Shaking her head slowly, Mary answered quietly. “No.” She managed to look even more despondent. “I did learn about the Chaplain though. Afore he died, Colonel Morgan had his man send another telegram. The Chaplain got drunk and drownt trying to cross a river.” She met Elizabeth’s eyes, exhausted. “I don’t even know if I’m a widow.”
*****
12th of December 1865
Beacon Hill,
Boston. Massachusetts
Mary took a deep breath and looked up at the imposing house. Even with Elizabeth holding her hand, even in the ridiculously fine dark green dress that Elizabeth insisted she wear, Mary felt like fleeing through the streets. “If he rooms in this house…”
“His family owns this house.”
“The whole house?” Mary’s voice quavered and she started to pull loose, looking down the street for somewhere to go.
Elizabeth almost smiled. Two days ago, on the train, when a man had rudely propositioned Elizabeth, Mary had simply pulled a tiny revolver from the folds of her skirt and pressed it to his heart, requesting his apology and departure as rapidly as possible. She hardly seemed like the same girl now. Elizabeth squeezed her hand. “I’m here with you.”
Captain Jeremiah Lodge was very much alive and he turned out to be Brevet Lieutenant Colonel Jeremiah Lodge, of Boston. His family had used their influence and family connections to get him a commission in the Illinois Cavalry. When Elizabeth finally learned who he was, she had sent a flurry of telegrams. Despite being born a Gustine of the Natchez Nabobs, even she was a touch uncertain about approaching the Lodges of Beacon Hill with the news that she was bringing their “possible daughter-in-law” to their door. If nothing else, Elizabeth vowed to herself that no matter the reception by the Lodge family, she could and would shield Mary. Her husband’s interests in steamboats and the railroad had given her the financial ability to do that.
The door opened before they could even knock and the butler ushered them into a parlor.
“Please wait here. I will let Madame know that you have arrived.”
Mary paled looking over the room. A small table with a glass dome drew her and she stood silently before it.
Elizabeth followed and studied the display. “This is it then?”
Mary nodded mutely.
The scorched and maimed bible with its fine dense pages sat opened, a bullet resting where it come to a stop.
“It made it all the way through to the Book of John.” Elizabeth smiled.
“I guess I loaded it a bit heavier than I thought.” Mary smiled weakly. “I was hoping it’d stopped by Matthew.”
A presence, more felt than heard, made them both turn to face an aged, elegant woman in black. “Josephine will be serving tea. Please sit.”
They sat silently until the tea was served out by an absolutely silent servant girl. The old woman sipped her tea and set it down. “What am I to do with you?”
Elizabeth blinked. She’d expected a bit of coldness but not such a direct approach. Before she could find a response, Mary spoke up, startled from her fearful pose. “What?” It was, perhaps a bit inelegant, but just as direct as the woman’s statement.