Surrender the Wind (16 page)

Agatha gasped. Catherine clawed at Mallory’s hands. The light in the carriage dimmed. Her world tilted.

“I will never hear those words from your lips again. You will do everything I command now and in the future. My patience is gone.”

Agatha grabbed at Mallory’s hands. “You kill her, our objectives will be for nothing.”

Mallory threw Catherine against the seat. Her head snapped back. She sucked in gulps of air. Tears stung her eyes. She placed her hands on her throat, massaging the terrible pain. Fool. She had overplayed her cards. If Agatha had not counteracted his frenzy…it would have been her last breath.

“Get this straight, lass, there will be no more avoiding what is already clear. If you want to see your uncle alive, you will do everything I say.” His black eyes glittered as he traced the top of her breasts with his silver-headed cane.

Catherine hated him. Mallory had not mentioned John. The telegram…had John escaped? She clung to that hope.

Mallory smoothed a finger across his mustache. “There is the subject of Fitzgerald Rifle Works. Our engagement will be announced, and you will relinquish control of the company to me. Everyone will expect the man in your life to bear the responsibility.”

Better to keep her mouth shut until she could escape.

“I believe it is high time you’ve had a strong hand in your affairs, Catherine.” Agatha purred. “It will be a lovely wedding. You will be a handsome couple.”

Catherine was too dazed to notice her home on Fifth Avenue, a Venetian Gothic, an architectural triumph, her parents had lovingly created, placing the Fitzgerald stamp on it for generations to come, and now muddied by Mallory’s insertion. The carriage stopped under the porte-cochere. Mallory handed her down, charm back in place. In stunned silence, she walked into the foyer.

The butler’s eyes grew wide. “If there is anything I can do—”

Her hair had been torn from its pins, and she pulled it around to hide the dark bruises on her neck. “I wish to retire, Donnelly,” she said, clenching her hands to keep them from shaking. “Would you be so kind as to send Brigid to me?”

“Catherine,” Mallory barked. With slow grace, she turned on one of the double staircases, her head held high. No. Mallory would not see her terror.

He took her hand, kissed it, his tongue slithering over her wrist. She snatched it away.

“Do not fear for your safety,” he said, obviously for the benefit of the curious servants who had gathered to welcome their mistress. “I have posted armed guards around your home for protection. You may sleep well.” He smiled his threat.

A prisoner. No escape. Mallory would make sure of it this time.

* * *

Brigid O’Brian rushed into her room and locked the door.

“Good Lord, Miss. What has happened? There is a guard outside and Donnelly said—”

Catherine had been fingering the silver brushes on her vanity, but when her lady’s maid and dear friend, Brigid entered, she flew into her arms and wept.

“Why those—” Brigid uttered every Irish curse known upon Mallory’s and Agatha’s person.

When the plump maid saw the dark bruises upon Catherine’s neck, she cursed Mallory and Agatha further into perdition. “They’ll get their due when the devil gets a hold of them.” Brigid took over Catherine’s care, ordered a bath to be brought up, along with some creams that would help fade the bruises.

“Cook has sent up warm buttered croissants and soup, her special. You must eat.”

Catherine was comforted by her loyal staff. “Jimmy O’ Hara. I must get in contact with him. He is the only one to help me escape, but my every movement will be detailed and reported to Mallory by his men.”

I shall have to pay a visit to the orphanage to see how young Jimmy O’Hara is faring.”

“I am desperate. I cannot marry Mallory, I am already married.

“Married?” Brigid slapped her hands on her cheeks.

Catherine gave a brief synopsis of her time in Pleasant Valley. “Mallory will kill my uncle and John.”

* * *

The very next evening Catherine stood by her window and smiled. Further down the block, a fight ensued. The guard beneath her window was drawn away. A shadowy figure crossed the street and scrambled up a drain spout and crawled headlong into her bedroom.

Catherine hugged Jimmy and explained her difficulties. “I want you to take my mother’s jewels and sell them for the highest price. You have connections?”

Jimmy snorted. “You are speaking to Jimmy O’Hara.”

Along with other gems, she laid sparkling green stones set in diamonds in his hand. Her heart twisted. “The jewels are worth a fortune, and all I have to barter with. The emeralds were a gift from my father to my mother at the time of my birth. But my uncle and General Rourke’s lives are at stake.”

“I’ll do everything I can. We’ll ruin Mallory for his evil ways, you’ll see.” He stuffed the jewels in his pocket, scrambled out the window, slid down the drain spout and vanished into the night.

The following week her life was between the hammer and the anvil. Announcements touting the betrothal of Francis Mallory and Catherine Fitzgerald were made in all the major newspapers. The
New York Tribune
, acclaimed Mallory,
a fine dashing figure
and Catherine
as one whose beauty and refinement was without equal.

The year’s key event came with a host of invitations to balls, receptions, and parties held in their honor, and all of which Francis Mallory insisted on attending. Catherine was spun into an exhausting whirl of galas. No one wanted to be left out on the greatest occasion of social prominence. After all, the Fitzgerald’s name and fortune were likened to royalty, the distinction beyond compare.

To the public eye, it appeared that Francis Mallory gallantly unburdened the winsome beauty of her business. To Catherine, it was the bargain to free John and Father Callahan.

Day after tedious day dragged by and Mallory never missed an opportunity to remind her that their fate rested in her hands. She could not sleep or eat. Jimmy and his crew combed the city for Father Callahan and John. He would find a trail and then it frustratingly would turn cold. Never giving up, Jimmy sent a boy to Pleasant Valley. His nightly visits kept her hopes alive.

* * *

“It wouldn’t be proper.” Mallory astounded her by insisting on a long engagement, granting a reprieve from the actual wedding. Catherine suspected another reason. He wanted to milk the engagement and its publicity as long as possible, enabling him entry into the blue-blooded society he craved. Everyone knew of the thug part of his background, somewhat whitewashed when he had swindled the Mallory fortune. Others chose to forget his pedigree or were too frightened to mention his nebulous past. With Catherine upon his arm, he would cement his ticket into a world that would have rejected him in any other way.

The servant poured Catherine’s tea in the breakfast room. Every morning, Mallory prevailed over her home, insisting that she have all meals with him. Her hands curled into her napkin. If her brother were here none of this would be occurring. He finished his eggs, picked up a pile of mail, one by one, sliced through each envelope and read.

He paused overlong on one correspondence, rolled his waxed mustache in concentration. “Washington. A change in scenery will be wonderful. We’ll mix business with pleasure.”

She could not have been more surprised if he had declared an expedition to China.

What game was he up to?

Finally, Agatha, Catherine, Brigid and a few selected servants with Mallory leading the way, boarded a train to Washington. A few hours into the journey, an odd figure moved down the aisle. To think she barely recognized him,
Jimmy O’Hara
. He had adopted several disguises of late. With a conspiratorial wink he gave her, he fell into Francis Mallory, offering numerous apologies. Catherine excused herself, and under her guards’ watchful eyes, made her way to the ladies lounge. She closed the door, and breathed, releasing tense muscles, and then someone tapped her on the shoulder.

Catherine whirled. “Jimmy, you gave me such a start.” She scanned the lounge.

“No one’s here. Has Mallory been bothering you?”

She adored him for his concern. “Nothing I can’t handle.” Mallory was unpredictable. How long could she hold him off? “Any news?”

Jimmy had a wide open grin.

She hugged him. “You dear boy. You found them.”

“Yes and no.”

“What do you mean?”

“My friend returned from Pleasant Valley. They talked to a kid named Samuel. He told them someone had helped General Rourke escape the day you returned to New York. Did a lot of damage to Mallory’s goons, but he couldn’t say who.”

Catherine’s fingers flew to her throat, recalling how Francis had tried to strangle her in the carriage. “No wonder he was so angry when we had stepped off the train that day and Agatha had handed him a telegram. It was about John’s escape. But who? There is no one I can think of in that little town who would have helped him.”

Catherine returned to her seat, Francis raging about his wallet missing.
Jimmy.
It was the first time Catherine had smiled in a long time.

After four days of hard riding down the Shenandoah Valley, John joined up with General Lee, his old commander astonished from General Rourke’s reappearance from the dead. John gave a brief summation of his capture, and escape, albeit minus certain details. Lee rejoiced at having one of his favorite fighting generals’ return. Like the prodigal son, John was immediately reassigned by Lee to his old division.

A very tired and weary General Lee brought John up to date on Grant’s hard push south. They had withdrawn from the deep gloom of the Wilderness where John had fallen, had left behind the enormous struggles at Spotsylvania, then North and South Anna, including names such as the Bloody Angle. Lee had received reports that Joe Johnston’s men were being pushed by Sherman through Georgia and, of course, the sad news of General Jeb Stuart’s tragic death. Casualty lists were staggering as Grant persisted with his campaign. Twenty-four thousand Confederate soldiers were killed, wounded, or captured. John cursed time and again for dallying north when the Confederacy so desperately needed him.

That evening he met with General Lee and some of the officers at headquarters in Shady Grove Church. Discussion centered on reports of Union movements. Scouts told of various activities on the Confederate left and even more on its right. General Lee listened as several officers made light of Grant’s leadership to the point of scoffing.

“Gentlemen…” the gray-haired army chief addressed his commanders. “I think that General Grant has managed his affairs well up to the present time.”

But General Hill was in a more argumentative mood. “General Lee, let them continue to attack our breastworks, we can stand that very well.”

“I’m still thinking in terms of offense, not defense. This army cannot stand a siege,” Lee said, rising to continue his rounds. “I’m thinking now of Richmond or further ahead to Petersburg. It is imperative we hold the line at Cold Harbor. Our misfortune is that our opponent, General Grant, knows the importance of Cold Harbor as well.”

Listening to all the reports and making a quick survey of the maps, General Rourke also realized the importance of Cold Harbor. It was twelve miles direct route to Richmond. Like Lee, John understood never to underestimate the tenacious hammering blows of Grant.

“Have Wilcox’s and Breckinridge’s commands solidified Turkey Hill?” Lee asked. It was a sore point, for earlier in the day he had ordered Hoke and Anderson to stretch their lines southward and secure the area. It had not been done and Yankee pickets had seized control.

“Yes Sir. There was a sharp fight, but we cleared the hill. Our artillery now ranges the Chickahominy bottoms on the right.”

“Good,” Lee said. “Now my forces will be secure from being flanked.”

“My corps have come up against the main body of Union troops,” said General Jubal Early.

“This further confirms in my mind that our next engagement will be at Cold Harbor. That will be all gentlemen,” Lee said.

* * *

General Rourke made haste to his division, greeted by the cheers of his men as they crowded around his horse. However there was little time for welcoming as he learned that the enemy was concentrating in the woods in front. He ordered his men to solidify their entrenchments, which they met with great zeal as their commander had returned to lead them to victory.

John walked into his old tent to pore over the maps. He was singularly exact in matters of this kind…in surveying his maps and knowing his battle strengths. The maps showed wooded lands and swampy terrain. He scanned several picket and scouting reports. Within two minutes of careful observation, he decided what best strategy to undertake with his men. When he was finished he exited his tent and gazed at the oak tree across from him. It had the same peculiar bent as the oak in Catherine’s yard.

An orderly hit a tent stake with his foot, dishing out an avalanche of rainwater off the canvas roof, distracting him. At that same moment his adjutant, Ian MacDougal, appeared, extended one burly arm and offered his equally burly hand.

“Glad to have you back, Sir”

Shaking the man’s hand, John smiled. The man’s strength hadn’t waned. A fierce fighter, MacDougal was like an ancient Scottish warrior down from the Highlands. A large barrel of a man, leaner at present, with keen blue eyes that missed nothing and canopied with thick, bushy eyebrows that drew together in a line when he frowned. His hair was a shock of wild red, matching his fiery personality.

A lively man at one time, his forty-five years had been muted by the war, but mostly from the loss of his wife with whom he’d lived an idyllic life on a farm in northern Virginia. She had scoffed at Ian’s need to fight with the rebels, seeing no sense in the war. She had remained behind, taking care of their small farm. When a battle was fought over her threshold, she filled her home with injured Yanks and nursed them back to health. One day, a stray cannonball hit her home, killing her instantly. None of the Union soldiers were hurt. Ian MacDougal took the news hard. John had never seen a man cry like MacDougal did that day, nor had he seen him cry again.