Shadow of Dawn (13 page)

She struggled to her feet. “What are you
doing to Uncle Martin’s carriage?” she cried, running toward him.
Obviously he was crazy, going around masquerading as her
husband.

“Where is Andrew? What have you done—”

She stopped as another shocking realization
swept over her. It had never been Andrew. There was no doubt in her
mind of that. The man who had gotten off the train that day was
Clayton Pierce, and it was Clayton who had lived in Martin’s house
as her husband. It was Clayton to whom she had read during those
many pleasant hours; it was Clayton to whom she had bared her
heart.…

He was coming swiftly toward her. She struck
him in the chest with her fists, tears streaming down her face.
“What have you done with Andrew? Where is he? Why have you done
this to me?”

“I’ll explain everything,” he said, setting
her hands from him, “but we have to move fast. Can you ride a
horse?”

She nodded, but before she could say anything
else he was pulling her toward the horses. The three bushwhacker’s
horses were gone and the men, whether dead or unconscious, were
gone too; she didn’t want to know what he had done with them. The
dead driver lay by the side of the road. She saw that Clayton had
taken the lunch basket from the carriage and tied it to one of the
horses.

“Take off your hoop,” he said.

A protest died on her lips as she saw his
reasoning—the hoop made her skirt and layers of petticoats
difficult to manage. He turned his back impatiently and she quickly
untied the hoop and stepped out of it. Clayton scooped it up and
hurled it away. It landed in the top of a pine tree. Catherine
peered downward at the smashed carriage.

“Anything that confuses them will buy us
time,” he said. “Now get on the horse.”

He helped her mount one of the horses, then
swung astride the other. Looking back, he surveyed the scene one
last time. He rode over to the tree where she had lain and
retrieved his coat. He put it on, then took off his gloves, rode
back and handed them to her. “Put these on over yours. They’ll help
a little. We can’t use the roads,” he told her,

leading the way into the woods.

They rode ceaselessly, using abandoned bridle
paths and sometimes no path at all. Clayton seemed to know where
they were going. At times he would stop and listen intently, every
sense alive and alert. Then they would go on, riding as swiftly as
possible among the trees and brambles, up and down steep slopes,
across winding streams and deep-cut gulches lined with gravel.

Squirrels and rabbits and sometimes a fox
scurried away from them, and once in a while Catherine caught a
glimpse of a curious raccoon or a fat, waddling possum. She
wondered uneasily if bears ever ventured this far down from the
mountains. Her hands and exposed ankles felt frozen, and not being
accustomed to the saddle, her posterior hurt more than a
little.

In view of the circumstances, she would
rather die where she sat than complain to Clayton. As they rode on
and another hour went by, she became convinced that she would do
just that. She felt dizzy and light-headed, as though she were
about to faint again. Her stays cut into her ribs, and every time
she tried to take a deep breath of the cold air, she grew dizzier.
The jarring movements of the horse made her neck ache.

She felt herself sway, her head bending
downward into the horse’s mane. Then the next thing she knew, hands
were lifting her off the horse and she was sitting under the trees
on a bed of dead leaves and twigs.

“I’m sorry, Catherine. I’ve pushed you too
hard.”

She blinked her eyes and looked around her.
Only trees, bare of leaves, and the dead undergrowth surrounded
them for as far as she could see. The pallid rays of the winter sun
slanted through the naked branches and she could tell it was almost
dusk. Far off a deer leaped over a fallen log and disappeared, the
sound of its running clear in the deep, cold silence.

Clayton had brought the lunch basket and he
rummaged around inside. “Eat this,” he said, handing her a torn
piece of bread and an apple. While she ate, he poured water from
the bottle into a cup and handed it to her.

She began to feel better and finally made
herself look at him. He was pulling off more bread for himself and
pouring another cup of water.

“Who are we running from?” she asked.

He glanced at her briefly. “We mustn’t talk
now. I promise you I’ll explain everything. We’ll be safe once we
reach Richmond…they won’t risk following us there. I’ll take you to
the hospital where you’ve been working so we can find a place to
talk. Are you all right?”

“I feel like an icicle about to break into a
thousand pieces,” she said crossly.

He stuffed the cups and the bottle of water
back into the basket and got to his feet. “Stand up,” he said.

She let him take her hands and pull her
upright. “These gloves are too light, aren’t they, to do you much
good. Here, take my coat.”

“No,” she gasped, reaching out in a gesture
of protest. “You’ll freeze to death. I won’t take it.”

But he was already taking it off. He undid
the catch at her throat and removed her cloak, put her arms
forcibly into his coat sleeves even as she kept protesting, and
buttoned it. Then unexpectedly he pulled her close against him, his
arms enfolding her, and held her for a long moment.

She turned her face against his chest so that
her head rested beneath his chin. She felt warm and safe. But she
had to ask.

“Where is Andrew?” she whispered.

He said nothing for a moment. Then he moved
away a little, put her cloak back around her, and fastened it. He
took the black scarf he had worn out of his pocket, placed it over
the top of her head and tied it under her chin, so that her ears
were covered against the cold. Only then did he pause, and look
into her eyes.

“Please, Catherine. Wait until we get to
Richmond.”

He helped her back onto her horse and they
were on their way. But a suspicion, as certain as knowledge, took
firm root in Catherine’s mind.

***

It had grown dark by the time they reached
the city. The street lamps had been lit and the windows of the
houses glowed from within as they made their way to the
hospital.

They had had a scare. At least Catherine had
been frightened out of her wits. Clayton acted as though this sort
of thing happened every day. Forced by the density of the trees and
the increasing darkness to draw nearer and nearer to the main road,
they stopped abruptly at the sound of voices. The words carried
clearly in the still night air.

“Have you seen them?”

“They haven’t been this way, sir.”

The other man cursed. “I knew we should have
taken the woods. Still, they had a good head start. Keep
looking.”

Catherine’s horse began to nicker, its breath
pluming into the frosty air, and Clayton’s hand went out swiftly to
cover its nose. The sound went undetected and they listened as hoof
beats faded into the distance. One of those men had been Lieutenant
Hadley.

No one paid them any mind as they rode to the
back entrance of the hospital, where an attendant took their
horses.

“Keep this one ready,” Clayton told the young
man. “I’ll be right back.”

He escorted Catherine down the corridors
until he came to what appeared to be a doctor’s study. A man walked
out of an adjoining room. He was gray-haired and gray-bearded and
wore spectacles, which he adjusted as he peered at them.

“Why, hello, Clayton. Hello, miss.”

Catherine returned the greeting, still in a
cloud of confusion. Clayton seemed to know his way around the
hospital quite well. She recognized the doctor as one she’d seen
before, though he never came to her ward and she did not know his
name.

“Dr. Edwards, this is Mrs. Kelly. May we use
your office for a while? We need to have a private discussion.”

“Why, certainly. I was just about to go back
to the wards. Pleased to meet you, ma’am. I’ve seen you do some
fine nursing. Good evening.”

When he had gone, Clayton steered her toward
the fireplace. The logs had burned low and he reached down to put
more wood on top of them. The fire crackled and began to blaze. Too
numbed to move, Catherine stood still and stared at it. Clayton
removed her cloak from her, along with the coat, gloves and scarf.
She became aware that he was putting on his overcoat.

“You’re leaving?” she said, startled out of
her strange lethargy.

“There’s someone I must see. I won’t be
long.” He roamed about the room for a moment, spotted a decanter,
and poured some of the amber liquid into two glasses. “Drink this,”
he said, handing one to her.

She obeyed him simply because she was too
weak to argue. She had never drunk liquor in her life. She made a
face at the taste but managed to swallow it. Clayton took his in
two gulps and set down the glass.

“You’ve been very patient and very brave,” he
said, going to stand before her. “Wait for me here. I’ll be back
within the hour.”

“But where are you going?” She noticed with a
feeling of absurdity that her speech was slightly slurred, not
because of the whiskey but because her tongue felt frozen.

“I must let someone know what’s happened. Are
you all right?”

She nodded.

“Why don’t you lie down on that sofa and
rest?”

She glanced at the sofa. “I will. Soon as I’m
warm.”

He squeezed her hands and left the room. She
wondered how he could stand going back into the wintry night.

A feeling of warmth came over her. She eyed
the whiskey decanter. No, she had no idea how much was too much,
and it wouldn’t do to have Clayton come back and find her reeling
drunkenly about the room. Her legs felt strange enough already, as
though she had been on a boat all day. She went down the hall to
the washroom, where she stared, appalled, at her reflection in the
little chipped mirror.

Her face was chapped and red, her hairnet
shredded, and her hair stuck out wildly in all directions. She
combed it with her fingers and tied it back with the remains of the
silk net. One of the buttons had come off her basque but there was
nothing she could do about that.

She returned to the study and sat down on the
sofa, and before she knew it had fallen into a sleep so deep she
didn’t even hear Clayton return. She woke when a hand touched her
cheek and she jerked up, looking around in puzzlement to see him
kneeling beside her.

“I’ve brought some coffee,” he said, his
voice quiet and serious.

She sat up wearily. The fragrance of coffee
filled the study. Clayton handed her a steaming cup and sat down in
a chair opposite her. They sipped their coffee for a few moments in
silence. Then Clayton set his aside and leaned forward a little,
his elbows on the arms of the chair.

“I’ll begin with Andrew.”

Catherine set down her own cup, folded her
hands in her lap, and waited. She felt strangely numb inside and
wondered if it was the effect of the whiskey or her own body’s
defense against what she knew to be an impending shock.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she said, as he
hesitated.

He lowered his head, nodded, then lifted it
to look at her directly. “I’m sorry, Catherine. I truly never meant
for any of this to hurt you.”

“When did he die?”

Again he hesitated, but his gaze did not
waver. “He died shortly after the battle of Sharpsburg.”

“Why, that was just a few months ago! Why
didn’t he write me, or…I’d heard nothing from him for a year before
then!”

Clayton stood up and walked around the room,
pausing to look at the doctor’s row of medical books, but she knew
he didn’t really see them. There was something else he didn’t want
to tell her. Then he turned around to face her and said, “Your
husband was shot for desertion.”

C
atherine remained
silent, absorbing it. For some reason she was not shocked.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you. You weren’t
supposed to find out. After my work here was done I was going to
quietly disappear and you would later receive word that I, as
Andrew, had died.”

“Mr. Pierce, I don’t think this entire
charade was carried out just so I wouldn’t discover the truth about
my husband.”

He came back to her, waited a moment, and
resumed his seat. “I don’t know why he didn’t write to you for so
long. I assume it was because he was unhappy…he was trying to find
a way out of the army. At Sharpsburg he hid in the woods with a few
others during the battle. They were discovered. They were given a
trial and…were executed.”

Catherine said nothing.

“You needn’t be ashamed. War has strange
effects on even the bravest men. He had fought before. But either
his courage or his belief in the cause ran out.”

“Poor Andrew,” she said softly. “I never
really knew him. We met just a few weeks before our marriage. And
then when he came back…I knew that wasn’t Andrew. I thought it was
because of what had happened to him. I mean, what you said had
happened.”