by Lisa Prysock
“All three it is then! Thank you!” Jen laughed as she accepted Belle’s helping hands up from the blanket and smoothed out her gown. She tossed her parasol onto the blanket. “Archery first, though I warn you… I’m not very good!”
“Don’t worry! Papa will teach you!” Belle-Raine offered as Ridge joined them. “He showed me and I hit the target perfectly every single time!”
Ridge grinned handsomely as his eyes met hers. “Did I hear archery for my ladies?”
How could she say no without breaking Belle-Raine’s heart? Just the feel of his strong, tan hand resting on her waist to adjust her stance with the bow and arrow melted her. He adjusted her elbow and told her to lower her aim while he stood close enough for her to hear his heartbeat. Her heart and soul capitulated toward Ridge Morgan, but most of the time she wanted to refuse it and could not define what exactly about him drew her. Ridge was handsome; confident; wealthy; successful; strong; experienced; charming; and well-liked. He was an American southern gentleman unafraid to take risks in the business of being a plantation owner. She found him refined, educated, intelligent, impeccably dressed, God-fearing, and complex; yet, he remained a mystery. Maybe, along with everything else about him she knew, it was what she could not define drawing her to him… and perhaps his strong demeanor. While the young men did little to attract her lacking experience and wisdom, had she finally met her match in the strength and mystery of Ridge?
So many questions remained unanswered in her heart. It was part of the mystery of Ridge. Did he have the integrity she longed for— and who was Ridge Morgan? She understood he owned Sarah Rose Hall and stood against the evils of slavery. Aunt Millie looked upon him like a son and cared for him deeply. Nonetheless, she had a hundred questions she’d failed to ask him in the process of pushing him away. She’d read about silent, strong heroes in books… and now, one stood inches away surveying her form approvingly as her arrow hit the mark perfectly.
Chapter 13.
Planting Season
10 Mercy and truth are met together; righteousness and peace have kissed each other. 11 Truth shall spring out of the earth; and righteousness shall look down from heaven. 12 Yea, the Lord will give that which is good; and our land shall yield her increase. 13 Righteousness shall go before him; and shall set us in the way of his steps. Psalm 85: 10-13
One by one the fields were plowed and seeds planted over the course of the next few weeks. “It was all hands on deck,” according to Aunt Millie when Geneva remarked on how weary the able-bodied men of Grace Hill appeared when they returned to eat a late meal in the Staff Dining Hall behind the kitchen.
“Expect to have callers today,” Miss Tilson reminded the girls at breakfast on the Monday after Easter. “Since the holiday is over, they’ll want to call upon you to win your hand in marriage.”
The younger girls were instantaneously repulsed, but the older girls smiled quietly and told the younger ones to hush.
“You too, Miss Rosemont!” Belle-Raine remarked. “You’ll have plenty of callers! You had more beaus dance with you than any of the southern belles from Kentucky!”
“I certainly hope not!” Geneva replied indignantly as she buttered one of Delia’s buttermilk biscuits. “I haven’t time for callers.”
“Why ever would you not hope for callers? You were the prettiest belle there!” Dixie opined while ignoring her breakfast.
“Well, thank you very much Dixie, but I still don’t want any callers,” Geneva insisted.
Emma smiled and took a small bite of her toast with blackberry jam. “I think Dixie may be right.”
“Why don’t you want any callers, Miss Rosemont?” Belle-Raine inquired. “Don’t you want to get married?”
“Not until I’m given the spoon and the ring from the right gentleman!” Geneva answered.
“The spoon?” Belle-Raine repeated.
“Why a spoon? Won’t you have enough spoons when you get married?” Dorothea inquired as she reached for the raspberry preserves.
Geneva laughed and stirred her tea. “Well girls, you see, in Wales it is the custom of a gentleman to ask a lady to marry him when he gives her an elaborately carved, wooden spoon and a wedding ring. The spoon reflects something about their relationship such as how many children they want to have, or something about where they met, or perhaps a favorite flower of the lady. The point is, each spoon is a unique reflection of the couple,” Geneva explained.
“It sounds like a very romantic tradition,” Emma replied as she sprinkled brown sugar onto her oatmeal from her seat across from Geneva near the head of the table. “I think Kentucky boys could learn a thing or two from Welsh culture!”
Emma was turning into a truly good friend. Geneva genuinely appreciated her efforts to help her adapt to life in Kentucky. She had a way with the students, too. They respected Emma’s fair and direct manner.
“Miss Tilson, do you think Ansel is going to call today? He danced with me two times and asked for a third!” Belle-Raine inquired.
Emma considered the matter and commented with a shrug. “Hmm… I really don’t know.”
“Has he given you a spoon yet?” Geneva asked.
“No, no spoon yet!” Belle-Raine admitted, shaking her head.
“Probably not then, but he may come calling to give you a spoon if he is Welsh,” Geneva replied.
“I don’t think he is Welsh though I suppose it is possible…” Belle-Raine’s forehead wrinkled in deep thought as she stared at her scrambled eggs, wondering if Ansel might be Welsh.
True to Emma’s words, a long line of suitors who had each danced with her at the cotillion found their way to Grace Hill, calling upon Miss Geneva Rosemont beginning the week following Easter. She tried to be polite and speak to each one, but she wished some of them had thought to call upon Emma. Laurence Bolton, Charles Maxheimer, and Joshua Carson were among those who vied for her attention. They brought floral bouquets, books of poetry, sweet letters, chocolates, and calling cards.
The girls rose at seven to wash their faces, dress, and gather in the Dining Room for breakfast and morning prayers at eight o’clock sharp. Then they attended morning classes with Miss Tilson on the third floor. Geneva maintained her own morning routine of time reading her Bible and prayers; washing up and dressing, usually with Polly’s assistance; followed by a light breakfast with Aunt Millie in the second floor Sitting Room on weekends; and with the students during the weekdays.
After breakfast, she faithfully took a refreshing morning walk or a ride on Royal Anna. One of her rides took her to the very edge of Sarah Rose Hall. The view took her breath away. The white plantation house rose up in the distance with a two-story, curved bay jutting out from the center of the house. Two windows were situated on each side of the front doors in the center, and three bay windows above offered a view of the lush, green lawn in every direction. A three tiered veranda and steps enclosed the front of the house with elaborate stone railings. More windows across the two-story front gleamed in the morning sun. As she steered Royal Anna back toward Grace Hill, she thought of how lonely Ridge must be in the enormous mansion.
After her morning exercise, she spent time preparing her lessons on Mondays. This afforded her time to write on the rest of the days of the week. She often missed dinner at noon because she became so immersed in her writing. After her classes, she took tea each afternoon with the students, Miss Tilson, and Aunt Millie in the Sitting Area downstairs just outside the Dining Room. On Tuesday and Thursdays, she gave two piano lessons for thirty minutes each to those who had signed up: Belle-Raine Emily Morgan and Dixie Lee Randall on Tuesdays; Charlotte Hope Stanton and Gertrude Anne Nelson on Thursdays. They took their lessons in the Grand Ball Room on the second floor at the heart shaped piano so as not to disturb Aunt Millie in the Sitting Room.
When lessons were completed for the day, she was free to do as she pleased. She often took an afternoon rest followed by a walk. Sometimes she could be found reading or stitching a sampler on the balco
ny outside the Rose Room until it was time to dress for supper, always served promptly at seven. Evenings were left for prayer, reading, stitching more samplers, and playing the piano. The students were usually invited by Aunt Millie to the upstairs Sitting Room after the evening meal on Fridays and Saturdays. Sometimes they would play checkers or chess, write letters, read, sew, or listen to Geneva on the piano. It was generally a lively and pleasant time.
“How did you ever decide to begin the mission school, Aunt Millie?” Geneva asked one evening when Ridge happened to be the only other guest in the Sitting Room.
“”Tis an easy enough question, I think…” Aunt Millie glanced over at Ridge with his coffee. “It all started with Belle-Raine when she was about three years old. Ridge brought her to me. He was in deep mourning after Amelia’s ordeal. Not only did he have a lot of travel to do for business, he had no idea of how to care for a little girl since his wife had passed. So, we raised Belle-Raine here at Grace Hill. It just seemed to evolve from there until we had the idea to start a school here as a mission. We enjoyed little Belle so much! From there, it just grew!”
“Eventually, I managed to pull myself together!” Ridge joked.
“I’m sure it was a challenging time for you,” Geneva replied gently as she placed another stitch in the sampler in her hands. She didn’t want to delve into his darker moments or the details of his former grief Belle-Raine had mentioned. It was too personal a matter to discuss in front of Aunt Millie, not to mention the fact it might dredge up harmful memories best left in God’s hands.
It was one of the first times she had spoken directly to him since Easter. It hadn’t been easy to navigate discussions of planting fields and managing plantations, subjects of which she had little understanding, but she tried to listen to learn all she could. Most of all, she had learned not to step out on the balcony with Ridge. She would never again give him the privilege of being able to spurn her. Just thinking about the evening on the balcony with Ridge dredged up her former anger and apprehension. Sometimes, because her feelings were so intense, she couldn’t help but wonder if she had overreacted in response to Ridge’s actions. Were her emotions, perception, and responses to Ridge somehow confused because of the way Bryn had stolen a harsh kiss leading to chaos and broken friendships?
Geneva placed her sewing aside and decided a walk about the room might revive her spirit. She paused at the tea table to straighten the vases of flowers she’d received. She hummed a little tune and re-read the little silver tray with a growing stack of cards from afternoon callers. Gentlemen callers did not always know she taught classes each afternoon. When she missed their calls, they left their calling cards for her. She wondered if she should have some calling cards made too, but didn’t have much time to call upon anyone at the moment.
Ridge seemed restless, too. He refilled his coffee and walked slowly around the room. Geneva returned to her seat. She wanted to ask him a thousand questions but didn’t want to appear forward. She couldn’t help but notice he lingered at the tea table to read a few of her cards and the notes on the vases of flowers.
Chapter 14.
Miss Abigail Harrington
Who, when He was reviled, reviled not again; when He suffered, he threatened not; but committed Himself to Him that judgeth righteously…
I Peter 2:23
It had been nearly one month since Ridge had left for Pennsylvania on business. Well, no one knew for certain, but Millie assumed he was in Pennsylvania on such matters. The last time Geneva had seen him had been in Aunt Millie’s upstairs Sitting Room at the tea table where he’d been pouring himself coffee… with a view of the flowers and calling cards from Geneva’s potential suitors. Belle-Raine had been in a less than jovial mood during the long, unexpected absence. She had missed turning in several assignments for school each week as her father’s disappearance dragged on.
Ridge’s good friend, known to Millie only as Jackson, came by Grace Hill upon a horse to ask if she knew where he might contact Ridge on a business matter. Aunt Millie and Geneva had been walking the grounds that particular Friday morning. They invited him inside after he tethered his horse. Geneva watched her aunt fish out an address from the address book inside one of the drawers of her parlor desk. Millicent scrawled the address on sheet of paper.
She handed Jackson the paper. “This is the address for the Johnson residence in Philadelphia where Ridge’s grandparents live above a whatnot shop they own and operate.”
“I appreciate it, Mrs. Bradford,” Jackson had bowed and kissed Millie’s hand. He was a lanky, handsome, likeable, golden-haired fellow. Millie had not pressed him for the reason he needed the address.
He left Grace Hill with the address thanking her profusely. It was unlike Ridge to not share his whereabouts with Millie. Aunt Millie could not be certain if the contact information would prove to be helpful or not. She considered sending a rider over to Sarah Rose Hall to inquire further about the matter. Perhaps Ridge’s trusted business manager knew where he could be located as he usually remained in the know, but if Jackson hadn’t been able to retrieve this information from Sarah Rose Hall, it was unlikely she would.
It wasn’t like Ridge to leave the area so suddenly without telling others exactly how and when to contact him. She suspected matters of the heart were involved in Ridge’s absence, but Millie decided it was perhaps too early to speculate. She decided not to bother Jackson or her niece with her thoughts on the matter. Ridge would return when he was good and ready.
An interesting caller arrived a few days after Jackson’s departure. Abigail Harrington! Craymoore entered the sage green Sitting Room one morning apprehensively. “Ma’am, a lady awaits in the foyer named Miss Abigail Harrington to see you.”
“Well, isn’t this an interesting development? She has been a sort of companion to Ridge for a number of years, but I just don’t think he’s ever going to tie the knot with her. She still lives at home with her parents in Louisville,” Aunt Millie replied as she glanced over at Geneva, seated at the tea table writing a letter to her parents. Peaches sat curled up in her lap. Pendleton reclined beneath Millie’s usual corner chair by the fireplace. The pair had finally made great progress and now tolerated each other, at least some of the time. “Do send her in… and Craymoore…”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“If you will be so kind as to return in five minutes to rescue us… We may be in need of an excuse to leave the premise, so let us say we have an appointment to dress for. Then you may escort her to the front doors.”
“Yes, ma’am. I won’t bring a tea tray up then,” Craymoore added.
“Very good! Tea won’t be necessary,” Aunt Millie agreed.
Geneva observed this with avid interest. Miss Abigail Harrington had been a mystery she was keen to know more about. Craymoore closed the door and went downstairs to the foyer in order to retrieve the caller.
“Just stay where you are and bite your tongue! She’s rather the spitfire and spoiled type,” Aunt Millie confided as she picked up the teacup at her side. “And… as any good ship captain might say before a brief storm, brace for impact.”
“Yes, Aunt Millie! Will do!” Geneva nodded with a smile as she dipped her pen in the inkwell and turned back to the letter before her. She found Aunt Millie humorous and a wealth of knowledge. Millicent Bradford knew everyone and how to handle almost all of them.
Geneva attempted to focus on writing a response to news from Elizabeth. The letter brought the news Bryn and Elizabeth had returned recently from an extravagant wedding trip to Venice, Rome, Paris, and London. It was comforting to have a letter from a friend in hand. The news made her smile. The best part of the letter was the news they were expecting a child. Bryn, by all accounts, had mended his ways.
According to Elizabeth, all who observed him remarked he had transformed into a doting, loyal, and adoring husband. Geneva smiled with joy and happiness for them as she read the contents of the letter, hoping with all of her heart the reports w
ere true. She searched Elizabeth’s words for something of substance to confirm her hopes. When she found it, tears welled in her eyes--:
It is one of my great pleasures to share with you Bryn has come into a part of his inheritance upon our return to Wales, and what he intends to do with it I hope shall make your heart swell with joy. He and I have sharply felt your absence from our circle of friends, St. John’s parish, and the community. We have often passed by the Fenway Street Mission in silence, thinking of you whilst running some errand or another on our way to the Palmer shipping office.
Bryn has decided after a number of these occasions to build a new building for the mission in a more suitable location. Construction begins next week on the new building in the countryside of the Palmer estate, not very far from where our new home is being built on the northeast corner of the property. In fact, by the time you receive this letter, it should be well under way…”