Ashton rested her cheek on the bristly hair of his chest and circled one of his nipples with her nail. "What ways?"
"The exemption for owning a hundred and twenty slaves, for one. I doubt King Jeff will entrain for Valdosta in order to discover that a hundred and eighteen of mine are imaginary." He chuckled.
"I love you," Ashton whispered, "but I surely don't understand you sometimes."
"How so?"
"You carry on about conscription and King Jeff as you call him, yet you've stayed in Richmond when most of the permanent residents are running for their lives."
"I want to protect what's mine. Which includes you, partner dear."
"A successful partner, I might add."
"Very successful."
"You're the reason I've stayed, Lamar." That was true, but there was more to it. Sometimes the artillery fire frightened her to death, and she wanted to board the first outbound train. She didn't do it because she believed that if she showed the slightest weakness, Powell might throw her over.
She needed him too much to let that happen. In Lamar Powell she had at last found a man who would rise in the world, ultimately wield great power and control great wealth in the Confederacy if it survived — or somewhere else if it didn't. She refused to risk a separation.
She planted a light kiss on the nipple she had been touching and continued. "Poor James wants to rush me to the depot all the time. I'm always inventing excuses."
He kissed her cheek. "Good for you. I wouldn't want you spineless, like the wife of the tyrant."
Spineless? she thought. What a rich jest. Ashton had always been absolute mistress of those with whom she had dallied. Every man but Powell had willingly bent to her wishes. That she couldn't dominate Powell was one of his great attractions.
"You really hate Davis, don't you, Lamar?"
"Kindly don't make it sound so peculiar. Yes, I hate him — and there are enough men who share my view to form a division or two right here in Richmond. If he were strong — a dictator, even — I'd support him. But he's weak. A failure. Do you need more proof than the presence of General McClellan less than a dozen miles from this bed? King Jeff will preside at the South's funeral unless he's stopped."
"Stopped —?"
"That is what I said." Moist dark had claimed the bedroom, a dark redolent of the garden. Despite its passion, Powell's voice remained controlled. "And it won't be oratory that saves the Confederacy and ends the blundering career of Mr. Davis. It will be something more decisive. Final."
Naked against him, Ashton had a sudden vision of the revolver he had shown the refugees from Mechanicsville. Surely he didn't mean anything like that.
Surely not.
Like the man whose existence he suspected but whose name he didn't know, James Huntoon hated the President of the Confederate States of America. He would have liked to see him out of office, if not dead. The way things were going this June, the Yankees might achieve both objectives.
Huntoon lived in a state of constant nervous exhaustion, unable to sleep soundly, unable to take cheer from reports of Jackson's feats in the valley or of Stuart and twelve hundred men riding completely around McClellan's army — a spectacular stunt, certainly, but one of small practical benefit to the besieged capital.
At Treasury, too, boxes were being packed. Huntoon had to sweat like a slave, which angered him. Adding to his unhappiness were speculations about Ashton's absences. They were frequent these days, usually long, and always unexplained.
What a lunatic world this had become. The Grace Street house was defended against refugees and military stragglers by a musket Huntoon had placed in the hands of Homer, the senior houseman. Never would he have imagined that he would arm a slave, but with rabble skulking everywhere and mobs rushing to the hilltops to listen for firing or watch the Union balloons at all hours, what choice had he?
He listened for the gunfire, too. He listened to the drums and fifes of relief units marching out to the earthworks. And, unwillingly, he listened to the ceaseless creak of ambulances coming in — long lines of them, deceptively festive at night when they were bedecked with lanterns. There was nothing festive about the noises that issued from them. Nothing festive about the church foyers and hotel lobbies where the wounded and dying were laid in rows because the hospitals couldn't hold them.
Huntoon desperately wanted to escape the city. He had purchased a pair of railway tickets — wheedled, schemed, even bribed one man for the privilege of paying triple the regular price — but Ashton flatly refused to leave. She implied he was a coward simply because he possessed the tickets. Did she believe that or was it subterfuge? From whence came this new courage, this patriotism she had never exhibited before? From her lover?
Early one evening, while she was still out, he went quite innocently to the desk where she wrote personal notes to ladies of her acquaintance. Searching for a pen nib to replace his, which had broken, he found the packet of statements and letters.
"What is this bank account in Nassau?" In shirt sleeves, wet rings showing under his arms, he thrust the packet at her an hour later. "We have no bank account in Nassau."
She snatched the packet. "How dare you invade my desk and pry into my belongings?"
He winced and retreated to tall open windows overlooking Grace Street. The street was filled with Southern Express Company wagons doing duty as ambulances. "I — I didn't pry or spy or anything like that. I needed a pen — Damn it, why must I explain to you?" he shouted with uncharacteristic bravery. "You are the one cheating on me. What do those papers mean? I demand you explain."
"James, calm yourself." She saw she had pushed him too far. This had to be handled delicately lest it threaten her liaison with Powell. "Please sit down, and I will."
He fell into a chair that crackled as if it might break. Homer's shadow passed the open windows. The slave made her nervous with that musket. High in the eastern sky, a signal shell exploded. A flat report followed the shower of brilliant blue light-streamers. She began carefully.
"Did you read through all the statements? Study the numbers?" Flushed with heat and tension, she extracted one paper from the packet, unfolded it, and handed it to him. "That shows the balance in our account as of last month."
The fine, looping handwriting blurred. He knuckled his eyes. Our account, she said. Still, he was baffled. "These are pounds sterling —"
"Quite right. At present exchange rates, we have a quarter of a million dollars — sound Yankee dollars, not Confederate paper." Skirts whispering, she ran to him and knelt — humiliating, but it might divert him when she reached the trickiest part. "We have earned a profit of approximately seven hundred percent from just two voyages between Nassau and Wilmington."
"Voyages?" He goggled. "What in God's name are you talking about?"
"The ship, darling. The swift little steamship Mr. Lamar Powell wanted you to invest in, don't you remember? You refused, but I took the risk. She was refitted in Liverpool last fall, sailed to the Bahamas by her British captain and crew — and she's already made us what some would consider a fortune. If she goes to the bottom tomorrow, we've recouped our investment many times over."
"Powell — that worthless adventurer?"
"A shrewd businessman, dearest."
His tiny eyes blinked behind the wire spectacles. "Do you see him?"
"Oh, no. Disbursement of profits takes place in Nassau, and we receive these reports by mail that comes in on blockade runners. Water Witch has done so well because she doesn't carry any war cargo. She brings in coffee, lace — niceties that are scarce and command huge prices — and when she goes out again, she's loaded with cotton. There, I've explained everything, haven't I? It just addles my poor head to do so, but I want you to retire for the evening assured and comforted. You can fall asleep dreaming of your new-found —"