Love and War

Her heart hammered. Finally she heard sounds. She stepped back as the door opened. A hand extended a wad of clothing Brett didn't want to touch. She marched it downstairs at arm's length.

'Burn this,' she said to one of the girls. To another: 'Find a nightdress and robe Miss Virgilia can wear. Mine are too small.' The order horrified the girl. 'I'll pay you twice what the clothes are worth. You can buy new ones.'

That got action. Upstairs again, she laid the gown on the bed and handed the old linen robe through the bathroom door. She turned all the gas mantles up full so that the bedroom was bright when Virgilia finally emerged, stepping out almost shyly, the robe tightly wrapped and tied. Her skin and hair were damp, but she was clean.

'You look splendid! Come sit here.'

Virgilia took the embroidered seat Brett had placed in front of the large oval mirror. With a fresh towel, Brett dried Virgilia's hair vigorously — it was indeed like grooming a child — then began to ply a silver-backed brush inlaid with pearl. She stroked down and down while a clock on the fireplace mantel ticked. Down and down. Virgilia remained rigid, staring in the mirror, seeing God knew what visions.

When she finished the brushing, she parted Virgilia's hair in the current style — down the center — then wound a strand on her finger and pinned it above Virgilia's left ear. She repeated the procedure on the other side. 'Those will shape into attractive loops.' She lifted the rest: Virgilia did have beautifully thick tresses. 'We'll gather the rest in a net in the morning. You'll be very fashionable.'

She saw her own smiling face in the glass, above Virgilia's lifeless one. Discouraged, she tried not to show it.

'There's a nightgown on the bed. First thing tomorrow, we'll drive into town and buy some new clothes.'

'I have nothing to wear.'

'We'll borrow a dress.'

'I don't have any money.'

'Never mind. I do. Consider it a present.'

'You don't have to —'

'Yes, I do. Hush. I want you to feel better. You're an attractive woman.'

That finally fetched a smile — of contemptuous doubt. Vexed, Brett turned away. 'Rest well. I'll see you in the morning.'

Virgilia remained motionless, like a piece of garden statuary. Brett decided she had wasted her evening.

For a long while after the door closed, Virgilia sat with her hands in her lap. No one had ever used the word attractive to describe her. No one had ever come close to saying she was pretty. She was neither, and she knew it. And yet, staring at the gaslit image, she saw a woman marvelous and new. A not- unpresentable woman with hair modishly arranged. Even her complexion looked better; scrubbing her cheeks had brought some color, which helped to hide the pox scars of which she had always been ashamed. A lump formed in her throat.

When Brett had said she wanted to help her, Virgilia's first reaction had been suspicion, her second exhausted indifference. Now, before the mirror, something stirred in her. Not happiness; she was seldom capable of that, and not now especially. Call it interest. Curiosity. Whatever its name, it was a little bud of life that unexpectedly broke through hard ground.

She rose, unfastened the robe, and opened it to see herself.

Corseted, her breasts would become her. The near-starvation she had endured after selling the last of the stolen silver had slimmed her. Perhaps the agony of those weeks of hunger would have a positive side.

She let the robe fall. Suddenly overwhelmed, she took a small step forward. One hand, not steady, came up — reached out — touched the wondrous reflection. 'Oh.' Her eyes filled with tears.

She found it hard to sleep that night. Around midnight she opened the curtains so the morning light would wake her. Wearing both the gown and the robe, she was seated in the dining room waiting when Brett appeared for breakfast.

32

George woke at five on Sunday morning. He slipped from bed — but not quietly. His activity soon roused Constance and the children. 'You're as excited as a boy,' she said, yawning as she struggled into her clothes.

'I want to see the battle. Half the town expects it to be the first and last of the war.'

'Do you, Pa?' his son asked, acting as cheerfully jittery as his parent.

'I wouldn't venture a guess.' He wrapped the old army-issue gun belt around his waist and made sure the 1847-model Colt repeater rested securely in the holster. Constance took note of the preparation but limited her comment to a frown. George gestured.

'William, fetch my flask of whiskey and take care of it. Patricia, help your mother with the lunch hamper. I'll get the carriage.'

Patricia made a face. 'I'd rather stay and read and feed the cows on the mall.'

'Now, now,' Constance said as George left. 'Your father made all the arrangements. We're going.'

So was a large part of the population of Washington, it appeared. Even at this early hour, a line of riders and vehicles waited at the city end of Long Bridge while sentries checked passes. Among the sightseers there was a great deal of animated conversation, laughter, and the displaying of opera glasses and telescopes bought or borrowed for the occasion. It promised to be a warm, lovely day, the scents of summer earth and air mingling with the aromas of horse droppings and perfume.

Finally the Hazards reached the head of the line. George showed his War Department pass. 'Plenty of traffic this morning.'

'Plenty more ahead of you, Captain. They've been passing for hours.' Saluting, the sentry signaled the barouche forward.

They crossed the river, George smartly handling the two plugs rented as part of the rig that had cost him an outrageous thirty dollars for the day. He had paid without protest and deemed himself lucky; among the phaetons, hacks, and gigs on the rutted road, he spied even more unusual conveyances, including a dairy wagon and another with the name of some city photographer blazoned on it.

The trip was not short; they had to travel roughly twenty-five miles southwest to find the armies. As two hours became three and the miles rolled on, they drove past cornfields, small farms, and ramshackle cabins. White and black people watched the cavalcade with equal astonishment.

McDowell's advance had torn up the road. Constance and the children constantly swayed and bounced; Patricia loudly lamented the discomfort and the long distance.

A stop near a patch of woods was necessary for all of them. Constance and her daughter retired first, then George and William after they returned. George folded down the calash top so they could enjoy more of the scenery and sunshine. That mollified William a little, but Patricia continued to express boredom and annoyance. George spoke to her and put a stop to that.

A horseman sped around the left side of the barouche; George recognized a senator. He had already seen three well-known members of the House. They were still a couple of miles this side of Fairfax when William tugged George's sleeve, excited. 'Pa, listen!'

 Amid all the cloppings and creaking, George had missed the faraway rumbling. 'That's artillery, all right.' Constance put her arm around Patricia. George's spine prickled, and he remembered Mexico. Shells bursting. Men toppling. The raging screams of wounded; the lost cries of the dying. He remembered the shell that blew away the hut on the Churubusco road — and his friend Orry's arm in the bargain. He shut his eyes to blot out the memories —

With a shiver, he straightened and concentrated on driving. The shelling beyond the horizon excited travelers all along the road. Horses were urged to greater speed. But some difficulty ahead slowed movement. Huge dust