In January of 1859, Morgan had turned twenty-five, and though he didn’t really consciously know it, he began to feel that he should settle down. He knew several pleasant girls in Fredericksburg, and he knew even more in Richmond. But it was then that he noticed that Leona Rose Bledsoe had become a striking, vibrant young woman. She was not pretty, in the conventional sense. Tall, with strong features and flashing dark eyes, she had a rather imperious manner. But she was extremely intelligent, and she was an interesting woman. In the previous year, to Morgan’s amusement, she had begun to hold what would be called a “salon” on the Continent. She had many callers, men and women both. Every Friday evening she had a musicale, when she would play the piano and sing, and others would perform, too. All of her friends were from the oldest, finest families of Fredericksburg.
Except for Morgan. He had persistently courted her for a year before she would allow him to see her alone, without her mother in attendance. Yet here she was, with Wade Kimbrel, and Eileen Bledsoe was obviously not in the parlor.
Kimbrel remained insolently seated, one leg crossed over the other, his arm laid comfortably along the back of the sofa. When Morgan sat down, he merely nodded and said, “Tremayne.”
“Kimbrel,” Morgan said shortly. To Leona he said, “I wasn’t aware that you were such close friends with Mr. Kimbrel.”
“Morgan, I’m surprised at you,” she said dismissively. “It’s rude to speak in the third person when that person is present.”
“Got a burr in your saddle, Tremayne?” Kimbrel drawled. “Mr. Bledsoe has been my family’s attorney for twenty years now. Of course I’m friends with Leona. I’ve known her all her life.”
Morgan frowned. Leona had given him permission to use her given name only four months ago, and she had agreed to call him Morgan. Still, when he was speaking of her, he called her Miss Bledsoe out of respect.
But Kimbrel’s intimate use of her name wasn’t the only thing that bothered Morgan. Wade Kimbrel was his nearest neighbor, aside from Henry DeForge. Just across the river from both of their farms was Wolvesey, an eight-thousand-acre cotton plantation that John Edward Kimbrel had established in 1780. The Kimbrels had had slaves ever since then, and now Wade Kimbrel had over seventy slaves.
Wade had inherited the property from his father, who had died when Wade was only twenty. He was now thirty-two and had never married. He was a fine-looking man—tall, burly, with jet-black hair and a ferocious mustache. The talk around town was that he had courted several women, but it seemed they could never quite bring him to the point of marriage. He was considered to be something of a rake.
And Morgan knew, because he had seen firsthand, that Kimbrel mistreated his slaves. He had called on Kimbrel not long after he had moved to Rapidan Run, and as he had passed through the miles of cotton fields, he had seen Kimbrel’s overseer beating a slave until he passed out. Morgan had not questioned Kimbrel about it, feeling that it was none of his business, but when Wade Kimbrel had wanted to buy a horse from him, Morgan had flatly refused. “You mistreat your slaves, you’ll mistreat your horses,” he had told him. He and Kimbrel had been enemies ever since then.
Now Morgan made himself calm down. He didn’t often lose his temper, and he disliked it when he did. He felt it showed a lack of self-control. “I apologize, Kimbrel. Of course I know you’re friends with the Bledsoes. I was just a little surprised, that’s all.”
Kimbrel shrugged carelessly.
After an awkward silence, Leona said brightly, “I was surprised, too, I admit. I had no idea you were still in town, Morgan.” Morgan had told her on Sunday as he was walking her home after church that he would be going to Staunton on Wednesday.
“I wouldn’t have thought of leaving without saying good-bye,” he said somewhat stiffly.
“Good-bye, then,” Kimbrel said.
“Oh! Wade, you are wicked. I thought you were leaving anyway,” Leona said with amusement.
“I’ve decided to stay for a while. Why don’t you invite me for supper?”
“I suppose I might as well. Father will be home any minute, and I know he will anyway,” she said.
Morgan felt confused, embarrassed, and apprehensive. It was as if he weren’t even there. Somehow he had taken for granted that he and Leona had an unspoken agreement between them, and that their relationship was special. Even as he thought it, he realized how vague this supposition was, and obviously he was very much mistaken about Leona. He was so perturbed that he wanted to get away, get some fresh air, and think. He shot out of the chair, and both Leona and Kimbrel looked up at him in surprise. “I have to go,” he said hurriedly.
Leona rose gracefully and took his arm. “I’ll see you out,” she said. She walked him to the door, then turned and rested her hands on his shoulders. “You must come see me as soon as you get back,” she said. “I will miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too, Leona,” he said unhappily.
She kissed him lightly on the cheek and said, “Good-bye, then, Morgan. God be with you.”
Morgan returned on the first Saturday of the new year. As the train neared the station in Fredericksburg, Morgan looked out the window at the so-familiar landscape and smiled to himself.
In the month that he had been gone, he had completely cleared his mind of the confusion he’d felt at his last meeting with Leona. He had made some crucial decisions, and now he felt that his course was set. He would ask Leona to marry him after a short engagement. Perhaps they could be married in the spring, he thought. That would give him time to fix up the house, buy some new furnishings. Leona was good at that kind of thing, and he was sure that she would be excited to furnish and decorate her new home.
Idly he reflected, as the train hurtled on, on the surprise he had felt when he had realized that he was actually homesick for Rapidan Run. He had always regarded Tremayne House as his home. But he supposed it was a sign that he was a man, and that it was time to start his own family apart from his parents. His spirits grew even more buoyant.
Leona will make an excellent wife, he thought with satisfaction. Mother and Father will love her. Mother, especially. They have so much in common.
Again he smiled as he thought of the surprise he had for Leona. He was bringing home a carriage, a fine four-seater landau with a folding top. True, it was secondhand. His father had just bought his mother a new barouche box, and originally Mr. Tremayne had intended to sell the old landau. But Morgan grabbed it up—though he did pay his father for it—because he knew that Leona would need it. It was fine for him to travel into Fredericksburg on horseback, but a lady needed a carriage.
He had telegraphed ahead and instructed Amon to bring Ace, a big brown gelding that served as their work horse, when he came to meet him. Ace pulled the farm wagon, and Morgan thought, considering Ace’s placid temperament, that it wouldn’t spook him or make him nervous in the new experience of pulling a carriage.
The long shrill whistle sounded, and the conductor began his chant: “Fredericksburg! Coming into Fredericksburg!”
Out his window Morgan saw Amon and Rosh waiting. Amon waved then bent to speak to a slight man standing with him and pointed to Morgan. The stranger looked up at Morgan searchingly.
Morgan stepped off the train steps and hurried to the three men waiting for him. “Hello, Amon, Rosh. I can’t tell you how good it is to be home.”
“Yes, sir,” Amon said gravely. “Mr. Tremayne, this gentleman is Mr. Silas Cage. Mr. Cage, this here is Mr. Morgan Tremayne.”
Cage, a short, thin, earnest-looking young man with spectacles, shook Morgan’s hand. “I’m very glad to meet you, sir. I know this is unorthodox, but it is extremely important that I speak with you.”
“Right now?” Morgan said with astonishment. He had just had a fifteen-hour train ride, and he had some complicated arrangements to make to get himself, his luggage, and the carriage home.
“Yes, sir. I am an attorney, and I have an extremely urgent matter that requires your immediate attention, Mr.
Tremayne.”
“Is something wrong at home?” he demanded of Amon.
“No, sir, everything is fine. We’s all fine, and all the horses is fine,” Amon reassured him.
“Thank heavens,” Morgan said with relief. “All right, Mr. Cage, I’ll be glad to speak to you as soon as I’ve made some arrangements.”
“Would you come to my office?” he asked. “It’s right on Dalrymple Street, just off Main. The one-story red brick with the wrought-iron gate.”
“I’ll be there as soon as possible, sir,” Morgan assured him.
Cage hurried off.
As they walked to the yard to collect the carriage, Morgan asked Amon, “Do you know what that’s all about?”
“No, sir,” Amon said uneasily. “What I mean is, he come to the house two days ago, looking for you. He told me he needed to see you right quick, but he didn’t tell me why.”
“But you know something about it, Amon, I can tell,” Morgan insisted.
“Not for sure, Mr. Tremayne. Alls I know is that old Mr. DeForge, he died three days ago.”
“What!” Morgan said, halting abruptly. “He died! But no one wrote me, no one telegraphed me!”
“I think that Mr. Cage did think to send you a telegram, but it appears you ain’t got it, huh?”
“No, I didn’t,” Morgan said thoughtfully. Tremayne House and farm were about eight miles outside of Staunton. It was conceivable that a telegram had come there and it might not have been delivered to the farm until after he left.
Morgan resumed walking, his head bowed. His friend had died, and he hadn’t been there. He did not think that Henry DeForge was actually a lonely man; his reclusive tendencies seemed to be voluntary. But now Morgan heartily wished that he had been here the last month. He would miss Henry Deforge terribly.
Numbly he instructed Amon about taking the carriage home. He and Rosh had brought Vulcan, so Morgan said, “You two go on home. After I speak to Mr. Cage, I’ll be along.”
It was a short distance to Cage’s office, so Morgan didn’t ride. He took Vulcan’s reins and walked slowly. Even though it was just after noon, it grew dark and started to snow, a wet, heavy snow. Morgan was so beset by grief that he barely noticed.
He knocked on the door of the small house, for when Morgan found the place he realized that Mr. Cage must have his office at his home.
A young sweet-faced woman answered the door. “Mr. Tremayne, please come in. I am Mrs. Cage. My husband is in his office, if you’ll follow me.” She ushered him down the hall to a tiny room with every wall filled with books.
Cage sat behind a work-scarred desk. He rose to shake Morgan’s hand again. “Please, sit down, Mr. Tremayne. I know you must be very tired after your journey, and again I apologize for intruding upon you in this manner. My wife will bring us tea shortly.”
“That would be very welcome,” Morgan said. “I’ve gotten into the habit of having afternoon tea. In fact, it’s because of my friendship with Henry DeForge that I formed the habit. He always had what he called high tea.”
“Yes, I know,” Mr. Cage said sadly. “I was not as close a friend as you obviously were. I was his attorney. But I will miss him, too.” He took a deep breath, leaned forward, and clasped his hands together on the desk. “I assume that your servant told you of Mr. DeForge’s death.”
“Yes, I didn’t know of it until just now,” Morgan said. “He didn’t write me while I was gone, but I didn’t think that too unusual. He was ill when I left, and I thought that perhaps he simply didn’t feel like corresponding. But his death is a shock. I understood from Dr. Travers that his condition at that time wasn’t critical.”
“Dr. Travers was right,” Cage said. “He did recover nicely from that downturn he took in November. For the rest of that month and until the last two weeks in December, he was as well as I’ve ever known him to be. But just before Christmas the consumption worsened again, and Dr. Travers attended him, with the same instructions, to get plenty of rest and take laudanum to ease the pain and coughing. The problem was that he developed pneumonia. That’s actually what killed him, not the consumption. And it was fast. Dr. Travers diagnosed pneumonia four days after Christmas, and he quickly grew worse and died on January 3rd. It was a great shock.”
“How I wish I’d been here,” Morgan said quietly. “I considered Mr. DeForge my closest friend, almost like a father to me, though I’m not sure he returned my regard in the same manner.”
“Did he think of you almost as a son? Yes, he most certainly did,” Cage said, to Morgan’s surprise. “I’m sure you realize by now that I need to speak to you because of Mr. DeForge’s will. He has left you some—bequests.”
At that moment a soft knock sounded on the door, and Mrs. Cage entered with a tea tray. Morgan thought that Cage looked relieved, and he wondered why. Mrs. Cage efficiently served them tea and then slipped out of the room.
With clear reluctance Cage continued, “First of all, Mr. DeForge willed you the three hundred acres that you’ve been leasing from him.”
“He split that out from the estate?” Morgan said with surprise. “Well, that was very generous of him.”
“Er—yes.” Cage took a sip of tea. “Mr. Tremayne, Mr. DeForge’s will is a bit complicated. I was there two days before he died, and I was with him for several hours, finishing up the details of his final wishes. He dictated a letter to me, and it is to you.” Slowly he took a long envelope from a drawer and handed it to Morgan.
My dear Morgan,
I know that I have little time left, and so this letter must necessarily be short and to the point.
When I bought my property, which was then known as the Strickland place, the slaves were included in the purchase price. I fell in love with a beautiful quadroon girl named Jeanetta, who was one of my maids. She was my mistress for five years, and we were carefree. But in the sixth year, she became pregnant, and in April of 1846, she died giving birth to Jolie. I never gave Jolie my name, just as I never gave Jeannetta my name, and now I am bitterly ashamed of it.
I know that it is too late for me to regain my honor and make things right for Jolie. So now, in my last days, I am asking you to help me make amends.
I have been setting money aside for Jolie and have accumulated ten thousand dollars. For this reason I have appointed you as Jolie’s guardian. Use whatever is necessary to educate her until she is eighteen and then give her what’s left.
But Morgan, I’m afraid I must ask you to do even more. It is my dying wish that Jolie would be protected and nurtured, and yes, even loved. Can you find it in your heart to do that? I can’t demand that you do so or make it a provision of my will. I can only hope that the generous and kind heart that I’ve seen in you will dictate what is right. I know you to be a man of honor, and I beg you to make a vow to God to be faithful to my daughter.
The letter was simply signed, “Henry DeForge.”
For a long time Morgan couldn’t speak, he was so stunned. He simply sat there, staring blankly into space.
Cage, with compassion written on every feature, sat quiet and still.
Morgan had no idea how long he sat there, speechless, but finally he roused a bit. “This is a great shock,” he said gutturally. “I had no idea. Tell me, Mr. Cage, was this decision about me being Jolie’s guardian something that he decided just before he died?”
“No, it wasn’t. I made up this will four years ago. I understand that he had known you for about a year, and he designated you as Jolie’s guardian then. Of course,” he said, taking off his glasses and polishing them with his handkerchief, “at that time he was only thinking of you being a trustee for the money. He always intended to speak to you about taking Jolie into your home. He’s told me through the years that he felt so well, and he didn’t feel that his time was near, and so he didn’t think it was the right time to burden you with it. Who knows? He might have lived well past Jolie’s eighteenth birthday, if he hadn’t come down with pneumonia.”
“Maybe
that was what he wanted to talk to me about in November,” Morgan said wearily. “Maybe he had some idea even then.”
“It’s true, he did. He told me at the last. He so regretted that he’d never talked with you about it, found out how you feel about it,” Cage said, eyeing Morgan shrewdly. “So how do you feel about it, Mr. Tremayne?”
Morgan shifted uncomfortably in the hard chair. “Shocked. Bewildered. And—yes, angry. This is a terrible burden to ask a man to bear.”
“It is. And Mr. DeForge knew it. He did make provisions just in case you felt you couldn’t act as Jolie’s guardian. He knew full well that you might refuse. In fact, he said that you should,” Cage finished with an odd look on his face. “I think that might have been the last joke he ever made.”
Morgan ignored this; he didn’t feel any lightness in this conversation at all. “What alternate arrangements did he make for Jolie?”
“He asked me if I would be a trustee for her inheritance. He instructed me where to send her to school, to purchase a house for her, and to finance her if she thought she may be able to open some sort of shop,” he said. “Jolie is clever, you know. Mr. DeForge thought that she might very well be able to find her own way, when she’s older.”
“But he didn’t ask you to take her in,” Morgan said bluntly, with some bitterness.
“No, he didn’t. You see, Mr. Tremayne, my wife is only eighteen. It’s awkward. My wife is still very young herself to take over any responsibility for a fourteen-year-old girl.”
“Jolie is fourteen?” Morgan said, astounded. “I had no idea. Somehow I still think of her as a child. She still looks like a child.”
“She will be fifteen in April. And yes, she is petite and still childlike,” Cage agreed.
Morgan threw the letter down on Cage’s desk and began to pace. “Fourteen! That’s even worse! I’m single, you know. How am I supposed to have a fourteen-year-old girl living with me alone? And I hope to be married soon. How can I ask my fiancée to take Jolie into our home? It’s impossible! The whole thing is just impossible. It can’t be done!”
Last Cavaliers Trilogy Page 78