Fiddlehead (The Clockwork Century) (8 page)

“I don’t know. Mr. Pinkerton thought they’d be safer … well, if they were farther away from you, if you don’t mind me saying so. But he’s called in Kirby Troost, in case an escort to the North is called for.”

“Troost? How in God’s name did he find him?”

“No idea, Dr. Bardsley. But I hope that meets with your satisfaction.”

“Very much, yes. If we
do
need to move my family, he’s the man to do it.”

Rationally, Gideon knew the Pinkertons were right: Leaving them in place was probably the best strategy for now, though having Troost as a backup plan made him feel better about the whole thing. Let them stay close to their point of liberation while the pressure was on. Anyone in pursuit would assume they were running as far and as fast as possible, right back to the District of Columbia. Right back to Gideon, who’d always looked after them, hell, high water, or hunger.

But he knew his mother well—a simple woman who sometimes amazed him with her lack of curiosity, and sometimes annoyed him with her nervous nature. He knew of the safehouse in question, a quiet and hidden place at the edge of Lookout; he’d been there before, when he worked at the university. But all its quietness and all its hiddenness would never assuage her fears. She’d wear them like a blanket, and share them with her young charge. He thought unhappily of Caleb, a calm, quiet boy who’d been a toddler when they’d first come to the East Coast, and had grown into a solemn, silent thing that reached his uncle’s hips in height. The poor child would absorb his grandma’s fears, and hold them inside, and say nothing because that was how he’d made it this far.

Gideon sighed.

The best he could hope for was to protect them from each other. It was both the least he could do, and the most he could expect to accomplish. But these were not the best of times, and so far, he had not protected them from anything.

When there was nothing left to be done at the ruins of the Jefferson’s laboratory wing, Mary, Henry, and Gideon Bardsley climbed into Mary’s carriage and made the quick ride back to the Lincoln home. Once there, Mary left the two men in the library, where her husband was ensconced in his favorite chair with a blanket over his legs and a cup of coffee in his hand.

Thin, sallow Nelson Wellers sat in a chair across from the fire, and Polly stood by with the steaming pot, ready to dole out a warm beverage to the night-chilled newcomers.

“Gideon, Henry. Please come in. Take a seat,” the president urged. “Coffee, anyone?”

Henry politely waited while Polly served. When the maid finally pushed her little cart out of the room, he asked Lincoln, “So, the Pinkerton agent—she hasn’t arrived yet?”

Abraham Lincoln shook his head. “No, but any minute now, I should think.”

Gideon lifted an eyebrow as he dropped into a large leather chair.
“She?”

“Oh, yes. One of their finest investigators, or so I am assured. An eminently capable woman,” he said. “But Henry’s told you of your mother, I hope? She and Caleb are safe and sound, and Troost is en route to them as we speak.”

“Yes, the marshal told me. They’re in Tennessee.”

“It’s less than ideal.” Lincoln spoke aloud what Gideon had privately concluded. “But it’s the best possible arrangement at this time. If they run, the bloodhounds will chase them, so I think we can all agree that they’re better off hiding until we know precisely what we’re up against. Now, Henry”—he shifted topics so smoothly, Gideon didn’t have time to offer some gentle agreement—“that telegram you sent was
most
alarming. I was hoping you could give us the particulars, and perhaps fill in some of the gaps between what we heard last week and your present understanding of the situation.”

“It might be best to wait for the Pinkerton agent. He’ll need—I mean,
she’ll
need—to be briefed, and she might have questions.”

A deep gong rang through the first floor, and Lincoln smiled. “A good suggestion, and good timing, too. I believe that’s her.”

Nelson Wellers reached one hand into his coat as if he did not share the former president’s confidence that this visitor was a fellow agent, not something more sinister; and Henry Epperson tensed as well. But within moments Polly returned. She was flushed, and glanced nervously between the newcomer and the men in the room.

“Gentlemen,” she said. “I … um. This is … this is Maria Boyd. She says she’s with the Pinkertons, and she showed me her badge … but…”

“But nothing,” Lincoln nodded reassuringly. “All’s well, Polly, thank you. Could you bring us another pot of coffee, please? Our guest might care for a cup. And, Miss Boyd—that’s your preferred address, isn’t it? Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

Stunned out of their usual manners, Nelson Wellers and Henry Epperson stayed in their seats for another awkward beat, then fumbled their coffee cups aside and rose as they recalled that standing was the usual protocol when a woman arrived. But Gideon Bardsley stayed where he was. He, too, was dumbfounded, but even once his shock passed, he had no intention of rising.

Maria Boyd, better known in the papers as “Belle Boyd,” was of average height, with posture that indicated good breeding. True to rumor, hers was the sort of body to launch a thousand ships: voluminous, shapely breasts and a narrow waist, graceful shoulders and a long, lean neck, but only the very kind or terribly nearsighted had ever described her plain, horselike face as “beautiful.”

She was no longer the hoopskirted coquette from the gossip pages. Now the notorious spy of yore wore something simple but more modern, a gray dress that was full only at the rear. Gideon was idly surprised to note that the Cleopatra of the Confederacy must have fallen on hard times—for he knew an oft-worn, insufficient article of clothing when he saw one; and her black cotton coat could not have been enough to keep her warm, even when augmented with a blue wool scarf that did nothing to mask the outstanding swell of her figure.

Calmly, deliberately, she unwound the scarf and unbuttoned her overcoat. “Gentlemen,” she greeted the lot of them, even catching Gideon’s eye in a pointed display of acknowledgment. “And Mr. President, of course,” she said to Lincoln. “‘Miss Boyd’ will be fine.”

But when she dipped her head to remove her scarf entirely, Gideon saw a large black comb. A mourning piece.
Oh, yes,
he thought.
That’s right. Divorced, then later widowed.
By a Navy boy, wasn’t that the story? But that had been years ago now. Considering that she’d offered them no married name, maybe she wore it out of habit, or for lack of other baubles.

Henry Epperson gave her a little bow and began to babble. “Miss Boyd, yes, Miss Boyd. I suppose that’ll keep things simple, won’t it? And I am sorry, ma’am—I don’t mean to be rude or strange, it’s just that I’m very surprised, you understand. I didn’t realize you were the agent they’d sent, that’s all. I just didn’t know.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being surprised,” she assured him. She held her scarf in her hands like Henry would’ve held a hat, if he’d still been wearing one. She held it between herself and everyone else in the room. “I was more than a little surprised when I was given this case, I don’t mind telling you.”

The marshal held out his hand as if to take her elbow and guide her into the room, but she was out of reach. She followed the gesture anyway, when he said, “Please, won’t you pull up a chair and join us?”

“Thank you, I believe I will. I’ve read the files and I think my information is up to date, but I expect there’s quite a lot we can learn from one another, mister…?” she prompted him.

“Epperson. Henry Epperson. Just Henry, really, if you don’t mind. Over there is Dr. Wellers—I mean, Nelson Wellers,” he said.

She nodded. “Another agent, Mr. Pinkerton told me.”

He nodded back and slowly reclaimed his seat. “That’s correct. It’s … a pleasure to meet you. I’d heard you joined the company a few months ago. Excellent work on that
Clementine
case, or so they tell me.”

“You’re too kind.” She accepted the chair Henry brought her and drew herself forward into the circle. Once settled there, with her scarf now draped over the armrest, she addressed Gideon directly. “And I suppose that makes you Dr. Bardsley, the inventor. I’ve read quite a lot about you. They say you’re a genius.”

Gideon rubbed his thumb against the rim of his coffee cup. “Of course they do.” Then he said to the former president, “Mr. Lincoln, I don’t care what kind of badge this woman carries these days; she was a
Confederate
agent—I mean really, for God’s sake, it’s the only thing anyone knows her for. That and a mediocre production of
Macbeth.
”

Henry Epperson squeezed his coffee cup a little too tightly. “There’s no need to be rude, Dr. Bardsley.”

Lincoln said to the room at large, and to Maria in particular, “He’s often direct like that. It’s best not to take it personally.”

“She’s more than welcome to take it personally,” Gideon countered. “I
intend
it personally. She campaigned for my people’s enslavement—she was even a hero of the cause. I don’t want her help or need it. I’d never be able to trust it, if I took it.”

“Hero of the cause?” she repeated. “Dr. Bardsley, I was
evicted
from the cause because I loved the wrong man. So I lost my country and then I lost the man, too—on a Union submarine, might I point out.”

“All the more reason to doubt your sentiments,” he said flatly. “You have something to prove.
Everything
to prove, if you want your country back.”

“And what makes you think I
do
want my country back?” she snapped. “I left that whole ‘my country right or wrong’ business back in my first marriage, right along with ‘my husband right or wrong,’ and you can rest assured that the CSA wants no further dealings with me. Let me help you, Dr. Bardsley—let me help solve this problem your machine is so worried about.”

Nelson Wellers set his cup on the table beside the chair and put up his hands in a call for peace. “
Please,
Gideon … the woman is here at Mr. Lincoln’s request, sent by Mr. Pinkerton himself. If they can trust her expertise, you may as well trust it, too.”

Henry pleaded, “Really, Doc. Give her a chance.”

“Dr. Wellers. Mr. Epperson,” Maria said firmly. “I am grateful for your confidence, but I understand Dr. Bardsley’s reluctance to have me here.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

She jabbed back, “Do I understand it firsthand? No, obviously I don’t. And no one says you have to cooperate. You aren’t the first man to play rough because you can’t stand the sight of me, and you won’t be the last. But this is my job, and I’ll do it—with or without you. If you want to stand in the way of your own advocates, I suppose that’s your prerogative. If you’d like to find out what’s really going on here, then get on board and play nice.”

“Miss Boyd, I don’t take orders from Mr. Lincoln. You can safely bet I won’t take them from
you.
”

Maria Boyd appeared on the verge of losing her temper, but manners prevailed and she forced her composure to override her aggravation. “Again, doctor, that’s your decision. I don’t work for you, and I don’t have to make you happy. I work for Mr. Pinkerton, as do you—Dr. Wellers? And Mr. Epperson, you’re with the Marshals Service, is that correct?” It sounded like a too-desperate attempt to steer the conversation elsewhere, and to Gideon’s intense irritation, it worked.

The marshal relaxed, happy to have a more neutral topic in play. “Henry—just call me Henry, please. And, yes, that’s right. I suppose it was in your dossier from the agency?”

“Yes, because my employer knew you’d be present. Not much love lost between the Pinks and the service, is there?”

“No, ma’am, but this is a special case, and I trust we can all work together like civilized professionals,” he said, casting a quick look at Gideon, who neither melted nor argued. “The U.S. Marshals Service is prepared to cooperate with the Pinkertons, or any other organization which Mr. Lincoln sees fit to involve.”

Something about the strict formality nagged at Gideon’s attention, undermining his words. “I don’t believe you,” he blurted, before he’d really had time to work out
why.
“I think you’re here on your own time, or at least on your own recognizance.”

Nelson Wellers said, “Now, Gideon, that’s not called for…”

But Henry fidgeted in his seat, flicking glances between Lincoln and Maria Boyd, so Gideon pushed. “Marshals don’t play nice with Pinks. The Pinks only care about Mr. Lincoln here because he pays them—and maybe because the man on top still feels a little guilty about his son’s failings as a security agent; I don’t know. You’re not here on behalf of the service, and I want to hear you admit it.”

“All right, then: No, I’m not. Not exactly,” Henry admitted. “But I believe in ending the war, and Mr. Lincoln has become the foremost face of that effort. If anyone can do it, he can. And I want to help.”

Maria Boyd frowned. “And the Marshal Service doesn’t?”

It was Henry’s turn to shrug. “Yes, of
course
the service wants to help. As a point of particular interest, the marshals are increasingly interested in the disease threat out on the fronts. Evidence is mounting that we’re looking at something that could cost the Union its impending victory, something worse than illness.”

“Much worse,” Gideon interjected.

“Yes, thank you—and Mr. Lincoln tells me that your research and my suspicions dovetail nicely. The thing is, I’m confident there’s a money connection between the walking plague and certain warhawks in positions of power on
both
sides of the Mason-Dixon, and the service is not ready to commit to an investigation of people who are allegedly fighting on our side … people who would resent the implications of our interest, and are powerful enough to cause us problems.”

Maria’s frown became more thoughtful. “Warhawks sowing a plague.… That’s a dark theory, Mr. Epperson.”

“But you don’t doubt it, do you? That there are men—and women—capable of manipulating tragedy to their own benefit?”