WEBSTER SET THE pace—purposeful yet unhurried. Molly walked at his side, a quarter step behind. His body sheltered what wind blew down the boulevard.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Molly’s thoughts fixated upon the girl at the Cheeney estate. It rattled her. The Cheeneys’ had stolen more than the painting. How many others had been forced back into slavery? Likely every last one of the plantation workers. She hadn’t thought much on their plight. They had their papers, but those were easily fixed with a match or fireplace. Her stomach pitched.
“I am fine,” she lied. Her thoughts lingered upon Jeanine. The name was the last thing Isabelle had said before the knife drew across her neck and tore at her flesh. Molly shuddered.
“Did something upset you?”
She hadn’t told him about the Cheeneys, and in truth she had no desire to broach the topic. In all regards, he had a right to know. It affected him, or it might. If her cover unraveled then they were both in danger. She didn’t know where to start, and she didn’t have the energy to attempt the endeavor.
“It was a long day,” she lied. “I am tired.”
They walked in silence. Molly’s thoughts tossed between Jeanine, the painting, the Cheeneys, and Miss Lizzie. She had forgotten Webster’s words before they left. He finally broke the quiet.
“I wish to apologize.”
His confession pulled her from the swirling memories. The moon held high, casting a pale glow upon his face.
“I understand you are responsible for setting all this in motion,” he said.
“All of what?” Molly asked.
He looked at her briefly, then slowed his pace. His hands met behind his back as he leaned forward. His shoes clicked upon the pavement with each step.
“The invitation to the Atwaters’ dinner party, then the demonstration this morning. You made that happen for us. It was not of my doing. Captain Atwater explained that his wife met you through a friend. She garnered our invitation.”
Molly nodded. “I should have said something—I didn’t want to upset you further.”
“Before I left for that trip south, I was harsh in my words. I should not have taken them out on you in that manner. My conflict with Mrs. Warne is my own. And then I was still sick and upset my rheumatism had claimed me at such an important time.”
“It is no bother,” Molly replied. Secretly, she loved the apology. She pondered if she had need to tell him of Miss Lizzie and her network.
“It was not fair. You have been a true companion. Mrs. Warne said you were ready for this assignment, though I fought against it. I wanted no company. But I take great comfort from you.”
Guilt washed over her. He did not know of her tie to the Cheeneys. She had to tell him. Her fingers played upon the chain about her neck. It still contained Cheeney’s medallion and her key.
“And my outburst that day was fueled by a letter I received. Another courier brought it through the lines. It came from my wife.”
“The respectable woman?”
Molly regretted her words as soon as they left her mouth. At the time he uttered them, they had stung—holding her in direct contrast. If she was honest, there was more to it. She played his wife, but another woman had his true affection.
“Yes. I am sorry for those words as well. I was angry at her letter—at her. I used it to lash out upon you. You see, it was the first time I had heard from her in over a year.”
“You’ve been gone a year?”
Webster nodded. “Longer. I haven’t seen her in more than two years. And before that there were long absences. I left the job for a time.”
“But you came back?” Molly asked.
“We had a daughter. I saw her a handful of times before she died, but I was absent most of her life. My wife never forgave me. I should have been home, but I was not. I tried to stay after she passed, but I was not welcome. I should have tried harder. And for that shortcoming, I do not have a marriage—though I will not leave her destitute without an income.”
His voice choked. He persisted in looking forward and not to Molly. She took his arm, prying it free from behind his back. He finally looked down and smiled. He had been crying, though Molly had not seen the tears. They caught in his beard.
“I have a son who is likely your age. He looks after home in a way I could not. I hear from him from time to time. He doesn’t understand, and I cannot explain why I am always gone. In his last letter he said he might join the Army. I urged him to reconsider. I would hate for him to follow in this path.”
Molly didn’t know what to say. She walked on, holding tight upon his arm. It blocked the wind, but it felt good to have someone. She had hoped for a partner in Richmond, not a conflict.
“Be mindful, Molly, what you choose in this life. This job will take everything you have at some point. I wish I had known that earlier. No matter what good we do, there is always a price. Sometimes those we love most pay it for us.”
They walked on for a time in silence. She should tell him about the Richmond Underground, but it could wait. She didn’t want to shatter the peace that descended upon them. She wanted this moment to last as long as possible, savoring every second. She matched his stride as their footfalls fell in step—the only sound to penetrate the dark. He finally spoke.
“Did you know the girl back there? The one who held the door? She looked at you in an odd fashion.”
The peace she had enjoyed disappeared. Lying would not help.
“Yes.” Molly drew in a deep breath. “She lived on my father’s estate.”
“The one that Cheeney destroyed?”
Molly’s pace slowed. She let go of his arm.
“You know?”
“Pinkerton told me. I argued with him that it made you a liability. I was afraid you would be recognized. But they insisted.”
“Why?” Molly asked.
“Mrs. Warne has great respect for you. They told me about Montreal. That could not have been easy. But it was your efforts that brought us to Mason Cheeney. He is the target of this operation.”
“Mr. Cheeney?” Molly asked. She didn’t understand. “Mr. Pinkerton and Mrs. Warne said nothing.”
“I know. They didn’t want you to become fixated on Cheeney. After what you discovered in Montreal, Pinkerton had concerns. It seems his fears were well founded. He sent us to uncover Cheeney’s special project and find some way to stop it.”
“We can send word of the ship, can’t we? Once they know, they can look for the floatation collar. It seems a flaw in his grand design.”
Webster drew her close, hooking her arm and holding her tight. He lowered his voice. No one else walked nearby, but it made good sense to keep the conversation low. Molly enjoyed the warmth.
“We will. I plan to leave as soon as possible, perhaps tomorrow. We can tell them what we witnessed.”
He paused, looking to her before continuing.
“I am more concerned in the second part of his plan. It would be a dangerous course if the South freed their slaves—with or without shipments of cotton to Europe.”
“Dangerous to who?” Molly asked.
“To the Union.”
Molly stopped. Webster took another step before he realized she was no longer beside him.
“You wouldn’t want slavery to end?” she asked.
“I fight to keep the Union whole. No matter what.”
“That’s not an answer. You would save the Union even if it meant the South kept their slaves?”
“I think it little matters, Molly. The Union will win. We will see to it.”
“And will the Union free everyone? Will President Lincoln set them all free?”
“I don’t know,” Webster admitted. “The President said he would keep slavery if it meant an end to the war. These things are hard to know.”
The Union might keep slavery?
“If the South moved first,” she asked, “if they liberated everyone, what would we care? Let them do it.”
“Because it complicates matters,” Webster replied. “That sounds cruel, but that is the truth of it. The Union first—then the slaves.”
Molly shook her head. The turn of fate was awful. The man she most wanted dead held the best hope to liberate millions. While the man she saved might yet be the one to maintain their bondage. Everything was backwards.
“Does Cheeney’s plan have a chance?” she asked.
“Not immediately,” Webster said. “But when they become desperate—when the resources of the North press down upon them—they might consider it. But that could be years.”
Molly started walking again. Webster matched her steps beside her.
“How do we hasten it?” Molly asked.
“Cheeney’s warship. It might force Mr. Lincoln’s hand. Pinkerton said the President considers emancipation. But he worries that would drive Maryland and Kentucky into the hands of the Confederacy. It’s a tightrope. If Cheeney’s idea spreads, Europe may back the South. So we could force Mr. Lincoln’s options. He will have to declare it first.”
“Would the President believe us? Would he believe that one man could convince Jefferson Davis to free the slaves?” Molly asked.
“Cheeney’s more than a single man. We looked at him hard this past year, after you highlighted his importance. Pinkerton intercepted messages from the French ambassador. Cheeney works for the French. If Cheeney can break the blockade, then he has the contacts to convince the French to join the fight.”
They walked on in silence. The weather had turned, and with each breath the mist in front of their faces grew dense. Webster coughed and leaned on Molly.
“We should have taken a carriage,” Molly said.
“I needed the walk. And I wanted to talk to you in peace.”
Molly was still thinking of the dilemma with Cheeney.
“I could kill him.”
Webster laughed, but it turned into a coughing fit. Molly took his initial laughter to mock her.
“You don’t think I could?”
“Oh no, I have no doubt in you. I laughed because it is exactly what Pinkerton feared—you might kill Cheeney.”
“It would solve our problem.”
Webster coughed again, and then cleared his throat.
“It would create new ones. It would be better to discredit him, to push him from the French so they distance themselves from the affair. There are fates worse than death.”
“You sound like Mrs. Warne.”
“Do I?”
He pulled Molly close.
“We should get you out of the cold,” she said.
“Yes. I need a fire. And we need to get back to Washington. We can tell Pinkerton of the ship, and then of Cheeney’s plan.”
“I thought we are to stop him.”
He leaned upon her with more weight.
“We will, but for now we should leave Richmond. Tomorrow—first thing. Mrs. Atwater is right. We have to warn Pinkerton.”
“When will we come back?” Molly asked.
She thought of the painting and of the bruises on Mrs. Cheeney’s face—the burning mansion, the rope around her father’s neck, and the medallion she wore. She wanted her painting back. Cheeney had to pay.
“We might not. It becomes too dangerous in Richmond for us. That girl worries me.”
“It was several years ago. I look much different.”
Her words rang hollow. There could be no doubt. Jeanine recognized her. Would she tell the Cheeneys? Why?
“No,” Webster said. “She most certainly recognized you. I’m afraid our time in Richmond has come to an end.”