The Spymistress Read online

  “He’s a fool if he don’t,” one of her friends declared, provoking laughter from the others.

  Wilson Bowser was no fool, Lizzie reflected as her brother John appeared to escort the bride across the street to the church. Wilson was freeborn, tall, and dark-skinned, with a broad chest and strong shoulders earned from years of working on the railroad. He loved Mary Jane, and better yet, he seemed to respect her. He was not the man Lizzie would have chosen for Mary Jane, but he was a good, decent man, and as likely to be faithful as any other. Lizzie’s greatest concern about the match was that Mary Jane, who had been educated in the North and had worked as a missionary in Liberia, might eventually become disenchanted with Wilson, who had no education to speak of and had never traveled more than ten miles from Richmond. But who could say whether such disparities doomed a marriage to failure? After all, on the day her brother and Mary had wed, they had seemed an ideal match despite the difference in their ages. Regrettably, a mere seven years later, anyone could see that their marriage was utterly joyless, except for the two delightful daughters their union had produced.

  If a match that had once seemed so promising could take such a dismal turn, who could predict whether Mary Jane and Wilson would end up content or miserable? Certainly not a spinster of forty-­three who had last enjoyed the heady flush of romance more than two decades before.

  Absently, Lizzie touched the silver locket at her throat, then slipped her hand into her pocket, finding reassurance in the familiar weight and coolness and patterns of delicate engraving of her pocket watch, another gift. They were her most cherished possessions—­mementos of her youth, treasures from a faded age.

  Perhaps Mary was right to call her sentimental.

  Beckoned from their tasks by the sound of voices, the servants had joined the family and the wedding party in the foyer—­Caroline, the cook, who assured Mother that all was ready for the luncheon; Hannah Roane, the nurse, who had brought her two young charges clad in their Sunday best, although their mother was nowhere in sight; Hannah’s grown sons, William the butler and Peter the groom; Judy, who was officially Mother’s maid, though she assisted all the Van Lew women with their dresses and hair; and old Uncle Nelson, proud of his title of gardener although in recent months his rheumatism had kept him from all but the lightest work. The Van Lews employed other servants, of course, kitchen assistants and laundresses and housecleaners, but they lived out, and since the bride knew them only in passing, it had not seemed appropriate to invite them.

  Together the cheerful party left the mansion and strolled down the block and across the street to Saint John’s Episcopal Church. The front doors had been adorned with magnolia blossoms, and inside the vestibule, more friends and family of the happy couple waited to greet the bride and her retinue. Others had seated themselves in the rows of wooden pews, and as Lizzie escorted her mother to their places, she glanced down the aisle and suppressed a smile at the sight of Wilson standing up front between the minister and his best man, rocking back and forth on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back—­and, if Lizzie was not mistaken, a sheen of nervous perspiration on his brow. Searching for his bride, he happened to look Lizzie’s way, and when she gave him an encouraging smile, he managed a perfunctory nod and a weak grin of his own.

  Within moments his anxious demeanor gave way to elation as the organist struck up a triumphant march and Mary Jane came down the aisle on Uncle Nelson’s arm. Lizzie and Mother exchanged a look of surprise—­the wedding had begun, and John and the girls had not joined them in their family pew. Perhaps Annie and Eliza had gotten out of hand and he was sorting it out, or perhaps he had been called to the hardware store on urgent business, or perhaps—­Lizzie’s heart thumped—­perhaps Mr. Lewis had sent unfortunate news from the Capitol. But peering over her shoulder, she glimpsed John seated in the back pew between Annie and Hannah, who held little Eliza on her lap.

  Suddenly Mother rested her hand upon Lizzie’s, so Lizzie quickly turned around to face front again, but her mother’s apprehensive frown immediately told her that some other worry troubled her, not her daughter’s fidgeting in church.

  “Perhaps they should have married another day,” Mother whispered, something she never did after the minister stood at the pulpit.

  “Why not today?” Lizzie whispered back, and with a teasing smile, added, “‘Marry on Monday for health, Tuesday for wealth, Wednesday the best day of all—­’”

  “No, that’s not what I meant.” Mother’s gaze was fixed on the bride and groom, who were gazing at one another with shining eyes, their hands clasped, fingers intertwined. “Should they marry today, in such troubled times, with the vote for secession coming any moment? It seems an inauspicious day, bearing ill omens for their future happiness.”

  “No, Mother,” Lizzie said, her voice low and gentle. “You have it quite in reverse. Think instead of what this wedding portends for the vote. Today, in this sacred place, where Patrick Henry declared ‘Give me liberty or give me death,’ we celebrate union.”

  A warm smile lit up Mother’s soft, lined face, and she thanked Lizzie with a gentle squeeze of her hand.

  The ceremony was lovely—­simple, reverent, and heartfelt—­and as the congregation’s voices joined in the final hymn, Lizzie felt her spirits rising. The wedding party, friends, and family showered the newlyweds with rice and laughter as they departed the church, and then all made their way to the Van Lew mansion, the bells of Saint John’s ringing out the happy news for all of Richmond to hear.

  Caroline had never before produced a more delicious feast, or so the guests declared—­asparagus soup, halibut cutlets, roasted ham, stewed spinach, French peas, brandy peaches, and plum wedding cake with raisins and sugar icing—­all savored in the pleasant shade of the Van Lews’ grand, two-­story piazza, with its imposing columns and commanding views of the James River. Thanks to Mother’s tender care and Uncle Nelson’s diligent assistance, the gardens were in their full springtime glory, fragrant and bursting with color as they cascaded in graceful terraces down the hill toward the river in the distance far below. The conversation was merry, the happy couple was appropriately feted and teased, and no one dwelt too long on the subject of politics, deferring worry for another day. Mary did not put in an appearance, but six-­year-­old Annie danced and frolicked on the grass like a little bird, and sweet Eliza, Mother’s namesake, claimed Lizzie’s lap before soup was served and refused to relinquish it until after the cake.

  “She never wanders far from her favorite auntie,” Mother remarked when Eliza wriggled down from Lizzie’s lap to inspect a butterfly that had alighted upon the nearest tall white column.

  “Someday she will,” Lizzie replied, as the butterfly flitted away, sending the young girl scampering back to her. “She’ll marry and move away, as Anna did.”

  Her younger sister had wanted to attend the wedding, but she and her husband, a physician in Philadelphia, had decided that it was too far to travel for a brief visit, especially considering that political turmoil might disrupt train schedules and delay her return indefinitely. As soon as Virginia voted to remain in the Union, once its allegiance was confirmed, Anna could visit again, and perhaps bring her children. Lizzie had not seen them in ages and she missed them terribly.

  “Forgive me, Lizzie, but I can’t help but wonder if, for you, occasions such as this inspire more desolation than joy.”

  “For me?” Lizzie echoed, surprised. “Do I seem unhappy? I know I tend to scowl when I’m lost in thought. Mary Jane and John tease me about it, which does nothing to help me break the habit, more shame on them.”

  “You make no outward sign of melancholy,” Mother replied, “but it would be only natural if a wedding celebrated in our own home might turn your thoughts to...what might have been.”

  Of course. Lizzie resisted the urge to touch the locket, the pocket watch. More than twenty years before, her beloved had given her the lo
cket upon the occasion of their betrothal, and after a swift, devastating fever had claimed his life, his heartbroken parents had given her the watch, elegantly engraved with their intertwined initials. He had intended it as a wedding gift, but he had gone to his grave before they could enjoy a single day of nuptial bliss. After her time of mourning had ended and she had put off her garments of black crepe, Lizzie had known that she would never meet his equal, and thus that she would never marry.

  “Don’t worry on my account, Mother,” Lizzie assured her, fighting to keep the tremor from her voice. “I am content, living here with you and my brother and nieces. I’ve witnessed far too many happy women become quiet, lonely wives to yearn for their state simply to escape the dreaded honorific of spinster. I’m happy to have known one true marriage—­yours and Father’s—­an egalitarian union based on love, loyalty, and respect. It’s enough for me to know that such a thing exists.”

  Tears filled her mother’s gray eyes. “If I could truly believe that, if I could know that you are happy—­”

  “I am happy, Mother. I’m surrounded by family and friends, I reside comfortably in a beautiful home, and I need give no account of how I spend my hours to any man. That is reason enough to rejoice in my spinsterhood.” Smiling, Lizzie rose, took her mother’s hands, and lifted her to her feet. “And as Miss Austen wrote, ‘It is poverty only which makes celibacy contemptible to a generous public! A single woman, with a very narrow income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable, old maid! The proper sport of boys and girls; but a single woman, of good fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and pleasant as anybody else.’”

  “Oh, daughter, no one could ever consider you contemptible.” Then Mother caught herself. “If you must emulate one of Miss Austen’s heroines, could you not choose one more admirable than flighty, meddling Emma? Elizabeth Bennet, perhaps? Jane Fairfax?”

  Because it was Mother who asked, Lizzie laughed and agreed.

  As the afternoon waned, the party drew to a close and the guests departed, although some, Lizzie suspected, would surely reappear, uninvited, at the newlyweds’ home later that evening to give them a raucous sendoff to the bridal chamber. When a light rain began to fall, Lizzie offered Mary Jane and Wilson the use of her carriage, and she insisted upon accompanying them home. She had already begun to feel Mary Jane’s absence in the household, and she wanted to postpone their farewells as long as possible.

  “You don’t need to come out in this storm, Miss,” Wilson said as Peter brought the carriage around.

  “Careful, Wilson,” Lizzie said archly, “or I’ll think you don’t want my company. This is hardly a storm. It would be generous to call it a drizzle.”

  Resigned, Wilson assisted her into the carriage, and then helped his bride, and soon they were off, rumbling over the rain-­slicked cobblestone streets northwest through the heart of the city to the colored neighborhood, about a mile from the Capitol. Mother had sent Mary Jane’s belongings ahead, and as they rode along, Lizzie queried the newlyweds about their arrangements and offered last-­minute advice at an increasingly rapid pace the closer they came to Mary Jane’s new home. There was so much more she urgently wanted to teach the young woman, so many lessons she had overlooked in the frenzy of wedding preparations and political debate, but when the horses halted in front of a charming row house on Leigh Street, Lizzie reluctantly accepted that the time for guidance and instruction had passed.

  “You’re going to be fine,” she said as Wilson helped his bride down from the carriage, more to reassure herself than anyone else. “You are both going to be just fine.”

  Mary Jane reached through the window to press her hand. “Thank you, Miss Lizzie. Thank you for a perfectly beautiful day.”

  “The pleasure was all mine, Mary Jane. Oh, my goodness,” she said with a start. “You’re Mary Jane Bowser now. Mrs. Bowser. Well, how nice. A new name to help you keep one step ahead of the authorities.”

  Rainwater trickled from Mary Jane’s bonnet and fell upon the carriage seat as she leaned closer. “That was my plan all along, you know,” she murmured conspiratorially. “This may prove to be my cleverest ruse yet.” Then her merriment faded. “I think the authorities will soon be too preoccupied with other concerns to worry about one incorrigibly willful colored girl who refuses to leave Virginia.”

  Lizzie felt the heavy weight of responsibility anew. She had sent the clever, intelligent girl to Philadelphia, knowing full well that free colored people who traveled north to be educated were forbidden by law to return to Virginia. She had assumed that Mary Jane would not want to come back to the land of slavery after enjoying Northern liberty. She should have realized that the pull of home and family and friends would prove too strong to resist. “You were born here. You’re a free woman, and you shouldn’t be banished from the land of your birth. It’s a ridiculous law.”

  “But go she must—­out of this rain, though no farther,” Wilson broke in, drawing the collar of his coat closed and offering Mary Jane his arm. “Would you like to come in, Miss Lizzie?”

  As much as Lizzie wanted to inspect their new residence and reassure herself that Mary Jane would be safe and comfortable there, she suspected the newlyweds would prefer to cross the threshold alone. So she thanked Wilson but declined.

  The couple bade her good-­bye and darted indoors. “Straight home, Miss Lizzie?” Peter called from the driver’s seat, rain dripping off his hat and long oilskin coat.

  “No, Peter, let’s take the long way, around the Capitol.”

  He nodded and chirruped to the horses. The wedding had provided a few hours of welcome distraction from political turmoil, but it had also left Lizzie craving news, and she could not wait for Mr. Lewis to return to the mansion later that evening after the closed session concluded—­or early the next morning, if debate ran overlong. A quick tour of the blocks surrounding the Capitol would allow Lizzie to take her measure of the city’s temper, even if she only observed her fellow citizens through the window of a passing carriage.

  The rain had lessened, and as they approached the city center, Lizzie observed men gathered on street corners and hurrying down the sidewalks in a state of distracted agitation. The closer they drew to the Capitol, the thicker the crowds became, and a chilly uneasiness settled upon her when she realized that an electric air of celebration filled the air. She heard shouts of “Virginia!” and “Hail the Old Dominion!” but that told her nothing; the most ardent secessionist could proclaim his loyalty to their fair state as loudly as she herself could, with an entirely different meaning. But then she saw them again, the flags of rebellion—­the palmetto of South Carolina, the dreadful three stripes and seven stars of the Confederacy. And then the Capitol came into view, and atop its flagpole, where the Stars and Stripes had once boldly waved, flew the flag of the Confederate States of America.

  “Oh, no, no,” she murmured. It could not be. The delegates could not have voted already, and they could not have voted in favor of secession. It was impossible, unthinkable—­and yet all around the carriage, men were flinging their hats into the air, women wept for joy at the sight of Confederate flags being hoisted on high, boys whooped and marched and played at soldier with sticks for rifles. Somewhere unseen, a band struck up “Dixie,” and a more euphoric and vengeful rendition she had never heard.

  Richmond had gone mad. All around, her fellow citizens, neighbors, acquaintances were celebrating their disloyal repudiation of their country. What were they thinking? How would secession bring them anything but sorrow and death?

  Balling her trembling hands into fists, she knocked on the carriage wall for Peter’s attention. “Let’s go home,” she called to him, her voice shaking, her vision blurring with tears. “I’ve seen enough.”

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  APRIL 1861

  P

  eter swiftly turned the carriage toward Church Hill, and when they reached
home and he helped her descend, he looked as shocked and apprehensive as she felt. When he offered to get his brother and return to the central district to gather what news they could, she did not want to let him go for fear of his safety, but his assurances that they would be careful and her own urgent desire for news overcame her objections.

  “Be careful,” she told the brothers as they headed out—­William, the elder of the two, slim, bespectacled, with a quiet manner and impeccable courtesy that ignorant people mistook for deference, and Peter, tall and strong, his elder brother’s greatest admirer, unfailingly gentle yet unyielding with the animals in his care. “The crowds are in a frenzy, and they could turn on you without the slightest provocation. Do you have your passes?”

  “Yes, Miss Lizzie,” said Peter. “Don’t you worry about us.”

  “We’ll learn all we can,” William promised.

  “Don’t be gone long,” Lizzie urged. “Find out the results of the vote and hurry back.” When they nodded, she waved them off before she changed her mind. As she hurried inside, she prayed they would return safely before Hannah realized her sons had left. If only Mary Jane could have gone with them. With her prodigious memory, she could scan the records of the closed session and recite them verbatim later, but if venturing out into a secessionist mob was unsafe for the Roane brothers, it was doubly unsafe for a woman.

  Fortunately, Hannah was busy settling little Eliza and Annie down for their naps when her sons departed, and after that, she went to the kitchen to sew and gossip with Caroline. Since the mansion was so grand, three stories tall and fourteen rooms, the absence even of one’s own sons could easily go unnoticed for an hour or two. They were grown men, perfectly capable of looking out for themselves, and they should have been free men too, but Lizzie’s father had thwarted Mother’s plans to give them liberty. As Father’s illness had progressed, he must have suspected that Mother and Lizzie intended to free the family’s slaves upon his death, for he had secretly added a codicil to his will allowing Mother the use of the slaves for the duration of her life but forbidding her to free or to sell them. Obeying the law if not the spirit of his decree, Mother, Lizzie, and John paid their servants wages and allowed them to come and go as they pleased, as any paid servant would. Some of the Van Lews’ slaves lived elsewhere in the city, and months might pass between occasions when Lizzie saw them, when they were obliged to return to the Van Lew residence for updated passes so they would not be thrown into the Negro jail for vagrancy. They were slaves in name only, but the indignity of it, the profound unfairness, grated at Lizzie. She could only imagine how it made Peter, William, and the others feel.