Chapter 18 #2
Kate’s performance is magnetic, her voice soaring to the high ceiling.
She looks beautiful in her green taffeta gown, its bodice dipping low, showcasing the graceful line of her shoulders and her long neck.
I watch the men watching her and can imagine their thoughts.
As Varina, she’s the very picture of femininity.
But I prefer her as she is at home, when we’re alone at Angel’s Rest—just Kate, with her trousers slung low over her hips, her shirt unbuttoned above her small breasts, the earthy smell of her sweat after our chores.
I’m more in love than I ever thought I could be.
While these rich men stare at her, lusting after her uncommon beauty, I have the smug satisfaction of knowing she belongs to me.
I weave through a cohort of naval officers, dipping my hand into one distracted man’s pocket.
I’m rewarded with a silver dollar and a small, ivory-handled knife, its blade folded.
I hide it in my trousers pocket and disappear into a feather-adorned coterie of ladies.
I’m crossing to the other side of the room when I finally see William.
He’s leaning against the wall, handsome in his formal uniform as he converses with a plump young woman in pink shot silk, her head adorned with a halo of curly blond hair.
She laughs at what he says, fanning herself.
I watch them from behind a potted palm as he leans forward to kiss her neck, just below her ear.
They must be betrothed for him to make such a display of affection at a public assembly.
Sure enough, when she lifts her left hand, I see a slender gold band around her finger.
Not betrothed, then. Married. She’s his wife.
A flare of jealousy runs through me. No doubt she’s enjoying all the privileges of being Mrs. William Cameron.
The fine house on the Battery, the carriage with its team of four, all the pretty gowns and jewels his riches will allow.
The children he’ll surely put in her belly, if he hasn’t already.
An ache of loss runs through me. The thought of our marriage bed filled me with dread, but I wanted to be a mother. Badly.
It would have never been me, though, at his side.
It would have been Rebecca. His young wife resembles my sister, in some ways.
Her rosy cheeks, her laughing eyes. I wait until William departs, until his wife is engaged in conversation with a trio of ladies, before I make my move.
I approach from behind and, in one deft motion, unhook the glittering diamond fob dangling from her fan.
I pocket it swiftly and turn around. My eyes lock with William’s. He saw what I did.
“You, boy!” He pushes through the crowd, his face a thundercloud.
Panic crests over me, flooding my limbs as I turn to flee, knocking over an enamel vase, sending it crashing to the floor.
“Thief!” William cries.
I rush from the reception hall to a small parlor, looking for a place to hide.
I try the door on the opposing side of the room, but find it locked.
William enters the parlor, a sneer lashed on his face.
“There you are. I saw what you did. Give it to me, you little thief.” He closes the distance between us, his eyes filled with fire.
I freeze, like a rabbit stared down by a wolf.
He shoves me, sending me toppling to the carpet.
My head collides with the floor, sparking a shower of stars behind my eyes.
He crouches over me, his hands everywhere, searching.
He draws the pocket watch from my jacket, and then the diamond fan fob.
As I try to wriggle away, he strikes my face with his open hand.
I gasp. And then he looks at me. Really looks at me, his green eyes widening.
“My god. It’s you.”
I say nothing, stilling beneath him.
He smiles, slowly, menacingly. “Well, Lillian. You’ve certainly changed.”
I feel the weight of the stolen knife inside my trouser pocket—a place he hasn’t yet searched. I dare not. I don’t think I can hurt him. But then he withdraws a whistle from his waistcoat and puts it to his lips, sounding a shrill alarm. “She’s here! Miss Carmichael!”
He’s calling his fellow soldiers, like dogs. I hear a rush of footsteps from the other room, ladies’ panicked voices rising in alarm. Have I really become so notorious?
As the phalanx of uniformed men rushes in, instinct takes over.
Survival takes over. I shove my knee into William’s groin, as hard as I can, and then swiftly bring the stolen knife out, opening it with one hand and stabbing him in the upper arm.
He yelps and rolls onto his side. I leap to my feet, though my head protests with a wave of dizziness, and seize a horse-faced bust of Andrew Jackson from a side table.
I pitch it at one of the high, arched windows.
The glass shatters. As the uniformed men surround me, I dive through the broken window, ignoring the pain of glass slicing into my hands.
I land in a hedge of bougainvillea and roll onto the grass.
The men peer down at me, shouting. I growl at them like a tiger, showing all my teeth.
One of them draws his gun and shoots. A bullet goes whistling past my head.
I duck and run through the gardens as more shots ring out.
I have no idea where I’m going. Whether Kate will be able to find me. Whether she’s in peril, too. People saw us arrive together. But I can’t help her right now. I can’t do anything if I’m dead.
I run until I reach Shem Creek, until there’s no breath left in my lungs, till my knees give out, and the distant sounds of the men fade.
My old injury from the boar trap cramps painfully, reminding me that I still haven’t completely healed.
I crumple into the bracken, my hands a bloodied mess, Kate’s beautiful, tailored suit ruined.
After a while, my racing heart slows, my breathing calms. I lie there, listening to the sounds of the marsh.
I pick shards of glass from my palms, undo my cravat, rip it in half, and use it to bandage my hands.
And then I start walking, slowly, to favor my injured leg, which is still throbbing.
I find a skiff tied to a tree alongside the creek and climb inside.
Though my hands ache in protest, I row, slowly and deliberately, up the creek to Hog Island.
After a brief nap in the hull of the skiff, moored in the spartina, I find my way back to my old campsite at dawn.
The shoddily built hermitage has fallen down, and the spring growth has consumed the clearing, but I won’t go back to Angel’s Rest. To Kate.
I can’t. I’m only a liability to her. I briefly consider taking my own life—for what choices do I have now?
They’ll find me eventually, and I’ll die anyway, either at the end of the noose or from a bullet.
I palm the knife, opening and closing it several times before putting it away.
I think of my mother. Of Papa. I bed down in the ferns and cry myself to sleep, my heart sick with longing for a time when life was easy.
When I was just plain, quiet Lillian Carmichael, and not the monster they’ve made me.