Chapter 2

APRIL 15, 1861

NEW YORK CITY

Gabe Avery snaked his way through the swarm of people clogging Broadway, suppressing the urge to vent his frustration at the slow progress. After growing up in the city, he was rarely bothered by the crowds anymore, but this was different. Urgency bade him hurry. He must know if the rumors were true.

As he tipped his hat to an older matron coming toward him, he almost collided with a wayward boy of no more than six. The dirty moppet scurried past him without a pause, reminding him of a rat slinking between broken crates in an alley. He shook his head. The lad was likely to cause an accident.

The odor of horse dung mingled with the sharp sting of axle grease as people and carriages clattered past. Only a little farther . . .

There. The Brady Gallery was within view. A pulse of euphoria traveled his veins.

Please, God, let him say yes. . . .

He slowed as he approached the prestigious gallery and stopped to catch his breath. He’d been here dozens of times before, but never had he been so anxious. So unnerved. Tugging his vest into submission, he inhaled a thick pull of air, grasped the doorknob, and tugged.

He stepped into the gallery, his senses heightening despite the calming effects of green strategically gracing the papered room. Faces met him at every turn, each photographed form boxed within a gilt frame. Some somber, some cheery. Some lithe of form and some frumpy.

All of them were fascinating.

The faintest traces of iodine wafted toward him. Someone must be readying glass plates for exposure in the back.

His boots sank into the plush carpeting as he stepped into the main salon. A solitary couple perused the displays, murmuring softly to each other as they commented over the Imperials. The painting-size photographs were so lifelike, he felt if he reached out and touched the glass, the images would jump in response. Gabe stood off to the side and fisted his hands behind his back, willing his frayed nerves to cease their buzzing.

A man stepped through the dark-green velvet curtains concealing the workrooms from the gallery. Gabe’s breath strangled as every coherent thought scattered from his head.

The man was of medium height but exuded quiet confidence with his slow, smooth gait. His dark hair was peppered with gray, though most of the hair of his goatee was still black, and he wore a cream-colored duster. The spectacles perched on his aquiline nose framed dark eyes that were sharp, missing nothing.

It was him. Mathew Brady.

Gabe wiped sweaty palms against his trousers and cleared his throat. “Mr. Brady, I presume?”

The man smiled faintly, causing slight lines to crinkle around his eyes. “One and the same.”

Gabe offered his hand, and Brady shook it with a firm clasp. “Mr. Brady, sir, I have long been an admirer of your work. Your advances in daguerreotype and imprint images have inspired me.”

Brady’s dark brows rose, his scholarly features lightening. “You have studied the science of photography?”

Gabe paused, trying not to babble like an overwrought child. “Indeed. Your brilliant portraits fueled my interest in profound ways.”

“And have you a camera?”

His tongue almost tripped over the stem of words bubbling to burst forth. “Yes, sir. I’ve worked and saved diligently over the past several years and recently acquired my first.”

“What model?”

“An Anthony camera, sir.”

Brady raised his brows higher. “Impressive. There are none better. I employ Anthony cameras exclusively in my own studio.”

Gabe released a tight breath. Yes, he knew. He knew every detail about the renowned portrait gallery and the methodology of its master.

“What’s your name, son?”

He’d never introduced himself? “Forgive me. My name is Gabriel Avery.”

“And what brings you to my studio today, Mr. Avery?”

His mouth was cotton. “I heard a rumor you are considering undertaking a remarkable endeavor. Is it true that you are planning to photograph views from the war?”

Brady’s goatee twitched in response. “News of my fanciful daydreams has spread already?”

Fearing he’d overstepped propriety, Gabe could do little more than nod. “Word travels fast, sir.”

“Indeed.” Plucking the wire-rimmed spectacles from his nose, Brady drew a square of dark cloth from his coat pocket and began to polish the lenses, a frown pulling his mouth into a grim line. “It’s become an ambition of mine, I confess. The magnitude of such a historic event calls for an accurate record, wouldn’t you say?”

“I agree entirely. Is it true that you have considered hiring photographers to complete it?”

Brady gave a nod. “I have weighed the merits of it, yes.”

Gabe’s heart leapt. “If I may be so bold, I’d like to apply for the job.”

“I figured as much. Do you have examples of your work?”

Gabe’s fingers nearly knotted. So much so, he fumbled over the clasps of his satchel. Removing the samples he’d so carefully selected, he handed them to the photographer.

Brady hooked his spectacles back over his ears and onto his nose before perusing the photographs, his face void of expression. Gabe’s heart raced as he waited, each second drawn longer than the last.

Finally Brady spoke. “These are quite good. You certainly are adept at using the chemicals for the wet-plate process, although you still have some to learn about the proper use of light to acquire sharper, crisper images.”

“Yes, sir.” Gabe held his breath.

Brady pursed his lips. “Unfortunately, none of my plans are definite as of yet. And you can imagine the staggering expense of mounting such a venture. Equipment, traveling darkrooms, horses and their feed, chemicals, plates, tripods . . . to say nothing of the government’s cooperation with such a venture.”

Gabe’s heart sank like an iron anchor. The disappointment tasted far more bitter than he’d imagined.

Brady rubbed his chin, his face thoughtful. “However, I see nothing wrong with striking a tenuous arrangement.”

His breath hitched.

“Check back with me in one month. By that time, I hope to have permission from President Lincoln himself. If I can figure out a way to embark on such a campaign, I would like to hire you as one of my photographers.”

Gabe’s pulse pounded in a heady rush. His tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. Before he could utter a sound, Brady held up a warning hand.

“On one condition, however. You must agree to use your own Anthony camera and must purchase your own tripod and Harrison lens if you do not have one. I would provide any stereoscopic cameras needed.”

Gabe tried to calculate the sum in his head. The lens would come dear. He’d had no use for a tripod as yet, choosing to perch his delicate camera on boxes or tables for the time being. There would be no such luxury in the middle of war.

He spoke slowly. “Such an investment is beyond my current means. What if I were somehow to obtain the proper funds and arrangements for photographing the war fell through?”

Brady’s lips twisted into a dry smile. “That is precisely my own conundrum.”

It was a risk. A big one. Where would he ever find the money for such equipment?

Brady continued, “In addition, all photographers would be required to spend several weeks working in one of my studios before travel. If I’m to fund such an extravagant and elaborate ordeal, I must be assured that my photographers are properly trained. As such, you would be representing me and the reputation I’ve spent years striving to attain.”

Learn from Mathew Brady himself? The thought left Gabe light-headed. Such an opportunity was beyond belief. It was a priceless gift that would never come again.

As suddenly as the elation rose, it deflated. The opportunity was contingent on money . . . money he did not have. One month. Was it possible to purchase a costly Harrison lens and tripod in such a short time?

Please, Lord. I’ll never ask for another blessed thing. . . .

“What say you, Mr. Avery? Do we strike a pledge?”

Gabe stared at Brady, his mind spinning like a top. How could he decline? If it was the Almighty’s will, he would make a way.

Before he could hesitate any longer, Gabe clasped Brady’s slim hand. Despite the excitement coursing through him, a niggling unease remained. Where could he possibly procure those kinds of funds?

Brady’s brows rose. “One month?”

Gabe swallowed. “One month.”

What had he done?

HOWELL, MICHIGAN

“Well, Cassandra, say something.”

She could form no response. Hysteria . . . panic . . . what words could possibly suffice for the tumult raging inside?

Father glowered, his dark brows lowering in a look that brooked no argument. “Erastus Leeds has been our closest neighbor for nigh unto fifteen years. I’ve had nary a complaint with him.”

Father might not have any complaints about the surly man who watched her with far too much frequency, but she had a long litany of grievances. His glances were too leering to be gentlemanly. Every time she caught his intense stare, Cassie felt the urge to cover herself and hide. From across the table, her gaze sought Mother with a beseeching look.

But instead of coming to her aid, Mother lowered her eyes to the stew cooling in the bowl before her, her thin shoulders drooping.

And Cassie knew then that she was alone.

“The wedding will take place in a fortnight.”

She dropped her spoon against the chipped bowl with a clatter. “So soon?”

Father shoveled in another mouthful of potatoes and carrots. “I see no need to wait.”

The meager contents of her stomach soured. Her heart hardened. “How much is he paying you?”

His dark head jerked up, his eyes glinting a warning. “What did you say?”

The small flicker of hot indignation in her middle fanned into flames. “How much did he consent to give you as my bridal price? Enough to keep you deep in your cups for quite some time, I imagine.”

As soon as the words escaped, she knew she’d overstepped.

Mother sucked in a dry gasp as Father dropped the stained napkin to the table and stood, pushing the chair back with a thick scrape.

She didn’t even see the hand that slammed into her face with a stinging crack. Pain exploded as her head snapped to the side. Tears burned, but she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She would not.

She turned her eyes slowly back to meet his stormy face. Licking her lips, she tasted blood. But she forced herself not to look away.

“You are dissatisfied with my choice of husband for you?”

She swallowed but refused to speak.

Father stepped close, and the sour stench of his whiskey fanned across her skin. “I chose all four of your sisters’ husbands. They have offered no complaints, nor have they shown a shadow of the rebelliousness or ingratitude you’ve displayed tonight.”

Of course her sisters hadn’t complained. They were terrified of him. Everyone was. But Cassie knew too well the heartbreak of her sisters’ marriages. Two of their husbands loved the bottle more than their families, while another had roving eyes for anything in a skirt. The fourth was lazy and expected Nellie to do all the planting and harvesting. All four husbands treated her sisters as nothing more than servants, objects to cook their food and sate their lust.

She would not blindly embrace the same fate.

Her gaze flickered back to Mother’s downcast face. Her lined features were pleading, silently begging Cassie to agree, not to cause any more turmoil or fray the tenuous thread of Father’s explosive temper.

For Mother’s sake, she would hold her peace. For now.

Taking her silence as submission, Father plunked back down into his chair. “In a fortnight you will be wed to Erastus Leeds.”

The stew settled like mortar in her belly and she excused herself from dinner. She was trapped like a bird in a cage. She could see the freedom beyond the wire enclosure, but her wings could not beat with enough strength to break the bars. Her lungs felt strangely bereft of air, as if she were slowly smothering. She burst from the house with one destination in mind. The only person she wanted to see, to pour out her misery to, was the only woman who had ever understood and cared for her heart. Granny Ardie.

Running from the farm felt good. She hadn’t meant to, but what started off as a quick walk slipped into a sprint. Wind slapped her face. Her lungs and legs burned. She ignored the homespun tangling around her legs, the rocks piercing the thin soles of her worn shoes. She sucked in cleansing gulps, and for a moment, she was unleashed. Free.

If only outrunning her problems were as easy.

Following the crooked fence jutting up from the ground, she plunged into the woods that led to the cabin. It was not much farther.

Several minutes later, she turned a corner of the dirt path and stopped, heaving deeply. Granny’s tiny cabin stood the same as ever. Constant and welcoming.

Forcing herself into slow, measured steps, she walked up the creaking porch stairs, noting their slight sag. She must repair them soon. For certain Father would never do it. He had never given his mother-in-law a moment of attention.

She pushed open the wooden door, wincing at the raspy creak of old hinges. “Granny?”

“Is that you, Cassie, love?”

“It’s me.” She shut the door behind her and blinked, letting her eyes adjust to the shadowed cabin. Following the scent of cooking, she slipped past the front room and walked into the warm kitchen tucked away in the back. As she approached, she heard the crackle of meat popping in an iron skillet. The aroma of frying onions and fresh-baked johnnycakes wafted around her.

Granny turned, a smile wreathing her face in wrinkled lines. Her blue eyes twinkled. “Here I was, asking the good Lord to send me some company, and he brought my favorite person.”

Cassie’s eyes stung. She never cried. Never. Yet Granny always knew what her bruised heart needed. Keeping the tears at bay, she pasted on a brave face. “And you are my favorite person on this whole big earth.”

Granny shuffled slowly to the table and plopped into the scarred chair with a groan. “My old bones can’t do what they used to. Care for some supper? Nothing fancy, but I’ve just enough for the two of us.”

The two bites of stew she’d choked down could hold no candle to a meal made with love. “Of course. You rest and I’ll serve.”

Cassie turned to fill the tin plates with steaming johnnycakes, crispy salt pork, and succotash of fried squash and onions. She blinked away the stinging sensation. Her infernal eyes. What was wrong with her that she suddenly couldn’t squelch the urge to bawl like a newborn calf?

Setting the plates before them, Cassie grasped Granny’s knobby fingers as the elderly woman’s voice cracked out grace. Cassie did not feel the peace that usually followed the prayer.

She had just plopped a dollop of butter atop her johnnycake when Granny’s soft voice probed.

“What’s wrong?”

Cassie blinked, her throat clogging shut as she rasped out a strangled laugh. “Nothing.”

Sighing, the older woman laid aside her utensil and squinted, staring at Cassie with far too much discernment. She resisted the urge to squirm.

“I’ve known you all your life, Cassie, love. Out with it.”

Her breath hitched for only an instant before the dismal news burst from her lips. “Father demands I marry Erastus Leeds within a fortnight.” Everyone in the area knew the odious man. If anyone would understand, Granny certainly would.

Granny only picked up her fork once more, chewing slowly. Her eyes were thoughtful. After a lengthy pause, she said, “I see. But you must have known you would have to marry eventually.”

Panic squeezed her heart when Granny did not immediately dismiss the preposterous notion. “Of course, but Erastus Leeds?” She shivered, feeling the revulsion to her bones. “The man is slick as fish. I don’t trust him. And his name . . . makes me think of leeches.”

The older woman chuckled.

Cassie frowned. “Surely you don’t agree with Father.”

Granny sighed deeply. “No, I don’t. Truly, I didn’t agree with any of the matches he arranged for your sisters, either. But understand, love, war changes things.”

“War.” She glowered. “Not likely. Father has been squandering more money down at the gaming hall. He’s short of coinage for his whiskey. He keeps throwing away what little Mother manages to save. She scrimps and scrapes and he loses it in hand after hand of faro.”

“I know, lamb. I know. And more’s the pity. We need to be more diligent in our prayers for him.”

The likelihood of her father turning over a new leaf within a fortnight was slim to none. No, Cassie couldn’t wait for that kind of miracle. Something must be done and soon.

Lifting her chin, she firmed her lips. “I refuse to marry the man.”

Granny shook her gray head and frowned. “I don’t see how you’re going to avoid it. Unless you’re planning to marry another before the appointed time or join up to fight.” She ended the sentence on a guffaw.

Cassie straightened, her heart pricking with a sudden idea. Her mind whirled. Could she be so bold?

“Promise me something, Cassie.”

The soft plea scattered her churning thoughts. “Yes’m?”

“Promise me you won’t decide on anything—whether to submit to your father’s wishes or refuse him—until you’ve prayed long and hard.”

“But I—”

Granny’s lips formed a thin line. “Promise me.”

The thought rankled, though why, Cassie didn’t want to examine.

“I promise.”

Still, the shimmer of possible escape refused to leave her be.

Less than an hour later, she trudged home and slipped inside unnoticed. Easing into her room, she lowered herself to the floor, sitting in front of the hope chest nestled at the foot of her bed.

As a little girl, she had dreamed of the day when she would marry and finally use the treasures inside. Year after year, she and Mother had tucked in special items—a delicate yard of lace, a blanket, a floral-patterned teacup, a goose-down pillow—things a new, dewy-eyed bride would need to set up house.

As she ran her fingers over the items, a tiny porcelain hand peeked out from between the folds of linen. Cassie pulled out the treasure. She had almost forgotten the china doll Granny Ardie had given her Christmas morning when she was six. She had named her Elizabeth. The doll had gone with her everywhere.

Fingering the lace of Elizabeth’s faded pink frock, Cassie lifted her eyes to study the mangled features and ran her fingers over the jagged hole marring half of the doll’s face. The bitter memory from years ago rushed back.

She had been sitting on the kitchen floor, pretending to give Elizabeth a cup of tea while Mother looked on, smiling as she made preserves.

The serene moment had been shattered when Father burst in. He staggered and slurred, enraged over some imaginary infraction. Mother cowered under his drunken heat.

“Where did you get this?” He snatched up the precious doll and waved her through the air.

Cassie had gasped. “No! Please! Granny gave her to me.”

“Bah! A waste of money.” With a sneer, he threw Elizabeth into the wall.

Cassie had cried bitter tears when she turned over her little friend to discover one eye and half of her sweet, smiling face were gone.

Cassie was no longer a child, yet the memory wrapped around her heart with cold tentacles, hardening into an unforgiving knot. Clutching the doll to her chest, she heaved a deep sigh, knowing she could not, would not marry Erastus Leeds.

The decision left few options, but one possibility kept gnawing at her, refusing to budge. Could she do it?

Granny’s admonition tugged. “Promise me you won’t decide on anything . . . until you’ve prayed long and hard.”

Oh, she would pray, all right. Pray she wasn’t preparing to make the worst mistake of her life.