Mallory’s brows lifted as she returned Henrietta’s look. “What?”
“Oh dear.” Henrietta impulsively put out her hand to touch Mallory’s. “I thought you knew.” She pursed her lips. “They have—or had— a relationship.”
“Relationship? Henrietta, do you mean what I think you mean?”
“Boyce told me. It started years ago, before the war. I don’t know how Boyce knew, unless Logan boasted about it one time or other.”
“But Tipper never said—” Mallory stopped abruptly before continuing. “Was she…was it consensual?”
“I’m sure it was. I used to watch Tipper when she was in the same room with Logan. I don’t doubt that she was in love with him.”
Seeming to notice Mallory’s stricken face, she patted her hand again. “Of course she wouldn’t have told you about it. How could she? Logan should have, though, if he intended to marry you. Or maybe not…I don’t know. At any rate, he should have cut it off when he decided to marry you. How long had you been engaged?”
“Not long.”
Mallory felt betrayed. Although she knew now that she didn’t love Logan, she had liked him well enough to agree to marry him. And Tipper must have known that Mallory would one day marry Logan. It seemed an obvious decision for them to make. Maybe it wasn’t true after all…
She thought suddenly of the elegant nightgown she’d seen in Tipper’s room. Tipper had been wearing it when she died. She thought of the clean and lived-in appearance of the cabin. It made sense now…but had it really been Logan?
She had no right to question him. The sense of betrayal was just a matter of hurt pride, that was all. She’d thought of Tipper as a friend, and Logan… She really hadn’t known Logan. As she’d realized earlier, the Logan she’d agreed to marry had been a substitute for Stuart. He’d never really existed.
She became aware that Henrietta was talking. “So there could have been a quarrel between them. Oh, it’s dreadful to say such things I know, especially when Logan has allowed us to live here. But I won’t have them accusing Henry!”
“I’d like to go back downstairs. Are you coming?”
“No, I shall go back to my room. I’m sorry, Mallory, if any of this has hurt you.”
Mallory rose stiffly. “Not at all. Try to sleep, Henrietta.”
She stood still for a moment after Henrietta left. She felt as though a hundred years had elapsed since this afternoon when she had consented to marry Logan. She thought back over the months since his return and tried to remember a look, anything in Tipper’s demeanor that revealed her feelings for Logan.
But there had been nothing. Tipper had been quiet, reclusive, seldom showing any emotion.
But she was afraid, Mallory remembered suddenly. What had she said? That something was going to happen…
Of whom had she been afraid, and why? Had it been some nebulous fear, or had someone threatened her?
Mallory shivered. She opened a drawer and pulled out a shawl to place over her shoulders and went briskly along the dimly lit hall, down the stairs, and paused in the foyer.
A murmur of voices came from the parlor and she wondered if Brooke was still there. She felt herself flush with embarrassment as she reflected on the absurd scene with which they’d entertained the rest of the family.
Stuart must certainly wonder what sort of woman he’d asked to become his wife!
She would go to the kitchen and make more coffee. The passageway was dark and she hurried through it, guided by the soft glow of a lamp left burning in the kitchen. The stove, too, still glowed and gave out a pleasant warmth. She almost tripped over the tin basin in which she’d been soaking her feet. She picked it up, washed it thoroughly, and set it on the floor near the back door.
She’d just begun to pump water for the coffee when something struck her, some cold little tap at her consciousness telling her she was not alone in the room.
She froze, the coffeepot in her hand. Had anyone thought to lock the doors? They must have been locked—Logan always saw to it. No one had bothered locking doors before the war, but things had changed since then…
Instinct told her not to betray her knowledge. Quietly she set down the coffeepot and opened a drawer as though looking for a spoon. Her hand closed over a paring knife and again she froze, listening hard, trying to decide whether she was having a wild flight of imagination or if there was someone there, standing on the other side of the pantry where the stairs began.
That was the only place where anyone could be, watching and waiting…
In a moment she’d be gibbering with terror. Should she simply walk out of the room? Should she, even for an instant, place herself with her back to that shadowed alcove? There had been no sound, then she heard the faintest rustle, like clothes against a body that made a slight move.
The kitchen was far removed from the rest of the house. If she screamed no one would hear her.
Clutching the small knife against the side of her leg, she made herself turn. She could see the stairs. She could see the closed door of the pantry. But she could not see on the other side of it.
In the dim, wavering light she noticed the towel she’d used earlier draped over the back of a chair. She moved toward it slowly. If someone gave chase she would turn and throw the towel in his face and then she would run and scream until her lungs burst.
Mallory began to walk toward the opening to the long corridor. She had to turn slightly to reach with her left hand for the towel, and as she did so someone stepped from the alcove in front of her. She dropped the towel and almost dropped the knife.
It was Deke.
But a different Deke. He was grave, unsmiling. His eyes delved into hers and he said, in a strange, grave voice, “You’re not goin’ to tell anybody you saw me, are you, Miss Mallory?”
Mallory’s free hand flew up to her throat. “Deke, you gave me a fright!” Her voice was hoarse, as if she really had been screaming. She backed away, her legs brushing against the back of the chair.
“I’m sorry about that. I could tell you knew somebody was in here.”
“What are you doing? Where have you been?” Mallory caught her breath and reached backward to support herself on the chair. “We’ve been looking for you.”
“Nobody’s gonna be able to say I did it. I’m gettin’ out of here tonight. I just came back in here to get some food. Door was locked, but I found the extra key outside.”
“Why did you run away?”
Deke’s eyes shifted away from hers. “Nobody gonna blame it on me. I saw…I know who did it.”
“What?” This time her trembling knees really did buckle. Mallory moved so that her backside was against the edge of the table. “What did you see? Who was it?”
Deke opened the pantry door and began rummaging through it as though he were the owner of the house. He found a burlap sack with a few potatoes in it and began filling it with crackers, a small block of cheese, a jar of candied apples.
“Them soldiers will get you more food. I got to have this. I might not can find any more, if they lookin’ for me.” He turned to stare at her. “You not goin’ to tell ’em, are you?”
“Deke, you must tell me what you saw!”
He kept staring at her as though not really seeing her, and finally turned back to the almost barren shelves. “I’m sure—but not sure. It was too dark to see good, just enough light to see two people. I’d gone outside a minute, heard some talkin’. I could hear Tipper and she sounded scared, so I went toward the voices. No struggle—they just talkin’. Then she started screamin’ and turn around to run. Couldn’t believe my own eyes…”
“Who—”
Deke stopped. He ran his hand across his forehead. “Too dark—but I’m almost sure…” He turned to her. “Wouldn’t be safe to tell you, Miss Mallory. I ain’t tellin’ nobody. Don’t pay for a black man to get involved in white people’s troubles. I thank you for the food.”
Mallory glanced around the kitchen. “Here, take this.” She wrapped up some leftover cornbread in a cloth and found a tin bottle with a cork in it which she filled with water.
“Thank you, Miss Mallory.” He stepped toward the door, looked back, and asked once more, “You ain’t gonna tell?”
“I—I don’t know.” Her hand stiffened around the knife she still held.
“I’ll say I didn’t see nothin’,” he said, with that unfamiliar, grave expression. “Won’t do no good to ask me. I shouldna tol’ you. Not thinkin’ straight.”
“I might have to tell Colonel Wakefield, but he’s a fair man, Deke. He’s not going to accuse you of something without proof.”
“Wouldn’t be just him, Miss Mallory. You be hangin’ me, sure as if you tied the rope yourself.”
“I’m giving you time to get away. Go on—hurry!”
He stood frowning at her. Then he opened the door and disappeared into the darkness. Mallory twisted the key in the lock, turned, and sat down abruptly in a chair.
She didn’t know what to do. Suppose Deke was blamed for Tipper’s death, suppose they did hang him! Was it really necessary to tell anyone she’d seen him, or what he’d said?
Suppose he had killed her. This was a Deke she’d never seen before. There’d been true fear in his eyes, and a sense of utter implacability. But what reason could he possibly have had? He had come back to take Tipper to New Orleans, but her refusal wasn’t sufficient cause to murder her!
Deke had run away after the soldier had died, and again after Tipper was killed. Were these the actions of a merely frightened man, or a guilty one?
What had happened to the soldier’s horse and the money that must have been on it? She’d believed Deke when he said he knew nothing of it, but that had been the old Deke, the good-natured and likeable man she’d known almost all her life.
Tonight she’d seen another side of him that was totally foreign, as though he had been through some strange metamorphosis.
She heard someone walking quickly down the passage toward the kitchen. She stood up at once, thrust the knife back into the drawer, and reached for the coffeepot.
“Mallory!” Logan rushed toward her. “You weren’t in your room. I’ve been looking for—” He stopped. “What’s wrong?”
“You startled me!”
“Come back with me. You shouldn’t be wandering around alone.”
“I’m making coffee.” She pushed more wood into the stove. “Wait here with me, will you, Logan?”
He sat down at the table. After placing the coffeepot on the stove she joined him.
His handsome face was pensive and a lock of hair fell over his forehead. He avoided her eyes and stared straight ahead, sagging a little as if he were very tired.
“Logan,” she said quietly, “was Tipper your placee?”
His body stiffened. He turned his head to look at her. “Who told you that?”
“It doesn’t matter. Is it true?”
He opened his mouth to answer, closed it again, and rubbed his hands over his face. “No,” he said finally, allowing his eyes to meet hers. “Nothing so romantic as that. I wasn’t in love with her. Besides, that’s New Orleans. There’s none of that here—at least, not that I know of.”
“But you did…have a relationship with her?”
He looked impatient. “Is that so surprising? But that doesn’t give me a motive for murder, no matter what she did! I didn’t care if she saw anyone else.”
“Are you saying that she was seeing someone else?”
“I don’t know!”
“Did you give her that nightgown she had on tonight?”
“It looked like one I gave her. I didn’t tell her to meet me tonight, if that’s what you’re thinking. Although she might have assumed—” He stopped abruptly, then went on. “That is, she must have known or overheard something about our engagement and assumed I would come to tell her about it. I was going to tell her, of course, but not tonight. After Stuart’s arrival I had some serious thinking to do.”
Mallory considered his words and his grim countenance. She decided to drop the subject.
“Logan, where did the money come from? You always seem to have something extra. There’s always whiskey in the house, and you’ve never run out of cigars until tonight.”
“What are you saying? That I killed that deserter and stole his money and then quarreled with Tipper and killed her too?”
“Of course not—”
“I sell things, things around the house that the Yankees didn’t take or didn’t find. Things that have no value to us anymore that the Yankees in Natchez are glad to buy. My mother’s jewelry, and other things I found hidden away.”
“You could have bought food with that money, Logan. And this house needs repair. It will fall apart someday!”
He brushed off her words. “I want to ask you something, Mallory. You and I both saw your beloved Stuart standing over Tipper’s body. Why did he really come here? How can you say you love him, Mallory, when he’s been through four years of hell! You don’t know what he’s like now.
“You’ve no idea what being in battle is, or what it does to a man. Some come through it all right, and others just seem to—until—until suddenly they just fall apart.”
“And you, Logan? Have you no scars?”
He swore and said, “Yes, I have scars! We all do. All I’m saying is that it can drive a man mad if he thinks about it enough. I’ve seen it happen to men I thought were strong, that I thought were—”
The pot on the stove was beginning to shake and the fragrance of coffee filled the kitchen. Mallory rose and began putting cups on a tray.
Logan sighed. “I’m sorry, Mallory. I just want you to…think. I want you to be careful.”
She said without looking up, “I intend to be careful, Logan.”
“The thing with Tipper—it didn’t mean anything. I cared for her, of course, and I would have seen to it that she was always taken care of, but I was going to stop it before you and I married.”
Mallory put the coffeepot on the tray. “She loved you.”
Logan stood and went toward her. “How do you know that? How long have you known about us?”
“From what someone told me, I really think she loved you. I’m sorry, Logan, that you lost her…like that.”
“She didn’t deserve it,” he said harshly, “and I’m all for finding out who did it.” He took the tray from her and added, “Except, I believe I already know.”
At the doorway to the parlor Logan put the tray in her hands, said, “Goodnight, Mallory,” and turned back to the stairs. Mallory took a steadying breath and walked into the room.
Only Stuart, Boyce, and Henry were there. She’d seen Sergeant Munford standing at the front door. She set the tray on a table and asked, “Would anyone like coffee?”
Only Stuart did and he said, “Would you take some to Sergeant Munford?”
There was a palpable tension in the air. Mallory felt as if she’d just walked into an unpleasant conversation. The parlor was too warm and Stuart had removed his coat. He seemed to have forgotten the bloodstain on his sleeve and Mallory repressed a shudder as she went back into the foyer with a cup for Sergeant Munford, who looked at her sleepily and said, “Thank you, ma’am.”
She could hear Henry’s voice. “Tell me, were you at Vicksburg, Colonel Wakefield? Because I want to know what it was like to fire on your own people. What was it like to know we were starving—not just soldiers, but women and children—that we were eating mules and rats and whatever we could scrounge!”
The sergeant set down his cup on a small, bare shelf on the wall and came to attention, as if the colonel might require his immediate aid. She heard Stuart say, “I believe there were some Pennsylvania brigades there…but no, Mr. O’Connor, I was not at Vicksburg. What happened there was tragic and unnecessary, but if I’d been there I would have done my duty.”
Mallory hastily went back into the parlor where Stuart was standing in front of the window. Boyce hadn’t moved from his former position, but Henry was prowling back and forth in front of the sliding door to the second parlor.
“Settle down, Henry,” Boyce said wearily. “He’s right. You and I have argued about it. Pemberton should have evacuated when he had a chance.”
“Only people who don’t understand how important Vicksburg was to the Confederacy can say that, Pa! Lincoln himself knew how important it was! President Davis said it was the head of the nail that held us together. How could we not risk everything to defend it?”
“I was there, son! I did my part! But I didn’t have to agree with it. A soldier obeys orders.”
There were three empty whiskey glasses on a table in front of Boyce. Logan had probably been the third drinker, having provided from his seemingly endless supply.
Mallory went to stand beside Stuart. “You should go and change your shirt, Colonel,” she said, lightly touching his arm with the soiled sleeve.
He glanced down at the sleeve. He put down his coffee, saying with a nod, “Gentlemen, if you will excuse me.”
Henry said, with a descriptive phrase thrown in, “Where is that bottle? What has Logan done with it?”
“He put it away,” Boyce said. “We’ve both had enough, Henry. Watch your language in front of a lady.”
“I’ll be right back,” Stuart said to Mallory.” As he left the room Mallory removed her shawl and sat down in a cool spot near the window.
Henry walked purposefully toward her. “You can’t mean to marry him, Mallory! Have you forgotten Westley? Have you forgotten Vicksburg?”