by Linda Swift
Harriet done tole Masta Malcolm the baby here and that it be a girl. He said he doan want to see no girl and he eatin' his supper." She smiled slyly. "Maybe by the time he get done sulkin’ this baby be growed a whole lot."
Clarissa met her eyes and nodded solemnly.
"Now I'm gonna find Masta Robert and Masta Elliot and give them their supper, then I be back to show them their new sistah."
Clarissa lay holding her baby daughter with a sense of contentment. Now she would always have a part of Philip with her, a reminder of their love. She wondered where he was since the war ended. He would be so happy if he could know he had a precious little girl who bore his likeness. She closed her eyes against the painful longing that engulfed her, feeling the emptiness that even Philip's child could never fill.
• ♥ •
Atlanta, May 1865
"Welcome back, Major."
"Thank you, Captain." Philip Burke returned the soldier’s smart salute.
"We got the word last month from General Sherman of your return, so we’ve been expecting you for some time."
"Travel is slow all over the South, Captain. The rails are torn up and all the roads are filled with Rebels going home."
"Well, there was nothing slow about that march of Sherman’s army from Savannah to Goldsboro in fifty days. The man is one great general to be sure."
Philip nodded soberly, thinking of the path of destruction left behind the Union Army as they conquered the Confederacy. But he wanted to believe the ruthless devastation had brought a quicker end and lives had ultimately been saved.
"How long do we have to disband our unit here, sir?"
"However long it takes. But we’re to move those who are able to be transported as soon as possible to Lincoln Hospital in Washington, or private hospitals near their families, if they prefer."
"I wager every man will want to leave at once, sir. It is amazing how much better all our patients seem since Appomattox."
"Malingering has lost its purpose," Philip said wryly, and added, "So we should be done here by the week’s end, including the packing and shipping of medical supplies, Captain."
"Very well, sir. I’ll begin the inventory at once." The captain saluted again and left the room.
Philip sat down at the desk he had occupied in the months before the fateful letter came, then absent-mindedly took his pipe from his coat pocket. His hand touched the crumpled envelope which was his constant companion and he pulled it out and studied it pensively. The scent of roses had long faded but he could smell them, still. Clarissa. How close she was again since his return to Atlanta, and yet how far away. A lifetime separated him from the woman he loved. An eternity of hell.
• ♥ •
Chattanooga, April 1865
Clarissa lay in her bedroom, a warm breeze blowing through the open window. The afternoon was still except for the sound of metal hitting wood with a muted rhythmic thud. Almost a week had passed, and she assumed that Malcolm had forgotten his drunken tirade about Lawton's grave. But today the grave was opened, and soon her brother's coffin would be lifted from the ground onto the wagon that would take it to Mimosa Manor. Perhaps she should have sent word to Angeline that he was coming, but then she hadn't really known until this morning.
It seemed sacrilegious to disturb the dead, and she felt a need to say a last farewell to the occupant of the crude pine box before the journey to his final resting place.
She was stronger now, and surely the walk to the gazebo would cause no harm. She glanced at the cradle beside the bed where her baby lay sleeping. Polly was across the hall in Josiah Wakefield's room, and she would hear Demanda if she cried. There was no need to tell her servant what she was about and be told all the reasons why she shouldn't be out of bed so soon. Making up her mind, Clarissa rose, took a dressing gown from her armoire, and slipped out of the bedroom.
Robert and Elliot were playing on the veranda and they ran to greet her with hugs and kisses when she appeared.
"Mama, why is Canaan digging up my Uncle Lawton's coffin?" Robert demanded.
She ignored the question. "Robert, have you and your brother been out by the gazebo?"
"Well," he hung his head, not meeting her eyes, "we just wanted to see what Canaan was doing."
"And you were told to stay on the veranda and not to go into the yard at all," she said sternly. "Now I want you both to go upstairs and play quietly until I come inside."
"But Mama why can't we go with—"
"Because you have disobeyed me. Go inside now, and take your brother with you."
"Yes, Mama." Robert gave her a disgruntled look and reached for Elliot's chubby hand. "Come on, Bubbie." Dragging his feet, he pulled the younger child inside.
Resolutely, Clarissa continued on in the direction of the muffled, measured sounds. She was already feeling weak and lightheaded, and when she reached the gazebo, she gratefully sank onto the nearest bench. Clarissa watched the young Negro who worked steadily in waning sunlight, never acknowledging that he was aware of her presence, and after a time, she was lost in her remembrance of the night they had buried her brother. Philip had been here then, sitting right behind her. He had done all that could be done to save her brother's life. At least, she would always have that to be thankful for. Clarissa felt hot tears roll down her cheeks, and she didn't know if she was weeping for her brother or the man she would always think of as her husband…or perhaps herself.
Inside the house, Robert led his little brother up the stairs. "What do you want to do now, Bubbie?" he asked in a low voice as they passed the room where their father was sleeping.
"Hide?" Elliot asked hopefully.
"A'right." Robert sighed, showing a lack of interest in his brother's choice. "Let's play hide in Mama's room and when she comes back, maybe she'll read to us."
"I hide," Elliot said.
"A'right," Robert said again and covered his eyes with both hands.
Elliot stooped behind Demanda's cradle as Robert counted to twenty. Then he squealed when Robert made a pretense of looking for him in other places.
"No, silly goose. You are not s'posed to make a sound." Robert took his hand and led him to the foot of the bed. "And besides you will wake our sister if you do that anymore."
"Bubbie sorwee."
He pushed his brother's head down on the quilt. "Now keep your eyes shut until I call you. Don't peek." Robert looked around and saw the armoire open a few inches and tip-toed to it and crawled inside. "Ready."
The interior was dark, and he pushed back his mother's long gowns to make more space. A round button touched his face and he rubbed his hand along the rough cloth it was sewed to with a dawning recognition. Forgetting to wait for his brother to find him, he opened the door wide for a better look. Certain now it was Major Burke's coat, he crawled out of the armoire, pulling the coat with him, and put it on. "Look, Bubbie. This is a real soldier's coat. Let's play war."
"Wah?" Elliot looked uncertain.
"Yes." Robert stood in the blue coat with its arms drooping almost to the floor, covering his hands. "Come on, let's go out in the hall where we can march. You can be a soldier, too."
The little boys marched up and down the hallway, Robert leading and Elliot trying to imitate his every move. "One, two, three, hup!" Robert raised his voice to shout directions to his imaginary troops to turn and face the other way, then stopped short at the sight of his scowling father standing directly in front of him.
"What in the hell is all the racket—well, what have we here, my boy?" Malcolm took a faltering step closer and peered at the coat in the dim light, its brass buttons shining like points of fire. With a snarl, he jerked it off Robert's small shoulders. "Where'd you get this, boy?"
"In—in Mama's room but I didn't mean to—"
"Your mama's room, eh?" An ugly smile curled Malcolm's flaccid lips and his puffy eyes became narrow slits. "Get downstairs and take your bro'her with you." When a terrified Robert hesitated, he barked, "Now."
Malcolm fingered the coat with a thoughtful expression on his face, then staggered to Clarissa's door. The bed was empty and he went inside and peered into the open armoire, then stood looking down at the cradle where the sleeping baby lay.
"So that eshplains it," he said in a soft menacing tone. With an awkward fumbling movement he pulled the coat on, its seams straining to accommodate his flabby girth. He caught sight of himself in the pier glass and gave a low ugly laugh. Then he went back into the dim hallway and waited.
Luke and Canaan loaded the pine box onto the wagon and Clarissa brushed the tears from her eyes. "God go with you, my dear brother, and may your sleep be peaceful." She stood and called to the older Negro. "When will you take my brother home, Luke?"
"I be takin' him come tomorrah, ma'am."
She walked back to the house and slipped inside. The hall was silent, and she supposed her sons were now at supper. She put a hand on the railing and slowly pulled herself up the stairs. Going down had been easier, and she was beginning to regret her impulsive venture when she reached the top.
"Been somewhere?"
She gasped at the sound of the slurred voice in the shadows.
"If you're lookin' for your Yankee lover, here I am." He stumbled closer and the faint light caught the reflection of the brass buttons and she saw with horror what he wore. His hand shot out and grabbed her arm. "So, you thought you could fool me and get away with it. Gimme a five-month bastard that b'longs to your Yankee lover and call it mine? Well, you'll pay for this, bish." His whiskey laden breath was overpowering.
"No, you're mistaken. She's yours, Malcolm." She tried to control the tremor in her voice and failed. "Elliot was early, too. Please, believe me. I've been a faithful wife."
"Liar!" he screamed. "You're a liar and a whore! And you'll rue the day you made a cuc—cuckold of me." With a strength born of rage, he jerked a post from the stair rail and drew it back to hit her.
"No," she begged. "Please, Malcolm, in the name of God, don't do this." Desperation made her grovel. "Your sons. Don't let them see—"
"My sons?" he sneered. "Howda I know they are my sons?" He struck her across her shoulder with the post and she bit her lip to keep from crying out.
"Please, Malcolm. Don't do this. I'll leave if that's what you want."
His second blow landed on her hip and she fell against the railing. "You'll ne'er leave this house alive." He hit her again, and she cowered before him and tried to crawl out of reach before he swung again. He landed a blow to her head and she uttered a low groan. They were at the stairs now and she crouched down and covered her face with her arms. He drew back his arm to strike her again. "I'll show—"
"Doan hit her no more," Polly said from behind them. "If you do, I shoot."
He wheeled around drunkenly. "Stay outta this, niggah."
"I mean it," Polly pointed the gun with a wavering arm, "You leave Missa alone now, you heah?"
"Shut up, niggah." He raised the post and it fell with a hard thud on Clarissa's folded arms. "Take that, bish. And that. And—"
The shot reverberated with the sound of a heavy body falling at the edge of the stairs. Polly screamed. Clarissa removed her arms and raised her head and felt the world go dark. And over the smoke and noise and chaos, Josiah Wakefield stood holding the rifle in his twisted hand, a satisfied smile on his twisted face.
"Ankee! Hoot!
"Missa? Oh, Lord a'mercy, Missa. Are you all right?" Polly cried.
Coming to, Clarissa weakly raised her head and whispered, "Malcolm?"
"It's all right, Missa. He ain't nevah gonna hurt you no more."
Discerning her meaning, Clarissa whispered. "Don't let the children see—"
"Jes let me hep you back to bed, then I see to it, Missa." Polly raised the battered woman and half-carried her to bed. Josiah moved closer to the figure sprawled in the blood-splattered blue coat, head dangling face down over the top step. With morbid fascination he nudged the body so that the face was turned up. For one lucid moment, recognition lit his features. Then with a cry like a wounded animal, he bent over, placed the barrel of the rifle in his mouth, and pressed the trigger again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Chattanooga, May 1865
"I didn’t do it, Missa," Polly insisted fearfully as she put Clarissa to bed. "Masta Josiah, he took the gun and he pulled the triggah."
"It’s all right, Polly."
"I said I wus gonna shoot Masta Malcolm, but I nevah would have done it, Missa," Polly continued. "Why, I doan even—"
The sound of the rifle cut short her denial, and the two women looked at each other with alarm. Then Polly rushed to the door and stood staring at the scene before her in shocked silence.
Finally, she was able to speak. "It Masta Josiah. He done blowed his head away."
"Polly," Clarissa sat up in bed, fear feeding her strength, "call Luke and Canaan. Get them to put the bodies of Father Wakefield and Malcolm in their beds. Then clean up the blood. My sons must not see this. Tell Harriet to keep them in the kitchen. No, I’ll—"
"You’ll stay here, Missa." Polly said firmly. "This ain’t no sight for your eyes, eithah."
Clarissa could feel the throbbing of her head and body, and knew she was close to fainting from the pain and shock, but she tried to stand. At that moment, her baby daughter woke and began to cry, and she looked at the child, then back at Polly. "All right, I’ll stay."
"What we gon’ do, Missa?" Polly wrung her hands. "Ain’t nobody believe I didn’t do it. And now theys two of’em killed."
"I’ll think of something."
"Yes, Missa." Polly nodded grimly. "Now I be taking care of what you told me."
Clarissa picked up the crying baby and opened the bodice of her dress, flinching at the pain the movement caused her. She knew her servant was right. No one would believe what had actually happened. They would have to leave Whitehaven as soon as possible and there was only one place they could go.
When Polly returned, Clarissa had put the sleeping baby back in her cradle, and fortified herself with enough morphine powder to bear her injuries.
"The men are where you said, Missa, and the hall and steps is clean. Luke and Canaan are seein’ to Masta Josiah, and that—that woman taking care of Masta Malcolm."
"Where are my sons?"
"Harriet still feedin’ them till they ‘bout to pop."
"We have to get away, Polly." Clarissa sat up and a wave of nausea made her pause. "We’ll go to Mimosa Manor. Luke is taking Lawton’s body back, and we’ll ride in the wagon. We’ll start tonight. As soon as we can pack."
The relief on Polly’s face at Clarissa’s announcement was momentarily replaced with concern. "Do you think you able to make a trip like this, Missa?"
"I’ll make it," Clarissa said determinedly. "Tell Canaan to go to Fleur-de-Lis and let them know what has happened. Then pack the boys’ things and yours as quickly as you can. I’ll get the baby and myself ready."
"But Missa—"
"Go, Polly, there’s no time to waste."
With frantic haste, the women prepared to leave and before the hour was done, Luke and Polly were loading their belongings into the wagon. Polly sat on one side of Lawton’s coffin with the two small boys sleeping on quilts beside her while Clarissa lay with her baby daughter on the other.
It was dark now, and as they drove away from Whitehaven, a full moon rose over the distant mountain, bathing the house and grounds in a silvered light. Clarissa thought of all that had happened since she’d come to live here as Malcolm Wakefield’s wife. How could she have dreamed that it would end like this? Who could have foretold the war, the suffering, the pain that the last five years had brought? Who could have imagined the love, the joy that had been hers but now was lost forever?
• ♥ •
/> Clarksville, Kentucky, June 1865
In the glow of the lamplight, Clarissa could almost imagine the shabby drawing room at Mimosa Manor restored to its former elegance as she listened to Nathan’s musical voice.
"The Lord will give strength unto his people; the Lord will bless his people with peace." He closed the Bible and placed it on a nearby table. "I think that’s enough for tonight."
"Thank you, Nathan, that was a wonderful reading of the Scriptures," Matilda said sincerely.
"Yes, thank you," Clarissa added.
"It is always a comfort to hear the Lord’s promises in times of trouble." Matilda shifted the sleeping Elliot into a more comfortable position on her lap.
"Amen," Polly agreed fervently as she rocked Demanda.
"Robert," Clarissa said to the sleepy child who sat beside her on the faded sofa, "tell your aunt and uncle and Gramma Tilda good night. It is time for bed."
Polly stood, and Matilda joined her. "I’ll help with the children." She smiled at Clarissa. "You just rest a bit, dear. You’ve had an active day for one still recuperating."
"You are all spoiling me," Clarissa protested.
"No more than you deserve, dear sister," Angeline told her.
Nathan stood also. "I think I’ll be turning in m’self. There’s acres of cotton to hoe tomorrow." He bent to kiss Angeline. "Stay for a while, darlin’ and keep your sister company. You have a lot of catching up to do, for sure."
Angeline fondly watched her husband leave the room. "He works so hard, from dawn till dusk. But he’s determined to make the farming pay."
"And I’m sure he will," Clarissa said. "Devon is a fine man and you are fortunate to be his wife."
"At first, he felt I would be ashamed of him because he had no formal learning. But in these past winter months, Matilda has helped him master the knowledge he craved. She is so much better at teaching than I."
"I hope she’ll teach our children when they are ready, too."
"Would you like a glass of Madeira?" Angeline asked. "There’s still some of our father’s left."
"That would be nice." Clarissa remained motionless while her sister prepared the wine. It seemed almost too much effort to move unless she was forced to. A strange apathy had come over her since arriving at Mimosa Manor last week, and all the tender care she had received had done nothing to dispel it.