Traces of Mercy (26 page)

“I may not be here next week,” Mercy said. “I’m going to tell Mother Helena in the morning that I won’t be staying.”

“You just got back,” Deirdre said, puzzled.

“I know. I just needed a safe place to think for a few days,” Mercy said, “but the fact of the matter is that my situation hasn’t changed since the last time Mother asked me to leave. I am not a nun. And I don’t intend to become a nun. It’s not right that I stay.”

“Where will you go?” Deirdre asked.

“I don’t know yet,” Mercy said evasively. “Maybe west.”

“I’ve heard there are a lot of hostile Indians in the West,” Deirdre said. “Won’t you be scared to travel alone?”

Mercy didn’t seem to be aware that she smiled. “No. I won’t be scared.”

“But you’ll be alone.”

Mercy ignored the statement. Instead, she pointed at the table. “There’s one more plate over there, Deirdre. Will you get it for me?”

Deirdre retrieved the plate, and when Mercy dropped it into the dishwater, she started to hum again.

If she’s sad, she certainly has an odd way of showing it
, Deirdre thought.
I’m the one who is grousing about the children; I’m the one who has no appetite and tosses and turns and can’t seem to fall asleep at night
.
But not Mercy. She drops her nightdress over her head, brushes out her hair, and is sleeping in no time at all
. There was a time, she remembered, when Mercy would keep the flame lit long into the night so she could write in that journal of hers—but Deirdre hadn’t seen her do that since her return. Strange, since the journal would be the perfect place for Mercy to pour out her thoughts about her poor broken heart. Maybe she had outgrown the need to write in the journal—or maybe she was too excited about her future to do any more thinking about her past.

Mercy was still humming as she hung up the dish towel and smiled distractedly at Deirdre before leaving the kitchen. And Deirdre was still wondering what on earth Mercy was up to and how she was going to find out.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
N
INE

It was hard to pretend he was sad. But Rand dutifully and purposefully worked at a countenance that would show both his parents and strangers alike that he was just trying to get past the whole distasteful affair and soldier on with his life. His mother, racing to save face as best she could with the whole debacle, had been quick to place a small announcement in the city paper stating that the wedding was off. Telegrams were sent to those important enough to warrant them—and of course messengers were dispatched to close family friends. Rand and his parents had agreed on a pat response to the cancellation of the wedding: The bride and groom mutually decided it was in their best interest not to go forward. Differences were too broad to bridge.

Rand went back to work for appearance’s sake and saw looks of pity from his father’s employees. A few were bold enough to express their support of his decision not to go through with the wedding, but for the most part, people ignored the subject altogether, which was fine by him. He knew that when he disappeared with Mercy, tongues would wag again, but he didn’t care. She was all he wanted.

He was checking things off his list—things he had to do in order to get out of town and never look back. The biggest sigh of relief had come after his visit to the bank. Mitch Bryant, president of St. Louis Trust, had balked when Rand asked him to pull almost all the money out of his account.

“That’s a sizable amount for a honeymoon, Rand,” Mitch joked.

“I may as well tell you, Mitch,” Rand said with proper gravity in his voice. “The wedding has been called off—so obviously there won’t be a honeymoon.”

“I’m sorry, Rand. I didn’t know,” Mitch said.

“I’m sure you can understand if I don’t want to get into specifics about what happened.”

“Of course,” Mitch said, then frowned. “But you still want to withdraw nearly all your funds?”

Rand nodded. “I need to do something to get back on track. I’m going to build my own house—with my own money.”

“St. Louis Trust would be more than willing to loan you the money to build, Rand. You needn’t liquidate your account to pay for that.”

Rand shook his head. “I want to pay as I go. And quite honestly, I’m trying to do this on my own—without backing from the bank or my parents. The project will help me keep my mind off of … current circumstances.”

Mitch nodded. “Of course. It will take me a day or so to come up with that kind of cash. Can you come back tomorrow afternoon?”

Rand slid the valise with his cash under the bed in his room. He’d left things at his office neat and tidy with instructions for anyone taking over the accounts he handled. He’d decided he would take very little with him when he and Mercy left. There was a carriage that had seen better days in the back of the stables that would suffice to get them out of St. Louis. There was one last thing to do before he went to collect Mercy, and that was to retrieve her engagement ring from the cottage. It was the only thing of sentimental value he would take from his life as Rand Prescott. He smiled. In less than forty-eight hours, he and Mercy could be man and wife.

There was a knock on his bedroom door. Rand opened it and found Ellis standing in the hall.

“Someone is here to see you, Mr. Prescott,” Ellis said.

Rand stepped outside to see Deirdre standing on the veranda.

“Deirdre?” he said, making his way toward her.

“Hello, Rand. I’m sorry to be showing up unannounced like this, but I need to speak to you.”

“Is this about Mercy? Is she all right?” He couldn’t seem to stop the unveiled concern in his voice.

Deirdre raised her brows. “Mercy is fine.”

He relaxed. “Then might I ask what it is that brings you here?”

She hesitated. “The truth. The truth brings me here.”

“What truth?” Rand asked.

“You are still in love with Mercy.” He heard no question in the statement. Saw no hint that she was fishing for her answer. Rand could see that she firmly believed it.

“Not to be rude, but the way I feel should be of no concern to you,” Rand said.

“I think of you as a friend, Rand. A personal friend and a friend to the Little Sisters of Hope. I am always concerned about a friend’s well-being.”

Rand’s smile was strained. “I appreciate your concern, but you needn’t worry about me. The feelings I had for Mercy have … faded. I am surviving the end of our relationship and will go on with my life just fine.”

“Mercy seems as though she is surviving fine as well,” Deirdre said in a speculative tone. “The poor girl was a wreck the day she arrived at the convent, but then strangely, she seems to have found a certain peace about the situation.”

“That’s good. Good that we can both look toward the future and not cry about the past.”

Deirdre studied him. “The past. Yes. It’s my guess that Mercy remembering her past is probably what ended your relationship.”

His incredulous look was all Deirdre needed to confirm her suspicions.

“She hasn’t told you, has she?”

“She’s told me everything she remembers. Everything there is to tell—which is nothing at all,” he insisted.

“Then you knew that she was a soldier in the war? A
Confederate
soldier?”

Rand’s brows shot up, and he barked out a laugh. “You are a desperate, silly girl, aren’t you?”

She shook her head. “I’m just trying to protect you, Rand. ’Tis all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

He grew serious and lowered his voice. “No. You’re just jealous and want to spoil everything. You want what Mercy has.”

“You mean you?” She raised her brows. “That’s insulting. I am all but married to the church.”

Rand took a step closer to Deirdre, his expression an angry scowl. Deirdre backed up as he lessened the space between them.

“You want to wear pretty dresses and go to dances and be kissed in the moonlight,” he said. “That is why you’re making things up about Mercy.”

He could see her flush at his assessment, but she remained firm in her resolve.

“It’s up to you if you want to believe the truth or not,” she said. “My wants and desires have nothing to do with the fact that your fiancée most likely killed Union men.”

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Deirdre,” Rand said, barely able to control his anger.

“You don’t have to take my word for it,” she said, holding out a leather-bound book toward him. “She has kept a journal since Dr. Johnson treated her. It’s all in here, Rand. In her own words—her own confessions.”

Rand remained motionless as Deirdre continued to hold out the journal between them. “The truth can be a terribly painful thing to face—but God still wants us to face it,” she said.

When Rand still didn’t react, Deirdre dropped the hand holding the journal. “Fine. Don’t read it. But you’ll wonder for the rest of your life what’s in that book.”

Rand reached out and grabbed the journal from Deirdre. She inclined her head toward him. “I will say a prayer for your peace.”

Without another word, she turned and left him standing there with the book she knew would change everything.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY

Rand sat in the study with the door locked. It was the only place he knew his mother wouldn’t come looking for him. It would never cross her mind that Rand would consider entering his father’s sanctum when Charles wasn’t home. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since Deirdre’s visit—an hour … maybe two? He held the journal in his lap and rifled through page after page of Mercy’s neat handwriting, looking for the one inflammatory word that would prove Deirdre’s claim. And then he saw it tucked in the middle of a page in a sentence that shattered everything for him.

I don’t want to believe it—but I do. I fought for the Confederacy in the war.

He read the sentence over and over:
I fought for the Confederacy in the war. The Confederacy, the Confederacy, the Confederacy.

He kept reading:
Why? What could have possibly driven me to dress as a man and take up arms? How did I get away with that? I have most likely killed men in the heat of battle. I look in the mirror and search my eyes for hints that I have seen death up close. But all I see is confusion and worry. What to do with this information?

In a blind panic now, Rand practically tore through the pages, scanning, glancing, running his finger down the ink as he looked for more of the same truth that had already made him sick.

The clock is ticking, and unless I find a way out of this mess, he will reveal my secret.

Rand stopped and stared at the words. Someone knew about her past? Someone knew her secret? He read on:
I can’t let that happen. Rand can’t find out. It would kill me to see the look on his face that I can be counted among those he hates.

I have no doubt that the Yankee will tell what he knows, so how do I stop the inevitable? How to keep the future I want without letting my past take it all away? I know this much—I can shoot. And I know I can hit my target.

I need only finish my mission to put this all behind me where it belongs. Apparently, I failed once before at my task—but I cannot fail again. Remembering tonight how the dogs flushed the birds from the bushes at the hunt with Rand. Hidden from view one minute, then out in the open—vulnerable to the hunter and his rifle. Her rifle. I can’t use dogs—but there are other ways of flushing him out.

He turned page—
kerosene and some rags—
after page—
fire makes smoke. Smoke will drive him out—
after page—
done under cover of darkness.

As Rand read the last words,
I hope God can forgive me
,
he sat back against the wing-back leather chair and let the knowledge wash over him. He had fallen in love with the enemy—asked someone with a reb background to marry him. Someone who was attempting to kill even after the war had ended. With a look of resolve, he closed the journal, then wiped his sweaty hands against his trousers. Everything had changed.