One last night was ours. This time, we took advantage.
At last, nothing lay between us. Removing our clothes—as we did in a rush, gasping and laughing, flinging each discard aside—was only part of it. I saw him for the first time, from head to toe and with nothing held back, in his gaze or otherwise. He ran his open palms over my shoulders and down to my hips, down and then up and then down again, murmuring so softly I couldn’t hear his words, but I gathered that they were complimentary. He gripped me and lifted me against him as if I were weightless, then lowered me to the bed. I thought, mischievously, of suggesting the couch instead, but any thoughts of mischief melted quickly away as his skin met mine. I poured my whole self into loving and being loved.
When I welcomed him into my body, the relief and joy swelled so powerfully within me, I wanted to laugh just as much as I wanted to cry. Instead, I smiled into his neck and whispered his name into his ear, and I said at last, one time, “You’re home.”
No newlyweds could have had a more glorious honeymoon than we had in that one night, even though we were no more married than we had been the day before. The night would never have been long enough, but it was perfect and would have to do for now.
? ? ?
In the morning, we breakfasted together in our room, a rare indulgence. A steaming pot of coffee with elegant porcelain cups, plates of eggs and biscuits and bacon, hotel silver. It would have been a beautiful domestic scene except for Tim’s imminent departure waiting there for us when breakfast was done, looming, undeniable.
And instead of whispering sweet nothings of love, we spent our time between bites and sips getting our stories straight. If questioned—and I knew I would be—I needed something to tell the ladies of our social circle about his departure. Sudden personal business was too vague, so we selected enough details to make the story hang together. We’d say he had been called to report at a base in Mississippi. Our story would be that he would not even tell me where, afraid I’d try to follow. It seemed plausible enough; we’d heard of many wives, both Confederate and Union, putting on men’s clothes and enlisting to follow their husbands to the front. If Annie Armstrong had not previously seemed the type to take such drastic action, no one would deny that war made women do strange things. So her husband would protect her by keeping his whereabouts a secret. The irony was not lost on us that even the people we were pretending to be were keeping secrets from each other.
That business completed, I said baldly, “I don’t know how I’ll live.”
“I do. You’ll soldier on. Kate, you’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met. If there’s anyone who can handle this, it’s you.”
“Strength has nothing to do with it.”
“Doesn’t it?”
I tapped my last bite of biscuit against the silver rim of my plate, grinding it into crumbs, then dust. “We’re at the mercy of the world. There are people who want to hurt us. I’m afraid our luck will run out.”
“And if it runs out, it runs out. We’ll be past caring.”
“One of us will anyhow.”
“Kate, please.” He reached across the table to cover my hand with his. “Let’s not spend these moments in sadness. I want to tell you how very much I love you. And I’ll come back to you. Look forward to that day.”
My voice trembling, I said, “You can’t promise that.”
“We’ll be together,” he said. “I have no doubt. After the war.”
“After the war.”
“We need each other. Who else would have us?”
“Who else indeed.”
Our plates were clean, and the coffeepot was empty. His train would leave in less than an hour. However much more we could have said, given the chance, there was no reason and no time for him to linger.
He lowered his mouth to mine for one more kiss before leaving, a kiss that lasted until our need to breathe forced us apart, both gasping for air.
I stood in the doorway and watched him go down the hall, and then walked to the window to see him leave the front of the building. He did not turn or wave, which we had agreed upon. I watched him until he was out of sight. I had the same feeling I’d had when he rode off to Perrymansville, what seemed like a lifetime ago—would I ever see him again?
I had to. He was my only chance at happiness. As he’d said of both of us, who else would ever have me?
? ? ?
That night at a ball, I stood as if in a trance, feeling utterly hollow. I feared that anyone who looked at me might know my secret in a glance. I had put on the usual trappings—sprigged gown, silk gloves, golden earbobs, sweet perfume—but they didn’t reach all the way inside.
I nodded to the ladies I recognized, and they nodded back, but for a while, no one tried to engage me in conversation. As luck would have it, the first one to do so was Mrs. Greenhow.
Our elusive target looked brighter and smarter than ever, though that might have been my imagination. My melancholy was coloring the world.
She smiled sweetly and said, “Annie, I was hoping I’d see you! And where is that delightful husband of yours? I thought he was ever by your side.”
“Duty called,” I said.
“Oh no! Where’s he off to?”
I gave her the story, parceling it out in small bites only when she asked exactly the right questions, watching her carefully for any sign of doubt or suspicion. She gave none. It was small comfort. I closed by saying, “He only left a few hours ago, and already, I miss him terribly.”
“Of course you do. You love him to death.”
And beyond, I thought, my eyes filling with tears.