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When Shadows Fall (Shadow Series #1)

By Tina E. Pinson

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Chapter One
Stay open. Rebekah held her eyes wide, but after a ten-day wagon trip with her friends, Harland and Martha Graves, with little rest, her mind couldn't keep them propped -- even amidst the commotion. She hoped the White House staff would call her before they found her strung out between two chairs.
A child darted past, brushing Rebekah's skirt, catching her attention. Her head lifted on a rubbery neck as her gaze trailed the boy around the room in a dizzying manner. He trotted around, weaving through the chairs and ducked beneath one.
It seemed everyone wanted to see the president. How many of the women had come for the same reason as she? She eyed the door and thought about leaving so as not to burden him. Where else could she go?
Stifling a yawn, she got up to walk. Straightening her gray skirt and her bonnet, she went to look out the window.
Paved streets and traffic-laden thoroughfares -- how different from home. She envisioned the Washington she knew as a child, remembering little. The landmarks were hazy. New buildings filled the skyline, and so many people lined the walks. Had there been so many when she was young?
They all seemed to be at the White House today -- in the East Room, waiting for an audience with the president.
She removed her bonnet and fanned herself. Were summers here always so hot? Her clothes soaked up the heat and held it. Only an idiot wore wool in the dead of summer. Idiot. Leaning against the wall, she studied the scenery outside, the opulence inside. Despite her best effort, her eyelids grew heavy.
She went in search of a chair.
"Miss. Miss." The sound buzzed in her head, followed by a firm shake. She came to, blinking to focus and found the steward over her. He straightened. "It's time."
She gave her grainy eyes a thorough rub.
"The president will see you."
She covered another yawn, licked her teeth and lips, ran her knuckles along her eyes, and
took the steward's hand. He pulled her from the chair. Snatching her bonnet, she pressed it on her head, fighting to get it over her loose, rebellious chignon. Forfeiting, she flopped the bonnet on the chair and concentrated on her hair. Once satisfied with the way it lay, she bent to retrieve her bag. A shock of blond curls escaped, tumbled into her face. She battled to right it in a dignified manner and realized she had an audience. At the far end of the room, a man with a full beard and hat low on his head, watched with interest.
She matched his stare.
A broad grin lit his face.
Their eyes locked. He looked almost familiar. Too familiar. But he couldn't be. And she
didn't have time to find out why. After a couple of faltering steps, craning her head to study him,
she followed the steward.
*****
"Mr. President." Rebekah extended her hand. "Thank you for allowing me a moment."
"Don't be so formal, child. Abraham will do." He scooped a calico cat from the horsehair swivel chair and motioned for her to sit. He pulled the chair from behind his postmasters' desk, gently pushing the gray Tom cat sprawled there to the floor, and sat beside her. "How is my favorite goddaughter?"
"I could be better," she spoke candidly. The Tom wound itself through the president's legs in a figure eight before it lay at his feet. The calico draped over the desk and languished there, lazy and content. Rebekah held a yawn and turned her attention to the president. "I hate to be bothersome, but... if anyone can help, it's you."
"It'd be my distinct pleasure." The edges of Abraham's lips turned upward. "Your father helped me on many occasions. I consider him a dear friend and you, young lady, are just as dear." Long fingers reached out and brushed her cheek. "Tell me of your situation?"
Rueful, Rebekah told how her husband, Robert Montgomery, joined the Confederacy to fight McClellan in the Virginian Hills."
Her fingers battled as she talked. She fought the tears clogging her throat. "He returned safely home for a short respite, then he left again." The tears moved up her throat, she coughed and looked away. The cat on the desk, lifted his tail and made lazy circles in the air before dropping it to the wood again. Rebekah took a faltering breath. "He fought at Manassas in the summer of 1861. The Rebs were victorious, and yet, Robert never returned home."
She faced the president.
"I've searched for him this last year. When I learned he was being held in a filthy Yankee... I'm sorry," she excused herself before continuing, "a Yankee prison -- an asylum for the insane, I came to get him out."
"I rode here with another family who is searching for their son." She paused. "I don't know why Robert wasn't exchanged. He's ailing, but they won't let me in to care for him. I'd bribe the guards, but I have no money." Why he went to war, she didn't know, either. Nor did she fully understand the reason why he joined the south instead of the north.
"I'll do what I can," Abraham promised. "I'd love to meet your son."
"I'd like that. He's about as old as..." Thinking of the son Abraham had lost earlier that year, she stopped abruptly. Willy, wasn't it? She'd sent a card, and received a lovely response. How did Abraham feel these few months later? His heart must ache. Hers did when she thought of her own loss.
Willie had been Abraham's favorite. Cassandra had been her precious baby girl.
Abraham's creviced face spoke concern when he met her gaze. "Do not be concerned over my loss, Rebekah. It is great, but time will soften the pain. And it would do this old heart good to meet your son and see your family put whole again."
In spite of his loss, he was worrying about her, trying to cheer her. He succeeded as only Abraham could.
She smiled. "Andrew was exhausted from our trip. I left him to rest."
"An understandable absence." Abraham grinned, but his eyes held whispers of sadness, shadows of weariness. He seemed so solemn, too solemn some would say. He was a man of little emotion, others would proclaim. She knew better.
She remembered the towering giant from years past. When she was little, he seemed so tall. His lithe figure took up the whole room. She delighted in the feel of his strong arms lifting her high into the air. There she was big. Taller than her parents... as tall as the room.
"I can touch the sky," she'd tell him with a giggle. After her mother died, there were still visits from Abraham to brighten her day. The day she buried her father, Abraham wept over the loss. He remained an ever-present friend.
Being the most powerful man in the United States hadn't changed him. He was one of the kindest, most compassionate men she knew -- immeasurably taller in stature and character. His care for her, while grieving himself, showed the depth of his affection.
Reminiscing was medicinal, but she left the office over half an hour later, racked with guilt. Had she taken up too much of Abraham's valuable time? Surely he had far more pressing matters to attend to. Yet he seemed to enjoy the visit immensely, if not more than she did.
Quietly, she followed her escort through the White House, planning to retrieve her bonnet and, maybe, get a better look at the gentleman she saw earlier. But she got lost in thought.
She had marveled when she was led to the green room to await her appointment; the ornate decorations boggled her mind. Now her mind was so busy replaying the conversation with Mr. Lincoln, she gave little attention to anything, save putting one foot in front of the other. When she remembered where she was -- and decided to examine her surroundings -- she found herself deposited outside the front doors.
When she reached the street, it dawned on her... she'd forgotten her bonnet.
She studied the columned house and berated herself her forgetfulness; Andrew was sure to ask about the house and her visit and she would have little to tell.
It was probably for the best. Her bonnet was old and, if the gentleman in the East Room was who Rebekah hoped it might be, she'd be better to leave that memory behind as well.
Returning to St. James Manor, her Aunt Sophie and Uncle Henry's home, the home of her youth, she caught a nap, then spent the afternoon with Andrew. He quizzed her about the president, the White House, and his father. Encouraged by her visit with Abraham, she answered with a sense of hope concerning Robert. Perhaps they would be together as a family soon. Then they could go home. That would be the best news yet.
*****
Rebekah studied the room around her. It was nearly as she left it. There was serenity in the familiar, gentle reminders of days gone by.
Her combs lay atop the dresser, next to old bows and faded ribbons. The drawers held her childhood treasures, her clothes -- treasures of a dreamer... clothes of a girl now grown.
Giddy, Rebekah opened the drawers one at a time, inspecting the contents. Each drawer opened, each treasure uncovered, flooded her memories. The closet held her dresses, several worn but once or twice. Most looked new. Pushing back the dust of time, she fingered the black velveteen gown, the green and white silk.
Memories...
Pulling an emerald gown, she ran her hand down its length. She touched the delicate embroidery embossing the bodice and envisioned the garment's designer. She opened her locket and stared at the faded daguerreotype.
Memories...
Her mother fashioned the dress from a pattern her mother wore. Rebekah sighed. Her
mother lovingly placed each stitch -- the picture of her mother in her mind was almost as faded as the one in her locket. The dress, old, and dated in fashion, remained her favorite.
Cherished memories lined each stitch.
Kissing her finger and touching the daguerreotype of her mother, she closed the locket. Holding the gown up, she stepped to the mirror, and stared in amazement as the years melted away. A young girl, hopeful, starry-eyed and oh so lanky, met her in the glass. Rebekah smiled at the reflection and watched in wonder as the girl began twirling in her emerald gown.
Wistfulness filled Rebekah. The girl hummed and planned -- to the last detail -- how it would be when she wore the dress for the first time -- as a woman grown -- dancing with Matthew Cavanaugh. The dance never came, and the dream faded along the way -- waiting until now to resurface.
Matthew.
Memories...
Heat rose in Rebekah's face at the thought. The dress fell over her arm -- a marionette
without strings. She returned it to the closet, to the dust, the past. Hoping to bury it there, she closed the closet door and turned to inspect the room – but her heart's door remained opened.
Her old quilt lay on the four-poster bed of her youth -- a bed of rich mahogany. Time had faded the colors of the quilt, but the memories evoked were of the brightest, most vivid hues. She hugged herself and reveled in the quiet. She looked back at the mirror, and tears sprang unbidden as the girl slowly faded, disappearing 'til she was but a shadowed memory.
With her leaving, the woman stood alone with her memories.
Touching her reflection, a soft sigh escaped. Memories would stay memories, and she would treasure them forever, but new memories were there to make. She turned to watch her son play in the room she used to play.
"What are you doing?" she asked, joining him on the floor.
"Building." Contemplation filling his face, he pushed several blocks into a long, straight line. Once his formation was complete, he started another line parallel to the first, his tongue peeking just beyond his lip as he slid the last block perfectly in line.
"Care if I help?"
Andrew caught her in his calibrated gaze, his head inclined then he plopped a block before her. "That's for the barn. It goes right there." He planted his finger on the rug indicating the exact spot.
She set the block in the appointed place. "Here?"
He shook his head.
She pushed the block slightly. "Here?"
He grinned, and pointed to a place across the room. "There." He started to laugh. "You little dickens." She grabbed him and started tickling.
Mother and child -- the world barred behind closed doors -- built forts, read stories and rested. Rebekah would prefer to let the evening pass just as wonderfully. If only her cousin, Caroline St. James, didn't insist she attend the evening's party.
Rebekah was in no mood for a party -- a vivid reminder of the differences between the North and South. The South, wounded and weak, had little joy, while its northern brothers and sisters went on with life as usual. She lived in southwest Virginia, not the Deep South, but the war was there. And sentiments were strong, so much so, the state had split. War? What had they truly dealt with here in Northern Maryland?
"How could Caroline party at a time like this?" she muttered. Andrew looked up from the
book he read now, his lips twisted in confusion.
Rebekah heaved a sigh. "Don't mind me." His gaze returned to his book. She picked up a
block and twirled it on edge.
Northerners weren't unscathed by war. They'd lost loved ones. Many of their menfolk
returned home maimed -- if they returned. The block settled on its side.
Who was she to deny them a party? She picked up another block. She outlined the letter on its face, stacked it on the one before her and picked up another block to add to her tower, and still another.
They could party; she just didn't want to join them.
The North hadn't been spared the atrocities of war, but unlike the South, the horror of battle wasn't on their front steps. Well, not yet... for most. They didn't lie in bed wondering if the next cannon blast might destroy their homes, their lives. No, they held lavish parties, and continued with the gaiety of life. How they could go on in oblivion, was beyond Rebekah.
Maybe they weren't oblivious. Not like she thought. They went without. They knew sorrow. She flicked the bottom block and watched with slight elation as her tower tumbled.
Andrew studied her with new interest as she started building her tower again.
Andrew dropped his book and helped. "Can I knock it down?" he asked after they'd built it high enough it was ready to fall of its own volition.
"Have at it."
He gave it a kick, cheering as the structure fell. He started to gather the blocks to build again.
"And don't forget Caroline," she said as her thoughts returned to the party. Her cousin was another reason to forego the festivities. She loved Caroline dearly, but Caroline oftentimes wanted Rebekah around just so she could feel superior. It had been that way since childhood. Rebekah hoped it'd be different once Caroline grew up. Nothing had changed.
She threw up her hands. "Besides, I have nothing to wear." Andrew dumped his tower and gave her that quizzical look again. "To Caroline's party," she explained.
If Rebekah didn't know better, his eyes glazed over. He shook his head and went back to constructing the blocks.
"Well, I don't have a proper dress," she muttered. Everything she owned was dated and in need of repair. She never worried about fashion. Why now? No dress to wear gave her an excuse to forego the party. Then she could sit in her room with her son and consider ways to get her husband out of that horrible prison.
She didn't want her Aunt and Uncle to think her ungrateful. She would mend her gown, feign gaiety, and make a short appearance.
Of the clothes in her bag, only the woolen outfit she wore now had merit. Considering the emerald gown, an idea took shape. She might never wear it for Matthew, but she could wear it for herself.

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