“President Davis.” She bowed and touched the tip of her fan with her finger. “It’s so good to see you. Is Varina with you tonight?” The casualness in her voice veiled the nerves roiling in her stomach.
Jefferson Davis played with his beard, pulling it down to a point. “Varina is home attending one of the children taken ill.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope it isn’t anything serious,” she said. “If there is any way, I can help—”
“Forgive me for interrupting these civilities,” Captain Johnson’s scathing voice cut in. “Miss Pierce has not answered my question. What are you doing here?”
Rachel leaned forward, taking her time to look him up and down, tracking him from the brim of his protruding brow to his folded arms to the scuffed tips of his boots. She then met his gaze with a cool evenness; withstood the blazing anger that echoed in the hostility of his voice. “I believe it is bad manners for a gentleman to inquire of such activity. I’ll be delicate…I wished to find a retiring room. It’s…been a long evening.”
His eyes flashed. “I don’t recall seeing you enter the hallway.”
She drew her closed fan through her hand. “Mr. Rutherford’s home is so vast, and I am a female with no compass.”
Davis sighed. “Gentlemen, we have more important things to discuss than to detain a good and noble daughter of the Confederacy” He stood firm in his remark, tolerating no argument from the men.
Rachel smiled prettily for Captain Johnson and skirted around him.
He grabbed her arm. “One more question.”
Do not create a scene.Her gaze flicked to where he dared to hold her arm. How she clamped an iron control on the bottled-up hatred of the man. To her, he was more than just a spy and what he’d done to her father was unspeakable.
She spoke slowly, enunciating each syllable as if speaking to a child. “My remarks were addressed to President Davis and not to you. If I did not discover by your language and abuse of my person that you must be ignorant of all laws of good breeding, I should suggest here and now to have you punished for your impertinence.”
President Davis moved to her side. “Miss Pierce—”
Rachel jerked her arm from Johnson’s grasp. “Oh, never mind, he is too ignorant to know what he has done.”
“I’ve been waiting to dance with you in the ballroom.” Lieutenant Washburn swooped down on her like a condor. “Where have you been?” Then observing Jefferson Davis and other dignitaries, he flushed and saluted. “Excuse me, Mr. President.”
Rachel hooked her arm with the lieutenant’s and swept him to the far side of the ballroom. “I’ve been dancing the night away, but now I’ve a headache, and wish to retire,” she complained.
“Those headaches, Miss Rachel, are an anathema. I have not had one dance with you all evening.”
Poor Lieutenant Washburn. He had a face like three rainy days, but Rachel needed to get home and write down every detail while it stayed fresh in her head.
Chapter Six
Rachel pressed her fingers to her temples, her mind reeling with all she absorbed. She’d spent hours writing everything down she remembered from Rutherford’s office that evening. While making a final cursory inspection of her charts and maps, she sipped a cup of tea. The activity relaxed her, as did the cozy environment of her father’s study. She dipped her nib pen in an inkwell, jotted down a few more details, and finished, glad she did not to have to deal with the wandering Colonel Rourke who had dogged her every step for the past two weeks. She reached beneath the desk, pushed a button and with a twang, a spring released, and a hidden compartment popped out. When the ink dried, she folded the documents and secreted her recordings in a concealed partition, snapping the panel shut.
As a rogue agent accustomed to operating on her own, Rachel had developed a personal annoyance with the interfering colonel. They had words earlier in the evening, escalating into a heated argument concerning her dangerous business with the Saint until Lieutenant Washburn landed on her doorstep and ended the debate.
Now, she wished she had not placed her father’s Bible in the guest room where the colonel lay sleeping. For the first time in two years, she wanted to smell the leather, feel the pages with her fingers, to read and find comfort. Was she doing the right thing? Doubts about her activities occurred rarely. The Saint succeeded under terrible pressure, but there were times like tonight when she became afraid, well-aware Confederate agents wove a rope, strand by strand to capture her.
She placed her pens and inkwell in the cubby and turned the wick down low in the oil lamp. Forlorn shadows filled the walls with gloom. She stretched to smooth an aching muscle in her back and with her teacup in hand, rose and sat on the settee. Into the cushions, she pushed her hand, her fingers touching the Colt revolver she’d hidden there.
How she loved her father’s study. It was the one room she cared to maintain because of the fond memories shared in that part of the house. Her gaze shifted over rows of leather-bound books lining the shelves, an ancient globe, armchairs and a polished carved black walnut table. How many hours, when the winter blew its wrath, had she spent reading before the hearth while her father worked at his desk? How she basked in those times of shared silence when her mind could reflect.
She congratulated herself on being serene and comfortable in solitude. Oh, how that boast was an unsuccessful illusion. Loneliness and fear filled the emptiness within her as if it might spread wide and vanish her.
Oh, to have a solid presence beside her, fingertips light at the nape of the neck, and whispers entangling hers in the night. Someone who’d smile at her like a million rainbows when he saw her coming. Who’d dance with her beneath a starlit night, share promises and know her secrets, and make a little world with just the two of them.
Silence shrouded her in its tentacles. No confidante, no confessor, only the beat of her heart for company.
The door swung open, and she jumped.
“I see you’ve returned.”
“As you can see, I’m busy, Colonel Rourke.”
