“Mari.” Her tone, gently insistent, bade Marietta look at her again. When she did, she had a feeling Barbara saw everything with her solemn, accepting gaze. All her guilt, all her sin, all her fear. “You have prayed for forgiveness from your sins. Have you prayed for freedom from their bonds?”
“Freedom?” It wasn’t a word one could toss around lightly these days. “How am I to pray for freedom when I have slaves under my roof? Would that not make me the biggest hypocrite in the state?”
Barbara chuckled and squeezed her hand. “Not by far. As wretched as I believe physical slavery is, men and women of greater faith than mine are on the opposite side of this war.” She drew in a deep breath, her expression as conflicted as Marietta had ever seen it. “Stephen and I spent much time trying to reconcile the differing views with a similar faith. And then at last we realized we didn’t have to, because God so very rarely tells us what society should do—rather, He tells us how we, as believers, should behave in whatever society to which we belong.”
Their eyes met again, and again Barbara’s smile shone forth. “Never once in the Bible does God speak either for or against physical slavery. But spiritual slavery—that is a topic He addresses time and again. Over and over Paul pleads with the early church to embrace the freedom of the soul that Christ offers. You must do that, Mari. You must cling, not just to cleansing, but to freedom.”
Stephen had said something similar once. Not just salvation, but redemption. Redemption again—God had not just taken her sins from her, He had purchased her. And she could not be both God’s and Dev’s, not when their wills were in opposition.
The carriage rocked to a halt, and she looked out again to see the once-familiar mansion previously called Maryland Square. Her breath stuck in her chest. This was where she had met Lucien, at a ball in the spring of 1860, before the Steuarts’ property had been seized because of their Confederate sympathies. Now, rather than rolling acres of gardens, long barrack-like buildings flanked it, row upon row of yellow walls and black roofs. A wooden sign read Jarvis US General Hospital.
There would be no music spilling from the windows, no gaiety within the halls. Marietta pulled her cloak tight and reclaimed her hand from Barbara’s so she could grip her reticule. So much had changed in their world in the last five years. It was only fitting that this, too, should be so different.
“Do you still get ill at the sight of blood?”
Marietta’s head snapped back toward her companion, and she found her grinning. “Stephen mentioned that?”
“It came up when we first met. That is why I never asked you to join me.”
She drew in a bracing breath when Pat opened the door and offered her a hand down. “I don’t know if it will or not. I have avoided it so long. I suppose we shall see.”
Barbara followed her out and patted her arm. “You can begin by helping the men with their correspondence.”
“Perfect.” Dictation was something she could do all but in her sleep. She would give half her attention to the men laid out upon the rows of cots…and the other half could focus on praying for Slade.
Slade didn’t have to feign an anxiousness to match his companion’s. As he stroked the nose of his horse, he looked from the street to Booth. The afternoon had ticked away, an hour gone and then two. With each passing minute, the spring wound tighter.
Seven of them had ridden out that afternoon from the boarding house John Surratt’s mother owned. They had taken up their positions along Lincoln’s route with each detail planned, every contingency explored.
All except this one—that the president didn’t come this way at all. Lord, let that be what happened. Let Hersh have changed the route.
But he couldn’t know, not for sure. He and Booth were stationed at the last point, with the carriage meant to convey Lincoln to Richmond as fast as the horses could fly. They had seen no one all afternoon.
“He must have been delayed setting out for the review, that’s all.” Booth still held his riding crop, his horse’s flank quivering every time he slapped it to his palm.
He’d made the same observation at least fifteen times in the past two hours. Slade had long ago given up responding to it. Instead, he gave his horse one last pat on the nose and turned to the table they had claimed when they first arrived at the tavern on the outskirts of Washington.
Anything could have happened. Maybe Hersh had sent guards instead of changing the route. Maybe Lincoln did come along this road, Surratt and Atzerodt had jumped out at him as planned, and a gunfight had ensued. Mr. Lincoln could be injured or killed. Hersh could be too. Exactly what Slade had hoped to avoid.
Now wasn’t the time for violence or to make arrests. Not with Hughes uninvolved in this scheme, and whatever had kept him so busy still tauntingly beyond Slade’s understanding. He couldn’t make his move yet, and he couldn’t risk scaring the whole KGC underground. He had to wait and make sure none of their plans came to fruition before he could determine what, exactly, Hughes was up to.