“Yes?” Starbuck said.

“I was told Lieutenant Potter was here. A sergeant told me.” The girl faltered again. Starbuck could hear Holborrow shouting down the stairs for his slave to bring hot shaving water. “Come in,” Starbuck said. “Please, come in. Can I take your cloak?”

“I don’t want to cause no trouble,” the girl said, “I truly don’t.”

“Give me your cloak. Sit, please. That chair will be fine. Might I have your name, ma’am?” Starbuck had almost called her miss, then saw the cheap wedding ring glinting on her left hand.

“I’m Martha Potter,” she said very faintly. “I don’t want to be no trouble, I really don’t.”

“You aren’t, ma’am, you aren’t,” Starbuck said. He had suspected from the moment the brown curls had timidly appeared around the door that this was the real Mrs. Potter and he feared that the real Lieutenant Potter could not be far behind. That would be a nuisance, for Starbuck wanted to reveal his true identity in his own way and not have the dénouement forced on him by circumstance, but he hid his consternation as Martha timidly perched on the edge of a chair. She wore a homespun dress that had been turned so that the lower skirt had become the upper to save the material’s wear and tear. The pale brown dress was neatly sewn, while her shawl, though threadbare, was scrupulously clean. “We were expecting you, ma’am,” Starbuck said.

“You were?” Martha sounded surprised, as if no one had ever paid her the compliment of expectation before. “It’s just—” she began, then stopped.

“Yes?” Starbuck tried to prompt her.

“He is here?” she asked eagerly. “My husband?”

“No, ma’am, he’s not,” Starbuck said and Martha began to cry. The tears were not demonstrative, nor loud, just a helpless silent weeping that embarrassed Starbuck. He fumbled in his coat pocket for a handkerchief, found none, and could see nothing suitable to mop up tears anywhere else in the office. “Some coffee, ma’am?” he suggested.

“I don’t want to be no trouble,” she said through her quiet sobs, which she tried to staunch with the tasseled edge of her shawl.

Lucifer arrived, ready to leave for Richmond. Starbuck waved him out of the room. “And bring us a pot of coffee, Lucifer,” he called after the boy.

“Yes, Lieutenant Potter,” Lucifer said from the hall.

The girl’s head snapped up. “He…” she began, then stopped. “Did I?” she tried again, then sniffed back tears.

“Ma’am.” Starbuck sat opposite her and leaned forward. “Do you know where your husband is?”

“No,” she wailed the word. “No!”

He gradually eased the tale out of the waiflike girl. Lucifer brought the coffee, then squatted in the office corner, his presence a constant reminder of Starbuck’s promise that they were supposed to be leaving this hateful place. Martha cuffed at her tears, sipped at the coffee, and told the sad tale of how she had been raised in Hamburg, Tennessee, a small river village a few miles north of the Mississippi border. “I’m an orphan, sir,” she told Starbuck, “and was raised by my grandma, but she took queer last winter and died round Christmas.” After that, Martha said, she had been put to work by a family in Corinth, Mississippi, “but I weren’t never happy, sir. They treated me bad, real bad. The master, sir, he—” she faltered.