Chapter Twenty
General Wellington sat up against the headboard, taking small bites of ham and scrambled eggs.
He chewed slowly, trying to pass the time by gathering his thoughts.
One month of confinement. One month of stupid exercises that seemed to do him no good.
One month since he sent word to his wife, only to receive no reply.
“I don’t know why the missus won’t write,” Mammy had said in her soft, gentle voice early that morning. “Guess she’s just busy with those young’uns. Yuh know how they be, suh.”
General stabbed his fork into his ham. Something wasn’t sitting right with him—even Mammy’s innocent storytelling. She knew something, and she wasn’t telling him. Why else wasn’t his devoted wife coming home? Had she deserted him? Had she died in an accident?
Perhaps an accident would do. Josephine hadn’t been any use to him for the past seven years.
Maybe this was a sign it was time to take another wife, one that was young enough to bear children and mature enough to understand her duties.
That frightened little brat had been a child, but he had no problem training her up.
He chuckled to himself. Fragile little thing.
In order to move on to his next bride, he’d have to confirm her death. Maybe even make it happen himself if she were still alive. That was why he took matters into his own hands by hiring the best detective he could find, Detective Albert Dalton.
General wasn’t a fool anymore. Josephine had been gone too long. The little wench up and left him. He doubted she had cousins in Wilmington. Why? Because he would have known. He knew everything about his wife, and she could never hide from him. The girl had nobody, so who was she fooling?
“Excuse me, General,” Mammy said, cracking open the door. “Detective Dalton is here to see you.”
General wiped his lips with a napkin. “Bring him in.”
The lanky man dressed in a gray striped suit and top hat entered, carrying his black leather case at his side. He removed his hat and shook General’s hand.
“It’s good to see you, Detective Dalton,” General said with a cunning smile.
As he studied the man, his smile faded. He squinted.
This detective looked no more than thirty.
Even beneath his stubble beard, he couldn’t be fooling anyone.
General’s money better be worth it, or God help the staff in this house once he took matters into his own hands.
“And you, too, General Wellington.” Detective Dalton seated himself at the desk in the corner, placing his briefcase on top.
He crossed one leg over the other, so proper-like.
If he had been a soldier, General would’ve made a man out of him one way or another.
“I confess I have been reading up on you. It has been an honor to work for you.”
Yeah, yeah. General wanted to roll his eyes. Detective Dalton was like any other money-hungry man, kissing up to him. “I heard you were the best, now I must be the judge of that.”
Detective Dalton chuckled softly, his cheeks reddening. “You put me in a big position, but I will try my best not to fail you. After all, your family seems to be very important. Two sons from West Point. You must have been proud.”
General wanted to burst into laughter. A proud father he was, two sons who were nothing but great disappointments to the Wellington reputation General worked so hard to create.
Jared and Loyd were both ideal heirs—excellent swordsmen and riflemen with yearning for war pumping through their veins.
General didn’t baby the sons like his late wife Martha did, and that was why he sent them to West Point when they both turned thirteen.
He couldn’t have been any prouder when they came out on top of their class.
He was determined for them to get high rankings as soon as they joined the Confederate Army, and their accomplishments would redeem the family line, tarnished by General’s cowardly father. Instead they perished alongside two of Josephine’s pathetic brothers in the Battle of Gettysburg.
General cursed his bloodline, for his sons had taken after their grandfather, too frail for the world. He was a general—one of the best—who had two sorry excuses for sons. What a great shame they brought!
“My condolences, General Wellington,” he heard for two long years following the deaths. “Your family will be in our prayers. Your sons were heroes, and we are grateful for their service.”
Heroes? General could spit. It was a title they hadn’t earned, only fought in one battle.
A war hero had a sharp mind for combat and invisible strength and courage.
He wanted to wring Loyd and Jared’s necks for embarrassing him.
That’s why General never mourned. He never mourned for anything or anyone. Even when Martha died.
“Since you remarried, have you had any other children?” Detective Dalton asked, pulling out a notebook.
General swallowed back a growl. His muscles tensed as his hands balled into a fist. The day he saw Josephine walking towards him in white, a smile had formed on his face.
She was young and fresh with the body that could bear him ten sons.
Martha was useless, and he was glad to be rid of her.
General had struck a deal with Stephen Callahan: he would help restore Callahan’s plantation with his inheritance of gold, but in return, Callahan’s young daughter would be required to restore the Wellingtons’ family line.
The perfect exchange. However, he had been deceived.
“None,” General answered.
Detective Dalton’s brows furrowed in concentration. “How many years were you two married?”
General gritted his teeth. How many questions was this man going to ask? “Where is this going? Aren’t you supposed to find my wife?”
Detective Dalton leaned forward. “I understand your frustration, but I must build a persona for Mrs. Wellington so I can have a better picture at finding her. Now, did the former Mrs. Wellington ever disappear like this?”
Never. Martha was an obedient wife, to an extent. After Jared and Loyd’s death, Martha turned like General’s father—depressed and nervous. Martha was confined to bed and prescribed laudanum. She drank that bottle like it was water.
Heirless after his sons’ deaths and married to a pathetic wife, General had to get rid of Martha.
One of the free slaves, Myra of fourteen years of age, couldn’t read.
General gave her a bottle of cyanide, and she never knew the difference.
The sheriff strung the child up without a second thought, ignoring her cries and pleas of innocence.
“None at all. She was ill, confined to her bed.”
Detective Dalton wrote in his notebook. “And Mrs. Josephine Wellington? Has she run off before?”
General leaned his neck to the side until he heard a satisfying pop then did the same to his knuckles. It took a whole year before Josephine got pregnant, and the reason why it took so long was because she was devoted more to helping impoverished Negros than to her own husband.
“Can we please move on to April tenth? What are you, a nosy journalist?” General hissed through his front teeth.
Detective Dalton’s lips flattened. “Very well. But I’d still like to know you and Mrs. Wellington’s domestic situation. Was she happy?”
“Happy?” General spat, giving a daggered glare. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I mean, was she content here? Sometimes women just want time alone, to get away.”
Fury boiled, fuming out General’s nostril, hot like fire.
This was none of Detective Dalton’s business.
Josephine was mad, mad enough that she blamed three failed pregnancies on him.
She said it was because he beat her, but that made General beat her more.
She was too frail to endure the pain from the blows of his fists and too stupid to learn from her mistakes.
He wouldn’t be surprised if she ran off, embarrassing him further.
“Happy as can be.” One more stupid question, and General might break this man’s neck, regardless if he could move his legs or not.
“I’m trying to get a sense of her traveling fare. Wilmington is a long and expensive trip. Did she have any assets of her own?”
General’s mind thought back to one of his most favorite days, the day he put Josephine in her place.
Her face was flushed with anger, cheeks burning red and eyes wide with anger, her features taut with resentment.
She charged at him, fists flying, pounding against his chest the moment she learned he had sold her beloved plantation home.
Since she didn’t give him an heir like Stephen Callahan promised, General had sold off her land, the land he promised to save in exchange for an heir.
Stephen Callahan had been healthy, but the heart attack was sudden—perhaps too sudden. Maybe the grief overtook Stephen like it had General’s own father, or possibly someone tampered with his brandy. Either way, it was a miracle for the timing.
“None. I sold her plantation years ago.”
Detective Dalton took a moment to write in his notebook. “And you say she went to see cousins in Wilmington?”
“Distant,” General corrected. “There’s no record of any relatives there. Josephine has no one. Only an elderly aunt who is old and out of her mind.”
Detective Dalton continued to write. “Did your wife take a cab or a carriage from here?”
“It would have to be a cab. We have only used our own drivers, but according to the staff, they were off duty.”
Detective Dalton continued to write until he closed his briefcase along with his writings. He stood from the desk. “That would be all.”
General’s brows raised. “That’s it? All you got was enough information to write a book.”
“I told you, I needed to know as much information as I could about your wife in order to find her,” Detective Dalton explained, his notebook secured under his arm. “We don’t have much to go on, given that you claim she doesn’t have relatives in Wilmington.”
Hot breath exhaled out of General’s mouth as he groaned. He pointed straight in the man’s face. “You better come back with something good. Or else you won’t see the light of day.”
Detective Dalton’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He picked up his hat and took a bow, not bothering to try for a handshake. “Good day, General Wellington.”
General watched as the man left the room. General was one step closer. One step to teaching Josephine a new lesson. She had broken too many rules, and she wouldn’t get away with it. Perhaps this would be a warm-up until he got to the bottom of the second mystery—why he was in this bed.