Songs of the Shenandoah (40 page)

“Go ahead and have a seat, Mr. Field. I do apologize for keeping you as I know how busy you are.”

She circled around and scavenged through Andrew's desk for a piece of paper and a pen to take notes. Surely Cyrus would want to defend himself against the scathing report, and she would do her best to hear and tell his side of the story.

Clare dipped the pen in the inkwell, put the tip to the paper, and waited for him to speak. But there was only an awkward silence. “Don't you have something to discuss with me?”

“About?”

“The report.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “Oh that! Don't trouble yourself about that ludicrous report one dollop. There is much truth to it, I must admit, as there was many ways we can improve our processes, but then you take what's true, get some tired old politicians and greedy bankers involved, and then they feel the need to seek mortal punishment. All this will pass, my dear Clare.” He looked down at the box in his lap, startled as if he had forgotten it. “And now look at me ramble. No, this is why I am here, and I can assure you for no other reason.” He held it out to Clare.

She smiled. For a relentless, hard-pressed, wild-eyed dreamer, he was certainly a kind and sweet man. “Now, Mr. Field, you know we can't accept any gifts.” She thought of the destruction below and paused. “Even in our present condition, it would be most improper, and this is not our first discussion on the matter.”

Cyrus cleared his throat and lifted his shoulders. “Now you listen, Mrs. Royce. I have tried to express my utmost gratitude and respect for you and your husband and this newspaper for many years now. We are indebted to your steadfastness in understanding the full vision of my cable. And now I arrived today, to find the
Daily
. . . in ruins . . . and I am planting my feet here and will not retreat until you at least open what I have brought for you. A very small token of my appreciation.”

Clare laid the pen down on the desk. Then she reached across and drew the gift toward her. “You are most fortunate, Mr. Field, to discover me in this time of fragility, with the moats of my castle dried up and the knights in deep slumber. I am simply much too exhausted to protest.”

She unfastened the blue bow carefully so as to preserve it to be used again, then she peeled back the paper. It revealed a jewelry box made of fine polished wood.

“It's teak.” He beamed at her with childlike delight. “Fashioned with the finest craftsmanship, of course. I had it made especially for you.”

“Delightful.” Clare rubbed her hands on top of the smooth finish, and her fingertips glided over the flawless surface. “It's just lovely.”

“Go ahead and lift the top, dear Clare.”

She raised the lid and the inside was lined with padded purple velvet embroidered with their name “Royce” in delicate, swooping lettering. Then music began to play as the cylinder began to turn.

“Do you recognize it?”

Clare nodded with joy.

“‘The Faithful Shall Hear His Voice.' It's my favorite hymn.”

It was an emotional day. An emotional week, for that matter. And something about the song playing caused her to weep.

“Don't you like it, Clare?” He frowned.

“No, no. I mean yes. I love it. We will cherish it forever. You have lifted my spirits so. This makes me so happy.”

Clare circled from behind the desk and embraced him.

He stepped back and put on his jacket. “And that smile, dear Clare, has made me happy.” Cyrus started to turn but glanced around the room. “What about all of this? The paper? Will you continue?”

Clare lifted the music box off of the desk and lifted it to her ear. The song made her smile. “Yes, Mr. Cyrus. I believe today, we have heard His voice.”

Chapter 47

The Spy

They rode side by side in silence for many miles, although the pain was screaming inside Davin's troubled heart. His fists clenched on the reins and the horse trotted its way down the country roads leading them to Taylorsville.

He was drifting, lost in his own dark imagination, betrayal pecking at him like vultures on his innards. How could he have been so daft? Now as he thought back, there were so many signs of Muriel's deception that seemed so obvious to him now.

It made sense why Muriel had chosen the Royces as the target of her grand beguilement. Andrew and Clare felt blessed by Muriel's offer to help at the
Daily
, but unwittingly they were providing her with access to highly placed officials and timely information, the kind that would be of great value to the Confederates.

And her so-called friendship with Caitlin and Cassie? Undoubtedly it was for the opportunity to get inside the Underground Railroad and to learn their networks and ways. Even as they were benefitting from the assistance of Anika and Pieter, Muriel must have been plotting of how she would betray their whereabouts to her Southern allies.

How brilliant it was of her to earn a position as a nurse with the Sanitary Commission! There she would be able to report on the size of the army, its movement, and whatever sensitive details she could pry from dying and injured officers under her care.

How could he have missed all of this? How she was able to read the signal flags in the rebel balloon, and how she was so concerned about his safety at his first fight at Chancellorsville. She must have known Davin's battalion was about to be ambushed by General Stonewall Jackson.

But then why
did
she warn Davin?

And how could he discount all she had risked to bring his brother back to Taylorsville?

He glanced over to Muriel, who was brooding beside him and seeming to be sunk in her own pools of sadness.

But was this display of emotion just another part of her ruse? Was this all part of her next plan, and would he once again be the fly, helplessly flapping it wings while imprisoned in her web of lies?

How could he love someone he could never again trust?

Summer was at its peak across the Shenandoah Valley, and on either side of the road, many of the farms were already making early preparations for harvest. Some farms were small and others expansive with hundreds of laborers in fields bursting with their impressive yield. As they passed by, their wagon was largely ignored, nothing more than an occasional, unassuming stare from a field worker or a wagon coming the other way.

There was a gentle peace in the pastoral elegance around him, which served in dire contrast with the anguish and resentment he was experiencing.

Finally Muriel turned to Davin. “I don't want to lie to you ever again. Ask me anything and you'll get the truth. I promise.”

He was so disgusted he wanted her to be gone. But there were questions remaining. “The way you speak now?”

“I was raised in the South. My family is from Ireland originally, but I learned the brogue to disguise my accent.”

“But that telegram you received, or should I say, you plucked from my hand when I was at my sister's house. You said it was from your aunt in Canada.”

Muriel nodded. “That was one way my contact was able to communicate with me. And only when there was something urgent, which is why I reacted so brusquely. I didn't have an aunt in Canada. My uncle here in America was unmarried.”

“And all of this, about your parents dying on a ship?”

“That was all true.”

“And your uncle is a slave catcher?”

“He was a slave catcher. One of the most notorious, people would say. He was not a good man. I understand this now. But I knew him as the only person who treated me with kindness.” She looked away.

“Now you are going to turn in Jacob to your uncle? Collect your reward?”

“My uncle is dead.”

Davin was disappointed to hear this. Not because he felt compassion for Muriel, but he didn't want to express pity for her in any way. “When?”

“Last year. He was making a run up north. Very dangerous work with the war going on. He was one of the few still making runs. He was taking three slaves he had captured, and one of them managed to get free. My uncle was found hanging from a tree with his throat slashed.”

How could he believe any of what she was saying? But when he looked at her now, she was different. There was gentleness in her face with her eyes reddened with tears. It was as if the burden of her deceit was lifted and she was pleading for a chance to begin anew. A request he was desperate to grant.

“Why did you tell me all of this? Why now?”

Muriel met his gaze and tried to smile through her melancholy. She spoke in a subdued voice. “Davin. Don't you know by now?”

He wanted to draw Muriel into his arms and tell her how much he loved her as well. How she was the only woman who could challenge him deeply. To be stronger, to be a man of true depth and character. That he had never met a more fascinating, brilliant, talented, and—yes—attractive lady.

He wished none of this had ever happened, that all she had said wasn't true.

But it was true. She had betrayed him and his family.

With his mind tormented, his emotions piercing his sensibility, it was all he could do to shift his attention back to his initial mission. To bring Seamus back home safely to Ashlyn. And for this, he still needed Muriel.

“Why don't you look in on my brother?” He kept his gaze before him on the road.

“But we are here.”

“What?”

“This is Taylorsville.”

“Would you see . . . ?” He didn't want to even utter the words. If they had come this far only to lose Seamus, it would destroy Davin. Especially now that his hopes for a life with Muriel were certainly dashed.

“Yes.” Muriel nodded. “Of course.” She stepped over the bench, crawled through the wagon's opening, and disappeared in the back.

Several minutes passed and he heard nothing. He shouted back, “Well?”

There was no response from inside.

“Muriel!” He was angry at her. Angry at his life.

“Your brother is . . .” Muriel poked her head out. “He is growing weak. We are almost out of time.”

Davin slapped hard on the reins and the horse jumped. As hard as it had been driven these past couple of days, he was grateful the mare didn't just lie down. He raced onward until he came up to an elderly couple walking in the road. He stopped only long enough to ask for directions to Seamus's farm. Then they were off again, the wheels of the wagon spitting up pebbles and dust.

Please, Lord. Get my brother there alive. Even if it's his last dying breath.

He was willing to try anything, even if it required leaning on Seamus's faith. Davin didn't feel worthy of a respite from God, but his brother had earned it.

It was more of a command than a prayer because Davin was consumed with anger and frustration.

Until he came to a sign at the front of a gatepost that read, “Whittington Farms.” Suddenly all of his anxiety was replaced with gratitude, and overwhelmed by it, he began to cry.

Thank You.

But was this premature? Was he too late? Davin guided his spent horse to turn down the pathway leading to a country house, and he resumed his prayers. This time with humility and a softness to his pleas.

He looked back with the renewed discomfort he had experienced off and on for the past couple of days. There. He saw it, indisputable now for the first time. The shadow of a rider.

They had been followed.

Chapter 48

The Homecoming

Ashlyn laid down the handles of her wheelbarrow and approached the wagon with apprehension.

Davin waved, already wanting to cushion the emotional hardship she was about to face. “It's just me. Seamus's brother.” He climbed down from his seat and his cramped legs buckled when his boots reached the soil, and he nearly lost his balance. It had been many hours since they last stopped, and it had been days since he slept much at all. The rattle of the road still vibrated through his numb joints, and he had to fight back sudden dizziness.