Dearest Enemy

She found herself swept up into his arms as he stated with a pleased grin, “McClellan's a military genius, no doubt about it.”

“Indeed,” she managed to reply, smiling up at him. “Did General McClellan thoroughly trounce Lee then?”

“Handed traitor Lee a crushing defeat! The Johnny Rebs suffered more than five thousand casualties without gaining a single inch of ground!”

“Ah, that is wonderful! A stunning victory for us,” she stated, hoping she sounded genuinely joyful.

“Yes, yes it was, miss.”

“After the victory, did…?”

“McClellan wisely retreated to the James River. He's encamped at Harrison's Landing.”

“Oh? Is it safe for his men there?”

“Couldn't be safer. They're under the protection of the big guns on all those navy warships anchored there.”

“Thank goodness.”

Throughout the summer and fall of 1862 and on into the New Year, Suzanna attended a neverending round of receptions and parties and balls, where she met and charmed her share of Union officers and sympathizers. She flirted and teased and promised more than she ever aimed to deliver. And she gleaned as much information as possible from the captivated officers.

Suzanna pretended nonchalance and lack of interest when the conversation was of the war. But she hung on every word spoken regarding the conflict's progress, troop movements and coming battles. She memorized each place name, each mention of a direction or objective. She carefully committed to memory the names of men she'd not yet met, but whose daring deeds peppered the conversations of the officers with whom she danced. Such names as the well-regarded Captain Dan Stuart. Brigadier General Samson Weeks. Major General Skillman Bond.

And Rear Admiral Mitchell B. Longley.

The admiral's name kept coming up in conversation, the officers eagerly exchanging stories of Longley's heroic exploits. Suzanna learned that Rear Admiral Mitchell Longley was highly respected for his brilliance and his bravery. It was said that he was fearless and cunning and as cold as ice. Confident to the point of arrogance, having no need of acclaim or accolades. A laconic loner who disdained social gatherings.

Suzanna was just as glad the lauded admiral didn't bother coming to the galas when he was in the Washington area. Such a man couldn't be counted on to share tidbits of valuable information; therefore, she had no desire to meet him. She was interested only in those officers who became amazingly loose-lipped after a few glasses of champagne.

Suzanna invariably sipped her own wine very slowly, but she often laughed and behaved as if she were tipsy. Those gentlemen she charmed would never have believed that, unfailingly, Suzanna was as sober as a judge. Or that on those occasions when she excused herself to freshen up, she immediately went in search of a private spot to write down anything of interest that had been carelessly disclosed. She was extremely careful and if she could find no privacy, she silently repeated the tidbit to herself, over and over, memorizing what she had heard.

When she did reduce an item to writing, she used a code concocted by one of the trusted couriers she and Mattie used to slip through enemy lines to deliver messages to the Southern commanders.

Suzanna had quickly learned what she was to be on the alert for. Always get the name of the military unit and commander. Find out, if possible, where the officer and men expected to be sent. The place from which they had arrived. Which scouts they had and the scouts' whereabouts. And to never be caught with a message that would give her away and endanger the troops.

She'd had a couple of close calls. Once, she was holding a hastily scribbled note in her hand when an officer came up from behind, surprising her. She had managed to shove the damning scrap of paper into her bodice before turning to smile at the man. On another occasion, when she'd volunteered to carry a missive through the Union lines herself, since a courier was unavailable, she had carefully concealed the paper in her hair, intricately dressed atop her head, with large curls circling her crown. Stopped by an armed picket on the outskirts of the city, she was forced to hand over her cape and reticule and bonnet, all of which were thoroughly searched, then handed back.

The missive had remained safely hidden in her hair.

Suzanna was proud of her modest accomplishments. She felt she was doing something constructive, contributing in some small way. She had received the gratitude of more than one Southern commander who had acted on gathered intelligence to save precious lives. Success spurred her on. She had become adept at drawing out the Union officers. More than one was guilty of disclosing information that should never have been shared with her. And she had managed to give nothing in return other than a few harmless kisses, which had been decidedly distasteful, but had had no lingering adverse effects.

Anyone who saw her at one of the glittering gatherings would have sworn Suzanna had not a care in the world.

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Twelve

Suzanna spent most evenings in a seemingly carefree pursuit of pleasure, but her days were spent worrying and wondering how much longer she could maintain Whitehall. In the early weeks of the war, Colonel Robert E. Lee's Arlington plantation, just down the river from Whitehall, had fallen into Union hands. Occupying forces now lived in his stately home, Arlington House. Suzanna went to bed each night fearing that blue-coated devils would come swarming into Whitehall.

Her own apparent alliance with the Union had thus far saved Whitehall. Still, there was the ever-present danger that she would be unmasked for the Confederate sympathizer she was. Should that occur, she had no doubt the Yankees would immediately seize the estate.

Even if that never happened, she worried that she would soon lose the mansion. The lengthy war had been financially devastating. The sizable LeGrande fortune had been lost. The tobacco fields of northern Virginia had long since been trampled down by thousands of marching feet. Months ago a letter had come bringing the distressing news that the once-profitable coastal cotton plantation in South Carolina had been taken over and occupied by the Yankees. There were no longer any indigo crops in Georgia. No huge amounts of capital rested safely in banks generating interest. No cash poured into the coffers to offset expenses for necessities. There was, although Suzanna never hinted as much to her ailing mother, next to nothing left.

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