"So, tell me, Bertram, how are your travels?"
Bertram Butler, short and stout, with a nose that attested to his former career as a failed pugilist, did not speak until he had drained almost half of his mug. He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, but a thick line of beige foam remained on his full upper lip.
"I tell you, I'm a free man. I couldn't take it anymore, and I'm well out of it."
"You left the missus?" offered one patron.
"You cut the ball and chain?" added another with delight.
"No, no," he said in a gravelly voice, not offended in the least. "Me job. I've left me job."
A stunned silence hushed the crowd, the only sounds to pierce the air were the shuffling of patrons to get a better seat for the tale sure to ensue. A few men took eager slurps of their beer, storing up the drink so they wouldn't feel a sudden thirst during the narrative.
"Tell us, Bertram," coaxed an older man with his left ear wrapped in a filthy bandage.
"This last crossing was the worst of me life, the worst ever, I might add." He drained the contents of his mug, and with a snap, another ale was poured. "Going over was fine, the usual band of crazies, but in my thirty years at sea I have become used to all the strange goings-on. Nothing, I thought, could make my eyes pop out. I've seen it all."
He cleared his throat, biding his time until his next mug was handed to him. He then continued, enjoying the undivided attention of every patron there. "Well, you have heard of the war going on over in the colonies, haven't you? A bloody, terrible affair it is, I might add."
"They should never have left us," spat the man with the bandage. "They thought they were so blooming smart, and look at them. Shame."
Bertram shot the man an irritated look, and then went on. "Anyway, this general, a young man, bravest man you've ever heard of, up and died a few weeks ago. Just up and died."
"Shame," asked another patron.
"This here general was a southerner, a Confederate, mind you . . ."
"They're the ones like us," stated the man with the bandage, with a voice of authority.
"Right. Well, this Confederate general had lots of friends up North, in the United States proper. And he also had the most beautiful tidbit I've ever seen as his wife, a regular dainty tidbit she is. So this little lady wants her dead husband to be buried over here in England, if you please."
"A woman of rare taste." The man with the bandaged head nodded.
"So everyone, both sides, mind you, want this lovely lady to have her way. She is to get the nicest room on the North Star, and yours truly is to see to the lady's comfort."
"Coo! Lucky man!"
"Well, that's what I think, too, when I first see her, all white and pale. What do you think is the first thing the lady asks for?"
"Gin?"
"A pack of cards?"
"Bubble and squeak?"
"Wrong," Bertram announced in exultation, reaching for his third ale. "Wrong as wrong can be, every one of you. She wants the body of the husband to be put in her stateroom."
"No!"
"She wants a stiff in her room?"
"That's what I said. So I says, 'Ma'am, the usual procedure is for the deceased to be placed below. That arrangement, we find, is more comfortable for everyone.' Well, this lady will have none of it. And since I was told to give her what she wants, I bring up this big casket. The general must have weighed sixteen stone if he weighed an ounce." "Don't stiffs get lighter as they ripen?" "Not this one." He held up a hand with dramatic flare, silencing the sympathetic murmurs. "It gets worse. So here I am, helping her settle the coffin in her room. What does she want next?" "Gin?"
"A pack of cards?"
"No," Bertram scoffed at the suggestions. "She wants me to put her husband to bed." "To bed?"
He nodded. "She wants me to take him out of the coffin and tuck him into her bed, nice and gentlelike, so her hubby can be snug as a swaddled babe."
"I've heard of that!" shouted a patron from the back of the room. "It's called necra-something. I heard a fancy gentleman in my hack talk about it once."
Bertram waved an impatient hand. "Naw. That's not it. You see, she's so nice and pretty, well, I did it for her."
"You picked up the stiff?"
"I did. And he wasn't stiff at all, just sort of pale. And you know what? Even dead, this fellow was better looking than the lot of you. I felt sort of sorry for her, you know, the way she took care of this big guy. But I tell you, things got stranger and stranger.
"She asks for coffee, and I bring her some, but I forgot the sugar. Well, I come back a few minutes later, and knock once before I enter. Do you know what she's doing? She's holding a cup to the stiff's mouth, talking to him all sweet and nice, asking him how he likes the taste of real coffee and whatnot."
"Poor lady. She's as cracked as a ginger jar," murmured someone, and others muttered in agreement.
"Then she talks to him all the time. Once she opened his eyes like this." Bertram poked two stubby fingers over his eyelids, revealing a pop-eyed stare. "And she goes, 'So, are you still mad at me? My, you can certainly hold a grudge.'"
"So the stiff was mad at her for something?"
"I suppose. But she sure wasn't mad at him. Another time I walked in and she was giving him a shave."
"No!"
"I hear that dead people grow hair and whiskers and that if you want a dead body to look nice, you have to groom it," offered the hack driver.
"Well, maybe," said Bertram. "But are you supposed to take a dead body for a walk?" There was a harsh, collective gasp—just the reaction he had been hoping for. "She did, perambulating all over the place, chatting away with this great hulk of a dead general. Only in her room, of course."
"What else did she do?"
"She kissed him."
"What?"
Bertram grinned. "She kissed him on the mouth. More than once I saw her whisper something to him and kiss him. I caught her brushing his teeth another day."
"Mayhaps that was so that she could kiss him?" Bertram glared, not wanting additional editorial comments. "And one time, when the seas were particularly rough, she lay right next to him. Said she didn't want him to roll off the bed and get hurt." There was a universal silence. Even men with empty mugs stood in contemplation, trying to make sense of the odd tale they had just been told.
"So, gentlemen, I quit my job. This is enough. No more. I can't take another chance of meeting up with a lady like that."
The man with the bandaged head clicked his tongue.
"So, Bertram," he asked. "How's the wife?"
February 1864
Margaret closed the window against the frigid winter breeze. Her arms clasped together, she shivered, wondering if she would ever again feel warm. And the chill wasn't simply physical.
She glanced at the chair where Ashton had spent most of his recovery, gradually regaining his strength with the help of a wonderful physician. The stronger he became physically, the wider the wedge between the two of them grew.
He simply did not understand.
For a while she kept up the one-sided conversations that had become her trademark. She watched in sheer joy as the color returned to his cheeks, as he filled out on the meals prepared downstairs and sent up in a pulley. She wondered if he had lost the ability to speak and hear, for he ignored her completely, but he was talkative enough with Dr. McCoy. And when he was well enough, he began spending time at a men's club.
Ashton, the handsome, mysterious southerner, became the most desirable addition to every social activity in London. Most assumed the gallant foreigner to be unwed, for he never mentioned a wife or spoke of his past at any length. He did express a desire to return to the Confederacy. That was ail that could be determined about Ashton Johnson.
Since his manners and deeply rooted charm, and his obvious education, were so gently displayed, everyone also assumed that he was a man of great wealth. The cut of his clothes indicated the best London tailors, although they w
ere all a little too new to be completely fashionable. His address, just off Hyde Park, was correct enough to allow mothers of unmarried daughters to dream of their own darling Elizabeth or Sally or Gwendolyne becoming the future Mrs. Ashton Powell Johnson.
Margaret walked toward the dining table, the scene of some of their more painful arguments. But they weren't really arguments. She could not get him to acknowledge her in any way, shape, or form. He was polite, but never spoke more meaningful words than "Pass the salt" or "I'm going out."
And when she called breakfast that morning their "Citizen Kane phase," he didn't bother to glance up from his plate.
She was losing him, and there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.
At least he was alive, she told herself. She would be just as alone if he had been killed. Here she could see that he was well-fed, healthy if not happy. Thanks to the generosity of patrons, they could live in this style indefinitely. She had received enough checks from sources both North and South for them to live in comfort for years.
That is, if she didn't kill him first.
Intellectually, she understood his fury. Yet she honestly thought that by now he would have seen things her way, would understand that she did what she had to out of her love for him.
There was a soft knock on the door, and Margaret answered it herself. Their sumptuous flat boasted a maid's room, but Margaret didn't need a maid. After all, she was by herself most of the time, and the meals were prepared. She needed no one. Ashton slept in the maid's room.
"Dr. McCoy." She smiled, opening the door wide for him to enter. "How wonderful to see you. You seem to be my only friend here in London."
"He's gone out again?" Dr. McCoy asked sharply.
"Yes, he has." Margaret shrugged, not wanting to dwell on the topic. "Would you like some tea?"
"Mrs. Johnson, I've come to ask if he knows yet."
Margaret swallowed and shook her head.
The doctor's eyes softened. "He must be told, Mrs. Johnson. He has a right to know that his wife is expecting a child."
"I suppose," she answered uncomfortably. "But I don't think that would matter to him. He wants to go back as soon as he is well enough."
"To face almost certain death? Is he mad?"
"No," she replied. "He's a Confederate."
The doctor seemed puzzled, then gave Margaret an appraising look. "Have you been able to keep anything down?"
"A little." She smiled, and Dr. McCoy was struck anew at how lovely this young American woman was. "To tell you the truth, some of your British dishes are a little tough to get used to. Kippered herring and kidneys are not my idea of appetizing."
He chuckled and reached for her wrist, checking her pulse against his gold pocket watch. "Mrs. Johnson, you are not my strongest patient. I do not wish to frighten you, but you are not going to have an easy time of it. You need to tell your husband."
"Oh, I will," she answered noncommittally.
"Well, then I must be off." The doctor offered her a reassuring pat. "He'll come around, Mrs. Johnson. He is a proud man, and until very recently he was a very ill man. Sometimes illness can alter a man's perspective on life."
"Sometimes," she said softly.
When the doctor left, she felt more alone than ever, as if she were the only person alive on the face of the earth. She stared out of the window for a few moments, watching the carriages driving through Hyde Park. The English seemed remarkably immune to their own weather.
Just as she turned to go over to the desk to write a few letters, she felt a stabbing pain in her lower abdomen. Like a giant, twisting knot, it tightened, doubling her over with the force of the burning sensation.
"No," she moaned, just before her knees folded under her and her head struck a sharp-edged table.
Ashton had mechanically eaten the lavish meal at Lord and Lady Trendome's, not truly tasting the expertly prepared dishes or distinguishing one fine vintage from the next. His unusual silence was duly noted by Lucy, the Trendomes' twenty-three-year-old daughter. She did her best to captivate the fascinating Ashton Johnson, and although his responses were correct and well-phrased, his eyes—a most intriguing blend of golds and greens—betrayed his lack of interest.
He glanced down at her, barely noticing the sumptuous parade of jewels clustered at her throat and up her bare arms. Seeing the display of gems reminded him of Margaret, of how she managed to shine at the Davises’ ball without a single piece of jewelry other than her wedding band.
Lucy Trendome shot her mother an exasperated look, her smooth brow becoming lined with irritation. Lady Trendome responded by fixing a broad smile on her own face and turning toward Ashton.
"So, Mr. Johnson," she said with a practiced tilt of her head. Countless hours before her mirror had confirmed that it was a most becoming angle. "What do you think of our English women? Do you not think they are the most beautiful in the world?"
"Why, Lady Trendome." He flashed his smile, bright teeth glaring in the tiered candlelight. "I daresay I have never seen such lovely women." It was difficult to hold his smile, for all he could think of was his wife, the artless grace she so fully possessed, her flawless beauty. Above all, her kindness, her wit, and the way she loved him.
He did not doubt for an instant that she loved him. But she had gone too far. She dared to enter a man's world, to play with the very powers of the Confederacy.
She went too far, damn it.
"My dear wife is fishing for compliments." Lord Trendome laughed, his dark hair slicked over his smooth skull like the pelt of a wet otter.
Ashton smiled in response and looked down at the sorbet on his plate. When had it arrived? Raising a spoon, he ate the ice, heedless of the brilliantly fresh flavor.
Margaret.
How could she have done what she did? She had all but destroyed him, leaving his pride in tatters. Everyone back in the States had heard all about his wife's exploits. Everything that was so vital to him, the whole ideal of honor that had always defined his life, had been taken away from him.
But then ...
His mind wandered to some of the comments she had made, her earnest chatter while he was confined to that cursed box. The casket. An unexpected grin appeared as he thought of her on the ship, oblivious to the startled responses of the poor steward.
She had said some strange things about the Confederacy. At one point she called Ashton a victim of "group psychology." He had been too close to the leaders, especially Lee, to see the situation clearly. Had he but looked objectively at a map, he would realize how hopeless their cause had been.
That had struck a nerve, for although she did not realize it, Ashton had seen a map in just such an objective way on the very morning of his arrest. And for that, even before the discovery of the paper in his pocket, he had been branded a traitor by the president.
The usual conversation at the silver-laden table continued to buzz, aimless prattle like so many annoying insects. At least insects found constructive ways to occupy their time. Margaret,
This morning she had blanched at the sight of kippers, causing him to act like a child by devouring every single one on the platter. Had she eaten anything at all? In truth, she had grown even more slender since arriving in London.
It dawned on him in a horrifying instant—she was ill. He had been too furious to notice, but now he recalled the times she left the table, a napkin over her mouth. Her alabaster skin was unnaturally pale. The entire time he was recovering his robust health, she was growing sicker each day. And Dr. McCoy had been dwelling on her, watching her from under his tangled black eyebrows.
Ashton's hand clenched on the table. He had to leave now, as soon as possible. He had to get home to Margaret. "I say, Mr. Johnson, that is a tragedy. An utter tragedy."
Ashton looked blankly at the speaker, a monocled gentleman in a dark green frock coat.
"Excuse me?"
"I said," the man repeated with irritation, "the death of your president's little boy."
/> Ashton said nothing, his mind in complete shock.
"What? Where?" he said stupidly. "Lincoln?"
"The little boy in Richmond, the Davis child. He fell off a balcony of some sort at the Executive Mansion. I understand he was only a little tyke, only about.. ."
"Five." Ashton was beginning to feel ill himself. This was everything Margaret had said, everything she had predicted or dreamed. And for that he had turned his back on her, called her a spy. "Joseph was
five." When had he last seen the little boy? Giggling under his father's desk, managing to coax a smile from his stern father with a silly poem. And now that child was dead. Ashton began to finish his meal, and he stopped. What the hell was he doing?