Book XI
BARBADOS
FEBRUARY–MAY 1867
Elena and I reached Barbados on February 3, 1867. Bridgetown had grown bigger and busier in ten years; I had read that sugar prices were booming. The York Stairs carriage was driven by young Seth, Aaron’s nephew, for Aaron was now old and ill. As we rode, he talked about Miss Adelaide, lonely since Dr. Hugh’s death and saddened, again, by the news about Father.
“Your face will be the best medicine for her, Missy Miranda,” Seth told us.
We reached Cedar Avenue at dusk. The Palladian staircase opened its arms to greet us. I saw a single slim figure at the balustrade.
“Miss Adelaide is waiting to meet you,” I told Elena as we climbed the familiar curving stairs.
“Darling Miranda,” Miss Adelaide greeted me in her silken soft tones. Her beautiful face still seemed ageless. She held me a long time, as Elena hovered behind me, reverting to shyness. The reunion was bittersweet — combining the past and the present, the dead and the living.
She released me and held me at arm’s length. “You have grown into yourself,” she said. Then she bent down to greet Elena. “And here is a sweet pea.”
Lettie came out of the shadows. I crossed to her, and we held each other wordlessly.
“Let us show this new little one to her room,” Lettie said after a moment.
Lettie and I took Elena downstairs to her room, opposite mine. She was uneasy about the monster shadows leaping across the curved ceiling, but Lettie told her they were dolphins. I heard their voices as they unpacked.
“Do you know I did this for your Manda, when she was a little girl?”
“She told me. She likes you.”
“And who is this handsome bear?”
“This is Zeus.”
“Is it now! I know that fellow Zeus. He is in the Greek tales. He is king of all the gods, and a bossy master.”
“My Zeus is very quiet and nice.”
“Of course he is. He is your friend.”
“Lettie, will you teach me to swim?”
“It will be my pleasure — the very first thing tomorrow!”
I could see Lettie had already eased Elena past her bad moment and into York Stairs. I told this to Miss Adelaide when I rejoined her on the gallery. She had festive iced champagne for us.
“We must celebrate your return, dear child, and we must celebrate Elena. I declare, it has been a long time since I have seen such good manners in one so young.”
“She is like her mother that way — and of course I am raising her the way you raised me.”
“I hear that all over the country families are raising their kin orphaned by the war.”
“It’s true,” I told her. “And there are many, many girls who will be single forever.”
“So we must toast our men.” Miss Adelaide smiled, and we raised our glasses — “To Davy, Hugh, and your father.” Then she drank to my future: “Perhaps it will start here!”
And so, in spite of the empty chairs that had once been Dr. Hugh’s and Father’s, Miss Adelaide and I dined cheerfully, recalling many plans, and with a sigh of happiness I relaxed, knowing that in many ways our men were with us, and that this was now exactly the right place for me to be.
On my bed table I found that Miss Adelaide had left me a new Victor Hugo novel and a vase of syringa to fill my high white room with sweetness. I went to sleep breathing it and thinking of Roger, and his strong square jaw. He must have read my letter by now.
Morning brought a dappled radiance that amazed Elena. “A whole new sun!” she cried, bounding into my room.
We dressed in our bright chitons, Springfield copies of Madame Lauré’s design. After breakfast, Miss Adelaide and I showed Elena around York Stairs, for I wanted her to meet it in the morning light, as I had.
Elena was enchanted, her eyes wide with wonder. “There’s no indoors!”
Lettie then came in with her daughter. Mira was an elegant gazelle of nine, curtsying like a dancer. She and Elena eyed each other curiously with intense interest, and then Lettie and Mira took Elena off for “swimming school.” I did not join them until their picnic lunch, for I had decided that my mornings must be spent working at the shameful mass of papers that had collected since Father died and I became so listless. I wrote until noon and then walked out of my bedroom and down the hill, to diamond-glittering Learner’s Cove, and into memories.
Elena had learned to duck and blow in the warm green water. She and Mira played like two young angels in a liquid paradise, and I joined them, shedding time and grief. My little girl and I were the same age, here in the sea. She was awed by the profusion of shells, having studied my precious collection on Amity Street.
“Are these Miss Adelaide’s shells?” she asked, turning them over on the sandy shore.
“They belong to the sea. It kept them here, waiting for a little girl who loves shells.” I watched as she searched for yellow pectins with Mira, humming a little — as she used to when Father kept her company beside the brook. After our naps, Elena begged for the beach again, but I explained that I did not want her to burn and “get too hot,” as Lettie called it.
“And,” I added, “I have something to show you that you will like.”
I led her to the gallery, where Miss Adelaide had rigged us a fine worktable. Dr. Hugh had willed me his entire shell collection, and this was the perfect time to introduce it to Elena. I brought out the boxes, and we began to arrange the beautiful objects on two tall panels of silvery driftwood. After a few minutes Elena announced she would like to make pictures of them, so Miss Adelaide, smiling, found paper and charcoal, and Elena began to draw, outlining the same shape over and over rather than reworking the drawing. She had Ethan’s talent; she was training her little muscles to use it.
“Wonderful,” Miss Adelaide whispered, and then she left us to our creative tasks. I felt very close to Dr. Hugh as I worked — remembering his kindness to an odd little stranger. He — and Barbados — had freed me from so much, particularly the fearful taint of consumption that had haunted me. I was certain that he would be happy with my teaching Elena all the shell lore he had taught me.
Much later we dressed for dinner, and then we joined Miss Adelaide on the gallery.
“Lettie told me this is when we play the cloud game,” Elena said.
“We certainly do. Why don’t you begin, Elena?”
“I see a big gold rabbit — right there!”
I smiled at Miss Adelaide, remembering, and all through dinner we enjoyed reminiscing, this time without so much sadness. Elena asked question after question; it was wonderful to see her ever-widening curiosity.
After our dinner and after Elena was in bed, Miss Adelaide and I returned to the twilit gallery, and I admired the handsome wicker furniture, new since my last visit.
“I was very extravagant and ordered it from India when Hugh was dying. He liked to lie out here and watch the sky, and receive the callers. It made him happy; he said he had had a fine life. Very few Charleston men would say that, these days.” She moved comfortably in her chair. “We discussed the idea of returning home, despite the war, to be buried there. But Hugh would have none of that. Our life there was over long before, when on my behalf he swore he’d never go back.”
I longed to pick up this elliptical reference and open that locked cupboard. The most I could muster, however, was a polite reminder. “I remember your promise that when I was older you would tell me why you came here. And now I think I am old enough.”
She gave a low chuckle. “And so I will. But not tonight. Tonight I want to tell you about the things I’ve done with our sugar money.”
“So the war affected the sugar trade?”
“It surely did — it tripled the demand! All those little courts in Europe give balls and ceremonies and coronations for one another, and all the dukes and princes compete for the biggest and sweetest desserts. Our York Stairs sugar went into ten-foot wedding cakes for two of Victoria’
s daughters. I declare, Dickens would have had some words to say about those cakes!”
“I saw the new fountain,” I remarked. “And the new glasshouse.”
“But you didn’t see the little hospital in Bridgetown and the two native doctors Hugh sent to England to be trained. And you can’t see my Moore grand-nephews being educated — although you will see the results, someday. Ravenel will take on York Stairs when he’s grown. Sherman wrecked the Moore plantation in ’64. There’s nothing left of the big house but the stumps of columns that once held up a beautiful portico.”
“Who is running York Stairs for you, Miss Adelaide?”
“I have a fine English manager. He married a native girl, so he can’t go home. I built them a house near the mill. Then I remodeled Hugh’s old office into a regular Charleston garçonnière for the Moore boys.”
Now I suspected Miss Adelaide of deliberate obfuscation. She had clouded the water so her own story was lost. One day, I knew, Miss Adelaide would decide to tell me her story. Until then, I could wait, for time meant nothing here, only the long slow days, and the sun and the sea — the glorious unshadowed time of York Stairs.
I slept, worked every morning, swam, and napped. In the afternoon I played with Elena on the gallery or at Learner’s Cove. Then I bathed and dressed in the evening and dined with Miss Adelaide; we talked endlessly under the stars — and then I slept again. After two or three weeks of this idyll, I could feel myself rebounding in body and spirit. I made headway on the article for the Atlantic Monthly, which was to be a history of the Froebel movement, the foundation, and our experiences. I took Elena to different beaches in the governess cart, driving Hercules, the placid pony. The poor thing was older than I was and almost slept as he trotted! I read Melville and Hugo, and Miss Adelaide taught me to play cribbage. Elena and Mira were now fast friends. Elena idolized the older girl, and Mira relished the attention of her small shadow. Mira was as kind and as gentle as Lettie; Elena was in good company.
I thought of Roger often, especially as I fell asleep. He had thick peaked eyebrows, inviting a caress. Once or twice I felt foolish . . . what was I thinking, to write such a bold letter? I wondered what the consequences would be. How I would miss his friendship if my letter had pushed him away with its frankness and its assumptions. But there was nothing I could do here. It had been sent.
One day I drove Elena into Bridgetown to see the fishing fleet and to buy some plain paper for drawing. We wandered around the port and talked to the ship captains. We returned to York Stairs tired and happy, just before the cloud-show hour.
As we climbed the staircase, I heard Miss Adelaide talking to a gentleman. A neighbor, probably. But there was no tethered horse. Then, at the top step, I clutched the balustrade.
“Miranda, here is Mr. Daniels from Chicago, who has come calling,” announced Miss Adelaide at her most Charlestonian. “I have asked him to stay at York Stairs while you confer about foundation matters.”
I stood, staring at both of them.
“And,” Miss Adelaide went on, “he will help me with all the legal doings for Ravenel Moore’s inheritance.”
None of this was credible. How could this be? It was as if my brain would not take in what I was seeing in front of me. Finally, I forced myself to step forward.
“Roger.” I took his hand, my throat tight. “How . . . when . . . did you get here?”
“I contacted your aunt Helen, and she wrote where I could find you. Then I took a mail packet from Norfolk — a very pleasant voyage.”
“Let me show you to the garçonnière,” said Miss Adelaide, the paradigm of a southern hostess, taking his arm and sweeping him away before I could speak again.
She had to pass my room to return to the main house. I waited for her on the path.
“Miss Adelaide, how long is he staying?”
“I’m sure I can’t say. However long it takes to settle your affairs. But isn’t that for you to determine?”
I saw her smiling.
“What has he said to you?” I asked.
She took my hand. Her expression was unfrivolous, adamantine.
“Miranda, he has come a long way. Let us make him welcome.”
Before I came here, I had gone to Boston to stay several days with Cousin Ellen Lyall, and Madame Lauré made me a few evening dresses in muslin and linen, Empire style. Tonight I chose the cerulean muslin and added Roger’s brooch. If Roger had come to let me down gently, away from Alan and Ethan and our foundation connections, then the least I could do was hold on to my pride and look my best.
Finally I was satisfied with my appearance and arrived at the terrace to find Elena and Roger deep in conversation. He smiled at me, obviously as delighted to see her as she was to see him. Then we all played the cloud game and had a lovely half hour before I excused myself to tuck Elena in. She was flushed and happy, and told me that Uncle Roger was now her “bestest.” When I returned, Miss Adelaide was laughing at something Roger had told her, and she smilingly led us inside.
With a man’s presence, our dinner was lively. Roger and Miss Adelaide steered carefully around the war. Instead we talked politics, and President Johnson’s mistakes, and the history and evolution of the foundation. We were handsome and festive in the candlelight. I enjoyed seeing Roger through Miss Adelaide’s admiring eyes.
After dinner, Miss Adelaide excused herself. “I have early morning business in town,” she told us, and Roger and I moved to the gallery, where moonlight now slept on the broad expanse of sea beyond. I listened to the measured rush of the Atlantic unfurling its huge skirts upon the beach. Tonight, the sky was awash in stars, its phosphoric light illuminating and altering everything.
“Have you noticed how all the planets here are in new places?” I said at last.
“Yes, well no, no, I had not,” Roger answered. “Miranda, that’s not why I came here.”
Suddenly I sensed he was nervous. This made me even more nervous than I already was.
“I came to talk about your letter.” He looked at me, his eyes opaque. “It made me worried for you — such sadness. And I suppose I wanted to tell you how very much your friendship means to me. To talk more about that friendship.”
This startled me; it was not at all what I had been expecting. “I — I didn’t think . . .” I was stammering. “That — that there was anything else . . . to say.”
“There is a great deal. And I have had to come all the way here, at no small inconvenience to others, to say it in person.”
“If you mean to scold me —”
“Not at all, Miranda. You have had enough trouble of late. I want only to let you know that you are not alone, that you need not bear your sadness by yourself.” He placed his hands firmly upon my shoulders. I imagined his intention was to calm me, but his touch had quite the opposite effect.
“You must think me very foolish,” I murmured.
“Foolish? Good Lord, Miranda, to lose your Davy, Kate, and now your father in such a brief span of time is a blow that could have destroyed someone less resilient,” he declared. “You are strong, but that does not mean that you need to shoulder such burdens alone. I may not agree with your conclusions —”
“What conclusions?” I asked. I could barely remember what I had written.
He released my shoulders and raked a hand through his thick hair. “Your belief that a career necessarily unfits you for marriage. There are many men who would cherish a wife who is as strong and ambitious and confident as you are. I have read about the ‘New Woman’ emerging from her experiences and responsibilities during the war. I have even met a few but none as lovely as you.”
My throat tightened so that I could not speak.
But Roger was going on. I began to feel that he was circling around the main topic of his visit, but I was flushed and weak at the same time, and not, therefore, in any hurry.
“After seeing the countrywomen who came to Andersonville, who brought us their starving families’ food, and who, agai
nst orders, walked through our filth to tend our dying and bury our dead — I knew women were the superior sex. No man could have done what they did,” he said.
The breeze from the sea caught at my skirt and lifted my hair while I stared at him, emotions rushing through me.
“And as to your other conclusion, that no man would want — what was the phrase? — that no man would want to have his posterity held ransom to his wife’s fear, your fear is not unreasonable, Miranda. But I hope you don’t think every man will regard you as a brood mare! Not every man . . .”
He took my arm and walked me to the balustrade. “That sea is like beaten silver tonight. We might as well look at something beautiful while I tell you something ugly.”
I waited. I felt my heart beating and gazed out at the sea as he instructed, readying myself.
“While I was at Andersonville, we prisoners were stacked like corn in a crib. Every kind of disease raged through the camp. I contracted adult male mumps, the most serious sort — everywhere a man can get it. When the war ended and I was discharged, I went to the hospital in Chicago to be tested. The doctors there told me that I could never be a father. My point is that not every man can expect or will expect children.”
I put my hand on his, grieving for him. Now I understood why he wanted me to watch the water — it would have been too hard for him to face me as he described this most intimate of losses.
“The friendship and respect I have felt for you since our first meeting has ripened into affection of the deepest, most joyous sort. But Miranda, dear Miranda, you must understand. There can never be marriage between us, and any impropriety would risk a great deal — your work, your position, your daughter. The ostracism that would follow . . . I have thought about this . . . and little else . . .”
And then Roger stopped speaking, hesitated a moment — and drew me against him. We rocked back and forth, our arms, our bodies, becoming one. His touch released sensations that cascaded over me like rushing water. Finally, we moved apart, slowly, shakily.
Afternoons with Emily Page 41