at Henry’s side through the night, but she needed to send a telegram home. When Henry began nodding off, clearly in need of rest, she and Hattie took their leave.
“Aunt Patty and Uncle Joe need to know too,” Anne said as they left the building. “But that will have to wait, seeing as how the telegraph office is in the other direction from their house.”
“If you don’t mind going to the telegraph office on your own, I can stop by and tell them,” Hattie said, wanting to be helpful.
Anne squeezed her hand. “You’re a dear. They’ve been so kind to me, and to Henry and Richard, too, when they came through the city with their regiment. I’d hate to feel as if I’ve slighted them.”
“Don’t give it another thought. Get going. You’ll probably have to wait in line, and you should try to get back before dark.” The streets were well-lit and mostly safe, but in certain parts of the city, drunken soldiers came out like fireflies after dark.
“You too,” Anne said, waving as she turned north. Hattie continued west, the evening light spreading like a golden blanket over the city. In the months since she and Anne had come to Washington, the streets had become familiar. She’d grown used to regiments of soldiers coming and going, and to the sounds of the drum and bugle calling them to reveille and morning drills. Even the summer stench had become common, though she wouldn’t miss its passing as autumn took hold.
Their work, too, had grown routine, even tedious. But today had been different, memorable. Anne had found Henry, and Hattie had every reason to think that she’d soon have a new appointment doing the work of a real spy. Baltimore, and then what? In wartime, she’d learned to take each day as it came, but this went against her restless nature. She’d put her past behind her, and she felt a world of possibilities opening before her.
She turned north at 19th Street, the same neighborhood where she’d met Thom walking with Lucy last night. This evening, the sidewalks were mostly deserted. It was nearly dinnertime, she realized, feeling a pang of hunger.
The Trents’ home was two blocks west on L Street. It was a solid, elegant dwelling without the pretensions of the house Hattie had grown up in. She rang the bell, and a servant answered, someone Hattie didn’t recognize.
“Is Mrs. Trent in?” she asked. “Or Julia? I’m a friend of her cousin.”
Anne’s Aunt Patty came bustling toward the door. “Hattie, dear. How lovely to see you again! But where is Anne?”
The servant swung the door wide, admitting her. The foyer was open and welcoming, papered in a soft floral print, an oval rug covering a portion of the polished wood floor. “Anne has gone to send a telegraph to her parents, with word of Henry. He’s in hospital at the Patent Office. She asked me to stop by and tell you.”
Mrs. Trent pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Alive.”
Hattie nodded. “He was shot in the foot and the arm. The arm’s worse than the foot.” She hesitated, unsure whether to mention the amputation orders. Better to convey what Dr. Greenfield had said, she decided. “The doctor thinks it’s a flesh wound.”
Mrs. Trent gripped her arm. “So we can hope for a recovery?”
“I think so.”
“Thank heavens. Every day I pray for those boys. Tell me, is there word of Richard?”
Hattie swallowed hard. “Not yet. Henry lost track of him at Manassas after he was shot.”
Mrs. Trent clasped her hands to her chest. “Well, we shall hope and pray for the best. And what of your brother, Hattie? George, isn’t it? Any word of him?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Oh, your poor parents back in Indiana. They must be so worried.”
Hattie could hardly respond to this honestly, knowing her parents had disowned George. Instead, she deflected. “We all worry so over our soldiers, don’t we?”
Mrs. Trent nodded vigorously, the jowls of her broad face jiggling. “Indeed we do.”
“A pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Trent. I must be getting home now.”
Mrs. Trent grabbed her arm. “Oh, but you must stay for dinner. We’ve only just sat down, and there are two empty seats. Sam and Halsey are off visiting friends.”
Hattie’s rumbling stomach was not enough to offset the discomfort she knew she’d feel, seated around a table of half-strangers, including Mr. Trent, who ran among the highest circles in the city. “That’s kind of you to offer, Mrs. Trent. But—”
“No objections, my dear.” With surprising strength, Mrs. Trent tugged her from the foyer toward the dining room. “I can only imagine the sort of meals you and Anne must endure. A boarding house! My stars. I simply begged Anne to stay with us. You could have, too, you know.”
“It’s not so bad,” Hattie said. “We’ve become independent in ways I’d not have imagined.”
“Another casualty of war,” Mrs. Trent shook her head as they entered the dining room. “Call me old-fashioned, but I hate to think of all the work women do now since our men are off fighting.”
Seated around a candle-lit table amid smells of fresh-baked bread and roasted meat were Anne’s relations. “Hattie!” Julia exclaimed. “It’s been too long since you’ve visited. But where’s Anne?”
Mrs. Trent gestured for a servant to seat Hattie at the table next to Julia. “Anne is telegraphing her parents with some excellent news,” she said. “She’s been to see Henry at the Patent Office hospital. He’s safe.”
“Thank God!” Tears welled in Julia’s eyes. Anne had said she was sweet on Henry, who at eighteen was only two years older.
“By Jove, that’s wonderful!” said Mr. Trent, known about town and also among family as the Judge, owing to the work he’d done with the Buchanan administration.
“What injuries has he sustained?” asked Charles. Julia’s handsome older brother was a surgeon at the Armory Hospital, another of the makeshift facilities for treating the wounded.
Hattie slipped into the chair the servant pulled out for her. Though she’d grown up with servants, she’d always been uncomfortable at being waited on, especially since her mother was so merciless with them. “Shot in the foot and the arm,” she said. “But the doctor seems optimistic.”
“I’ll stop by and see for myself in the morning,” Charles said.
“What about Richard?” Julia asked.
“He was at Manassas with Henry. But after being shot, Henry lost track of him.”
Mrs. Trent set a hand on her daughter’s shoulder as she eased into her seat. “If the Good Lord saw fit to save Henry, I don’t know why he wouldn’t see fit to spare Richard too.”
“I hope so,” Julia said.
A servant presented rolls, which while not as fluffy and moist as Mrs. Sullivan’s were still delightful, especially spread with apple butter. Deferring to Mrs. Trent’s sense of decorum, Hattie heeded Miss Whitcomb’s advice and quelled her urge to devour them in three bites.
“Isn’t the apple butter magnificent?” Mrs. Trent asked.
Hattie agreed that it was.
“My dear mother’s recipe,” Mrs. Trent said. “It’s taken years, but Cook has finally gotten it the way I like.”
Hattie felt even more ravenous as the servant forked smoked mutton and boiled potatoes onto her plate. “This is indeed finer fare than at Mrs. Sullivan’s,” she told Mrs. Trent. “Though you mustn’t let her know I’ve said so.”
Laughter rang around the table. When it subsided, Julia said, “I know Anne says she sometimes misses home something terrible. I suppose you do, too, Hattie.”
Hattie sliced into the mutton, taking care to make the piece small. The best diversion from such questions, she’d found, was to speak in general terms and hope the conversation turned another direction. “Indiana can be quite humid in August. Nearly as bad as here, but at least there, the wind blows.”
“I simply don’t know what we’d do without the summer house,” Mrs. Trent said. “I tried to get Anne to come with us there for a few weeks, but she was committed to her work with Mr. Pinkerton.”
The judge stabbed a bit of mutton with his fork. “How’s the little man treating you, Hattie?”
Hattie smiled to think how this swipe at his height would enrage Mr. Pinkerton. “Well enough.”
“Did Anne tell you, Hattie, how one of his spies came to our house?” Julia said.
“She mentioned something about it,” Hattie said. “But she was reluctant to share the details.”
Charles shifted in his seat. “I don’t know that we need to be telling that tale.”
“Whyever not?” said the judge, his voice booming. “It’s not as if we’ve done anything wrong.”
“It was last year, before you and Anne had come to Washington,” Julia said.
“Early days of the war,” the judge said.
“A rather bland-looking gentleman came to the house,” Julia said.
“Black whiskers, that’s what I remember,” Mrs. Trent said.
The spy wasn’t Thom, then, Hattie thought. His whiskers were brown, with a tinge of auburn that matched her own hair.
“The Pinkerton man made inquiries about Mrs. Rose Greenhow,” the judge said. “She and her little daughter often visited here.”
“Lovely woman,” Mrs. Trent said. “President Buchanan used to dine at her house. Brilliant conversationalist, and she always dressed in the mode.”
“Mother!” Charles said. “I shouldn’t think you’d still be singing her praises.”
“An individual can have many faces,” the judge said.
“What sort of questions did the Pinkerton man pose?” Hattie asked, eager for any specifics on how a real spy went about his business.
“He asked whether Mrs. Greenhow seemed glad to meet the officers who visited our house,” Charles said.
“And he wondered whether she’d asked about Sam and Halsey and me visiting the Lincolns,” Julia said. “Anne might have told you—the boys used to play there all the time. Such grand times they had, putting on circuses and the like. Of course, that was before Willie Lincoln died.”
“So tragic,” Mrs. Trent said. “Poor Mrs. Lincoln has never been the same. Says she can’t abide the sight of Sam and Halsey, bringing back all those memories. Poor Tad must suffer so, losing a brother and now kept from his friends.” She dabbed her eyes with her napkin.
Hattie had heard many stories about Mary Lincoln, not all of them flattering. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like, dealing with grief on top of the scrutiny she received from those who viewed the Lincolns as country bumpkins undeserving of their positions in Washington.
The judge cleared his throat, looking askance at his wife’s display of emotion. “I pulled the man aside,” he said, returning to the subject at hand. “Asked what was wrong with Mrs. Greenhow. That’s when he told me he was with Pinkerton.”
“And you told us we’d best take care with what we said around her from then on,” Julia said. “A little while later, we learned she’d been arrested for passing information to the rebels.”
Mr. Trent harumphed. “More of her associates should’ve been caught, but Pinkerton’s men were lax. Put her under house arrest, then let her go upstairs and change clothes. Can you imagine? Of course, she burned half the evidence against her in the fireplace.”
Mrs. Trent shook her head. “And the daughter—she slipped into the yard and started calling out that her mother had been arrested. So you can be sure every one of the people spying for Mrs. Greenhow got away.”
Hattie leaned back in her chair, her stomach filled with mutton, boiled potatoes, and rolls slathered in apple butter. She couldn’t recall ever having eaten so much. Miss Whitcomb would be aghast. She patted the corners of her mouth with her napkin.
“I can’t vouch for all of Mr. Pinkerton’s men,” she said. “But I suspect there were some lessons learned that day. Mrs. Trent, I’m so grateful for this wonderful meal. But I must really be—”
“Oh, but you can’t leave without dessert!” Mrs. Trent said. “It’s Mary Lincoln’s white cake.”
“Truly scrumptious,” Julia said. As she spoke, one servant slid away Hattie’s dinner plate, and another deftly replaced it with a silver-rimmed dessert plate featuring a slice of white-frosted cake.
Hattie relaxed into her chair. It would be impolite to leave before the meal was finished, and at any rate, she had a fondness for sweets that she’d rarely indulged since leaving Indiana. She took a bite and found it as delightful as Julia had indicated, moist and sugary. “Delicious,” she said, nudging another ladylike bite onto her fork.
“At least Mrs. Lincoln is more generous with her recipes than with her bonnets,” Julia said.
“You mustn’t speak badly of Mrs. Lincoln, dear. You know she adores you, even if she won’t see you now that Willie’s gone. And besides, the problem with the bonnet had nothing to do with generosity.”
“Except your own.” The judge wiped a spot of frosting from his mustache.
“I have this bonnet, you see,” Mrs. Trent said to Hattie. “Fashioned by Willian’s, on Pennsylvania Avenue. Do you know it?”
Hattie shook her head. The only bonnets she wore were the three she’d brought from Indiana.
“Best milliner in town, should you ever need one. The hat in question is fashioned of straw and embellished with the loveliest purple ribbons and strings.”
“You mean it was embellished with purple strings,” Julia said.
“Hush, dear. I’m getting to that. The point is, I was quite pleased with Willian’s work. Last summer, I wore the bonnet to a promenade concert on the Executive Mansion lawn.”
“The Marine Band used to play there on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons,” Charles explained. “Before the war heated up.”
“Yes, but on Wednesdays, it was only society people who went,” Mrs. Trent said. “And this was on a Wednesday, so everyone was in their best apparel.”
“Mother looked stunning,” Julie said. “Purple and white silk, lavender kid gloves. And the bonnet.”
“We made the rounds,” Mrs. Trent said. “Catching up on the latest news. Before we knew it, we were all standing at attention for the anthem, and then the music wound down.”
“She tells a long story, doesn’t she, Hattie?” Pushing aside his empty dessert plate, the judge winked at her. “And all over a hat.” He chuckled.
Mrs. Trent swatted his hand. “As I was saying, we proceeded to the South Lawn to pay our respects to the Lincolns. I noticed Mrs. Lincoln looking intently at my bonnet. Soon enough, she pulled me aside and said that she’d ordered a bonnet with the same ribbon, but Willian had been unable to procure matching purple strings. I understood what she wanted, of course. Quite provoking, for I did love that bonnet, but I gave it to her.”
“That was kind of you,” Hattie said. She hated to think how her own mother would have responded, covetous with her belongings and having nothing but disdain for the Lincolns.
The servant came silently to remove her dessert plate, emptied as cleanly as her dinner plate had been. Hattie rose from the table. “And now I really must get going. Anne will be wondering what’s become of me.”
“I’ll call for the carriage,” the judge said as he and Charles rose from their seats.
“Oh, I couldn’t presume,” she said. “And after all I’ve had to eat, the walk will do me good.”
“At least allow me to escort you,” Charles said with a little bow her direction.
Under normal circumstances, Hattie was not opposed to a handsome escort. But Anne had reported that Charles’s fiancée was intensely jealous, and she did not wish to cause him trouble. “Thank you for the offer, but it’s really not far.”
Mrs. Trent shook her head. “Young women these days. So independent.”
“Thank you again. You’re lovely, all of you, to invite a stranger to share your meal.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Trent said. “You’re no stranger. The thanks are ours, that you’ve come out of your way to share the news about Henry.”
“Tell Anne I’ll look in on him tomorrow,” Charles said.
“And I’ll go by as well,” Julia said. “Mother’s friend has been after me to pay a visit to the hospital. She thinks I’d do well to assist there. Goodness knows I’m bored to tears now that there’s no school, and Mother won’t hear of me partaking of social events till after my coming out.”
Mrs. Trent lay a hand on her arm. “War may disrupt your schooling, but we must hold to some measure of propriety, mustn’t we, Hattie?”
“I suppose so, Mrs. Trent.” Hattie backed away before they could raise any further objections to her walking home alone. “A good evening to you all.”
As a servant escorted her to the door, she thought of how different the Trents were from her own parents. They had money and, yes, some pretension. But it hadn’t made them cruel. Far from it.
She banished the thought. Her parents were the Quakers she’d conjured in her imagination, the ones who’d died in the Kansas housefire. They’d not been well-off, but they’d been every bit as kind and gracious as the Trents.
Outside, the sky was a dusky shade of blue, and crickets chirped in the grass, seeming invigorated by the cool air. More people were out now that the dinner hour had ended. It was Hattie’s favorite time of day, evoking memories of when she and George used to sneak from the house to the edge of town. They’d lie on their backs on a small hill, the soft cool of evening spilling all around, and stare up at the sky, waiting for the stars to come out and talking of the grand places they’d visit one day. Ceylon. Bolivia. Africa. As far as they could get from home.
George could be part of her Quaker family, she decided, and their evening hillside part of her past.
She turned a corner, and there was Lucy. It seemed a cruel twist of fate, coming upon her two evenings in a row, until she remembered that Lucy lived not far from the Duncans.
Lucy nodded as she approached, not arm-in-arm with Thom Welton but with a slight, gray-bearded gentleman Hattie recognized as her father, though they’d never been introduced.
“Good evening, Hattie,” Lucy said in a voice that couldn’t have been more pleasant. “What a surprise, to see you again, and in these environs.” She pronounced environs in the French way, having attended, as Julia Trent had, Madame Smith’s French Academy before the war shut it down.
Hattie slowed, meeting Lucy’s gaze. “I’ve just finished sharing a meal with friends,” she said.
“Is that so?” Lucy said, sounding genuinely puzzled. “Oh, but I’m being rude. Hattie, this is my father, Representative Horace Hamilton. Papa, this is Hattie Logan. She’s with Mr. Pinkerton’s agency as well.”
Mr. Hamilton tipped his hat, acknowledging Hattie. “Another mailroom girl, eh?”
“For the moment, yes,” Hattie said.
He patted his daughter’s arm. “Couldn’t be prouder of my Lucy, doing her part for the cause. And to think she’s headed for Baltimore.”
Baltimore. Hattie felt as if someone had struck her in the stomach.
“Papa!” Lucy lowered her voice. “You mustn’t go about telling everyone.”
“She works with you,” he blustered. “I assumed she knew.”
Lucy glanced furtively to her left and right. “Miss Warne hasn’t made the official announcement yet. And in any case, it’s not the sort of thing that should be broadcast publicly. You’d make a terrible spy, Papa.”
He laughed. “I suppose I would.”
“Papa was worried at first, about me leaving here. But I assured him I’ll take every precaution.”
“And you won’t be so far away, dearest, that I can’t keep an eye on you. Discreetly, of course.”
The day’s victories—the glow she’d felt from Miss Warne’s interview, the joy of Anne’s finding Henry, the warmth at the Trents’ table—receded. In their place came the familiar feeling that the universe was conspiring against Hattie. Inventing a new family, a new history, had done nothing to change that.
“Wish me luck.” Lucy waved dismissively, then continued down the street with her father.
Numbed by Lucy’s revelation, Hattie proceeded toward Mrs. Sullivan’s, the closest she had to a home. She shouldn’t have been surprised, she told herself. Lucy’s family knew all the right people. Their commitment to the Union cause was unwavering. All Hattie had to her credit was a knack for ciphers and a made-up story. She’d had no business believing Miss Warne would choose her. But knowing that did nothing to lessen the sting.