The Work and the Glory

by Gerald N. Lund

  For several minutes Joshua stood there, debating with himself. Wesley would be waiting for him. But he wanted to see her—as always! But more than that, he was puzzled. Ladies of Savannah did not favor strolling along River Street. Not that Caroline had been strolling. Whatever it was that had brought her here, it was obvious it was not going to be pleasant.

  Making up his mind, he moved across the street to where one of the large cotton wagons was standing. He moved around behind it, leaving himself a clear view of the door where Caroline had entered. He took out a cigar, fished out one of Wesley’s matches, lit the cigar with the match, then settled down to wait.

  * * *

  Mr. Jeremiah Boswell’s eyes always reminded Caroline of a cat’s. They were wide, seemingly filled with nothing but lazy curiosity, but there was always a faint sense of something sinister lurking behind them.

  “But Miz Mendenhall,” he was saying, “we have been more than patient. It will have been two years in September.”

  She looked at him coldly. “I quite well remember when my husband died, Mr. Boswell.”

  “Now, Miz Mendenhall.” Theodore Berrett was always the soothing one. He never raised his voice. He always had a sincere, caring smile that had no more substance than a coat of varnish. As Caroline looked at the smooth face, the waxed mustache, the fluttering fingers, in her mind she corrected her impression of him. Not soothing, she thought. Oozing. Mr. Berrett was always the oozing one.

  The two men looked at each other. They must have known it wasn’t going to be easy. Or pleasant. But that had never deterred them before.

  “Donovan signed papers—,” Boswell started, but Caroline swung on him with such loathing that he stopped.

  Someday, heaven willing, she would learn what these men had done to her husband to get him to sign away his interests in the business, his one-third ownership in an upriver plantation, his sizeable investment in one of the ships owned by these two men. And the house. She felt the dizziness sweep over her for a moment. Somehow they had even gotten the house Donovan had built for her and the children, the house on which she had lavished so much time and effort.

  “We have been more than patient,” Berrett started, more cautiously now. “There was really no legal obligation on our part to let you stay in the house this long.”

  “Nor to provide you with the monthly annuity,” Boswell rumbled.

  Her head shot up, and she had to fight to keep the panic out of her eyes. In all the battles, all the bitter words, the monthly income—supposedly her share from her husband’s investments—had never been questioned before.

  “Please understand,” Berrett drawled with obvious satisfaction, “we are not about to put a poor unfortunate woman and her two children into the street. But that house is far too commodious for a family of three. We have found a place for you down on Abercorn Street, near Taylor Street. It’s near Calhoun Square. Very adequate.”

  Caroline turned slowly to Boswell, the sudden fear giving way to fury. “And how many children do your sister and her husband have?” Caroline demanded of Boswell.

  The eyes hooded over quickly, and she could tell she had struck the mark. No one was supposed to know Boswell’s plans for the Mendenhalls’ house. Not yet. His sister had one girl, a five-year-old. It was rumored she also had three cats and a surly dog. Boswell was giving the house to her.

  Boswell’s lip curled in open contempt. “We told you right at the outset we would give you two years to make other arrangements. Obviously you have made no effort to find other accommodations.”

  Berrett seemed distressed at his partner’s directness. “Now, now, let’s not get angry with one another here. That will solve nothing.” He turned to Caroline, wringing his hands. “We don’t wish to turn this into an ugly fight, Miz Mendenhall, but we have been more than patient.”

  She stood, close to tears, but only because there was nothing that could sufficiently convey the contempt she felt for these two men. “Well,” she said, her voice trembling with anger, “an ugly fight is just exactly what you will get if you try to evict me from my home.”

  Boswell shot to his feet. He leaned over his desk, his eyes crackling with anger. “We would welcome that, ma’am. We have total confidence in the legality of our position.”

  Mr. Berrett was up too now, dancing around her like a hit bird. “Oh, Miz Mendenhall,” he chirped, “you must not let yo emotions govern yo actions in this regard. We are most anxious to be fair. Most anxious.”

  Suddenly his eyes took on a hard shrewdness, and for an instant he much more closely resembled his partner. “If you should reconsider, we would put the deed to the new home in yo name with no restrictions. And we might even be persuaded to guarantee the monthly annuity, so yo mind could be put at rest over that matter once and for all.”

  “Of course,” Boswell cut in, really enjoying himself now, “you would have to sign papers declaring you have no further interest in Berrett and Boswell.”

  “Berrett, Boswell, and Mendenhall,” she said icily. Then she turned to Berrett. “When my husband first met me, Mr. Berrett, I was helping my mother run a dress shop in one of the less acceptable sections of Baltimore. He spent over eleven years and a considerable part of his inherited fortune trying to make me into a lady. Well, it didn’t take, Mr. Berrett. So you take your house on Abercorn Street and your guaranteed pension and you stuff them into that rat hole that serves as your twisted little mind.”

  She turned and smiled sweetly at Boswell. “And you, Mr. Boswell, we’ll see you in court. Then we’ll see who is the better street fighter.”

  She spun around and walked out of their office. As she went through the outer office she saw that the male secretary’s eyes were wide with shock, and she realized he had probably heard every word. She flashed him one of her most radiant smiles. “Good day, Mr. Barber.”

  She went down the narrow stairs, her head high. But when she reached the little alcove at the bottom of the stairs, out of their sight and out of their hearing, suddenly her shoulders sagged and her head dropped. She fought the shuddering sensation that was building within her and the tears that burned her cheeks. She stood there for almost a minute, helplessly caught between fear, rage, and a powerful sense of hopelessness.

  Above her, there was a soft sound. She looked up in panic, brushing frantically at the corners of her eyes. Not waiting to see what or who it was, she plunged out the door and into the street.

  * * *

  Joshua crossed River Street quickly, angling so he came up right behind Caroline. He really had to stride out, for she was walking very swiftly, the heels of her shoes making a staccato rattle on the boardwalk. Grinning, he reached out and touched her shoulder. “Caroline?”

  She whirled, slashing at his hand, knocking it violently away.

  The fury he saw in her face was more shocking than her blow. “Whoa!” he cried, raising both hands in front of him. “I didn’t mean to frighten”—his voice trailed off as he saw the swollen, puffy eyes—“you.”

  She blinked twice. “Joshua?”

  “Caroline, what’s the matter? What happened?”

  She fell back a step. “I thought you were—” There was a quick, angry shake of her head. “I’m sorry. You startled me.” She looked away. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was at Mr. Wesley’s. I saw you go past the warehouse.”

  Her head jerked back around. “You followed me?”

  Now it was he who fell back a step in the face of her reaction. “I . . . I came out in time to see you going into the offices of Berrett and Boswell.” It sounded so lame. “I wanted to see you, so I waited across the street.”

  That seemed to satisfy her. She obviously wasn’t pleased, but at least it seemed to defuse the anger. She turned and started up the street again, but walking more slowly now. He quickly fell into step.

  She looked up at him, started to speak, saw two men approaching them, and waited until they passed. Then she spoke. “I’m sorry, Joshua.
I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  He took her by the arm, motioning with his head across the street toward the river. She started to resist, but when he gently persisted, she gave in and let him steer her over to the low wall that lined the riverbank wherever there was a gap between the wharves. As they got there he let go of her arm. Instead of turning to face him, she moved right up to the wall, staring down into the muddy water moving slowly past them.

  Joshua watched her for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Caroline, what happened in there?”

  She didn’t turn, didn’t move.

  “Look, I don’t want to pry. I just want to help.”

  There were some pebbles on the top of the wall. She picked them up and began to drop them slowly into the water. She seemed mesmerized by the soft plop, plop, and by the ripples that moved slowly downstream away from them.

  Joshua watched her, struck once again by the fineness of her features, the soft line of her lips. Half bent over as she was, the slimness of her waist was emphasized. And the position of her head let the sunlight catch the rich darkness of her hair, filled with an auburn sheen that turned it into burnished copper. If she was mesmerized by the falling pebbles, Joshua was mesmerized by the sight of her. This was a woman of uncommon loveliness, and Joshua never tired of watching her.

  Suddenly she straightened. “I was sixteen when Donovan first came to the little dress shop my mother owned.” She hadn’t turned around. She just gazed out across the river, her eyes not focusing on anything.

  Joshua stepped closer, listening intently. She was speaking barely above a murmur.

  “He was the handsomest man I had ever laid eyes on.” There was a deep sigh. “He was charming and funny and rich. It’s no wonder I loved him.” She finally turned and looked up at Joshua. “I loved my husband a great deal.”

  He nodded, but before he could think of an appropriate response, she went on. “He was charming and funny and rich”—she took a breath, her eyes turning bitter—“and he was a fool. The biggest, most naive fool ever to land on the docks of Savannah.”

  Joshua’s face exhibited shock, but she seemed oblivious to him now, even though she was looking right at him.

  “I don’t want to stop loving him,” she cried softly. Her fists were clenched now, the fingernails digging into the palms. “But I am so angry with him! Why did he do this to us?”

  “What?” Joshua asked, struck to the core by the anguish he saw on her face. “What did he do, Caroline?”

  She stiffened, her eyes widening a little as her mind registered that she was not alone.

  “Caroline, I want to help.”

  She shook her head quickly, not meeting his eyes.

  He reached out and took both of her hands. “Caroline, I—”

  She pulled free, fighting the trembling in her lower lip. “I would like to be alone.”

  She saw the instant hurt in his eyes. “Please, Joshua. This has nothing to do with you. I just need to pull myself together. I’ll be better by tonight for the dinner.” She managed a wan smile. “I promise.”

  He stepped back, trying to be manly about it. “All right.”

  On an impulse she went up on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered. Her eyes were shining again. “Really, I’ll be better by tonight.”

  * * *

  Richard Wesley’s home was built in the beautiful English Regency style. It was two stories high with an attic above that. But most impressive was the large front porch with four stately columns supporting it. Two matching staircases swept in gentle curves up to the main entrance. The first time Joshua had come here with Caroline, she had told him, with a sense of reverential awe, that the home had been designed and built by William Jay. He had nodded and tried to look impressed. Since then he had learned that Jay had been a brilliant young architect from England who had built some of Savannah’s finest homes during the previous two decades. To live in one of them was now a considerable mark of distinction. It said something that Richard Wesley, only five or six years older than Joshua, should now own one of them.

  As Joshua helped Caroline from the carriage, he looked up at the imposing entrance. There was nothing like this in Independence. St. Louis was starting to have its own upper class and to get some beautiful homes, but Independence was not even five years out of the log cabin and sod hut stage yet. Someday, if this cotton deal proved to be what he hoped for . . .

  Caroline slipped her hand through his arm. “It is a beautiful home, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. But then so is yours, Caroline. You have a lovely home.”

  She looked away quickly. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  He kicked himself mentally. Earlier she had promised him that she would have herself pulled together by this evening, and she had kept that promise. There had been no trace of this afternoon’s mental turmoil. On the short ride over to the Wesleys’ she had been cheerful and witty, and seemed to be genuinely happy to be with him. Once or twice he sensed that her geniality might be a trifle forced, but he didn’t care. Now, however, he had triggered the somberness again.

  But as quickly as it came, it passed. “Come on,” she laughed, “I’m hungry, and Margaret’s cook is one of the finest in Savannah.”

  “I know,” Joshua grinned back at her. “If you’ll remember, I ate far more than I should have last time. Richard had to sell one of his ships to cover the costs.”

  She poked at him. “There’s no way to make Sally happier than to have a second helping of her cooking.”

  One of the maids answered the door even before they had reached for the knocker. “Evenin’, Miz Caroline. Evenin’, Mistuh Steed.”

  “Good evening, Mary.”

  She took the knitted shawl from Caroline’s shoulder. “I’ll tell Miz Wesley y’all have arrived.”

  “Thank you, Mary.”

  As the servant walked down the hallway, Caroline stepped across the entryway to stand in front of a table that was up against the one wall. It was made of beautifully carved black walnut. A large mirror in a gilded frame hung above it. Caroline turned to face it, reaching up one hand to fluff at the hair around her ears.

  Joshua watched her reflection with open admiration. She wore a gown of deep green that looked like silk. She had chosen not to wear a hat, which had surprised him. But the effect of the deep forest green with her red hair was stunning. Her complexion was flawless, and she wore little makeup. That was something Joshua had especially come to appreciate. He had learned, much to his distaste, that many of the women of the South wore heavy makeup to hide the scars left by smallpox. The makeup was wax based, and during the winter, according to Caroline, special tilt-top tables were set in front of the fireplaces to shield the ladies from the heat so that their makeup didn’t run. Gratefully, Caroline had been spared the need for such artifices.

  She looked up and caught his eye. “You look especially lovely tonight,” he said.

  She smiled at him in the mirror, then curtsied slightly. “Why, thank yuh, Mistuh Steed,” she said, imitating the heavy drawl of the South. She stepped back away from the table and looked down. The table was of an unusual design. Just a few inches above the level of the floor there was another mirror, set back between the table legs and running the full length of the table so as to be almost up against the wall. This is what Caroline was looking at. She turned slowly, letting the full skirt float freely just barely off the floor while she watched it carefully.

  Suddenly, understanding dawned on Joshua. “Is that what that’s for?”

  “What?”

  “The mirror down there.”

  She laughed. “Of course. Why do you think they call this a petticoat table?”

  He hadn’t known they did. He had only noticed a similar table in the entry hall of almost every Savannah house he had been in, including Caroline’s.

  She dropped back into her accent. “Why, suh, it would be simply too, too embarrassin’ if a lady were to be found with her p
etticoats showin’.”

  At that moment Margaret Wesley appeared at the head of the stairs. “There you are,” she cried. “Welcome to our home.”

  * * *

  There were just the four of them. The Wesleys had three children, but Joshua had learned that the children of genteel Southern families always ate in a separate part of the house with the mammy. Even the best loved children were not allowed to eat at formal dinners until they were in their mid to late teens and had proven their maturity.

  The dining room was large, the table big enough to sit fifteen or sixteen people around it when all the leaves were inserted. It was on the second floor. And that was another thing Joshua vowed he would remember. The first floor of the houses in the city picked up the sounds and smells of the streets, so the main living quarters were always on the second floor.

  As they finished their dessert, he looked around. There were many things he wanted to imbed in his memory so that when he built a home in Independence he could furnish it in a similar manner. The bull’s-eye mirror was one example. Round in shape and with a curved surface, it was mounted on one wall a little higher than the height of a man. It allowed the hostess to sit at her end of the table and monitor how each guest was doing in terms of food service. There were sconces on the candles and lamps—metal reflectors with polished surfaces to reflect the light back into the room instead of diffusing it all around. Joshua determined that in his future home there would also be a “Sheraton” like the one that stood in Caroline’s bedroom. Will had proudly shown that to him one day when his mother was out. It was a cleverly crafted cabinet which provided all the conveniences for personal hygiene right in the bedroom. The top lifted to reveal a mirror. The upper drawers were lined with zinc so as to hold water for washing. The bottom compartment was large enough to hold the “necessary,” a large chamber pot made of porcelain. He had really chuckled at that, but had to admit it had distinct advantages over the rickety, drafty outhouses that stood behind most homes in Missouri. Especially in winter.

  As he watched the servants clear away the service, he admitted to himself that he knew full well what all his mental note taking was about. There was an imaginary house starting to take shape in his mind, and he knew whom it was for. The promise of such a home could be enough to convince her to come with him to Missouri. If he did it right.