Shadow of Dawn (33 page)

Standing straight and tall beside her, Andrew
reached out and took her hand. Catherine let him hold it, unwilling
to make a scene when most of their friends and neighbors were
standing directly behind them. The words he had spoken the night
before played over and over in her mind. Bart’s murder…her
attempted murder. Yes, they had to be connected somehow.

Who had opened her bedroom window?

Andrew and Martin had checked the upstairs.
Catherine asked her uncle if perhaps he had opened the window to
look out on the balcony. He and Andrew both said they had not
noticed the window being open. But anybody in the house could have
opened it after she left her room to make it seem as though an
intruder had entered, or exited—just as anyone in the house could
have attacked her.

She felt numb with the horror of it. Murder
must be the result of hate or fear or greed, she thought. She could
think of no one who hated her, and she did not have enough wealth
or possessions to inspire anyone to kill her. Someone had to fear
her because he or she believed Catherine knew something about
Bart’s murder. It was the only logical explanation.

Martin had suggested a thief. A thief would,
of course, be drawn to the dining room where the silver was kept.
But why would he try to kill her? Why not simply wait quietly until
she went back upstairs? She wanted to believe Martin’s theory, but
she just couldn’t.

At the same time, it was almost impossible in
broad daylight to believe that her assailant was a member of the
household or anyone she knew. She certainly could not believe that
and continue to live there. Maybe it was one of Bart’s
associates—maybe she had been seen that day in the woods, and they
believed she knew too much! That, too, would explain the open
window.

Her uncle had reported the attack and an
officer had come out to question her briefly. Martin had said not
to expect quick results. Martial law had been declared a year ago
and certainly the military had plenty to do besides investigate
attempted murders.

She realized suddenly that people were bowing
their heads for prayer and quickly bowed her own. The minister
began to shake the hands of the family members, saying a comforting
word to each. After he had passed, Catherine turned to look behind
her, touched by the number of people who had come to offer their
support. There were so many funerals being held these days.

If not for the war, none of this would have
happened, she thought. Bart would never have come to live in
Richmond and work in a government office. No one would have pulled
a stocking around Catherine’s neck and tried to choke the life out
of her. Why, she would never have married Andrew!

And Clayton would not be involved in the most
dangerous occupation in the army. Somewhere she had read an article
on spies, in which a certain general stated he would rather march
into ten battles than go on one secret service mission. Although
Clayton said his “spying days” were over, she knew he was still
trying to find out the truth about Bart’s band of traitors.

Suddenly Sallie sank down in a faint…probably
a real one this time, Catherine thought with a quick surge of pity.
Andrew moved at once to assist Martin as he fumbled in his pockets
for the smelling salts. Catherine happened to look up at that
moment and saw someone standing on the fringe of the crowd,
surprising her so much she almost cried the name out loud.

Mrs. Shirley!

The woman’s height made her stand out from
the others, as did her singular air of aloofness. She met
Catherine’s gaze, but her expression did not so much as flicker
with recognition. Her eyes moved slowly over the group of mourners,
as though she were looking for someone.

Probably she was simply doing her
job—searching for suspicious-looking persons who might be attending
Bart’s funeral. Then she turned and walked briskly away, going
through the gate of the churchyard cemetery and disappearing down
the soggy street.

Catherine thought about hurrying after her to
tell her about the attack of last night so that she could report it
to Clayton. But that was impossible, with Andrew and the others
present.

Mrs. Shirley, Catherine thought suddenly, was
strong and agile; Mrs. Shirley knew about the tree and the
balcony—and the bedroom window.

Oh, you’re being ridiculous, she scoffed at
herself. But she wasn’t sure she shared Clayton’s confidence in
Mrs. Shirley. The woman was an enigma. Where had she come from,
before ingratiating herself with President Davis? How could Clayton
trust her so implicitly?

People began to leave. Andrew came to her and
took her to the Henderson’s’ carriage, where Martin and Sallie were
already ensconced. Miranda had ridden with someone else.

Sallie sat stiffly beside Martin, who seemed
to stare unseeingly out the window. Why, he looks so old, Catherine
thought, feeling a wave of remorse that she’d not paid much
attention to him over the last several months. She reached out and
touched his arm.

“Are you all right, Uncle Martin?”

His head swung toward her. “Oh, yes. I’m
fine, Catherine, thank you.” He reached out and patted Sallie’s
hand as though to say, “She’s the one we must be concerned about.”
His wife made no response, staring out the other window.

Andrew looked at Catherine and smiled a
little. She let her lips curve up ever so slightly, then she, too,
looked out the window.

Somehow she endured the rest of the
afternoon—greeting neighbors who came and went, making small talk,
thanking them for their concern.

They asked surprisingly few questions. The
country was at war; anything was to be expected.

When everyone had finally left, the house
fell into a strange silence. The servants moved about quietly and
spoke in whispers, respectful of Sallie’s grief. Catherine put away
the black dress, hoping she would never have to wear it again.

By then it was almost dark. She donned
another of her faded gowns and sat down at the dressing table to
brush out her hair. She had opened her bedroom door to allow air to
circulate; her window remained closed and locked.

She heard a light swish and Andrew’s
reflection appeared in the mirror. She stopped, her brush in
midair. He ran his hand lightly, admiringly, over the dark red
tresses.

“You have beautiful hair, Catherine. A most
unusual color.”

“Thank you, Andrew. Did you want
something?”

“Yes.” He hesitated, and then said, “I’ve
come to tell you I’m moving my things in here tomorrow. I think
it’s time you took your place as my wife.”

The brush fell with a bang and she got to her
feet, facing him with her back pressed against the dressing table.
“Andrew, I…I can’t. It’s too soon.”

“Too soon?” he repeated softly. “What do you
mean?”

“I’m not…I can’t…” Her mind cast about
desperately for some reason to put him off. She drew a deep breath
and said, “I’m still in love with that other man, the man I thought
was you.”

Andrew regarded her in silence for a moment.
He lifted a lock of hair from her shoulder and rubbed it between
his fingers. “And you still claim you don’t know his identity, I
suppose.”

She did not answer.

“Well, I have my own ideas about that. We
shall see. But that’s all the more reason why I must take this
step, Catherine. Memories can be powerful, and I’ve been wrong to
allow you to hold onto them this way. I’m going to make you forget
this other man.”

“No,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

He stared at her for a long moment, searching
her eyes, probing as though trying to see into her soul. She did
not attempt to avoid his gaze. Then he released the thick strands
of hair and said, with a strange note of finality, “I’m sorry,
Catherine.”

He left the room. She stood there, thinking
wildly…sorry? About what? Was he sorry he had broached the subject,
or sorry that he intended to go through with it against her wishes?
What did he mean when he said he had his own ideas about the false
Andrew?

She resisted an urge to call him back. She
supposed she would find out tomorrow what he intended to do. If he
tried to force her, she would run away. She would run all the way
to General Lee’s headquarters if she had to.

Supper consisted of leftovers from earlier in
the day. Martin ate quietly and methodically, as though he were
alone. He had been different, somehow, since Bart’s death. He was
not of an excitable nature, but neither had he ever tried to hide
his emotions. He seemed now to be under some sort of
self-restraint, as though coiled up like a spring, and the tension
was almost palpable. Sallie’s chair remained empty.

Andrew, too, was silent, eating little and
watching Catherine. There was a sadness about him that caught at
her heart. She felt guilty, as though she had done something wrong.
For the first time, she was struck by a strong feeling of
uncertainty.

What have I done? What am I supposed to
do?

Miranda chattered on about people she’d met
at the funeral, occasionally stopping to ask Catherine about
certain family connections.

Catherine replied absently, wishing it were
permissible to tell one’s elders to hush.

There was something queer about the evening,
aside from the fact that they’d buried a family member that day.
The entire atmosphere of the house seemed galvanized with
mysterious currents. For some reason, Catherine felt she had
wandered onto a stage where the audience, hidden from view, waited
in suspense to see what she would do or say.

She felt she could not bear going into the
parlor, so she excused herself immediately after supper. Andrew
insisted on accompanying her to her room. At the door he lifted her
hand, kissed it, and said solemnly, “Good night, my love.”

She went into her room and locked it, not
feeling particularly secure since Andrew had a key. She slept
fitfully and woke in the morning determined to spend the day at the
hospital. Perhaps she would even spend the night there. Before she
could dress, however, there was a light knock on the door.

It was Jessie. “Miss Catherine, Ephraim say
to tell you Hester been took sick and can’t cook. And Miss Sallie
got a headache.”

“All right, Jessie. I’ll be right down.”

She swiftly put on a worn cotton dress and
tied back her hair with a ribbon. When she reached the kitchen,
Ephraim had already started cooking breakfast. She went into
Hester’s little room at the back of the house. The old woman peered
at her over the covers.

“Miz Catherine, my time is nigh.”

“Nonsense, Hester. You know this happens
every year. Now let me see.” She touched the wrinkled cheek,
finding it dry and cool. “You just rest, Hester, as long as you
need to. Is there anything I can get you?”

“Jes’ my Bible.” She struggled to sit up. “I
got to read my Bible.”

Catherine looked around, found the
worn-looking volume and handed it to her. She lit the lamp beside
the bed and moved quietly from the room.

Hester did indeed come down with a strange
malady around the same time every year. She never exhibited any
symptoms other than malaise and a conviction that she was dying. It
lasted several days, then she would simply rise up and begin going
about her chores again.

“Ephraim,” said Catherine, “if you’ll do the
cooking today, I’ll help Jessie with everything else.”

“Yes, Miss Catherine.”

The morning and early afternoon sped by, with
laundry to sort, rooms to dust, floors to sweep. She was outside
beating the dust out of a rug when she looked up to see Andrew
standing at the back door, watching her.

“Catherine, I want you to go for a ride with
me,” he said. “I have something to tell you.”

Something about the way he spoke made her
heart drop like a stone. “Andrew, I can’t possibly. I—”

“It can’t wait. Please come and get into the
carriage.”

“All right,” she said reluctantly. “I’ll just
take this back inside.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Catherine took the rug into the house and
handed it to Jessie. “Tell Ephraim I’ve gone for a ride with Mr.
Andrew.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She smoothed her hair and tried to prepare
herself mentally. She didn’t think she was going to like what
Andrew had to say.

The carriage sat hitched to the horses but
without a driver. “Where’s Tad?” she asked, as Andrew helped her
in.

“He’s coming.” He climbed in beside her and
closed the door. In a moment the vehicle moved forward and rolled
out into the street.

Neither of them spoke. She realized they were
leaving the main part of town, going out on a country road. Her
uneasiness increased. Several abandoned logging roads ran here and
there into the woods.

“Why are we coming out here?” she asked.

“I want a quiet place where we can’t be
overheard.”

The carriage turned down one of the logging
roads, traveled some distance, and stopped. Still Andrew said
nothing. Catherine wondered if she would be able to hear him
through the tumultuous thudding in her ears.