Shadow of Dawn (9 page)

“It was lovely. I wish you’d gone with me,
Andrew.”

He made no response.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I promised to
help Hester with supper tonight.”

“Catherine.”

She had half risen. She stopped, startled, at
the seriousness of his tone. “Yes, Andrew?”

“There is a certain part in that book you’re
reading which you will come to shortly; I can’t remember exactly
where it is. You see, I’ve read it before, though I did not enjoy
it then half as much as I enjoy listening to your reading of it. In
the part I’m referring to, Dr. Manette tells Lucie of his anxiety
that, because she is young, she not waste her life caring for
him.”

He turned a little away from her as he spoke.
He continued, “Her life has changed; it’s no longer normal because
of what has happened to him. He tells her that if her life is in
any way incomplete, he cannot be happy.”

Catherine sat as if turned to stone. Her lips
went dry and almost felt as though they would crack as she forced
herself to speak. “What are you saying, Andrew?”

He got to his feet and strode slowly across
the room. “I know that…I have changed. I am not the man you once
knew. I hope that things will improve. If not, I intend to release
you from our marriage vows.”

She did manage to rise. “No, Andrew! You are
my husband. Do you think I could live with myself if I let you go
away just because…because you believed I couldn’t cope with your
injuries?”

“I don’t want to be pitied, Catherine. You
had thought of an annulment, hadn’t you?”

She gaped at him. “You heard what Sallie
said!”

He shook his head. “Mrs. Shirley overheard
the conversation and thought it best to let me know. I do
appreciate your loyalty, more than I can say, but neither of us can
possibly know where this will lead.”

“But where would you go?”

“To my family in Alabama, of course.”

Catherine shook her head. “You must give this
time, Andrew. It takes time to build a marriage, even when there
are no difficulties such as those we face.”

“My only concern is for your happiness.”

“I understand that, and I thank you for it.
But I believe we can be happy together.”

“If you really mean that, then perhaps we
can. I’ve said all this because I don’t want you to be in despair.
You seemed sad when you came in. I could hear it in your voice.
Rest assured that I will never stand in the way of your happiness.
You have only to tell me.”

Catherine thought of the past night, and how
in spite of her resolve to make a life with Andrew, she had longed
for freedom, had wished that she had never married him. And here he
was offering to sacrifice his own happiness for hers. Shame covered
her from the depths of her soul.

She walked toward him resolutely. She reached
out to touch his arm, a little surprised that he did not flinch or
try to move away. She lifted her face and kissed his cheek where
the black scarf covered it.

“You are my husband,” she repeated softly,
before she left the room.

T
he next morning
Catherine resumed her work at the hospital. Wounded soldiers
flooded into the Virginia hospitals every day, and most able-bodied
women helped to nurse them. It was grueling and dreadful, often
heartbreaking work…but how much more dreadful, she often thought,
for the men who bore such ghastly wounds. The less-seriously
injured were sent to recuperate in private homes rather than
hospitals.

Catherine often worked without even stopping
to eat. She assisted the surgeons, ran errands, cleaned floors,
changed bed sheets, fed soldiers who were too weak to hold a fork,
held their heads to give them water, and prayed with the dying.
When she arrived home at night she bathed, ate, then read for a
while to Andrew and went to bed. By keeping herself busy, she hoped
to be able to forget that she was, in fact, neither wife nor widow,
but something in between.

One evening a few days later she came home
earlier than usual, entering as she ordinarily did by the kitchen
door so she could wash her hands and leave her apron to be
laundered before going upstairs. Hester had just finished plucking
a chicken.

“Lawd, Miz Catherine, I’m mighty glad you’re
home. My hands is tuckered out and they hurt too bad to cut up this
chicken. Jessie out with Miz Sallie to the dressmaker and I don’t
know where Ephraim is. I ’spect he in the barn bawlin’ out Joseph
for bringin’ mud in on his shoes.”

“I’ll see to it, Hester. Just let me go and
change my clothes.”

Wearily Catherine went through the dining
room and into the hallway. Bart stood there, taking off his coat
and hat and hanging them on the rack.

“Good evening, Catherine,” he said, and his
eyes went up and down her figure.

“Hello, Bart. I’m sorry, I just got in from
the hospital.”

“You always look beautiful,” he said
gallantly, “no matter what you’re wearing.”

He always delivered his compliments in a
somewhat mocking way that annoyed her.

“Oh, Bart, Hester is waiting for someone to
help her cut up a chicken. Could you do it? I’m afraid I’ll be a
while and it may delay supper.”

“Of course,” he said with good cheer. “I
think I’ve done enough hunting in my day to know what to do with a
hen.”

He went off whistling to the kitchen.
Catherine hurried upstairs, washed again and put on a clean dress.
She had just finished brushing her hair when she heard Hester
scream. By the time she opened her bedroom door, Hester had
screamed again. Mrs. Shirley appeared at her own door.

“Come with me,” Catherine called, beginning
to run downstairs. Mrs. Shirley followed, more sedately.

Catherine gasped as she ran into the kitchen.
Huge splatters of blood covered the kitchen table and the bowie
knife that lay upon it. Bart stood holding his hand, his face
white.

“He cut hisself!” Hester cried. “Just about
cut his thumb off!”

“Get a towel,” Catherine said. “Bart, let me
see.”

“If I take my hand away, it bleeds too much,”
Bart said in a thin

voice.

Catherine turned to Mrs. Shirley. “You’re a
trained nurse. What can we do?”

Mrs. Shirley stepped forward, and to
Catherine’s utter amazement, took one look at the situation, turned
as white as Bart and dropped like a stone.

Catherine wrapped Bart’s hand in a towel.
Sallie came running from somewhere just as Ephraim entered from the
kitchen door; it was instantly decided that Ephraim would drive
Bart to the nearest hospital so that a surgeon could sew up his
hand. Sallie, surprisingly calm, went with them.

Catherine and Hester bent down to pull Mrs.
Shirley to a sitting position.

“Put your head down for a moment, Mrs.
Shirley,” Catherine directed, her voice shaking. She had been as
much unnerved by Mrs. Shirley’s collapse as she had by Bart’s
accident.

The woman’s eyes opened and she rested her
head for a moment between her knees. She opened her mouth to take a
deep breath.

“Do you need smelling salts?” Catherine
asked.

Mrs. Shirley shook her head, saying at last,
“I’m…sorry. It was the blood. I can deal with anything but the
sight of fresh blood.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, madam, just give me a moment.”

Catherine set to work helping Hester scrub
the kitchen. There
was
a lot of blood, but she would never
have expected such weakness from Mrs. Shirley. It only added to the
mystery that surrounded the woman.

***

The first of December brought a blast of
bitter cold. Tad and Joseph were kept busy bringing in wood for the
fires. A fireplace occupied every room and each one had to be
carefully tended. Wood, suddenly in short supply, sold for twenty
dollars a cord, but those who could pay for it usually found a way
to get it.

Tad managed to contract one of his many colds
just as the temperature dropped, leaving Joseph to drive, care for
the horses, provide firewood and see to a number of other tasks.
Sallie, too, had fallen victim to a sudden cold, which meant
Catherine had to do Sallie’s share of the chores and oversee the
servants—that part was not difficult because of Ephraim’s
efficiency.

She also, during Sallie’s incapacitation,
managed the household accounts, for Martin left that entirely up to
his wife. Fortunately their situation was good; Martin’s money was
in gold and he had plenty of it.

He had always been frugal, almost Spartan in
his ways. Sallie was the one who had decorated the house, replacing
the plain, practical furniture with rich, heavy wood; covering the
windows with velvets and brocades; adding mirrors and paintings,
plants on marble pedestals, and thick carpeting for the wide sweep
of stairs to the landing. Sometimes Catherine wondered, if the war
went on much longer and economical matters continued to worsen,
just how Martin was going to manage Sallie’s expensive tastes.

It occurred to Catherine that she knew more
about the Henderson’s financial status than she did Andrew’s. She
knew his family had been wealthy before the war; she had no idea
what their situation was now. But Andrew must have money, in order
to keep Mrs. Shirley in his employ. Catherine could not bring
herself to discuss it with him just yet. And at any rate, she had
inherited a fair sum of money from her parents and there was no
need to cause Andrew potential distress by questioning him about
his finances.

A light snow was falling the next day as
Joseph drove Catherine home from the hospital. She was so tired she
could hardly stay awake. Vaguely she became aware that the carriage
had stopped, and in a moment Joseph opened the door and peered in
at her.

“Sumpin’ wrong with the harness, Miz
Catherine.”

Sighing, Catherine drew her cloak tightly
around her and climbed from the carriage. She almost slipped when
her feet touched the ground, covered in patches with snow. She
steadied herself and walked carefully toward the horses. Twilight
had fallen and the sky was a dull gray.

“I can’t see what’s wrong, Joseph. What
happened?”

“Sumpin’ broke’s all I know. I think we
better start walkin’—”

“May I be of assistance?”

She looked up to see a man astride a horse,
looking down at them. He swept off his dark, broad-brimmed hat and
she saw that it was Clayton Pierce.

She felt only a sense of relief and hastily
put aside the memory of their last encounter.

“Oh, Mr. Pierce, thank goodness. Joseph says
there’s something wrong with the harness.”

Clayton replaced his hat, got down from the
horse in a fluid motion, and leaned over to touch the neck collar
and run his hands down the straps. “One of the traces is broken,”
he said, straightening to turn and look back at her. “It will have
to be replaced. I’ll be happy to see to it, Mrs. Kelly. It won’t
take long.”

Catherine lifted her head to meet his gaze. A
cold gust of wind made her cloak billow out and she felt a
snowflake fall just beneath her eye.

“I do thank you, Mr. Pierce.”

“I’d like to get you out of this weather.
Will you go over to the hotel?” He nodded toward the building
behind her.

She glanced around doubtfully and hesitated.
He said, “That’s where I’ve been staying. There’s a fire in the
lobby.”

“Well, I suppose so.”

He took her arm firmly and escorted her to
the hotel lobby, where he tipped his hat, said he would return
shortly, and went back outside. Catherine stepped over to the long,
narrow window and watched him say something to Joseph, then he
mounted his horse and rode off, she supposed, to one of the general
stores. Joseph appeared to be trying to remove the broken
strap.

She stood for a moment before the huge
fireplace, warming her hands, then turned her back and surveyed the
room. It was modestly appointed but clean, and the proprietor,
after nodding a greeting, sat writing at the long counter.

After a while she went back to the window.
Clayton had returned, but his horse had gone and Joseph with it. He
had taken off his hat and long coat, no doubt so he could better
maneuver around the horses. He looked, she thought grudgingly, very
nice in shirtsleeves and waistcoat. In a few moments he mounted the
driver’s seat, pulled experimentally on the reins, and drove the
short distance to the front of the hotel. Catherine waited until he
opened the door with a whoosh of cold air and came inside.

“Mr. Pierce, you’ll catch your death without
your coat,” she said reprovingly, for want of something to say.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve sent the driver to your
house to explain what happened so they won’t worry about you. Are
you ready?”

The snow had fallen into drifts just outside
the door. Catherine took one step and if it had not been for
Clayton’s supporting arm would have fallen flat on her back. In an
instant he swooped her up in his arms; she thought fleetingly that
it was fortunate she had on neither hoop nor crinolines. He carried
her through the snow, somehow opened the carriage door and
deposited her within, still standing outside. A lamp hung in the
corner, already lit. He tucked a blanket around her legs and feet,
and she looked down at him.