“That’s quite enough! Now then, come rub my shoulders.”
I sighed and sighed again, but I did as she asked because Grandmama reigns over our family (and the entire capital for that matter) with a gloved fist. I swallowed my protests too because she’d box my ears if I shared my opinion about a springtime wedding — for I find the idea to be horrifying. I’m only seventeen just! My own mother, may she rest in peace, didn’t wed my father until age twenty-two, which allowed her to finish her schooling, write columns for an abolitionist newspaper, and eventually find a love match. I dream of a similar path for myself.
That’s why I’ve wrung my hands for weeks over Grandmama’s matrimonial plans. A bride by spring? I’d rather parade through the halls of Congress wearing nothing but pantalets. I don’t know how I’ll change my grandmother’s mind, but I do know this: I’ve no intention of catching a fiancé or even a beau at our ball.
Instead, I intend to catch a spy.
A Confederate spy, to be precise.
If Grandmama knew of my plans, she’d lock me in my room until I sprouted gray hair, but I’ve made a promise that I will keep. That I must keep.
Even if it means defying Grandmama.
On the evening of the ball, I act the part of the obedient heiress. I sit very still while my maid, Mary, pins my pale hair atop my head and cinches my corset tight. Beyond my window, I see the well-groomed trees of Lafayette Square and the broad road that leads up to our handsome brownstone. Soon the road will be filled with horse-drawn carriages that will deliver our guests to our front steps, from senators and senators’ wives to attorneys and ambassadors, and — if all goes according to plan — the very spy himself.
Fear tremors through me. A traitor in our home. What will he look like? Does he hold any remorse for his actions? Or perhaps —
“Here are your earbobs, miss,” Mary says.
I smile at her in my mirror. “Won’t you fetch the pearls from Sophie’s room instead?” I nod across the hall toward my fifteen-year-old sister’s bedroom. As much as I like Mary, I yearn for a moment alone to gather my thoughts for the mission ahead.
Mary pales. “But Mrs. Van Persie set these aside just for you. Her own rubies.”
“I’d like to wear my mother’s pearls tonight.” Fear creeps into Mary’s round eyes, so I pat her hand. “Don’t you worry. I’ll tell Grandmama that it was my idea.”
“Yes, miss,” she squeaks.
Once Mary departs I release a sigh, which is rather difficult considering how severely my corset suffocates me, and I unlock the desk drawer. Inside, I find my most precious possessions: my mother’s gold ring, a lock of Sophie’s hair, and a stack of letters from my mother’s younger brother, my dearest uncle Ambrose. Or Colonel Ambrose Chamberlain, as he is better known, of the Pennsylvania Fourth Regiment. Most of his letters arrive via post, but his most recent was delivered by courier from his camp in Sharpsburg, Maryland. At first I thought something awful must have happened to my uncle, but once I read the letter I knew why he needed a more private correspondence. I open the envelope gently.
Dearest Lizzie,
I hope this finds you well, and that you’re not cross with me for not writing sooner. I’ve received your letters and appreciate your desire to send a collection of books to my regiment to lift our spirits. It’s very thoughtful of you, but I’m afraid my men are far more interested in dominoes and cards — and other pastimes I best not mention — and I’d hate for your novels to go to waste.
I’m in need of your help, however, for another endeavor. I’ve vacillated for days over whether to include you in these plans, and may your mother forgive me for my decision, but I’m left with no other option. I leave it to you to decide if you will participate, but I strongly believe your actions could save hundreds of Union lives, if not more.
It has come to General McClellan’s attention that the Confederates have planted a spy within Washington. We know little about this traitor, only that the Confederates call him the “Red Raven.” As luck would have it, we’ve intercepted a correspondence between the Raven and his Confederate compatriots — a message carried by a raven, in fact — in which the spy revealed that he will attend your grandmother’s ball. Thus, I shall require your assistance. Here is what I propose . . .
There’s a knock at the door, and I nearly leap to the ceiling when Sophie pokes her head inside my bedroom. I stow the letter in my dress pocket, but not before her eyes land upon it.
“I brought the earbobs you asked for.” Her pink skirts swish as she enters, and her sweet-as-pie face tilts toward my pocket. “Hiding a love letter, I see?”
I quell the flutter in my voice. “Of course not, you silly thing.”