by Debra Diaz
PLACE OF PEACE
DEBRA DIAZ
Kindle Edition
Copyright © 2010 Debra Diaz
PROLOGUE
September, 1878
Genny prepared to disembark from the train, struck by the utter stillness, the air of desertion. There was one passenger car; the rest were supply cars, carrying food, water, medicines — and coffins. The only other passenger had gotten off just before entering the city.
No one wanted to come here.
She paused before descending the narrow steps and thought, What am I doing in this place? A year ago she would have run away screaming … in fact, she would not have come at all. She would never have willingly placed herself in danger. But she had changed, and her reason for coming did not exist then.
At last her foot touched the iron platform. It seemed like the most momentous step she would ever take, and she remembered, in a quick flash that somehow contained hundreds of images and impressions, the one event that had set her on this course, and brought her to this moment…
CHAPTER ONE
Spring, 1877
Virginia Romayne had never found it difficult to express herself, and that afternoon she did so with a forcefulness that made her younger sister remove herself to the opposite side of the room. Clarissa had learned early in life the prudence of staying a safe distance from Genny’s temper.
“I won’t go, do you hear? I’m not going to marry that — that bug chaser!”
“But, Genny, Mama says we must expose ourselves to society!”
“You,” said Genny with a glare, “can expose yourself all you like. I’d rather be an old maid.”
“But if you don’t go I can’t go either. Mama will never let me go alone!”
Genny made no reply, marching across the bedroom to stare petulantly out the window. She heard the door open and close with a bang and knew that Clarissa had gone to loudly vent her indignation to their mother.
“Crybaby,” Genny said aloud. She stared down at the afternoon traffic in the street, not seeing it, not even hearing the familiar sounds of passersby calling out and the rhythmic clip-clop of horses’ hooves against the pavement. The lowering sun slanted into the room between the ruffled lace curtains, casting a deep aureate glow upon the face of the eldest Romayne daughter.
Some of her acquaintances, less generous than others, insisted that Genny possessed a strange and “foreign” look, but most agreed that Genny’s rare and exotic appearance was worthy of admiration. Golden-brown brows arched from above her slim nose to expertly frame wide, slightly up-slanted eyes, fringed with dark gold lashes. In color, they could range from a deep royal blue to the brighter hue of a summer sky. Full and well-formed lips, and blonde hair streaked with deep veins of gold, were uncommon and enviable traits. Her eyes and high, slightly-hollowed cheekbones, as well as the petiteness of her stature when both of her parents were tall, had aroused the more unfriendly comments.
A timid knock sounded on the bedroom door. Genny sighed and moved from the window to plop down on the feather mattress of her bed. “Come in, Mother.”
Gwendolyn Stuart Romayne always dressed in the height of fashion, with complete disregard as to the effect upon her figure and coloring. Genny had once read a story in Godey’s Lady’s Book – she couldn’t remember if it were true or not — about a man who had become so irritated by his wife’s addiction to high fashion that he had published an article on the subject under a false name and presented it to her, assuring her of its reliability. In the article he stated that it was becoming all the rage for women to adorn their hair with raw vegetables fresh from the garden for a “unique effect”. His wife had been thrilled that she would be the first in her clique to display this latest fad, and that night attended the opera with a carrot boldly protruding from an otherwise flawless coiffure.
The story reminded Genny of her mother.
Gwendolyn’s yellow lawn dress hung straight down the front with the back gathered and elaborately draped over a bustle. Neither the style nor the color suited her, for she was too tall and thin, making the bustle effect look more like a deformity and her naturally sallow complexion seemed even more so against the yellow dress, which was liberally trimmed with fringes and lace ruffles. Her hair curled all around her head in ringlets, but her lank, brownish tresses didn’t lend themselves well to the curling tongs and by the end of the day usually resembled the abandoned nest of a rather untidy bird.
Gwendolyn cleared her throat. “Clarissa has just informed me that you have refused to attend the Grayson’s reception this evening. Is this true?”
“Yes, Mother.”
Gwendolyn’s dark eyebrows stretched upward. “But this is quite extraordinary of you, Genny. Are you ill?”
“No. I’d just rather stay at home.” Genny rose impatiently from the bed and walked over to the dressing table, where she picked up a brush and began to tidy her own hair.
“Lloyd Grayson is a fine young man. He’s talked to your father about you. It’s simply unthinkable that you not attend.”
“But I don’t want to!” Genny cried, slamming her brush back down on the dressing table. “I have no interest in it, or him, whatsoever!”
“Genny, such behavior! Tonight you really must attend this party and you must behave very amiably to Lloyd.”
Gwendolyn paused, almost fearfully, for it took all her backbone to be firm with her strong-willed daughter. She was always secretly afraid that Genny would lose her temper and come back with a retort for which she had no answer. This had happened on some occasions, and Gwendolyn’s response had always been to send Genny to her father.
“I do believe,” Gwendolyn said hesitantly, “that your father expects Mr. Grayson to ask for your hand in marriage.”
“Then Father can also expect me to refuse my hand to Mr. Grayson!”
“Genny! What can you be thinking? You’ll be twenty years old next year!. You’ve already turned down three proposals of marriage. Why, it never occurred to me to refuse your father.”
Gwendolyn failed to add that no man but Philbert Romayne had ever paid her the slightest attention, and she knew in her heart that it was due mainly to the social status of her family, who had lived in Virginia, South Carolina, and finally Tennessee since colonial times.
“Mother, I am heartily tired of men who seek nothing more than to enhance their own fortunes by adding mine to it. And most assuredly I don’t wish to marry Lloyd Grayson, whose insect collection is the single great passion of his life!”
Her mother was aghast. “Well, Genny, what do you expect? What do you think marriage is for, if not to make a socially profitable union?”
Genny held her silence. Her mother had never understood her. No one understood her. There was no one to tell, even if she could find a way to express such a nameless and inexplicable yearning, what she really expected from the man she would marry – if she ever did. She wasn’t quite sure that such a man existed.
The silence drew on, and though Genny’s eyes were smoldering she made no further protest. Gwendolyn turned and left the room, the high heels of her patent leather boots clattering against the wood floor. Almost immediately the door opened and eight-year-old Abigail poked her nose inside.
“I think you’re just horrid,” she sniffed disdainfully. “Minnie Donaldson said she’d give her eyeteeth to be invited to the Grayson’s, and here you are squalling about it like a scalded cat.”
Genny made a spring for the door. Abigail, like Clarissa, knew when to beat a hasty retreat — she slammed the door shut and ran.
* * * *
The dining room, softly lit by gaslight, was impeccably managed by Pollard, the English butler. He had been brought directly from England after the Romaynes visited there just before Cl
arissa’s birth. Philbert Romayne looked about him at the stuffy Victorian furniture and the varied faces of his children, and felt his usual sense of deep satisfaction. He had done well in life, considering that, in these twelve years since the end of the War Between the States, the entire South had collapsed and was only now getting to her knees.
After spending many years as the general manager of a cotton mill Philbert had founded a bank, of which he was still the president and which now had more monetary resources than any other bank in Knoxville, Tennessee — and its surrounding cities. It didn’t take much shrewdness (something he possessed in abundance) to see how closely banking was related to public service and how the two areas could benefit each other. He became known for his community spirit. Grounds were beautified and streets improved by the efforts of the directorate of his bank. As a result, deposits increased and his bank flourished.
Having never owned slaves, he was undismayed by the North’s condemnation of slavery — though it did concern him when he stopped to think what the abolition of slavery would do to the South’s economy. However, it was easy to sympathize with the disunionists, who were enraged by the way the North was attempting to impose its will upon the South. He maintained a silence which both sides took as mute support. No one questioned the fact that he joined neither army; he was forty-five but looked much older, and he was deaf in one ear and had flat feet. He stayed home, attended to his business, and never lost the respect of both sides of the controversy.
Through strategic management he survived Reconstruction, widespread unemployment, falling stock prices and the resultant Panic of 1873. In fact, in the course of this crisis, his bank absorbed another and became incorporated as the largest bank in the entire northeast of the state.
This very week President Hayes had terminated northern control over the South and called back all federal troops. Philbert foresaw a new era of industrial revolution and prosperity. He contracted for a fine new hotel to be built; he joined other building committees, serving as chairman; he became the president of the cotton exchange and bought an insurance company.
Yes, he had done well.
His complacent expression changed briefly to one of annoyance as he noticed the dowdy appearance of his wife, though she was — as usual — overdressed. Why did she insist on wearing that blasted yellow that made her look as though she had a complaint of the liver? His eyes moved on to Clarissa, who was talking animatedly to no one in particular, and paused with affection on little Abigail. His darling. He frowned at his sons, Lionel and Roger, who were quarreling. They fell silent.
Then he noticed that Genny was not eating her supper.
“What’s the matter, Virginia?”
Genny started at the sound of her father’s voice, always a little severe even when he was attempting to be genial. She answered softly, “Nothing, Father.”
“She’s pouting again,” Clarissa informed him.
“Clarissa, don’t talk with your mouth full.” Philbert’s brown-eyed gaze seemed to spear his eldest daughter to her seat. “What is this about, Virginia? Explain yourself.”
Genny glared mutely at her sister. Abigail’s piping voice broke the silence. “It’s because she doesn’t want to go to the party tonight, Papa.”
“The Grayson’s? And why not? Lloyd Grayson particularly wanted you to come. I take it he has a question he wants to ask you.”
“Genny’s got a sweetheart,” sang Lionel, who was fourteen. Twelve-year-old Roger giggled.
“Quiet, boys. Virginia, I expect an answer.”
“I don’t want to go, Father, because I detest Lloyd Grayson’s habit of collecting butterflies, and if he asks me to marry him I shall be forced to refuse him.”
“What in heaven’s name do butterflies have to do with it? Confound it, girl! Do you have some grievance against butterflies?”
“I have something against grown men who have nothing better to do than to chase about the countryside with a net and a box full of dead bugs!”
Clarissa tittered. Philbert’s face, above his full, well-trimmed beard, turned red. “You are being childish, Virginia,” he announced, and glared at his wife. “Gwendolyn, you’d better have a talk with your daughter.”
“I have,” said Gwendolyn, a little desperately. “I’ve told her she must go.”
“Quite right.” Philbert cast a quelling glance at his erring child. “You will do as you’re told, of course.”
“I’ll go to the party. But that doesn’t mean I have to marry him.”
“Of course not. We shall see. Now, eat your supper — all of you.”
Genny ate a small forkful of creamed potatoes, then surreptitiously hid the sweet peas underneath the potatoes. After asking to be excused, she strode from the room, ascending the stairs to her bedroom. Clarissa and the girls’ maid, Abra, followed soon after.
“Hurry, Genny, we don’t want to be late,” Clarissa urged breathlessly, ensconcing herself upon the bench before the dressing table. Abra began to groom Clarissa’s thick, dark hair, and glanced over her shoulder to smile kindly at Genny.
“I’ll get to you next, Miss Genny,” she said. “Don’t you fret. You’ll look so grand every man there’ll be breakin’ his neck to make your acquaintance.” She paused and added soberly, “Those that ain’t runnin’ after Miss Clarissa, I mean.”
“That’s just what I don’t want, Abra.” Genny eyed the contents of the tall, walnut wardrobe and began withdrawing her clothes. “If I had any gumption I’d go looking like a poverty-stricken hag, and I’d never have to bother with unwanted suitors again.”
“Oh, Genny, sometimes you can be so absurd!” Clarissa regarded her face in the mirror with pleasure. She strongly resembled her mother in appearance, whereas Abigail looked exactly like a miniature version of Philbert.
Genny rummaged through her jewelry box for something that would complement her dress. Her vanity would never allow her to do as she threatened. All her life she’d been popular and the center of attention, and was secretly contemptuous of wallflowers who wouldn’t even try to be attractive. But she was just as disdainful of girls like Clarissa who thought too highly of themselves and generally behaved like fools.
Clarissa’s behavior at social gatherings was a constant source of embarrassment to Genny, for she had a way of breathlessly flinging herself upon men until they practically had to hold her up lest she fall at their feet, and flitted from one to another like a frenzied bumblebee. She’d never had a single serious beau.
After Abra had arranged her hair with curls massed at the back of her head and secured them with ivory combs, Genny began the time-consuming ritual of dressing. Over the cotton drawers she donned a batiste chemise, a petticoat of embroidered muslin, a corset, and then finally her favorite gown of white silk, trimmed with silver beads and long rows of silver buttons. A red silk fan edged with lace dangled from a silver cord at her waist. She pushed on white patent leather boots and, finally, slipped garnet earrings in her pierced earlobes.
“Oh, no!” Clarissa wailed, surveying herself in the mirror. “This dress makes me look flat as a pancake! Genny, may I wear your blue gown, just this once? I promise not to spill anything on it!”
“It won’t fit you, Clarissa.”
“Oh, yes it will! Please, Genny!”
Genny gave a shrug, which Clarissa took as acquiescence, and quickly began fumbling at the buttons of her own dress. “Quick, Abra, help me get this thing off! I hear Eli bringing the carriage around already.”
Genny made her way downstairs to wait for her sister in the parlor. This proved to be a mistake…for her two brothers were there engaged in a game of chess.
“Well, Genny’s mighty spruced up for somebody who isn’t husband-hunting,” Lionel remarked, smirking.
“You suppose she’s really had a hankering after Lloyd all along?” Roger said, with a gap-toothed grin.
“Yeah, she’s just been playin’ hard to catch.”
“Oh, hush up, both of you!”
Genny snapped. “Mind your own business.”
“Oh, go on to your stupid party,” Lionel said disgustedly. “You make me want to puke.”
“You hush that vulgar language, Lionel Romayne, or I’ll tell Father on you!”
“I’ll tell Father on you!” mimicked Lionel.
Genny whirled and left the room, stamping through the entry hall and out the door. The driver, Eli, assisted her into the waiting carriage. In a few moments Clarissa came flying out, tripped on Genny’s gown and all but fell into the carriage. It jolted forward, and they were on their way.
CHAPTER TWO
The Grayson house stood in an even more exclusive neighborhood than the Romayne’s. Its yellow brick gleamed in the setting sun. Polished black railings surrounded the two verandas, and the black shutters stood open to reveal the glitter of lights from within. Sounds of laughter and cheerful voices drifted out to the quiet driveway from the open, double front doors.
“We’ll be ready to leave by ten,” Genny said to Eli, as he helped the girls alight from the carriage.
“No, not so early!” Clarissa cried.
Genny said nothing but took her sister’s arm and pulled her with a considerable lack of gentleness toward the front door. Genny’s muslin, ice-blue gown stretched tightly over Clarissa’s larger hips, and her bosom strained so against the cloth that Clarissa must have remedied her lack with some extra padding. Genny could only hope that the padding wouldn’t slip during the dancing, as she had been scandalized to observe on a former occasion.
“Dear Genny! And darling Clare!” Edwina Grayson, Lloyd’s sister, embraced them with enormous affection…though they’d met only once before. She was a large-boned young woman, a year older than Genny, with a round face and softly curling black hair. “Lloyd, here are the Romayne girls!”
“Miss Genny.” Lloyd appeared and bent over her hand. In contrast to his sister, he was thin; his black hair had a center part, and he had side whiskers and a monocle. “Miss Clarissa,” he said, bowing again.