But as I drift off to sleep, satiated and heavy-limbed in Kate’s arms, I can’t help but think about the bloodthirsty killer still prowling the streets of Charleston—a killer everyone now believes to be me—and that our bliss is on borrowed time.
As we prepare for the next party, Kate’s mood is somber. “There will be officers from Moultrie at the party tonight,” she says. “Do your best to fade into the shadows, Lil. Don’t take any foolish chances.”
Officers. I immediately think of William, and a pit of dread lodges in my belly. Last I knew, he was garrisoned at Sumter, not Moultrie, but the two forts are close enough together that anything is possible. What would I do if I saw him? Hide my identity, like I hid from Dr. Broadbent at Barbara Kincaid’s party? Little good that did me. Broadbent saw right through my disguise. If I encounter William, surely he will, too.
But all the same, the thrill of stealing—the rush it gives me—is too undeniable to avoid. I have very little agency in my new life, and taking this risk is worth it, to prove that my life still has purpose and meaning. Not only do I feel the need to earn my keep, but the thought that we could use some of the chivalry’s stolen wealth to help those in need—people like Ruby and Noah—feels a lot like justice, underscored with spite. The planter aristocracy turned their backs on us. Ruined my family financially. Only the Quakers, a smattering of Jewish merchants’ wives, and a handful of sympathetic friends would trade with my father after his secret identity as L. M. Pilco was revealed, thanks to that scoundrel Leroy Burrows and his lurid journalism.
That evening, we row out again at sunset. Spring has come in full bloom to the marshes. Loons cry from the spartina, which ripples like an undulating, green ocean as our skiff parts the waters. The air is fresh with tender promise. We haven’t seen Ruby or her father for more than a week. As I scan the horizon from the bow, I wonder where they’ve gone. Wherever they are, I pray they’re safe.
The steam ferry from the city is making port at Haddrell’s Point when we arrive. Well-dressed ladies and several men in uniform disembark on the quay. I instinctively duck my head as we pass the dock site.
“Some of our guests tonight, I’d imagine,” Kate says. “This is a big party, Lil. A proper ball. There’ll be an orchestra coming later. We’ll stay until the reception is over, and then we’ll head home. I don’t want to linger.”
The mansion is large and imposing, its entry gate guarded by two grand palmettos, the gardens beyond lit with oil lamps. I follow Kateinside, where the butler takes her card, then ushers us into a receiving room. I hang back as she greets the lady of the house—a tall woman with a regal bearing, who looks vaguely familiar. Kate introduces me as her cousin from Greensboro, and the lady—Mrs. Henrietta Cole—gives me a tight, dismissive smile. It’s not until Kate begins performing in the front hall that I recall why our hostess is familiar to me. She’s William’s maternal aunt and the widow of the naval captain who recruited William into the Citadel. He’ll be here tonight. I’m certain of it. A social event of this magnitude would demand his attendance.
My skin prickles with anticipatory dread as I move among the guests. The belladonna in my eyes makes them sensitive to the blaze of lights inside the mansion. The wall sconces bloom like overblown roses. As a result, I blink constantly, my eyes watering. Still, I manage to steal a pocket watch within my first half hour ... and an emerald bracelet off one unsuspecting lady’s wrist. Though I’m tempted by the glittering necklines all around me, I check my ambition. All will be for nothing if I’m caught.
Kate’s performance is magnetic, her voice soaring to the high ceiling. She looks beautiful in her green taffeta gown, its bodice dipping low, showcasing the graceful line of her shoulders and her long neck. I watch the men watching her and can imagine their thoughts. As Varina, she’s the very picture of femininity. But I prefer her as she is at home, when we’re alone at Angel’s Rest—just Kate, with her trousers slung low over her hips, her shirt unbuttoned above her small breasts, the earthy smell of her sweat after our chores. I’m more in love than I ever thought I could be. While these rich men stare at her, lusting after her uncommon beauty, I have the smug satisfaction of knowing she belongs to me.
I weave through a cohort of naval officers, dipping my hand into one distracted man’s pocket. I’m rewarded with a silver dollar and a small, ivory-handled knife, its blade folded. I hide it in my trousers pocket and disappear into a feather-adorned coterie of ladies. I’m crossing to the other side of the room when I finally see William. He’s leaning againstthe wall, handsome in his formal uniform as he converses with a plump young woman in pink shot silk, her head adorned with a halo of curly blond hair. She laughs at what he says, fanning herself. I watch them from behind a potted palm as he leans forward to kiss her neck, just below her ear. They must be betrothed for him to make such a display of affection at a public assembly. Sure enough, when she lifts her left hand, I see a slender gold band around her finger. Not betrothed, then. Married. She’s his wife.
A flare of jealousy runs through me. No doubt she’s enjoying all the privileges of being Mrs. William Cameron. The fine house on the Battery, the carriage with its team of four, all the pretty gowns and jewels his riches will allow. The children he’ll surely put in her belly, if he hasn’t already. An ache of loss runs through me. The thought of our marriage bed filled me with dread, but I wanted to be a mother. Badly.
It would have never been me, though, at his side. It would have been Rebecca. His young wife resembles my sister, in some ways. Her rosy cheeks, her laughing eyes. I wait until William departs, until his wife is engaged in conversation with a trio of ladies, before I make my move. I approach from behind and, in one deft motion, unhook the glittering diamond fob dangling from her fan. I pocket it swiftly and turn around. My eyes lock with William’s. He saw what I did.
“You, boy!” He pushes through the crowd, his face a thundercloud.
Panic crests over me, flooding my limbs as I turn to flee, knocking over an enamel vase, sending it crashing to the floor.
“Thief!” William cries.
I rush from the reception hall to a small parlor, looking for a place to hide. I try the door on the opposing side of the room, but find it locked. William enters the parlor, a sneer lashed on his face. “There you are. I saw what you did. Give it to me, you little thief.” He closes the distance between us, his eyes filled with fire. I freeze, like a rabbit stared down by a wolf. He shoves me, sending me toppling to the carpet. My head collides with the floor, sparking a shower of stars behind my eyes. He crouches over me, his hands everywhere, searching. He draws thepocket watch from my jacket, and then the diamond fan fob. As I try to wriggle away, he strikes my face with his open hand. I gasp. And then he looks at me. Really looks at me, his green eyes widening.
“My god. It’s you.”
I say nothing, stilling beneath him.
He smiles, slowly, menacingly. “Well, Lillian. You’ve certainly changed.”
I feel the weight of the stolen knife inside my trouser pocket—a place he hasn’t yet searched. I dare not. I don’t think I can hurt him. But then he withdraws a whistle from his waistcoat and puts it to his lips, sounding a shrill alarm. “She’s here! Miss Carmichael!”
He’s calling his fellow soldiers, like dogs. I hear a rush of footsteps from the other room, ladies’ panicked voices rising in alarm. Have I really become so notorious?
As the phalanx of uniformed men rushes in, instinct takes over. Survival takes over. I shove my knee into William’s groin, as hard as I can, and then swiftly bring the stolen knife out, opening it with one hand and stabbing him in the upper arm. He yelps and rolls onto his side. I leap to my feet, though my head protests with a wave of dizziness, and seize a horse-faced bust of Andrew Jackson from a side table. I pitch it at one of the high, arched windows. The glass shatters. As the uniformed men surround me, I dive through the broken window, ignoring the pain of glass slicing into my hands. I land in a hedge of bougainvillea and roll onto the grass. The men peer down at me, shouting. I growl at them like a tiger, showing all my teeth. One of them draws his gun and shoots. A bullet goes whistling past my head. I duck and run through the gardens as more shots ring out.
I have no idea where I’m going. Whether Kate will be able to find me. Whether she’s in peril, too. People saw us arrive together. But I can’t help her right now. I can’t do anything if I’m dead.
I run until I reach Shem Creek, until there’s no breath left in my lungs, till my knees give out, and the distant sounds of the men fade. My old injury from the boar trap cramps painfully, reminding me thatI still haven’t completely healed. I crumple into the bracken, my hands a bloodied mess, Kate’s beautiful, tailored suit ruined. After a while, my racing heart slows, my breathing calms. I lie there, listening to the sounds of the marsh. I pick shards of glass from my palms, undo my cravat, rip it in half, and use it to bandage my hands. And then I start walking, slowly, to favor my injured leg, which is still throbbing. I find a skiff tied to a tree alongside the creek and climb inside. Though my hands ache in protest, I row, slowly and deliberately, up the creek to Hog Island.
After a brief nap in the hull of the skiff, moored in the spartina, I find my way back to my old campsite at dawn. The shoddily built hermitage has fallen down, and the spring growth has consumed the clearing, but I won’t go back to Angel’s Rest. To Kate. I can’t. I’m only a liability to her. I briefly consider taking my own life—for what choices do I have now? They’ll find me eventually, and I’ll die anyway, either at the end of the noose or from a bullet. I palm the knife, opening and closing it several times before putting it away. I think of my mother. Of Papa. I bed down in the ferns and cry myself to sleep, my heart sick with longing for a time when life was easy. When I was just plain, quiet Lillian Carmichael, and not the monster they’ve made me.
Nineteen
Memories of Rebecca in the days before her death haunt my sleep. Our mother’s vigil by her bedside. Dr. Broadbent’s frequent visits. Papa’s prayers. The bottle of syrup on the table by Rebecca’s bed, thick and unctuous, flavored with lavender and honey—and laced with the arsenic Mother had been dosing her with for years, in ever-increasing amounts, to calm her persistent coughing. The arsenic that no one knew about but me. The selfsame arsenic that was my undoing. I tasted the syrup once, out of curiosity. It was pleasingly sweet, the tasteless poison hidden without a trace of bitterness to serve as a warning.
There were other things that no one knew about. No one but me and Rebecca. And it’s those things that haunt me the most.
During the days before Rebecca’s death, I spent hours in the chair next to her bed, reading to her.The Bride of Lammermoorwas her favorite. We’d seen Donizetti’s opera at its American premiere in New Orleans, then again in Charleston, that summer. The soprano in the role of Lucia resembled my sister, with her red-gold hair and haunting blue eyes.
