Shadow of Dawn (23 page)

“Clayton, he only pushed me a little. There’s
no need to look as though you might kill him.” She put a hand on
either side of his face and looked into his eyes. His face began to
clear and she kissed him.

“I’m sorry, Catherine,” he murmured, taking
her hands in his and lifting his head. “I’m beginning to grow
impatient with this charade.”

“Bart was right,” she said.

At his quizzical look, she added, “You really
should get out of the house.”

“Yes,” he said, and smiled. “But for now,
this room definitely has its attractions.…”

***

As Catherine sat in church the next day, she
felt her heart would overflow with the mixed emotions she felt
being Clayton’s wife. Joy, contentment, security—and at the same
time a terrible feeling of insecurity because of the conditions
under which they lived.

Looking surreptitiously at the familiar faces
around her, she thought there was probably not a person present who
did not share that feeling. Every man there had a son or brother or
grandson in the army; every woman had sent away a family member or
sweetheart. None of them knew if they would ever see their loved
ones again. But still they worshipped, they praised, they
hoped.

What else can we do? Catherine wondered.
Times like these were a kind of catalyst—either people discovered
reserves of faith they didn’t know they had or they found in
themselves an awful emptiness and knew they had never believed to
begin with. The congregation had prayed for the safety of its
members, as well as their families, but several had been wounded or
killed.

She had talked to Ephraim about it only last
night, as she helped him lay the table for supper. “What happens
when a person believes in God and believes that He will answer
their prayers, and then He doesn’t?”

The butler’s eyes were kind and wise. “Oh,
God always answers the prayers of His children,” he said. “Just
maybe not the way you want Him to.”

“But Miss Turner is such a good woman,
Ephraim, and I know she prayed every day for her father, and he was
killed at Sharpsburg. And they say he was shot in the stomach and
suffered terribly before he died.”

“Well, God didn’t start this war, now, did
He? Wars come when somebody forgets to obey God’s laws. And people
suffer because of that. People die. The good Lord had a reason for
letting Mr. Turner get shot. We can’t see it, but He can. He was
with Mr. Turner in his suffering. And I reckon He wouldn’t have let
it happen if he hadn’t known the lady could stand it.”

“But she can’t stand it. She hasn’t been the
same since it happened.”

“Takes time,” Ephraim said. “She probably
won’t ever understand it till she’s face to face with Jesus, but
she’ll have to accept it and go on believing that God still loves
her. It’s like Elijah, Miss Catherine. And Joseph and David and
Job, all them—they didn’t know why things happened, but the reason
their names is in the Bible is because they kept on believing, no
matter what.”

Catherine had not replied. Ephraim had looked
at her with understanding and said, “I don’t know what you’re
afraid of, Miss Catherine, but it’s best to make up your mind
before something bad happens that you’re not going to doubt God.
Sometimes it’s only natural to ask why, but that don’t mean He’s
going to answer us this side of heaven.”

Ephraim should know, she thought as she sat
in her pew that Sunday morning. He had been a slave all his life.
If he knew of the existence of the Emancipation Proclamation, which
she was certain he did, he never mentioned it.

Slavery was to her and, she gathered, to most
Southerners, simply the way things were. It was a way of life and
had been for as long as anyone could remember. When it became such
a politically volatile issue, Catherine had resented the North’s
meddling and reassured herself that slaves were well treated; they
were fed and clothed; the sick and infirm were cared for. No slave
had ever been sold from her father’s house.

Yet one did hear of things—of beatings,
families separated, squalid conditions, the birth of mulatto
babies. Though she herself had never witnessed anything of the
sort, her knowledge of human nature made it easy to give credence
to such stories.

Was it really right for one race to be in
servitude to another? Was it right to deny them the freedom to live
their lives as they chose? Why hadn’t she ever questioned this?
Perhaps she hadn’t wanted to; perhaps the questions raised by the
slavery issue pricked a little too hard. Most Southerners didn’t
like change, and they most certainly didn’t like outsiders trying
to force it on them. Was that what Clayton had meant when he wrote
that the South had been asleep…living in a dream world?

Maybe Clayton was right. Maybe slavery
was
like poison, a strange sort of poison that worked
silently and slowly, infecting people with a false sense of
superiority, causing others to feel drunk with power to the extent
that they mistreated their fellow humans, sometimes in horrible
ways.

Maybe slavery should be eradicated. But she
remembered Clayton’s heartfelt declaration and agreed with it more
than anything—not this way.

The congregation rose to sing a hymn.
Catherine heard the door open in the back and was vaguely aware of
someone sliding into the pew behind her, the only available spot
since the church was packed. A nice baritone voice came to her
ears. She flicked a curious glance over her shoulder, then bent her
face over her hymnal and hoped no one could see her blush with
surprise and pleasure.

He really shouldn’t have come here, she
thought. How was she going to pretend he was merely a casual
acquaintance when she wanted to put her arm through his and
announce to the world that he belonged to her, and she to him!

She did not hear much of the sermon. When the
benediction had been given at the close of the service, she
gathered her Bible, book and reticule, and turned. Several people
had surrounded Clayton to shake his hand and welcome him to the
service. The aisle had become blocked and she was forced to
wait.

“Oh, Catherine,” said Mrs. Gates, turning
toward her. “Do you know Mr. Pierce?”

“Yes, I do,” Catherine said. “I believe he
knows my aunt’s brother, Bart. Hello, Mr. Pierce.”

“It’s always a pleasure to see you, ma’am,”
Clayton said, taking her hand.

“Where have you been, Mr. Pierce?” asked the
elderly woman. “We’ve not seen you around here since before
Christmas.”

“I’ve been to the battlefield at
Fredericksburg, Mrs. Gates.”

“Taking photographs, no doubt. You know, Mr.
Pierce, I have a niece who’s getting married…would you be
available?”

“I’m afraid not, ma’am. Unfortunately my
camera is broken at present and I’m waiting for a new part to be
delivered.”

Other people moved slightly back, and
Catherine squeezed past them and left the church. At home she
waited for Clayton, standing with arms akimbo while he climbed into
the bedroom.

“Clayton Pierce, how could you do that to me?
And how could you stand there and tell lies in church?”

“Lies?” he said innocently, taking her hands
off her hips and sliding them around his waist. “What lies?”

“About where you were, and your camera being
broken!”

“Ah, but I was at the battlefield, wasn’t I?
I couldn’t help it if Mrs. Gates incorrectly assumed what I was
doing there. And my camera really is broken.”

“Well, where is your camera anyway?”

“I still have a room at the hotel. All my
equipment is there.”

She tried to remain stern but he said, “Come,
Catherine, didn’t you tell me I should get out of the house? I
wanted to be in church and I wanted to see you. Where else was I to
go that fit both those requirements?”

She felt herself melting in his arms. “You
are a rascal, Mr. Pierce. It’s hard to pretend I don’t know you
very well.”

He grinned but before he could say anything,
she went on, “And the very idea of your climbing trees so soon
after—”

Someone knocked urgently on the door.
Catherine moved quickly to open it and Mrs. Shirley came in.
“They’re here. They’re early.”

At once Clayton removed his coat, loosened
his cravat and took his place at the hole in the floor. Mrs.
Shirley left to linger about downstairs to see if any new faces
appeared. At Clayton’s gesture, Catherine brought him paper and a
pen, but after a moment he shook his head and stood up, dusting off
his trousers.

“They’re leaving. Bart told the others he’s
received instructions to hold off on any plans until further
notice.”

“I wonder why.”

“There could be any number of reasons.” He
looked thoughtful. “Now that I’m well I can get around town more
and try to find out where he’s getting his information. There have
been too many distractions. I’m ready to get this over with.”

She said slowly, thinking, “It’s as if…as if
there’s somebody in between them, Clayton. There has to be a
leader, and I suppose that’s where the information comes from. But
maybe there’s somebody else involved in getting the information to
Bart…someone who hasn’t been under suspicion. Maybe you’ve been
watching Bart when you should have been watching someone else.”

Clayton looked at her. “Someone in this
house.”

“No! I didn’t mean that! Who would it
be?”

“I don’t know.” Clayton walked around the
room. “Obviously your uncle hasn’t been himself lately.”

“Well, no, he has seemed…preoccupied. But I
think he’s worried about his business. He would never get involved
in something like this.”

“Is there anything, any kind of information,
that Bart could be using against him…to force him into it?”

“You mean blackmail? Good heavens, no! Uncle
Martin has always been the soul of propriety!”

“What about Sallie?”

Catherine considered it. “She and Bart are
quite close, and I know they share certain suspicions about you,
but I really can’t see her taking part in anything so potentially
dangerous. She has such a strong sense of—”

“Self-preservation,” he said when she
hesitated. “Miranda? If she’s not Andrew’s cousin, she must be
working for Bart. I don’t think she’s as breathless and
addle-brained as she would have us believe. There’s a shrewdness
about her, and I’ve seen her move around this house as furtively as
a burglar.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean she’s a spy. I
really can’t picture her sitting around the table with Bart and his
cronies and a cigar sticking out of her mouth!”

Clayton gave her an odd look. “What about
Ephraim? Or Jessie? They both read and write, don’t they? Not that
it would be a necessity.”

“No,” she said firmly. “I mean, yes, they do
read and write, but they’re not involved. I know it.”

“And the cook?”

“Hester’s too old and feeble for that kind of
thing.”

“At least she acts that way.”

Catherine sighed. “Clayton, I really don’t
think it’s anyone in the house. But it could be a friend, someone
we’d never suspect.”

“To be frank, darling, I’ve suspected
everyone except you. But we can’t watch all of them all of the
time. Spying is not all adventure, you know…it can be tedious work.
It takes time, and we’re running out of time.”

Mrs. Shirley knocked and came into the room.
“I meant to tell you…I’ve been to headquarters this morning. They
want to see you. Tonight at eight o’clock.”

She and Clayton exchanged a look that somehow
excluded Catherine.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s probably that.”

“What?” Catherine asked, looking from one to
the other.

“Well, there’s no use speculating,” Clayton
said soberly. “We’ll know soon enough.”

***

Mrs. Shirley waited with Catherine in the
bedroom in case someone should come and she would have to assume
the identity of “Andrew.” Catherine read a magazine; Mrs. Shirley
wrote on a long sheet of paper and never looked up.

The clock had struck half past nine when
Clayton slid the window up and slipped through. He looked serious,
and Catherine wondered anxiously what had happened.

“I left a package outside,” he said, after
kissing her lightly on the cheek. “Margaret, would you get it? It’s
directly below. I couldn’t carry it with me.”

“Certainly, Major. I’m almost finished with
our report, if you’ll give me a moment.”

“I’ll get it,” Catherine said. She moved
toward the door.

“Wait, Catherine. Yes, I suppose it would be
better for you to bring it up. It’s a white box—you can’t miss it.
Don’t let anyone see what’s inside…call for help if you need
it.”

She nodded and left the room. The stairs and
the rooms below were still brightly lit, but she saw no one. She
went out the kitchen door, down the steps of the side porch and
around the rear of the house. A long, shiny white box lay hidden in
the shrubbery. She picked it up, surprised to find it quite heavy.
She had progressed through the kitchen and dining room and was
about to go up the stairs when Bart and Miranda came out of the
parlor.