"She's going back to Maryland?"
"Yes, somehow. She's determined, and we've no reason to stop her."
"Is she the first prostitute wanting a pass?"
"Oh, no, Colonel. There have been a dozen since Cold Harbor."
That night, on Marshall Street, he said to Madeline, "The so-called scarlet women are leaving. There's no more doubt. The curtain is starting down."
One personal problem continued to plague Orry: the mystery of the cabal, which had disappeared as if it never existed. Seddon had warned President Davis, Judah Benjamin, and others in the cabinet, but could do nothing more in the face of lack of evidence. Powell had vanished, or at least hadn't shown up at the farm. Twice, at Orry's insistence, Israel Quincy had returned to survey the place, finding nothing. From his own pocket, Orry paid a departmental clerk to go there at night to verify Merchant's report. Again, nothing.
Orry had seen the crated guns. And James Huntoon. And his sister. But the baffling events that followed his secret visit sometimes made him question his own sanity. Whenever he thought about the puzzle, the result was nothing but frustration. If Ashton had been part of a scheme to kill the President, she must be called to account. But how? The department lacked the manpower to watch her day and night, and he couldn't do it himself. Whenever he expressed the frustration to Madeline, she soothed him and urged him to put the problem away as insoluble. His answer was always the same: "Impossible."
The situation left him angry. Angry with himself, with his sister, with her husband. His feelings finally exploded at an unexpected time and place: an evening reception at the Treasury offices given for Secretary Memminger, who had let it be known that he planned to submit his resignation as soon as he finished a couple of important tasks. He expected to be gone by July.
Several South Carolinians in the capital worked with Treasury staff members to arrange the reception. The guest list included all those in Memminger's department and people from his home state. Huntoon qualified on both counts. He brought Ashton.
And Orry brought Madeline.
The secretary's humorless personality virtually assured a dreary party. So did its location. No spirits could be served in the Treasury Building, just a bowl of rust-colored punch of some indefinable citrus flavor. The wives of clerks and assistant secretaries had provided vegetable sandwiches, mostly carrots or pitiful slices of cucumber.
Munching a sandwich, Orry left Madeline chatting with some ladies and drifted toward his sister. She was, inevitably, the lone woman in a group of five men. It included Huntoon, cheeks puffed big as a toad's as he listened to a senior clerk declare, "Hang Governor Brown and his opinions. I still say recruiting colored troops is the only way we can continue to wage this war." Huntoon snatched off his spectacles to show the ferocity of his conviction. "Then it's better to surrender."
"Ridiculous," another man said. "The Yankees aren't so stiff-necked. My brother-in-law tells me nigra troops are thick as ticks around Petersburg."
Ashton, fetchingly gowned yet noticeably haggard — she had lost weight, Orry saw immediately — tossed her head in reply to the last comment. "What else would you expect of a mongrel nation? I agree with James. Better to lose everything than compromise. As it is, we're close to seeing the Confederacy legislated — dictated — into disaster."
Dictated was an obvious reference to Davis. Where had she caught the sickness of fanaticism and from whom, Orry wondered as he lounged against a desk near the group. Was it from Huntoon? No; Powell, more likely.
She saw him and broke away while the others continued to argue. "Good evening, Orry. I saw you and your lovely wife come in. How are you?" Ashton's tone and expression said the inquiry was obligatory, nothing more. "Reasonably well. You?"
"Oh, busy with a thousand things. Did you hear that Cooper resigned from the Navy Department?" He nodded. "They say Secretary Mallory was outraged. Really, Orry — we might as well have the Sphinx for a brother. I would understand it more than I understand Cooper."
"He isn't so hard to figure out." Orry's response was relaxed and cool. He fixed in mind that she was his quarry, not merely his blood relation. "Cooper's always been an idealist. High-minded —"
"Oh, yes, very high-minded — when it comes to disposing of the property of others. He shares that quality with some of our highest officials."
As if she hadn't spoken, Orry finished his sentence: "— fundamentally opposed to demagogues. And deceit."
Ashton was clever enough to realize he had introduced an element that had no bearing on what preceded it. Warned, she immediately raised a defense — a brittle smile — and looped her left arm through his while he finished the limp sandwich. She drew him toward a quieter part of the office, where she spoke to him like a pretty, puzzled child.
"You used the word deceit. Is that a reference I should understand?"
"Possibly. It could apply to your associate Mr. Powell, for instance."
She dropped his arm as if it were spoiled meat. "Cooper told you? I suppose it's logical that he would, the moralistic prig."
"This has nothing to do with Cooper. When I mentioned Powell, I wasn't referring to your little maritime enterprise, but to the group which formerly met at the farm downriver."
Surprise crumpled her composure for a second, before she masked it. Standing as erect as possible so his height would add to the intimidation, he bore in. "Surely you know the place I mean. Wilton's Bluff — where the sharpshooting rifles are stored? The .45-caliber Whitworths?"
A laugh of desperation. "Really, Orry, I've never heard such raving. What on earth is it all about?"
"It's about your presence in that gang of conspirators. I went to the farm. I saw James there, and I saw you."
"Nonsense," she snarled through her smile, then darted a step beyond him. "There's Mr. Benjamin arriving."
Orry turned. The plump, suave little man was already surrounded by admirers. He seemed more interested in greeting Madeline. He strolled straight to her side.
Ashton's last words had been quite loud. Huntoon noticed, excused himself from the debate, and approached Orry from the left. Ashton spun back to her brother in the aisle, exclaiming, as if she felt obliged to reinforce her denial, "What you're saying is absurd. Ludicrous."
"Call it what you want," he said, shrugging. "I saw and heard enough to learn the purpose of the gatherings. God knows how you got involved in such business" — Huntoon stopped next to him, goggling with shock as the nature of the conversation sank in — "and I realize most of you have covered your tracks. But it's only temporary. We'll catch you."
Orry had underestimated his sister, never expecting a serious counterattack. She smiled charmingly.
"Not if we catch you first, my dear. I've been meaning to find an opportune moment to discuss the nigger in your own woodpile. Or is it boudoir?"
Orry's palm was ice; his face, too. He peered around the vaulted office. The party grew noticeably quieter, some of the guests realizing a quarrel was in progress, although the only person who could hear particulars was Huntoon. He looked as if he might die within the next few seconds.
Ashton tapped Orry's wrist with her fan. "Let's bargain, brother dear. You maintain a discreet silence and so will I."
A blood vessel appeared under the skin of Orry's temple. "Don't threaten me, Ashton. I want to know the whereabouts of Lamar Powell." Sweet venom: "You can just go to hell." Benjamin heard that, Madeline as well. She flashed a surprised, anxious look at her husband. The three women in her conversational circle noticed. Voices began to fade away in mid-sentence. Heads turned.
"Ashton," Orry warned, his voice raw with anger. "I've been meaning to ask you, dear," she trilled. "How did you manage to conceal the truth so artfully all this time? You certainly hid it from me, you sly fox. But a certain Captain Bellingham showed me indisputable proof. A portrait, which I believe formerly hung in New Orleans —"