THE CELEBRATION AT the Cheeney estate began early in the afternoon. Unlike the Atwater party from the previous night, this gathering needed no invitation. Of course, only those in the know were the wiser about the festivities. Even so, a small crowd packed into the elegant Cheeney estate. The house was the equal of Miss Lizzie’s grand house, finely decorated with a mix of polished silver and well-oiled mahogany.
The Cheeney servants tried to keep pace with the food. They placed it upon the great dining room table. Those who were hungry took plates and ate anywhere they found a seat. The discarded dishes sat no more than a few moments before the household staff ushered them down the stairs and into the kitchen. They were soon cleaned and recycled. Molly might have been the only one who watched the servants. No one paid them any attention, other than to grab one as they passed and make demands for more food, or silverware.
Molly studied their faces. They were tired. But they spoke to one another in their own language—a language of furtive glances and veiled smiles that were quickly tucked away. They mocked the fat old men who became more intoxicated by the minute. They mimicked the pretentious women who vied for social status next to their husbands. The servants saw everything. Nothing that happened in the household escaped their grasp.
Webster was in his element once more. He danced around the room, always with a bottle in his hands. He proposed toasts and filled glasses. He engaged in raucous laughter and fierce debate. But never did the bottle in his hands touch his lips. He made certain everyone else held a full glass. Alcohol worked wonders in loosening secrets.
And it was the perfect crowd to work. The cream of Richmond society showed up to celebrate. It looked like every general in the Army had made his way to the party. The Confederate cabinet stood among them—even Secretary Benjamin. Webster worked from man to man, filling their glasses and plying his trade.
For her part, Molly found a corner. She had worried that, in attending, Mrs. Cheeney might start to put the pieces together. Her husband remained oblivious. Molly feared seeing him up close again. Twice she had failed. She could not kill on purpose. Not like she planned. But she buoyed herself in the thought of knowing the house and where he lived. It might be useful in the future.
She walked down the hall, getting air and space from the noise. Exquisite artwork hung upon the walls, clad in gold gilded frames. Gas lamps hissed, the most modern lighting Molly had witnessed outside of the hotel in New York. The Cheeneys spared no expense upon the decoration of their Richmond house. As she made her way deeper down the corridor, she paused at one of the paintings. Her hand clasped her mouth—a rendition of Salvation Acres. She knew this painting.
Her mother had known the artist and commissioned the work. Long rows of old-growth southern oaks formed a canopied path leading to the estate. Spanish moss decorated the branches, hanging from the limbs. The air around her felt thick and laden with moisture, as it would have back home. Her feet knew the path, running barefoot, chased by Isabelle. Her fists clenched. She would kill Cheeney here, in front of everyone. She needed a weapon—a knife, or a gun. She needed a gun. That would make the most noise and draw in witnesses to see what she had done. Then she would turn it on Secretary Benjamin, on the cabinet, on anyone in uniform. Her mind drifted to the fantasy, letting it play out as revenge. They stole this painting.
“Do you like it?”
Molly spun, startled and angry all at once. Her jaw clenched, and her fists formed tight. She dropped her handbag as she turned. Mrs. Cheeney stood behind her.
“It is our property in New Orleans. But sadly, the house burned.”
The breath sucked out of Molly. Her property?
“I like the trees,” Mrs. Cheeney continued. “The air is much cleaner there. I might soon leave Richmond and go back to New Orleans.”
Mrs. Cheeney studied Molly. The woman was suspicious. Molly let her hands ease, her fists melting away. She leaned down and picked up her handbag.
“You startled me.”
“I am so sorry.” The apology rang hollow. “You said you have never been to New Orleans?”
Molly shook her head. Mrs. Cheeney stepped next to Molly, looping their arms together and spinning her to face the painting.
“It is lovely. We will re-build the house—the land is remarkable. I dread winters this far north.”
“What happened to the house?” Molly asked.
She calmed her voice, to make the question passable. In truth, she forced it. The scent of smoke lingered—something she would never forget. The house in the painting caught fire. Grotesque flickering shadows cast on the old-growth oak trees with the Spanish moss. She clenched her free hand into a fist once more.
“It is a sad story,” Mrs. Cheeney answered. “The man who owned it came upon hard times. He gambled away his fortunes. Mr. Cheeney lent him a substantial sum, but he failed to pay. He even refused to sell his slaves to cover the debt. When Mason confronted him, the gentleman burned the estate. Mason tried to salvage the house, but to no avail. We will rebuild, and style it even grander than before. We plan to retire there, after the war, and when the property can sustain an income once more.”
Molly tightened her jaw and breathed deep. Perhaps Mrs. Cheeney tested her—wanted Molly to break, to expose both her and Mr. Webster. Cheeney’s men slashed Isabelle’s throat as she watched. Her father had been dragged off by a horse. And she had found her mother the next morning. Molly forced the images from her thoughts. Patience was her better option.
“You intend to head south soon, then?” Molly asked.
“Perhaps,” Mrs. Cheeney answered. “My son may be furloughed long enough to escort me to New Orleans. He leads a company of cavalry, but Mason is trying to have him assigned in Richmond. After today, I imagine Mr. Cheeney’s prospects for such a request will be more readily received.”
Again, Molly found herself gasping for breath. Jonathon Cheeney would arrive soon? He would recognize her, even if his parents did not. Molly had to leave. Her presence endangered Webster. It would ruin the whole operation. Her stomach heaved, though she remained upon her feet.
“I hope for your sake he is successful,” Molly said. Then she turned to Mrs. Cheeney and smiled, forcing it with all her strength. “I see your cheek is healing.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Cheeney touched her face, then her mouth. For the first time, Molly noticed the split along her lower lip. She had met the end of Mr. Cheeney’s temper once again.
“Perhaps the weather in New Orleans will help with those prospects.”
“I get so dizzy here,” Mrs. Cheeney confessed. Her confidence faded. She covered the lie, but her voice deceived her. So quickly she transformed from antagonist to victim—her weakness.
“I am certain a break from Richmond would help,” Molly said. “Mr. Cheeney seems much stressed with his work.”
“As he has a right to,” Mrs. Cheeney answered. Her words formed clipped and sharp. She averted Molly’s gaze.
“It is important work,” Molly confirmed. “All the same, such stress should not affect the family. I am certain some time away to recuperate will help you both. I find I am often refreshed after some time without my husband. Men such as ours, who hold faith with a singular purpose, come with a high-price. We are meant to bear that price, I suppose.”
Mrs. Cheeney dropped Molly’s arm and faced the younger woman. Her face changed. Gone was the scheming look that earlier held it hostage. The lines around her eyes softened. Her eyes dropped to the floor.
“No one else ever mentions it. I know they see. I know they talk about me. But you’re the only one who says anything. He was never like this when we first met. So much has changed.”
Molly took her hand. The woman looked up. Her eyes welled, but they did not break. She forced a thin smile. It faded.
“Thank you,” she said.
Then she dropped Molly’s hand. Stepping around her, she walked down the corridor away from the party. Mrs. Cheeney disappeared past the gas lamps. Her footsteps echoed as she found some back staircase. The painting once more filled Molly’s heart. It ached. She couldn’t bear to look at it any longer.
Back in the sitting room, the party had thinned. Only the dedicated remained. Webster stood with Mr. Cheeney and Secretary Benjamin. They were engaged in a heated discussion. Molly hoped to convince Webster to leave. As she approached, he glanced toward her. Her mood must have cast upon her face.
“Not much longer, my love,” he said. “This is Secretary Benjamin, and of course you know the hero of the hour, Mr. Cheeney.”
He played to Cheeney’s ego, especially in front of the secretary. The older man nodded, but Cheeney could not help himself.
“Mrs. Webster is in the employ of our mutual friend, Colonel William Norris,” Cheeney announced. “She provided an invaluable service to our cause just this past year. I will be forever indebted.”
Molly did not wish to correct his mistaken impression. Of course, he had first met her with Colonel Norris, so he assumed they worked together. It blurred her past while further strengthening her credibility.
“I shall have to hear the story,” the secretary replied.
He studied Molly, perhaps skeptical on what role she might have played. Molly reached out and placed an arm around Webster, as if to steady herself. He understood.
“I don’t want to cut-off Mr. Cheeney’s earlier topic,” Webster said. “I believe he was about to enlighten us on how to win the war.”
“Indeed,” the secretary replied. “Please continue Mason, that is, if it can be told in mixed company.”
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Cheeney said. The odor of bourbon floated across the space to Molly. The man could scarcely stand, and his words slurred at their edges.
“I was telling them how we win Europe,” Cheeney explained looking at Molly.
“With your blockade-breaking ship,” Molly answered. Flattery would further hook him.
“That’s only the beginning. We will soon get our cotton to Europe, but we still require their backing. We need France to recognize the Confederate government. It will line up credit for our cause, gain us recognition, and force an end to the war if we need intervention.”
“I hope you’re not implying we need French or British troops to win this war,” Secretary Benjamin responded. “Need I remind you the year we have had upon the battlefield? The Southern soldier is unmatched!”
The secretary believed his own propaganda—fitting for a man who relied upon it.
Cheeney shook his head. “I’m being realistic. I am the most ardent supporter of our troops. But I see the losses. We win battles, but we have fewer men to lose. That is simple math.”
“I take your point,” the secretary conceded. “What would you do next?”
Cheeney looked around, seeing who else might be in earshot. Then he lowered his voice.
“We end slavery.”
Webster’s body tensed under Molly’s arm. The secretary, to his credit, showed no outward sign of his thoughts.
“Are we not engaged in this conflict to preserve the institution of slavery? You would kill the very thing we fight for?” the secretary asked.
“We fight to save the South—to no longer be at the whims of the Union. I would rather win the war and end slavery than lose the war and have its end imposed upon us.”
Molly’s face flushed. She brushed her hair back from her forehead, her focus trained on Cheeney.
“So, it is inevitable?” Secretary Benjamin asked. He entertained the notion, perhaps for no other reason than amusement.
“Yes. The North will reach the same conclusion. And they will free any captured slaves and outlaw the practice. Then Europe will back them instead of us. Our fight becomes futile in such a case. However, if we beat Lincoln to the act, then we win Europe and isolate the Union. Again, Mr. Secretary, it is simple math.”
Secretary Benjamin nodded. His face formed an amused look, processing such an unusual proposition.
“And what then would we do with the throngs of liberated Negroes? How would we stop them from burning and pillaging? They would be so grateful for their freedom? And how would we get our cotton crops to market? It seems a serious flaw to win your European friends, Mason.”
Cheeney smiled. “That’s the best part. We pay them.”
Molly clutched at Webster. He looked down to her, reacting to the change in her posture.
“You’re too much, Mason,” Webster blurted out, interrupting the conversation.
“I’ve seen it work,” Cheeney countered. “It is possible.”
“There was a plantation in New Orleans. The estate master there freed his stock of slaves. He didn’t need them all, but those he kept, he paid a wage. They stayed, and they out produced any plantation for several counties.”
The look upon Secretary Benjamin’s face changed—no longer idle speculation. The man was drawn in.
“And what happened to this plantation?” the secretary asked.
“Well, that is another matter,” Cheeney said. “The man was a fool. He became soft for the darker flesh—even took one as a mistress, I am told. Once his mind was affected, he went upon a splurge and bought all the slaves he could, never mindful of the profits. He gambled in hopes to win it back, and came to me for a large sum of money. Mind you, I didn’t know this was happening until I took control of the property to cover his loans. He would still owe me money today, if he had not hung himself. Patrick Ferguson—ever the fool.”
Molly’s knees buckled. Her grip remained tight on Webster, and he caught her in time. Both Cheeney and Secretary Benjamin broke their discussion. They watched as Webster guided Molly to a nearby chair. Webster leaned close.
“I know, I know,” he whispered to her. “We’ll leave. Let me get our coats.”
Webster turned to the two men who watched the commotion.
“I’m afraid you made the punch too strong, Mason!” Webster tried to cover for Molly.
He hurried from the room, likely searching for their winter garments. He needn’t have worried. Cheeney nodded, forgetting all about Molly, and went back to his impassioned conversation. Molly strained to hear.
“The Union will end slavery as we have done, Mr. Secretary. It will appear they do it to mimic our motives. And with the extra Negroes, we send them North. Once there, they will fight for jobs with the Catholics, and whoever else has immigrated to the Union. They will collapse the economy for us.”
The secretary stood quiet. He raised his hand to his chin.
“It is a most crazy, yet interesting idea, Mason.”
Webster walked back into the room, holding their coats. He stopped by the two men, and bid his goodbye, once more congratulating Webster for the great success of the day. Then he held out a hand to Molly.
“I am fine,” she said. “I need some air.”
“As do I. We shall walk home.”
“Really?” Molly questioned. “But you were soaked today, and I wish not to nurse you to health once more.”
“I’ll be fine,” he insisted. “And I wish some time with you. There are things I need to say.”
His face revealed none of what he meant. The butterflies in her stomach appeared again. He helped her put her coat on and wrap the shawl around her shoulders. Then with an arm around her shoulder, he escorted her to the door.
As they entered the foyer, a young girl—a servant—held the front door. Molly almost passed her without notice. But something about how the girl stared caught Molly’s attention. Molly turned. There was no mistaking it. The girl recognized her, too. Their eyes met, shocked to see one another. Webster’s firm arm at Molly’s back kept her moving. They stepped through the door, and down the stairs to the sidewalk. The girl stood in the doorway.
Jeanine—Isabelle’s sister.