I was staying in the District, near the Mall, with GK and his wife. Their small, run-down, brick town house seemed unworthy of a general officer, but of course, he was seldom there. He was to have a whole week of leave, and I was quite tickled to be spending it with him.
Just as we sat down for breakfast the next morning, GK answered a knock at the door. I peered around the corner. Captain Roebling, in a black wool coat and watch cap, presented a note. I counted on my fingers, not even seven hours since we had parted. Apparently, his definition of soon was rather shorter than mine. Then I chastised myself. Wash was GK’s aide and had more than likely come to see my brother.
GK read, then folded the note and handed it back. “Captain, is this a ruse?”
“Yes, sir.” Wash nudged a picnic hamper sitting on the stoop next to him with his foot.
“I see.” GK turned and caught me eavesdropping. “Emily, will you kindly show Captain Roebling a proper way to spend a morning of leave?”
Having secured GK’s blessing for an outing, Wash helped me into my coat. Bitter air gusted in when he opened the door.
“A picnic in February?” I asked.
“It’s always a good day for a picnic if you choose your company wisely.”
“I believe I have.”
GK glanced outside where a carriage driver waited, stomping his feet and blowing breaths of cold-clouded air. “Find a good shelter so the three of you don’t freeze.”
Wash and I exchanged a smile. GK’s concern was having a chaperone, at least the appearance of one, as well as the weather. Wash held my arm as we stepped off the porch toward his carriage. Snow had whitewashed the sooty streets, brightening the neighborhood.
Snowflakes fluttered about as we settled into the carriage, and Wash spread a red plaid blanket across our laps. He pulled the bell cord to signal the driver, and the horse pulled the roofed but otherwise open carriage into the street. Snow muffled the clip-clop of its hooves, creating stark stillness under the weak sun. Flurries gave way to pockets of gray-blue sky.
“I’m sorry. It’s rather tight.” He angled his long legs sideways to make room on the narrow leather seat. “Normally, it’s only the general sitting here.”
“And where do you sit?”
“I’m the driver.” He grinned. “And sometimes cook.” He tapped the covered basket on his lap.
“A good one, I hope. Where are we going?” I rubbed my ears, my bonnet offering little protection from the cold.
“Are you warm enough?” He extracted a brown fur lap robe from a supply box.
Heavy yet surprisingly soft, the robe chased the chill from my bones. “Bear?”
“Buffalo. The army has quite the treasure trove.” He craned his neck for a view ahead. “There’s a nice spot at the riverfront, sheltered from the wind. You can see across to Virginia.”
“Virginia?” Images of stray Minié balls sailing around us made me shudder.
GK had explained how Wash had saved his life. Wash had heard incoming fire and pushed him out of the way, a bullet just grazing GK’s neck.
“How close is the fighting?”
“Quite far, thank goodness. Two days’ ride at least.”
That didn’t seem far enough.
His gloved hand squeezed mine under the lap robe. He was in a rather precarious position, courting the sister of his superior, although he didn’t seem concerned, chatting jovially and playfully. He had yet to kiss me, and I found myself imagining the feel of his lips against mine. The warmth of his body next to me caused alternating calm and excitement, like riding a horse at full gallop, then slowing to a walk through a sunny meadow.
The city had changed since I lived there during finishing school, transforming from a place to call home to a place to hold business. Dark shanties huddled next to marble buildings with Corinthian columns. Wide boulevards disintegrated into dirt roads with ruts and puddles, notorious for swallowing carriage wheels. In the distance, the Washington Monument rose to the sky in beautiful angled lines, only to be truncated at an awkward spot not quite halfway to the promised point.
True to Wash’s word, we alighted in a small park on the banks of the Potomac, about two miles from the house. He sent the driver away with a scheduled return. My skin prickled in protest, both at the sight of the wide, unforgiving river and the departure of our chaperone. But if I wasn’t safe with someone who had saved my brother’s life, who could be trusted?
We spread the plaid blanket and huddled under the buffalo robe as we enjoyed the feast from the basket: scotch eggs, buttermilk biscuits, and jarred peaches—luxuries I had sorely missed in wartime.
I held out my hand for our shared jug of water. “How did you get all this?”
“I’m a good scrounger.” He produced a flask from his coat pocket and waggled it in front of me. “Care for a wee nip?”
It was not yet nine in the morning. “An indecent hour for a nip.” I accepted the flask and took a swig. Hot. Hot. It was coffee. I sputtered the burning liquid.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t think you would—” He grabbed back the flask and dabbed a napkin at the errant drips on my face.
I gulped down some water and laughed. “I’m fine, I assure you.”
“Are you certain?”
I nodded. The concern in his eyes drew me toward his strong and beautiful face, making me want to circle my arms around him. Part of me pleaded for protection from future pain. He would, of course, soon return to the war, and I longed to wrap my heart in a layer of armor. But more powerful feelings were making their way through faster than I could keep them at bay.
He removed his glove and traced a finger across my lips, making them tingle. I took his hand in mine and squeezed.
Wash bent closer. “Em—”
I parted my lips, but half of me wanted to push away, to run, to let that suit of armor guard me from heartbreak. But the other half wouldn’t budge from that blanket. An eternity of seconds ticked by until he grazed my cheek with his lips, and then found mine, waiting, wanting. The sweetness of peaches, the bitter of coffee, the soft brush of the tip of his tongue and tickle of mustache combined, overwhelming me and blotting out the world and all reason. The lap robe slipped off, and I closed my eyes and let his mouth, his soul, fill me with warmth while the chill air stung in counterpoint. His hand behind my head, he lowered us to the ground, his lips never leaving mine, his arms shielding me from the cold. At last, he rolled away, leaving me breathless and wanting more.
He groaned as he sat up, chugged some coffee, then gave my leg a few raps of his knuckles. “It appears all is in good working order.”
I gave him a sultry look. “Are you speaking of you or me?”
He coughed. “You are most improper, Miss Warren. I shall have to report you to the general.”
“And shall I report you for sending away our chaperone?” I sat up next to him.
He wrapped his arm across my shoulders. “They will surely jail us both.”
Waves of the river lapped at the banks, reclaiming the snow. I had a sense of the water sucking me in, but it was the cold earth that seeped through the blanket and frosted my bottom.
He offered another opportunity to burn my tongue, then capped the coffee and pocketed the flask. “We had better take our leave before we become an unauthorized monument.” Wash scrambled to his feet, then pulled me up, not a moment too soon before numbness set in.
I repacked the basket while he folded the blanket. “Have you thought about what you want to do after the war? Will you be staying with the army?”
“Don’t tell me my whole ‘uniting the country’ speech was wasted on a bunch of butter bars.”
“You saw me listening?” I tossed a napkin at him.
“Guilty. I’m not usually that much of a show-off. But when I saw you…”
“So I was eavesdropping and you were boasting and making up stories.” I took his free hand as we headed along the river toward our meeting point with the driver. “Well, why don’t you tell me more about these plans, if they’re true, so we can determine who’s the more guilty party?”
“Oh, they’re true.” He squinted at the river, the sun now reflected in it, then fumbled in his pocket for his timepiece. “The carriage should be here any moment.” He placed the folded blanket on a nearby boulder. “A seat for my lady whilst she waits, and a story to keep her entertained.”
“‘My lady…she speaks yet she says nothing; what of that?’”
“Hamlet?”
“Romeo.” Oh my. Had I just compared us to Romeo and Juliet? “Not that you…”
“Shakespeare has some big shoes to fill, but I’ll do my best.” Wash spread his arms wide and took a bow as if there were an audience of hundreds. “I was a young lad of ten years, on a ferry with my father.” He picked up a flat pebble and skipped it across the ice-patched water. “We were heading from New York to Brooklyn on a January day so miserable, today is balmy in comparison.
“Passengers huddled with horses to keep warm on the open boat, with no roof to tuck under. Father paced, oblivious to the cold. I tried to keep up with him, slipping all over the icy deck. Sleet stung my eyes, and a fierce wind lifted my coat and sliced right up my back.”
He pulled up his collar as if warding off the long-ago cold. “The river was clogged with ice. We were halfway across when the boat slowed. Rain came down harder, freezing on everything, crusting the paddle wheel. The bow hit a massive ice floe, and the boat jolted to a standstill.”
Wash gazed across the river, his arm outstretched, beckoning the memory of a life-changing event. How uncanny that it conjured my own. But this was his story, and he certainly seemed to enjoy telling it. I forced my attention back on him.
Wash clapped his hands over his ears and winced. “The ice screeched against the hull. All around, seasick people leaned over the railings, groaning with each tilt of the boat. My father said, ‘We must help.’
“The boat tilted in a wave, and a man slid across the deck, banging against the side rails. I grabbed Papa’s arm, afraid of losing my footing. I was small enough to slip under the rail and into the water.”
I cringed, my hands gripping the blanket as I pictured him being pulled to icy depths.
“At the bow, the crew shivered and stared at the ice, poking at it with a stake. My father grabbed the stake, leaned over the railing, and pushed against the ice with all his might, right at the point of the bow. The chunk of ice budged, and he guided it starboard.
“The sun was setting. We were running out of daylight. The men lined the rail at the bow with assorted tools. ‘One, two, three,’ they counted and pushed. After several shoves, a big chunk of river ice gave way, and the boat lurched forward.
“The paddle wheel creaked forward, its icy crust shattered like glass, and everyone cheered. We put blankets on the poor, frightened horses.” He plopped down next to me and rested his hand on my knee. “I wanted to sneak under a blanket too.”
My proper training warred with my sentiment as I at once welcomed his touch and the happy turn in his story, yet my mother’s voice tsk-tsked in my head. I shifted away, worried the coachman or someone else would soon appear.
My hands and face were as frigid as if I had been on the ferry myself, and I was much relieved when the carriage approached. We climbed aboard and tucked under the robe. The carriage lurched forward, and I leaned my head on his shoulder, warm and solid. “Tell me what happened next.”
“Papa said, ‘No one should have to endure this. Let me show you something.’ But I couldn’t keep my teeth from chattering or get my legs to move, so he gave me his coat. I slipped into the sleeves, still warm from his arms, and he led me to the side rails. ‘How much longer?’ I asked him.
“‘Ten years, vielleicht,’ he said.”
I cocked my head at the unfamiliar word.
“He’s from Germany—it means ‘perhaps.’ Then Papa pointed toward the Brooklyn shoreline. ‘You see that curve of land over there? I could build a bridge. Trains, carriages, mothers pushing baby buggies, all crossing safely and swiftly, any time of year.’”
Wash gazed out the side of the carriage, the Potomac disappearing in the distance. “Papa grabbed his journal and pencil from the coat pocket. Drew a roadway between two towers above a choppy waterline. He told me, ‘When you’re a grown man, ferries like this bucket of bolts will be rusting away in dry dock.’
“He gave me back the journal, and I drew a busted-up boat. I told him I’d help him, and when it was finished, we’d climb to the top of the tower and watch the buckets of bolts rusting away. Papa said, ‘Sehr gut, Son. We don’t fight the river, we rise above it.’
“So that’s the dream. It’s why I became an engineer and build bridges.”
“You’ll build it when the war is done?”
“My father will, with my help. But it’s proving quite a challenge, and first we must finish the bridge in Cincinnati.” He stared at his fingers on the blanket while I wondered if I should ask him to explain. Then he twisted toward me, concern in his eyes. “Have I bored you, going on so?”
“Not at all.” I cuddled closer, answering his real question with one of my own. “Will I hear more tomorrow?”
He squeezed my hand in promise.
* * *
Wash and I spent as much time together as possible during his week of leave. We played chess and did word puzzles each evening, resting from our long walks and picnics during the day, always accompanied by a driver, GK, or his wife, whom we called Millie. My physical opposite, Millie was petite, even delicate. She wore the latest fashions with so much flair, I wanted to hate her for it. But her sweet nature prevented me from such a crass response.
Each morning, Wash arrived a bit earlier, and each evening, we prolonged our visit. The thought of him returning to war twisted my gut tighter as the days flew by. My dreams were plagued by visions of him running from an exploding bridge. On his last morning, dawn had barely broken and I was still slumped over my first cup of tea when I heard Millie answer a knock. Wash’s deep voice lured me to the door in my morning gown.
“Captain Roebling,” Millie tutted. “You want to squeeze more into a day than will fit.”
“Exactly my philosophy.” I beamed at him.
Pink bands lighting the sky framed Wash and his picnic basket in a rosy glow. “Sunrises are more beautiful than sunsets, wouldn’t you agree?”