Love and War

mole nervously. Madeline threw Orry another look. Her dark eyes brimmed with tears. He had never seen her lose control that way. He wanted to run to her and, at the same time, murder his sister on the spot.

'Come, sweet,' Ashton persisted. 'Confide in us. Wasn't your mother a nigra prostitute?'

Orry seized Huntoon's shoulder. 'Get her out of here before I do her bodily harm.'

With all the strength of the right arm he had built up to compensate when he lost the left one, he flung Huntoon down the aisle. Huntoon's spectacles fell off. He nearly stepped on them. Ashton was spitting mad; she had been holding the stage and he had taken it away.

Spectacles replaced but not straight, Huntoon lurched up to her. 'We're leaving.'

'No. I am not ready to —'

'We are leaving.' His near-scream piled a new shock on all the others. He pushed Ashton. When she complained, he did it again. That told her Huntoon was hysterical, dangerously so. Refusing him, she could lose all she had gained. She gave Orry a swift, cold smile, flung her shoulder forward to release herself from Huntoon's hand, and walked out.

He hurried after her, frantically rubbing thumbs against the tips of his fingers. 'Good evening — excuse us — good evening.' And he was gone down the stairs.

Away toward Petersburg, artillery fire began. The office chandelier swayed. Memminger watched Orry with bleak, speculative eyes while Benjamin, once more suave and smiling, comforted Madeline.

'I have never witnessed such shameful behavior. You have my sympathy. I naturally assume that boorish young woman's accusation isn't true —'

Madeline was trembling. Orry strode up the aisle, disgusted by the transformation taking place in Benjamin. The secretary slid from his role of friend to that of government representative by adding two words: 'Is it?'

Orry had never loved or admired his wife more than when she said, 'Mr. Secretary, does the law require that I answer your discourteous question?'

'The law? Of course not.' Benjamin's eyes resembled those of a stalking cat. 'And I certainly meant no discourtesy. Still, refusal may be construed by some as an admission —'

The woman with the mole huffed, 'I for one would like to hear an answer. It would be disgraceful if a member of our own War Department was married to a colored woman.'

'Damn you and damn your bigotry, too,' Madeline exclaimed. The woman stepped away as if stung. Orry reached his wife, somehow managing to bridle all the chaotic, conflicting emotions — surprise, anxiety, wrath, simple confusion — the past few minutes had generated. Quiet and strong, he touched her.

'This way, darling. It's time we went home, too.' Gently, he slipped his arm around her. He could tell she was about to collapse.

Somehow they got past the frowsy wives in last year's gowns, the overdressed clerks, Memminger, the assistant comptroller slack-jawed at the punch bowl. A hot, grit-laden wind blew through Capitol Square, whirling paper and other debris. The dust was so thick, the edges of buildings blurred. 'How did she find out?'

'God knows. She said something about a Captain Bellingham. I've never heard of him. The rank could mean army, navy, or it could be self-bestowed. I'll start a search of the records, though they've gotten so jumbled we don't know the names of half of those currently in the services. But you can be sure I'll try. I'd like to find the bastard.'

'I didn't have to answer the secretary. He had no right to ask!'

'No, he didn't.'

'Will it hurt your position in the department?'

'Of course not,' he lied.

'Was it the same as an admission when I refused to answer?'

When he remained silent, she seized him and shook him, her hairpins unfastening, her dark locks streaming and tossing as she cried into the wind, 'Was it, Orry? The truth. The truth!'

The wind howled in the silence.

'Yes. I'm afraid it was.'

107

Though her money was running out, Virgilia asked for one of the better rooms at Willard's. 'We do have less expensive ones,' the reception clerk said. 'With smaller beds.'

'No, thank you. I require a large bed.'

To conserve her cash, she avoided the dining room that night. Hunger and nerves made it hard for her to fall asleep, but eventually she did. Next morning she ate no breakfast. About ten, she set out along the wrong side of the avenue, weaving through a throng of Negroes, peddlers, clerks, and the wounded soldiers who were a permanent part of the Washington scenery. Ahead, she observed that the scaffolding had finally been removed from the Capitol dome. The statue of Armed Freedom crowning the dome gleamed in the June sunshine.

The morning was warm, her clothing too heavy. She was awash with perspiration by the time she climbed all the steps, entered the Capitol, and slipped into the House gallery. After some searching, she located Sam Stout at his desk on the floor, lanky legs stretched out while he sorted documents.

Would he come, she wondered as she slipped out again. If he didn't, she was lost.

She left the sealed envelope at his office. On the face, she had inscribed his name and the words Confidential/To Be Opened Only by Addressee. Nervous, she strolled on the shabby mall for half an hour. Wandering cows chewed what little grass grew there; pigs rooted in the many mudholes. Finally she returned to Willard's and threw herself on the bed, flinging a forearm over her eyes. But she couldn't doze, couldn't even relax.

At noon she bought two day-old rolls from a street vendor. One served as her midday meal in her room. At three, she undressed and bathed. After drying off, she chose a dark skirt and snug linen blouse with puffed sleeves, buttons down the front, and a stylish tie she could fasten in a bow. She fussed with her hair for three-quarters of an hour, then ate the second roll.

Last night she had bought a Star, which she now tried to read. She had trouble concentrating. The official front-page War Department dispatch, dealing with Petersburg and signed by Stanton, might have been printed in Chinese. She was repeatedly distracted by visions of the vindictive Mrs. Neal whispering to government officials.

Sounds in the next room drew her attention: a creaking bed, a woman's strident cry, repeated rhythmically. Virgilia's room seemed hot as a furnace. She dabbed her lip with a handkerchief, which she had tucked into the cuff of her blouse. The cuff was damp.

She picked a roll crumb off the bedspread, pulled and patted until it was perfectly smooth. She paced to the window to look at the wagon and horse traffic on the avenue but never saw it.

In the note, she had asked him to come at seven. At half past nine she was seated by a small table near the gas mantle, slowly rubbing her forehead with her left hand. Despair had eaten away her hope and her energy. She had been an idiot to suppose that —

'What?' she said, her head jerking up. Her heart started racing. She rose, hastily pushed her wrinkled blouse into her waist­band, tightening the linen over her breast. She ran to the door, patting her hair.

'Yes?'

'Hurry and let me in. I don't want to be seen.'

Weakened by the sound of the rich, deep voice, she fumbled with the door. She finally got it open.

He hadn't changed. His brows were still black hooks on his white face. His wavy hair, dressed carefully with fragrant oil, glistened as he made that unnecessary stooping movement that always accompanied his passage through a doorway; he liked to emphasize his height.

'I do apologize for my tardiness,' he said as she closed the door.

'Please don't, Samuel. I can't tell you how much I appreciate this.' She could barely keep from touching him.

His gaze lifted from her blouse to her face. 'I wanted to see you again. And your note said it was an