Dalliances & Devotion Page 10

  “Even if I care more about my own glory than what’s right?” He was grumbling and acting like a momzer—a bastard—but it was hard to stop.

  “I’m not going to dignify that with a response. You’re really lucky that actions speak louder than words.” An audible eye roll. Will straightened his jacket and neared the exit.

  “You’re too good to me.” David sighed. “You’ve been working all day. You’ve done enough. Let me patrol. You need to—”

  “Don’t argue with me. Yes, I’m a better friend than you deserve right now but that’s not the point. Right now, you need sleep more than I do.”

  Before David could find a retort, Will had shut the door.

  He reached over, grasped his satchel, and rooted around until his fingertips grazed over the latch to the secret compartment.

  Hands trembling, he paged through until he hit the beginning. The very first letter. He held it to the light, even if he could recite it from memory. Somehow, reading the large, curling handwriting in dim light again...

  Dear Mr. Zisskind or David or is there something else you want me to call you: You said you’d be willing to write me. Do you still want that? I very much do, clearly. Though I’m not very good at it, as you can see. Truth be told, this is my sixth attempt at anything. I would’ve torn it up but paper is in short supply. Anyway, I enjoyed your company during Passover, both at the table and after...

  His stomach flopped as he sipped the tea Meg had forced him to drink. He should’ve had wine. Or whiskey. Recalling those years required something stronger than the warm, comforting liquid. They demanded a good burn.

  It was as if it was only yesterday that he was sitting in a tent in northern Virginia, itching the damned bug bites he’d received on the march.

  Alone. And scared. And doubting.

  Only the Truitt brothers, the other Jews in the 91st, spoke to him, and he’d been convinced it was only out of pity.

  As they marched once more and spring started to turn into summer, he retreated more into his head. He would question—would question everything. Why he was there. What he was doing.

  Because no one understood. He’d been so lonely, so ready to give up, side of rightness or not.

  Maybe he was no Joseph and the Tanach—the Bible—was just a bunch of silly stories designed to force people into submission and order. He’d been so low, so terrified, his hope near gone.

  That one single letter had been everything in the moment. One person cared or seemed to care. More, one person kept her promise and never demanded more. He’d presumed the correspondence would stop quickly. But as the weeks went by, the volume of writing grew.

  In those letters, when they wrote about nothing, little anecdotes about every day, unimportant, but oh so ordinary things: her mother’s unruly cat, the horrible mush they fed him, her older sister’s tendency to projectile vomit when pregnant...

  He’d been able to pretend, for a moment, that she was actually his friend. That she wouldn’t betray him. Or she would never discover why everyone else did.

  And for a few months, the questions stopped and Will was right, he smiled. Even after Simon’s death.

  He raked his fingers over his eyes.

  Make sure someone looks after my sister.

  Right. Because he’d done so well before. But right now, he was all she had.

  With a heavy sigh, David reread his notes from the day four times before stuffing them into the dossier. Witness statements, Meg and Will’s observations, his own thoughts, all swirling together, but nothing made sense.

  Who could possibly want to hurt Amalia? He slammed his file on the table. Nothing. No clues, no reasons. He stared and stared at the pages and pictures.

  But an hour later, he still had nothing, no answers. Perhaps sleep then. Yes, sleep. Tomorrow was another day and another city. And maybe a detour, because the best he could do was keep whomever was behind the attacks guessing as well.

  Yes.

  Time to use the line’s extension. Time to go to Bedford.

  Chapter Ten

  A pounding drummed in Amalia’s head as she blinked her eyes open into darkness.

  Was she dead? Well, she couldn’t be dead. She’d only cut her hand and no one died of a hand wound, did they? In fact, one could probably lose a finger or two and be perfectly fine. Didn’t Cinderella’s stepsisters lose parts of their feet? And their eyes? She shuddered. They’d lived though.

  And she wasn’t dead now. Amalia snuggled farther beneath the covers. The floor rattled and the horn tooted its familiar rhythm. She reached out with her weaker left hand—as moving even a muscle on the right was like dousing her entire limb with kerosene and lighting it on fire—and pulled aside the silk curtains blocking the window. Still dark, but the stars winked out, making way for the sun. And the new day.

  Cold fingers of dread crept up her neck in the snug, soft bed.

  Someone was after her. Someone wanted her dead. She was in real trouble and if her parents found out...

  Well, she’d be locked in her room forever. No column, no charity. And all those women...people had no idea how hard it was to leave a marriage as a woman without a powerful family behind her.

  Especially women with children. Amalia shuddered. Children could be used as pawns—were often used as pawns. Even liberal Indiana required someone to be at fault. And if it was the woman, well, she’d lose all her property. And what mother wouldn’t trade all her worldly possessions for her child?

  At least those women were free. The ones whose husbands caught them before they got to safety, who sent their wives to asylums so they could retain the property, retain a mistress, retain their children... Competency hearings were expensive and hard to win and took forever while women wasted away.

  Amalia squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. Because what was happening was wrong and there was no one else with means who gave a damn.

  She’d just have to force her parents to listen, to see, and to help.

  You’re bossy, do you know that?

  David’s teasing words echoed in her head. If only. If only she could demand what she needed, be a real champion for all those women. She drew her knees to her chest. If ever there was a time she needed her friends back in Delaware... Or Simon, because unlike the rest of her family, Simon never made her feel like a dunce. And he was loyal.

  But he was gone and her friends, well, they had never abandoned her, but with each successive marriage, each of their pregnancies, each life event that took them farther and farther from each other...it wasn’t the same. Not how it was before, before the war, before everything.

  Now, she was all alone.

  She pressed her hands over her eyes, entwining herself further in the sheets. She swatted and batted the covers. Ow. This was going to be a long...however many days it took her to heal.

  With a grunt, she struggled more. Finally, everything flew off and thumped on the floor.

  A creak and a half moan, followed by a rustling, until Meg’s head shot up, the bedding falling off her back. “You’re awake.” She pushed the linens aside. “Before noon.”

  “It happens.” Amalia pressed down with her good hand to force herself upwards and Meg bounded up to assist. “Sometimes.” She sighed as the older woman finished getting her to a sitting position and brushed off her nightclothes. “Thank you for tending to my...?” She indicated to her bandaged hand. “Whatever this is.”

  “Wound?” Meg slid onto the bed next to her and snatched up the appendage, inspecting the dressings. “You sliced it pretty good. Near went to the bone, but you should be able to use most of your palm and fingers, even while it’s healing. How does it feel?”

  “Fine.” No need to make this woman think any less of her. Meg prodded harder and she yelped. Fiddlesticks. “All right, sore.” Amalia swiped a tangle off her face with her oth
er hand. “And I’m going to be no help with my own dressings now.” She shot Meg a quick glance. “Sorry.”

  “I’ll make do.” She shrugged and released Amalia’s hand. “At least I don’t have to wear half of this stuff.” She indicated to the half-opened trunks scattered around the room.

  “It’s pretty.” Amalia squeezed her lips together.

  “It’s a waste.” Meg clucked her tongue.

  And just when she was ready to give her another chance. Though it was better than vacuous. Amalia started to ball her fingers—ow. Foolish right hand. She set her jaw and glared at Meg. “Everything is a waste when you look at it too hard. Why do we need tea when we can have water? Why do we need meat when we can have beans? Why do we need coal and fires when we can just have more blankets?”

  “Fair enough. And I suppose, to each his own.” Meg busied herself with the trunks, not meeting Amalia’s eye, but at least she didn’t lecture her. A good sign. Maybe she could make another attempt with the female Pinkerton. Try to figure out what made her tick and maybe that could lead to a friendship. Or at least an alliance because, good lord, she needed an ally.

  Amalia eyed the bleary-eyed Meg, her strawberry-blond hair still in matted snares. “Meg?” The woman returned a non-committal noise as she pawed through flounces of silk. “Why did you become a nurse?”

  “Because I’m good at it.” Meg dug farther. “And the first person who treated me decent was a nurse. Saved me when my parents died and older brother abandoned me.” Meg fished out a pair of cobalt knickers and held them aloft.

  “I’m sorry.” Amalia shook her head in the negative. Even with four layers and petticoats, you could still see them under most summer gowns.

  “Don’t be. I was lucky. Dorthea may be hell to work for, but she gave me a shot, trusted me and cared about me when I needed it. Without her, who knows where I’d be. What?” Meg popped up again, a stocking clinging to her temple.

  “Nothing.” Amalia made a slight gesture at her own brow, which Meg ignored and rose, instead. Amalia’s head spun. Poor Meg. To live through all of that... And yet, she prevailed, nay succeeded, while Amalia, with all her privilege, failed time and time again. Even when she was only trying to help, trying to do something good.

  Why? Maybe it was because Meg had the courage she lacked. If only she could have a smidge. Then facing her parents would be simple.

  Maybe that was why they started out on the wrong foot. Maybe she was a bit jealous of the other woman and all her competence.

  “Anyway. Do you need anything? Food, or...” Meg waved around the room.

  “Oh, I can call for my own meal. You should sleep. You’ve been working hard enough.” Amalia scooted off the bed, snatched a dressing gown, and padded to the door. “All right. Fine. Perhaps I could use a little help getting back on my feet. But after that, I’ll learn how to do this all one-handed.” Hopefully. She struggled with the sash a moment. “It won’t be useless forever, will it?”

  Meg’s voice was muffled as she forced her own gown over her head. “For maybe a few weeks. It’ll have a nasty scar but...”

  “That’s what fancy gloves are for.” Her hand throbbed through its bandages. Maybe some ice with breakfast. “I can justify commissioning a whole batch of new pairs with extra room in that area. In every shade and with special embroidery. Perhaps I’ll get a column out of discussing choices.”

  And there wasn’t a catch in her voice because crying over a few lines on a part of her body that most people would never see was silly. Men in the war lost whole limbs by cannon fire. She swallowed. She was probably just hungry and the column idea wasn’t half bad, especially as she needed one. And unfortunately, some help writing it now.

  Fiddlesticks.

  Meg, now fully dressed, her hair in some sort of nest, frowned. “Now what getup are we doing this morning?”

  Amalia bit her tongue. What to wear, what to wear. It had to be perfect. She was going to have to beg one of the Pinkertons—probably David—fine, David, who already resented her, to act as her secretary, so she needed some decent armor. She moved back towards the bed. “If there was ever a day for the one with the sherbet-colored stripes and the black lace...”

  Meg clawed through the gowns. “I don’t see that one.”

  “It isn’t a gown. It’s a corset.” She resisted a smirk. “There are matching knickers too. Short ones. With ribbons.”

  Victory, after all, started early.

  * * *

  An hour later, Amalia’s stomach growled and her body swayed as she stumbled her way into the main section of her car. She’d have to eat first next time or learn to apply cosmetics without full arm movements faster, because Meg was never getting near her brows again.

  Tweezers were not the woman’s forte. Though at least Meg apologized.

  She rubbed the still smarting skin, shuddering for the poor soldiers the woman operated on. Hopefully the patches she filled in with charcoal would grow back. If only tattooing was permitted under Jewish law. Though tattooed enhancement on the face...that’d make an interesting column. Had any one ever tried that? It would save time, but take a bit of the fun out of experimenting and changing with the season.

  That was the best part about fashion: everything changed, but at predictable intervals, like dances at a party. Amalia nodded to herself. Excellent analogy—definitely going in a column. In the column, that she’d dictate to someone, once she got the chance to ask.

  Her innards lurched. Fine, food now, work later. And...oh. That smell, that delicious, rich, dark, nutty smell. “Is that coffee?” She staggered over to the table and slid into a seat across from David. “Please tell me that’s coffee and not tea or chocolate.”

  He raised his head from his papers, a cup still in front of his lips. “It’s coffee.”

  “Thank god.” She grabbed the pot, poured with her only slightly shaking left hand, and near moaned as the molten bitterness hit her tongue, waking her insides.

  “Don’t you take it with anything?” He stirred whatever was in his cup with a small silver spoon that clanked against the china.

  Was he mad? She sipped again, inhaling, and closed her eyes for a moment. “And ruin the burn? Never. Besides, can you imagine anything sweet with eggs and warm bread?”

  “Well, there is this thing you Americans call ‘marmalade.’” He displayed his own half-eaten wedge, slathered with orange.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Bah, sweet goes with sweet, savory with savory and all of them in my stomach right now, provided nothing bursts.” She placed a hand on her stomach. Another rumble. She’d need something soon or she’d swoon.

  With her blasted left hand, she laid a piece of toast on her plate and brought over the butter. Amalia dipped her knife and the equally blasted bread slipped and nothing would spread. She’d get more movement in her shoulder soon, right?

  Consarn it. She balled her first and reached out—ow. Wrong hand. Again.

  “Does that happen frequently?” David took both the knife and food from her and accomplished the task in mere seconds, handing her buttered bread back with a small smirk. Show-off. “I mean the bursting? Not the clumsiness, because I have eaten with you before and I know you can’t blame everything on your injury.”

  “When I was growing, there were lots of adjustments and remaking of gowns. Caging helps. ‘A good foundation is the backbone of any outfit.’” She took a rather unladylike bite and nearly swooned again because mercy, she’d needed food. She swallowed. Twice.

  “Did you just quote yourself?” David had his teacup over his mouth, but porcelain vibrated worse that the train.

  She blushed. “Well, what did you expect? It fit.”

  “Naturally.” And his face was vibrating too and scarlet.

  “Oh, come on. Just laugh. You know you want to.”

  And he did and she did, because it was just
too nice. And pleasant and natural.

  After they got ahold of themselves, that settled into an amiable silence. Well, except for her chewing and a few less than discreet grunts of pleasure, but buttery eggs and buttery toast after a missed dinner...what could be better?

  Like this was what they did every morning. Even though it wasn’t.

  Finally, after she’d made a few more inappropriate sounds and tapped her napkin to her lips, only wincing a little, David tented his fingers and gave her one of his intense stares. “So. About yesterday...”

  Amalia near choked. There were two tracks the conversation train could take—the kiss or the stabbing. Hopefully, David meant the injury, because though uncomfortable, it was preferable as it made the blood drain from her face, instead of rushing to a whole series of embarrassing places.

  “I suppose they haven’t caught him yet, but they have a suspect right?” She flipped her hair. Wrong hand and she was wearing her favorite ring and...stuck. So very stuck and pulling her bandages...and ow.

  “No, you’re still in danger.” He traced a crease in the snow-white tablecloth with his pointer finger.

  “I realize that.” She yanked, but the strands tangled further. Her cheeks heated. Drat. Not what she was going for. A snared hand most certainly erased any and all of the striped-corset-induced confidence.

  “Do you?” David stood, and, with a gentle touch that didn’t at all make her shiver, plucked the caught locks and reshaped the curl, the back of his hand grazing her cheeks.

  And she almost moaned again, breathing in his nearness. Definitely mint. “Yes. I do, but it’s just so odd.” Though it was more of a dreamy, unconvincing sigh.

  He frowned and retreated to his seat.

  Fine, serious conversation. She straightened her shoulders. “Why would anyone want to hurt me?”