The Spymistress (13 page)

Suddenly Lizzie remembered Mr. Ely’s words. “Is that an odd-numbered page?”

John glanced to the upper right corner and held the book out to her. “Page fifteen, as it happens.”

“He said he found the book’s underlying message
odd
.” Lizzie bounded out of her chair, took the book from her brother, and traced the printed lines slowly with a fingertip. “He has indented particular letters by pressing upon them with a pin, or perhaps a sliver of wood.” Quickly she ran a hand over page seventeen, and then nineteen, and twenty-one—each exhibited an invisible pattern of bumps and indentations.

“John,” she said breathlessly, opening the book to page one, “get pen and paper.”

Quickly he seated himself at their father’s desk, procured pen and ink and paper, and as Lizzie ran her finger over the lines and called out the indented letters, he wrote them down. Before long, they realized that they were compiling a list of names, ranks, and regiments.

Congressman Ely had concealed a roster of all the Union prisoners at the Liggon complex within the book. But that was not all. After the names—forty officers and nine hundred enlisted men—followed a letter to President Abraham Lincoln briefly describing the harsh conditions within the prison and imploring him to do all he could to seek the men’s release.

“I’ll write it over in a better hand,” John vowed, “and send it off to Washington City without delay.”

“Peter can take the letter in the wagon past the pickets to the farm and give it to Mr. and Mrs. Whitehall,” said Mother. “Our kind neighbors will see it safely on its way.” She turned to Lizzie. “That was very dangerous, daughter. If you had been caught, Mr. Ely would have been severely punished, I’m sure. As for you, at the very least, you would have been banned from visiting the prison.”

“Yes, Mother,” said Lizzie. “Of course you’re right.”

“Mind you, I’m not asking you to stop.” Mother managed a small, anxious smile. “But I will ask you to be as careful as you can.”

Soberly, Lizzie nodded. They all knew there would be more messages, and they could not refuse to deliver them.

Lizzie, her mother, and Eliza could not visit the prison every day, but they went as often as they could. Despite their sweet words and delicious gifts, Lieutenant Todd seemed to grow more suspicious day by day. He insisted upon inspecting the baskets they carried to and from the prison, often helping himself to the delicacies they carried, and he restricted the duration of their visits arbitrarily and without warning. As the days passed, Lizzie smuggled out several other coded notes from Congressman Ely, transcribed the letters, and sped them along, but although the lieutenant flipped through the books, he never detected their hidden messages.

But Lieutenant Todd watched them carefully, and he was not alone. The skinny fellow with the tobacco-stained beard often followed them to and from the prison, hanging back a block and strolling on the opposite side of the street. Mary complained that the ladies of the Church Hill sewing circle often called upon her to explain her mother- and sister-in-law’s strange behavior, which Mary could not do, because she did not understand their compulsion to nurse Yankees either. And then, one morning, Lizzie learned from an acerbic reporter for the
Examiner
that their infamy had spread beyond their own neighborhood:

SOUTHERN WOMEN WITH NORTHERN SYMPATHIES

Two ladies, mother and daughter, living on Church Hill, have lately attracted public notice by their assiduous attentions to the Yankee prisoners confined in this city. Whilst every true woman in this community has been busy making articles of comfort or necessity for our troops, or administering to the wants of the many hundreds of sick, who, far from their homes, which they left to defend our soil, are fit subjects for our sympathy, these two women have been expending their opulent means in aiding and giving comfort to the miscreants who have invaded our sacred soil, bent on rapine and murder, the desolation of our homes and sacred places, and the ruin and dishonour of our families.

Out upon all pretexts of humanity! The largest human charity can find ample scope in kindness and attention to our own poor fellows who have been stricken down while battling for our country and our rights. The Yankee wounded have been put under charge of competent surgeons and provided with good nurses. This is more than they deserve and have any right to expect, and the course of these two females, in providing them with delicacies, buying them books, stationery and papers, cannot but be regarded as an evidence of sympathy amounting to an endorsation of the cause and conduct of these Northern Vandals.

“At least they didn’t mention us by name,” Lizzie remarked as she set the paper aside. Seated beside her on the back piazza, Mother made no reply but only gazed out upon the gardens, silent and pale.

“They didn’t need to,” said John, visibly shaken. He rose and began to pace along the piazza.

“Eliza escaped their notice entirely,” Lizzie added.

John was not pacified by her attempt to point out the bright side. “Sister, you know I would never find fault with anything your conscience compels you to do, but you must be more discreet.”

“I know.” Lizzie knotted her fingers together in her lap. “I know.” She inhaled deeply. “Please don’t ask me to stop helping the Union prisoners, because I won’t. I can’t.”

John strangled out a laugh. “I know you too well to even suggest it.”

“Of course we won’t abandon our sacred duty,” said Mother. “I dislike being scolded in the newspaper, but I won’t let it frighten me into cowering at home when those poor, suffering men need us so desperately. What would Aunt Letitia have done in our place?”

Letitia Smith—the sister of Hilary Baker, Mother’s father—was revered in family lore as a true heroine of the Revolutionary War, having devoted herself to the welfare of prisoners held by the British when they occupied New York.

“She would be working right alongside us,” said Lizzie stoutly. “Or more likely, she would be leading the way.”

“Your work is noble, as was hers,” said John. “But it is dangerous, and it puts this entire household in peril.”

Lizzie nodded, acknowledging the truth of his words, but she could not apologize, nor could she promise to visit the prisoners less frequently.

Two days later, as the family was finishing supper, John reached for Mary’s hand, held her gaze for a moment, and waited for her to smile before clearing his throat and saying, “Mary and I have news.”

Fond gestures between the two were so rare that Lizzie, startled, set down her fork with a clatter. “News?” she echoed weakly.

“Oh, my gracious,” said Mother. “Mary, my dear, are you expecting a child?”

Mary’s eyebrows rose. “No,” she said so emphatically that Lizzie understood that a third child was extremely unlikely, and perhaps a practical impossibility. “John, you explain.”

“I’ve taken a house west of the Capitol,” said John, his smile fixed, his gaze begging for Mother and Lizzie to understand. “It’s on Canal Street between Second and Third.”

“What?” Lizzie exclaimed, as Mother gasped. “John, you and the girls, you’re...leaving?”

“We thought it was time we had a home of our own.”

“Long past time,” Mary chimed in.

“But, John,” Mother said, “to go to such expense and trouble, when we have so many rooms—”

“How were you even able to find a place?” asked Lizzie, puzzled and hurt. “Everyone says there aren’t any homes to be had.”

John’s smile turned into a grimace. “There aren’t any
reasonably priced
homes to be had.”

“An important distinction to be sure,” said Lizzie tightly. She couldn’t look at Mary. She was to blame for this disruption of the household. Lizzie’s heart constricted as she imagined waving good-bye to her dear little nieces as a carriage took them away, their empty chairs at the breakfast table, her own empty arms.

“There’s a nice garden for the girls to play in,” John said, “and it’s a far more convenient walk to the hardware store.”

“We have a lovely garden here,” said Lizzie, “and your walk is not so bad now.”

“It’s done, so there’s no use trying to talk us out of it,” said Mary cheerfully. “The papers are signed, and we can move in on Thursday.”

“Why did you not say anything earlier,” said Mother, stricken, “so that we could have tried to dissuade you before it was too late?”

When John made no reply, Lizzie realized that was precisely why he had not mentioned it earlier.

Though close to tears, she kept her composure as best she could, unwilling to spoil one of her last precious evenings with Annie and little Eliza. It was only later, after she had tucked them in and kissed them good night, that she caught John alone. “Why?” she choked out, trying not to weep.

He offered a wan smile. “I would have thought you’d be glad to be rid of my wife’s company.”

“That’s not funny, and it’s not fair.” Her voice broke, and she reached out and clutched his arm beseechingly. “You know how much I adore those little girls. They’re the daughters I’ll never have. This is the only home they’ve ever known. How can you take them away?”

“Lizzie, I must.” He held her by the shoulders, and she recognized the pain in his eyes. “I admire what you’re doing for the prisoners, but you have only yourself to think about. You chose to put yourself in danger, but you can’t make that choice on behalf of my daughters.”

“I never meant to.”

“I know that, but it’s happened, and now it falls to me to protect the girls from the consequences.” John released her, sighed, and raked a hand through his hair. “I also want to protect you and Mother. You think Mary is a simple, foolish girl, but she’s shrewd and observant, and despite my warnings, she gossips. You and Mother will be safer if she doesn’t have any new stories to share about your...activities.”

Lizzie wanted to protest that she could avert Mary’s suspicions and that the safest place for her nieces was their home on Church Hill, but a seed of doubt had been planted in the back of her mind, and it quickly took root. What if, God forbid, something should happen to the girls because of her? Suddenly she remembered the torchlight parade after fighting had broken out in Baltimore; she remembered the red-faced man who had stopped to shake his fist at her and shout, “That fine house of yours can burn!”

Her protests deserted her. Heartsick and afraid, she nodded, clung to her brother, and wept.

Chapter Seven

AUGUST-SEPTEMBER

M
ary, cheerful and bustling, had her little family ready to move out of the Church Hill mansion within three days. Numbly, Lizzie offered to help her pack, but her heart was not in the work, and Mary often chided her for mixing up the girls’ clothes or not wrapping delicate items carefully enough before tucking them into boxes. When Mother suggested that Lizzie help by playing with her nieces instead, she was all too grateful to accept. Annie was downcast but did not complain or lament, and little Eliza seemed to think that she and her Mama and Papa were going away for only a little while—an afternoon, perhaps, or a day. Lizzie’s throat constricted whenever a chance arose to correct Eliza’s innocent misunderstanding. She finally gave up and decided to leave it to John and Mary to explain. Although Lizzie understood her brother’s good intentions, she was not convinced that the children would be safer away from Church Hill.

“Perhaps this move will be good for John and Mary,” Mother said to Lizzie when they were alone. “Perhaps when she is no longer standing in your shadow, Mary will blossom as a wife.”

Lizzie was so astonished she laughed. “I, a bookish spinster of almost forty-three, cast a shadow over Mary Carter West Van Lew of the prosperous Virginia Carters, married to a successful businessman and devoted mother of two beautiful daughters?”

Mother regarded her curiously, her brow slightly furrowed. “Yes, Lizzie, you. John defers to you, and you know it.”

“He defers to you too, because he knows we offer him sensible advice.”

“Perhaps Mary wishes he would seek her counsel instead. Perhaps when we aren’t around, he will.”

Lizzie supposed Mother made a fair point, but Mary’s insecurity and jealousy seemed to her an irrational impetus to take up residence elsewhere.

It was Mother’s idea for Hannah to accompany them. “It will be easier for the girls to settle into an unfamiliar place if they have their beloved nurse there,” she explained, first to Lizzie, and then to Hannah, who thought it over for a moment before thanking them for offering her the choice.

“Of course you have a choice,” said Lizzie, surprised. “We would never send you off somewhere you didn’t want to go.”

Hannah regarded her skeptically. “Miss Lizzie, you forget I’m a slave.”

“You apparently forget that’s only because a legal technicality renders us powerless to free you. You know the restrictions imposed upon Mother by my father’s will.”

“That’s all fine and good,” Hannah said, letting her exasperation show, “but in the end it’s the same. I’m a slave, and if I go with Miss Mary, she’ll treat me like a slave.”

“Yes,” said Mother. “She probably will, more so than she does here. I truly regret that.”

“I’ll miss my sons too.”

“Peter and William can visit you,” Lizzie quickly promised, “and you’re welcome here whenever you like.”

“Whenever Miss Mary let me go, you mean, and that ain’t likely to be often.” Hannah turned a level look on both of them in turn. “If she ever raise a hand to me, I am done there, and you’ll bring me home.”

“Of course,” Mother assured her. “John would not permit her to strike you, but if she does, you need not stay an hour longer.”

Hannah promised to think it over, and before long her affection for the girls and her concern for their well-being won out. Only after she agreed did they propose the plan to John and Mary. John thought it was an excellent idea, but Mary resisted. “One mammy is the same as any other,” she said. “We could easily find someone younger, more biddable. I don’t care for the way Hannah scowls at me.”