CHAPTER NINE
G il’s distracted morning kiss still warm on her cheek, Leona returned to their bedroom, teetering on the edge of the black pit of despair. Her only hope was to outrun it. She changed from her pink and gold silk dressing gown into her oldest, warmest dress of plain brown wool.
The events of the past few days had left her emotions disheveled, her thoughts whirling.
Out, she needed to get out of the house, to walk as far as she could.
But even then, returning with sore feet and cold bones, peace eluded her.
Detective Day was hiding something from her, she was sure.
He stood between the truth and Leona like a brick wall, blocking her ability to see, to act.
For my own good, indeed! She went to the woodpile, hoping to find her palliative there.
Rolling up her sleeves, she eyed the axe, meaning to outwork the grief clinging to her like a smoldering quilt. Daphne’s death, the new square in a confusing pattern. The axe took a satisfying bite of the first log. She hacked the log into kindling and moved on to the next.
She found a rhythm and chopped until the muscles of her back and shoulders screamed.
Her hands burned with blisters. Cold tears blurred her eyes, and the battleground of her heart blew to smithereens.
Who held her secrets in their hands? What further repercussions must she and her friends endure for a single lapse in judgement?
What did the coroner’s report say? She sank into the black pit, overwhelmed by despair.
She had no strength left to fight it, not an ounce.
Snow settled around her, the sudden silence bleak. Mrs. McCarthy came out of the house and wrestled the axe from her frozen fingers. Leona could not trust herself to speak.
“You’ll catch your death,” Mrs. McCarthy scolded, leading her back inside.
Leona dragged herself to bed. She felt as numb as if it was the deepest winter of the longest night in her heart again. Despite herself, her eyes closed, and she dropped immediately into a dream.
Dawn light trickles down through the thick stands of trees surrounding her, reaching her in her sleepless bower.
Time to move. The light chases away the wild fear of the night, and determination sets her in motion.
She has papers, information detailing the Confederate Army’s movements that must reach Union lines.
Lives will be lost if she doesn’t make it.
She rises, ears straining to listen beyond the notes of songbirds greeting the morning.
She needs to keep moving north and west. There are 10 miles between here and the safety of the Union camp.
Her belly is empty. The secesh have less food than they do.
It’s damned hot, and her thirst has yet to reach unbearable proportions, but she knows it will.
She has her gun, at least, and ammunition.
A sharp knife tucked in its sheath at her back.
Perhaps she’ll hunt and bring a wild turkey into camp—wouldn’t that be something?
Supper and intelligence. Cheered at the thought, she loads the Springfield and steps away from her hiding place.
She’d told Tom and his fellow Confederates a lie about taking the gun off a dead Yank.
She pushed her way through the overgrown morass of bushes and vines.
A blood-curdling scream echoes through the woods and she turns, the hair on her neck and arms rising and panic turning her blood to water. The rebel yell.
“I’m gonna find you, Leo! I’m gonna kill you, too!”
They know.
She runs.
The slap of branches bloodying her cheeks made Leona sit up with a gasp.
Even as she realized she’d been asleep in her bed at the house on Cranberry Street, the determination to survive still churned in her guts.
She couldn’t let Benedict Van Wyn blame her, especially when he himself might be the guilty one.
She didn’t steal from Daphne. She’d save herself, as she had in the dense woods, somehow.
The secesh Tom Perley, who once called her friend, had hunted her through the Wilderness.
The sharpness of the memory set her heart pounding and stomach rolling.
When she tried to get out of bed, her body rebelled, muscles tight with overuse. Forcing them into motion, she dressed for the second time that day. The window revealed late afternoon, the snow falling thick now, tapping against the glass. The familiar horse and carriage stood below in the street.
Her husband’s voice reached her on the landing. Love suffused her. She had to talk to him about what she’d done to get ahead of Detective Day and about the man in the yard, who’d also appeared on the street, perhaps following her. Her husband’s attention was the only salve for her wounded soul.
The voices originated in the kitchen. She opened the door a crack. Mrs. McCarthy stood in front of Gil, hands clasped before her, Mr. McCarthy standing by the door. Snow flecked both men, but her husband had taken off his heavy coat. Their expressions were solemn and worried.
Down to earth she fell, as if made of lead. Whatever was wrong? What’d happened?
She leaned on the door, and the hinges creaked. Three faces turned toward her. There was nothing for it but to step in. So, she did, saying, “Hello, Mr. Gladney!” in as cheery a voice as she could manage. Mrs. McCarthy smiled as her husband mumbled, m’um .
Mrs. McCarthy approached and put an arm around her. “Oh, my dear.”
Leona felt as if she had been ill or slept overlong, perhaps decades, to earn this attention. The gentle tone of voice; as if surprised to see her but didn’t wish to startle her.
“Are you ready for your tea?”
“I’m—hungry?” Her stomach rumbled, and her head felt light. “Very hungry, Mrs. McCarthy. And missed luncheon, I think.”
Gil’s expression was unreadable. The tension in the room pressed against her skin as he assessed her. Mr. McCarthy cut his eyes to the door, as if he yearned to escape. Was she awake or asleep? She pinched her inner elbow for reassurance.
“Leona.” Gil poured a steaming cup of tea. “There’s whiskey in it. Sit.”
“What’s happened?” she implored him, dropping into the rocking chair by the wood stove. He put the warm teacup in her hand.
Oh, God, had Detective Day decided to speak to Gil after all?
“Are you quite all right?” He turned to the two people by the door. “You can go now. Thank you, Mrs. McCarthy.”
When the door closed behind them, he kneeled in front of her. Her hand shook so hard he took the cup and saucer away from her with a grimace.
She wanted tea, the comfort of the familiar. “Has something happened?”
“No, darling.” His hand curled around her own. “Mrs. McCarthy said you were not yourself today.”
“I needed to be busy, Gil. With Daphne gone and I—I—”
“But you don’t need to chop the wood, darling. This isn’t your grandfather’s farm. You’re a grown woman. My wife. What if someone saw you?”
Gentility. Class. A woman of her class did not chop wood. If her Stanbury-Smith grandmother had her way—exert herself or, heaven forbid, think for oneself. Here in Brooklyn, where she was no longer a rebellious youngster, she’d imagined herself free.
“Is that all you’re worried about?” She pulled her hand away. A shiver passed through her. A tickle grew in her nose, and her eyes watered. “Do you have a—?”
He handed her his handkerchief, cocked his head, not smiling. She sneezed.
“There, you see, you might have caught a cold, which could turn into pneumonia. I’m worried about you, your mood today—Mrs. McCarthy is concerned and spoke to me about it.”
She wiped at her nose. “My mood?”
“It seems you had a real mania to wear yourself out.”
She stared at him. “Mania.” A word with a rusted metal edge around it.
Another sneeze ripped through her. Mania sounded like the reason they sent her to the Mayfield Academy.
In her journals, she called it the crime of perspiration.
They called it a mania for playing stickball in the streets with urchins and other inappropriate friendships.
And shouting. Excitement. Her Stanbury-Smith aunts had hoped the academy would train her to be still.
Instead, she’d gone off to war. Now she was only at war with herself.
“You’ve given yourself a chill and frightened Mrs. McCarthy.”
“Gil, the last few weeks have been very hard for me.”
He took her hand again and kissed a knuckle, his eyes solemn.
“You’ve been too busy for our long walks around Brooklyn,” she went on, desperate for him to understand. If she could make herself understand what energy had gripped her earlier in the day. Perhaps mania was the right word, after all.
He kissed another knuckle. “And I promised you a walking tour of Scotland for our honeymoon and will make good on it one day soon. When we are in a better financial situation.”
She’d have lived in a teepee with the man and hunted for their supper, but she didn’t say it. His dreams and ambitions were too important to him.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked.
Her demons remained unappeased. “Gil, why haven’t the police found Henry yet? What will happen to the house, the land?”
His expression shuttered closed, and he turned away.
“I don’t know why they haven’t found him.
He’s smarter than I first gave him credit for.
He’s likely on his way to California by now.
” Gil stood, still holding her hand. “You’re not to worry about any of it.
I’ll make it right.” He kissed the top of her head and pulled her to her feet.
“Let’s put our minds to Christmas, my darling, to preparing the house for your grandfather’s visit.
To friends and family, decorating the tree, and caroling urchins.
By the New Year, everything will have changed for the better.
The good news is, I have a potential buyer for the lyceum. I’ll make it happen.”