I’m so glad you could join me today, Mari.”
Marietta summoned a smile that she hoped convinced Barbara she was glad too, though she had a difficult time forcing her gaze from the window of the carriage. “As am I.” Mostly. Though her stomach threatened to heave at the mere mention of a hospital. Heaven help them all if they asked her to change a bandage.
But being always in the company of a woman so very good and selfless made her determined to try something other than rolling bandages and stitching sashes. Something to quiet this twisting in her chest she didn’t understand.
“Are you all right? You look…perplexed.”
“Do I?” Try as she might to laugh that away, it was no doubt true. Part of her was eager to arrive at the hospital at which Stephen had once volunteered, which she had not seen since it was a family home. Part of her recoiled at the imagined sights and smells.
And part of her was none too sure her confusion had a whit to do with that. Sighing, she gave up on the familiar streets leading to the edges of Baltimore and focused on her friend. “I feel strange, Barbara.” She splayed a gloved hand over her chest. “An urgency, almost, though I cannot understand why.”
“Hmm.” Barbara’s gaze went unfocused for a moment, and then her usual serene smile touched her lips. “It sounds as though the Spirit may be asking you to pray.”
With a long blink and a tongue that seemed unable to wrap itself around words, Marietta shook her head, slowly. Not in rejection but in shock. “But why would the Lord ask me to pray?”
Her friend chuckled and reached across the space between them to grasp her hand. “It is all part of your burgeoning relationship with Him.”
Was it? She held fast to Barbara’s fingers. “I have spent hours lately studying the Scriptures, sermons, dwelling on what Stephen once told me, and still I…” Unable to meet her friend’s guileless eyes, she resorted to the window again. “During the day, I feel as though I am finally beginning to understand. Then when Dev shows up for dinner, it is as though chains are cuffed to my wrists and ankles. How does one escape one’s past, Barbara? How?”
“Mari.” Her tone, gently insistent, bade Marietta look at her again. When she did, she had a feeling Barbara saw everything with her solemn, accepting gaze. All her guilt, all her sin, all her fear. “You have prayed for forgiveness from your sins. Have you prayed for freedom from their bonds?”
“Freedom?” It wasn’t a word one could toss around lightly these days. “How am I to pray for freedom when I have slaves under my roof? Would that not make me the biggest hypocrite in the state?”
Barbara chuckled and squeezed her hand. “Not by far. As wretched as I believe physical slavery is, men and women of greater faith than mine are on the opposite side of this war.” She drew in a deep breath, her expression as conflicted as Marietta had ever seen it. “Stephen and I spent much time trying to reconcile the differing views with a similar faith. And then at last we realized we didn’t have to, because God so very rarely tells us what society should do—rather, He tells us how we, as believers, should behave in whatever society to which we belong.”
Their eyes met again, and again Barbara’s smile shone forth. “Never once in the Bible does God speak either for or against physical slavery. But spiritual slavery—that is a topic He addresses time and again. Over and over Paul pleads with the early church to embrace the freedom of the soul that Christ offers. You must do that, Mari. You must cling, not just to cleansing, but to freedom.”
Stephen had said something similar once. Not just salvation, but redemption. Redemption again—God had not just taken her sins from her, He had purchased her. And she could not be both God’s and Dev’s, not when their wills were in opposition.
The carriage rocked to a halt, and she looked out again to see the once-familiar mansion previously called Maryland Square. Her breath stuck in her chest. This was where she had met Lucien, at a ball in the spring of 1860, before the Steuarts’ property had been seized because of their Confederate sympathies. Now, rather than rolling acres of gardens, long barrack-like buildings flanked it, row upon row of yellow walls and black roofs. A wooden sign read Jarvis US General Hospital.
There would be no music spilling from the windows, no gaiety within the halls. Marietta pulled her cloak tight and reclaimed her hand from Barbara’s so she could grip her reticule. So much had changed in their world in the last five years. It was only fitting that this, too, should be so different.
“Do you still get ill at the sight of blood?”
Marietta’s head snapped back toward her companion, and she found her grinning. “Stephen mentioned that?”
“It came up when we first met. That is why I never asked you to join me.”
She drew in a bracing breath when Pat opened the door and offered her a hand down. “I don’t know if it will or not. I have avoided it so long. I suppose we shall see.”
Barbara followed her out and patted her arm. “You can begin by helping the men with their correspondence.”
“Perfect.” Dictation was something she could do all but in her sleep. She would give half her attention to the men laid out upon the rows of cots…and the other half could focus on praying for Slade.
Slade didn’t have to feign an anxiousness to match his companion’s. As he stroked the nose of his horse, he looked from the street to Booth. The afternoon had ticked away, an hour gone and then two. With each passing minute, the spring wound tighter.
Seven of them had ridden out that afternoon from the boarding house John Surratt’s mother owned. They had taken up their positions along Lincoln’s route with each detail planned, every contingency explored.
All except this one—that the president didn’t come this way at all. Lord, let that be what happened. Let Hersh have changed the route.
But he couldn’t know, not for sure. He and Booth were stationed at the last point, with the carriage meant to convey Lincoln to Richmond as fast as the horses could fly. They had seen no one all afternoon.
“He must have been delayed setting out for the review, that’s all.” Booth still held his riding crop, his horse’s flank quivering every time he slapped it to his palm.
He’d made the same observation at least fifteen times in the past two hours. Slade had long ago given up responding to it. Instead, he gave his horse one last pat on the nose and turned to the table they had claimed when they first arrived at the tavern on the outskirts of Washington.
Anything could have happened. Maybe Hersh had sent guards instead of changing the route. Maybe Lincoln did come along this road, Surratt and Atzerodt had jumped out at him as planned, and a gunfight had ensued. Mr. Lincoln could be injured or killed. Hersh could be too. Exactly what Slade had hoped to avoid.
Now wasn’t the time for violence or to make arrests. Not with Hughes uninvolved in this scheme, and whatever had kept him so busy still tauntingly beyond Slade’s understanding. He couldn’t make his move yet, and he couldn’t risk scaring the whole KGC underground. He had to wait and make sure none of their plans came to fruition before he could determine what, exactly, Hughes was up to.
He took a sip of the coffee that had long ago gone cold and caught Booth’s gaze. “It’s getting dark.”
The actor muttered a curse and dashed the whip to the ground. “I know. He wouldn’t wait this long to start out. Something has gone awry.”
Booth bent down to snatch his crop, his expression thunderous enough to make Slade wonder if he wouldn’t rather snap it in two. “I suppose we must. Blast it! What could have gone wrong? The plan was perfect.”
Indeed, it had been. If the first two men failed for some reason, there were another two waiting beyond them. And another pair after that, each with a carriage ready to mask their movements. And finally him and Booth, ready as a final line if all before them failed. Or, if they were successful, to supervise the transportation into Confederate territory.
Slade had spent much of the day praying it wouldn’t come to that. If it did, he would have no choice but to show his true loyalties…and that was unlikely to end well.
His only answer to Booth now was to swing up into the saddle. And pray that his relief didn’t show in his face. “Maybe the others know more.”
“Of course they do.” Booth huffed once more but mounted his horse. “ ‘The best laid schemes of mice and men,’ I suppose.”
Slade’s borrowed mare moved of her own volition into a trot and tossed her head when he pulled her back to a walk to await Booth. He would have preferred to let the beast have her head, company be dashed, but he wasn’t entirely certain he remembered the way back to the Surratt boarding house given the serpentine route they had taken from it earlier that afternoon.
When Booth drew even with him, curious amusement colored his gaze. “The tavern keeper seemed to be trying to place you earlier. Have you stopped here before?”
“No.” But he’d noticed the narrow-eyed stare too. And it made him wonder if maybe Ross had. “He might have met my brother at some point, though.”
“Are you and your brother often confused?”
Slade snorted a laugh. Perhaps not as often as one would expect of identical twins, given that Ross had always had his clothes neatly pressed, his hair perfectly combed, and his behavior well under control, whereas Slade had…not. Never once had anyone tried to blame perfect Ross for any of Slade’s sins. Why, then, did his brother seem to demand retribution for Slade’s very being, and only after he’d changed? Why did it now fall to him to clean up the mess again, when he had already done it once, with his own life?
“More often than either of us liked.”
“Hmm.” No suspicion entered the actor’s eyes, thankfully. “Such things always put me in mind of Shakespeare’s comedies of errors. Mistaken identity—a classic device, which the Bard so skillfully put to use. Have you ever seen Much Ado About Nothing?”
Slade had a vague recollection of it being performed in a Chicago theater he had visited before a game of cards one evening. A brief nod was sufficient, he knew, to fuel Booth on in his talk of plays.
“I prefer the tragedies and histories, but Shakespeare knew how to write a comedy, to be sure.” Booth guided his mount to the left, glancing at Slade as he followed. “Where is he now?”
He couldn’t know how the question punched. “Dead.”
“My apologies. Must have been hard to lose a brother.” Booth’s voice went soft, barely discernable over the clop of horse hooves over cobblestones. “I am the ninth of ten children, myself. My brother Edwin and I have always been rivals. He is an actor as well, you know.”
“I’d heard.”
Booth laughed, tight and short. “And he’s a Unionist, of all things. Still, he is my brother. And a dratted fine Hamlet, though perish me if I ever admit it to him.”
Slade chuckled because it was necessary, but the sound was a lie. Good humor had no place in him right now. How could it? Even among enemies, sympathy hit whenever he heard of the unseen ravages of this endless war. Loyalties divided, houses divided, families divided.
His father had once preached a sermon on how the End of Days was always at hand. It was hard to deny in this gray world. When ye shall hear of wars and rumours of wars, be ye not troubled: for such things must needs be; but the end shall not be yet.
Booth swore under his breath. “I cannot believe we failed again. What do you suppose went awry?”
“Hard to say.” But Slade noted that the man’s shoulders bunched up, his jaw pulsed. With the Confederacy faltering more each day, with the end in sight, failure would not sit well with any of the Knights. These are the beginnings of sorrows.
“We were so thorough. So careful.” Booth’s fingers went tight on his reins.
But whatsoever shall be given you in that hour, that speak ye: for it is not ye that speak, but the Holy Ghost. Slade drew in a long breath. “We always are.” Yet had always failed.
God willing, they always would. Even if it had cost Slade so very dearly already. Now the brother shall betray the brother to death…
“I know. Blast it, I know. Perhaps we weren’t careful enough. Perhaps there were spies about as we rode into town.”
Spies. Though his throat went dry, Slade resisted the urge to swallow. Not a tell he wanted to indulge around an actor schooled at expression. And ye shall be hated of all men for my name’s sake. He lifted his brows.
Booth huffed out a breath. “Unlikely, I know. But we haven’t the leisure for unlikely foils, not anymore. Time is too short.”
But he that shall endure unto the end, the same shall be saved.
Had he dared, he would have whispered a prayer that it be so, that the Lord would help him endure until whatever day would be his last. Contenting himself with silence, he made no objection when Booth spurred his horse to a canter. Slade followed suit, shadowing the man through the avenues, around carriages and other horses, until the somewhat familiar facade of the Surratt boarding house came into sight.
As they came to a halt, a Negro man emerged to take their horses. Slade nodded his thanks and leapt up the stairs after Booth, who burst in without so much as a knock, his riding crop still in hand and bellowing, “John!”
Slade closed the door behind him, while Booth strode toward the parlor, from which a steady stream of curses rang out in Surratt’s tone. He slid into the room too, just in time to see the usually cool young man gesture with his revolver.
“Ruined! Blighted! I ought to put an end to it all here and now, I might as well—” His self-threat ended in a sputter of unintelligible groans.
Booth paced the room, frantic. Perhaps his own agitation was heightened by his friend’s. “Calm yourself, John. We—”
He cut himself off when he turned and spotted what Slade had noticed the moment he stepped inside the room—they weren’t alone. In addition to another Knight, one of the boarders sat in the corner, a book in hand and his mouth agape.
The fellow cleared his throat, looking more than a little frightened. “Good evening, Mr. Booth.”
Had the actor attempted a smile, it no doubt would have been convincing. But he didn’t bother. “I didn’t see you there.”
Surratt charged from the room, motioning his friends to follow. They did, leaving the boarder staring after them.
Booth scarcely waited until they were all ensconced in a chill, dim back chamber. “What happened? What is it?”
“What happened?” Surratt spun toward the entrance with blazing eyes. “How am I to know? Perhaps one of the others fouled up. Perhaps we were betrayed.”
The echo pulsed through the room, leeching out what warmth had been in it. Slade sucked in a breath only because the others did.
Surratt sighed and folded himself onto a couch. “Foolishness, I know. It’s merely our usual bad luck asserting itself. His driver took another route.”
Praise the Lord.
Booth groaned and sank into a wingback chair. “Why?”
“There was no reason, so far as I could tell. I spotted them coming, was prepared to act, and then they just turned. I tried to rush away, to alert the others or intercept him elsewhere, but…”
But they hadn’t scouted all the other roads. They didn’t know where else they could set upon him without being noticed. Hence why changing the route had been so sensible a plan. Relief wove through gratitude within Slade.
Lincoln was safe. Herschel was safe. More, Herschel had trusted him. Slade sat too, and rubbed a hand over his face.
Maybe Ross hadn’t completely succeeded at ruining everything. Maybe Slade really could put it to rights. Maybe he’d emerge from this with a hope for a future.
Maybe…but doubt still plagued him. And with doubt came the flashing of cat-green eyes in his mind. He hadn’t let himself think too much, yet, about what Walker Payne had told him that morning about the unknowns of Marietta Arnaud Hughes. Didn’t dare. Because thinking about it made him wonder. A woman willing to run off with a quadroon laborer surely couldn’t be so opposed to a two-bit detective on principle, after all.
But principle didn’t matter a whit in these things. He was none too sure either of them had anything left to give. Wasn’t sure what it would take to overcome the obstacles. She and Payne must have loved each other something fierce to plan such a thing, but that hadn’t been enough either.
Maybe nothing would be.