MOLLY PASSED THE night by the fire in the hotel parlor. At some point one of the hotel concierges brought her a blanket and asked to escort her upstairs. She used Webster’s sickness as an excuse—she could not sleep and needed fresh air. The man left her alone after bringing a pot of tea.
In the morning, with the sun streaming through the windows, she startled awake. She found herself surrounded by strangers. They drank their morning coffee and engaged in conversation. She pushed the blanket off. Folding it, she left it at her seat. The fire had long since died. As of yet, no one had rekindled the flames for the new day.
She opened her room door, turning the knob and easing her shoulder into it to make no sound. She worried she might wake Webster. The bed was empty. He had left, evidently early. His bag was gone, as were most of his clothes. Relieved, she opened the window and let the room air out. The cold heralded a refreshing start—a new day. She took a deep breath and held it. In the distance the James River snaked its way through the city. If not for the circumstances, she would have liked exploring Richmond.
The wind picked up and filled the room. She closed her eyes. Breathing deep, she let the cold sink into her body. Her back ached from the high-back chair, and she longed to lie upon the bed—though it needed fresh linens. As she went to close the window, a gust of air pushed past her. It swirled about the room, kicking up the curtains and scattering a stack of papers—the letters.
She slammed the window shut and scurried to find the loose papers. Most of them remained haphazardly stacked at the floor near the bed. As Molly clutched them, her anger built.
“How could he be so stupid?” she yelled to the room.
Webster had left the letters lying about, as if they mattered little. She clenched her jaw, and she threw the stack of papers at the bed. Whoever wrote these letters intended them to find Secretary Benjamin’s hands. They mapped out Washington’s strengths and weaknesses. Even worse, they proved a spy hid amongst the loyal Unionists in Washington. He would send more. The traitor had to be rooted out. It went beyond these letters. It went beyond Molly, or even Timothy Webster. If Webster wouldn’t act, she would.
She grabbed her coat and then shoved the letters into her handbag. She wrapped her shawl over her coat and headed for the door, slamming it behind her. The sound of the heavy door crashing into the doorframe soothed her. It blunted her anger. Her feet fell heavy upon the stairs as she rushed for the entrance to the hotel.
“Mrs. Webster,” the concierge called out as she crossed the lobby.
She stopped long enough to stare at him, projecting her frustration. He shrunk, sensing the mood with no further explanation.
“Mr. Webster seemed in much better spirits this morning. He did not wish to wake you. Can I get you a carriage?”
“No.” Molly let the word out in a clipped fashion. “I wish to walk.”
She turned to leave, but then thought better of it.
“Can you provide me directions to Church Hill?”
“Certainly, madam. I will write them down for you.”
Molly waited as the concierge walked back to the front desk. Around her, the bustle of the day had commenced. Men in fine suits strolled with one another. Most wore the white cockade upon their lapels—no longer the hidden symbol of secession. They flaunted it. She caught whispers of their conversations. Some spoke of troops and supplies. They plotted who would get the next contracts. They talked of the Union and when General McClellan would invade. But most of all, they talked of profit. These were the men Webster meant—the important people.
“Mrs. Webster?”
Molly startled and turned. The concierge held a piece of paper. She took it and glanced over it.
“Is there a particular place you need to find? It is quite cold. I can get you a carriage.”
“No, thank you. I simply need to visit a friend. I have what I need.”
She smiled and turned from the man, surveying the lobby. The business of the Confederacy played out in front of her. Taking a room at the Spotswood was no accident. Webster chose it for the men who stayed there and the meetings they held. The secrets and gossip floated on the air waiting for anyone to pluck them out and commit them to memory—as easy as taking apples from the branch. But he was also right. She would never be able to walk up and talk to these men. Not in the open. Not in the manner he could. Women didn’t conduct this business. They sat in sewing circles and gossiped. But she had a role beyond playing the doting wife—she would get the letters north.
Outside, the air offered a welcome respite. She quickened her pace, walking fast along the sidewalks and the cobbled street crossings. The city churned. Not so much as New York, but it came close to Washington. Factories grew from older buildings. Looms worked the cotton crop, turning raw fiber into uniforms for the summer fighting. Other places made the soles of shoes. War was lucrative—to the important men in the Spotswood.
At each crossing she glanced over her shoulder—a habit Mrs. Warne enforced. She sought out the faces, looking for anyone who might be following along with her. But the mix of people was too great. She gave up and focused on her route, looking to the paper and counting the intersections.
It took her the better part of an hour to make her way through the jumble of the city. She slowed to match those around her, not wishing to seem eager. She had heard that General Winder—the Provost Marshal in Richmond—employed a following of detectives. The general sounded much like Pinkerton. Winder rooted out dissent among the population—hidden Unionists in their midst.
The area surrounding the Van Lew estate contained other upscale houses. The rich and elite lived here. The factories were far below, and the quiet that fell upon her ears was as welcome as the cold air in her lungs. The serenity of her walk beat back the melancholy of the night before. She pushed the thought of Webster from her mind. Instead, she focused on the task at hand. It gave her purpose.
Arriving on Grace Street, she found the Van Lew estate. The house encompassed a whole city block. A generation earlier, Miss Van Lew’s father built the estate on the back of a prosperous merchant empire. Twin sweeping staircases led to the front porch and vestibule. A low white fence traced the property line for the entire block—quite stately in its manner.
What if Miss Van Lew wasn’t whom she thought?
Building her courage, she clutched her handbag and stepped forward. If she revealed herself, her true self, then this might go horribly wrong. Mrs. Warne taught her to never leave her role—to never be anyone other than Hattie Lawton—Hattie Webster. But that wouldn’t work. Hattie Webster had no business with Elizabeth Van Lew. But Molly Ferguson did. She stepped forward and opened the front gate.
With each step of the curved staircase, her breath grew short and her heart pounded. Facing the door, she realized she should have thought of another story in case she needed the escape. All her hope rested with one plan.
She had barely knocked when the door opened. A servant stood before her. The woman was older than Molly, with skin as dark as the night sky. Molly had a vague recollection of her, but couldn’t place the name—something simple, something close to hers. The woman wore a freshly pressed apron over a neat dress. Her hair was pulled back under a bonnet and she smiled broadly upon Molly. At once she put Molly at ease.
“May I help you, miss?”
“I …” Molly stopped. “I was looking for Miss Van Lew.”
“I gathered as much, but there’s two of ’em. Do you mean Miss Lizzie or her mother?”
The woman stepped to the side to let Molly into the entranceway. Molly stepped inside, looking about the place. It was as grand inside as it looked from the outside—as she remembered.
“Miss Lizzie,” Molly answered.
It felt wrong to call Miss Van Lew by her first name, especially since Molly hadn’t seen her in years. Even then, Molly had only been a young child.
“Can I tell her who is calling?”
“Yes,” Molly said. Then she paused. She played it safe. “Hattie Webster.”
The woman smiled and showed Molly to the sitting room.
“I’ll let her know she has company. It might be a few minutes. She didn’t tell no one here she was expecting visitors this morning.”
The woman pulled the doors closed behind Molly, as if sealing her from the rest of the house. Tall bookshelves lined the room from floor to ceiling. This had been Miss Van Lew’s father’s office. When she was little, Molly had stared through the threshold and looked at the books in wonder. When she stepped into the room, her mother caught her and pulled her out. Miss Van Lew had turned it into a sitting room.
The door cracked open. Molly spun to catch sight of an older woman in the doorway. She spoke to someone down the corridor.
“Mary Jane, can you help me with the fire? I think I will sit and read a spell after our guest leaves.”
Of course—Mary Jane!
Miss Van Lew opened the door wider. Mary Jane followed her into the room and went about fixing kindling in the fireplace.
“Mrs. Webster, to whatever do we owe this visit?” Miss Van Lew asked.
Nothing on her face showed she recognized Molly.
“I am so sorry to intrude unannounced, Miss Van Lew. I am newly arrived in Richmond, and I had reason to believe you might be able to help me with a sensitive matter.”
Molly had no idea how she might broach the topic of her true self. It might be better to hold back. Perhaps she might secure a route north for the letters without endangering herself or Webster.
“A sensitive matter?” Miss Van Lew inquired.
The older woman wore a dark dress, buttoned to her neck. It gave her a stiff appearance, which did not soften with her body posture—upright and rigid. Her chiseled features were fine, with an almost birdlike delicacy. She clamped her hands together and studied Molly. It made Molly uneasy.
“Yes, you see, I am trying to get a letter to my uncle in Washington.”
“Ahh … I see. Did I hear correctly, Mrs. Webster? You came across the Potomac River at night and in a storm with Mrs. Horvath?”
“Indeed,” Molly answered.
She longed to sit in one of the chairs, the ones set near the fire. It felt awkward standing, as if Miss Van Lew did not want her to stay. Mary Jane had gotten a small flame started. She used a billow to stoke the little orange tongues until they caught the kindling.
“Well, that must have been harrowing for you. But I must confess I am at a loss as to why anyone would point you in my direction for such a request?”
As Miss Van Lew spoke, ringlets of hair bobbed at the side of her head. They distracted Molly.
“The other women thought you might have a means to deliver messages to your brother in Philadelphia. Perhaps you have a way to get my letter to Washington?”
“Well, Mrs. Webster, I do not have such means. And quite frankly, you can tell Mrs. Horvath that I am offended she sends her friends here with such requests.”
Her tone was cold and stern. Molly was a schoolgirl once more, standing in front of the headmistress.
“I am sorry, Miss Van Lew, I did not mean any offense. Mrs. Horvath did not send me. I came of my own accord. I am truly desperate for help.”
“I am certain you are,” the older woman replied. She turned to watch Mary Jane put a fire screen in front of the now crackling flames. “Thank you, Mary Jane. That looks fine.” Then turning to Molly she continued. “If it is intrigue you seek, please go elsewhere.”
“Intrigue?” Molly asked.
Mary Jane watched the conversation. She studied Molly closely.
“Please excuse my bluntness. But you and Mrs. Horvath must think me daft to come here to elicit a confession like this. I am not a damned Unionist to be found and drummed out of the city. Because I choose not to spend my time with petty gossip while sewing and cooking in your little group does not make me a traitor. As good Christians, my mother and I attend the federal prisoners at Libby Prison so they are well treated. It is the same we would expect for our good Southern boys in their custody. I am tired of the insinuations of your friends. I think it is time you left.”
Molly shrank under the tirade. She hadn’t expected any of this. Her hope was a pleasant conversation, easing into the topic of getting mail north. But it was all ruined. Even Mary Jane stood behind Miss Van Lew and stared with fierce determination.
“I think you misunderstand, I—”
“I understand you perfectly. I am a Southern woman and loyal to my country.”
Miss Van Lew walked to the window facing the front of the house and looked out. She beckoned Molly to join her. When Molly stood alongside the older woman, Miss Van Lew pointed to a man on the corner. He wore a dark suit, with a wide-brimmed hat. Long dark hair flowed from under his hat, and his mustache was well waxed in an impeccable curve above his lip. He watched the house.
“One of your friends?” Miss Van Lew asked.
The man hadn’t been there when Molly entered the house. Mrs. Warne had trained her well, and she would have spotted this man.
“One of General Winder’s pug-uglies, I suspect.”
She must have seen the blank look on Molly’s face.
“His detectives,” Miss Van Lew clarified. “They hound us at times, ever since we started visiting the prison. Your ploy is too transparent, Mrs. Webster. In fact, it is offensive.”
Molly shook her head. “I meant no disrespect.”
“And I will take none,” Miss Van Lew answered as she left the window and settled herself in front of the fire in one of the chairs. “We can pretend this conversation never happened. I trust you can find the door and let yourself out. And tell your friend and General Winder that we are simply old ladies doing Christian charity work—nothing more.”
Molly nodded slowly. Miss Van Lew did not acknowledge her. Instead, the older woman stared toward the fire. Molly took a step toward the parlor door, then two. She stopped. She took a deep breath and turned. This could be a mistake.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” Molly asked both women—looking at Mary Jane, then to the back of Miss Van Lew’s head. “The last time I was here, I was much younger.”
Miss Van Lew spun in the chair. She studied Molly’s face. She still held no recognition.
“Of course, I dyed my hair to hide my true self. And I changed my name. I am not Hattie Lawton or Hattie Webster. You knew me as Molly Ferguson.”
It was the first time she had said her name out loud in months. Her voice choked on her last name.
“My mother was—”
“Annabelle’s girl?”
Miss Van Lew cut her off. This time she rose from her chair to look at Molly.
Molly nodded. She fought but could not hold back her tears. Her mother’s name had not fallen upon her ears in so long. Miss Van Lew stepped forward. She searched Molly’s face. Her expression eased from the resolute composure of earlier. She knew Molly.
“Dear child, how is this possible?”
She reached for Molly’s hands and then placed a hand on Molly’s cheek.
“I don’t know how I didn’t see your mother in you. Why did you not say so when you first arrived?”
“I couldn’t,” Molly answered. “I work for people—no one must know I am here. They cannot know me by any other name than Hattie Lawton or Mrs. Webster.”
“I don’t understand,” Miss Van Lew answered. “What has happened to your parents? I have not heard from your mother in some time.”
Molly buried her face in her hands and sobbed. It came back in horrifying flashes. The scent of the fire made it worse. Her legs gave out from under her, and Miss Van Lew and Mary Jane grabbed hold. They eased her into one of the chairs.
The story came out in bursts—all of it. Numbness overcame Molly, like she floated and looked down upon the scene. Her voice filled the room. She told every detail—the fire, her father pulled away by the horse, her mother clutching the medallion, the brothel, Baltimore, the trip to Albany, John Wilkes Booth, Mr. Cheeney, and even Colonel Norris. Molly pulled out the chain around her neck that still held Cheeney’s medallion, Booth’s locket, and the key. She showed the faint lines from the scars around her ankles. She told them of Mrs. Warne, and Pinkerton. Even Timothy Webster was not safe in the tale. The floodgates burst. She talked until her energy drained, leaning her head against the deep backrest of the chair.
Miss Van Lew sat across from her and listened. Even Mary Jane never left the room.
“I don’t know where to start, Molly,” Miss Van Lew said.
“Please,” Molly answered. “No one can know who I am. I cannot put Mr. Webster in danger. My mother said …”
She didn’t finish her thought. Her mother told her to trust Miss Van Lew. Could she? It was too late. She stood before them as nothing more than an empty shell.
“You can trust us.” Miss Van Lew looked to Mary Jane, who nodded. “Earlier, I wasn’t truthful with you either. We have been gathering secrets. Mary Jane does work in Jefferson Davis’ house where she learns all manner of things. And we have many friends. The Negro community hears so much. No one suspects them. It is like how they treat us women. Men don’t think we own the capacity or the physical endurance for this work. But we do!”
Molly opened her handbag. She brought forth the stack of letters.
“Someone in Washington is spying against the Union. Mrs. Horvath brought these with her when we crossed the river. Mrs. Warne needs to see these.”
Miss Van Lew took the letters.
“We have a man leaving in a day or two. He is a servant, so no one suspects him. We have been sending messages north, but I had no good contact to ensure they find the right people.”
“Mrs. Kate Warne,” Molly said. “She stays at Willard’s Hotel in Washington.”
Molly pulled out the chain around her neck and unclipped Booth’s locket. She handed it to Miss Van Lew.
“When your man gives the letters to Mrs. Warne, give her this as well. She will know the message comes from me.”
Miss Van Lew took the locket. She placed it on top of the letters, then turned to Mary Jane.
“Let’s prepare the guest room. Molly needs to stay the night. It will not do sending her out into the arms of General Winder’s lap dog out there. Then we should call Robert. We must get him north with these letters at once!”