Was it a distraction, or a better, more compelling level of deception for our enemies? Who knew? The next time we saw Mrs. Greenhow at a dinner and had to part to take our seats at table, he brushed his lips over my hand and smiled slowly at me before walking away. She leaned over my shoulder and whispered conspiratorially, “How many women can say their husbands still smile at them like that?” I blushed like a schoolgirl.
One night, as we tangled on the bed fully dressed, I began unbuttoning the front of my bodice. Tim put his hand over mine to stop me, and I moved his hand to my breast, pressing against him. He did not move his fingers to caress the flesh there, but neither did he move his hand away.
“How long can we keep on like this?” I asked.
“Don’t ask,” he said, groaning.
“We’re married in the eyes of the world, you know. There’d be nothing wrong with that, to almost everyone.”
“But to me—”
“I know, I know,” I said, kissing his cheek, his ear, his neck.
He said, “I want to be a true husband to you. Not just as the Armstrongs. I’m sure you know that.”
“I know you want to be my husband in bed but you won’t let yourself.”
“Not just that.”
He pulled his hands off me then and took my own hands in his.
“Kate Warne,” he said. “I want you to be my wife.”
I was truly speechless.
“When the war is over,” he said. “We can be together then. The two of us, as ourselves, in front of everyone. We can share a life. Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy. We’ll be done with this spying, this skulking around, and we can go back to good, honest casework.”
“Was it so different?” I asked. “Deceiving criminals, pretending to be people we’re not?”
“You know it was. And will be.”
“Yes,” I admitted. “And I miss it. Solving things. Having the answer. In this life, there are no answers, are there?”
“Someday, we’ll know,” he said. “But not today. All I know today is that I can’t imagine living without you. And you’ll marry me, won’t you?”
He twisted the wedding band that was already on my finger, his eyes as warm and tender as I had ever seen them, promising so much beyond his words.
“I will,” I said. “And you’ll marry me? Whoever you are?”
He laughed the most beautiful laugh.
I kissed him and entwined my limbs with his. When we woke in the morning, we were still in a tangle on the bed, fully dressed.
? ? ?
At the next night’s gathering, I was floating in a pleasant haze. Tim and I kept finding moments to squeeze each other’s hands or rest our fingers elsewhere on each other’s bodies, tiny moments of connection that never failed to send a zing of pleasure through me.
“You two are simply the loveliest couple,” said Mrs. Horrow.
“So kind of you to say so.”
“You’ll have the most beautiful babies.”
“A lot of them, I hope,” said Tim, squeezing my waist, and though of course I kept Mrs. Armstrong’s sweet smile on my face, I fell to pieces on the inside.
Of course he would want children. He wanted me, sure, but didn’t he really want a family? I couldn’t give him one. I’d never told him about the child I’d lost or what the doctor had said after. We had never conversed so honestly; there had never been a reason either to intentionally withhold the information or reveal it. He knew about Charlie, about his death, but not how my parents had forced me into the marriage nor how unhappy I’d been in it. I’d been playing a role with him too, without intending to.
He didn’t truly know me. He had whispered that to me when we were waltzing—I know you now—but it wasn’t true. The rush of thoughts that followed made my gut twist. If he didn’t truly know me, it was more than possible he didn’t truly want me. It was all just another lie. The bottom dropped out of my confidence.
Someone called him away, and he leaned over to kiss my cheek before he went. I almost couldn’t look at him. So trusting, so loving, and what was I good for? Only deception and deceit.
The hostess was jabbering away, ignorant of my turmoil. She steered me by the elbow over to the table of sweets and then conducted me into the next room, gabbing all the while.
She stopped and said, “Oh, let me introduce you to another lady from Charleston! This is Mrs. Armstrong.”
I curtsied as I had a million times, looking down to the ground and then raising my eyes to my conversation partner, as I’d done over and over. But this time, I got a shock. If she wasn’t literally the last person I expected to see at that moment, she was certainly on a very short list.
My mother.
“Mrs. Armstrong, this is Mrs. Wells.”
She had aged, as I had, but it was unmistakably her. I had always resembled my father more strongly, but she and I had the same mouth. Hers was agape. Mine was not, but I was far more accustomed to controlling my reactions, or at least I assumed so. Her roles in my father’s schemes had never required much in the way of range. In any case, I certainly doubted she’d had as much experience as I had.
Even with my inner life in complete turmoil, I took charge. I was used to it.
“Oh, do let’s talk about Charleston!” I said gaily. “I miss King Street so! Have you tried the oyster palace off Anson?”
I tucked her arm through mine and steered her away from the hostess. We arrived in a side parlor, and I strove to maintain an air of calm, as if she were barely just an acquaintance. Which, after all this time, she truly was.
I looked her over more closely. Aged, yes, and possibly come down a touch in life, not that she’d ever been in high society to begin with. Her gown, striped robin’s-egg blue and dove gray with a contrasting border circling the skirt just above the floor, was several seasons past fashion. Mine was flashier, a rich shade of purplish-red achieved with beet dye, although of course, that was only the role I played. The true me wasn’t meeting the true her. But I might not have survived it if it were really me. The momentum of playacting was all that was keeping me upright.
“Armstrong?” she said. “You’ve married again, then?”
“Yes.”