All I said was that we would have plenty of time-“a lifetime, to speak, when you are better.”

“Seeing you makes me better...” he rasped, and then the coughing fit seized him. Mr. Brooke had left us alone, in his tactful way, saying that he would go directly to send a cable, as the girls should not have to wait an extra minute to learn the good news. Another nurse, neither Clement nor Flynn, but a sensible woman of about my own age, came at last to administer his medicines. To my inquiries, she replied civilly that he had been on a course of calomel, which she gave me to understand was a powerful drug made with mercury and quinine, both of which were standards in the treatment for fever and pneumonia, and also laudanum “to ensure rest and help to bind the bowels.”

I sat with him, watching the drug work quickly in his depleted body. His eyelids were closing. There was a terrible agitation within me. There were things I had to know. I was aware that I should exercise forbearance. But as I watched him slipping again out of consciousness, it came to me that perhaps I would not get another chance. And I could not live without the truth.

I leaned close to him then, and whispered: “That nurse, Grace Clement. There is something between you, isn’t there?”

His eyelids fluttered but did not open. “Something...” he repeated. His words were a sibilance. I had to bend close, so that I was just inches from his face. “Long time ...” Suddenly, his eyes opened fully. He stared at me, and yet through me. His pupils were dilated, so that I looked into an immense, empty darkness. “My love,” he murmured.

His eyes closed again. There was no more. The drug had pulled him far away. I shook him gently, then roughly. I heard his teeth, loose in his inflamed gums, chatter in his head. Realizing what I did, I fetched my hands back like a guilty child and thrust them behind me. I stood up. I had been holding myself so hunched and tense that, as I straightened, the muscles in my neck and shoulders protested. I paced to the end of the ward and back again, and then sat down and drew out the small silken pouch. The touch of my girls’ hair, I thought, would soothe my troubled spirit. The first curl I recognized as my own. Then Amy’s golden cornsilk fell into my palm. Then Beth’s, Meg’s, and Jo’s-dear, generous-hearted girl, who no longer possessed a single curl on her head as long as this one—I smiled, but the smile died on my lips. For another curl had fallen from the bag. It lay in my hand: a tight-sprung ringlet, black as night. Negro hair. Her hair.

I am not an innocent. I know how people can be tempted. Adultery is a most commonplace sin. Did I not watch, for years, and from too intimate a vantage, how Henry Thoreau and Lidian Emerson were tortured by their desire one for the other? Even the best of us can fall. I know all this. And therefore I had to know the truth of my own situation. What had he meant: My love? Was he addressing me? Or did he mean, as I feared, that she was his love? Only two people in the world could enlighten me, and since one of them was incapable to do so, I should have to apply to the other, no matter how awkward the encounter.

But as always happens when one sets out with an absolute necessity of locating someone, Grace Clement was not to be found. I walked the surgical wards, then climbed again to the fever wards, but no one had seen her, no one knew where she might be. Eventually, I applied to Cephas White, whom I found carrying away spent dressings from the wounded wards.

I explained that the chaplain had recommended I speak with Nurse Clement, since she had been in the party that brought my husband from the hospital ship. He regarded me over his grisly bundle and shook his head. “The white nurses, now; I could tell you where to find ’em.” He winked at me, and gave me another snaggle-toothed grin. “There’s dormitories for them up in the attics here. But I’m pretty sure there ain’t none of the dusky ladies up there and I ain’t at all sure where they rooms is ... Maybe you could ask the laundresses? They’d surely know.”

Mr. White hobbled with me down the hall and pointed out the laundry. It stood across a cobbled yard at the rear of the hospital and announced itself by billows of steam that hung low in the chilly outside air. I had not fetched my cloak and so I shivered as I hurried across the courtyard until the humid heat of the laundry enveloped me as I stepped inside. What I had not reckoned with was finding myself in a dead house. The laundresses’ duties evidently included washing the bodies of those soldiers whose battles had finally drawn to an end, and the first room of the laundry was set up for this purpose. One corpse-a double amputee, I noticed, before I turned my eyes away-lay naked on a trestle as an elderly Negress plied a cloth over his abbreviated body, carefully cleaning around the stitches that had failed to hold the life within him. Two more ravaged bodies lay waiting for her attentions. She was singing as she worked, which struck me as unseemly, until I realized that what she sang was a hymn. Her voice was deep and resonant. In the clouds of steam that issued from the coppers beyond, I thought she seemed like a large black angel, serenading the man to heaven. Beside the table gaped thin plank coffins, waiting for their cargo. She looked up from her work and smiled at me, and asked how I did. In truth, I did badly, and could not stand there and banter across the bodies of the naked dead. I wished her a good day and pressed on, holding my skirts high off the wet floors, to the room behind, where several women toiled over washboards and mangles while their infants tumbled about like puppies, sliding on the spilled suds that slicked the floor.

The women looked at me curiously and so I blurted out my query. “That one?” replied an older laundress, straightening up and pushing a fist into the small of her back. “That yaller woman don’t bide with the likes of us.” The woman working the mangle caught her eye and the pair of them laughed.

“I worked here since this place was a hotel, and them days we roomed up in t’attics. But they needs them rooms for the white nurses now, so we’s all got give the shove, and we has to sleep down in the boiler room, yes’um. But that yaller girl take a look down there and wrinkle up her itty-bitty nose.” The woman pinched her own broad black nose and tilted it into the air, provoking general hilarity. “Not good enough, no ma’am, never mind she come direct from being a slave on over the river. So the doctor done give her a place in his own house, big ol’ red mansion on up the hill a piece. And way dat ol’ man looks at her, we reckon she ain’t sleeping in the servant quarters, if he let her sleep at all!” The other women convulsed with laughter.

I felt the color drain from my face. What manner of a woman was my husband entwined with? I was trembling with anger as I strode back into the ward, retrieved my cloak and bonnet, applied for directions to the doctor’s residence, and set out to find it.

The drizzle had turned to a drenching rain. The fallen leaves, rotted into a wet brown mash, slicked the soles of my boots so that I slid and skidded as I toiled up the hill. Water sluiced off my bonnet until I could not see my way. I tore it off impatiently and pressed on bareheaded, regardless of propriety. I had been careless pinning up my hair, in my haste to be at the hospital, and now I felt the sodden skeins unloose and dangle about my shoulders. By the time I reached the top of the hill and mounted the steps to what I deduced must be the doctor’s mansion, I was soaked.

The liveried Negro who opened the door was so appalled by my appearance that he took an involuntary step backward. My manners made no better impression than my looks.

“I want to see Nurse Clement!” I blurted angrily.

He was a good servant; his impassive face betrayed distaste only in a swift downturn of his lips. “One moment,” he said, and closed the door on me.

When it opened again, a tiny, silver-haired woman regarded me. She was richly clad in mahogany silk trimmed with a pale lace tippet. “Good gracious!” she said. “You are soaked through! Do come in and get out of the rain.

“Markham, please take Mrs.-I’m sorry; what is your name?”

“March,” I said.

“Please take Mrs. March’s wet cloak and bring her the robe from the Chinese room. And be kind enough to ask Hester for some tea.”

“Very well, Mrs. Hale,” the Negro said, holding my dripping garment as if it offended him.

“Do step in here, Mrs. March, and warm yourself.”

The parlor was very fine, with swagged velvet draperies and a marble mantelpiece surrounding a deliciously hot fire. I stood there, dripping onto the wine-colored carpet.

Mrs. Hale waited until the robe had arrived and been reluctantly accepted, and the tea set down by Hester upon a low table of polished marble, before she turned a direct green gaze upon me and asked, firmly but not unkindly: “Would you be good enough, Mrs. March, to say what has-prompted this extraordinary call?”

I set down my tea dish and stared at my hands, which were blue with cold and trembling. “My husband is very ill. We had a telegraph from Dr. Hale; he summoned me to Washington. I arrived yesterday. Today, the chaplain told me that Nurse Clement knows the history of my husband’s condition. I-I am anxious to learn of it. That is all.” I looked up. The cool green eyes regarded me steadily.

“And you did not think it could wait until Nurse Clement, who works with my husband for sixteen to eighteen hours every day, was on duty at the hospital? You had to invade the privacy of her dwelling and intrude upon her few scant hours of respite?”

I felt the sting of her words as an errant schoolgirl feels the slash of the ferrule. My voice, when I answered her, was small. “My husband’s condition is very grave. I have to know the truth so I might be better able to help him.”

“I think it is you, Mrs. March, who is withholding the truth. Grace Clement has been working with my husband and living in this house for half a year. Today, for the first time, she left her duties early, saying that she felt unwell. And now you arrive ...”

Her eyes traveled from my wet head to my sodden boots. “I do not think I shall disturb her unless you care to be more frank with me.”

I looked down at my boots. Scuffed, muddy. A piece of rotted leaf clung to the left sole. The right had a hole in it, and the water had wicked up my stocking. Mrs. Hale would not speak to me so, I thought, if my attire did not so plainly cry out “Poverty.”

I felt the fury rekindling itself How could my husband have set me in this humiliating situation? I raised my head. But the sharp words died on my lips. Grace Clement had come in, soundlessly. She stood just inside the doorway, clad in her simple nurse’s dress of dove gray wool, her hair tied up in a spotless white rigolette, her hands clasped calmly before her.

“It’s all right, Emily. I am quite prepared to receive Mrs. March.” The silver head turned sharply. I saw that her chignon was held in place by a diamond clasp.

“Grace, my dear, are you certain? It is not necessary that you-”

“Please, Emily. It is really quite all right.”

“If you say so, but—”

“Really, it is better so. I should like to set Mrs. March’s mind at rest.”

“Very well, my dear. But call me if you need anything.”

They spoke to each other like equals, like sisters. This was hardly the manner of a gentlewoman dealing with her husband’s fancy piece. I flushed, ashamed. I would not have listened to envious, malicious gossip from the mouths of white washerwomen. Yet I had been willing to hear and believe it from black

Mrs. Hale rose and excused herself On the way out, she took Grace’s hand in hers and pressed it. Grace, who was much taller than Mrs. Hale, leaned down and kissed the older women’s cheek.

She took Mrs. Hale’s place on the sofa and poured tea into the dish Hester had set for Mrs. Hale, but which had remained unused. Her back was straight as a ramrod, her gestures elegant and unhurried. It might have been her drawing room, her bone china tea service. She took a sip of tea, set the dish down, and folded her hands in her lap. Now the unwavering gaze to which I was subjected came from eyes of honey gold.

“Mrs. March, I have known your husband since he was eighteen years old.”

Her words struck me like a fist. I had to dig my fingers into the chair to keep myself upright. “I will tell you the whole of it,” she said. She began with her own history in the Clement household, and then disclosed in full what had passed between her and the callow Connecticut peddler. Then, she recounted, in detail, their reunion after the battle of the bluff.

When Meg was little, someone gave her a kaleidoscope filled with shards of colored glass. For a long time, it was her favorite toy. She loved the way that the gentlest turn sent the pieces cascading into new patterns. I felt, as I sat there, that Grace Clement had shattered my marriage into shards, and every sentence she spoke shifted and sorted the pieces into something I did not recognize.

How he had lied to me! I had been proud, when I read his words from Harper’s Ferry, telling of the inspiration that had led him to quit his unit and go south to teach the contraband. Now I realized the demeaning truth of it: he had been caught by a fellow officer in a compromising position with this woman and been driven out by the threat of a ruinous scandal. I felt the blood beat in my head. I called on years of discipline to keep my composure as her mellow, uninflected voice went on.

“Two months later, when my father died, I did as your husband had urged me. I wrote to the colonel, and he in turn recommended me to Surgeon Hale. It has been a most fortunate situation for me. Dr. Hale has taught me a very great deal, and Mrs. Hale has been kinder than I could have conceived possible. They have become my family. In return, I do what I can to lighten Dr. Hale’s many burdens. About three months ago, Dr. Hale delegated to me the duty of meeting the hospital ships and selecting which patients should be transferred to his care at Blank Hospital. That was how I happened to be at the docks the night your husband’s vessel, the Red Rover, came in.”

She described the scene to me, and once again she spared nothing. The ship was full beyond its large capacity; it had picked up a great number of burn patients, scalded when the steam boiler in their ship had been hit by a shell. Men were laid on every inch of boat deck, even on its stairs and gangways. Stretcher bearers carried them off the boat and placed them on the wharf She worked by torchlight, moving carefully among the mass of groaning men, laid out like merchandise, and felt herself watched by hundreds of imploring, worried eyes. “They are afraid of being stepped on, you see, for they have been: by soldiers running over them as they lay helpless on the battlefield; deckhands treading on them aboard the boats. So they fear boots in the dark.”

Her concern was with the surgical cases, but one of the nurses from the Red Rover, a nun, had watched her work and, deeming her competent, asked her to take note of a fever case, a chaplain who had been much beloved for his efforts among the contraband. The nun told Grace the story of the Negro mute who had brought him into the Union lines, of the scrawled words on the turquoise scarf. But my mind was on fire now. Had this mute woman been his lover, too? Why else would she have trekked dangerous miles to bring him to safety?

Grace Clement seemed to have no conception of the turmoil her words were creating within me, for she went calmly on with her narration. The nun had written a new tag: “Captain March of Concord,” which she had sewn onto his blouse. When Grace read the name, she knew him: “Though without it, I assure you I would not have recognized him, in the uncertain torchlight, changed as he was.

“I saw to it that he was transported in our ambulances. When I looked in on him at the hospital later that night, he was muttering in his delirium. I leaned over to adjust his pillow and called him by name. He came very close to consciousness-as they do, sometimes-and he recognized me. He thought we were back on Mr. Clement’s plantation, and that I was bringing him coffee, as I had done, the morning after the bluff defeat.

“I spent the night with him, once the surgeries were done. He talked a great deal. Ravings, mostly. But amid the babble, he told me things ... hard things... about the bluff battle ... things that he had not confided in me at the time. He blamed himself for the death of a soldier named Stone. It seemed that the boy couldn’t swim, and he was helping him across the river. He said he kicked him away in midstream, to save his own life, and watched the boy die when he could have rescued him.

“The next day, he had lost all memory of me. He confused me with another slave, perhaps the one who saved his life. He wept, asking pardon for the death of a child; for other deaths he thought he should have prevented, for captives carried back into bondage.” She sighed, and looked down at the still hands folded in her lap. “I tell you all this not because I wish to lay burdens upon you. But if you are to help him, I believe you need to know what troubles his heart. He has been dipped in the river of fire, Mrs. March. I am afraid that there may not be very much left of the man we knew.”

I had held myself in check until that point, absorbed by the effort of fitting her narrative to the fragments of what I thought I had known from his letters-his pathetic, dishonest letters! But this reference to “the man we knew” snapped my trance. How dare she couple herself with me in relation to my husband!

I stood up, pacing. All this false candor was nothing but a sham. I had asked him about her and he had said “my love.” I knew now that when he said those words, he had not meant me.

“He loves you,” I blurted.

“You are wrong, Mrs. March.” She stood then, so that we were face to face, her gaze as level as if she merely told me I was mistaken about the time of day. “He does not love me.” She turned away and walked to the window, looking out on to the rain-drenched street. There was a bowl of greenhouse blooms on a polished table near the sill. Absently, she plucked at a stem of orchids, improving the symmetry of the arrangement. “He loves, perhaps, an idea of me: Africa, liberated. I represent certain things to him, a past he would reshape if he could, a hope of a future he yearns toward.”

She turned to look at me. “Am I wrong to suspect that he lives for ideas, that he builds his whole world of them, and that it is you who are left to deal with the practical matters of life?”

That she knew him so well only kindled more suspicion in me. Her composure also was irksome. Who was she, a jumped-up housemaid born of lustful indecency, to tell me the truths of my marriage?

“You have been lovers! Admit it! Why else does he keep a lock of your hair-” and here my voice failed me. I pulled out the little silk bag and tore at it with wild fingers, dropping the curl onto the marble table top. She frowned and looked at it, and then her frown relaxed. She sat down again upon the sofa, reached up, and commenced untying the complex knot fixing the scarf around her head.

I imagined him watching her do so; watching her, by candlelight, as she bared her body for him.

“Don’t,” I said.

But it was done. The white fabric fell away from her brow. And then I blushed. The hair that tumbled from beneath the scarf was thick and black, but it fell in loose, heavy waves-nothing at all like the tight-sprung ringlet lying upon the table.

She raked a hand through the fall of her hair as if considering it for the first time.

“I have my father’s hair, you see.”

“Then who ... ?”

She took up the ringlet and ran it between her long fingers. “Who can say? But my guess is that it is the hair of a child. See the ends? They are so fine. It appears like a lock one might retain from an infant’s first haircut.”

It was a few moments before I could trust my voice.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Then say nothing.” She tilted her head on that slender neck, first to one side, then the other, half closing her eyes as she did so, and breathing deep as if to release an inner tension. It was the first sign she had given that this conversation had cost her something; that the composure she seemed to wear so easily was a garment put on with a hard discipline. She rose.

“They were drying your cloak in the kitchen. I will see if it is ready. The rain seems to be easing now; I will bring some more tea, and perhaps it may stop entirely while we take it.”

“Please, no; I have imposed here long enough.”

“Not at all. I am very glad you came. I do not think many women would have done so.”

She went out, and I turned to the fire, storing up the warmth for my cold walk back down the hill. Despite her words, I felt sad and very foolish and, yes, belittled by the morning’s revelations. There was so much I had not known. So much that he had not seen fit to share with me.

When she returned, her hair was bound up again in a fresh cloth. As she bent close to me to set down the teapot, I caught a sharp scent of starch and a hot iron. As I sipped the scalding tea, anxious to be done with this encounter, she asked where I was staying. I replied civilly, trying to make light of the vicissitudes of my situation. But she knew Georgetown, and the squalor of the canal, and she knit her brow. There was an irony here that at other times would have made me laugh: an ex-slave, feeling pity for my hardships. She wouldn’t let me leave until the rain had entirely abated, and then she walked with me out the front door and some way down the street. She would, she said, look in on me at the hospital when she returned later in the afternoon.

As I picked a careful path down the hill, I knew I could forgive my husband for his momentary weakness regarding such a woman. What manner of man—adrift and lonely, far from home, emotionally ravaged-would not be drawn to Grace Clement?

But I did not know if I could forgive him for the years of silence, and the letters filled with lies.