1862

Chapter Four

Even though they were apparent opposites in many ways, Rebecca Devon and Valerie D'Estaing had been friends for several years. Rebecca was very quiet and studious, and struck those who first met her as plain and severe. She wore her pro-abolition stance as a badge of honor and despised anyone who even talked of compromising on the slavery issue. Valerie D'Estaing was outgoing and vivacious, liberal and tolerant in her views, and took chances with her reputation that sometimes shocked the more conservative Rebecca Devon.

They did, however, share a love of learning, art, and politics. Rebecca envied the Frenchwoman's ability to live her own life and not wait on the pleasure of others. It occurred to Rebecca that European women of status were far more liberated than Americans were.

Valerie D'Estaing was also one of those people who was genuinely concerned about the welfare of others, in particular those whom she considered her friends. Among her virtues Valerie included loyalty. Thus, she had been almost as shocked as Rebecca had been when Thomas Devon died as an aftermath of Bull Run. She had stood by Rebecca at the graveside and had tried to help her work through her grief although she sometimes thought there had been more to the relationship between Rebecca and Thomas than she had known.

Valerie was gratified that her efforts at solace were starting to bear fruit. Always a slender person, Rebecca had become almost unhealthily gaunt from not eating, and had withdrawn into a world of her own. Now she was starting to eat well again and had actually gained some weight. The hollows in her cheeks had begun to fill and her eyes, always Rebecca's best feature since they were large and expressive, once again looked lively and not haunted. The results made Valerie D'Estaing extremely happy. It was time to take the next several steps to ensure Rebecca's complete recovery. Rebecca, however, had ideas of her own.

“Tell me,” Rebecca said as they strolled down Pennsylvania Avenue on a day that was bright enough and warm enough to encourage such late-December activities, “have you heard from Captain Knollys?”

Rebecca grinned as Valerie sighed emotionally. “My British lover has flown, probably never to return. I shall have to find another. Fortunately, that should

not take too long with so many fine young warriors in the city. However, you may be more successful at that than I.”

Rebecca flushed. “I have never taken a lover. That is your game, dear Valerie, not mine.”

“I know. Your late husband was your first man and you went to the bridal chamber a chaste but eager virgin. But now you are a woman in every sense of the word. No one expects you to be lacking in knowledge of what goes on in bed between a man and a woman. For instance, you cannot deny that you saw your husband naked and aroused.” She had spoken in French, which Rebecca spoke fluently. It ensured that passersby on the crowded street would not overhear intriguing snippets of their conversation.

Rebecca looked away without comment. Valerie paused and put her hand on Rebecca's arm. “Dear Rebecca, are you implying by your silence that you never saw him naked in the three years of your marriage?”

Rebecca nodded and took a deep breath. Sex was something that she and Valerie had never talked about to any real degree. “Nor did he ever see me,” she admitted. Back in Boston, she had seen her younger brothers unclothed on a couple of occasions, but never her husband, and never a man aroused.

Valerie shook her head in disbelief. So many Americans were such fools. “Do you wish to talk about it?”

Rebecca did. She had married Thomas Devon when she had been twenty-five and he thirty-seven. She had done so because Thomas Devon had presented himself as a good, decent, and hardworking man who promised to honor and respect her. His proposal also relieved her of the social and emotional burden of being a spinster or old maid. Partially because of the scar on her neck, Rebecca did not consider herself a beauty, and she had no real money to speak of. She was also considered to be a little too outspoken in her zeal regarding the need to abolish slavery. This had stood her well in Boston, but not in Washington.

“I had hoped for happiness, if not romance,” Rebecca said, “but I had neither, although I suppose there was a measure of security. Thomas never loved me and never had any intention of doing so. I was a social necessity. He needed a wife and I would do.”

Valerie had known of many loveless marriages. Too bad for Rebecca, but no real surprise. She had known Thomas Devon through her husband's activities and had not liked him very much. “And you never saw each other naked?” Valerie persisted. The thought fascinated her.

“No. Let's just say he was perfunctory when it came to performing the marriage act.” In truth it had been nothing like the novels Valerie had brought with her from France and had let Rebecca read

“Let me guess,” Valerie said. “He would come at night in the dark, climb into bed, pull up your nightgown, enter you, grunt a few times, and then slip quietly back to his room.” Despite her intense embarrassment, Rebecca smiled. “It's almost as if you'd slept with him. You didn't, did you?”

“No, although I've known men like that. Did you ever try to tell him what you wanted from him?”

Rebecca shrugged. “If I'd known, I might have. I just don't think he cared. After he was hurt in battle, I found his diary and realized he had a mistress.”

The diary also detailed how Thomas Devon had been profiting illegally from purchases for the army. He had been a tool of Secretary of War Simon Cameron, and the last few pages had told of Thomas Devon's fears that he would be caught and left to hang out to dry by Cameron. Devon had joined the army to make himself a hero and insulate himself from the worst of the accusations. He hadn't counted on getting killed. After reading it, Rebecca burned it in anger and shame. Later, she realized that it might be necessary to show investigators that shed known nothing of Thomas's affairs and that the diary might have proved it. No matter. Few wives knew what their husbands did. Her assertions of innocence would be believed.

For a short while she had wondered just what to do with the money that had accrued to her from Thomas's estate, since much of it had been ill-gotten. So far she had done nothing other than live on it, and had pretty well determined that she would not return it as she had no idea where and to whom it should be returned and in what quantity.

“You poor thing,” Valerie said, interrupting her thoughts. She had known that Thomas Devon had a mistress. She was somewhat surprised that Rebecca hadn't figured it out sooner. “Tell me, didn't you ever feel the stirrings of pleasure or the feeling that you wanted more when he was doing what he wished with you?”

“Yes,” Rebecca responded thoughtfully.

“Do you think he would have done what you wished had you known what to wish for?”

“It's been far less than a year since he died, so I don't wish to speak ill of the dead, but no, I don't think so. Too late I found that he lived in his own little world and wasn't interested in mine.”

“Well then,” Valerie said happily, “let's get back to the point of finding you another man. Your presence at my soiree the other day was a clear signal that you are no longer in total mourning. Believe me: my dear departed Captain Knollys absolutely noticed, so I guess it's good that he's gone. And General Scott's friend, that Mr. Hunter, seemed interested in you. There will be a handful of other events over the Christmas holidays, and I will see to it that you are invited.”

“You're very kind,” Rebecca said. “And you're a very good friend. However, it took me all that time to find one husband, and it turned out all wrong. I'm afraid you might spend an eternity looking for a second one for me and still not do any better.”

Valerie laughed. “Once again, who said anything about a husband? Regardless, we shall ensure that the next time you take a man to bed with you, you are well prepared and knowledgeable. You will have to learn at almost thirty years of age what most Frenchwomen know at fifteen. I was taught by a friend of mine at that age. She was very helpful. I learned from her how to both give and receive pleasure.”

She? Rebecca was astonished. “Valerie, you're not one of those women who prefer women, are you?”

“Of course not, although I admit to having tried it a couple of times. I vastly prefer men, even the inferior ones. I was talking about imparting knowledge through specific experiences. Surely you're not afraid of a little knowledge, are you?”

Rebecca laughed and blushed. “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, isn't it?”

Valerie laughed and the two women headed back to the French embassy, where they would have tea. She was intrigued and delighted that Rebecca hadn't rejected her suggestion. Poor little Rebecca Devon was growing up. This, she decided, could be very interesting. Their mutual love of art would be a beginning. Both had taken up charcoal sketching and painting with watercolors, but with limited results. Valerie had some skill, but Rebecca's work was stiff and lifeless.

Perhaps, Valerie thought, working with paints and charcoal would be a conduit to liberating the passionate creature Valerie thought lurked beneath Rebecca's exterior. If nothing else, it would be an interesting adventure.

As Nathan Hunter entered his darkened bedroom, he noticed a bulge behind one of the drapes. He forced himself to act normal while keeping an eye on where it looked like an intruder might be hiding. He thought about leaving the room but he was alone in the house. General Scott was visiting friends with Sergeant Fromm and it was Bridget's night off. No, he would stay and surprise the person by becoming the aggressor.

Nathan carefully laid his dress gloves on the bed and moved to rest his cane against a dresser. As he did, he pushed a release and the bottom of the cane dropped off. In the same motion, he quickly wheeled and jabbed the short sword into the bulge.

“Jaysus Christ that hurts!” a man's voice howled, and a body fell in front of him. Nathan planted his foot on the man's chest and placed the sword, really a modified bayonet, against the intruder's throat. The man's shirt was sliced at his belly, but there was only a little blood. Nathan had intended to shock, not kill.

“Just lie there,” Nathan said angrily. “Move and I'll run this through your throat till it sticks into the floor. You're not dying, not even hurt. I barely broke the skin. Do you understand me?”

“Marvelously well, kind sir, and I have no intention of moving without your permission. And probably not even then.”

Nathan paused and took in his captive. The man was short, thin, and in his mid-forties. By the accent, the man was Irish. He was, however, well-dressed and, since Nathan hadn't killed him outright, was rapidly losing any fear he might have felt at having a sword at his belly and then at his throat.

“Now, what were you doing hiding in my room? Looking for valuables, I don't doubt.”

“Actually, kind sir, I was looking for you. That is, if you are Mr. Hunter?”

Surprising and interesting, Nathan thought. How did the man know who he was? “If that is the case, may I ask why you didn't make an appointment, or even knock?”

“I thought the subtle way was best. If nobody sees me, then maybe no lies are necessary to deny any conversation. By now you should realize that it's the way things are done in this pigsty of a town.”

With one quickly moving hand, the intruder swept Nathan's sword away and, with the other, sent Nathan off him and rolling across the floor. In an instant, the Irishman was on Nathan's chest, but it was just a half second too late. The knife from Nathan's boot was against his throat.

“Jaysus,” the intruder gasped again. “You're very religious,” Nathan said. “How many more of those bloody damned things do you have?”

“Enough. I was taught that trick by an Apache scout. Do you want to see what else he taught me?” The intruder shook his head. “Then move back slowly and we'll both get up. Then you'll tell me just who the devil you are and what you want?”

Both men cautiously got to their feet. Nathan retrieved the bayonet sword without removing the knife from the other man's throat. “Start.”

“My name is Attila Flynn:” the stranger said, “and I wish to help you and your general win this war against England, goddamn them. General Scott is correct, you know. McClellan will never do anything right, and the United States might lose this war if it's not careful. While I don't much give a damn about the fate of the darkies or whether the rebels should become truly independent, a British victory would be the worst thing in the world for the cause of a free Ireland.”

Nathan should not have been surprised that this refugee from Ireland knew all about his mission, but he was. Once again, Nathan accepted the fact that there were no secrets in Washington.

“Mr. Flynn, Attila is an interesting name. I don't know that much about the Roman church, but it strikes me that a good Irish boy is generally a Catholic and must be baptized with the name of a saint. Saint Attila? I hardly think so. I once heard the litany of Roman saints and he was sadly absent.”

Flynn smiled. “My true name is Patrick Louis Flynn. My mother began to call me Attila when I was small because she wished me to be the scourge of the English just as the first Attila was the scourge of ancient Rome.”

Nathan relaxed with the knife and gestured Flynn to sit down. “And are you?”

“No, not yet. But with the cooperation of the United States, I might be. I am a Fenian. Have you heard of us?”

The Fenians were a society of radical Irishmen dedicated to freeing Ireland from England. They had been founded a couple of years earlier. While they had a sympathetic following among the Irish community who had migrated by the hundreds of thousands from famine-ravaged Ireland, they were not a force to be reckoned with-yet.

“What can the Fenians do for the United States?” Nathan asked.

“Why, dear sir, with our help, you can raise an army to fight England and emasculate that of the Confederacy’s. Are you interested?”

Nathan was. He put his knife back in his boot. “Tell me.”

Hannibal Watson stood in the sun-baked field like a large and muscular black statue. Sweat ran down from his head and over his heavily muscled bare chest. Outwardly he was stoic and calm, but inside he was in ferment. He was a tormented but long-dormant volcano about ready to explode.

But not quite yet.

It took time for news to reach nearby Vicksburg, Mississippi, and longer still for it to get to what Mr. Farnum called his plantation and others called a dirt-poor shit farm. Farnum had five slaves, one of whom was Hannibal Watson.

Hannibal and the other slaves had been disbelieving spectators to the discussions other people had about freeing the slaves. They had been convinced that while some white people in the North might wish it, no one in the South was going to let it happen. Then, when Abraham Lincoln had been elected and the South had gone mad with anger, they had allowed their hopes to soar. Perhaps, Hannibal and the others reasoned, there might be freedom in their future after all.

But then had come the news that the Confederacy had not only beaten the North in a major battle, but that Lincoln had done nothing regarding the Negroes in the South. When news came that the South had a major new partner in their rebellion, some far-off place called England, Hannibal knew that any hopes that someone else was going to give him his freedom were foolish dreams.

So Hannibal stood in the field and thought. What did he have to lose? The answer was very little. He was almost forty years old, which meant that he had only a few useful years of work left. At some point he would be unable to satisfy the minimal needs of the Farnums and would be sold again and again, forced to perform tasks that were even more menial and degrading than field work. It was illegal to kill a useless slave, but he didn't put much faith in that particular law to protect him.

Hannibal had once been a stable hand to a family named McAllister in Tennessee. The McAllisters had lost all their money and had to sell off their property, and that included Hannibal Watson.

The sale included Hannibal's wife, Abigail, and their young son, Joshua. That they were breaking up a family was of no concern to the McAllisters or the man who ran the auction. Hannibal went as a horse handler to one family and Abigail a house slave to another. No one needed the two of them, although he overheard several men saying that young Joshua had good potential, and that Abigail was real good breeding stock. Hannibal had stayed in Tennessee while Abigail and Joshua were purchased by someone from Virginia.

For months, Hannibal had waited in torment and then could take it no longer. He ran away. His poorly thought out plan was to head north, where he thought he could be free and then come back to find Abigail and Joshua.

He had only been away for a couple of days before the slave catchers and their dogs had caught him. The catchers had let the dogs chew on him for a while, and then, just to make sure he got the point, hamstrung his right leg. Fortunately for him, they'd gotten falling down drunk by this time, and had only hacked at him with their knives and not crippled him like they'd intended. After that, they had flogged him until he screamed with pain and then passed out. He walked with a pronounced limp, but that was because he wished to. not because he needed to.

Hannibal had been sold again, and this time for very little money since he was a runaway and a cripple to boot. Drunken old son of a bitch Farnum had bought him and put him to work at the Farnum Plantation, a motley collection of poorly maintained buildings that Hannibal thought would embarrass a pig.

If Farnum had a virtue it was that both he and his whore of a wife were so drunk most of the time that little work was done on the farm. On the rare occasions when they were sober, they would take out their anger at being white trash on the slaves by beating them. Fortunately, this didn't happen very often. Mr. Farnum liked to couple with Bessie, the only female slave in the bunch. This neglect was why Hannibal felt safe standing in a field and thinking instead of pretending to hoe the weeds. Mr. Farnum wasn't particularly mean, just stupid. Mrs. Farnum, however, was shrill and cruel. She was particularly nasty to Bessie since she knew her husband was fucking the slave and not herself.

Hannibal made a decision. It was the most important one of his life. He would run away again. There was no hope in waiting for Lincoln and his soldiers to bring freedom. Lincoln and the North had failed. Hannibal knew that age would overtake him long before the North tried again. No, freedom would have to be taken.

Hannibal fully understood what had gone wrong the first time he'd run away. He had acted with his emotions and not with his brain. He knew he was intelligent and the leader of Farnurn's Negroes. This time he would plan.

His primary mistake was in letting his absence be discovered so quickly that the chase began before he had gotten very far. This would not happen again. He did not particularly wish to harm the Farnums or the other slaves, who he knew were scared to death of the thought of leaving, but it would have to be. Each hour his absence went undiscovered would mean a couple of miles between himself and continued slavery. He speculated that a couple of days' head start might even see him close to the Union army.

It had been ten years since he had been separated from Abigail and Joshua. He didn't even know if they were still alive. Perhaps Joshua had been sold to someone else. Why not; he'd be about fourteen now. He had to find them. It was eating him alive.

The Farnums and the weaker slaves would have to die. He hefted the hoe and wondered just how it would feel to drive the blade deep into old Farnum's bald red skull. He thought it would feel wonderful.

Attila Flynn explained himself clearly and carefully to Nathan Hunter and to a barely cordial General Scott. Flynn firmly believed in the old dictum that “the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Therefore, the United States, as well as being a haven for Irish immigrants, was firmly in the Irish camp whether it wanted to be or not. Nathan thought it was the other way around, but kept his counsel.

“People who are not Irish,” Flynn said, “have no idea of the depth of hatred that we feel for England. She has enslaved us over the centuries, deprived us of our right to worship in the true faith, denied us representation, and then starved us in an attempt to drive us out of Ireland.”

“Do you feel the famine was intentional?” Nathan asked incredulously.

“The blight that destroyed the potato crops for successive years was an act of God. The decision to withhold aid to the people of Ireland was an act of the British government. Are you aware that English landowners of Irish farms that did have successful crops actually exported foodstuffs to England and elsewhere?”

“No,” said Nathan. He caught General Scott watching Flynn carefully.

“Private charities tried to help us,” Flynn continued, “but they were overwhelmed. My mother died nursing my brother, who also died. My father just disappeared one day. I managed to lie and steal until I was old enough to enlist in the army. At least they fed me.”

“Then you served England,” Scott said.

“I would have served the Ottoman caliph and let him bugger me in the ass if he would have fed me. Yes, I served in the British army and wore their damned red coat.” He stood and whipped off his jacket and shirt. “Look at my back. See the stripes and scars? Sometimes I got flogged because I deserved it, but most of the time it was because I spoke funny, and the sergeants and officers didn't like that. There were a number of us Irish in Victoria's fucking army, and there are a lot of us veterans who've finally made it here to the States.”

“And that brings us to your point, doesn't it?” General Scott said quietly. His animosity towards anything Irish had diminished on hearing Flynn's story.

“Indeed it does, sir. I wish for America to raise an Irish army to fight the British.”

“But we do have an Irish Brigade,” said Nathan, referring to a number of Irish regiments from New York City. “And there are a number of Irish officers, perhaps even a general or two.”

Attila Flynn smiled. “Yes, just as there are Irishmen serving the Confederacy, although not in so many numbers as those who serve the Union. Fortunate you are that both Boston and New York are in the North. If more Irish had settled in New Orleans, like the rebel colonel Patrick Cieburne did before moving to Arkansas, then you'd have lost the war already. Don't you wonder what a good Irishman like Cieburne is thinking of now that he finds himself an ally of England? He may not be a general today, but he will be tomorrow.”

“Let's get back to your original statement,” Scott injected. “What specifically are you proposing?”

“Dear General Scott,” Flynn said, “while the Irish have joined on both sides to fight for their adopted countries, there are countless tens of thousands who have not. I wish Mr. Lincoln to do two things. One, I wish him to form an Irish army, not a mere brigade, for the sole and entire purpose of fighting England. They would not serve against the South. I believe you would have droves of volunteers.”

“And the second?” Nathan asked.

“I wish the North to actively subvert those Irishmen who are serving the South. Promise them amnesty, promise them farms, promise them anything, but get them out of the rebel ranks and, if not into ours, then out of the fight. I promise you that men like Patrick Cieburne are not sleeping well at night.”

“You know this Cieburne?” Nathan asked. Until this conversation he had never heard of Patrick Cieburne and he was reasonably certain General Scott hadn't either.

“I served with him. We were both privates in fucking Victoria's fucking army. Pardon my French, General. Right now he's a colonel among a lot of colonels, but Patrick is both smart and a fighter. One more battle and he'll come out a general. That is, if he lives, of course.”

“Have you discussed this with anyone else?” Scott asked.

“I tried to get in to see Lincoln and got nowhere, and I was almost thrown out on my ass when I tried to see McClellan. Hell, that's the main reason I broke into Mr. Hunter's room. The front door isn't open to Irishmen all the time, but that just makes it a little more difficult.”

Nathan wondered if their cook and housekeeper, Bridget Conlin, had provided Flynn with access and information as to their aspirations. It seemed probable. He decided he really didn't want to know, but he would be careful about what he said and did in Bridget's hearing.

Scott looked at the clock on the wall. “Nathan, aren't you supposed to be at the French embassy?”

“It can wait, sir.” It was New Year's Day and a small reception was being held at the French embassy. Madame D'Estaing had personally invited Nathan.

“No,” Scott said with a satisfied look on his face. “I will continue to talk and exchange thoughts with Mr. Flynn. You go to the embassy and mingle.”

The New Year's Eve that brought in 1862 had been celebrated fairly sedately in Washington, D.C. A few people got drunk, but most went to quiet parties if they went anywhere at all. The capital was in what some described as either a state of shock or premature mourning over the fact that it was faced with two enemies. One was only a couple of miles away and the other bound to appear on the Atlantic horizon at any moment, and that realization was sobering.

A few receptions were held on New Year's Day, but they, too, were very decorous and proper. The Lincolns received a small group of well-wishers in the White House and then retired to their privacy.

Nathan Hunter had not been invited to the White House, but he had been invited to a buffet at the French embassy. On entering he was greeted warmly by Valerie D'Estaing, who made him feel like a lost but beloved relative. The ever-present Rebecca Devon was beside her, and Nathan wondered if they were attached, perhaps at the hip. He was wrong. As he got a glass of champagne and some small sandwiches, he found Rebecca filling her plate as well. They nodded and walked off together.

Nathan and Rebecca spoke of general things, beginning with the small and moving towards the complex. He was surprised and impressed to know that she understood the theories of Darwin and Marx, and had strong feelings regarding both of them. Most women he knew understood next to nothing about either man's theories. Darwin's book, On the Origin of Species, had come out in 1853, and had caused a stir. Traditional churchmen condemned it as being contrary to God's word, while the more liberal were at least willing to think it over.

“Do you believe in it?” Nathan asked.

“Yes,” she said. “It just makes too much sense. When Darwin's conclusions are compared with Owens's findings regarding those creatures he called dinosauria, we must conclude that species change over time, even becoming extinct. As to the traditional view that they all disappeared in Noah's flood, it seems improbable that so many great creatures could have roamed the earth at the same time as man without anyone noting either their presence or their passing.”

“And Marx?”

“He is both right and wrong. There is a struggle between the rich and the poor, the oppressors and the oppressed. But I do not agree with both him and Engels that capitalism will be overthrown. I agree wholeheartedly with Adam Smith's laws of supply and demand. I only wish he wasn't dead so I could write to him as I did with Marx. Of course, I had to sign myself as a man. I don't know how he feels about women having brains.”

Nathan smiled. Rebecca Devon was indeed quite different. “And he responded?”

“Several times. But then I got argumentative about the slaves and he stopped answering. I believe that Negro slaves are the most persecuted people in this nation and must be uplifted. They must be freed.”

Now they began to differ. Nathan still felt that Lincoln's election had caused the secession and the war, and that he had blundered by sending an unarmed ship to Fort Sumter. “An armed sloop would have been better. Perhaps it would have cowed the rebels into not seceding, but it would not have freed the slaves. That must come gradually, so they can be incorporated into our society.”

Rebecca shook her head vehemently. The tip of her scar that appeared above her collar had turned red. “It must come now and without hesitation. A man only has one life to live and it should not be as a man in shackles for any of it. No, I disagree with Lincoln because he isn't firm enough. He must emancipate the Negro everywhere and let the chips fall where they may.”

“The Negro isn't ready for freedom,” Nathan insisted. His discussion with Rebecca reminded him of similar talks with Amy. He found he was enjoying himself. “And besides, how would he free those in the rebel states? He cannot free what he does not control.”

“Then we must actively prepare the black man for his freedom. We prepared him for generations of a life of slavery, now we must work to change it. As to the other part of it, the fact that we haven't conquered the South, well, that should be an even greater reason for winning the war.”

“But what if an emancipation proclamation costs us the border states?” It was an irony that slavery existed legally in states like Maryland, which was still in the Union.

“Mr. Hunter, there is no such thing as a man being half free. Yes, even if the border states do try to go their own way, the slaves must be freed.”

Nathan nodded. He thought he understood her passion for the cause. It had claimed her husband's life, and now his sacrifice must be seen as worthy, otherwise his life had meant nothing.

While disagreeing with her on the slavery issue, he found her intellect both fascinating and charming. He also decided that she was nowhere near as plain as he'd first thought. She had large, intelligent eyes, clear skin, a trim figure, and the darkest, blackest hair he'd ever seen. She had a wide mouth that looked like it wanted to smile, but wasn't ready to yet.

Nathan wondered if he'd see her again, or if their plain talking and his contrary responses had alienated her. He laughed. Perhaps he could find her a dinosauria bone and present it as a peace offering.

Neither Nathan nor Rebecca saw Madame D'Estaing watching their discussion. If she'd been a cat, Valerie would have purred.