Shadow of Dawn (16 page)

“I did it for the cause,” she said sharply.
“Not for you.”

He laughed. “Catherine, you are adorable.” He
began to walk toward her.

“Stop!” she cried. “If you come a step
closer, I’ll—”

“What?” he said, laughing again. “Throw the
soap at me?”

She did throw the soap at him, hitting him
squarely above the eye. He stumbled back against the bed, putting
his hand to his head. His bandaged thumb stuck out incongruously.
“Why, you little—”

Unexpectedly the door opened and Clayton came
into the room, as Andrew, a cane held out before him. “Catherine,”
he whispered, “who are you talking to?”

Bart looked from him to Catherine with scorn.
Catherine answered, “Why, it’s Jessie. Go on, Jessie, I can get out
by myself.” Bart stalked from the room, his hand still over his
eye. The door shut with a bang. They heard Bart go into his room
and slam that door, too. Catherine was trembling from a combination
of rage and near panic.

“I heard everything,” Clayton said. “He
didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“No, but I think he was about to throttle
me.”

“I doubt that.” His muffled voice sounded
vastly amused.

“I think you’d better leave, too.”

“Most assuredly.” On his way out, he added,
“You’d better lock the door from now on, my fair young rebel.”

“Wait,” she called, suddenly conscious that
the water had grown cold. “I…can’t seem to move. I’ve gotten as
stiff as Mrs. Shirley’s spine.”

He paused and closed the door again. “Now
this,” he said, “should be interesting.”

“Oh, you idiot,” she groaned. “I can’t climb
out of this thing by myself and I don’t propose to sit here all
afternoon waiting for Jessie. Just turn your back and hold out your
arm so I can grab it. But first hand me that towel, please. Close
your eyes.”

“Madam, you may take comfort from this mask
over my face, but I make it a point never to close my eyes when
helping a woman out of the bathtub. Too dangerous—a slip, a strike
on the skull, and one or both of us could be dead.”

She scowled. “Your wit escapes me at the
moment, sir. Just mind your manners.”

He handed her the towel, then turned his back
and obligingly held out his arm. Catherine, feeling as though she’d
been struck by paralysis, forced her sore muscles into motion. She
grabbed hold of Clayton’s hand so ponderously that he was caught
off balance and nearly fell backward into the tub with her. He
righted himself but was forced to turn toward her. She quickly
covered herself with the towel.

“You see?” he said, his voice heavy with
laughter. “A very dangerous enterprise.”

“Honestly!” she exclaimed. “Turn around. It’s
your fault I can barely even walk!” Her hand moved up to his
shoulder and she climbed laboriously out of the tub, clutching the
towel tightly against her.

“Dare I leave you like this? You won’t fall
back in and drown?”

“I’ll manage,” she said shortly. “Thank you
very much.”

“Then if you’ll remove the death grip you
have on my arm, I’ll be going.”

“Oh.” She released him and braced herself
against the edge of the

tub.

He bent over suddenly and retrieved something
from the floor. “I hear a cake of soap has gone up to a dollar
twenty-five. Here,” he said, tossing it casually to land with a
plop in the water. “A good soldier doesn’t waste ammunition.”

***

“
Her husband’s destiny,” said Madame
Defarge, with her

usual composure, “will take him where he is
to go, and will

lead him to the end that is to end him. That
is all I know.”

Catherine had avoided Clayton for almost two
days. She could not decide just how angry she was with him. He had
deliberately misled her, caused her enormous grief, and that
mortifying incident in the bathtub had somehow been all his
fault.

And at any rate, it had taken that long to
get the stiffness out of her

muscles and joints. She kept mostly to her
room, telling whoever inquired

that she did not feel well.

At last she decided that, angry or not, it
would be better if they continued exactly as they had before, lest
Bart’s suspicions be aroused. That evening she went to “Andrew’s”
room to read to him.

He said very little, other than agreeing that
they should continue the reading. She felt strange and
self-conscious.

“Would you feel better if I put this on?” he
asked, lifting the black hood from the table next to his chair.

“I think I would feel awfully silly,” she
answered, in what she hoped was a tone of indifference, and opened
the book. She had barely begun when the door opened and Mrs.
Shirley slid in, silent as a shadow. She closed the door and said,
“They’re here.” Immediately Clayton jumped to his feet and crossed
the room, where he knelt on one knee and removed a piece of wood
that he had carved out of the floor. Before Catherine could speak,
Mrs. Shirley placed both hands on her shoulders and put her out of
the room. She stared in astonishment at the closed door, wishing
she had the nerve to express her indignation with a few well-chosen
words. She took a seat in the outer room and waited.

Some time later the door opened and Mrs.
Shirley gestured for her to enter. Clayton stood in front of the
window, his tanned face grave. He paused for a long moment, then
glanced up and met Mrs. Shirley’s even gaze.

“Margaret, I trust Catherine with my life.
I’ve made her a part of this already, as I told you. But before we
go any further, it’s only fair to ask you if you will trust her as
well.”

Catherine raised an eyebrow as Mrs. Shirley
turned a flinty gaze upon her. A moment ticked by.

“Very well,” she said at last. “I do trust
her not to speak of these things, and perhaps she can be of use to
us.”

“Thank you, Margaret.” Clayton walked slowly
toward them, his hands in his pockets. “If Lee survives this next
battle,” he said, “they intend to assassinate him.”

Catherine gasped. Mrs. Shirley neither moved
nor made a sound.

“Whoever they’re working for in the North has
offered a huge reward. They’ll make their plans after the battle.
They’re nervous, of course. This is bigger than anything they’ve
ever done. I gather their leader here has more or less given them
no choice. There’s nothing we can do until then except send word
for Lee to be on his guard.”

Clayton looked at Catherine. “I’m leaving
soon for Fredericksburg. Both armies are there and the battle could
start any day. I’d planned for Andrew to disappear during that
time, never to return, but I’m going to need him a while longer.
You’re to say I’m ill and not to be disturbed. Ask Dr. Edwards to
come up here. He knows everything. He’s treated some Union soldiers
and done a little spying himself. If anyone’s curious enough to
want to see me, Mrs. Shirley can become Andrew.”

Catherine nodded, unable to speak. “Major
Pierce, I have the latest information from General Lee’s
headquarters,” Mrs. Shirley told him.

“Yes, I’ll need to look it over. Will you
excuse us, Catherine?”

She found her voice. “When will you
leave?”

“Tomorrow,” he answered, “at midnight.”

***

He was going away, perhaps never to return,
and she had wasted two days not speaking to him.

Catherine spent a restless night. The next
day Clayton and Mrs. Shirley read accounts of troop movements and
battle plans.

She mentioned casually at supper that Andrew
seemed to be getting sick. Bart looked at her warily and said
nothing. There was a fading bruise on his forehead. Sallie chirped
about getting a doctor for Andrew. Martin looked preoccupied and
remained silent.

Catherine waited in her room, unable to read
or sew or do anything except stare at the wall and press her hands
together in her lap. There was something she had to tell him,
something she had known since the night of Delia’s wedding but had
not been willing to admit—even to herself. When the clock struck
eleven she stood up and left the room, tiptoed across the hall, and
knocked softly on Clayton’s door.

The candlelight wavered as he let her in and
closed the door behind her. Catherine caught her breath, staring at
him.

He wore a uniform that apparently had seen
service but was still in good condition. The gray officer’s coat
was somewhat frayed and, though clean, had the remains of dark
stains on one sleeve that could only be blood. Someone else’s
blood, she gathered. His hat and greatcoat lay on the bed. He wore
knee-length boots and held a pair of yellow cavalry gloves in his
hands. His smooth black hair was combed back and touched the collar
of his coat.

His eyes met hers. “I hoped you would
come.”

She said nothing, awed by his appearance.

“Dashing, don’t you think?” he said, laughing
a little in self-mockery. “I’m almost ashamed to have a uniform
intact.” “You…have nothing to be ashamed of.”

There was a pause. Then she asked, “Must you
go, Clayton?”

He looked down at the gloves in his hand,
then back at her. “I can’t not go, Catherine. I may not be able to
accomplish much, but I’ll be there.”

“But your work—”

“I’m not indispensable. If anything happens
to me, Bart and the others will be arrested, as planned. As for
finding the leader…someone else will assume responsibility for
that. It’s possible that Bart can be made to talk, but I doubt he
will since it would only incriminate him. That’s not the way I
wanted to do it. If Bart doesn’t tell what he knows, we lose our
connection to his leader.”

“Would someone else masquerade as
Andrew?”

“Probably not. They’ll figure out some other
way.”

“Do you know where you’ll be?”

“I’ll go to headquarters and they can put me
wherever they need

me.”

“Will you warn General Lee about the
plot?”

He shook his head. “I won’t distract him from
the battle. He’ll probably return to Richmond afterward, if we win,
and someone will inform him then.”

“If we don’t win,” she said, “the Yankees
will take Richmond.”

“Yes. But our position is good. We’ll fight
to the last man.”

She could only look at him. “Oh,
Clayton.”

He tossed his gloves down atop his hat and
moved toward her. His arms went around her and his lips took hers
in a slow and thorough…and unforgettable…kiss. He lifted his head
and held her against him.

“I love you, Clayton,” she whispered. She
felt the rough wool of his coat against her cheek, felt his own
hard cheek against the top of her head.

His arms tightened around her. “Catherine,
you have a strength and tenderness that go beyond your years. You
must rely on those things to help you through this. And no matter
what happens, remember that I leave here with you a part of me. A
part as dear…as the very breath of life.”

“Why do you talk as if you’re not coming
back?” she asked, distressed.

He pulled back a little, his arms still
around her. “Oh, I intend to come back. And when I do, I hope
you’ll become my wife.” One dark brow lifted slightly and a smile
tugged at the corners of his mouth. “In every way.”

She went crimson, remembering her words to
“Andrew.”

“You devil,” she scolded. She knew he was
keeping a light tone to bolster her spirits.

He released her and took up his greatcoat.
She helped him put it on, smoothing down the collar and running her
hands over his shoulders. He put his gloves on and picked up his
hat. Then he stood looking at her, the candles flaring and bringing
out a brilliance in his dark and fathomless eyes.

“Pray for us,” he said.

“Yes, Clayton, without ceasing. I’ll think of
you every minute of every day.”

“Put out the lights, darling.”

She turned to blow out the candles. She heard
the window slide quietly upward; an icy draft of air swept through
the room. She went quickly back to the window as he stepped out
onto the balcony.

He straightened, put on his hat and looked
back one last time, then with a swift movement over the rail he was
gone. He would walk, she knew, to the livery down the street where
his horse was kept.

Catherine stood in perfect stillness for a
moment, fighting the temptation to fall on his bed and give in to
mindless sobbing. The embers from the dying fire gave a red glow to
the room. Suddenly the door swung open and Mrs. Shirley stood
outlined in the doorway, blinking at her owlishly.

“He’s gone?”

“Yes.”

“I was just coming to lock the door. Are you
staying or leaving, Mrs. Kelly?”

For once Catherine felt grateful for the
other woman’s brusqueness and utter lack of empathy. She squared
her shoulders, lifted her chin, and said, “I’m going to my room.
Goodnight, Mrs. Shirley.”