Mankillers

Assured that his friend was comfortable with the door locked—in fact Asa seemed to welcome it—Buck hurried back to the dining room. The companionship of a beautiful woman was a pleasure he’d long been denied. Too long.

The first thing he noticed upon reentering the long, low-ceilinged refectory was that Sarah was alone. Waving off the attention of an approaching waiter, he weaved his way directly to her table.

“Where’re your parents?” He resumed his former seat across for her.

“Poppa was getting restless. Momma decided to take him out on the upper deck to see if fresh air and open spaces would help relax him. He’s never liked to be confined.”

“Almost everyone’s cleared out. Would you like to sit here, drink coffee and bask in my sterling company, or perhaps take a walk on deck too?”

“Do you want another cup?”

“Only if you’ll join me.”

“I’ve had enough, thanks. I’d much rather stroll the promenade deck in the su

“Sea, salt and sun at your disposal.”

He was acutely aware of the sway of her full skirt as she preceded him down the narrow passage and the subtle scent of gardenia wafting back at him.

Outside, she paused at the rail and gazed out over the gently undulating waves. He came up beside her.

“Do you envision any hope for my father?”

“I’m no expert on matters neurological, and I’ve had little opportunity to study up on them—”

“What you’re trying very diplomatically to say without saying it is that you don’t, that he’s not going to recover.”

Buck didn’t want to see the pain he knew he’d find in her eyes, so he continued to peer straight ahead. “I wish I could be more encouraging. Perhaps Dr. Meyer will be able to give you better answers to your questions and reason to hope. I’m sorry I can’t.”

She turned into the soft breeze blowing off the starboard bow and leisurely sauntered forward. The rhythmic puff of the engine two decks below throbbed beneath their feet.

At the white iron rail, she gazed once more at the heaving surface of the ocean. Buck again stood by her side. Several minutes went by in silence.

“Last night,” he said quietly. “What you said . . . It’s none of my business . . . but is it true?”

She hesitated before answering. “About being raped?” Another pause, this one longer. “Yes, it’s true.”

“I’m sorry.”

They remained side by side for several more minutes. The pounding of the steam engine seemed to accelerate, or perhaps it was his heart rate growing more intense. Primitive instincts battered nurtured behavior. He ached to wrap his arms protectively around her. His hand inched closer to hers until they touched.

“Would you like to talk about it?” he asked quietly, as he focused on the flat horizon.

“Why?” The single word wasn’t a challenge but a simple question.

“Because sometimes it helps. If it means anything, let me remind you I’m a doctor. Whatever you tell me will be in absolute confidence. I can assure you it’ll never be repeated to anyone.”

“You really want to hear about it?”

“If it’ll help you. I’ll protect your privacy as a professional, but I’d also like to help you as a friend.”

Anxiety dulled her dark eyes. He recognized the latent, unjustified but all too real sense of shame that victims of violence inevitably experienced, the unreasonable guilt of not being strong enough to conquer unconscionable evil, that somehow they were complicit in their own defeat. He saw too her fretful eagerness to unburden

herself warring with apprehension of the pain the revelation would inevitably impose.

“Let’s sit in these deck chairs here in the shade,” he offered, taking the initiative. “No one will hear us and we can see anyone approaching.”

#

“It started,” Sarah said when they were seated, “three years ago. Randolph Drexel, the son of a friend of my father’s, came to work in our accounting department. The scion of a distinguished Jewish family in Charleston, he was handsome and smart, quick-witted and charming. When, after the customary rituals of courting, he asked Poppa’s permission to marry me, I was thrilled. Within a few months of our wedding I was carrying his child, and Randolph had accepted my father’s offer of a junior partnership in the company. We felt blessed.”

A gust of wind ruffled her raven hair and threatened to undo the black-lace mourning veil. In an automatic gesture, she re-secured it.

“Fort Sumter had been fired upon and the war had begun by then. Randolph was able to obtain a captain’s commission in Colonel Steward’s infantry regiment as the quartermaster in charge of purchasing food, clothing and munitions for the troops. To my great relief and satisfaction his duties required him to remain in Charleston where we had numerous business contacts who were able to supply the large quantities of scarce goods our fighting men depended on.”

“Were you involved with the brokerage business?” he asked.

“I’ve worked for my father—not officially, of course—since I was a little girl. I think I probably learned double-entry bookkeeping with my arithmetic tables. After our marriage Randolph insisted a wife’s place was at home, and for several months I confined myself to domestic duties. But again the war intervened. All the young men, and many of the older ones, were drafted or volunteered in the fight against the northern aggressors. Cotton was piling up on wharves and in warehouses because of the Yankee blockade. Randolph’s contracts with the army had become our primary source of income. Naturally that was where my bookkeeping attention was focused.”

“I have to admit I don’t know much about accounting,” he commented.

“It’s simple in principle—” she smiled “—but can be convoluted in practice. It took me awhile therefore to discover a series of transactions that suggested goods were being sent to parties I suspected were sympathetic to the Union cause.”

“What did you do?”

“I had no choice. I presented my findings to Randolph, fully expecting him to either explain that I had misinterpreted the data or confirm my findings and take vengeance against the traitor in our midst.”

“Did you have any idea who it might be?”

“I suspected Boyce, a junior bookkeeper who’d been less than conscientious in his duties. My father had been getting ready to sack him when Boyce decided to enlist in Colonel Steward’s outfit. Imagine the shock, when, upon being told of my findings, Randolph erupted in outrage at me for spying on him. My first mistake was not recognizing that he’d been drinking. I knew he was under a great deal of pressure, and I’d noticed he’d begun consuming wine with our evening meals. That afternoon he’d started early and was already intoxicated when I served di

Her voice shook at the memory. “That’s when Randolph reminded me my name was no longer Greenwald but Drexel, that he was my husband and that I’d do well to keep my mouth shut and obey his commands. I was stu