“I want to see his grave,” he said.
It was useless to argue, useless to point out he was too ill to travel.
“I’m better,” he insisted. “Much better.”
In the end she yielded, though against her better judgment.
Royce would accompany them. Amélie protested, saying it wasn’t really necessary. But Royce refused to consider an argument on the matter.
“You can’t make that journey alone with a sick man.”
His parents were more than happy to lend them a cart and mule. Amélie suspected that this generosity was motivated in large part by relief. Royce was free now to make a more sensible marriage, one that would keep him on the farm. Still, Amélie bore no grudge. The Woodsons had been kind to her, accepting her despite their private misgivings. And they had been more than charitable to Thaddeus, her husband, given up for dead, ill and requiring care. They asked no questions. When she left she thanked them profusely with a sincerity she had no need to pretend.
The back of the cart had been fitted out with a shuck mattress and pillow. Amélie sat with Thaddeus, cradling his head in her lap against the jolting of springless wheels as Royce drove. Conversation was at a minimum even when they camped at night. But one evening as Thaddeus slept Amélie lingered with Royce over the cooking fire. She had come to the decision to tell him all of the truth.
“There’s something I must clear up,” she said, speaking in a low voice. “Thaddeus was never a spy. He deserted.”
“Amélie, it isn’t necessary—”
“No. I want to tell you. So you’ll know and not wonder. He deserted and exchanged uniforms with a Yankee. And joined the bummers willingly.”
“I see. So Damon Fowler had nothing to do with your husband at Donelson.”
“He had nothing to do with him,” Amélie echoed.
The fire crackled and spit as Royce removed the blackened coffee pot. “I asked you this question once before, but I’ll ask it again. Do you still love Thaddeus?”
“He is my husband.”
“That is not an answer, Amélie. Do you still love him?”
“No,” she said honestly after a long moment. “I don’t love him. But I pity him and that is enough, isn’t it?”
“I wonder,” he said, fixing her with shadowed eyes.
They had been on the road three days when Thaddeus took a turn for the worse. Wracked with fever one moment, shaking with chills the next, his mind wandered back to his childhood. He spoke of his mother, his Negro nurse, the tutor who had taught him his letters. There were long stretches where he didn’t recognize Amélie but imagined himself riding his horse through the pastures of Bancroft, fording creeks, leaping stone fences.
“We must get him to a doctor,” Amélie told Royce.
Consulting his map he said, “If we take a shortcut we can reach Ashland by nightfall.”
They jolted across an abandoned field ravaged by a battle of the Peninsula campaign fiercely fought some two years ago, still littered with spent shells, rusting canteens, rotting canvas, and broken wheels. An eerie silence lay over the deserted wreckage. No birds sang, no voice broke the ghostly stillness. Along the edges wooden crosses marking hastily dug graves stood like sentinals guarding the dead.
Entering the trees on the far side they followed a track that led them through red oak, spruce, and beech. Here, too, they came upon signs of conflict: blackened tree trunks with stark limbs and scorched ground where new spikes of green were struggling to grow.
Suddenly Thaddeus tried to sit up. “Stop!” he cried in a clear voice. “Stop the wagon!”
Royce drew the mule to a halt.
“What is it, darlin’?” Amélie asked anxiously.
He sank down in her lap, his drawn face shiny with perspiration. “Don't leave me, Amélie. Don’t leave me.”
“No, my darlin’, I shan’t.”
An hour later as they clattered down the main street of Ashland searching for a doctor, he died in Amélie’s arms.
Chapter
❖ 24 ❖
At the funeral parlor Amélie told the mortician handling Thaddeus's body that she would send money to have his body shipped to Maryland. It was expensive and she had no idea where she would get the cash or whether the Warners would be able to help, but she would manage. She would finish what she had set out to do—bring Thaddeus home to Bancroft.
Now she felt tired, exhausted with a deep weariness that had settled in her joints. She would have to get used to losing Thaddeus all over again. But the pain was muted this time, more of a sadness, a pensive melancholy. She had loved Thaddeus in her girlhood, but she was no longer a girl and Thaddeus himself had become a different man. The war had changed them.
And there was Royce. He did not press her, but waited patiently for her to make the first move. He had every right to expect to take up where they had left off because she had promised to marry him. She had said she loved him and would be his wife. But she knew she could not.
She had been staying at a local inn; Royce had slept in the wagon. It had been three days since Thaddeus had died and Amélie knew they couldn’t go on in limbo. She had to make a decison.
They had just left a wayside chapel where Amélie had slipped in for a few quiet moments when Royce took her arm. “Are you hungry? Shall we have something to eat?”
“I’m not hungry. But you must be wanting your supper.”
“It can wait.”
They strolled on to the end of the road to a tiny park. A plot of purple irises, a patch of grass, and a birdbath had been fenced off by a green hedge against which stood two rustic benches. They sat down on one of them.
“I know you’re anxious to get home,” Amélie said.
“I don’t want to go back without you.”
“Yes. Well . . .” She broke off, examining her gloved hands.
He took one of them and brought it to his lips. “Amélie, nothing has changed for me. I want to marry you. I know this is too soon after—after the death of your husband. But you had already mourned him once. I love you and I’m hoping you still feel the same about me.”
When she said nothing, he went on. “If you want me to wait, I will. As long as you wish. Only say you will marry me.”
She watched a scarlet cardinal as it perched on the rim of the birdbath, then hopped into the leaf-strewn water for a brief moment, fluttering its bright wings.
“Royce, you have been the best friend any woman could have.” She saw him flinch but went on. “For me things have changed. I feel—oh, I don’t know how to put it. But I—I can’t marry you.”
“Why? For what reason?” His voice was more harsh than he intended.
“I’m sorry. Terribly sorry. But what I took for love was—well, gratitude.”
“Was it Thaddeus returning that changed your mind?” His gray eyes resting on her face reflected his pain.
“No. Not entirely. How can I explain?” She paused, lifting a questioning gaze. “I’m not ready to marry anyone, Royce. I don’t feel I could make you a good wife. It would be better if you found yourself a girl who can appreciate and love you far more than I ever could.”
He got up, thrusting his hands in his pockets, and stood staring down at her, silent for a few moments as if grappling with himself.
“It’s you I love,” he said in a tight voice. “You I want to marry.”
She felt for him; she understood his agony and it filled her with guilt. How could she hurt Royce, a kind, good man, so cruelly? How could she forget she had once thought she loved him?
“Royce—perhaps later, in time . . Her voice trailed off.
His eyes seemed to search the bottom of her soul, to assess her and her indecision. Then he turned away and strolled to an oak tree, which bore a plaque nailed to its trunk. Leaning over he studied it with a frown on his face.
She did not speak. She expected him to say something, to repeat that he would wait. But when he returned to her side, sinking down on the bench, he said
, “I could be patient if I knew you really loved me, that you needed time. I don’t want you unless I have all of you, not only your physical self but your heart and your thoughts as well. But I realize now that you will always be thinking of the man you truly love.”
“But Thaddeus is—”
“It’s not Thaddeus, my darling, it’s Damon Fowler. Don’t look so shocked, so surprised. Maybe you haven’t been aware of it. But I have. I didn’t want to see it at first, but now I must. It was something you said, or rather the way you said it. I can’t remember the exact words, but it came in the form of a question. ‘How could she have married Damon Fowler?’ you asked.
You were speaking of Babette, of course, and there was a look in your eyes of baffled hurt, the look of a woman betrayed by love. Even when you were berating Fowler for the supposed death of your husband, you loved him. And now . . .’’He broke off, his throat moving painfully. “And now you still do.’’
“You’re wrong.’’
“Did you know you sometimes call his name in your sleep?’’
She said nothing.
“He’s in your blood, Amélie.”
“No.’’
“Listen to me, Amélie. Can you honestly say you don’t love him?’’
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. He was right. It was true, had always been; even at his worst moments she had loved Damon. He never would have had the power to hurt, to make her weep, unless she had cared deeply. But there was nothing she could do about it. He was married to Babette. He was lost to her and she had no one to blame but herself.
Royce leaned over and kissed her cheek. “My poor darling, I won’t go on tormenting you. I know what’s in your heart better than you.’’
When Amélie returned to Baltimore it was early May. From the train she went at once to the Harpers’ house, not knowing what to expect. To her happy surprise John and Ella were there, having returned a month before the end of the war. Moreover, her mother was there, too, up from Arbormalle on a visit.
It was an emotional reunion, even for Mrs. Townsend, whose hair had gone completely white. Her cheeks were pink with excitement and tears were in her eyes when she embraced her daughter. She was in mourning.
“Your father,’’ she explained. “He died in March. I wrote you.’’
“Papa . . .? I never got the letter,’’ Amélie said in a voice that trembled with shock and remorse. “How?”
“Heart seizure,” Therese said. “He was never well after the fire, you know.”
A crushing guilt reduced Amélie to speechlessness. She hadn’t known her own father was dead. She had never expected it, had in fact pictured their meeting, rehearsing the words she would use by way of oblique apology. Now she would never be able to tell him she was sorry, never get the chance to tell him she had regretted their quarrel, the stinging, hurting things she had said. Amélie the patriot, scorning Garvin who was no worse than Thaddeus and the scores of others who could not bear violence for whatever reason.
“It was a terrible blow,” her mother said, sitting stiffly upright, correct as always no matter what disaster overtook her or the world. “I miss him; that goes without saying. But perhaps it was a blessing. I doubt he would have survived the South surrendering to the Yankees.”
John Harper spoke from the sofa. “It’s hard on all of us.”
The four of them were sitting in the parlor having tea, drinking from the same bone china cups, eating bread and butter sandwiches from the same Wedgwood plate that had been served the afternoon Amélie, her father, August, and Babette had come up to Baltimore to see Thaddeus off. It seemed a century ago. They had been so full of hope, so full of confidence then, invincible, strong, sure of the rightness of their cause. Now all was reduced to ashes. And Thaddeus and Garvin were dead. Tears welled in Amélie’s eyes. Papa, her heart grieved, why couldn’t you wait? I needed your forgiveness.
Ella Harper passed the Wedgwood plate around. “Willie’s mustered out,” she said. “He plans to visit some Kentucky friends before coming home.”
“I’m happy for you, Ella,” Amélie said.
“Yes. Went through the whole thing without a scratch,” she added proudly.
Therese Townsend accepted a sandwich and placed it fastidiously on her plate. “I’ve sold Arbormalle,” she said abruptly, again demonstrating her penchant for breaking bad news without warning.
“Mama! Surely you can’t mean it!” Again Amélie felt the shock of losing a treasured part of her past. “Arbormalle’s been in the family for years and years.” She had yearned so for the peace and quiet of the countryside, had looked forward to the comfort of familiar surroundings, and now the knowledge that Arbormalle was no longer hers to return to added to her sense of bereavement.
“And just how was I to keep it?” her mother challenged, bristling. “No money except Papa’s worthless Confederate dollars. The servants gone, the fields not plowed for three years, the house a shambles. Oh, it wasn’t burned like the Pipeses’ but it was looted while we were at Waxwing.”
“Badly?”
“Bad enough. At least give me credit for the gumption to do something, instead of sitting among the ruins and crying like others whom I won’t mention."
“Not the Warners.”
“No. They’re doing as well as can be expected. August has some of his acreage up for sale and hopes to make enough to let him stay on at the house. I wrote it all in the letter I sent.”
“I didn’t get it. Did you receive mine, the one I wrote from Kent’s Corner?”
“Yes. Did you marry that man—Royce Woodson, wasn’t it?”
“No, Mama, I changed my mind.”
“You said very little about him. Was he of good family?”
“Mama,” she said wearily, “what does it matter? I didn’t marry him because Thaddeus hadn’t really died.”
“What?!” A chorus of three shocked voices exclaimed. Amélie had prepared a story. She told them that Thaddeus had not been shot as a spy. He had been taken prisoner instead.
“He was ill, on his way home by way of Virginia when one of those improbable coincidences occurred and he came to the Woodsons’ house to ask directions to the nearest town. He—he collapsed there. But when he got better he insisted I take him home. He—he died in Virginia.”
They all agreed that Thaddeus’s body should be brought back to Bancroft. “The Warners would want it,” her mother said.
“And what of Babette?”
“I don’t know,” her mother replied with a deep sigh, folding her hands. “The last I heard was in September. She married a Yankee and had his child, you know.”
“Yes.” Amélie felt she ought to say more but found she couldn’t. Simply thinking of her sister married to Damon, mother of his son, brought a painful rawness to her throat.
“Your father never forgave Babette,” Therese said, “nor can I.”
Ella, who was very happy to have Babette marry anyone except her Willie, said, “I suppose she fell madly in love with him.”
Mrs. Townsend gave her a withering look. “She should have remembered she was engaged. We all thought she was—as you put it—‘madly in love’ with Willie.”
“Feelings change,” Ella said with an irritating smugness.
Amélie forced her voice past her aching throat in an even tone. “Hasn’t there been any news of her at all?”
“Not a word. I’ve no idea where she is now. Whether she’s gone back to—where was it?—yes, Massachusetts with that Fowler person or not, I don’t know. I suppose she realizes her welcome here won’t be too warm.”
“Mama!” Amélie exclaimed. “She is your daughter.”
And Damon’s wife, she thought bitterly. And my sister. And no one at fault but me.
“I know,” Therese acknowledged. “And I should be more charitable. But I find it hard.”
* * *
A week later Amélie went on to Bancroft where she informed the Warners of the circumstances of Thaddeus’s real de
ath. Much diminished, shrunken physically as well as emotionally, they received the news with quiet acceptance, like a pair of old draft horses who have become impervious to further blows. To Amélie this passive resignation was more heartrending than tears.
She remained with her in-laws, taking each day as it came, not wanting to think of the future. Her friends wrote from Baltimore, telling of hardships, of retribution exacted by the victorious Federal government. Many of them, harassed by the authorities, unable to keep their jobs, were impoverished. Typically their most bitter grievance was not their poverty, which they bravely glossed over, but the state constitution adopted in 1864, which had banned those with Confederate sympathies from voting.
Amélie, who once would have joined in denouncing such unfair and repressive measures, found she had no heart for argument. She was tired, bone weary, wanting nothing more than to absorb the tranquil stillness of Bancroft, where she could rest and heal herself, and put behind her the haunting tragedies of the war. Her greatest pleasures were small ones: setting out herb seedlings in the kitchen garden, pruning the neglected rose bushes, pausing now and again in her labors to feel the warmth of the early summer sun on her shoulders. She took long walks (carefully avoiding Arbormalle, however) across the fields and through the orchards, listening to the jays bickering in the branches, watching the brightly feathered orioles flit from tree to tree. She gathered wild thyme and mint in the meadows and watercress in the shady, moist edges of the creek. Everything she did was unhurried, slowed to a soothing pace, the long lazy days and deep nights gradually easing her distressing fatigue.
One afternoon a neighbor, Mrs. Price, drove over in a donkey cart to pay a call. She had received a letter she thought she ought to share with Amélie.
“It’s from Elsie Allen,” she said, removing her gloves and accepting a cool glass of buttermilk. “You probably know her, the Armstrongs’ cousin. Well, she’s been visiting kin in Lexington, Kentucky. She heard that Babette and her Yankee husband are settled on a farm nearby.’’
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