instructed, Hattie went home and packed a small bag. She wished she’d thought to ask how long she might be away, but in any event, she had brought little with her from Indiana and so had little to bring on this journey. Then she passed the time by reading the Dickens novel, and when she grew restless, by going for walks in weather that was unseasonably clear and dry.
On New Year’s Day, a message arrived for her at the boarding house. Departure 7 am was all it said. Hattie told Mrs. Sullivan she’d be away a few days, visiting a friend of the family. She might be detained, she added, so the landlady shouldn’t worry if her absence was extended. Mrs. Sullivan, from whom few secrets were safe, pressed for details, but Hattie demurred.
She slept poorly that night, as she had the night before, plagued by questions of why Lucy had asked for her company on this errand to Richmond. How would Hattie get on, sharing meals and a room with a person for whom she had little affection?
Still, this was her chance to show Miss Warne what she could do, the ultimate goal being further assignments that would either bring her closer to George or to Thom Welton. She didn’t want to presume too much, having put off amorous advances from other men, but his kiss had suggested he felt much toward her as she did toward him. This thought led to a new worry as she tossed and turned, over Thom’s health and when she might see him again.
As promised, the carriage arrived promptly at seven. Lucy was already inside. Hattie had dressed as if for a stage role, with a wretchedly uncomfortable crinoline beneath her blue silk frock. Lucy looked entirely at ease in a white dress trimmed with lavender ribbons.
“Hattie, dear,” Lucy said, her British accent thicker than Hattie remembered. “I’m so very glad you’ve arranged to travel with me.”
“There’s no one I’d rather travel with, dearest Lucy,” Hattie said as she settled into her seat. As long as she was laying on the charm—and the hyperbole—she may as well show off her Southern drawl.
As the carriage headed for the wharf district, Lucy chatted amiably, speaking first of the weather and then of war news, with a decided slant toward the Rebel cause. Uncertain why Lucy was playing this up, Hattie said little.
“We’re fortunate the Old Bay Line has retained some passenger service,” Lucy said, referring to the packet steamships that passengers between Baltimore and Norfolk, a route that also went up the Potomac. “It’s a shame the service has become so unreliable now that the military has commandeered so many of their vessels.” She lowered her voice, presumably for effect. “The Yanks, you know.”
Hattie nodded, playing along, as the carriage slowed in front of a bustling wharf. The driver helped them out, and as Lucy paid him, Hattie looked around the busy scene. Troops in blue uniforms were all around, some constructing what looked like a new warehouse to house military supplies.
They proceeded to the wharf where a packet steamer was docked for passenger boarding, black smoke billowing from its smokestack. A soldier checked their passes and gestured for them to board. “It’s seen better days, I expect,” Lucy said as they seated themselves in chairs that had numerous scratches along the wooden arms. “But it’s better than an all-day carriage ride.”
Hattie didn’t find the trappings so bad, especially knowing that the steamer might have been only recently released from military use transporting cargo, soldiers, and even prisoners. As the steamer left the wharf, she watched out the window as the city receded from view, grateful for the tiny flotilla of Union frigates that had wrested control of the Potomac from the Rebels early in the war.
The packet steamer deposited them at Aquia Creek Landing amid a mass of boats, railroad tracks, and warehouses. The railroad bridge, which the Union Army had taken over, was a sight to behold, tall and rickety, though it had opened only a few months ago.
Men milled about the landing, most in Union blue uniforms. Large warehouses lined Aquila Creek Dockside, where many of the soldiers were offloading crates of supplies. “A shame the Confederate terminal here fell to Burnside,” Lucy said.
Showing their passes, they boarded a train car hooked to the locomotive, which sat puffing black smoke. Most of the passengers were soldiers. Shortly after Hattie and Lucy settled into their seats, the whistle blew, and the train chugged ahead, picking up speed
It took Hattie a moment to register that Lucy was staying in character, giving the Secesh perspective on how control of the landing had shifted. “Such a loss,” she tutted, playing along.
Hattie settled back in her seat and closed her eyes. After lying awake the past two nights wondering how she’d manage this journey with Lucy and prove herself to Miss Warne, she felt exhausted. Within moments, she drifted into sleep.
She woke when the train lurched to a stop. Judging from the sun’s position in the sky, it was nearly noon.
“Quite the sleeper you are,” Lucy said. “I’ve been reduced to talking to myself like some doddering old woman.”
Hattie couldn’t tell if she was teasing or genuinely miffed. “Sorry,” she said, dabbing at the edges of her mouth with her handkerchief. “Where are we?”
Lucy stood. “End of the line.” She handed Hattie her travel pass. “Just south of Falmouth.”
They filed out ahead of a group of soldiers. All around them were white canvas tents, some labeled with large wooden signs: Headquarters, Post Office, Officer Quarters, Mess Hall.
Hattie stepped carefully as she followed Lucy along the rutted road. Despite the cold, the noonday sun was melting portions of the dirt into mud. Without Lucy, she’d be utterly lost, Hattie realized. She didn’t like depending on anyone, especially a person who’d upbraided her the way Lucy had. At the same time, she was glad Lucy seemed to know where she was going—or at least Hattie hoped she did.
“You seem well-acquainted with the route,” Hattie said.
Lucy laughed. “I believe only God himself is well-acquainted with the current route from Washington to Richmond. It seems to change by the hour.” Lucy nodded at a canvas tent up ahead with a gray-uniformed sentry on attention on either side of the entrance. “There’s where we cross the border,” Lucy said. “Have your travel pass ready.”
Hattie clutched the slip of paper as they approached the sentries, who ushered them into the tent. Enemy territory, Hattie thought. Aside from their uniforms, the soldiers seemed little different from the Federal troops she saw every day in Washington, young and weary-eyed.
Inside the tent sat a gaunt-faced officer of low rank, judging by his epaulets. Sporting a wide mustache, he looked slightly older than the sentries.
“Passes.” He held out his hand, and Lucy and Hattie complied.
The officer glanced at the papers they handed him. “Mind yourselves in Richmond,” he said, waving them through. “It’s becoming less and less hospitable to ladies.”
“We shall.” Lucy flashed a smile over her shoulder. “Thank you for your concern.”
On the other side of the line, Hattie followed Lucy toward a pair of mules fastened to a wooden cart. She dropped a handful of coins from her gloved fingers into the driver’s hand. He was a rough-looking man with several days’ growth of whiskers.
Hattie and Lucy settled into the back of the cart, the seat nothing but a rough-hewn wooden plank. The cart smelled of hay and manure.
“It’s only a short ride to Fredericksburg,” Lucy said cheerily, and Hattie had to marvel at her adaptability. It was not a trait she’d have associated with Lucy before today.
The cart lurched forward. Hattie grabbed onto the side, grateful for her gloves that with any luck would help avoid a splinter. Leafless oak and elm branches spread toward the sky from fat tree trunks on either side of the road, the afternoon sun shining at a low, piercing angle.
Lucy began to jabber—a distraction, at least, from the fear of being tossed from the cart as it jostled along the road. Lulled by the rolling wheels and Lucy’s chatter, Hattie spoke only now and then, making empty remarks like, “Is that so?” or “How fascinating.”
Then the carriage hit a rut, jolting her to attention. The coachman flicked the reins, and the mules jerked forward. On the far side of the road, a cart full of soldiers rumbled past.
Hattie expected Lucy to rebuke the driver, but she only smiled. “Our inconveniences are trivial compared to what our fighting men endure,” she said.
“Indeed,” Hattie said. Maybe Lucy’s time in Baltimore and Thom’s good influence had softened her around the edges, she thought.
She clutched the side of the cart. The distance between Washington and Richmond was only a little over a hundred miles, she’d been told. But they’d traveled several hours already and had yet to reach Fredericksburg, the halfway point.
“I do hope we reach Richmond by nightfall,” she said.
“We might,” Lucy said, “depending on what we find at Hamilton’s Crossing. Brother Thom told me that earlier in the war, this trip could take a week.”
“My stars,” Hattie said, using an expression her southern mother favored.
Finally, they crossed the Rappahannock and entered Fredericksburg. On Christmas Eve, Franklin Stone had described some details of the battle here, but Hattie was unprepared for the devastation in what had once been a charming colonial town. The Rebels had fought from the cellars and narrow streets, she recalled the lieutenant saying. Imagining the smells of blood and gunpowder and the cries of the wounded, she shuddered.
Today an eerie quiet seemed to blanket the town. As their cart rumbled along the street, Hattie noticed the haunted stares of the townspeople, reminding her of the blank eyes of soldiers who poured into Washington after a battle.
A few miles south of Fredericksburg, the cart pulled up in front of what looked like a small station house, positioned at the intersection of the road and the railroad tracks. A crew of men was loading supplies into the freight cars of a train that sat on the tracks. Nearby were a smattering of white canvas tents and a shanty labeled with a sign that said “Telegraph.” A similar sign, hastily lettered with “Hamilton’s Crossing,” hung above the station house door.
The cart’s driver, having spoken no more than a handful of words during the journey, now helped Hattie and Lucy down from the cart. Dismissing them with a nod, he turned his attention to a pair of passengers waiting to go north. Hattie expected Lucy to head straight for the train, but she went instead toward the station house, and Hattie followed.
Inside, Lucy’s charming demeanor shifted. She marched up to the clerk and demanded to speak with the superintendent, stating loudly that she had a complaint.
So she can act, Hattie thought, for they had yet to board the train, a different line than the one they’d ridden earlier in the day.
The clerk tried to placate Lucy, but to no avail.
“I must see the superintendent at once.” Lucy stamped her foot. “Your railroad has managed to lose our trunks.”
“My apologies,” the clerk said. “With the transporting of supplies for our men, a trunk sometimes—”
“Inexcusable!” Lucy’s eyes flashed. “We cannot continue our journey without our trunks. We must return to Richmond at once and retrieve them.”
The clerk sorted through a stack of tickets, then held out two labeled Richmond. “There is no charge, of course, owing to our error.”
Lucy snatched the tickets from his hand. “A fortnight ago, I had the same difficulty, a lost trunk on this same route. I insist on seeing your superintendent.”
“I’m afraid the superintendent is quite—”
“Indisposed?” Lucy’s voice rose, and through the open doorway, Hattie saw heads turn. “Too busy to hear the concerns of a lady whose journey has been interrupted due to this firm’s mismanagement?”
With this, the clerk relented, leading Lucy and Hattie out the back of the station house to a small tent with no signage to indicate its purpose. As they entered, a short, ruddy-faced man looked up from a desk made from a board laid across two barrels.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” the clerk said. “But this lady—” He indicated Lucy. “She insists on a word with you.”
The florid man dismissed him with the wave of his hand. “Whatever your complaint, madam,” he said, addressing Lucy, “I assure you that the Richmond, Fredericksburg, and Potomac line is doing the best we can under the circumstances. Our first obligation, as you surely know, is to our troops. At times, their priority must by necessity inconvenience other passengers.”
Lucy strode purposefully toward the makeshift desk. Trailing behind, Hattie nearly twisted her foot on the uneven ground.
Rather than stop in front of the desk, Lucy continued around. The man stood, standing nearly eye to eye with her. “Mr. Ruth, my brother Thom said I could expect better from you,” she said, her voice low.
The superintendent startled at the mention of Thom’s name. “Your brother—that would be Mr. Welton?” he asked softly.
Lucy nodded. “He’d be traveling with me, but I’m afraid he’s taken ill,” she said. “That’s why I’ve brought Miss Logan,” she added, indicating Hattie.
Mr. Ruth’s face relaxed. “I do hope he’ll recover soon.”
“He seems to be on the mend,” Lucy said.
Mr. Ruth scribbled a few lines on a piece of paper, which he folded and handed to Lucy. She slipped it into her bodice.
“Again, my apologies for your trouble,” Mr. Ruth said, loudly enough to be heard outside the tent.
Lucy harumphed loudly, assuming again the role of disgruntled traveler. “We shall see, when this wretched war ends, if your railroad continues to be worthy of our patronage.”
Mr. Ruth walked them to the tent’s door, which he held open so they could exit. “I shall do my utmost to make it so,” he said. “For now, Godspeed on your return to Richmond.”
Lucy held her head high, ever the disgruntled traveler, as they boarded the southbound train, its locomotive now running.
“Well, I never!” Lucy declared as they settled into their seats. There seemed no cause for her outburst except as an excuse for her to bend her head toward Hattie and whisper in her ear. “This train line suffers some unfortunate bottlenecks and delays while transporting Rebel troops, I’m told—all under Mr. Ruth’s supervision.”
Hattie smiled, smoothing her skirts. It was good to know that even in enemy territory, there were friends helping the Union cause.
The ride to Richmond was comfortable enough, though the train car smelled of men’s sweat and a cheesy odor, the source of which Hattie preferred not to guess. Compared with the earlier parts of their journey, it was also blessedly short, making only one stop before coming to Richmond. If Mr. Ruth oversaw acts of sabotage as Lucy’s remark suggested, Hattie was glad he’d not arranged any that would have lengthened their trip further.
Uncomfortable in her stiff crinoline, Hattie looked forward to changing once they arrived at their hotel, assuming the tasks at hand allowed for it. As to the exact nature of those tasks, Lucy had offered little, saying only that she’d brought letters to deliver.
It was nearly evening when the train finally chugged into the city, the January sun slanting golden across the western sky. The bustle of activity in the Confederate capital was nearly the same as in Washington, though there seemed far more smokestacks graying the sky. The North had a big edge in manufacturing, Anne had explained to Hattie, but the Rebs were doing their best to catch up. In addition to ironworks, they’d set up factories for making tents, uniforms, harnesses, swords, and bayonets.
The train crossed five sets of tracks as it proceeded to the city’s center, one for each of the five railroads that transported people and goods in and out of Richmond, Lucy said. Along the way, she pointed out Chimborazo Hospital, a sprawling complex sitting high on a hill overlooking the city, and two prisons, Libby and Castle Thunder. Both had been warehouses before the Rebel government seized them, Lucy said.
Hattie wondered how Lucy had come by this knowledge, but it wouldn’t do to question her, so she remained silent.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Lucy said. “I hope you’re not fearful of the Yanks closing in. Our boys in gray do a fine job of protecting the city. McClellan came storming at us last summer, but the good generals Lee, Stuart, and Jackson turned him back on his heels.”
“Quite so,” Hattie said. Knowing Lucy’s high opinion of General McClellan, she was impressed with how well she was acting the part of a loyal Southern lady.
The rails carried them into Richmond’s business district, where the streets were crawling with soldiers. A block to the east, on an expansive lawn, a Confederate regiment performed a military drill, marching in step as a band played a tune Hattie recognized as “Dixie’s Land.” Behind them rose a massive stone structure fronted by a row of stately columns.
“That’s the Capitol building,” Lucy said as the train slowed to a stop. “Jefferson Davis took his oath of office right there on those steps. In fact, every person of any consequence in Dixieland has graced its halls at least once. Many come and go regularly.”
“How interesting,” Hattie said, drawing on what she hoped was an ample supply of generic remarks.
As they got off the train at the station, Hattie studied the woman in front of her, who carried herself as Hattie’s mother did, back straight, head high, her gaze fixed a tad above eye level. Hattie mimicked this posture, moving with deliberate grace.
Lucy hailed a cart driver to transport her trunk and Hattie’s bag to the hotel. Hattie didn’t like how reliant she felt on Lucy’s knowing the ins and outs of this assignment, but she reminded herself she was the one tagging along.
Once the driver had loaded their belongings, he set off with his horses. “We’ll walk,” Lucy announced. “It’s not far.”
The street and its adjoining sidewalk were paved, which made for easy walking compared to some of the terrain they’d navigated earlier in the day. They rounded a corner, headed toward the domed Capitol. Across the street was the five-story Spotswood Hotel, a blocky brick structure that looked nearly new.
“That’s where we’ll be staying,” Lucy said. “I trust it will suit.”
“One can’t expect all the comforts of home while traveling,” Hattie said, though in truth, the thought of any bed at all was welcome at this point.
“When the war is ended, my brother and I may make a home for ourselves right here in Virginia,” Lucy said as the doorman ushered them inside. “Who knows?” she said, and Hattie detected mischief in her eyes. “Perhaps you’ll join us. I’ve seen how Thom fancies you.”
Hattie blushed, telling herself Lucy had only said this for the benefit of the doorman, who must be wondering who she was. Lucy must have stayed here with Thom, she realized. No wonder she knew her way around Richmond.
Perhaps Thom was even here now, recuperating at the Spotswood. Hattie’s heart quickened at the thought.
In the lobby, she noticed a group of people gathered around notices posted on the wall. As she and Lucy passed by them, she saw they were studying lists of names as she and Anne had done at the Treasury Building. MISSING, WOUNDED, LOST were the headings.
A young red-haired woman ran her finger along the list labeled LOST. Her finger stopped beneath one of the names. Seeing her eyes filled with tears, Hattie looked away. She’d never been good at witnessing another person’s grief, perhaps because her mother spent so much time and energy pining over all she’d lost when she’d married Hattie’s father and moved north from the Louisiana plantation where she’d grown up.
In contrast to the Spotswood’s plain exterior, the hotel’s lobby was elegantly furnished with red velvet sofas, gilded tables, and gold-flecked wallpaper that matched the heavy gold drapes adorning the windows. A fire crackled in the marble fireplace, and on the walls hung oil paintings of fox hunts and picnics.
At the front desk, Lucy signed her name in the registry and handed it to Hattie. “All the important people stay here.”
Hattie smiled, befitting her role as family friend, even as she silently wondered why they were checking in to a potential viper’s nest of Rebel dignitaries and military officials.
She was glad to get out of the public eye, following the bellman upstairs, where he showed them to their room and deposited their luggage. A plain white chenille coverlet topped the double bed, and gold drapes, similar to the ones in the lobby, adorned a single narrow window. The washstand, like the bedstead, was rather plain. Indeed, the room had none of the fancy fabrics and carvings that Hattie’s mother had used to decorate her large, ostentatious home—an attempt, Hattie supposed, to replicate the furnishings of the Louisiana plantation she’d so dearly loved.
Following Lucy’s lead, Hattie unpacked the two spare outfits she’d brought along with her toiletries. Lucy’s trunk contained enough for the both of them, Hattie thought, with her several outfits nearly filling the room’s narrow closet.
With that chore complete, Lucy suggested they proceed to the dining room. Though the hour was early, Hattie felt as if she could have fallen directly to sleep without supper. But her task was to accompany Lucy, and accompany her she would.
They descended a wide staircase to the hotel’s restaurant, where the maître d’ seated them at a corner table. Lucy tugged off her gloves as they studied the menus. The fare was nothing to rival the offering Hattie had enjoyed with Thom at the Willard, evidence that the Federals’ starvation strategy must be having some effect. The only meats listed were roasted chicken and turkey, and as Hattie noticed on the plates of nearby diners, the portions were tiny.
“Three dollars for a cup of coffee,” she remarked to Lucy.
Lucy shook her head. “The same price as chicken.”
They both ordered soup, which the waiter delivered with a thin half-slice of bread and no butter. The broth was watery and only lightly seasoned. In it floated a few chopped carrots and a smattering of beans.
As they ate, Lucy chatted about taking Hattie to visit Cousin Belle and Uncle Harry while they were in the city, persons Hattie assumed to be recipients of the letters Lucy had brought from Baltimore. “Perhaps Uncle Harry will tour us around the armaments protecting the city,” Lucy said. “I’d quite like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Indeed,” Hattie said. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw how the man at the next table had perked up at the mention of armaments. “I’m sure they’re substantial.”
“Brother Thom says they are.”
Hattie spooned from her soup. “I do hope your brother is recovering.”
Lucy frowned slightly. Had Hattie said the wrong thing? She wished Lucy or Miss Warne had explained more clearly what should and should not be said in public.
“It was only a cold,” Lucy said. “Thom will be back to his responsibilities any day now.”
The man at the next table, having listened intently to this back-and-forth, now returned to cutting his chicken.
“I’m glad to hear he’s on the mend.”
“The sight of you will do him good,” Lucy said, and as with the remark made in the doorman’s presence, this, too, seemed intended for a larger audience than just her. This must be part of the ruse, Hattie thought, that she was a family friend because of her association with Thom. “In fact, I think we should stop by and see him when we’ve finished eating.”
Hattie smiled demurely. So Thom was indeed here at the Spotswood. The thought thrilled her, but knowing better than to act surprised, she continued spooning her soup.
Lucy took an interminably long time with her meal, seeming intent on dropping information that cemented her place as a genuine Secesh. “It is wicked, is it not, the way the Yanks are going at Vicksburg? And the gall of that ape-man they call their president, proclaiming our slaves free when he hasn’t the slightest jurisdiction over them.
“What we need is a truce and a peaceful re-entry into the Union,” Hattie said, parroting what she’d heard one of the rising Peace Democrats in the north say. She could not bring herself to add the rest of what the man had contended, that the north should forget about the plight of the southern slaves and concern themselves only with the future of the white race.
“Better yet, a full and complete victory for the South,” Lucy said.
At last, the meal was finished. Leaving the restaurant, Lucy stopped at the front desk and asked for the number of her brother’s room. The clerk scanned the registry and reported that Mr. Welton was in room 307.
The heaviness Hattie had felt in her feet and legs from the long, circuitous route they’d taken to Richmond seemed to disappear as they ascended the stairs. Thom. She would see Thom. She told herself she should not be so excited, that she should presume nothing between them, but his kiss had left an impression that was not so easily erased.
Lucy rapped softly on the door of room 307, then let herself in. A sconce lamp cast long shadows over the room, furnished similarly to the one Hattie and Lucy occupied on the floor below. In the narrow bed lay Thom, propped up on pillows. His face had thinned since Hattie last saw him, and in the lamplight, the creases in his forehead seemed to have deepened. But his smile was as bright and genuine as ever.
“Why, here come my angels of mercy,” he said. “I expect I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
Lucy swatted his arm with her gloves. “There will be no talk of dying, brother dear. I’ve been so worried about you, as has Miss Logan.”
His eyes met Hattie’s. Returning his gaze, she felt as she had the night he’d kissed her, as if they shared a deep, unspoken connection. “To what do we owe the pleasure of Miss Logan’s presence?” he asked.
Hattie hoped the room’s privacy allowed for a forthright response. “Miss War—” she began.
Lucy cut her off. “Miss Warner. You remember her, don’t you, Thom? She and Mother were childhood friends until the Warners moved from Derbyshire to just outside Richmond. The tobacco business, if I’m not mistaken. Miss Warner is rather frail these days, I’m afraid. She wanted to move north to be with her brother in Washington City.”
“I see,” Thom said.
Hattie shrank with the blunder of having nearly spoken Miss Warne’s name aloud. The walls here must be thinner than she’d thought. She wondered if there was reason to suspect they were being monitored, or whether the precaution was standard. They might have whispered without detection, but she supposed Thom’s question, and Lucy’s long-winded response, were an intentional means of diffusing suspicions.
“In her condition,” Lucy continued, “Miss Warner could scarcely travel alone, and her brother is quite preoccupied these days, with the war and such.” Lucy flung a hand in the air as if the details of war were far too trivial to be bothered with, a gesture that served her well, judging from the number of times Hattie had seen her use it that day. “He couldn’t break away to fetch her, and of course, I needed to tend to you. So naturally I thought of our dear friend Miss Logan. I wrote her about Miss Warner’s predicament, and she kindly offered to accompany her from Richmond to Washington City. I’m quite certain I told you all of this, Thom.”
Hattie had to give credit where it was due. Lucy was masterful at making things up.
“You likely did tell me,” Thom said. “It’s only that my head’s been muddled with this grippe.”
“Aren’t I always saying you need to take better care of yourself?” Lucy scolded. “At any rate, Miss Logan and Miss Warner can travel safely now that the dreadful business at Fredericksburg has passed.”
“Dreadful for General Burnside, you mean,” Thom said. “Our own boys are quite satisfied with how things turned out at Fredericksburg.”
Lucy waved her hand again. “It’s dreadful, all of it. Why can’t the Yanks just leave us be? Any small thing that needs doing becomes such an ordeal. Which reminds me, we’ve brought your letters for delivery.”
Thom smiled, though more weakly than before. “That’s kind of you, bringing the letters. You can leave them with me, and I’ll—”
“Oh, but you mustn’t worry yourself about them, Mr. Welton,” Hattie said. “Lucy and I will see them delivered, won’t we, Lucy?”
“Of course. We’ll have them out in short order and be on our way.”
Worry showed on Thom’s face. “You mustn’t stay in Richmond too long. The city’s crawling with pickpockets and thugs. Be prudent about where you go, even in daylight, and most certainly at night. And the doctor tells me smallpox is spreading through the less reputable neighborhoods.”
“I trust the doctor’s taking good care of you,” Lucy said.
“He’s let some blood,” Thom said. “And prescribed laudanum for the pain.” He nodded at a small blue bottle on the bedstand.
“Are you hurting horribly?” Hattie asked, wishing she could hold his hand, smooth his forehead. But that was impossible with Lucy in the room.
He lifted a hand, flexing his swollen fingers into a half-fist, and she saw how this pained him. “Only when I move,” he said.
“We’ll get you back to Baltimore as soon as you’re able to travel,” Lucy said.
“I’m eager for that,” he said. “There’s talk that Burnside’s cavalry is on the move. If they cross the Rappahannock, we’re all in for it.”
“The wicked Yank,” Lucy sputtered, playing along.
Thom closed his eyes, clearly exhausted. “It will be good to get home.”
Lucy bent to kiss his forehead. “We’ll leave you to your rest, Brother.”
Hattie did the same, brushing her lips to his warm skin. “Be well,” she whispered.
Lucy smiled knowingly, and Hattie wondered if she’d been too forward. She was only playing a family friend, after all. But friendships could deepen, couldn’t they? She hoped so.
~ ~ ~
Hattie woke the next morning thinking that even though Thom was still sick, she needed to extract the message from her petticoat and deliver it to him. She hated to burden him with a difficulty of her own making while he was feeling poorly, but she had no way of knowing when the next opportunity would arise, and she felt the importance of the message more deeply now that she was here in Richmond, experiencing firsthand how each element of the Union’s strategy—including the limits on food and supplies that her father was circumventing—was necessary to bring a swift end to the war.
She and Lucy rose and began dressing for the day. As Hattie went to put on her petticoat, she lifted its hem, running a finger along the stitching. “It’s coming undone,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’ve brought needle and thread.”
Pulling the laces of her corset, Lucy glanced her way, and Hattie quickly dropped the hem. “I haven’t, but the concierge should have some.”
After a breakfast of johnnycakes and chicory coffee, Hattie stopped to speak with the concierge while Lucy proceeded to the room. A thin, bespectacled man, he gathered a spool of white thread, a sewing needle, and a small pair of scissors into a red velvet pouch which he presented to Hattie.
She returned to the room with the pouch, and Lucy asked if she wanted to mend the petticoat before they left to make their deliveries. In need of privacy to extract the paper, Hattie said no, it could wait till evening.
Downstairs, Lucy hired a carriage, and they set off through the streets of Richmond, Lucy calling out one address after another to the driver. As they traversed the city, Hattie wondered whether one of the letters in Lucy’s satchel might be for L. Blackstone, matching the letter she’d secreted in her petticoat hem.
At each stop, Lucy and Hattie went together to deliver the letters. When the doors were opened, usually by a servant, Lucy would ask to speak to the letter’s intended recipient. If that person was out, the letter went back in the satchel.
“Can’t risk letting them fall into the wrong hands,” Lucy had explained when they began their deliveries. “Richmond is rife with suspicion of spies, and there’s no telling what the Rebels would do if they doubted our intentions.”
Whenever they were able to complete a delivery, Lucy lingered, chatting with the recipient about Thom’s illness and promising to convey wishes for his speedy recovery. Sometimes, the person would drop a bit of information, like the man who mentioned the number of Rebel troops stationed at Fredericksburg and a woman who told Lucy where she bought her black market tea. Hattie made mental notes of these facts, and she assumed Lucy did too.
At one house, an attractive young woman came to the door. When Lucy explained about Thom, the woman said with a lilt that suggested French lineage, “Have you heard Mrs. Greenhow’s back?”
Hattie listened even more closely, remembering what the Trents had said about Mrs. Greenhow snooping around their house and her subsequent arrest as a Rebel spy.
“Thank heavens she’s secured release from that wretched Old Capitol Prison,” Lucy said.
“I hope the Yankees haven’t turned her allegiance,” the young woman said.
“I wouldn’t think so,” Lucy said. “She’s an ardent supporter of the confederacy.”
“Nevertheless, one must be wary,” the woman said. “There are those who’ll switch sides if they believe they’ll profit from it. Tell Thom to be careful about carrying correspondence for her.”
“I will,” Lucy said. “Good day.”
As they strolled down the long walkway toward the carriage, Hattie whispered, “I had no idea Rose Greenhow was back in Richmond.”
“Oh, yes,” Lucy said. “And I expect she’ll be up to her old tricks, though she’ll have a hard time sneaking back into Washington now that she’s become so notorious. And don’t be fooled—that woman we were speaking with is no angel herself.”
Hattie raised an eyebrow. “How’s that?”
“Her letter was addressed to Mrs. Mason, but that’s an alias. I’m told her real name is Augusta Morris. Thom says she showed up in Washington one day claiming she had the Rebels’ signal plan and would sell it for ten thousand dollars. When her offer was declined, she started spying for the Rebs. At the time of her arrest, she was apprehended in, shall we say, a compromising position that involved the adjutant general’s clerk. She served time in the Old Capitol Prison too. Thom thinks she and Mrs. Greenhow are part of the same spy ring, though each pretends to detest the other.”
Hattie felt a twinge of envy that Thom had shared this information with Lucy. “Don’t the Federals realize Rose Greenhow and Augusta Morris, or whatever she calls herself, will go back to spying now that they’re out of prison?”
Lucy shrugged. “You’d think so. But men always seem to underestimate a woman’s capabilities, don’t you think?”
As they traveled from Court End to Midtown to Church Hill, Lucy shared similar tidbits gleaned from Thom. One man who came to the door at a house in Shockoe Bottom wore a patch over his left eye. “He’s got a glass eye underneath,” Lucy confided after they’d left the house. “When he doesn’t want to be recognized, he simply removes the patch, or else he pops out the eye and goes about as a one-eyed man. Thom thinks he’s a double agent.”
So much Thom had shared with Lucy, Hattie thought, and so little he’d shared with her.
The day dragged on, the carriage rattling beneath as it carried them from house to house. Hattie was eager to return to the hotel so she could get the hidden message out of her petticoat hem and slip it to Thom.
But Lucy seemed intent on delivering every letter in her satchel before nightfall. Did that mean they were leaving in the morning? It was infuriating that Lucy knew all the details of their assignment, parceling them out in bits and pieces to Hattie, who knew next to nothing. It seemed to Hattie a way for Lucy to flaunt her position, and Hattie wasn’t going to assist toward that end unless her need to know was truly essential.
By the time they’d delivered the last letter—none had been for L. Blackstone, Hattie noted—darkness was falling. When they arrived back at the Spotswood, the lamplighters were making their rounds. She didn’t have to feign fatigue when she pushed aside her plate halfway through supper and told Lucy she was going up to bed.
Engaged in conversation with a widow she’d invited to their table—the sort of befriending Thom claimed was useful—Lucy bid Hattie goodnight. With any luck, the widow would keep her talking long enough for Hattie to complete her errand.
In their room, Hattie took the needle, thread, and scissors from the little velvet bag, then ripped out the stitching in the portion of her petticoat where she’d hidden the letter addressed to L. Blackstone. Excising it, she felt as if a burden was lifted. She slipped the envelope in her bodice, then basted the hem up to hold it in place until she returned to the room and could stitch it properly.
She took the back stairs to the third floor, then went down the hall to the room she remembered and rapped quickly on the door. When there was no answer, she knocked louder. Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to the wood. “Thom? It’s me. Are you all right?”
Footsteps plodded toward the door. It opened a crack, then opened wider.
“Why, I’ll be a horse’s patootie.” A stout man stood in the open doorway, gripping the doorknob and swaying a little. Hattie smelled whisky on his breath. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes. Dunno who you’re after, but I’m right glad to see ya.”
She recoiled as he reached a hand toward her as if to grab her by the waist. “Sorry,” she said. “Wrong room.”
She made a fast retreat for the stairwell, seething as the man called after her to come back. Why was it that when men were lewd, women were left feeling they’d been the ones in the wrong? As she descended to the second floor, her anger gave way to disappointment. She’d had the right room, she was certain—307. But Thom had said he’d be going north any day now, recovered or not. Another of Pinkerton’s men—there were a handful in Richmond, she knew—must have come for him this morning, travel arrangements in hand.
She told herself it was all for the best. This was no place to be ill, in a lonely room at the Spotswood, especially when the town was awash in suspicion over possible spies. And there were also the rumors of Burnside’s advance. She should be glad Thom had gotten out when he had, she told herself, but that didn’t quell the ache of not having had a chance to see him before he left or deliver the message she was eager to get rid of.
She was pleased, at least, that she got back to the room before Lucy. Hoping the widow was still jabbering away, Hattie sat at the table, took the folded paper from her bodice. Grabbing the scissors, she was about to undo her basting and resew the hem with the message inside when she heard the rattling of a key in the lock.
Clutching the folded paper, Hattie thrust her hand in her lap, concealing the message as best she could in the folds of her skirt as Lucy came in. She paused a moment, looking Hattie up and down. “I thought you’d be in bed. You said you were tired.”
The folded paper might as well have been a lead weight in Hattie’s hand. “I was just getting ready to undress when I remembered I should fix my petticoat.”
Lucy cocked her head. “Took your time with it, did you?”
Hattie breathed deep, hoping agitation didn’t show in her face. Casually, she “I stopped in the washroom. And then I sat here a bit, thinking about what you might have in store for us tomorrow.”
Lucy smiled, seeming pleased at this tacit admission that she was in charge. “We’ve done what we came here to do.” She turned and sat at the edge of the bed, leaning forward to unfasten her boots. “Tomorrow we go north.”
Relieved, Hattie took advantage of her turned back to pop the loose stitches in her hem and slide the paper back in its hiding place. When Lucy rose to tuck her boots beneath the bed’s edge, Hattie reached purposefully for the needle and thread.
“I learned quite a lot today,” Hattie said, threading the needle. “As we went from house to house.”
Lucy’s eyes sparkled. “I’m glad of it.”
“Will your brother accompany us?” Hattie said, feigning indifference as she began to stitch.
“Brother Thom went north this morning.”
Hattie felt the weight of her gaze, assessing her reaction. Along with disappointment, she did her best to look surprised. “I hope he’s well enough to make the journey.”
“He’s a strong man of much fortitude,” Lucy said smugly. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
Hattie knotted the thread and snipped off the tail. She patted the repaired hem, hoping Lucy didn’t notice the large, hasty stitches. “There,” she said. “That’s better. Now I’d best get this needle and thread back to the concierge before we turn in.”
Lucy began unbuttoning her dress. “You needn’t bother,” she said. “We’ll be off before sunrise, and you can return it then with the key. Your time now is better spent packing your things, then getting some rest. There’s no telling what sorts of obstacles we may encounter on our way north.”
Much as Hattie wanted to rid herself of the last of the evidence, she relented, not wishing to rouse Lucy’s suspicions. She took one of her two dresses from the closet and folded it into her travel bag. Then She undressed, folding her simple frock into her traveling bag. She hung her petticoat in the armoire beside the blue and gold morning dress she intended to wear tomorrow.
As Hattie climbed into bed, Lucy was still fretting over which of her own frocks to wear tomorrow and which to pack in her trunk. Sometimes, Hattie thought, having fewer clothes was a blessing. Exhausted, she closed her eyes and fell into a sleep that lasted straight through to morning.
She woke to Lucy rocking her shoulder. “Rise and shine,” Lucy said, chipper as a sparrow in springtime. “The train leaves in an hour.”
Lucy went to fetch the bellman as Hattie rose, still groggy with sleep. She retrieved her clothes from the closet and layered them on, stockings, corset, camisole, petticoat. She put on her traveling dress and fastened the bodice buttons, then sat at the edge of her bed to button her boots. Reflexively, she felt in her petticoat’s hem for the folded paper containing the message that implicated her father, as she’d done every morning since stashing it there.
But the letter was gone.