2. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
F abienne awoke with a sharp intake of breath, bracing herself for the pain. None came. For a few moments, she breathed; in and out, in and out, waiting for the stinging in her shoulder and leg to come back. Any second, it would come back.
Yet, the pain did not return. She reached for the shoulder wound. Her fingers grazed the lacy neckline of a soft cotton nightgown and felt only smooth skin.
It can’t be.
She sat up. She was in a four-poster bed in a shadowy room, illuminated by a sliver of light seeping in from two curtained windows. A bedroom, and a rather fine one, at that. Dark wood furniture, a finely carved fireplace with an upholstered armchair by it, a porcelain washstand in the corner—wherever she was, it wasn’t a hospital.
Carefully, she got up—still no pain from the leg—and pulled the curtains. A wide grass field led from the house to a nearby forest, the rays of the early morning sun peeking over the treetops. Antoine and Marion must’ve brought her to the countryside, possibly still in the vicinity of New York.
She hoisted up the edge of her nightgown. Her leg wound had healed, leaving only a faint star-shaped scar. She strained to remember anything past the chase. If the wound had healed this much, she must’ve been out for weeks.
A mahogany table with a round mirror and an assortment of women’s toiletries stood between the two windows. Fabienne trailed the surface, her fingers beginning to tremble. She paused over an ivory comb, carved with leaves. No, no, you’re fine, don’t—
She snatched it, the rush of satisfaction overpowering her anxiety.
Something gleamed at the edge of her vision. The sun had lit a round table in the corner, with a decorative golden cage, hosting a blue-painted wooden bird. Leaning forward, as if it would help her see better, Fabienne approached, not quite believing her eyes. A French design, and very similar to the one she owned at home; the bird would sing if she turned the handle in the octagonal-shaped base. How strange, that she’d find something so familiar here.
Wherever here was.
Only a brief knock served as a warning before the door opened and a pale, redheaded young woman strode in, her plain gray gown and an apron identifying her as a servant. Fabienne jumped away from cage.
“Morning, ma’am,” the maid greeted. “Mrs. Ellison is here to collect you.”
Who? Collect her? Fabienne’s heart pounded. For what?
The maid disappeared into the wardrobe, returning a moment later with a dark blue plaid dress, which she splayed on the bed. “If you will, ma’am.” She gestured toward the vanity. Fabienne stuttered, and the maid gently led her to the chair, then began brushing her hair.
Que diable…? “Where are my brother and sister?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Antoine and Marion Beaumont. They must have brought me here. I was injured—I—I don’t know—”
“Ma’am?” The maid’s questioning gaze met Fabienne’s in the mirror. “Are you feeling well?”
“How long have I been here?” Maybe the maid was new and didn’t know what was going on.
The maid’s eyebrows lowered into a frown. “I’m not sure what you mean, ma’am.” Her voice was gentle, but there was a trace of confusion—no, was it suspicion?—underneath.
Fabienne swiveled her gaze to her reflection. Dark blue eyes on a pale heart-shaped face, framed by black hair, stared back. That was her, all right—but everything else felt off. She glanced at the maid and swallowed. Whoever these people were, the maid was probably halfway to suspecting Fabienne had gone mad. She better tread carefully. Her fingers stole to the open jewelry box and snatched a ring while the maid fiddled with a hairnet. But this time, the wave of relief was not enough.
The maid styled Fabienne’s hair in a neat chignon, helped her dress, and excused herself. Fabienne waited a few seconds, then peeked into the hallway. Light streamed in through the window at one end; on the other, the maid disappeared down the stairs. Fabienne followed with light steps.
The greyish-blue walls were bare and uninviting; no paintings, no flashy decorative pieces. At the top of the stairs, the view opened into the entry hallway below, decorated with a marble-topped table, a mirror, and an empty hat stand. She caught the last swish of the maid’s skirt as she walked deeper into the heart of the house.
Fabienne paused, rattled her fingers on the railing, but finally decided to follow. Two female voices drifted out of the half-closed door at the end of the hallway. She flattened against the wall and listened.
“… the mistress doesn’t like her, anyway.” The maid.
The other voice huffed, and glass clinked.
The mistress? Must be the woman whose bedroom she was in. Clearly these people had taken care of Fabienne, even though they didn’t want to. Fabienne’s stomach squeezed. What did Antoine have to do to get their help?
“… quite glad when she leaves, too,” the other woman said.
“Fabienne?”
She jumped at the voice, much louder and closer. A plump brunette in her fifties stood by the open door, in the direction Fabienne had come from. Had she caught her listening? Was she the mistress?
They stared at one another for a second.
“Let’s go, then,” the woman said, sounding rather friendly. “We’re late as it is.”
Words from the maid echoed in her head. Hadn’t she mentioned someone had come to see her? This must be her.
But she certainly wasn’t behaving as if Fabienne had spent weeks recuperating. And how did she know her?
Maybe it was an act. Two months ago, Fabienne thought of the people in the North as friends. But two months ago, they hadn’t yet sent troops to pillage and loot New Orleans, and strip her aunt’s house bare. The personal convictions of the Beaumonts mattered little to those soldiers. And all the rest saw was her accent.
The woman moved to the front door and beckoned her.
Slick’s nasty grin shot through her mind. The gleam of the pistol—Marion screaming— run, run —no, she couldn’t lash out again. It had nearly cost them their lives.
Talking might get her into trouble. She’d go along for now, learn and listen. At least until she found her family, and then they could get out of here.
From the outside, the light gray stone house was sturdy and well-maintained, though not grandiose by any means. A garden on one side stretched to the back. To the west, a gravel road disappeared behind a low hill, and a few columns of smoke rose into the sky in the distance.
The woman boarded the carriage on the driveway and tapped the glass. “Are you quite all right?” she asked when Fabienne joined her. “I hope you’re not ill. It’d be much better for you to stay at home then. I’m sure Mrs. Plaskett will accept that as an excuse for not helping with the cause.”
Fabienne was tempted to feign an illness, return to the bedroom and wait for a solution to come to her. But she was already on the way, possibly to some answers. Play along until you know everything is fine. Or until you know anything at all.
“Fabienne?”
“I’m fine. I haven’t slept well.”
The woman settled with a hmmph and kept studying her. Fabienne had barely leaned back on the seat to observe the green fields and forests they were passing, when the woman extended her hand to Fabienne’s forehead. “You don’t have a fever, do you? No, but something is wrong, I know it.”
“Maybe just the lingering pain from the wounds,” Fabienne said carefully, examining the woman’s face for any alarms.
The woman’s gray-green eyes widened in recognition, and she nodded. “Even after all this time, I suppose it would be possible. Dr. Byrne told me that while bullet wounds can heal and everything seems fine, they can leave a lasting impression. He knew a man who was shot, the bullet piercing his lungs, and while he fully recuperated, he still had occasional trouble breathing.”
So she knew about her wounds.
“I’m sorry if I’m being overwhelming, dear.” The woman patted her hand and leaned back on her seat, luckily missing Fabienne’s wild twitch of the head at the last word. Dear? What game was she playing? “With Brayden away, I have to be concerned about you.”
Fabienne’s throat closed up. Were Antoine and Marion not here? She grasped the nearest thing—the edge of her seat—and dug her nails into the leather. There must be a reason. Maybe they’d gone out to acquire funds so they could finally return home. Yes, that must be it. But she should’ve remembered something. Had she been so ill even a few conscious moments slipped her memory? What if Antoine had told her something important? The game she was supposed to play with this lady?
They reached the outskirts of a city and traveled along a wide road, the buildings rising higher and grander as they neared the center. They passed a river and drove along a busy street, full of stores—apothecary, photographer, foodstuffs, post office. The carriage turned into a smaller, calmer side street and ground to a halt.
“Twenty minutes late.” The woman checked her watch. “I suppose it will have to do.”
Fabienne followed her out of the carriage, mind whirring. Featureless mud road, featureless gray and beige buildings—no more revealing than the void in her mind. New York? Or some other city?
“Let me get the newspaper.” The woman touched her hand, like a mother instructing a child not to move, and strode to a boy selling newspapers on the corner.
“Aren’t we late?” Fabienne asked.
“Then we might as well be informed. Mrs. Plaskett will want to chat, and you know she’ll pick a current matter.” The woman sighed as she returned, examining the paper on the way. “And Heavens forbid we talk of anything but the war. There, another draft coming up. On the bright side, at least there are no lists of losses.”
Fabienne stared at the newspaper. Answers.
“May I see that?” An unwelcome tremor sneaked into her voice. As the woman passed her the newspaper, she hungrily took in the title— Hartford Daily Times —and the date. Friday, September 2. The city, one of Hartford, Connecticut, was confirmed below the title.
Three months . The entire summer has gone by. She skimmed the titles. Something about Grant’s Army; Farragut at New Orleans— maudit, will they not stop? —some groups not supporting Lincoln’s nomination for the election… hold on . The election was not supposed to happen for two more years. Unless during these three months, everything had gone so downhill they changed the entire political system. Only, based on everyone’s behavior, this was not the middle of an apocalypse.
She closed the newspaper to its front page and passed over the date again, taking it in properly this time.
1864.
The ground twirled and shifted, the number dancing in front of her eyes. It was like the lightheadedness from the wound—only worse, for her mind was all scrambled, and an acid burn began to make its way through her stomach.
She didn’t remember two whole years.
“Come now.” The woman’s stabilizing arm, looped around Fabienne’s, was welcome and repellent at the same time. Fabienne tried not to flinch away.
The woman headed for the nearby building. Inside, they ascended a set of stairs, coming to an open double door. The space behind was big enough for a ballroom, though it was currently occupied by a dozen or so women, engrossed in sewing or packing, and a multitude of tables, chairs, and crates.
“There you are, ladies!” A woman emerged from the crowd, wearing a simple gray gown with a cameo brooch pinned at the crisp white collar.
“Mrs. Plaskett, I must apologize for our delay. There were some, uh, inconveniences on the road.”
“As long as you’re here to help. We’re so glad you could join us, Caddie.” The woman nodded to Fabienne’s companion, then turned to Fabienne. “Mrs. Marshall. I have scheduled tasks for both of you. First, there is an entire shipment of bandages to be prepared, which I believe we can accomplish within the hour. If you’d follow me…”
Fabienne blinked. This was a big misunderstanding. They’d mistaken her for someone else, this Mrs. Marshall.
It would explain the mess and Caddie’s friendliness. But, wait—they knew her name! And if this had been going on for so long, how come no one had discovered the mistake by now? How come Antoine and Marion hadn’t corrected them?
Mrs. Plaskett led the way with a determined clicking of her heels against the wooden floor. Caddie nudged Fabienne, and they followed in a neat line to the corner of the room, where a crate had been opened to reveal spools of cotton fabric. Fabienne found herself sitting down with a pair of scissors in one hand and a ball of fabric in her lap. She only half-listened to Mrs. Plaskett’s explanations of what to do, some talk about sewing new uniforms, and planning the next Sanitary Fair.
Her free hand fidgeted. Automatically, she reached into the pocket where she kept her watch, remembering it wouldn’t be there only as her fingers brushed against something small, cold, and metallic.
She pulled out a ring, a simple golden band. The jewelry she’d stolen. Maudit . She’d have to return it later and hope these people wouldn’t discover it missing. Especially the mistress.
She turned it in her hand. A woman’s wedding ring, made for slender fingers.
Something guided her to slip the ring onto her finger. Perfect fit. It gleamed in the light, and a flash of understanding shot through Fabienne, cutting through her shock. As terrifying as the revelation was, it explained so many things.
The maid calling her madam. The others referring to her as Mrs. Marshall. Treating her like she belonged. The bedroom she’d woken in; a bedroom of a mistress of the house.
Two years gone by.
Not only was she stranded in a city in New England, living a comfortable life with a range of friends and acquaintances… she also had a husband somewhere.
And she couldn’t remember a single moment of it.
***
“Mm-hmm. This is going to be delicious,” Darnell said.
Brayden looked up from the dog-eared pages of Undine . His fellow soldier put down the bayonet he’d used to open a can of bacon and emptied the contents into a pot.
“Prepare your rations, gentlemen. We’re eating well tonight,” Darnell continued as he mixed the sizzling meat.
“I swear to God, you’re the only one who still likes fried hardtack,” Byers commented from across the fire, drawing chuckles from the rest of the group.
It was a relatively quiet evening in the camp, as the men had promptly sat down to supper, gathered in small groups. Brayden had always enjoyed this time—though enjoyment was not held to such high standards as it used to be. There was something peaceful and pleasing about watching the fires light up, the tunes of a fiddle coming from one side of the camp and the sounds of dancing from another. Tonight, the entertainment was on the quiet side; the men were tired from putting up breastworks for long hours under the scorching Georgia sun.
Harmuth pulled out his harmonica. “Maybe it’ll taste better with a song,” he said to Byers. “Which one?”
“Anything but Lorena ,” Brayden said. Beautiful, but much too sad. He didn’t need more reminders of how his life has gone awry.
Through a round of voting, Harmuth set for the jaunty tune of Yankee Doodle , and the rest busied themselves with the meal until Byers jumped up and announced, “Mail!”
A lieutenant approached in swift strides. “At ease, men,” he joked at the unrest. “We’ll get to all of you. Darnell… Johnson… Sanders…” One by one, the letters flew to their quarries. “Sorry, Harmuth, none for you this time.”
Brayden returned to the book to mark where he left off; not that it mattered, having read it a few times over.
“And Marshall.” A letter landed in his lap; the lieutenant nodded and left.
No, not one letter. Two. Brayden recognized—and expected—the first. Caddie. It was always Caddie, with a page of filtered news that assured Brayden all was still well in the neighborhood. But the smile at receiving her letter faded as he examined the second. It wasn’t possible, was it? Fabienne wouldn’t write to him. She never did anymore. He cracked it open and glanced hungrily at the signature. He realized, as he saw the one of ‘A. Lowe’, that he’d been holding on to the tiniest shred of hope, along with his breath.
It was them . Annoyed at his disappointment, he scanned the contents.
“Bad news?” Byers asked.
Brayden smoothed his frown. “No.”
To most, it wouldn’t be. It should be wonderful news. Only it wasn’t.
He was being summoned back home.