“No,” the older man conceded, “but you did grasp the hand of his hostess.”
“His hostess?”
“Apparently this man was a boarder at the house on Eutaw Street as recently as last month.”
“You mean the Branson Boarding House?”
“I do.”
Harold tossed him the publication. Henry quickly read. According to the Free American, twenty-two men and women from the Branson Boarding House had been taken into custody by the provost marshal and were presently being questioned for possible involvement in Lincoln’s death and the conspiracy to murder Secretary Seward.
The paper also noted that this was not the first time the boardinghouse had been under scrutiny. As Henry read the next paragraph aloud, a chill spread through him. “Miss Branson, a former volunteer nurse, was questioned in September 1863 by the provost marshal. She was suspected of helping a rebel prisoner, Lewis Thornton Powell, also known as Lewis Paine, escape from the US General Hospital here in Baltimore. No charges were filed then.”
“And you visited that same boardinghouse,” his father reminded him, “listening to that same woman complain about Federal soldiers prowling about her door.”
Henry raked back his hair. His mind was racing. Those soldiers saw me enter. The boarder in the parlor saw me, as well. He probably heard our very conversation.
He told himself he hadn’t done anything wrong—certainly not anything illegal—but he knew that didn’t matter now. The nation had just endured four years of war. Suspicion still ran high. Henry had entered the home of a Southern sympathizer. That was all the proof some men would need to declare him guilty.
I’ll be linked to the scoundrels who conspired to kill the president and his men. God help me, he thought. What do I do now?
“You need to keep your wits,” his father reminded him. “You need to protect yourself.”
Anxiety pulsing through him, Henry made the mistake of asking how.
“Van der Geld’s daughter. The man has the army in his pocket, you know. You can use that to your advantage.”
Henry immediately dismissed the idea. He’d already made the mistakes of listening to the complaints of rebel sympathizer and shaking hands with a murderer. He wouldn’t make another by marrying a woman he did not love, even if her father did hold considerable sway over the authorities of this state.
“No,” he said flatly. “I told you, I don’t want any part of that.”
His father scowled. “When are you going to learn that this is the way it is done? Crowns are won or lost this way.”
Henry had no desire for a crown. He never had. He told his father so. “I only want to do what is right.”
“Right or wrong has nothing to do with it. It’s about power...about how much of it you have over your enemies.”
“I don’t have any enemies.”
At that, his father laughed. “I wouldn’t tell Detective Smith that next time he comes calling. You had better claim a few enemies—namely John Wilkes Booth and the rebel army.”
Again Henry raked his fingers through his hair. Of course he wanted Booth brought to justice, but Lee and his army had surrendered. The men in gray were no longer his enemies. Some, in fact, like his brother-in-law, John, never had been. Henry grieved the loss of life their war of rebellion had brought, but he didn’t want retribution. He wanted restoration. He wanted to be part of the reconstruction efforts, to see his nation, his state, his city healed.
His father eyed him shrewdly. “Detective Smith will return. Just what exactly are you planning to tell him?”
“I will tell him the truth.”
“The truth will earn you a jail cell.” Harold reached for the paper and quickly flipped to another article. “The actors from Ford’s Theatre are already there.”
“What? Why? What did they do?”
“They were there that night, and Booth was there. Son, the president has been assassinated. Mark my words, this nation won’t rest until every last person connected to Lincoln’s death, no matter how trivial the role, is brought to justice.”
All Henry could offer in response to that was silence. He knew his father was right, and although he believed the truth would eventually prevail, he wondered just how long it would take.
How long must I sit in a jail cell before Detective Smith believes my encounters with Booth and Maggie Branson were purely coincidental?
He had seen what prison could do to a man. He’d visited returning veterans who had been held captive in rebel prisons. Many were starved, sick, withered.
Would a Federal prison have the same effect on me? Could I endure it?
And more important, what would happen to Kathleen and Grace if he were imprisoned?
They’ll end up in the care of the man standing before me. The man my sister rejected as a guardian. And he will not offer them any affection or comfort. Henry was certain his father would ship Kathleen and Grace off to a home for foundlings at the first opportunity.
James came to the door. “’Scuse me, sir, but Delegate Van der Geld and his daughter are here to see you.”
Henry sighed heavily and once more raked his fingers through his hair. Not this...not now...
“An opportunity presents itself, son,” his father said. “If I were you, I’d make the most of it.”
I’m not you, Henry thought. I’ll never be you.
Despite his anxiety, he was determined to stand on the truth. As his father exited the room, Henry looked at James. He was still waiting for an answer. The delicate business of rejecting Miss Van der Geld was now the least of his concerns, but the matter had to be settled.
“Tell Delegate Van der Geld that I’ll see him.”
James nodded.
“And please tell Sadie to serve Miss Van der Geld some refreshments in the parlor.”
James nodded again. He turned, only to have Henry call after him. “And James...”
“Yes, sir?”
“I wish to see Delegate Van der Geld alone. Please see to it that my father is occupied elsewhere.”
“Yes, sir.”
James had barely left the room before the elder statesman made his entrance. The man’s very stance commanded authority. His hawkish look and confident voice could wither a weaker, inexperienced man, especially a man with something to hide.
But I’ve done nothing wrong, Henry reminded himself. Lifting his chin, he stared Van der Geld square in the face.
The men exchanged formal pleasantries before Van der Geld said, “Sir, I would presume you are as distressed by today’s developments as I.”
“Indeed,” Henry said. He noted the small framed portrait of Lincoln pinned to the man’s frock coat. “It is a black day for our nation.”
Van der Geld nodded. “One that makes your proposal all the more pertinent.”
My proposal? Henry stopped him there. “Sir, I must tell you here and now, whatever my father may have said to you—”
Accustomed to keeping the floor, Van der Geld did not allow him to finish. “Unity is necessary to maintain the peace. With such perilous times upon us, surely you see as well as I the necessity of proceeding with the wedding in haste. Our city needs uplifting news. It is no secret that your father and I take different views. The joining of our families, a uniting of opposite parties for the good of the land, will show the people of Maryland our willingness to work together...compromise...goodwill...”