flanna O’Connor, visiting from Charleston.” Flanna spoke in her best Southern drawl, folding her arms as she leaned against the wall. “I am a nurse, and I must agree with Mrs. Corey, sir—these men must not be disturbed. They have given of themselves on the battlefield; let them regain their strength in peace.”

“We were told we might be looking for someone from South Carolina.” The officer’s eyes shone with the stimulation of alcohol and adventure. “A doctor from South Carolina, or so our prisoner said.”

Flanna lifted her chin as her heart leapt uncomfortably into the back of her throat, then she glanced toward the doorway. A line of men had filed into the house, and Roger stood among them, his hands tied together at his waist, a purple bruise marking his cheek.

“Flanna.” His voice wasn’t much louder than a whisper, but the effect was as great as if he’d shouted in the hallway. The officer stepped toward her, instantly alert, and Flanna flinched as though an electric spark had arced between them.

“This woman?” The officer pointed at Flanna and turned to Roger with an incredulous expression on his face. “This is a doctor?”

“Yes.” Roger’s eyes closed as if he were suddenly very weary.

The officer stepped backward and stared, then his lips curved in an expression that hardly deserved to be called a smile. “By heaven, I knew the Yankees were perverted and profane.” He whispered as if the words were too terrible to utter in a normal voice. “But this beats all I have heard of. Women undertaking work no modest lady would ever seek, cutting off the hair that God himself gave for a covering—”

“Ask her where the Yankee officer is,” Roger said, his voice resigned and defeated. “I guarantee that he is hiding in this house.”

More shaken than she cared to admit, Flanna stared at Roger. How could he know Alden was with her?

“What makes you think there’s a Yankee in this house?” Her eyes drilled into him. “And what is all this talk about spies?”

“I read the letter.” Roger’s brows rose, graceful wings of scorn. “The letter you wrote my brother. I know you love him.”

The Confederate officer stepped so close that Flanna could smell whiskey on his breath. “Where is he?” His eyes glittered like a snake slithering toward a paralyzed bird. “Tell me, or I’ll march this prisoner through every room in this house until I drag the Yankee out by his heels. If you care at all for this Yankee spy, you’ll speak now.”

Flanna dropped her eyes before the officer’s steady gaze and glanced at Mrs. Corey. The widow stood with her back to the door, her eyes wide with fear and concern for the others.

Roger said nothing, but glared down his nose at her like some avenging angel. Did he have any idea what he was doing?

She looked down at her hands, and laced her fingers at her waist. For Alden’s sake, she would have to tell the truth. His wound was far from healed; he should not be handled roughly. If she cooperated, perhaps they would be gentle with him.

“Upstairs.” Her throat clotted with unuttered shouts and protests. “In the first bedroom. He’s the man nearest the door, the one with the shoulder wound.”

Roger’s head lifted sharply. He stared at Flanna as the officer gestured for two of his men to follow and then bounded up the stairs.

Roger’s brow creased with worry. “Alden’s wounded?”

“He was nearly dead.” Flanna pushed herself off the wall and walked toward him, fury almost choking her. “Perhaps he will die now, if these buffoons manhandle him.”

“Oh, Flanna.” Roger’s face wilted in sudden regret. “I didn’t know. I thought you two were trying to run away together. You disappeared at the same time, and then I saw the letter—”

Hot tears bordered her eyes as she stared at him in silent fury. Roger lifted his hands and stepped toward her, but she jerked her head away, repulsed by the thought of his touch.

“He’s up there,” the captain called, descending the stairs. He looked at Mrs. Corey and smiled. “I’m assuming, of course, that you knew nothing about this, ma’am.”

“She’s innocent.” Flanna stepped forward. “She is a good woman, and she’s done nothing wrong.”

“I wasn’t blaming her. She hasn’t been consorting with Yankees.” The officer’s smile disappeared, and a muscle flicked at his jaw as he motioned another man toward Flanna. “Tie her hands and take her too. The colonel won’t believe this story.”

Flanna set her chin in a stubborn line as the soldier came toward her. “I’m sorry, ma’am.” He held up his hands as if afraid to touch an example of debased Southern womanhood. “But I’ve got my orders.”

“Bind away,” she countered icily, offering him her hands. The soldier pulled a length of rope from his belt and proceeded to wrap her wrists, grimacing every time his flesh touched hers.

Heavy footsteps creaked the stairs, and Flanna looked up to see the other two men supporting Alden as they descended. He was awake, his eyes wide and confused until he saw Flanna and Roger in the foyer. “Ah,” he murmured, his expression clearing as his gaze met Roger’s, “we meet again. Why am I not surprised?”

From lowered lids, Flanna shot a commanding, reproachful look at Roger, then followed the Confederates out into the night.

F
lanna sat between Roger and Alden in the back of a wagon as the Confederates took them away from Mrs. Corey’s house. Even at the late hour of candle-lighting, the streets of Richmond were crowded. Baggage wagons heaped with trunks, boxes, and baskets rumbled over the streets. Uniformed men filled the walkways while brightly dressed female camp followers loitered on street corners, eager to ply their trade. Flanna noticed that most of the houses they passed looked deserted, but golden lamplight shone from several. She suspected that those homes, like Mrs. Corey’s, were filled with the wounded and dying.

Flanna lowered her gaze and concentrated on Alden. He sat beside her, forced to sit upright in the wagon. His captors had allowed him to put on a shirt and trousers, but he wore no coat, and the stark white bandage was clearly visible through the thin cotton shirt. His face was pale, and sweat bordered his forehead and upper lip. At every pothole and jostle of the wagon a muscle flicked in his face, and Flanna knew he was in pain.

The horses stopped before a stately building fronted by six imposing columns. At a signal from the Confederate captain, Flanna and Roger climbed out and waited on the marble steps while the guards dragged Alden from the wagon. A curious crowd surged around them—men in uniform, politicians in suits, curious ladies in the refined bonnets of gentlewomen—and then they were ushered into the building and down a long hallway. Finally the three of them
were deposited in a stuffy, windowless room and told to wait.

“I expect the colonel will want to know about this immediately,” the arresting officer said, his gaze sweeping over Flanna as he lingered in the doorway. “But you can just sit right here until he’s available. Might not be until tomorrow morning.”

“Wait, please.” Flanna wiped her hands on her apron and tried on a flimsy smile. “If you can find my brother, he will assure you that I’m a loyal South Carolinian. His name is Wesley O’Connor, and he’s from Charleston. I’m sure he’s in the army.”

“What regiment?”

Flanna’s face fell. “I don’t know.”

The officer shot her a withering glance. “You call yourself a loyal Confederate and yet you don’t even know where this brother of yours is fighting?”

Flanna lifted her chin, not willing to let herself be put down by this brute. “I am a loyal American, sir!”

“I think we caught ourselves a genuine spy,” he said, eyeing her with a calculating expression. “An honest-to-goodness piece of Yankee trash that talks like a Southern belle.”

Without giving her a chance to respond, the man stepped through the doorway and closed the door. Flanna ran to it, but heard a clear click as the key turned in the lock.

She turned around and leaned against the door, her feelings as bleak as the room in which they’d been confined. The only light came from a high window above the door, and she knew that would fade as soon as night fell and everyone went home. The furniture—a single chair and a bench against the wall—was scuffed and scarred. The floor was dusty tile; the walls weepy plaster that smelled of dust and mildew.

“Well, that’s it then.” Roger sank into the wooden chair. “The war’s over for us. They’ll send us to prison, of course, but we’ll be released as soon as McClellan comes up and takes Richmond.”

Flanna stared at Roger in astonishment. Had he not learned anything during these past months? “McClellan will never take Richmond! He’s retreating right now! The man can’t stand bloodshed—he won’t
fight.”

“What would you know about it?” A shadow of annoyance crossed Roger’s face. “You don’t know politics, and you don’t know men.”

“I know about Little Mac,” Flanna said, crossing the room. The soldiers had dropped Alden on the floor. He now slumped against the wall, and Flanna feared he would fall over at any minute. “Here, Alden, lie flat.” She knelt beside him. “Is the floor cold? Let me find something—”

She looked up at Roger, who still wore his blue dress coat. “Give me your coat,” she said, her mind racing. “Did you wear it into town? What were you thinking, Roger?”

“I was angry.” He leaned forward and shrugged out of his coat, then tossed it to her. “I thought you both had deserted the army. I came through the Confederate lines with my hands up. I knew I’d be arrested immediately, but I didn’t care. I wanted to find you.”

“Whatever for?” Flanna had been spreading the coat on the floor for Alden to lie on, but she stopped and stared at Roger. “What were you going to do when you found us?”

Roger released a choked, desperate laugh. “I don’t know. I hadn’t considered that.” His gaze returned to her. “I just didn’t want to lose you.”

She felt her heart shrivel at his hurt expression. “Roger,” she softened her voice, “you never had me. I’m sorry, but I didn’t join the army to follow you. I just wanted to go home.”

Turning away from Roger, Flanna put her hand on Alden’s shoulders and eased him to the floor. He mumbled something she couldn’t understand, so she shushed him and urged him to rest.

She sat silently for some time, studying him. He had not shaved in over a week; a golden brown beard covered his cheeks, softening that determined chin, that strong jaw. Even in sleep, his face seemed marked by anxiety and grief. The cut above his forehead was healing nicely, but loss shadowed his eyes and his face seemed narrower than it had been on that Christmas Day when they first met.

That thought had barely crossed her mind before another followed:
Alden was not hers
. After the war, he would return to Boston and marry Nell Scott, the faithful young lady who had remained at home and fulfilled a woman’s proper role. While Flanna slogged through mud and shivered in the freezing rain, Miss Scott had been kneeling by her cozy fireplace and praying for Alden, her delicate fingers clasped together, her long hair spilling over her shoulders like a waterfall…

Flanna slammed the door on her imaginings. Bad enough that she should save him for another woman; she didn’t have to torture herself in the process.

When at last Alden’s breathing slowed and deepened, she crossed her legs under her skirt and turned to Roger.

“I suggest you get some sleep too.” She looked at his sorrowful face and did her best to smile. Perhaps she had been too harsh with him.

“Flanna, I didn’t know.” Roger’s voice echoed with entreaty. “I didn’t know he was wounded. I’m afraid I’ve made an awful mess of things, but I was so crazy with jealousy. I read the letter, you see, and I know you so well I knew what you were saying.”

Feeling utterly miserable, Flanna closed her eyes. “I’m sorry, Roger.”

“Its okay. I can understand. Alden’s always been the brave one, the responsible one.” A thread of desperation edged his voice. “I should have known you’d fall in love with him.”

“You don’t have to worry about that.” Flanna crossed her arms and rested them upon her knees, watching the shadows lengthen in the room. Was Nell Scott sitting by the fire now, thinking of Alden as she penned another letter? “I could never give Alden my heart.”
Because he would never accept it
.