a fine man, Papa, and I do intend to marry him, but I donât have to moon over him, do I?â
âIsnât that customary when oneâs in love?â
Margaret turned her face to the passing city lights, not answering. Rather than rushing eagerly, she had slipped and slid into her engagement to Donal. Donalâs forebears had owned the firm of McKee, Withers, cotton brokers, for over a hundred years. The firm began in London but Donal ran it from its American headquarters in lower Manhattan. Donalâs mother was a belle, a Mercer of the Georgia Mercers; thus his father had chosen to live in the States most of his life. Donal preferred it too, though he kept his British citizenship. He said it facilitated travel and enabled him to get around certain annoying import and export laws. When Margaret wondered about these, Donal smiled and suggested she not trouble her head about menâs affairs.
Margaret was distressed whenever she consciously faced up to her feelings about her fiancé. Lack of feelings, rather. That lack generated guilt, something missing from her righteous annoyance over a possible war. If war came, many in Rose Greenhowâs circle predicted that it wouldnât last more than ninety days because of public indignation. Margaret took no comfort.
Music drifted to them; a popular melody played on a mouth organ. Miller said, âWhat a topsy-turvy world we live in. Dan Emmett wrote âDixieâ for his minstrels, the Lincoln Republicans marched to it last fall, and now it seems to be the Southern anthem. Passing strange.â
In ten minutes they reached the imposing red-brick town house north of the city center. Lamplight glowed in the fan-shaped window above the lacquered front door. Simms reined the horse by the hitch post.
Calhoun Miller took off his beaver top hat and left the carriage on the street side. He spoke to Simms as Margaret stepped down on the curb side. The town-house door opened. A spill of light revealed her brother and an unfamiliar visitor: an appallingly shabby plug-ugly wearing a green tweed cap. A small parcel wrapped in brown paper passed from the visitor to Cicero. The shape, a right triangle, suggested a revolver with a long barrel.
The plug-ugly ran down the steps and sped away without looking at Margaret. Calhoun Miller patted the horseâs muzzle as he stepped around to the curb. âFeed him, wipe him down, and thatâs all for the evening, Simms.â
âYes, sir, thank you, sir.â Simms shook the reins and the horse started its plod around the block to the rear carriage house. Margaret was unsettled by the visitor. Why would the plug-ugly slip her brother a weapon, if thatâs what it was?
Cicero waited for them in the entry hall. He was twenty-nine, a frail, bookish man already bald except for a fringe of rust-colored hair. An accident with a pet pony when he was four had permanently crippled his left leg. He wore a special shoe with a two-inch sole. He listed on that side when he walked.
Miller tossed his outer coat onto a bench and strode into the parlor where an unseen hearth blazed. Margaret paused dutifully to kiss Ciceroâs pale cheek. She did her best to love her brother, but he was neither warm nor affectionate. She felt a certain guilt about his childhood accident, although she hadnât been born when it happened. Their father was the one whoâd mishandled the pony.
âHave a pleasant supper?â Cicero asked.
âYes, Iâm sorry you couldnât come along.â
He shrugged and hobbled after her. âBusiness.â
âWith that person who was just here? Surely he isnât a client.â
âNo, just a friend.â
âSince when do you cultivate friends who look like bare-knuckle prizefighters?â
âHeâs a member of an organization Iâve joined.â
âA lodge? Youâre not the sort, Cicero.â
âIt isnât a lodge, itâs a