44. Chapter 44
Chapter 44
Washington, D.C.
April 1865
F abienne had never seen a city as gaudy as Washington in the days after the war’s end. Red, white and blue flags and banners hung from houses and above streets. Ribbons adorned the blooming trees. Crowds of people filled the streets and squares, celebrating. They all seemed so carefree. Happy.
How would it feel to be like them?
The first night, Brayden invited her to dinner—in this case, a social gathering of the prominent Washington society in the grand dining hall at the Willard Hotel. In a whirlwind of strangers, Fabienne was pulled into a group of other ladies and tried to keep up with both the conversation and the frequently changing faces and names. From the regrets she’d missed the Inauguration Ball, to the shocking theories behind the fire at the Smithsonian, to advice on where to stay should Fabienne make Washington her permanent home—apparently, the ladies of the Washington elite never ran out of conversation.
An hour into it, Fabienne excused herself for a break. The reception area at Willard’s provided plenty of places to hide from the crowd, and she slipped behind a row of decorative pillars and potted plants. Scanning the crowd, she spotted Brayden, caught in the male equivalent of her group. The man next to him waved animatedly while talking; Brayden nodded, said something back, and all the gentlemen laughed. A bit of warmth made it through the perpetual icy fear in Fabienne’s chest. Brayden seemed to be enjoying himself.
“Mrs. Marshall.”
Turning, she stifled a gasp as she found herself face-to-face with Robbins’ superior. His eyes slipped nonchalantly over her lilac dress, decorated with tiny silk roses. “I see you’ve insinuated yourself well into the Washington elite. You’re looking the part, too.”
“Why are you here? How did you get here?” She kept her voice low, though no one was near enough to listen.
“By invitation, how else? They had to invite a few Democrats. I expect we’ll pretend to be friends for a few weeks while we’re still flying on the wings of our victory.”
Dieu merci! At least he wasn’t here to give her the mission. She glanced at Brayden—he was still distracted.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Marshall.” The man’s smooth voice followed her thoughts. “Even if he sees us, he shouldn’t consider his coworker talking to his wife anything unusual.”
A coworker? But he was in the opposite political party.
He’s not talking about that group.
He brushed her elbow as he stepped closer. She forced herself not to step away, even as she shivered. “Rumor has it your dearest husband, among others, provided crucial intelligence that won us Five Forks, and consequentially, Petersburg. What lucky timing, too. Should he wish, a seat in the House of Representatives is practically his. One of our own in Congress.” He sighed. “Shame if something were to happen to him.”
“I understood you perfectly the first time,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Ah, so you finally learned to listen.” He smiled. “Don’t you love the irony? You work for me, and yet you help him gather evidence against me. A civil war inside a civil war. A national hero and an assassin. Quite the power couple.”
She clenched her fists. Keep it together.
“No, no, don’t worry. I’ve no intention of hurting his reputation, or him.” The smile lingered, frozen in permanent mockery. “The only one who can do so is you. As for him, I have to say I rather admire him for stepping out of line. I thought he was like everyone else. The Watchers like to pick members who are meek and obedient—less chance the secret will get out, you understand.”
She caught movement in the corner of her eye. Brayden had separated from the group and was coming toward them.
“Remember this,” the man said in a low voice, “conduct some shopping tomorrow afternoon. Plenty of fine establishments down Pennsylvania Avenue.”
Fabienne barely had the time to register the information and compose herself before Brayden reached them.
“Henson,” he greeted the man in a polite tone. “I wasn’t aware you’d be here.” He positioned himself beside Fabienne and wrapped a hand around her waist.
“I can say the same. I thought you were still in Hartford. With the war’s end, we all want our piece of cake, don’t we? Literally. You should try it. It’s delicious.”
“Thank you for your recommendation.”
“And while I was here, I couldn’t help but introduce myself to your lovely wife. I can’t believe we’d never met before.”
“Mr. Henson,” Fabienne carefully started, gaze shifting to Brayden, “is your political colleague, if I gathered correctly?”
“We could say so,” Brayden replied.
Could say so. Was it true? All this time, Brayden was a time traveler? Her gaze passed the room. Henson, Brayden—how many others here? Had he brought her into a hornet’s nest?
“What’s a party, anyway,” Henson said amicably. “We’re all here to serve one country and do the best we can for it. If you’ll allow me, I should greet the others. It’s been most delightful talking to you, Mrs. Marshall.” He bowed and swaggered away.
“I’m sorry I left you alone.” Tiny wrinkles of worry showed between Brayden’s eyebrows. “I thought it would be useful for you to mingle with the ladies.”
“It was. I’m just tired from the journey.” She tried to summon up a brave smile. “Would you mind if I retired for the evening?”
“Not at all. If you’re not feeling well, we’ll leave.”
She nodded and squeezed his hand.
The short, uneventful ride back to their hotel enabled Fabienne to sort out her thoughts—though in the light of her realization, sorting was difficult.
Brayden was a time traveler.
She hadn’t dreamed the stolen almonite vial. Brayden must’ve found it. All this time, they were working for the same side.
Brayden was a time traveler.
No, not exactly the same. Brayden must be working against Henson. A civil war inside a civil war.
Brayden was a time traveler.
How much did she really know about his work? His father had first brought him to Washington to work as an assistant to a senator, and before the war, he’d been on the staff of the Connecticut representative to Congress. No time travel anywhere.
But time travel could be well hidden.
And Brayden was a time traveler.
Back in their suite, Fabienne paused in the parlor leading to their rooms. “Was Henson the man we stole from?”
Brayden, who was undressing his topcoat, paused and turned to her. “Yes. How did you know?”
“I sensed some tenseness.” At least that wasn’t a lie. “And you said we were stealing from a colleague of yours.”
Brayden sighed, hung his hat on the stand, and came to her. “Did he say anything? Do something to you?”
“No. Maybe he was curious about me because…” She averted her eyes, focusing instead on the plush carpet. “I heard you were to be commended for your contribution to the war's end. For providing some intelligence.”
“It’s no Medal of Honor. It shouldn’t have even been made known.”
“But apparently, it has.” Still avoiding his eyes, she sought his hand instead. “Does it have to do with the documents we stole?”
“I had to do it.” His voice was unexpectedly heavy.
She looked at him. “Do what?”
“It was either Henson or the possibility of ending the war. So I had to let him go.” He swallowed hard. “I knew he’d been up to something for months. But when it came down to it, I couldn’t… one option could save an entire country, the other would give us one man. Who, in their right mind, wouldn’t pick the first?”
They had been so close. Fabienne’s mind reeled with the possibilities. They could’ve apprehended Henson before he changed the conditions of her mission. She—they—could be free of him by now.
Brayden spoke of “intelligence”, but she could imagine what it was—something to do with time travel. Information about the future, the war? That would explain why the documents were so well hidden, and the extreme need for secrecy.
And if Brayden knew all that, she could tell him her part. She trusted him.
But as she readied her breath, she stopped.
She trusted Brayden. And she trusted Henson and his executioner in their threats. They’d hurt Brayden—but it would be her fault. And even if she dared to speak, she couldn’t ask Brayden to change his choice. It wasn’t fair.
“You know what the worst thing is?” Brayden said quietly. “I can’t get rid of this feeling there was more to his plans. He has to know of the robbery by now, but he’s too nonchalant. As if the intelligence we leaked was but an unimportant side project to him. We’re falling into a false sense of security, thinking we won a one-day battle, not knowing how the enemy intends to flank us the next day.” He shook his head. “You’ll think me paranoid for saying this.”
She touched her forehead to his. “You’re not paranoid. Just concerned.” For the right reasons. And she couldn’t say a word. In the corner of the room, the executioner rose like a phantasm—in front of her, Brayden collapsed—all, if she wouldn’t keep her mouth shut.
“Your heart’s beating so fast,” Brayden remarked, his hand stroking her back.
She sighed, feeling her own breath against his cheek. “Remember the deal? You’ll keep me safe, I’ll keep you?”
He nodded.
“I will. Always.”
Luckily, he didn’t question that.