The Lady and the Officer (26 page)

“Joseph intends to take me to Varina's ball if it is still held as planned.” Eugenia's wide smiled revealed almost every tooth in her mouth.

Aunt Clarisa arched an eyebrow. “Her name is Mrs. Davis, young lady. As an unmarried woman, you are not her social equal and thus not entitled to such familiarity.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Eugenia took dainty bites of scrambled eggs. Since she met a beau, her appetite had diminished to that of a sparrow. “Mother Penrod said she will teach me to play the harp. We shall begin the lessons on Sunday after church.”

Clarisa blew out a breath of exasperation. “Please refer to her as
Mrs.
Penrod, Eugenia. You're becoming too bold at this stage of courtship. You musn't allow your behavior to become a black mark against your suitability as a wife.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Eugenia said again, dropping her focus to the tablecloth as she reined in her carefree ebullience.

“Perish the thought of a black mark,” Uncle John said sardonically. “Explain to me why you've stopped attending Sunday Mass with us.” He scowled over his half-moon reading glasses.

Eugenia's smile reappeared. “That's easy, Papa. Now I go to Joseph's—I mean, Major Penrod's church. We sing more hymns than at our service.”

“Kathleen!” Uncle John thundered. “Bring us more coffee.” He lowered his tone to address his daughter. “When and
if
you and the major wed, then you may change to your husband's denomination. Until then I expect you to attend church with us.”

“But I've been going to the Methodist Church for weeks. Neither you nor Mama has said a word.” Her luminous blue eyes filled with tears.

“I was tolerant during the holiday season. You would appear ill-bred if you so quickly dismissed the faith of your father and grandfather.”

Madeline thought Eugenia would slip from her chair into a pile of starched skirts and petticoats. She began whimpering like a hungry mongrel at the back door.

Aunt Clarisa inserted a measure of compromise into the stalemate.
“Perhaps Eugenia could attend early Mass with us and then the later service with the Penrods. I've never known Alma to be an early riser. Would that be all right with you, dear?”

Folding his newspaper, Uncle John dropped it on the table. “Very well. We'll see how long two services per Sunday last with someone so fond of her goose down pillow and thick quilts.”

Madeline cleared her throat. “If you've finished the
Richmond Times Dispatch
, may I take it with me to read?” She extended a hand toward her uncle as she spoke.

“Of course. There's no good news anyway. Shortages of this, shortages of that, and that blackheart Jonas Weems pointing fingers at anyone not born and raised in Richmond. He's on a witch hunt to catch traitors, but I think it's just a ploy to sell newspapers. Weems considers any single female from the North a seductress or a courtesan here to ply information from unsuspecting men. What rubbish. Better to hide under a rock until this whole nasty business is finished.”

Madeline glanced nervously at her aunt and cousin, but they were planning their next trap for the hapless Major Penrod and not paying attention to her. Madeline finished her eggs quickly, grabbed the paper, and refilled her coffee cup in the kitchen.

“Where you going?” asked Esther, stopping Madeline in her tracks.

Her entire breakfast felt like a boulder in her gut. “I thought I would read in the garden and enjoy another cup of coffee.”

“Where do you come from, Miz Howard? It's January. This ain't some island in the South Seas like in those yellow-backed stories Miss Eugenia reads.” The cook wrapped a heavy woolen cloak around her as though she were a child and buttoned it to her chin.

“Thank you, Esther. I'll come in the moment I get cold.”

In the privacy of the backyard, Madeline scanned each page for news of her beloved James, as she had every day since hearing the gruesome news in the hospital. The paper contained a chilling account of parents still claiming bodies in Pennsylvania for reburial in Virginia. She found a list of soldiers who had recently died at Chimborazo from wounds or disease. There was a desperate plea from Mr. Davis for silver, gold, or Yankee greenbacks to buy munitions for the Cause. But the small amount of
war news had to do with the exploits of Ulysses S. Grant out west, near a town called Knoxville.

There was no mention of any Union corps commanders succumbing to a shoulder wound.

“Thank You, Lord,” she whispered. Refolding the newspaper, Madeline slipped inside the warm kitchen unnoticed except by Esther.

“Done with your reading so soon, Miz Howard?” The cook's hands were coated with flour.

“Yes, all finished.” Madeline set the paper on a counter. “Please tell Mrs. Duncan that I went to St. Patrick's.”

“What for? It ain't Sunday, and you ain't Catholic.”

“Correct on both counts, but Father Michael said I could accompany him on his rounds again today.”

“You're going back to that hospital? Mr. Duncan ain't gonna like it.” Esther stopped kneading dough and fixed a frown on her creased face.

“Then you needn't worry because Chimborazo isn't where we're headed.” She grabbed the basket she'd packed earlier and hurried out the door before Esther could ask more questions. Madeline didn't wish to explain she was on her way to Libby Prison—not to her aunt, and certainly not to her uncle.

She walked to the rectory, not daring to involve Micah or borrow the carriage. Once she was there, Father Michael hailed a passing coach to take them to the facility that held captured Union officers. Climbing into the carriage, she set her basket on the leather seat.

“What have you brought for the prisoners, Mrs. Howard? I do love Esther's apple-cornmeal muffins, in case there's a broken one.” The priest rubbed his hands together with anticipation.

“Sorry, Father. I just have leftovers from meals from the last few days: a few slices of ham, four sugared yams, and some plum jam with toast squares. No muffins today. I saved uneaten food so as not to create additional expense for my uncle and aunt. I daresay the dance to celebrate the New Year crimped their budget.”

The priest sighed. “ 'Tis a sad day when my wealthiest parishioners feel the pinch of this extended conflict. I pray each night for the Union soldiers to simply go home and leave Virginia in peace.”

Madeline smiled at him. She felt ill equipped to discuss with a man of the cloth why the Union couldn't simply “go home.” She doubted God looked favorably on either side after so much bloodshed and cruelty.

Libby Prison was a long, brick warehouse standing four stories tall with a tin roof and tall windows. A sign still hung at its post on the corner angle: Libby & Sons, Ship Chandlers and Grocers, but inside provisions were in short supply. Formerly filled with barrels and boxes, the building was now overflowing with Union officers. Libby stood beside the Lynchburg Canal with a good view of the James River. Three long, white bridges spanned the waterway, their supports hidden by thick, entwining foliage. On a clear day Belle Isle could be seen downstream, its white tents flapping in the breeze. The charming name belied the wartime prison home for thousands of enlisted men without solid walls to offer protection from the elements. Directly across the James from Libby were a row of factories and the small village of Manchester.

Because Libby housed officers and not enlisted soldiers, Father Michael was permitted inside a common area where he said Mass and provided communion to Roman Catholics once a week. Madeline was also admitted after signing a roster at the front desk. Relatively unfamiliar with the liturgy, she stood clutching her basket against the wall with other non-Catholics.

When Father Michael paused to hear the private confessions of several prisoners, Madeline approached a spectator standing near the barred windows. “Would you care for something to eat, sir? It's not much. Just a few leftovers from home.”

“Thank you, ma'am. Whatever you got has to be better than what's served in here.” The man reached into the hamper, grabbed a cold yam, and ate it ravenously. “I taste brown sugar or maybe honey on this?”

Before she could answer, the metal door they had entered through banged open. In marched an officious-looking man flanked by two armed guards and the soldier who manned the front desk.

“That's her, Colonel.” The soldier who had previously paid her little attention pointed a crooked finger.

“Seize that basket and that prisoner!” The colonel gestured toward the yam-eater.

When the Confederate guards reached where Madeline stood, the officer glared down at her. “You will come with us, Mrs. Howard.”

“Of course, sir,” she replied graciously, not in keeping with her inner turmoil or the woeful surroundings.

On her way from the common room, Madeline cast a sidelong glance at Father Michael. From his expression, the priest was surprised and concerned. With each step down the long hallway, Madeline's courage flagged. When they reached a heavy iron door, a guard pulled the basket from her hands, along with her reticule, and herded her into a windowless room with a table, several chairs, and a cot.

A cot? Surely they aren't going to arrest me and keep me in this loathsome place.

Her fear must have been palpable, because the colonel's features softened slightly. “You are not under arrest, Mrs. Howard. Not at this time, anyway. Sit.” He pointed at a chair. “A matron will go through your basket and bag for any messages or contraband goods. The Yankee officer you were talking to instead of worshipping will also be searched, along with those sweet potatoes.”

“I carried no messages inside Libby, only food.” Madeline forced herself to speak clearly. “And I didn't participate in the service because I'm not Catholic.” She swallowed down the sour taste of bile.

“Then the question begging to be asked is why would you come today?” The colonel's steel gray eyes practically bored holes through her forehead.

“I felt sorry for your prisoners and brought them some food.”

His face registered surprise. “Then you don't deny being a Union sympathizer?”

Madeline was unsure how to respond, but she could think of nothing other than the truth. “I don't deny it, but I also aided Rebel soldiers when I lived in Pennsylvania after the battle of Gettysburg.”

The colonel's expression changed to contempt. “Your one-woman humanitarian league isn't welcome in Libby. You are neither a nurse nor a person of the cloth. Wait here. A matron will come to search your person. If we find nothing suspect, you will be free to leave.” Tugging on his gloves, he said sternly, “But I strongly advise you never to return. Union
sympathizers have no place in Libby or anywhere else in Richmond, for that matter.”

The metal door clanged shut behind him. Madeline was left alone to shiver and fret until a distasteful woman showed up some time later. Never before in her life had she been forced to strip down to bloomers, chemise, and bare feet in front of a stranger in a cold room. She could remember nothing said during the carriage ride back to St. Patrick's. Gratefully, Father Michael insisted on seeing her home. She would remember little of her explanation to Aunt Clarisa or Eugenia when she entered the house, pale and wan. All she recalled after her ordeal was scrubbing in a tub until the water turned cold and still not feeling clean.

Later, she ate a meager supper in the kitchen and then crawled under the quilt in her room. Yet no matter how she tossed and turned, Madeline couldn't sleep.

The man she'd spoken to in Chimborazo kept running through her mind. The soldier had said James had been shot while scouting around the town of Remington.

Remington.
Repeating the name over and over didn't lull her into slumber. Instead, she was galvanized to action in the dead of night. Lowering the wick of her oil lamp, Madeline crept downstairs and through the house, certain she would be discovered at any moment. In her uncle's library hung a framed map of Virginia. Madeline had remarked several times about it, marveling at the details included by the mapmaker.

Once she reached the cluttered room and closed the door, she exhaled with relief. Turning up the wick of her lamp, she studied the towns west of Richmond in a methodical radius. Finally her fingers landed on the black dot of Remington and then the name Culpeper drew her like a beacon. Uncle John had complained several times that his brother's home now lay under Yankee control.

Could I possibly leave Richmond and reach Culpeper? What excuse would I have to make such a trip?

With her blood throbbing at her temples, Madeline blew out the lamp and then walked soundlessly back to her room. She had the flame of love illuminating her path. Because no matter what the risk, she knew she must try. Withdrawing a sheet of paper and a bottle of ink from her drawer, she penned a long-overdue answer to his letter—the one she still hadn't found.

Dear James,

I pray this finds you well, if it finds you at all. I received your letter last month and have been remiss in replying. Uncertainty had stayed my hand—uncertainty and cowardice. But I will be a coward no longer.